Welcome to my Wasted Life

you: i'm scared

you: i don't like where this is going

you: what did you do al

al 🦭: actually me AND hans came to this decision 

hans 🐢: i'm only a tad bit involved 

hans 🐢: it was her plan

al 🦭: you suggested it?? 

hans 🐢: I DIDNT???? 

hans 🐢: i said it would be fun 

you: i should leave 

al 🦭: get back here. 

al 🦭: alright so 

al 🦭: do you remember the bet you lost at tucker's party?

you: i don't actually 

hans 🐢: look at her trying to escape... 

you: don't gang up on me 🙁

you: i thought you guys forgot about that

al 🦭: how could we

al 🦭: we finally get the chance to torture our precious pie

you: don't call me that 

hans 🐢: LMAOO 

al 🦭: as i was saying

al 🦭: me and hannah finally decided what we want you to do 

hans 🐢: why am i more nervous than her

hans 🐢: SPIT IT OUT ALREADY

al 🦭: alright man i was building up the suspense 

you: how about girls night and i treat you guys to the most delicious toe curling meals of your lives instead of whatever you have planned ☺️☺️

al 🦭: as tempting as that sounds... what we have is More fun

you: Fuck me. 

hans 🐢: i'd love to

you: i'm telling your bf

hans 🐢: hey :c

you: al baby can you please just tell me i'm dying to know

al 🦭: Fine...

al 🦭: okay so how does trolling some random guy online and making him think you're really into him and that he can get into your pants sound 

hans 🐢: okay now that you phrase it like this it definitely sounds cringe

you: Okay

you: no

you: i'm not doing that

al 🦭: WHY NOT

hans 🐢: it'll be fun hey...

you: are you guys crazy

you: why would i dm a random MAN that i'm into him. 

al 🦭: because men suck and they deserve to be humiliated 

hans 🐢: oh wow ❤️ 

hans 🐢: love that! 

you: no but seriously why would i do that

you: out of all the things i could've done why THAT

hans 🐢: because you're very anti love so weve decided to spice up your love life

you: sexting a random man online is going to spice up my love life huh

al 🦭: exactly 

you: do i ever have a choice here... 

hans 🐢: if you don't feel comfortable you don't have to do it bae

you: it's just really embarrassing 

you: but it's fine ig

al 🦭: FUCK YEAH

al 🦭: alright wait i'll grab his profile for you 

you: scary

hans 🐢: drumroll drumroll

al 🦭:

you: DI LAURENTIS???? 

hans 🐢: yeah...

you: oh FUCK no

you: we said a random man not fucking dean di laurentis

hans 🐢: AL I TOLD YOU IT WOULD BE A BAD IDEA

hans 🐢: y/n hates him

you: he's the bane of my existence. 

you: i'm not doing that

you: nope not even gonna entertain the idea of it 

al 🦭: oh come on

al 🦭: THATS WHAT MAKES IT MORE FUN

al 🦭: laugh in his face

hans 🐢: dean is actually very sweet why do you hate him so much 

you: he's a manwhore

you: he's fucked every girl on campus

you: + he's a DICK

you: i don't like him

you: on top of the embarrassment i have to shove compliments in his face???!!??

you: as if his ego needs it

hans 🐢: im giggling

hans 🐢: c'mon it's not that bad

hans 🐢: besides you'll be doing it from an anonymous account so he wont know it's you

al 🦭: PLS PLS PLS YN PLS 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

you: get that ugly emoji off my screen god

you: i'm never ever ever ever ever everrrrrrrr doing anything like this ever again

you: only once

hans 🐢: ONLY ONCE

al 🦭: YES PLS

you: you guys are a little too excited about this

you: i need to avenge myself 

al 🦭: do that later

al 🦭: now go on and text him 

hans 🐢: keep us updated :3

you: i hate you both 

al 🦭: aw ☺️

al 🦭: luv you too 

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vibe rators 😈

you: i'm so fucking screwed

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You tried to get past it, understand the situation you're in, but you can't wrap your head around it. How the hell did Garrett manage to convince seven people to squeeze into his car without holding a gun to their head?

The scene you're greeted with when you make your way downstairs is baffling, suffocating almost. 

Garrett and Hannah sit comfortably in the front, giggling over a stupid joke he made as Hannah presses some random buttons to get the music working. Your eyes drift to the back, and that's when you see the disaster.  

Jesus Christ. 

You can't even tell people apart from how cramped it is inside. Logan's sitting by the window, with Jules on the edge of his lap. Tucker sits next to him, tense and looking very uncomfortable. 

Beau is glued to Tucker's side, with Allie comfortably positioned on his lap. They're giggling together as she shows him something on her phone. It's a very warm sight, they've grown really close after their trip to New York together. 

As if things couldn't get any worse, Dean is here. His side of the car is definitely... emptier. He's positioned in the seat behind Garret with his legs stretched over the rolled down window. The door to his side wide open, letting in much needed air. 

He's busy scrolling on his phone, only noticing your presence when your voice erupts through the chaos. 

"Wow, you should've invited a few more people," your tone fills with sarcasm, statement directed towards your brother. "Too much space." 

An amused chuckle escapes Dean's throat at your snarky comment, legs back on the ground as his attention shifts to Garrett. 

"Haha, very funny, Graham." Garret rolls his eyes, causing Hannah to shove his side. "Get in, you kept us stalling forever." 

"Where am I supposed to sit?" You argue, pointing towards the rammed car. 

Your eyes flicker back to Dean, who adjusts his position at your question. His legs spread apart, fingers lightly patting his lap, the silent gesture an invitation, something he voluntarily did to catch your attention. 

The idea of straddling Dean's lap for the entire car ride makes your heart flutter, cause air to get stuck in your throat. You can barely act normal when he's around, turning into a stuttering mess as soon as he joins any conversation, and now you have to sit on his lap for the next thirty minutes. 

"You're the only one complaining," Garrett interrupts through your thoughts, gesturing for you to get in the car. "Quit being a baby and find yourself a place to sit." 

A sigh dreads past your lips, dragging a deep exhale out as you step towards the vehicle. Dean clears his throat, fumbling around to put his phone away and straighten his back. You almost scoff if not for how nervous you are. 

"Hi," you start, avoiding Dean's gaze. 

"Hi," he repeats, but his tone is teasing, amused by how flustered you seem. You pause for a second, mustering up the courage to ask him to scoot, but Dean beats you to talking. "What are you waiting for?"

"Huh?" You hum, caught off guard. 

"Sit," his voice lowers into a whisper, gesturing you to sit on his lap. Your stomach twists into knots, the demand carrying so much tension, it makes your knees grow weak. "Sit on my lap." 

You fight the choked breath threatening to leave your chest, flashing him a tight-lipped smile, but still doing as you're told. You shuffle around to get in the car, carefully propping yourself across Dean's lap. 

Your whole body's tense, and you're sitting uncomfortably at the edge of his lap, barely providing yourself any space. The length of his legs is of no help, unnecessary long, you're practically holding onto the headrest to keep yourself from falling. 

"I'm gonna fucking kill you, Garrett Graham." You mutter through gritted teeth, causing your brother to freeze in his spot.

"Alright, now that everyone's here," Hannah bursts into laughter at Garrett's change of topic, completely ignoring the threat you threw in his direction. 

Annoyance fades into surprise when Dean slings his arms around your waist, using your astonishment as an opportunity to tug you close. Your back hits his firm chest with a thud, the proximity of the touch overwhelming you in an instant. 

Your body radiates with heat, as Dean's breath fans over your ear, the feather-like sensation causing goosebumps to break out across your back. He's so close, you can smell his stupid cologne, the aroma intoxicating, it almost melts you in your spot. 

You try to shuffle back into your old position, in case you're too heavy or causing Dean any discomfort, but the hand he presses to your hips interrupts those thoughts from rummaging through your head.

"You should get comfortable," he whispers in your ear, drawing circular motions to the sliver of skin just above your skirt. "It's a long ride." 

Fuck. 

Heat travels to in between your legs, gaze lowering to the arms caging you in place. His grip is firm, unwavering even when you move around to adjust yourself into a comfortable position. 

Dean doesn't budge, he pretends you're not even in his lap. He laughs, makes jokes, sings along as Hannah plays music, and it's like you're not even there. Unlike him, you're having a hard time playing this off as casual, nothing about this is normal, you skipped from ground zero to a thousand in the span of minutes. 

You try not to pay him too much attention, or his fingers as they're tracing small patterns to your hips, or his breath gradually blowing over your neck. All of it is so overwhelming, you want nothing more than to break free and breathe. 

This feels intimate, maybe too intimate, even more so because you're aware his touches are for you only, everyone else is doing their thing, and you two are in your own little world. 

After a while of resisting, you eventually settle back and relax against Dean's chest, satisfied by the way he tenses beneath you. His breath grows ragged, but he doesn't let you have it, tightening his arms in response, his hold engulfing most of your frame. 

This is okay, it's totally fine that you're tangled in this position with your brother's best friend, whom you've had a crush on since forever. 

You can get used to it. 

But you can't. Not when he's pulling every string to get your attention and get a reaction out of you. 

A few minutes pass by, and your body feels stiff from maintaining the same stance for too long. You shuffle around to find a comfortable position, hips stuttering when you feel something twitch underneath you. 

You're mistaken, have to be. It's all in your head, there's no way what you felt just now is real. 

"Fuck," Dean grunts, confirming your suspicions. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

He sighs, very shaky, but delibaret, the sound ringing in your ear, and making you pulse in reaction. You can feel hie semi-hard erection growing beneath you, failing to keep it under control. 

Fuck, Dean Di Laurentis is hard. 

You hate how much it's turning you on, your heat heaving with arousal when you feel another pulse through the thin fabric of his sweats. 

You angle your face towards the window, casually, without causing any suspicion, and Dean fights the embarrassment he feels to spare you a glance, regretting it soon as your hips move forward, instantly earning a choked breath out of him. 

It's not on purpose, you only realize what happens after he reacts. 

"Do you want me to–" he gives your hip another squeeze, locking you in place as the words die on your tongue. 

"Don't fuckin' move," he warns, practicing restraint. "Please." 

How can you not when his crotch is practically poking at your entrance, drenching your pussy from how tingly it's making you feel. 

"Dean," you whisper through a breath, causing his cock to twitch with need. The reaction you receive is immediate, anticipated, the only sign you need to grind down against his hardened length. 

His lips part in a hefty moan, barely dismissed by the loud music occupying everyone else. 

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He whispers, toying with the hem of your skirt, as his other hand caresses the exposed flesh around your stomach. 

"Maybe." You coyly offer him a response. 

This is your brother's best friend, someone way out of your orbit. You shouldn't cross the line, and let your lust drive you over the edge when you fought to keep yourself under control. 

Your brain short circuits, and panic rises in your chest before you can even stop it, but the pleasure surging through your body takes over when Dean's hips meet yours halfway, completely dismissing the guilt you're feeling. 

You've avoided Dean just fine till now, so why is it that you're involuntarily rolling your hips down for a mere fraction of his cock? 

Your pedicured nails dig into his arms, the force of the touch forming red marks all over his flesh. Dean smoothes out the fabric of your skirt to hide the circular motion of your hips. You ground him into place, repeatedly rubbing your wet cunt over his crotch. 

Pleasure builds through your insides, and you start to lose control over your grinds, messy and needy. Dean encourages you with a hand to your side, guiding you down to chase his own high, slowly building.

His cock aches, leaking with precum that stains a a patch in his underwear, wet and sticky, but he doesn't feel disgusted from it, but more so turned on because you're the cause of it. You're the reason he's in this mess, risking one of the most precious things to him just to touch you, feel you, even for a little. 

"I'm–" You fight the whimper threatening to leave your lips, leaning your head against the head rest to avoid locking eyes with anyone. 

Your pussy drenches in your arousal, thrusts growing sloppy as you feel your orgasm reaching its peak. Dean can almost tell that you're close, grip tightening around your stomach as he thrusts into you, rolling his hips once more before you came undone. 

Your legs shake from the overstimulation, Dean uses his hands to stabilize you in his lap. You ride him through your orgasm, sensitive, but desperate to please him and make him feel good. 

"You don't have to," he whispers, like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "I can take care of myself, darling."

"I want to," you reply, out of breath, with sweat forming at your forehead. Your face flushes with heat, and your energy goes down the drain in an instant, but you're persistent on making Dean come. 

His breath gets caught in his throat, and he uses your back as a shield to hide his expression as he reaches his own high. It only takes you a few more grinds for him to come undone. 

He releases into his pants, sticky stripes of semen coating a mess in his underwear. He stills your hips as he comes down from his high, a sigh of relief escaping his throat in the process. 

"That was– fuck." He chokes out, "So good for me, baby." 

You almost mewl at the praise but hold it back for the sake of not being caught. 

That was... insane. Probably the best orgasm you've had. 

The rest of the car ride seeps into silence on both your ends, too tired to engage with the rest of the group as they broke into a whole karaoke session.  It's not uncomfortable, nor is it unbearable, just... silence, you almost find it comforting. 

Garrett announces your arrival soon after, wrapping up the karaoke session as everyone engaged in another conversation.

You use their banter as an opportunity to pull at the strings of your thong, wiggling around on Dean's lap in an attempt to get them off. They slide down your thighs, bunching around your knees before eventually falling down your legs.

Dean doesn't do anything, simply sits back and observes you with a hint of confusion, eyebrows pinching as you bent down to grab it into your hold. 

And as everyone's busy getting out, you turn around and hand him the lacy material. 

"Huh?" He questions, taken aback by the sudden offer. 

You get off his lap, and land on the ground, smoothing down your skirt. Your gaze flickers back to him, a teasing grin smeared all over your lips. 

"A gift." You reply, attention shifting down to the mess on his lap. "Good luck cleaning that up." 

And with that, you take off with the rest of the group, barely sparing him a second glance. 

Fuck, now he has to deal with another boner. 

this almost made you choke.

you: right because we do a lot of studying

garrett: mhm we do

garrett: what would you think about helping us both

garrett: at the same time

you: interesting

garrett: it is

garrett: but that’s too vague of an answer for me

you couldn’t believe he was going to make you admit this, but you knew he wouldn’t even consider it without being certain.

you: yes

garrett: yes what?

you: yes i want to

you: help you both

you: at the same time

garrett: good girl

garrett: i’ll think about it

now, it was officially impossible to stop thinking about it. the fact you didn’t know when made it so much harder. you already noticed the way logan looked at you and now, every little interaction was setting your body on fire. watching him chew on the back of his pen in class, crack his knuckles, lick his lips, everything made you ache.

and garrett… something about how open he was to this made you more desperate for him than ever.

the weekend finally came, so did your usual hang out at their house…

“garrett! this is a brand new top!” you complain at his drink that made its way spilled down your shirt.

“oh, please. it’ll come out. why don’t you head upstairs and dry yourself off? let me just help everyone else out and i’ll meet you in a minute.” garrett says with a wink.

the wink is the only thing that stops you from huffing. after all, you need him after this week so you’re more than happy to skip upstairs. except in his room, you find logan sitting on the bed.

“oh. h-hey. sorry– my shirt got a little wet.” you say caught off guard at finding him in here.

“i can see that.” logan says with a laugh, eyes darting away from your chest quickly even though you know he saw and have heard enough.

he pulls off the hockey tee he’s currently wearing, handing it to you without a word leaving him only in grey sweatpants. it takes so much strength not to eye him up and down for long.

“oh, thanks.” you say shyly, before turning around to take off the wet shirt. you hear him move, possibly to get out of your way and you can’t stop yourself. “actually, do you think you can help me get this off? the hooks are kinda tricky.”

“course.” he responds. he moves behind you before pulling all of your hair to one side, to expose the back hooks of your top. his warm fingers quickly brush your neck before finding the top button. at first you wonder if you’re overthinking every touch, until he starts to speak.

“y’know, you sounded really pretty the other night…” he mutters breathily in your ear. his bluntness catches you off guard.

he always seemed shy around you, but i guess that was technically before garrett gave permission. the first hook of the top opens with even just another inch of your back feeling exposed to him floods your stomach with butterflies.

“oh, right. sorry about that. i forget how thin the walls are.” you come up with nervously, holding your breath at how close he is. another hook comes undone.

“hm, really?” he asks playfully. “kinda sounded like you wanted to me to hear. i mean you’re always loud… trust me. fuck… especially when you beg– but something was different. wasn’t it?”

before you have to come up with a response, you’re interrupted by garrett who you almost didn’t hear sneak in. the sound of him locking the door behind you makes it click that this was a plan all along. if your face wasn’t already bright blushing red, it is now.

“there’s our favorite girl… god, you poor thing, got you so soaked. huh?” garrett mocks, chuckling at how your eyes look like a deer in headlights. he plays dumb at the play on words. “i mean the top, doll.”

as logan holds the last hook along your back closed, just two fingers holding it from showing your whole bare skin. he nods his head to the shirt in your hand now being gripped tight, “you still want to cover up?”

“or… we can show logan here what you’ve been thinking about… what all that noise is about.” garrett says, face to face with you now. he runs his hands through your hair looking into your eyes, his darkening with dominance.

“please.” you manage to get out.

“please what? gonna have to get specific if you really want it that bad.” logan teases, nipping down at your neck making you squeal.

“please, fuck me. both of you.” you admit. logan snaps the last hook of your top letting it drop to the floor with a cocky grin.

“atta girl. see, logan… look. when you want to keep her quiet, you just gotta keep her mouth full.” garrett says, gently pushing down on the top of your head to get you on your knees. you obey quickly turning around to face logan who’s already unbuckling his jeans.

“fuck. good idea. should’ve thought of that…” logan groans as you eagerly take his cock into your mouth. garrett’s hands grip your hair making you let out a choked moan around him.

you make eye contact with logan as you take him, heart fluttering as he lets out satisfied breath of relief. after all, you’ve been driving him crazy for weeks. “g-god. fuck yes” logan sighs in pleasure.

“she gets excited… not too much, sweetheart. didn’t show him the best part yet.” garrett taunts. you’re pulled away from his cock, making your own drool hang down your chin. you feel filthier than ever, and you love everything about it.

four strong hands on you all at once drives you crazy, to where you can’t even tell which is which as they pull you to the bed. one tugs your skirt down to the floor, another yanks down your panties.

you get on all fours on the bed, as both of their mouths explore your skin. garrett bites along your neck, certain to leave possessive hickeys. logan is much more gentle with his tongue tracing along your thigh until he reaches your pussy. his tongue pokes at your clit softly making you sigh in pleasure, until he quickly takes it away. “please,” you beg.

“nah. you teased me for weeks behind that damn wall. think i’m gonna give you everything you want that easy? garrett spoils you too much.” logan says, giving your folds one last teasing lick before backing off even though he probably punished himself more doing so. garrett’s laugh feels evil creating goosebumps along your skin.

laying your head down on the bed with your ass up in the air, you turn your head to catch eye contact with logan behind you. he’s right, garrett spoils you. if you want it, you’re going to have to show him how you always get your way. after all, he apparently already knows what your begging sounds like.

“please, logan… i’m sorry… sometimes it just feels so good. then i get loud on purpose because i want you to fuck me too. please… i won’t wake you up anymore, i promise. i’ll be so good.” you plead, letting your eyes flutter with desperation. you know you’re as exposed as you’ll ever get right now, spread out for two guys and begging like a whore. but you need it, and you’re not ashamed anymore.

“fuck— what do you think garrett? sincere?” logan asks, refusing to look away from your eyes. he doesn’t want to think about how hard it’s going to be to probably have to forget them after this, refusing to waste a second. garrett reaches his hand to feel how wet you are, before responding “very.”

logan wastes no time at that answer pushing in to your entrance, groaning and throwing his head back immediately at the feeling. “fuck. if i didn’t hear it every night, i wouldn’t believe you were fucking her. so tight.”

garrett cups your face with one hand roughly making you look up at him, now with his other hand on his cock just inches away from your face. “she’s such a good girl, isn’t she?”

you cry out at the feeling of logan’s cock filling you up, dripping wet now as he slams in and out of you. garrett holds eye contact with you as he watches you take it, letting you enjoy it for a moment before he puts you to work.

you can’t help but smile as you look up at him, mumbling a “thank you” as he lets his best friend rail you. he smirks back as he rubs his thumb kindly along your cheek.

garrett’s cock fills your mouth, as you let out muffled moans around it. he grips your hair hard to keep hold while logan’s thrusts rock the bed too. the sound of both of their grunts is enough to send you over the edge.

your ears ring and your vision blurs, as you’re sent into pure bliss. you could hear a faint “fuck, yeah she’s cumming.” from one of them but are too fucked out to focus on which one. logan’s lips encouragingly kiss along your back.

your orgasm sends both of theirs quickly behind. logan pulls out of you, shooting his warmth along your back. your mouth floods with the familiar taste of garrett’s cum, swallowing every drop in obedience. your body falls apart on the bed, feeling sensitive in every part of you.

When you sighed dramatically for what had to be the hundredth time, he chuckled at your exasperation. “Someone’s feeling needy, huh? Just give me a second, bunny.”

Caught off guard by the new term of endearment, you let out an almost imperceptible gasp.

When he glanced up from the screen and noticed the subtle change in your expression, his eyebrow lifted as a cocky smirk overtook his face.

“Oh, you liked that huh?”

Before long he had you naked and quivering in his lap, your soft thighs straddling his waist, fingernails gripping his broad shoulders as you slowly sank down on him, swearing you could feel each ridge of his thick cock as it stretched you open.

Taking your time to adjust to the sensation of almost impossible fullness, you let out a satisfied sigh. But before you could start to move, his big hands held you in place, firm on your hips as he gave you a devilish grin then picked up his controller to resume his game.

“Now be a good bunny for me and wait.”

Since that day he’s used the nickname to tease and torment you, saying it’s a fitting one because you’re so soft and sweet.

He likes how just whispering it into your ear when you’re alone gets you all worked up and whiny. How it makes your pussy drip for him. You can pretend you don’t like it, but knows you do.

He’s obsessed with the sweet way you whimper when he has you underneath him in his bed, rubbing slow circles over your clit with his thumb before stretching you out on his fingers to get you ready for him.

“Cum for me, bunny,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours until you gush all over his fingers, leaving your pussy a sweet, sticky mess that he loves to clean up with his tongue.

“Taste so good, bunny,” he groans, voice muffled by your pussy, big hands holding you open while you squirm beneath him. “Could eat you all day long.”

With his curly head buried between your soft thighs, he’ll greedily lap up every last drop of you like he’s starving, grinding his hips against the mattress while savoring in your exquisite taste.

Sometimes when you pull on his curls just right and let out the softest little moan, he’ll cum long before he’s ready, rutting into the sheets and leaving them a soiled, tangled mess.

“Look what you did to me, bunny,” he’ll gasp under his ragged breath with a smile, lips shiny to match the gold chain around his neck. “You’re going to have to make it up to me later.”

And you definitely don’t mind ;)

He looks down at you with a smile. The smile.

“Stop smiling at me like that.”

“Can’t.”

“Don’t,” you breathe.

“What?”

“I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

“Wanted to see it when it was quiet,” he mumbles, rocking back on his heels with his hand stuffed in his pocket, the other locked in yours.

“Mhmm,” you huff, rolling your eyes but your smile never fades.

“I mean...” He gestures toward the empty arena. “Seems a shame to waste all this.”

“You’re unbelievable—”

“Whole arena to ourselves.” He shrugs, eyes sliding away like you’re being irrational. “Seems irresponsible not to.”

“Baby…”

“For me?” He pouts, lifting your hand to kiss the top, but he already knows you’re down.

“For you—” Before you can get another word out, he’s got his arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground.

He laughs, warm and breathless against your mouth before kissing you, stealing whatever rational thoughts you had left about how badly this could end.

Because for Garrett Graham, there’s not much you wouldn’t do.

You knew him before any of this. Before the draft. Before reporters crowded around his locker after games. Before kids started showing up to the rink wearing his jersey and asking for autographs.

You knew the version of Garrett that stayed at the rink until the lights turned off. The version of him that called you after losses, only to spend forty-five minutes talking himself in circles until you talked him down.

And somehow, standing here now in an empty arena after the biggest night of his life, he still looks at you exactly the way he always has.

Your hands slip into his hair and you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You made it, Garrett Graham.”

For a second he just stands there holding you, letting those words sink in.

“You’re here too. We made it.” He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Couldn’t have gotten through half of it without you,” he says, his voice breaking a little. His forehead bumps gently against yours as he breathes you in. “Best night of my life. Wouldn’t wanna share it with anyone else.”

“You happy?” You whisper, and the corners of his lips curl into a smile.

“The happiest,” he hums, tilting in for a kiss. Your back bumps lightly against the glass as his fingers tighten on your thighs, holding you there.

“What if we’re super quiet?” He mumbles. “Like super… fucking… quiet.” Garrett’s voice lowers, peppering words between kisses.

“What if we get caught?” The question sounds more like a challenge than a warning, and Garrett knows it.

“We’ve done this before—”

“In college,” you giggle.

“Just a few more seats, pretty. Ice in the middle. Practically the same thing.” His body presses into you, pulling out a sound from you that has him groaning against your lips. “You know,” he adds, “for someone who keeps telling me this is a bad idea, you sure haven’t tried very hard to leave.”

Your fingers release from his hair and the back of his shirt, your kiss softening just enough to disprove his point but it’s too late.

“Nah, keep going, baby,” he teases, pulling you off the wall and toward the side door of the penalty box before he slides in with you, gripping the handle and pushing it shut until it clicks. The sound echoes across the empty arena, making both of you flinch before dissolving into quiet laughter.

He drops onto the bench like he owns it. “C’mere, pretty girl,” he murmurs, pulling you onto his lap, your knees pressing into the metal bench.

Your hands come up, wrapping around his shoulders, settling on top like you’ve probably done too many times before if you’re being honest.

He tilts forward, pressing a lingering kiss against your neck. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver through you. The arena is silent around you, the ice glowing faintly beyond the glass.

His hands drift along the waistband of your skirt. “This okay?” He whispers.

And you nod in reply as his hands drag over your thighs, slipping in between, your breath catching when he drags his palm back up your panties.

“Holy shit.” The words rush out of him as he grabs the waistband of his sweats and tugs them down just enough, the gold chain around his neck swinging free.

“So good to me,” he mumbles, licking his lips as his rough fingers shift the soft material to the side.

He groans softly when the air hits him, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes roll back when your hand wraps around his dick, the tension between you thick as you start to stroke. Garrett’s fingers push inside you, making your brows furrow.

His lips fall open as the two of you settle into a rhythm, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when you throw your head back, his long fingers curving just right.

Garrett lets out a low moan, his eyes never leaving you. The excitement from the game is still written all over him, his chest rising and falling as you fist his cock, his lip tucked between his teeth, still riding high off adrenaline.

You shift closer as anticipation twists through your stomach, cursing under your breath as he grips your hip with one hand, dragging the tip of his dick along your slit with the other.

“I’ll go slow,” he mumbles, his chin tipped up to match your gaze as you straddle his lap.

Your breath catches and you bite down on your lip to keep quiet. Garrett’s forehead presses against yours, eyes pinched shut as he lets out a rough breath. His hand tightens at your waist, holding you steady as you sink lower.

His jaw tightens as he glances between you, watching the distance disappear until you’re settled in his lap, your thighs pressed against the bench.

When you finally look at him, Garrett is already watching you.

A shaky laugh escapes you before you can stop it, making Garrett’s heavy eyes immediately soften.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Feels good?”

“Mhmm,” you breathe, rolling your hips, the stretch making your muscles shake.

“Then why are you trying so hard not to make any noise, huh?”

A helpless laugh slips out of you.

“I don’t wanna get caught,” you whisper, his thumb tracing along your bottom lip. “I don’t wanna stop.”

“Yeah?” He murmurs sweetly. “You’re being so good for me—” Crack! His palm lands against your ass, sharp enough to make you gasp. Your body tenses, tightening around him and pulling a moan from his throat, his deep voice humming through the penalty box.

Garrett’s head tips back for a second. The sight sends a flutter straight through your stomach—hair damp and curling beneath his hat, lips wet from kissing, cheeks flushed. The muscles under his shirt are flexed tight, the team logo pulled taut across his chest.

Your hands brace against the wall behind his head as you move against him—riding him shamelessly.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, his large hands gripping your ass, coaching each roll of your hips. “Pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

You smile, taking control on top, each shift drawing the two of you closer to the edge. You can feel every inch and ridge of him—each vein and curve—as he moves beneath you, heat building low in your stomach with every bounce.

His mouth finds yours again, lips parting so he can slip his tongue inside. “Need you to cum for me,” he mumbles between kissing, catching your moan in his mouth when his fingers press against your clit, rubbing tight circles on top.

“Yes. Yes,” you pant, and he groans.

“Mmm’fuck, baby,” he hums against your lips, pounding up into you as you fall apart, his name breaking from your lips in a breathless whine.

His rhythm falters with a low, broken sound as he finishes deep inside you, pulling you down as close as he can. His forehead presses to yours as the two of you share the same breath.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, hands drifting slowly up and down your thighs before smoothing your skirt back into place, still wearing that same stunned expression he’s had since puck drop.

“I love you,” you mumble, your hands holding his cheeks as you kiss him.

“I love you too, baby,” he hums. Garrett chuckles against your lips, raspy and deep.

“What?” You smile.

“Never gettin’ over this look on you, pretty,” he sighs blissfully, his hands settled on your hips. “Post-win. Freshly-fucked—”

“Garrett Graham,” you gasp like you’re surprised, giggling against his lips as he does the same, but a metallic clunk echoes somewhere above you and both of you freeze. Your heart immediately drops into your stomach.

“WHO’S DOWN THERE?” The voice cuts through the darkness and panic hits you all at once.

“Oh my God,” you hiss, climbing out of his lap as he fights with the waistband of his sweats, laughing a little at your panic. Not loud. Just enough to make you want to strangle him.

“Baby, move,” you scold.

“I’m movin’!” He chuckles, the two of you scrambling out of the box, hands shaking, your pulse pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears while Garrett somehow looks like he’s having the time of his life.

A beam of light sweeps across the home bench as you run through the tunnel.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you hiss.

“Language,” Garrett mutters.

“Oh, please.” You shoot him a look as he catches your hand, his tongue poking through his teeth.

His laugh bounces off the concrete walls as he tugs you through the exit to player parking.

You barely make it around the corner before Garrett catches your wrist and pulls you against the brick wall. The momentum knocks a laugh out of both of you.

“We’re good, baby—FUCK!” He barks, throwing up a hand to shield both of you from the blinding headlights as a pair of beams sweep across you, the engine of a sports car roaring to life.

Music spills from the speakers and the fear in Garrett’s eyes disappears instantly, his shoulders relaxing as he wraps an arm around your waist.

His captain’s car slow-rolls forward and a deep chuckle drifts from the open window.

“You two have a nice night?” He asks, a smile tugging at his mouth, his thick Russian accent laced with teasing.

“Mhmm,” Garrett answers, nodding his head, his shoulders trembling as he fights back a laugh. “Great night, Roz. Thanks.”

“Good job tonight, kid,” Ilya says, giving him a wink.

“Appreciate it,” Garrett says, his voice cracking on the last word, embarrassment painting his cheeks red. The finger gun he shoots at his captain definitely doesn’t help, but thankfully Rozanov is already rolling away as his taillights disappear into the dark Boston night.

“Got a permit for that thing,” you whisper.

“Shut up,” he laughs, pulling you into a playful headlock, using his hold to press a rough kiss on your lips. “Stop teasin’ me. Fuck—”

“Language,” you whisper his words from before, but he’s quick, tickling you as you try your best to wiggle away but he’s having none of that. And the moment he pulls you in, your stomach falls, your eyes going wide on his like a deer in the headlights.

He looks down at you, quirking an eyebrow as you stare up at him. He nods, preemptively answering the question that you’re too mortified to ask.

“Mhmm,” he hums.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, heat rushing to your cheeks, but Garrett looks completely unbothered. He turns you around wrapping you up in his strong arms as you unravel.

“You think he knows?”

“Absolutely.” Garrett ducks his head, trying and failing to stop laughing. “Baby, he definitely knows.”

You let out a dramatic groan, throwing your head back, but he cradles the back of your head and pulls you against his chest. His heart thumps steadily beneath your ear, his lips resting against the top of your head as your breathing slowly settles together.

When you finally glance up at him, he’s already smiling. His eyes drop to your lips before he steals a soft kiss.

“Best night of my life,” he whispers against your mouth.

“Even after getting caught?” You mumble back.

“‘Specially after gettin’ caught,” he chuckles breathlessly. “Doesn’t get much better than this, huh?” He looks at you for a second and starts smiling all over again.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, swaying with you a little. “Just happy.”

“The happiest,” you whisper.

“Let’s go home, baby.”

THE PITCH

The sun had started its descent behind the Hollywood hills, turning the glass-walled office into a fishbowl of fading goold and too much silence. Outside, the world was Los Angeles perfect, with bougainvillea climbing fences, palm trees whispering like waves, lazy, constant, impossible to ignore. Inside, the room smelled like eucalyptus and tension, Dean Winchester standing like he was about to bolt.

He didn't sit. Never did in these kinds of meetings. His body wasn't made for soft chair and softer conversations. He leaned against the corner window, arms crossed, cap shadowing his face. His shirt clung to the line of his shoulder, damp from the late July heat. One boot tapped the hardwood floor slowly. Not out of impatience, but annoyance. These days, Dean Winchester was always annoyed. His jaw was set so tight it could've cracked his molars.

Across the room, Castiel Novak was halfway through a lukewarm espresso, and already at the end of his patience. "I need you to stop glowering," he said flatly, glancing at him over the rim of the tiny cup. "You look like you just found out Santa isn't real and he slept with your ex-wife."

Dean didn't smile. Cass sighed and stood, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down with a flair that was too practiced to be careless. He paced in front of his desk, tapping his fingers against his phone like it was a metronome. "You know, I don't do this for just anyone," he said. "I don't beg. I suggest. I redirect. I subtly manipulate with grace and well-timed press leaks.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “You’re doing all three right now.”

Cass ignored that. “But with you? I’m begging. Because this thing, this disaster spiral you’re riding down like a flaming motorcycle stunt, ends one of two ways. With a public breakdown. Or with me saving your ass.”

Dean looked away, lips pursed. The texts had been harmless, not even flirty, not really. Just late-night nostalgia with a woman he used to love. A woman who’d moved on. A woman who was married now. And it didn’t matter what he knew. The internet had already decided he was the villain. “I don’t need saving,” he muttered.

“Tell that to your haters.” Cass crossed his arms. “You’re not in your thirties anymore. You don’t get to be the brooding heartthrob with a ‘rough patch.’ Now, you’re the guy who never moved on. Who couldn’t let go. Who made a move on someone else’s wife.”

Dean scowled. “That’s not what happened.”

“I know that,” Cass said gently. “But this town doesn’t care about facts. It cares about image. And right now? Yours is bleeding out.”

Dean exhaled through his nose. The room felt too warm. Or maybe that was just shame settling into his chest like secondhand smoke.

Cass stepped closer, lowering his voice. Softer now. Friendlier. Like the guy Dean used to get drunk with after long shoots in Vancouver. Before everything got complicated. “There’s a way out of this. A clean one. But you have to agree.”

Dean didn’t answer.

Cass tapped his fingers against the desk once. Then added, casually. “She’s already in.” Dean looked up.

Cass smiled, just a little. “Knew that’d get your attention.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. “You’re serious?”

“She doesn’t need to do this,” Cass said. “She wants to. Or, okay, she wants the headlines. She wants the narrative reset. And you’re part of that.”

Dean ran a hand over his jaw. “So what, we parade around town pretending to be a couple? That’s your master plan?”

Cass turned to the window, facing the city like he could bend it to his will. “You walk through Venice Beach holding an iced coffee. She smiles up at you like she’s never heard of bad press. You laugh, maybe for the first time in public this year. Boom. Next thing you know, the internet’s in love with you two. Everyone forgets the texts. You’re trending for the right reasons again.”

Dean stared at the wall. He hated this. The performative bullshit. The way it always came back to playing a role, even when the cameras weren’t rolling.

And then the door opened. He didn’t see her at first, just heard the creak of sandals, the whisper of fabric, the soft metallic jingle of stacked bracelets. Then she stepped into view.

Dean straightened before he meant to.

She looked... like summer distilled. Loose waves in her hair, golden from the sun. A plain white tank top that clung just enough, a slouchy brown leather bag over her shoulder. The soft dip of her collarbone catching the light. Her skirt was deep red, rich and full, cinched at the waist, swaying gently with each step like it had somewhere better to be. She looked like she belonged barefoot in a villa, or stepping out of a vintage convertible with a peach in one hand and a secret in the other. Not here. Not in a PR negotiation.

She gave him a once-over. Not rushed. Not shy. Just amused. "Hi boys," she said, a small smile crossing her lips. “Did he agree yet?” she asked Cass. “Or is he still brooding like a tortured novelist?”

Dean stared. Then blinked. “You serious with that outfit?”

“Why?” she smiled. “Worried I’m gonna outshine your baseball cap?”

“I’m worried I’m gonna look like your damn babysitter.”

“Oh please,” she said, tossing her bag onto the chair and lowering herself into it like a cat. “You wish you looked this relaxed.”

Dean opened his mouth, ready to bite back, but Castiel beat him to it, his voice always sounded like he was halfway through a sermon. Publicist to the stars, fire extinguisher to the famous. And today, babysitter to two people who wanted to kill each other. Or fuck. It was a fine line, really. “Children,” Cass said, raising a hand like he was casting a spell to ward off drama. “Dean, your brooding is giving very ‘divorced lumberjack with a podcast about knives.’ And you, darling,” he turned to her, eyebrow arched. “you look like a Pinterest board for women who journal about their exes in vineyards.”

She grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn't one,” Cass muttered, but without heat. “Now. Back to why we’re here.” He was already typing something into his iPad, giddy like a kid unveiling a school project made entirely of glitter and power moves.

Dean stayed where he was, arms folded tight. His body had settled into the posture he used in meetings with directors he didn’t trust: immovable, unimpressed, vaguely threatening. On the other side of the room, her elbows were resting lightly on the armrests, red skirt spilling around her like rose petals left behind after a party. Her back straight, chin lifted. Not a trace of apology anywhere on her, not in her posture, not in her outfit, definitely not in the way she glanced at Dean like he was an inconvenient errand.

“So,” Cass began, without even pretending to build tension, “I’ve walked Dean through the strategy. The public’s already halfway convinced you two are falling in love, we’re just going to let them believe it. You’ll be photographed together. Twice a week, minimum. Venice Beach, Silver Lake, maybe a hotel lobby with dramatic lighting...”

She interrupted without looking up. “Can we skip the farmer’s market aesthetic? I’m not carrying kale for this man.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You think I want to be seen buying kale?”

She grinned, and it was lethal. “You look like you haven’t eaten a vegetable since 2004.”

“Okay,” Cass said, raising both hands. “This is the chemistry I’m talking about.”

Dean looked at her, jaw tight. “You’re really on board with this?”

“I am.” She adjusted her bracelets. “Why wouldn’t I be? I get a golden-boy redemption arc without having to cry on national television, and you get to look like someone can stand you for more than ten minutes.”

Dean let out a sharp exhale, not quite a laugh. “You’re good.”

“I’m great,” she said brightly. “Also, I get to wear cute outfits and fake-date a man who broods for a living. It’s basically my charity work for the year.”

He shifted his weight, arms still crossed. “You sure you’re ready for the ‘controversially young girlfriend’ headlines?”

"I've been called worse for less," she snorted. "All I have to do is try not to look bored while you pretend not to stare at me. Feels like a win.” Her tongue was sharp, but Dean's life was made of sharper things.

“I won’t be staring.”

“You already are.”

Dean blinked. Once. Slowly. “You’re not that special.”

She shrugged, all lazy confidence. “You don’t have to think I am. Just act like it.”

Cass, standing between them, was trying not to smile. Failing. “This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between their bodies like he was conducting an orchestra of rage and unresolved sexual tension, “is exactly why people love you two. The chemistry is rabid. Online audiences are feral for it. You touch her elbow and they start planning wedding menus.”

Dean let out a sharp exhale. “I’m too old for this.”

She smiled sweetly. “You’re not that old. Just... older than Twitter thinks is okay.” Dean’s jaw ticked.

Cass cut in again. “Look, you’ll each get your own version of the narrative. Dean, rugged actor turns romantic again, regains public sympathy after ‘heartbreak’ and ‘humble misstep.’ You, a former scandal starlet chooses stability, matures publicly, audience re-learns how to root for her.”

She turned to Dean, head tilted. “I like how I get character development and you get a redemption arc. Very on brand.” One hand flicked a piece of hair out of her eyes. "So. What’s the play? Share an oat milk latte under a tree? Pap shots of us laughing while I pretend Dean’s funny?”

Dean gave her a look. “I am funny.”

“You’re funny in a way that makes people cry in bathrooms.”

“She’s not wrong,” Cas added, flipping his iPad toward them. “You’re trending lower than crypto, Dean. And you,” he pointed at her, “are still ‘the girl from that tape’ to half the industry. But you two together? You’re golden. Magnetic. Preposterously hot.”

“I am not magnetic,” Dean muttered.

“Tell that to the internet,” Cass replied. “They’ve built a religion around your thumb grazing her jaw in that trailer. We fake a relationship, ride the chemistry, clean up your public images, and then have a tasteful, tearless breakup by awards season.”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” Dean said.

Castiel winked at him. “This fake relationship controls the narrative. You get sympathy. She gets rebranded. You both get more than survival. You get power again.”

“You know I’m in,” she said, breezily. “But I get Instagram caption veto power, no interviews about ‘his healing journey,’ and he’s not allowed to wear flannel in public.”

Dean scoffed. “What the hell’s wrong with flannel?”

“You want to look emotionally available, not like you coach Little League and won’t shut up about your divorce.”

Dean turned to Cass. “I hate her.”

"You'll live."

THE FIRST DATE

The sun hit Venice like it was trying to cook it. It reflected off storefronts, glared down from between the slats of tangled palm trees, and turned the sidewalks into mirrors. The ocean wind couldn't decide if it wanted to cool or stir shit up, so it did both, shoving hair into people's faces, flipping napkins off café tables, tugging the hem of Dean's shirt as if it had something to say. He could smell the sunscreen, fried food, weed, salt hair. He hated it already.

There were too many people. Too many sunglasses disguising not-so-subtle glances. Too many phones held at chest level, recording just in case. And the worst part was, Dean couldn't tell which cameras were real and which ones just wanted content. He knew Cass had tipped off paparazzi the day before, but he did not really take into account how many people would actually recognize the two of them. He had no doubt Novak knew and planned accordingly.

One thing was certain, even after thirty years in the industry, Dean didn’t belong here. He stood near the railing overlooking the beach, wearing boots that were already too warm, jeans that stuck to his legs, and a black t-shirt that soaked up sunlight like punishment. Sunglasses on. Arms crossed. Mood foul. It didn't help that she had told Cass, who had told him not to wear his baseball cap. It apparently made him look too much of a redneck for her liking. So, he was stuck trying to not let his hair completely go over his eyes, having gotten longer this past year.

And then she appeared like a hallucination. She was walking toward him in a ridiculous outfit (was it really ridiculous?), head held high, legs long, her butter-yellow skirt barely reaching mid-thigh, swaying with every step. The halter-style top hugged her like it was custom-cut. A matching bag hung off her wrist like it weighed nothing. Gold earrings caught the sun. A soft white headband framed her face like a crown. She didn’t just stand out. She detonated.

Dean let his gaze caress her figure. “Oh, for fuck’s sake." She smiled.

“Missed me?”

“You look like an off-duty Bond girl.”

“Good.” She stopped next to him, posing for nobody and everybody. “That’s the vibe.”

Dean didn’t answer. Just stared at her like she was an optical illusion he was too tired to decode.

Everything about her was blinding. The pale yellow of her outfit glowed against her skin, catching every drop of sun like it had been stitched out of light. She looked like she belonged in a vintage convertible in the south of France, not beside his sunburnt misery on a too-crowded boardwalk.

“How the hell are you not melting in that?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to all of her.

She turned slightly so the breeze caught her skirt and her hair, perfectly timed, like a perfume commercial in slow motion. “It’s called fashion, Winchester. Try it sometime.”

Dean scowled. “We’re on a beach. You look like you’re going to the Met Gala.”

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.” She smiled sweetly. “But what does? Oh right, just your IMDb credits and the collective thirst of sad women on Twitter.”

Dean bit back a sigh. He could already feel the edges of a migraine forming, right behind his eyes. He blamed the sun. And her voice. Mostly her voice.

They started walking down the boardwalk, her sandals clicking softly on the concrete, his boots thudding like punctuation marks behind her. She walked a half step ahead, as if daring him to keep up, every inch of her curated to look effortless. He hated how good she was at this. Palm trees lined the path, rustling overhead with that slow, lazy rhythm that always sounded like waves crashing in the distance. A tourist couple paused to look. Then someone else. And someone else. Phones came out like reflex, again.

Dean didn’t flinch, but he could feel his shoulders coil tighter.

“You’re tense,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder. “You look like you’re going to your execution.”

“Maybe I am.”

She laughed. “Relax. Pretend you like me. Or at least that you don’t want to push me into traffic.”

Dean’s eyes cut to her. “I don’t want to push you into traffic.”

“Progress,” she beamed. “We’re halfway to married.”

They reached the café Cass had scouted. White umbrellas, sun-faded menus, a table that just happened to be open at the perfect angle for a long lens. Dean scanned the crowd instinctively, and yeah, there they were. Two paps, three phones recording, a woman pretending to feed her dog while pointing her camera right at them.

They sat. She crossed her legs delicately, smoothing the edge of her skirt so it revealed just enough thigh to make Dean curse under his breath. “You’re doing that thing,” she said, not looking at him, reaching for a napkin “Where you look like you just got told your favorite character died.”

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“No, no. That’s too honest.” She tapped her brow, wiping off some sweat, smiling politely at nothing. “The vibe we’re going for is more brooding-but-soft, you know? Like a widowed sea captain slowly learning to love again.”

Dean glared at her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re pouting.”

“I’m not...” He caught himself. Sat back. Frowned deeper.

She leaned in slightly, eyes glittering, just shy from laughing out loud. “Look, you don’t have to like me. I don’t like you either.”

“Great.”

“But,” she said, her voice dipping into something low and smooth, “you do have to pretend you want to bend me over this table. At least for the next twenty minutes.” Dean choked on absolutely nothing. Her smile turned wicked while she thanked the waiter for bringing her a latte. “Cass' words, not mine. Though I didn’t disagree.” Dean didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His mouth was too dry. She tilted her head. “What’s wrong, old man? Cat got your tongue?”

“No,” he muttered. “Just trying to find the will to live.”

“Aww,” she cooed. “Well, until you do, maybe lean in. Touch my hand. Smile like I’m the best thing that’s happened to you since high-def.”

Dean glanced toward the street. A camera clicked. Then another.

She reached across the table and brushed her fingers against his wrist, featherlight, cool from the glass she was holding. He was an actor, for fuck's sake, he could do this. He was born to do this.

He let out a slow breath, low and steady, and when he opened them again, something in his face had changed. The irritation was still there, sure. But now it simmered underneath something smoother. Something practiced. Controlled. A tension he knew how to sell, and how to weaponize. His green eyes stared into her soul.

He leaned in. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough to close the space between them, elbows on the table, forearms bracketing her untouched latte.

Her hand was still on his wrist.

His voice dropped an octave. Smooth. Steady. “You know what I’m thinking about?” he said, his mouth tugging into something between a smirk and a sneer. She blinked. Just once. Her fingers curled slightly, but didn’t pull away.

“What?” she asked, trying to sound amused. And almost succeeding.

Dean tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on hers. “How easy it’d be to sell this. All I’d have to do is touch your knee under the table. Let my eyes fall a little too low. Say your name like I mean it.”

Her posture stayed perfect, but her throat bobbed once. “Go on,” she said lightly, lips twitching. “You’re on a roll.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started,” he murmured. “Because then you’d laugh. The cameras would catch it. That little moment where you look at me like I’ve just said something filthy you’d never admit you liked.”

She sucked in a breath. Soft. Almost soundless.

He smiled, not kindly. “And people'd love it. Because it’d be the first time someone didn’t treat you like a headline. Not like that shitty director you used to date. What was his name? Gordon, or something like that. I’d be the man who wants you, for real. Right here. Right now.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her hand stayed exactly where it was. Dean leaned in a half inch closer, voice quieter now. For her. Just her. “But we both know better,” he said. “I don’t want you. And you don’t want me.” She blinked again, and this time the smile didn’t return right away. He sat back.

The space between them snapped taut, air heavy and warm with what had just passed through it. She reached for her drink, too fast. Dean watched her carefully, not smug, not quite, but with a flicker of satisfaction at the flush that crept into her cheeks.

“You’re good at this,” she said, after a beat. Her voice was light, but less steady than before. “Acting. Forgot this is why people want us together in the first place. Almost believed you.”

He reached for his own coffee, casual. “That’s why they pay me more than you.”

She scoffed. “Barely.”

He smirked. “Still counts.”

A shutter clicked again. The sound barely registered. The entire world had blurred down to the look in her eyes, a mixture of irritation, curiosity, and something else she didn’t want to admit.

She straightened. Smoothed her skirt like it hadn’t risen halfway up her thigh. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. “Wait until week three when I’m ‘accidentally’ wearing your shirt,” she said breezily, as if she hadn’t just gone breathless three minutes ago. "This performance of yours will be long forgotten by then."

She was already sipping her drink like she hadn’t just short-circuited half his neurons. He looked up at the sky. Prayed for a solar flare to end this performance and possibly the earth.

She looked over at him with a playful glance. “You’re gonna hate this.”

He turned his head just slightly. “I already do.”

When the photos hit thirty minutes later, him leaning toward her, her hand on his arm, their eyes locked like the tension between them was too much to hide, the comments said exactly what Cas wanted to hear:

They’re so in love it hurts. The age gap?? The chemistry??? I’m unwell. If this is fake, why am I crying?

THE FIRST PICTURE

The hallway to the upscale restaurant batroom looked like something out of a dream, or a fever. Walls of gleaming dark wood, soft gold lighting from sculptural fixtures, and black mirrored tile that made every movement ripple like water. The kind of place that tried hard to make you feel expensive. Everything gleamed. Everything whispered money. Dean wasn't really sure how he ended ip there, holding a woman over his shoulder like a bad of contraband.

Actually, he knew exactly how. Her. She'd been smirking from the moment they walked out the dining room. The second she saw the velvet-lined mirror panel at the end of the corridor, her eyes had flicked over to him, an idea harboring in her mind. And now Dean was paying for it, in heat, in proximity, in the way his heart hadn't quite gone back to normal.

"You’re stiff," she said from behind his ear, voice slightly breathless. "Loosen up. You’re carrying a woman, not a sack of flour."

"You threw yourself at me."

"I climbed gracefully."

“You launched yourself like a cannonball.”

“Same thing,” she said sweetly, adjusting her arm around his shoulder. He could feel the edge of her bracelet press against the back of his neck, cool metal, soft skin, chaos incarnate. Her dress had been a problem since the moment she stepped out of the car.

It was black. Not just black, but the kind of black that absorbed every spotlight and gave it back as something sinful. Satin, probably, or some other expensive material he couldn’t name but felt with every shift of her body against his. It clung in places that made conversation difficult. Thin straps, barely-there neckline, the kind of thing that had probably been taped into place with magic and a prayer. When she walked, it moved like smoke, hugging the backs of her thighs, catching the light in glints that weren’t fair. There was a slit up the side, he hadn’t dared look directly at it, but it flashed like a threat every time she climbed stairs or turned too quickly. She had worn heels that night, sharp, scrappy. With them on, she stood eye to eye with him. Maybe half an inch taller, depending on posture. And of course she had posture. She carried herself like she was starring in her own perfume ad, all lifted chin and killer elegance, like she knew she’d just crossed the threshold of being unforgettable.

He hated that dress. Hated how it demanded attention. Hated how it looked like she’d worn it specifically to ruin his evening. Worst of all, he hated how good she knew she looked in it, like the whole city was her runway and he was just the unwilling cameraman.

And now she was wrapped around him like a red carpet come to life.

He had tried to resist this, to put his foot down. He was not a damn teenager, these things were not for him anymore.

"I'm not doing this," he had said.

She had given him a slow look. “You think I can’t make you?”

Dean had crossed his arms in defiance. “I’m not one of your little Instagram husbands.”

“No,” she had said, voice dropping slightly. “You’re worse. You’re a grump with a god-tier jawline who makes women online forget how to breathe. If we’re gonna sell this, we need to lean in.”

He had opened his mouth to argue, but she was already moving.

She was everywhere, perfume in his nose, skin against his shoulder, laughter pressed against his spine.

“This is not happening,” he growled.

“It is,” she whispered against his neck, and somehow that was worse.

The mirror in front of them caught the whole thing: her body curved over his shoulder, head hanging upside-down, lips parted in a breathless grin. His jaw was clenched. His grip was firm. The tension in his arms was unmistakable, like he could hold her forever or drop her just to make a point.

Dean looked at the reflection. At them. And something in his chest shifted, sharp, reluctant, a little unsteady. She looked like chaos. He looked like control. Together, they looked like trouble.

Dean’s grip tightened around the backs of her thighs, careful but firm. Her dress draped over his shoulder in a way that definitely wouldn’t pass Instagram guidelines if she shifted the wrong way. Her legs swung slightly against his chest, bare skin brushing cotton. She smelled like heat and lipstick and something floral that didn’t belong in this hallway.

"You're going to throw my back out," he muttered.

"You’re strong enough," she replied lightly, though her breath hitched. “God, this is going to break the internet.” It sounded like foreplay.

And Dean hated how much it worked.

She caught his eye in the reflection and winked. “You gonna take the damn picture, or just stand there looking tragic?”

Dean grunted and pulled his phone out one-handed, angling it toward the mirror. He took the first picture.

The room around them gleamed, dim but golden, like everything had been filtered through luxury and late-night sin. Her hair caught the light in soft waves as she tilted her head back, a flash of teeth in her smile as she pointed toward the mirror again. She was relentless. “Good for a first try. Now, look like you sort of like me.”

Dean stared at the reflection. Her legs wrapped around him, heels kicked up like a goddamn movie poster. His plain white tee pulling across his chest. His hands holding her steady. Every muscle in his body was tense, but the worst part was... it didn’t look like that.

In the mirror, it looked effortless. Hot, even.

He sighed. Another click.

“Again,” she said.

“I’m not your tripod.”

“No,” she said with a sly smile. “You’re my man candy. For now.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he took another. This one, her legs shifted, slightly, and his palm slid higher to adjust. Her skin was warm. His ears burned.

Click.

She adjusted reached over the angle, ever the perfectionist, hair falling over her shoulder, lips parted in a mock gasp like she wasn’t the one orchestrating the whole thing. “Okay, now look a little less ‘hostage’ and a little more ‘can’t believe I get to do this'. Maybe smile?"

“I really can’t.”

“Dean.”

He gave the camera a smirk. Lazy. Slight. The kind that made fans lose their minds when it showed up mid-interview.

She blinked. “Holy shit. Do that again.”

“Absolutely not.”

He lowered the phone. Glared at it like the photo had personally insulted him.

“Let me down,” she whispered after a beat, and though it was teasing, there was something else in her voice too, something breathless. Quiet. Almost real.

He bent slightly, letting her legs slide down his chest as she lowered herself. Her fingers stayed on his shoulders a second longer than necessary. When her feet hit the polished black tile, the air between them snapped taut, hot and close and thrumming.

They didn’t move.

He could feel her watching him.

Could feel the tension ricocheting off the mirrored walls like static.

She looked down at the screen. Her expression changed, just for a moment, from playful to something more reverent.

“This one,” she murmured.

He looked over her shoulder. In the photo, his arm wrapped securely around her thighs, her smile devilish, his mouth tilted just slightly, not quite a smile, but softer than a scowl. Like he’d stopped fighting it, even if just for the shutter.

It looked real. Too real.

She started typing a caption. Something snarky, probably. Something to make the comments froth. But her fingers paused. Hovered. Like maybe she didn’t know what to say.

“Post it,” Dean said roughly.

She glanced up. “You sure?”

He nodded once. She hit share.

Then she looked at him, and for the first time that night, the banter was gone. Just for a breath.

“You’re dangerous when you let yourself be charming,” she said.

He looked down at her. “And you’re dangerous, period.”

Her smile returned, slow and sharp. “Good thing we’re pretending.”

THE FIRST REAL TALK

The car smelled like leather, perfume, and pressure.

Dean sat back against the seat, legs spread, hands resting on his thighs like he didn’t trust them to stay still. He shifted in his seat, tugging slightly at the collar of his open-button shirt. The fabric felt too stiff against his neck, the jacket tailored within an inch of breathing. He could hear the low purr of the tires over pavement. The quiet exhale of the AC. The soft sound of her thumb scrolling on her screen. The city slid past in flashes of gold and brake lights, headlights catching on the curve of her shoulder as she scrolled on her phone like they weren’t about to be photographed within an inch of their lives.

She looked... unfair. That was the only word that came to mind.

Her dress was some delicate, strappy thing in slate blue, soft and shimmery, elegant but a little too bare for his sanity. One leg crossed over the other, just enough thigh showing to be a statement. Hair pinned back with strategic precision, earrings like glints of trouble when she turned her head. Her heels rested on the floor mat next to his boots. She'd taken them off five minutes into the drive, sighed dramatically, and leaned her head back like she'd been through war.

He hadn’t said much since. Neither had she.

They’d been silent for most of the ride, save for the occasional honk or the quiet jazz bleeding from the driver’s speakers, some Spotify playlist probably titled red carpet chill. Dean watched her screen light up her face in the dark. Her dress shimmered every time the car passed under another sign, silver-blue, like moonlight in fabric. When she moved, it rippled. When she laughed, which she hadn’t done yet tonight, he imagined it would glow. She smelled expensive, soft perfume layered with something warm and human. A little sunscreen. A little sweat. Real things. 

Dean couldn’t decide if the silence was awkward or earned.

“You ready for this?” he asked finally, voice rough from disuse.

She didn’t look up. Just tilted her head toward him, lashes flicking upward. “You asking if I’m emotionally prepared for that many people with veneers, or if I’m about to fake-laugh through forty red carpet interviews about my ‘process’ even if this isn't my movie?”

He gave a low snort. “You rehearsed that one?”

“I live that one.”

A beat passed.

“Are you?” she asked.

Dean let his head fall back against the seat.

Outside, some guy in a hoodie was selling fake roses to couples at the stoplight. The kind of moment that usually made Dean roll his eyes. Tonight, it just made him tired.

“They’re gonna ask about it,” he said. “The Lisa thing.”

She glanced at him, more alert now. “You want to run through the story?”

Dean gave a quiet snort. “No point. Whatever I say, they’ll believe what they want. The narrative’s already written.”

She waited. Didn’t interrupt. Which surprised him.

He shifted slightly, cracking his knuckles. “It wasn’t flirting,” he said. “Not really. Not the way they’re making it look. I messaged her first, we were both drunk, and yeah, it got... fuzzy. But there wasn’t anything sexual. No crossing lines. I think we both just missed what it felt like, having someone who knew the old versions of us.”

The window beside him showed his reflection, half-dissolved in the streetlights. He looked like someone explaining away a ghost. “She’s married now. To someone I introduced her to, to someone she cheated on me with. They’ve got a daughter. I didn’t mean for it to get messy. But I didn’t shut it down soon enough either.”

Silence. And then her voice, low. “Do you still love her?”

Dean blinked. The question wasn’t cruel, or curious. No one had just asked that. Not Castiel, not his brother Sam. “No,” he said, too fast. Then again, quieter. “No.” And it was true. There was a time where Lisa's black hair and full smile had been the highlight of his life, sure, but after he found out about her affairs throughout their years together, he couldn't bear to look in her eyes and see the truth he chose to ignore for so long.

She cleared her throat. "You're a good man, Dean. I need you to know that," her hand slowly went to his bicep, he looked at it. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He let out a breath. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m forty-one, divorced, and moody. People don’t root for that. They see a man texting his ex and call it pathetic.”

She titled her head toward him. "I see a man who gave a shit when it would've been easier not to, if you ask me." Her voice was soft, but certain. She wasn't offering comfort, not really, she was telling the truth. "You're not pathetic, Winchester," she added, quieter. "Maybe deeply allergic to look like you're happy, but very far from pathetic."

Dean huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t hurt a little. “That’s generous.”

“I’m not known for my generosity,” she said, settling back into her seat. “But even I can admit when a grumpy divorcé in a suit deserves a little grace.”

“You ever regret something that didn’t feel like a mistake until someone else watched it happen?” he asked.

She smiled. Not the PR smile. Not the one that got her out of interviews or into luxury partnerships. Just the ghost of one. Dry. Bitter. True. “Don't you know? I built a career on it.”

Dean looked at her, really looked, and for once, she didn’t deflect. Didn’t pose. Just breathed.

“I was nineteen,” she said, voice steady. “New producer. Big audition. I thought I was lucky, that someone powerful wanted me. He was older. Smarter. Knew what to say to make it all feel... earned.” Dean didn’t speak. Her gaze dropped to her lap. “It wasn’t just the tape. It was the headlines. The phone calls. The way everyone looked at me like I’d handed it out myself. Like I’d wanted it. I lost two jobs. Almost three. You know what saved me?” He shook his head once. She looked up. “I laughed about it. Turned it into a brand. Became the girl from the tape, but who also wasn't shy about it. You know how exhausting it is to pretend something didn’t break you?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

A long, low silence settled between them. Not awkward. Not anymore. Just real. “I never watched it,” she said suddenly. “The tape. Never saw it. Didn't even know it existed in the first place.”

Dean looked over at her. She met his gaze. “Good, don't” he said, voice rough. "That tape doesn't matter. It never did."

She let out a little laugh. "Yeah, tell that to my dad."

"Fuck, I bet that was awkward," his hand crossed over his face.

She smiled, again, barely there. “Don’t cry for me, brooding sea captain. I’m still here.”

“I’m not crying,” he muttered.

“You’re thinking about it.”

“No. I’m thinking about how to not punch someone in a tux if they bring it up on the carpet.”

She smirked. “Now that’s the romance I signed up for.”

The car rolled to a stop. The door clicked as the lock disengaged.

Outside, the lights were brighter. The shouting louder. A wall of flashbulbs and PR handlers and scripted charm waited just beyond the door. She slipped her heels back on without flinching. Adjusted the strap on her dress. Lifted her chin. Dean watched her become someone else, not fake, exactly. Just armored.

Then she turned to him and did something unexpected. She reached over and fixed his collar. Lightly. Fingers brushing his jaw. Brief. Human. “You look good,” she said.

He studied her. “So do you.”

They stared for a breath too long. Then the door opened, and they stepped out, into the lie they were learning how to live together.

THE FIRST INTERVIEW

The sidewalk shimmered under the weight of L.A. heat, and the press line looked like an overcaffeinated runway, flashes, boom mics, plastic smiles. A cluster of reporters stood behind a velvet rope, fanning themselves with folded call sheets and half-empty coffee cups. Neon-orange cones kept back the crowd, and a black Escalade had just rolled up like something important was about to happen. Which, of course, it was.

Dean Winchester stepped out first. Grumpy. Broad-shouldered. A walking PSA for men who hadn't had a full night’s sleep since 2012. No entourage. No warning. Just that familiar shuffle of boots replaced with clean sneakers and quiet dread. His black crew-neck tee hugged his chest like it had been made for him, the sleeves barely containing the curve of muscle. Crisp white pants, immaculately unbothered, like he gave a damn but not too much. Aviators obscured his eyes. Jaw clenched just enough to let everyone know he wasn’t thrilled to be here. Classic watch glinting at his wrist. He looked like someone who was about to refuse to give a quote, and somehow still go viral.

Then she stepped out. And the temperature shifted.

Her navy pinstripe jumpsuit hugged and draped in all the right places, sharp lapels, a cinched waist with a silver chain slung low, the neckline a deep, dramatic V that made headlines on its own. She wore pointed heels and walked like the sidewalk was hers. Silver-rimmed sunglasses, thick chain necklace, and earrings big enough to reflect the sunset. The reporters surged like sharks catching blood.

A male reporter adjusted her mic. “You look amazing,” he gushed.

"I try," she said brightly, adjusting her sunglasses.

Dean muttered under his breath, “She’s modest, too.”

She smiled wide and fanned him with one hand. “Ignore him, he’s just upset I’m taller than him today.”

“She’s not,” Dean said flatly.

“I am.”

“You’re wearing stilts.”

“They’re Tom Ford.”

Dean didn’t blink, “I don't think it matters.” She was enjoying this, he knew that. His discomfort, the attention, the way the reporters were already leaning closer, not to her, but toward the gravity of them. Together.

The reporter laughed nervously, sensing he might need to play moderator. “So! The film. ‘Without Warning.’ Action, romance, international espionage. How’d you two prepare for the roles?”

Dean pushed his glasses up. "It's a project I've had my eyes on for a while, and Charlie, the director, she's amazing," He smiled without showing teeth. "Had fun watching me getting punched in the ribs by three different stuntmen."

She jumped in, chipper. "I learned a fake Italian accent and drive stick in five-inch heels."

Dean glanced sideways. "You never used the accent."

"I was ready, Winchester. That's what matters," she quoted his words from before, a small grin on her perfect face.

"And you stalled the car," Dean added, gaining a few laughs from reporters. Huh, that's new.

She rolled her eyes. "On purpose. It was character work."

Another journalist, next to the one who had asked the first question, giggled. "I have to ask, the entire Internet deserves to know..." she paused, a michievious glint in her eyes. And there it was, the question Cass had briefed them on before hand. The question they had spent an hour and a half preparing in his office. They were told to answer a simple yes to the question of the year, but it seemed too dry and out of character for her. Surprisingly, she had agreed to Cass' version of mystery. "Was it love at first sight, or did you grow on each other?"

Dean blinked slowly, deadpan. "Like mold?"

She bit back a laugh beside him. “You’ll have to forgive him,” she said to the host, all warmth and faux-concern. “He’s only been media trained in sarcasm and long sighs.”

“I’m very talented,” Dean added. Dry as a desert.

The interviewer smiled too big, sensing blood in the water. “So... not love at first sight?”

Dean turned slightly toward her. “All about timing. You tell it,” he said, gesturing, giving her the possibility to go off script.

She thanked him with a squeeze on his bicep. “Well, we met on set. I thought he was terrifying and allergic to small talk. He thought I was loud, sparkly, and definitely the reason he had a headache.”

“You were the reason I had a headache,” Dean muttered.

She ignored that. “But then,” she continued brightly, “He scowled at me so much I mistook it for affection. And now we’re here.”

The interviewer laughed. “Seriously though, the chemistry is unreal. Like... people are invested. Especially after that photo on Instagram...”

Dean let out a breath. “Yeah. That one.”

“Any truth to the rumors?” another reported leaned forward, faux-casual. “Is it method acting? Or something more... ongoing?”

There was a pause. One of those electric, camera-eats-it silences. She adjusted her sunglasses and said with a coy little tilt of her head: “We’re very good at what we do.”

Dean looked over at her, eyebrow raised. “That supposed to be mysterious?”

“A little mystery sells tickets.”

He looked at the interviewer, deadpan again. “We're friends.”

She shrugged. “Not technically.”

Dean let out a low grunt of disbelief, and more journalists leaned in, thrilled. “Wait, what does that mean?”

She smiled at Dean like she was daring him. “Means we hang out. Laugh. Spend quality time together."

“Sounds like dating,” the same reported from before teased.

“I don’t cry in public, so clearly not,” she quipped.

Dean finally cracked a smile, small, crooked. Real. “She’s allergic to vulnerability.”

She grinned, tossing it back. “And he’s allergic to joy.” A fan yelled her name. She turned just slightly and waved. The chain around her waist shimmered like sunlight on water.

The laughter hadn’t even fully died down before a different journalist stepped forward, this one with a sharper look and a mic already lifted like a blade. Her smile was practiced, her blazer wrinkle-free. She wasn’t here for flirt-banter. “You mentioned timing earlier,” she said, glancing at Dean over her tortoiseshell glasses. “There’s been a lot of discourse about yours, Dean. Specifically the messages to Lisa Braeden and how quickly this new... friendship entered the spotlight. Just two weeks after, if I recall. Some critics have called it ‘convenient.’” A beat. “What would you say to those people?”

Dean’s jaw flexed. His sunglasses did nothing to hide the way he inhaled, once, deep, and nearly spoke. He had practiced an answer, a simple no comment. Maybe that would have raised some eyebrows, but it would have saved him from publicly addressing his private life. One of the things he dreaded the most about the spotlight.

She beat him to it. And this time, her smile was nowhere in sight. “I’m going to stop you right there,” she said, turning toward the reporter fully. Her voice was calm. Unflinching. “If the question you’re asking is whether Dean is using our relationship to distract from some kind of scandal, then the answer is no.” The air felt heavier. “And to those people who like to speculate, I’d say they’re forgetting he’s human.”

The journalist blinked.

She didn’t stop. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He reached out to someone he used to care about. That’s not a scandal, it’s a Tuesday. And if people are more interested in spinning headlines than showing grace, that’s not on him. That’s on you.” Dean looked over at her, actually looked. Something unreadable passed between them. Something heavier than cameras and banter. She wasn't done. "We started hanging out because we had a connection. Because we spent time together and realized it wasn’t just on screen.” She looked at Dean then, direct, with a soft kind of heat. “And if our... time together has made things a little easier in the middle of all this noise? Then good. He deserves that.” She was a professional at it. But somehow, behind the little white lie, Dean knew she wasn't pretending, not fully, not like he had expected her to.

There was a pause. One of those beautiful, press-silencing pauses where even the cameras hesitated. Dean cleared his throat. "I don’t regret reaching out to someone I cared about,” he gained confidence. “And I sure as hell don’t regret being here with her.” He gestured, a small tilt of his head in her direction, subtle, but enough. “You can call it convenient or whatever you want. I know what it is.”

She didn't turn to him, but her lips parted slightly, just enough to catch her breath. The question had surprised both of them, Cass hadn't said anything about it. Sure, Dean thought this would happen, he had avoided it for too long now, but, still, he hadn't expected her to step in like that. Not with fire, not with conviction.

She’d defended him like she meant it.

She smiled again to the sea of reporters, her shoulder still tense beneath the practiced curve of her charm. "Thank you for being out here!" she called out brightly, one last burst of sunshine for the flashing cameras. She waved, blew a kiss toward the fans behind the barricades, perfectly framed for the final shot, and then pivoted on her heel.

Dean followed, a beat behind, jaw still tight, mind still chewing on the thing they weren’t supposed to say out loud. He too waved at the crowd behind them, earning a few squeaks and scream from his fans. But then, just as they cleared the velvet rope, just as the shouting dimmed into background noise and the hotel lights loomed ahead like lifeboats, she reached for his hand.

No warning. No theater. Just her fingers slipping between his, warm and certain and real. He squeezed it. Thank you.

THE FAMILY DINNER

The restaurant was one of those candlelit, whisper-toned places tucked into the Hollywood Hills, where reservations took two weeks and the maître d’ greeted you by name if your IMDb profile had enough views. It was too nice for Dean's taste, hell, he had to dress up for it. Still, Jess had made the reservation, and Sam had insisted. Something about "You owe me for that one time in Tahoe." Dean didn’t ask. The table was private, near a fake fireplace with a low crackle and a polished bronze mirror hanging above, throwing back all that soft, amber light.

Private was a generous word. Once Cass had got wind that Dean was going to have a family dinner, he had pushed for her to be there too. The perfect opportunity, he had called it. So, they were sat in a back corner, low velvet banquette, candles flickering in small glass cups. The lighting was warm enough to be forgiving and golden enough for a few spontaneous photos. Which, of course, was the point. There were three strategically spaced “pap opportunities” on the walk in. He was sure Cass had sent them a map.

Dean looked like he’d been poured into his black suit, the cut sharp across his shoulders, the tie just loose enough to feel like defiance. His white dress shirt was crisp, sleeves pushed up his forearms the way he always did once the food arrived, watch glinting just under the cuff. He sat back with a practiced ease that bordered on boredom, one hand cradling a glass of something red and overpriced. His other arm was draped low around her waist, not quite possessive, more like gravity had decided for him.

Across the table, Jess grinned over the rim of her wine glass. “You know, for a fake couple, you two sit awfully close.”

His jaw ticked. “This place doesn’t believe in chairs that aren’t bolted together.”

“You could scoot over,” Sam said mildly, buttering a roll. “Unless you’re enjoying the view.”

She didn’t even blink. “He really is.”

She looked like trouble in gold. Her dress shimmered under every flicker of candlelight, clinging in a way that was half slink, half statement. The neckline dipped dangerously low, catching the eye like a whisper you weren’t supposed to hear. Thin straps curved over bare shoulders, and the silk pooled around her hips like melted sunlight. She wore oversized earrings that glinted every time she turned her head, and her long hair was sleek behind one shoulder, the other left bare and glowing. Her smile was radiant and a little unbothered, she belonged in every room he hated.

Sam was nursing a scotch and trying not to smirk, his own blazer undone and his hair pushed back like the lawyer he'd been born to be. "This is wildly entertaining," he looked at the woman beside his brother. "I see why Cass pitched this."

“Cass pitched it because we’re a publicist’s dream,” she said, tone light, but laced with something razor-sharp beneath the charm, all reserved for him. “Dean broods, I sparkle. We’ve got the whole Beauty and the Existential Crisis package.”

Sam barked a laugh. Jess nearly choked on her drink.

Dean, to his credit, didn’t even blink. He just muttered, “This was a mistake,” and drank some wine, everything to get out of that conversation.

Sam sipped his drink and looked at Dean. “I like her,” he said mildly.

Dean didn’t look up. “Yeah, that’s your problem.”

“You always hated when I liked your girlfriends,” Sam went on, just to needle.

“She’s not my...” Dean started, then stopped. There was no good way out of that sentence, and paparazzi were looking, better not test his luck. His date raised a brow, lips twitching into a private smile.

Jess, never one to miss an opening, leaned in with a grin. “Dean, sweetheart,” she said, feigning shock, “are you finally learning the art of shutting up?”

He sighed, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling like it owed him an apology. “I’m learning survival.”

She tilted her head toward Jess, as if sharing a delicious secret. “This is him being charming, by the way. Don’t be fooled by the grimace. That’s just how his face rests.”

Jess giggled into her wine. “Oh, I know. I married one with the same setting.”

Sam raised a hand. “Hey, my face has never grimaced like his.”

Dean shot his brother a look. “You’re literally a public defence attorney.”

“And yet somehow I’m less terrifying at dinner,” Sam replied, then gestured to her. “Meanwhile, you brought someone who has half the room reconsidering their marriage vows.”

She beamed. “Thank you.”

Dean groaned. “Can we eat now?”

Jess was already holding up her phone. “Not until I get a picture. The lighting’s great, and you two are actually within a foot of each other without one of you fake-coughing a slur.”

“No,” Dean said immediately, voice flat.

“Yes,” she said, ignoring him completely. “Lean in.”

She didn’t wait for permission, just shifted effortlessly, silk whispering across silk as she turned on the velvet banquette and rested her back on his chest, settling into him like it was second nature. The dress shimmered in the candlelight, all golden sheen and defiance, dipping low enough at the back to leave a trail of skin beneath his hand. Her arm curled around his shoulder, warm and confident, her manicured fingers brushing the base of his neck with casual intimacy. She smelled like vanilla and something sharper underneath, the kind of perfume that lingered in a car long after she was gone.

Dean froze, jaw locked, wine glass hovering mid-air like even it couldn’t believe this was happening. His free hand automatically found her hip again, fingers flexing once, betraying the reflex before he could stop it. His suit jacket pulled tight across his chest. The table had never felt smaller. Or hotter.

“Jess,” he ground out, barely moving his mouth. “I’m going to kill you.”

Jess just grinned, framing the shot. “You'll have to deal with your brother on stand.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said sweetly, adjusting her earrings as if she weren’t almost perched on the lap of Hollywood’s most reluctant heartthrob. “We’re giving the people what they want.”

Sam sipped his drink and didn’t even try to hide the smile curling his lips. “Oh yeah,” he said dryly. “This’ll definitely boost the opening weekend numbers.”

She tilted her head toward Dean, just enough for the curve of her cheek to brush his temple. “Smile, darling,” she murmured, all teeth and triumph.

Dean didn’t smile. But he did lean in, eyes on the camera, his arm tightening ever so slightly around her waist. When the shutter clicked, the photo looked effortless. Natural. Intimate in a way that made it feel like the whole world had been watching something they shouldn’t. Click.

Sam whistled. “You two fake it so well, I think I’m catching feelings.”

"Dean, dare I say you look... affectionate?" Jess teased, squinting at the screen with a pleased grin. After fiften years being in a relationship with his brother, she was getting awfully comfortable with him. Dean really loved her. Not that he would say it out loud.

Dean let out a quiet, disbelieving snort. “That’s just my face when I’m being held hostage.”

Her smile sharpened. “He looks like that because he’s grumpy, not emotionally unavailable. It’s a fine line, but I’ve trained him.” Dean looked at her, disbelief written all over his face, his hand still resting on her waist like a promise. "Oh, don't give me that look. You know you're enjoying yourself, Winchester."

He muttered half-insult under his breath, something about "training" being for dogs (and he was not a dog!), detangling himself from her. He used the kind of exaggerated care that only made it more obvious he didn't want to move. His hand lingered for a second too long at her waist before sliding away, like his muscles hadn't caught up with his mood yet. Sam caught it. Of course he did. And he fucking winked at him, the bitch.

Jess winked too, they really spent all their time together, and went back to her risotto, clearly satisfied with the shot she had taken. She leaned in as the brothers veered into a surprisingly passionate argument about their father’s old storage unit in Kansas, something about a vintage rifle, a sealed box labeled “DON’T OPEN,” and a cursed-looking doll wrapped in flannel. “You know they’re both going to drive out there next weekend and pretend it’s not just an excuse to avoid talking about how they miss each other,” Jess murmured, her voice low and full of practiced fondness.

Her companion smirked, sipping her wine. “Dean’s already packed for it in his head.”

“Mmhm.” Jess didn’t look up. “And he’ll claim it’s because he doesn’t trust Sam not to break anything, but really he just doesn’t want to be alone.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully, watching Dean gesture with his fork like it was a weapon. “He hates silence.”

Jess paused. “He used to. Now he’s gotten good at pretending it doesn’t bother him. You’re the first person I’ve seen throw off that balance after his divorce.”

She blinked. “Is that good?”

Jess gave her a look, dry and knowing. “It’s not bad. You get under his skin.”

"He is a good friend," she narrowed her eyes. "But don't tell him that, I'm not even sure he knows we're friends."

Jess set her fork down. "Oh, believe me. He knows. He's a good actor, don't get me wrong, but Dean doesn't fake well."

"I beg to disagree... on the good actor part"

The blonde woman let out a laugh. "He doesn't know how to fake like he's doing right now. He can put on a smile, go through the press junket motions, but this?” She nudged gently with her elbow. “The way he listens when you talk. The way he doesn’t snap at you the same way he does with everyone else. That’s not fake.”

She glanced away. “We’re just good at this.”

“Yeah, but you’re better than good at pretending. And he’s never been that good at lying.”

There was a moment of stillness between them, not heavy, but deliberate. The kind of silence Jess was an expert at creating. safe, not awkward. She gave people room to step into truth if they wanted.

So she did. Just a little. “I didn’t think he’d even like me.”

Jess smiled. “That’s because you think too much about who you used to be and not enough about who you are now.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked over at Dean again, who was now gesturing wildly about how cursed the storage unit probably was, Sam trying and failing to rein him in.

“They’re really talking about driving twelve hours to open a haunted box?” she asked, a small smile on her face harboring just by looking at him. Yeah, she liked being his friend.

Jess didn’t even blink. “Welcome to the family.”

And for the first time, this didn’t feel like play pretend.

THE PARTY

The rooftop was the kind of place meant to distract you. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Sculptural ice. People in suits that cost as much as mortgages, holding flutes of champagne and pretending they weren’t constantly scanning for someone more important. It was all curated elegance, low lighting, soft jazz, the quiet hum of too much money. And at the center of it all, Without Warning’s cast and crew were celebrating like they hadn’t just clawed their way through PR hell for the last two months.

Dean lingered near the edge of it, back to the New York skyline, glass in hand, tie loosened just enough to say I showed up, don’t push it. The jacket clung across his shoulders; he hadn’t taken it off. It was black. Classic. Like him. He hated this kind of thing, the schmoozing, the performance, the bright-toothed executives who called you “buddy” after leaking your salary to the trades.

She, instead, was thriving. She played her part effortlessy, smiling at the cameras when needed, clinging glass with the most obnoxious upcoming actors, and promoting the movie before its release. He had to admit she fit into this life almost too well.

She wore red that night, danger red. Secret in silk.

High neck, no sleeves, the bodice hugging every inch like it had been painted on. The fabric shimmered with a constellation of tiny sequins, catching light with every shift of her hips. Her hair was slicked back in a low bun, elegant and severe, like she knew she was going to war and planned to win with one look. Dean had nearly choked on his drink when she first appeared next to him.

She found him near the edge, right where she figured he’d be, back turned to the crowd, face half-lit by city lights, like he was auditioning for the role of brooding rooftop gargoyle. The drink in his hand had barely been touched. His tie was loose, but everything else about him was pulled tight: his shoulders, his jaw, that vein in his neck that only appeared when he was ten seconds from telling someone to fuck off.

She stopped beside him, letting the hem of her dress brush his shoes like a challenge. “You know you’re supposed to at least fake enjoying yourself,” she said, swirling the last of her champagne. “It’s a party, not a sentencing.”

Dean gave her a look, slow and unimpressed. “You sure? Because it feels like community service.”

She grinned, tilting her head just enough for a drop of earring to catch the skyline glow. “Maybe if you smiled more, people would stop asking if I’m your caretaker.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Maybe if you dressed less like a warning label, I wouldn’t have to scowl so much. Scare people.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, feigning sweetness, “I dress like this so you scowl. It's the only time you show emotion.”

He glanced down at her then, really looked, the sequins, the curve of her shoulder, the kind of self-assurance you didn’t learn, you bled for. She was a goddamn inferno wrapped in couture.

“Pretty cocky,” he muttered, sipping his drink, “you're gonna make me think your outfit’s about me.”

“You’re the one choking on your whiskey every time I walk past.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted back out to the skyline, the light glancing off the glass of his tumbler. Then he said, dry as ever, “It is not my fault you cause a scene just by standing still."

She blinked. It wasn’t quite a compliment. But it wasn’t not one “You’re flirting,” she said, suspicious. “You never flirt.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean said flatly.

“You just accused me of being distracting.”

“That wasn’t flirting. That was an observation.”

“You're confusing.”

Dean shrugged, barely lifting one shoulder. “It’s a good dress.”

She blinked again. Slower this time. “Okay, who the hell are you and what did you do with Dean Winchester?”

He finally looked at her, sideways. That quiet, unreadable smirk he reserved for the moments when he let something slip on purpose. “You wore that thing to be seen,” he said. “I’m just seeing it.”

That one landed. Her stomach twisted, low and sharp. “Careful,” she murmured, voice dipping. “If you keep talking like that, I might think you actually like me.”

He took another sip of his drink, eyes on hers. “Worse things have happened.”

She stared at him for a second too long. Then raised her glass and bumped it lightly against his. “To worse things,” she said.

Their glasses clicked, soft, almost private in the swell of rooftop noise, and for a brief moment, the world around them blurred. She looked over the rim of her glass, and Dean couldn’t tell if she was daring him or warning him. Maybe both.

He was about to say something else, nothing good, probably, when he noticed her expression shift. Not dramatically. Just the barest hardening at the edges. Her spine straightened. Her smile didn’t drop, but it hollowed out just enough to feel practiced.

"I thought Cass said this wouldn't happen, that this was safe." Dean followed her gaze. The man was already halfway toward them.

Polished. Crisp. Probably born in a country club. His smile was the kind that wanted to be mistaken for charm but rang too cold, too smooth. His suit was navy silk, his shirt open just enough to say he had something to prove, and his eyes didn’t leave her face for a second. Dean didn’t know who he was. But he knew that look.

“Well,” the man said, with a voice like expensive bourbon and something oily underneath. “I was told the cast was glowing tonight, but no one mentioned how radiant you looked.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. But Dean could feel the shift in her body beside him, like a current tightening. Subtle. Tense. “Dick,” she said, her voice smooth as ever, but just a shade cooler than before. “They still let you into these things?”

Dean blinked. Dick?

The guy just smiled wider. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to cause trouble. Though I did have to come see it for myself. The new image.” His eyes flicked to Dean for half a second. “The shiny new... co-star.”

“Dean Winchester,” she said before Dick could say anything else. “You’d know him if you watched movies not made for creeps.”

Dick let out a short laugh. “Ah. Yes. The brooding one. You’ve got a type, don’t you?” Dean’s brow ticked, but he stayed silent. Still measuring. Watching. Trying to figure out what exactly was happening here.

She stepped half a breath forward. “We’re not doing this, Dick. Back off and go drink your shitty bourbon.”

“Oh, relax,” he drawled. “I’m just saying hello. You don’t have to get defensive.” Then, a little lower, a little closer. “It’s cute,” he just for her. “How hard you try to convince them you’ve moved on. But people don’t forget. Not really. I know I don’t.” He bit his lower lip and smiled wildly. Almost like a... crocodile. "And how can they forget? I could've posted the entire thing, given them more to look at, changed your life for good. I still have it somewhere, I think. If you ever need it for a role, you can count on me."

Her face didn’t change. Not really. But Dean saw it. The tightness in her jaw. The flicker of something like nausea. The flicker of something like fear. She didn’t blink, didn’t move, but she’d gone still in that quiet, coiled way people do when something inside them buckles.

Dean took one step forward. "Walk away," he said. Flat. Measured.

Dick barely spared him a glance. "This doesn't not concern you."

"It does now."

The air around them shifted. Dick’s eyes flicked over Dean’s frame, calculating. “Relax, friend. I’m just having a conversation with an old... colleague.”

Dean tilted his head slightly. “I thought she told you to back off, didn't she?”

“She doesn’t have to. I’ve known her longer than you’ve been relevant.”

Dean stepped closer. His voice was low, dangerous, steady as a trigger pull. “You don’t know her. You know who you could push around when she was nineteen and desperate and you had the power. But that’s not who she is anymore. And I’m not someone who lets shit like that slide.”

Dick huffed a laugh, a little too forced. “This your guard dog phase?”

“No,” Dean said. “This is the part where I explain what’ll happen if you ever breathe near her again.” Now Dick was watching him. Really watching. Dean kept going. “You like reputation, right? That lingering buzz? The legacy thing?” He leaned in slightly, voice colder. “Try me, and yours ends here. No scandal. No exposé. Just silence. Just doors that stop opening. Calls that go unanswered. Nobody remembers you. That’s what I’m good at, friend.”

Dick raised his eyebrows, mock-wounded, but behind his facade, Dean saw it. The panic. “Oh? Is this where the gruff hero punches the villain in the jaw for dramatic effect?”

“You’ve had your hello,” he said, calm, his voice flat and dangerously quiet. “Now fuck off.”

Dick lingered a second too long, then smiled again, all teeth and rot. “Well. Enjoy the afterglow.” He walked away into the noise and light and glitter like nothing had happened.

But she was still frozen.

Her jaw was tight, shoulders rigid. She hadn’t breathed. Not really. Not fully. Her chest rose once, sharp and shallow, then again, her hands trembling now, one hovering over her stomach like she could hold something in. Her face was still composed, but her body betrayed her. Like she couldn’t quite climb back inside herself.

Dean stepped closer. “Hey,” he said, not a whisper, not a command, something gentler than both. His voice, stripped of sarcasm, of press performance, was a balm. “You’re okay. I got you. You hear me?”

She nodded, but she couldn’t speak. Her eyes stayed fixed on some invisible point just past him, like if she blinked she’d unravel.

He reached out slowly and touched her hand, the one gripping her glass too tightly. Her fingers twitched, but didn’t let go. “You’re okay,” he said. “He’s gone.”

She swallowed. Just once. And blinked, too slowly for his liking. She wasn't there with him anymore, not yet. Dean moved in another step, crowding her gently, carefully, like getting too close to a live wire. The glass in her hand trembled against her rings, and he could see her knuckles gone white from pressure.

“He,” he said again, quieter now, “can't do anything.”

Her lips parted, no sound. Just a breath that didn’t go anywhere. Her lashes fluttered, but she still wasn’t blinking right. Her whole body was locked like it had been flash-frozen, and the part that killed him was how used to it she clearly was. Like this was a state she knew too well, like she’d learned to survive this kind of silence by living in it.

Dean reached up. Slowly. Fingers brushing along her jaw, just enough pressure to make contact. Not enough to startle. Just enough to call her back. His palm curved around her cheek, thumb ghosting along the line of her cheekbone. Her skin was ice-cold.

He leaned in slightly, tilting his head, trying to meet her eyes, really meet them. “Look at me,” he said, low and soft.

Her gaze slid to his face, barely. It wasn’t enough. Not when she still wasn’t breathing right.

So he did the only thing that felt real. The only thing that didn’t feel like a performance. He kissed her. Not for anyone else. Not for cameras or stories or Cass’s PR daydreams. He kissed her because she needed to feel something that wasn’t him. And because he needed her to come back.

His hand stayed on her cheek, holding her like she might drift off if he didn’t. The other landed at her waist, grounding her. He didn’t press too hard, didn’t demand anything. Just leaned in, lips warm and sure, slow and steady, breathing her in like a promise.

And she kissed him back.

At first it was barely movement, the slack pull of someone unraveling, then it was more. A sudden inhale, like surfacing after drowning, her fingers fisting the lapel of his jacket like she wa grabbing on. Her lips moved with his, not rushed, not frantic, just real. Open. Raw. Full of something that felt almost too big to fit between them.

When he pulled back, just an inch, he kept his forehead against hers. His hand never left her face. Her eyes opened, slowly, finally. And there she was. With him. “Well,” she said, voice low and a little wrecked, “if that was your idea of CPR, I think I’m going to need a second opinion.”

Dean huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, half relief, half disbelief.

She tilted her head, that old, dangerous smile finally tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You always kiss like that, Winchester?”

He looked at her, eyes darker now. “Only when it counts.”

Her smile lingered, quieter now. Grateful. Still sharp, but with an edge that curved inward. She touched his chest once, briefly. Thank you. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I think I might need that again.”

THE CAR RIDE

The SUV's leather seats creaked softly under his movements, the city sliding past the tinted windows in streaks of gold and neon. Traffic hummed outside like white noise. Dean sat back on the passenger side, elbow resting on the edge of the window, one knee drawn up slightly. His tie was loose again, shirt collar unbuttoned. His jacket had been tossed somewhere between the rooftop and the curb. He didn’t ask for it back.

She sat beside him, legs crossed, arms folded over her lap. Her red dress shimmered faintly in the low light. Her heels were off, tucked beside her like a white flag. She’d pulled her hair loose from the severe bun at the nape of her neck, and now it fell in lazy waves around her shoulders, like she was letting herself breathe again for the first time all night. He looked at her once, briefly. Then turned back toward the window.

She was the one who broke the silence. “You kissed me.”

Dean didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either. “You needed grounding.”

A beat. Then she glanced sideways at him, chin tilted slightly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He gave a low, amused exhale. “Would you prefer ‘emotionally strategic mouth rescue’?”

She snorted, soft and sudden. “You’re the worst.”

His mouth curved, not quite into a grin, but it was close. “You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s true.”

He glanced at her again. This time, he didn’t look away. “You okay?” The question was simple. But it hit in a way she hadn’t expected.

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. I think so.” Her voice dipped. “Thanks to you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just studied her, quiet and unreadable. Then: “You shouldn’t have had to see him.”

“I didn’t expect it.” Her nails tapped lightly on the edge of her clutch, fingers restless. “I thought I was... past all that.”

“You are,” Dean said. Steady. Firm. “He’s just a reminder. Doesn’t mean he still gets to own the moment.”

She looked at him, really looked. “You got that from one of your therapy podcasts, didn’t you?”

He deadpanned, “No, that one was from Sam.”

She smiled, warm and a little weary. “I liked your version better.”

They sat with it for a while, letting the road take them. Downtown lights blurred by. She leaned back into the seat, shoulder brushing his, head tilting slightly in his direction, not quite on his shoulder, but close. Close enough to matter.

“Hey,” she said after a long pause, voice quiet, almost teasing. “So if that kiss was just ‘grounding,’ does that mean I don’t get another one?”

Dean looked at her then, turning fully, one arm resting along the back of the seat. His voice was low. “You want another one?”

She pretended to think. “For research purposes, sure.”

The car turned down a quieter street, buildings giving way to palm trees silhouetted against the sky. The hum of the tires softened. The interior glowed dimly, lit only by the occasional sweep of headlights from the street outside. A perfect little cocoon of leather and heat and unsaid things.

Dean had one arm stretched behind her, his fingers resting against the curve of her neck. His thumb brushed the spot just below her jaw, slow, thoughtless, like muscle memory, like he had done this countless times.

She hadn’t moved away. If anything, she’d leaned into it. Her eyes stayed on him, steady. And Dean, for all his gruffness, didn’t look away. “You sure?” he asked, low, rough.

“About which part?” she whispered, breath catching a little.

He tilted his head, just slightly. “You said research.”

“I said maybe I want another kiss.”

“Maybe,” he echoed, voice all gravel and restraint.

She nodded. “For science.”

The words barely cleared her lips before he kissed her again. Slower this time. No urgency, no crowd, no noise. Just the heavy, deliberate press of his mouth against hers. His hand slid down, fingertips brushing her collarbone, then lower, tracing the seam of her dress.

She arched just enough to meet him. Her fingers gripped the lapel of his jacket, pulling, grounding, something. It was the kind of kiss that pulled oxygen out of the air. The kind that made it easy to forget they were supposed to be faking this.

She gasped when his hand moved to her waist, thumb brushing over the place her dress cinched in. He kissed her deeper, firmer now, and she responded like she’d been holding back for weeks. Maybe she had. Maybe they both had.

His teeth grazed her bottom lip, not rough, but enough to make her tremble. She tugged him closer, and he let her, shifting toward her until his body was angled against hers, all heat and intention. Her dress glittered in the low light, rising and falling with every sharp breath. He touched her like he was memorizing the way it moved.

“Dean,” she breathed, more sound than word. His name sounded different in her mouth now. Not teasing. Not coy. Just real.

He rested his forehead against hers, their breath tangling in the air between them. “We should stop.”

“Should we?”

He let out a breathless laugh. “Probably.”

Neither of them moved.

The car was still. The world around them moved on, quiet and unaware, but inside the SUV, the air had shifted.

His hand didn’t move right away. Just stayed resting against her waist, thumb brushing soft, distracted circles into the side of her dress like his body was already thinking ahead of him. She felt it, not just the heat of his palm, but the focus in it. The restraint. Like he was holding himself back by a thread.

She pulled in a shallow breath. “Dean,” she said again, quieter this time. That alone did it.

He kissed her one more time, slower, softer, and then his mouth slid to her jaw, her neck, barely grazing. His fingers moved downward, gliding over her thigh, slow and deliberate. He didn’t rush. Didn’t ask.

His touch ghosted over the hem of her dress. She opened her legs, just a little, and that was all the answer he needed.

His hand slipped beneath the fabric, warm against her bare skin. Her breath hitched, chest rising fast. When his fingers brushed over the heat between her legs, his breath caught too. No words. Just a low sound from the back of his throat, part reverence, part disbelief.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured. She nodded, lips parted, eyes fixed on his. “Is that for me?” he asked, quieter now. Rougher.

She didn’t answer with words. Just leaned in and kissed him again, teeth catching his lip, hands curling into his chest.

Dean exhaled hard and moved her panties aside, sliding his fingers through her heat, slow, deliberate, parting her carefully. He circled her with just the edge of his fingertip, teasing, savoring every shift of her breath, every twitch of her thighs.

She buried her face against his neck, breath catching on a whimper. Her hand clutched his arm, not to stop him, to ground herself.

“Easy,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I always got you” an echo from earlier.

One finger slipped inside her, then another, slow and impossibly deep. Her back arched against the seat. He moved with precision, with care, fingers stroking, consuming her, curling just right, while his thumb circled her clit with maddening patience. The wet sounds of her arousal filled the car between their ragged breaths. She whimpered again, face flushed.

His fingers were inside her, slow and sure, but it wasn’t about the movement. It was about her. The way her body opened for him like she remembered him, every shape of him, every rhythm, every hesitation. Like she trusted him to wreck her. He felt like he was burning from the inside out. Every time she gasped, his control slipped. Every time her hips rolled into his hand, he felt something in him break apart.

Dean watched her like he couldn’t look away, like seeing her come apart under his hand was the only thing that made sense anymore.“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that,” he kissed her brow. "Gimme your eyes."

His words were lethal. She turned to him, a pout on her mouth, eyes glassy with need. Her nails dug into his arm as she clenched around his fingers, hips jerking slightly as the tension broke. She came quietly but sharp, breath stuttering, body curling inward around the wave. Dean didn’t stop right away, just eased her through it, slow and careful, his lips brushing her temple.

When she finally relaxed, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded slowly, still trying to breathe.

He pulled his hand back, gently, and smoothed her dress down without a word. Then he laced his fingers with hers, his dick straining pulsing, hurting in his pants from how badly he wanted her.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Then she smiled, slow, shaky, wrecked in the best way. “For science,” she whispered.

Dean grinned. “Best damn experiment I’ve ever run.”

THE PREMIERE

Dean was already three photos deep into what felt like a public execution by flash photography. The carpet beneath his shoes was blood-red, the lights above him surgical, and the press screamed his name like they wanted to eat him alive. He looked good, he knew that. The suit was custom, the black silk lapels catching just enough light to tell people someone had paid a disturbing amount of money to make him look effortless. But his shoulders were locked, and his jaw had been clenched so long it might never unlock.

She wasn’t beside him. Hadn’t been for three days.

Not since the kiss. Not since the car ride, not since he had seen a side of her he didn't ask for, but was now obsessed with. He hadn’t stopped thinking about the way her hands had trembled when he touched her jaw. The way her breath had caught right before she kissed him back. The way something in him had stilled, gone quiet and sharp and scared.

And yeah, they’d smiled through interviews, posted photos with cute captions, let the press speculate. But she hadn’t answered his texts. Hadn’t returned the call he hadn’t even meant to leave. Just disappeared behind curated silence and Cass’ carefully rerouted talking points. He knew it had meant something. That kiss. Maybe not everything. But something. And she’d treated it like a wardrobe malfunction, one that could be tucked away with enough lipstick and good lighting.

The reporter in front of him shouted, “Dean, over the left shoulder!” and he did it. He moved, robot-smooth, face blank. Pretend you’re grateful, he thought. Pretend you want to be here.

Then a laugh. Sharp. Familiar.

He didn’t have time to brace for impact. She came barreling toward him like a high-speed disaster in copper silk. The leg slit cut high up her thigh, the fabric clinging and then floating, her hair pulled back in a way that looked lazy but wasn’t, not with that kind of precision. She was radiant, worse, she knew it, and she flung herself at him with a grin that burned too hot to be harmless.

“Dean!” she said like she hadn’t vanished for seventy-two hours. “Miss me?”

He caught her. Of course he did. One leg around his waist, one arm around his neck, like she had every right to wrap herself around the man she’d been purposefully ignoring.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, voice low in her ear, almost swallowed by the crowd.

“You love it.”

“I didn’t know if you were even showing up tonight.”

She leaned back enough to look at him, still grinning for the cameras. She adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Please. I wouldn’t miss watching you suffer in formalwear.”

His hands gripped her tighter than necessary. “You disappeared.”

“And yet, here I am. Let’s not make it weird in front of the paparazzi, Winchester.”

Reporters were already shouting. “Together! Dean! Look here!”

“Give us a kiss!”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m adorable,” she said, adjusting her leg higher on his hip. “Now smile before your scowl melts the carpet.”

He gritted his teeth, smile nowhere in sight. “Three days, and this is what I get?”

She tilted her head. “Don’t pout. It’s bad for the brand.”

“You think this is funny?”

“I think we’re in public. So unless you want to have a very candid conversation in front of every entertainment blog in the country...”

“Smile, Dean!” a reporter barked.

Dean turned to the cameras. Held her tighter. Smiled. The kind of smile that said everything was fine. The kind of smile that made him want to punch something.

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, dramatic, posed, clearly for the cameras. “Still mad at me?” she whispered against his jaw.

“Ask me again when we’re off the carpet.”

More shouting. “Give us one on the lips!”

She turned his face slowly, her eyes catching his like a challenge.

Dean’s breath hitched. “Are you seriously....” He wasn't kidding before, she really was unbelievable. His pulse stuttered. Not just because of the press shouting his name or the heat of the spotlights cooking his jacket to his back. No, this was her. Always her.

There was too much in his chest. That lingering, sour burn from the silence she’d given him these past three days. The kiss they weren’t talking about still echoing behind his ribs like something unfinished. The way her fingers curled just behind his ear now, coaxing his face toward hers like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t still wrecked from the way she’d kissed him last time.

His jaw flexed, stubborn habit. He didn’t want to be angry, not really, but he was. Not because she’d left him hanging in that damn hotel room, heart pounding and hands shaking like some teenager. But because now here she was, back like nothing happened, smiling for the cameras like she hadn’t vanished right after he’d given her something real.

“Just let me, Dean” she said sweetly, and then she kissed him.

It was quick, professional, a blink of heat, but her hand stayed on his chest a beat too long, her nails brushing fabric like a question she wasn’t ready to ask. He didn’t know if this was another game. Another PR move. Another way she kept her distance while pulling him in. But her hand on his jaw was warm. Her voice had been soft. And the way she was looking at him now? It felt too personal to be fake. And that pissed him off even more.

Because if she was faking it,he was in trouble.

And if she wasn’t? He was in deeper.

When they pulled apart, the press lost their minds. Dean leaned in close, voice low, she removed her leg from his waist, looking forward. “You don’t get to kiss me and pretend we’re fine.”

Her smile didn’t waver. But her voice, when it came, was quieter. “You don’t get to make it feel like that and expect me not to panic.”

“You didn’t call.”

“I didn’t have anything to say.”

“You kissed me like you meant it,” he said quietly. “And then vanished.”

She blinked, but the flashbulbs distracted her. She turned her face just enough to give the press a wide, flirtatious grin. “Smile,” she hissed through her teeth. “You’re giving them tension when they paid for romance.”

Dean leaned in, jaw tight, lips close to her ear. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“And yet you’re still holding me like this.”

Reporters shouted. “Kiss her again! One for the fans!”

Dean barely looked at them. Instead, he looked at her, really looked, and something unspoken cracked under his ribs. She was hiding. From him. From whatever was spinning out between them. “You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

She hesitated. For once, no ready smile. Just a flicker of something close to guilt. Or fear. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers grazing skin. “Talk to me.”

She opened her mouth, but one of the reporters called again, closer now: “Just one kiss, c’mon! You two are killing us!”

Dean didn’t look away from her. His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers sliding into the loosened bun she’d twisted like an afterthought. “Smile pretty for the cameras,” he said. “Then we’re gonna talk. You and me.”

She swallowed, but nodded. The crowd leaned in. Dean kissed her this time. Gentle. Clean. But not empty.

And just before they broke apart, low enough only she could hear, he added, “You hear me, baby?”

The world stilled for a long second. “Copy that,” she whispered back.

The moment they stepped off the carpet, the roar of the press dimmed to a dull throb behind the heavy velvet ropes and gold-rimmed doors of the theater lobby. Inside, it was cooler, barely, but enough that Dean could breathe again. He loosened the top button of his shirt, his pulse still caught in the cage of his ribs.

People milled around in tuxedos and gowns, glasses of champagne already being passed on silver trays, the soft murmur of producers and critics and overpaid influencers humming like bees in a gilded hive, waiting for the screening to start, to be awed or disappointed.

She walked three steps ahead of him, like none of it touched her. Not the kiss. Not the past three days. Not him. Dean caught up to her in three long strides and pulled her in a corner, shelded from prying eyes. They stood near the marble wall just before the main corridor into the auditorium, a sliver of quiet tucked between chatter and flash. Her hand hovered near the small gold clutch at her side, fingers flexing like they didn’t know what to do now that they weren’t curled into his collar. “Hey,” he said, sharp, his fingers brushing her elbow.

She turned slightly, all cool poise and movie-star light. Her profile looked carved, her dress catching every gold-tinted reflection like it was part of the set. The slit swayed just enough when she stopped to remind him how close she’d been only minutes ago, wrapped around him like she had a right to be there. “Now?” she asked, breathy, practiced. “You wanna fight now?”

“I wanna talk,” he growled. “And every time I try, you disappear.”

She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t smile either. “This is not the time...”

“There hasn’t been a time,” Dean cut in. His voice was low, steady, but threaded with frustration he couldn’t hide anymore. “Not since the rooftop. Not since that kiss. You just disappeared."

"I didn't have anything to say"

He pointed a finger at her face. "Don't give me that bullshit." Her mouth opened, but he didn’t give her the chance. Not yet. “I stayed up that night,” he went on. “I was... Christ, I was ready to pretend it didn’t mean anything if that’s what you needed. I would’ve. But you didn’t even give me that. Just silence.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I just didn’t know how to come back from that night.” She scoffed. "How am I to blame for that?"

Dean’s jaw flexed again, tired of how often it did. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me,” she corrected, eyes flaring. “Don’t rewrite that just because I ran.”

“I kissed you because I didn’t know how else to get you to breathe again.”

“And then what?” she asked. “You wanted a debrief? A full emotional rundown? I panicked, Dean. It wasn’t about you.”

He paused. Then stepped a little closer. “But it was.”

She blinked.

“I felt- feel it,” he said. “Don’t lie to me. Not about that.”

She drew in a breath, the neckline of her dress rising and falling too fast. “I needed time.”

“You don’t get to need time after doing that. After looking at me like...” He cut himself off. Jaw tight. “You don’t get to vanish and then climb me on a red carpet like it’s your goddamn stage.”

“Don’t yell at me,” she snapped, stepping closer. “Don’t act like I haven’t been spinning out too. I didn’t know what it meant, Dean. I still don’t.”

He laughed, bitter, biting. “You didn’t know? You kissed me like you wanted to undo my whole life.”

Silence. Sharp and dense and seething. She opened her mouth. Closed it. “I’m scared.”

Dean’s mouth parted, just slightly. His chest rose, shallow. “Of what?”

“Of you,” she said, soft but brutal. “Of how you look at me like you already know how this ends. Like you’ll love me too hard or hate me too fast and I can’t afford either.” His face changed. Not softened, he was too wound for that, but something in his shoulders gave. She went on. “I panicked. I didn’t mean to disappear. I just... needed to not be seen. Not by you.”

He stepped in. Close enough that her perfume, warm, spicy, something expensive and devastating, hit him full in the chest. His voice dropped low, sharp. “Too late, baby. I already see you.”

Her lips parted. She blinked like she was trying to memorize the ceiling.

Dean lifted a hand to her face, slow, deliberate, and let his thumb trace the line of her cheek. It wasn’t gentle, but it was careful. Like he was learning her expression by touch. “Next time you run, don’t come back smiling for the cameras and pretending I’m just another prop in your fairy tale.”

Her breath hitched. “Dean...”

“Baby,” he said, and it wasn’t soft. It was a warning. A plea. A promise. The word hung between them, thick with all the things they weren’t saying.

She nodded once. Tight. Uncertain. “I won’t run next time.”

“Good,” he said, mouth barely moving. “Because if you do, I won’t follow.”

The theater was velvet-dark and full of the kind of silence that only happens when a hundred people are trying not to breathe too loudly. The movie had just started, the sleek white-on-black title card of Without Warning stretching across the screen like a promise, but Dean wasn’t watching the film.

Not really. He was watching her.

Out of the corner of his eye, in the low light from the screen, she looked carved out of firelight. Copper silk pooling around her crossed legs, one ankle arched delicately in those ridiculous heels. Her profile was pure composure, lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows. Her expression didn’t give anything away, not to the room, not to him. But he could see the tension in her shoulders, the set of her jaw. She wasn’t just watching the movie either.

They were tucked into the very back row. A calculated move, Cass’ doing, probably “discreet, elegant, no press up here” but now, it felt like too much space and too much silence. The kiss on the carpet still lingered between them like heat in a room long after the fire’s gone out. Their fight still playing in their minds.

Dean’s hands were braced on his thighs, fists curled, eyes flicking toward the screen and then right back to her. And then, like a goddamn act of war, she placed her hand on his leg. Not high. Not anything scandalous. Just her palm, flat and warm, resting on the inside of his thigh, just above the knee.

Dean didn’t move. His breath caught, not loud, but enough that his chest shifted, and the screen in front of him blurred for a second. He turned his head toward her slowly, eyebrows drawn. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything. Her hand just stayed there, steady. Barely even pressing. But it was worse than anything she could’ve said.

He swallowed hard. His voice was low, close, not even a whisper. “What are you doing?”

Still, she didn’t look. “You looked like you needed grounding.”

“Is that what this is?” His tone was dark. But not cold.

Her thumb moved. Just a soft, small brush against the fabric of his suit pants. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for him. “I don’t know what this is,” she murmured finally. “I just didn’t want to sit here pretending I didn’t want to touch you.”

Dean clenched his jaw. Looked straight ahead. On screen, their characters were yelling in some fake hotel room in Prague. His voice echoed from the speakers, rough, angry, different, but the real version of him sat frozen in his seat.

And all he could feel was her hand on his thigh, burning through every layer of his defenses.

Dean turned his head toward her again, slower this time. The light from the screen flickered across her face, painting her in flashes of blue, gold, shadow. She still hadn’t looked at him, but her hand hadn’t moved either. If anything, her fingers flexed slightly, like she was nervous, or bracing herself.

Her fingers tapped once, twice, lazy and slow, like she was drumming a secret rhythm only he could feel. Dean’s jaw flexed again, muscle ticking just beneath the surface. He shifted slightly in his seat, as if that would help. It didn’t.

She leaned in, breath brushing his neck. “Relax,” she whispered, voice light, teasing, a smile hiding beneath every syllable. “You’re wound so tight I can hear it from here.”

“You think this is funny?” he muttered, still not looking at her.

She hummed. “A little.”

Then her thumb traced a slow, deliberate line over the seam of his pants. Casual. Dangerous. Dean’s entire body stilled. His grip on the armrest turned white-knuckled.

“I could move my hand,” she whispered again, lips dangerously close to his ear, “but you haven’t asked me to.”

Dean’s throat worked. His eyes flicked toward her, just once, catching the glint of copper at her shoulder, the spark of mischief in her lashes. “You really wanna play this game here?”

“I didn’t start anything.” Her voice was sugar and sin. “Just helping you focus.”

“On what? Not dragging you into my lap?”

Her teeth grazed the edge of a grin. “That’s up to you.”

He didn’t speak. He shifted. Not away. Toward. His hand came down on top of hers, large and warm and too steady for how fast his pulse was hammering in his chest. He didn’t grip. Didn’t trap. Just covered it. Like an anchor. Like a promise.

Then he leaned in, mouth near her ear, voice low and thick enough to drag her under. “Baby,” he said, voice low and wrecked, “if you keep touching me like that, we’re not gonna make it to the credits.”

She didn’t say anything, but he felt her tremble.

No teasing comeback, no smug little smile. Just silence. Her hand lingered for a second longer beneath his, then slowly slipped away. Dean fully turned toward her, confusion beginning to twist his brow, until she stood. Graceful. Composed. Dangerous.

She smoothed the hem of her dress, eyes still fixed on the screen like nothing had changed, and then, without a word, stepped past him and down the aisle, disappearing through the soft gold glow of the exit sign.

Dean didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She was walking away. And it wasn’t a retreat. It was summoning.

The movie still played around him, loud, distant, fake. But she was real. That whisper of perfume trailing after her, the warmth of her hand still ghosting against his thigh, that was real. And suddenly, everything else felt cheap by comparison.

His pulse was in his throat.

She hadn’t looked back. Because she didn’t have to.

Dean stood. He didn’t think. Just pushed up from the seat like gravity had shifted in her direction. His chest was tight, jaw tense, nerves wound so tight they could’ve snapped. But beneath all that anger still simmering from the red carpet, beneath the confusion and frustration and three days of silence, was something worse.

Need.

Need, coiled low in his spine, crackling down to his fingertips.

The second the theater door shut behind him, the rest of the world dropped away. He caught the tail end of her disappearing through the private bathroom door, the shimmer of her dress like a dare written in firelight.

He hesitated, barely. Not because he doubted her. But because this, this, was the moment everything would change. Then he moved.

Pushed open the door. Closed it behind him. Locked it. And there she was. Back to the wall, arms loose at her sides now, as if even pretending to play it cool had been too much effort. The light overhead caught the edge of her cheekbone, kissed the slope of her shoulder. She wasn’t smiling. Not yet.

But she was waiting.

"You ran, again," he titled his head.

"I thought you said you wouldn't follow me this time."

Dean stepped forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between them one breath at a time. “I meant it.” She swallowed. “But then you touched me,” he said, voice low, thick with something between anger and reverence. “Sat there in the dark like your hand on my leg was an apology.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Dean stopped just inches from her. His hand lifted, not to her face. Not to kiss her. But to curl around her waist, drawing her forward. His touch was possessive. Steady. No heat behind it yet, just weight. “I should kiss you,” he said. “I want to. God, I want to so bad, baby.”

Her breath caught, and her lashes lowered just slightly, anticipation, apology, maybe both. "You should, Winchester."

“But I’m not gonna,” he said.

Her gaze snapped back to his.

Dean’s eyes were dark, hungry, but hard. “You don’t get that yet.”

Her lips parted, to argue, to question, to beg, maybe, but he was already lowering himself to his knees. Her back hit the wall behind her with a faint thud. “Dean...”

“You ran,” he said again, fingers dragging slowly, deliberately up the slit of her dress. “You left me wondering if I imagined that kiss. If it meant anything. If I was just another tool in your PR kit.”

“I wasn’t...”

“You were scared,” he cut her off, voice rough now. “I get it. But don’t think I’m gonna let you walk back in and pretend we’re fine without making you feel every goddamn second of what you did to me.”

Her hand found the edge of the counter behind her, anchoring herself. “Then why...”

He glanced up at her, gaze unwavering. “Because I want you to remember who you ran from.” Her breath hitched, sharp and quiet.

His hands slid up her thighs, fingers slow and steady, parting the soft shimmer of copper silk until she was bared to him. No rush. No teasing. Just reverence in every touch.

“Dean,” she whispered, but it wasn’t a protest. It was a confession.

He didn’t answer. Just pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh. One slow kiss. Then another. Then a third, higher. His stubble scraped soft skin, and she flinched, not from pain, from need. “You don’t get my kiss,” he murmured, breath warm against her skin. “But you still get my devotion.”

And then he touched his mouth to her pussy, gentle, steady, deliberate, and made sure she remembered exactly what it meant to be wanted by a man who hadn’t stopped waiting, even when she left. She moaned, loud, sharp, echoing off the tile.

Dean didn’t flinch. He wanted her loud. He wanted her wrecked. He wanted the whole damn building to know she belonged to him right now, not with a headline or a label or some paparazzi-friendly kiss, but with his mouth buried between her thighs, and her legs already starting to tremble.

“Yeah,” he rasped against her skin, voice thick with heat. “That’s it, baby. Don’t hold back now.”

Her fingers tangled in his hair, desperate, trembling, not to guide, to hold on. Dean dragged his tongue through her slowly, deliberately, savoring every flick, every shift of her hips, every breathless curse she spilled when he found the spot that made her knees buckle.

“Oh my God,” she choked out, loud and wrecked, one heel slipping off her foot.

He looked up at her, smirk curling against soaked skin. “Say my name again,” he growled. “Louder.”

She moaned, his name this time, drawn out, high and messy, her head tipping back to hit the wall. Her thighs clenched around his head, but he didn’t slow down. He groaned into her, hands sliding up to grip her hips, dragging her forward to keep her exactly where he wanted her. “That’s right,” he muttered, breath hot and ragged between strokes. “You were running, and now you’re right here, falling apart on my tongue.”

Her breath stuttered.

Dean flattened his tongue and pressed deeper, curling it slow, curling it on purpose, the way he knew drove her to the edge. “You like that?” he asked, voice low, mouth slick with her. “You like me eating your pussy in a goddamn bathroom like it’s the only place I can touch you?”

She whimpered something that wasn’t a word, hips rocking down into his face. That was answer enough. He smiled against her, wicked and warm. “You’re soaked, baby. You were soaked when you touched me in the theater, weren’t you?”

A broken sound clawed from her throat, a choked, desperate moan that sounded like guilt and need collided. Her thighs shook. Dean kissed the inside of one, just briefly, then went back in, harder now, rougher, two fingers sliding inside her without warning as his mouth moved against her clit, unrelenting.

Her body bowed. Her cry echoed off the tile. Dean didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. She was clenching around his fingers now, her hand slipping off the counter, the other clawing at his shoulder, and all he could think was God, she’s mine when she falls apart like this.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice a rasp. “Come for me. I want it. I want every sound.”

And she did. Loud. Sharp. Raw. He bit her inner thigh.

Dean rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on her like he’d just survived drowning. His lips were slick, his jaw tight, but his expression, his whole damn face, looked carved out of something that had waited too long to burn. She was still against the wall, breath hitching, knees barely holding. Her hand gripped the edge of the counter like she wasn’t sure what was coming next.

"Open your mouth, baby," he cradled her face, gently squeezing her cheeks. She obeyed, breath rough, eyes glassy, still trembling. Dean sneered at the eagerness and spat into her mouth. He wanted her to feel what he felt, to have a taste of the honey he just devoured. "Swallow... yeah, just like that," he leaned even closer, her eyes fluttering, hoping that his lips would finally crash against hers. “Turn around.”

She blinked. Shaky. But didn't protest.

“No questions now?” he murmured, dragging one hand down the curve of her hip, bunching her dress up again until it was around her waist. “Not gonna argue with me this time?”

She braced herself against the counter, chest rising. “Not when you sound like that.”

His laugh was quiet, dangerous. “Sound like what?”

“Like you’re gonna ruin me.”

Dean pressed his chest against her back, his breath hot on her neck. “Baby,” he rasped, one hand moving to undo his belt, the other teasing between her thighs again, over her clit, just to feel how wet she still was, “I already did.”

She let out a breathless moan, hips pushing back into him. He groaned at the contact, his cock pressed hard and hot against her. “Feel that?” he muttered. “That’s what you do to me. You disappear, you wreck me, and then you show up looking like sin wrapped in silk.”

She pushed back again. “Then do something about it.”

His hand slammed down on the counter beside hers. “You think I won’t?”

“Think you need to.”

That broke him. Dean shoved his pants down just enough, lined himself up, and pushed into her in one smooth, deep thrust. Her mouth fell open, a strangled cry escaping her.

Dean’s grip on her hips tightened, bruising, grounding, like he didn’t trust her not to disappear again. His thrusts were slow, but hard, dragging every inch of him through her like he meant to make her feel it for days. And when she moaned again, low, helpless, ruined, he nearly lost it.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice thick and ragged. “Let me hear you.”

She gasped, her fingers curling over the counter, knuckles white. “Dean... Holy shit, Jesus, fuck...”

He slammed into her harder, one hand sliding up her back, pinning her down with just the pressure of his palm between her shoulder blades. “Not Jesus, baby,” he muttered near her ear. “Just me.”

She moaned again, louder this time, and he felt it, in his chest, in his spine, in every clenched, wound-up part of him that hadn’t breathed right since she left. “You disappear for three days,” he bit out, thrusting again. “You come back looking like a fantasy, and you think I’m just gonna take it easy on you?”

“No,” she whimpered, wrecked.

“Damn right you don’t.” He reached around to grip her jaw, turning her face just enough that he could see her mouth fall open again when he drove deeper. “Say my name.”

“Dean”

“Again. Louder.”

“Dean.”

He grinned, teeth bared, sweat at his temples, control unraveling. “You like when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

“Yes, oh shit, fuck, yes”

“When I use you. Make you loud.”

She gasped through a half-sob of pleasure, head nodding, eyes fluttering closed. “Yes, Dean, please...”

“Please what?” he growled. “You want more? Want me to ruin that perfect little voice for the afterparty?”

She gave a broken laugh, full of heat. “You want them to hear me?”

Dean’s next thrust made her cry out, sharp and sudden. “I want to hear you,” he said through gritted teeth. “I want your voice in my head when I try to sleep tonight. I want the whole damn room to know what you sound like when you give in.”

He reached around her again, hand sliding down between her legs, his fingers finding her slick, throbbing, desperate for more. “Come on, baby,” he whispered against her neck. “Be good. Fall apart for me.”

Her moans were ragged now, uneven, rising in pitch, her body struggling to keep pace with the way he moved inside her. Dean didn’t let up. His grip never wavered, and his voice stayed right at her ear, wrecking her with every word. “You feel that?” he growled. “Every time you clench around me like that- that’s yours, baby. You did that to me.” She tried to answer, but it came out as a gasp, her legs shaking. He smirked against her shoulder. “Can’t even talk now, huh?”

She shook her head, breathless.

Dean reached up and fisted her hair, not to hurt, just to make her look. Her cheek turned toward the mirror above the sink, and he tilted his head low so their eyes met in the reflection. “Then don’t talk,” he said. “Just watch.”

And she did. Watched him take her. Watched the way his jaw was clenched, the way his hand on her hip dug in like he couldn’t bear to let go. Watched the wild, desperate look in his eyes, and realized it wasn’t just lust. It was fear. It was anger. It was hers. Dean’s rhythm changed, hips slamming harder now, deeper. He leaned over her again, mouth just behind her ear. “You better come for me again,” he whispered, low and furious. “You don’t get to run from this. You don’t get to walk out of here pretending this doesn’t own you.”

Her voice cracked. “I’m trying...”

“No,” he growled. “Don’t try. Give in.”

His hand slipped between her thighs again, his fingers relentless, and she shattered, again, right there against the counter, her body wracked with the kind of moan that didn’t sound polite or pretty or posed. It sounded like surrender.

Dean didn’t stop moving. Not right away. He buried himself inside her one last time, deep and aching, claiming her with his breath stuttering as he held there, unmoving, pressed to her back like maybe he could crawl under her skin and live there forever.

She was shaking beneath him, breathless and open, her forehead against the mirror, eyes shut tight like if she didn’t see it, maybe it wouldn’t undo her.

Dean moved slowly, his breath ghosting across the back of her neck. Then, carefully, he pulled out, shifting her body in his hands. One arm came around her middle, the other rose to her jaw, gentle now, fingertips brushing her cheek like she might break if he touched her too fast. He pushed in again, fucking back his cum inside of her. She gasped. “Give me your eyes,” he murmured.

She opened her eyes, wrecked, glassy, still dazed, and he turned her face toward him, steadying her hips, keeping her close, keeping himself inside her. She gasped from the sensitivity, a whimper curling at the back of her throat, and he caught it, not with dominance this time, but with his mouth.

Dean kissed her.

He kissed her like he’d been waiting to. Like he’d meant to do it three days ago and had never stopped thinking about it since. His hand cradled her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone as his lips moved over hers, slow, deep, nothing performative.

And he was still inside her. She moaned into his mouth, soft and ruined, like the kiss was the thing that finally broke her open, not the force, not the fight, but this, the part he’d held back.

Dean didn’t rush it. He didn’t let go.

When they finally parted, his forehead rested against hers. His breath was ragged, his voice quieter now, but not soft. “I don’t care if you’re scared,” he whispered. “Just don’t lie to me about this.”

She blinked, still breathless, still trying to remember what language was, her lips swollen from the kiss, her mind nothing but static and him. Her fingers curled into his shoulders for balance, not that he was letting her go anywhere. He was still inside her. Still holding her like she was his.

She was floating. He was glaring.

Her eyes flicked up, a lazy grin pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Define ‘this.’”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You really wanna get cute right now?”

She tilted her head, breath still shaky. “It’s either that or cry, so...”

He cut her off with another kiss. Quick. Sharp. Punishing in the way it said, don’t you dare deflect. When he pulled back, her smile was softer. But she was still her. “I’m not lying,” she whispered, brushing a lock of his hair back with shaky fingers. “I told you, I just… panicked. You kissed me like a man with intentions.”

His brow lifted. “And you ran like a woman who thought I was gonna propose.”

She snorted, head tipping back with a quiet laugh. “You do have that ‘let’s settle down and get a dog’ energy sometimes.”

Dean gave her a flat look. “You’re literally still wrapped around me.”

“And yet you’re the one who keeps talking about feelings,” she shot back, but her voice didn’t have teeth anymore. Just tension easing, cracking open.

He leaned forward again, nuzzling the side of her jaw. “I meant it." She went still. “All of it,” he said. “That kiss. This. You.”

For a second, she didn’t speak. Just let her forehead touch his again. Her hand found the back of his neck. “Okay,” she said softly.

“Okay, like you believe me?” he asked.

“Okay like…” Her smile returned, smaller this time. Real. “...you’re gonna have to remind me again later. For research.”

Dean groaned into her skin. “You’re lucky I like you.”

She grinned against his cheek. “I’m adorable. You said so on Good Morning America.”

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

She kissed his jaw. “And you’re still inside me, so what does that make you?”

“Exhausted,” Dean grumbled, but his arms tightened around her. “And probably in trouble.”

THE AFTERMATH (bonus scene)

Dean reached for the door handle with all the focus of a man preparing for battle. His hair was a mess, his shirt still slightly untucked despite his best effort, and his face had that flushed, post-sin glow he wasn’t quite ready to explain to anyone.

“The movie’s almost done,” he muttered.

From behind him, her hands slid around his waist, fingers curling at his stomach, and he could feel her smile before she even said anything. “One more,” she whispered, lips brushing the back of his neck.

“Baby, you said that five kisses ago.”

“This one’s for luck.”

He exhaled. Let her turn him around. Let her kiss him again, slow and wicked, like she was trying to short-circuit his motor functions.

“You’re evil,” he said against her mouth.

“I’m charming.”

Dean pulled back, breathless. “We’re going to get caught.”

“Mm, no. We’re going to look very composed and extremely fashionable.” She tugged him back by the lapel. “After one more.”

Dean melted into it for a second, just a second, before groaning into her mouth and spinning back toward the door. “Okay. That was it. That was the last one.”

She leaned against his back, cheek to his shoulder. “Unless you want to...” She held his hand, pulling on it, trying to lure him back.

Dean reached for the handle, still half-distracted by the feel of her hand slipping into his, warm and casual. He opened the door... and immediately froze.

Just outside, two figures were locked in a kiss of their own, very much not staged, very much not subtle. Castiel Novak, ever the stoic publicist, had his hand braced against the wall, mouth tangled with Meg Masters, their infamously brash co-star and his long-term girlfriend.

Dean blinked. She blinked harder.

Cass and Meg broke apart like they’d been hit with a bucket of cold water. Cass took a step back, adjusting his blazer with military precision, face already smoothing into faux-calm professionalism. Meg looked entirely unrepentant, wiping at her lipstick with the back of her hand, eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Dean, hi, buddy"

He held one hand up. "Don’t… just- just shut up."

His woman laughed. "Hi Meg."

Meg grinned, utterly unfazed. “Hey, sweetheart. Sounded like you had a religious experience in there.”

Dean groaned. “Nope. Nope. We are not doing this.”

Cass cleared his throat, clearly trying to pretend he hadn’t just been caught with his tongue down Meg’s throat outside a private bathroom where one of his longest friends had had the experience of a lifetime. “We were... uh...just making sure everything was… secure.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, biting her bottom lip to suppress another laugh, then leaned into Dean’s side, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket like she was helping. She wasn’t. She was just trying to make him squirm. “Very thorough security check, Cass.”

Dean gave her a sideways look. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, glancing between the two very guilty parties. “You think they heard the part where you called me baby, or just the part where I begged you not to stop?”

Meg looked over at Dean’s girl with a grin. “I’ve been trying to get him to talk dirty for three years, and you guys get that in fifteen minutes of wall-thumping.”

Cass, looking like he wanted to be killed on the spot, cleared his throat and adjusted his hair. “I wasn’t... That wasn’t...”

“Oh, come on,” Meg said to her, eyes gleaming, still ranting about her boyfriend. “He doesn’t talk like that. He talks like a legal deposition.”

“Maybe he can learn something from this guy," she winked. "He did a pretty solid job in there." Dean groaned out of embarassment.

Cass turned visibly pink. “We were simply....”

“Oh, we saw what you were simply doing,” she cut in.

“Most of the hallway heard what you were doing.”

She burst out laughing, leaning into Dean’s side like her knees might give out. Dean rolled is eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate all of this,” he muttered.

Meg shrugged, still wiping at her lipstick. “Hey, you started it. Next time, maybe keep the spiritual awakenings to a whisper.”

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

“Bucky,” you briefly shook it, “nice to meet you.”

“You too,” the touch faded, and he bent down to pick the supplies back up, “so, where should I set up?”

“Oh, in here, in the living room,” you gestured behind you and shifted to the side for him to enter. As he set up everything, you stayed at the perimeter and felt your heartbeat thump behind your ribcage, “is it weird that I’m a bit nervous?” you then quietly asked.

Briefly pausing his actions as he unfurled the massage table, he cast a glance your way.

“It’s not weird at all, it’s okay,” he stated in a calm tone, “but I assure you, this is a completely safe space, you’re in good hands.”

“I just–, this wasn’t exactly my idea, or even at all,” your hands fiddle further with the terrycloth tie around your waist as you began to ramble, “Nat, my friend, she told me that I needed to relax, so she booked this appointment for me as a treat. I don’t even know what it is she signed me up for, if it was just like a little five-minute long thing or what.”

“Oh no, she signed you up for the full package, 90 minutes.” 

“Really?” your eyebrows rose, “wow, that’s amazing.”

Once the table was set up and he rummaged through the bag for a towel as well as other supplies, his low timbre filled the room once more.

“So, before we start, I’d just like to ask if there’s anything off limits to you, anything you don’t like or that you’re not interested in? Or perhaps something in particular you’d like today?”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” your eyes narrowed slightly as you thought, quickly scanning through your body to get a good sense, “you can just be as rough with me as you want.”

“Alright, you like it rough, good to know,” you felt yourself suck in a silent breath at the way the phrase fell from his lips, “you ready to begin?”

“Yep,” you swallowed, hoping he didn’t notice how flustered he seemed to make you. 

He then lifted up the ivory sheets he’d sprawled out on the plush bench and held it up high, giving you a smidge of privacy as you dropped your robe to a nearby armchair, before laying down on the table and feeling the cotton drape over you. 

As you layed there on your stomach with your face comfortably nestled in the little nook, you sensed Bucky adjust the fabric, folding it down so that your entire back was exposed. 

A dull click found your ears as he pumped some oil into his palm. The very first touch conjured a brisk breath to fill your lungs as his hands slid along your spine, spreading the slickness around. 

Though when you finally managed to force yourself to relax into his touch, a soft moan slipped from your lips as his meticulous grip found a muscle particularly sore.

“Sorry,” you timidly apologized for the sound. 

But he simply zeroed in on the very spot that had made you groan and said, “don’t apologize, whatever bubbles up, please let it out.”

Your lips stayed half parted as his touch dug deeper, “it just feels really good right there...”

“Yeah, you seem to be holding a lot of tension in your back, especially right here between your shoulder blades.”

“Probably all the time on the couch,” you let out a pitiful chuckle, “I just kept on getting into uncomfortable positions and then stayed like that. Which, funnily enough, is pretty symbolic of how I ended up there in the first place, stuffing my face with Ben and Jerry’s and binging the most depressing of romcoms.”

“Bad breakup?” he guessed. 

“I don’t think you can call it a break-up if you never really were together in the first place,” you let out a sigh. Yet again had you fallen for a guy who’d turned out to be a complete and utter asshole, “men are just pigs,” you spat out, “no offence.”

“Oh, none taken,” he uttered, “you know, it’s actually very common for people to get this particular treatment after something like that.”

“Really? Your touch is on the same level as bawling your eyes out to Joni Mitchell?” you jested, “well, now I’m really happy that I let my friend talk me into this.”

Soon, when his touch had kneaded every inch of your back, it faded away and reappeared lower on your frame as you then felt him fold the sheet up to expose your legs, letting the thin fabric only drape across and cover the curve of your bottom. 

Once his touch had soothingly wandered up the length of your legs and as his broad palms dented your slightly parted thighs, you nearly didn’t notice through the trance-like state you’d drifted off to when his reach crept close enough to your core to feel the heat radiating off it. A gasp parted your lips as his fingers briefly ghosted against the very outside of your puff before retreating back down your thigh. 

“Is it alright if remove this for a bit?” he then asked as you felt his hand clutch the sliver of modesty that remained. 

“Oh, uhm,” you fought to comprehend his question through the haze you’d slipped into, both the haze of relaxation, though maybe more predominately the haze of sin, which was most likely what had swayed you to utter, “sure,” trying your best to stay calm as he removed the sheet completely. 

It became a difficult task to keep your quiet noises at bay and have them not seep through your heavy breath as he then began to massage the soft peak of your butt. 

You tried to remind yourself that it was the biggest muscle on the human body and thereby completely normal to be treated in this manner, but that truth would have been easier to swallow if it had been a less attractive specimen touching you in such a way. 

Eventually, Bucky’s lavish rubs came to spread you apart with each repetitive motion, surely granting himself a perfect view of just how mortifyingly wet you’d become. 

As he let his broad thumbs dig into your sitting points, you told yourself it was the slipperiness of the oil that caused his fingers to sweep closer to your core and not your own nectar that had leaked down towards his touch. 

It felt so good that your hips unconsciously tilted up and into his touch, as his thumbs slid close enough to caress your outer lips, nearly capturing them in a gentle pinch. 

You didn’t know how long it took, how long you essentially grinded into him as if you were in heat, but eventually, you snapped out of your fog and realized just where his fingers were. 

“U-uh… w-what are you doing?” your frame jumped slightly at the realization.

“Do you not like this?” his touch paused, though didn’t retreat. 

“Why–, uhm…” you nearly panted, “you’re just very close to somewhere else.”

And when he simply uttered, “yeah, I know,” in an almost amused and cocky tone. You swiftly propped yourself up onto your arms and glared back at him, successfully prompting him to rip his hands away.

Snatching the sheet back over your frame as you scrambled to a seat, you stared back at him in utter shock, “I’m sorry, but are you actually trying to sleep with me right now?”

His brows furrowed slightly as he blinked back at you, seemingly confused at your outburst, “I’m just doing my job.”

“I’ve had massages before, that was not–… that right there was something else. That was not you doing your job, that was your hands being persuaded by your dick.”

A nervous breath then escaped his lungs before he uttered, “you do know what kind of massage this is, right?” to which you only blinked back at him all the same, none of your shock evaporation at his words, “you know that I’m here to give you more than just a regular massage?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh boy, I’m sorry, I thought you knew…” his glance fell to the floor as he then began to enlighten, “well, the lotus wellness center, where I work, specializes in the blend of not just physical and mental health, but also sexual health and satisfaction. An erotic massage, like the one you were signed up for, is one of the many services we offer.”

Your eyes had grown as wide as saucers during his explanation, “o-oh…”

“I totally understand if you wanna stop, if you’re not interested.”

“I–…” you tried to make heads or tails of the situation you found yourself in, “so you were gonna–, what? Fuck me?”

“I was gonna try and make you feel good, help you relax and unwind. You were signed up for the aurelia treatment which would involve me using my hands to pleasure you, as well as whatever toys you might be interested in.”

“Toys?”

“Yes, I have a generous collection with me,” he briefly gestured back to the duffle bag resting on the couch. 

“Okay, uhm…” one of your palms came down to brush over your features as you fought to comprehend it all.

“Do you want me to pack up and go?” you heard him ask. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, before you even realized it was moving, you shook your head. Letting your gaze flutter back up to find his, you exhaled lowly, “fuck…”

“I can also just give you a completely traditional massage if that’s what you want.”

“…and if I wanna try the other thing?” you nearly whispered. 

“Do you?”  

“I–…” you tried to speak, though couldn’t find the words and ended up just hazily nodding back at him. 

“Alright,” he gently mirrored the nod that still faintly rocked your head, “I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, I promise. You just say the word, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathed, shivering slightly at the tingle of goosebumps that spread across your flesh. 

The way he held your gaze a moment longer before shifting it to the massage table you still sat upon made you feel as if you might melt off it entirely.

“Lay back down,” he faintly nodded to the bench. 

Your eyes stayed glued on him long after you now layed sprawled out on your back. 

Letting his touch graze the sheet you still absentmindedly clutched to your chest, he asked, “do you wanna keep this on?”

“No,” you shook your head faintly, “you can remove it.”

“Okay,” he gently peeled the fabric off of you, “just say if you get cold, alright?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, still having a hard time wrapping your head around the fantasy you found yourself in. 

He began by working at your arms, tenderly spreading some oil across them and massaging down the length of them, one at a time, till his skilful fingers descended to work at your palms. It nearly felt as if he was merely holding your hand before he tossed you into the deep end with how intimate the simple beginning sensed. 

You couldn’t command your gaze to leave his visage as you traced his every move as if he was made of stardust. 

When his warmth let go of your hand, he reached for the bottle of oil that didn’t have a pump and unscrewed the top. Your bottom lip got caught by your teeth as he then poured a bit out over your stomach, curving the s-waves of droplets all the way up and across your boobs, dripping over your pebbly nipples as they stared back at him. 

As Bucky began to rub it in, he first stared softly down at your belly before swooping up, only to skip over your tits entirely and instead yanking a disappointed whimper from your lungs as he then commenced massaging your shoulders. 

You felt a bit lightheaded as you blinked up at him, all tall and broad, looming above your head and digging his warm touch into the base of your neck. 

Though when his rough palms finally did swoop down to caress your soft peaks, he quietly checked in, “this okay?” to which you simply nodded your head, eyebrows knitting together at the intenseness of the built-up anticipation.

Your entire chest cage heaved beneath his touch as he finally massaged your boobs, even occasionally fleeting away to ghost across your nipples, only to capture them in a pinch the next moment. 

You felt as if you were floating down a calm stream, letting the river of sin take you somewhere new and wonderful. 

Eventually, his broad palms swept up and down your form, though each time his reach dared to near your core, he barely touched you at all, missing entirely the spots that throbbed for attention, which of course only caused the sensation to deepen and render you even more desperate from his teasing. 

When he then shifted to stand to the side of the patted table, his deep voice washed over you once more as his touch stayed warm against your skin.

“Everything okay so far?”

“Yeah…” you hummed as you lazily blinked up at him, and the soft smile that curved your lips caused a similar one to bloom upon his own. 

His slow stride then carried him further down till his fingers began to dent the softness of your thighs. 

After he’d made your eyes flutter at the way he worked at the muscles in your legs, focusing on one thigh at a time, slowing working his way up till his fingertips stretched to dizzily brush against your outermost petals, it was then, that his sweeps grew and blossomed till one fleeting tease to your centre morphed into more as he kept coming back, each fluttering time slowly transforming till the maddening pets had become everything you’d dreamed of.

Soft whimpers flowed out of your lungs as he gently folded each of your legs up by your sides and cracked you wide open for him.  

As he gazed down at you with such intensity you’d never experienced before, it only took one step for him to change his angle and stand tall next to your hips. 

Letting his palms run up your inner thighs, the edges of each of his broad thumbs then met and joined on either side of your pussy as he captured it in a light pinch, making you moan softly, “fuck….” as his touch rolled your clit through your glistening puff. 

You nearly didn’t catch it because of how hard your own pants were, but Bucky’s own breaths had picked up as well and with a few stray curses seeping through his teeth as he continued to pluck at the strings of your pleasure. 

But then, before you could truly lose yourself to the ecstasy you felt flicking in your periphery, his hands slipped away, a smirk fast on his lips as a whine escaped you and he returned his attention to the rest of your body. Though thankfully, his torture only carried on a short moment before he finally granted you the first of many treats.

“Oh, yeah,” you couldn’t help but moan as he rubbed your clit and carried you over the peak. 

“Right there?” he leaned down closer to you as he kept up his pace, his free hand coming to rest right beside your head as he loomed over you. 

“Yeah,” you breathlessly panted as your body trembled beneath his touch. 

“Yeah?” he huskily echoed, nearly sharing your breath as he drew out your orgasm for as long as he could, and even as your body began to squirm at the sensitivity that swiftly set in, his touch never left you, only lightened to make it bearable and tickle you back from the high. 

He studied your features fiercely as his fingers then came down to tease your entrance. 

“How about this?” your leaky hole swallowed up the two digits he swiftly filled it with, “how’s that? Is that what you want?”

“Oh fuck!” your back briefly arched and lifted you off the table, closer to him for but a moment as sloppy sounds of your want echoed at the slow rhythm he played you at. 

“Or do you need a little more maybe?” he sneaked another finger inside, “huh?” his frame then bent down till you could feel his hot breath fan across your face, “what do you want? You want something more to make you feel good right here?” his fingers slid back out of your pussy and fluttered up till they found your puffy pearl, “or here?” he briefly soared back down to plug up your cunt once more, but only offered you one messily rock before his digits slipped back out and drifted down much further than you expected, “or maybe even here?” you let out a gasp as the slick pads of his fingers glided over your little rosebud. 

“I–, I–,” you struggled to answer him, feeling so foggy that you might just fall off the table, “fuck…” 

“I have any toy you could dream of with me,” he purred as your grip found his shirt for support, “so, what do you want?”

“I want–, I want–”

“What?” he pushed as he continued to stare down into your eyes. 

And as blinked back at him, only one wish came to mind, one that you timidly whispered, “y-you…”

But as fear began to prickle at your nerves, they all dissipated as the masseuse wasn’t offended at all, your words somehow conjuring a dazzled smile to appear upon his lip before he then chuckled warmly, “roll over for me.”

You nearly gave yourself whiplash from the hast you tried to fulfil his command.         

As he soon kneeled down to be on level with where your head was now twisted and resting on its side, his hand drifted up for you to spot the dildo clutched in his grasp. 

Handing it off to your flicking fingers, his touch briefly lingered on your cheek, stroking it softly as he said, “then pretend this is me, will you? Get it nice and sloppy for me.”

When you began to plant pecks across the silicon, your eyes shadowed him as far as they could as he straightened back up and walked back far enough to disappear from your sight, only for you to know where he’d gone to once you felt his mouth begin to devour you whole. 

It became difficult to concentrate on the task he’d given you, so much so that he had to remind you each time his lavish tongue buried between your legs caused your own to forget itself. 

Arching your ass further up towards his efforts, he tilted away from your drooling cunt and instead nipped up till he lapped against your other hole. 

“Oh, that feels really good,” you moaned around the dildo as you tried to catch a glimpse of him, though only saw the edge of one of his hands and they dented your bottom. 

“Yeah?” he let a dollop of spit drop to your rosebud before he nudged the pad of a thumb against it, “you like having this little hole played with?”

“Uh-huh,” you nodded, then watched as he momentarily dipped away to snatch up a butt plug from the zipped-open treasure trove his bag was. 

Once the toy was snugly buried within your little ass, he snatched the dildo out of your mouth and a string of your drool chased the silicone as he brought it back to tap against the sloppy petals of your pussy. 

It didn’t take very long after he’d begun to fuck you with the toy that you tumbled over the edge once more, making you that much more malleable when he yanked at your legs and manhandled you down to the bottom of the bench till your unsteady feet were once again on the floor and he had you bent over the table like a needy whore. 

That was also when your weak pleas began to bubble out, begging for him to fill you up with something other than a toy. 

Even though you couldn’t see his face, you swore you heard a tinge of astonishment in his tone when he asked you to clarify, making sure it really was him that had you begging and not just the way he made you feel. 

Though once you finally managed to convey the sincerity of your words and convince him of the way he and not just the acts he was performing, drove you wild, it was in the middle of chasing your next high that he broke his pattern and traded out the dildo with his own hard cock. 

A low moan seeped across your spine as he buried his length completely and let himself melt down against your back. Letting himself savour the sweetness of your warmth clenching around his fat girth, it took him a while before he finally began to move and soon found a steady pace that had your toes curling against the floorboards. 

His fingers gently dug into the soreness still remaining all down your back as his hips repeatedly collided with the plush of your ass in desperate thrusts. Though as his digits worked their way down the length of your spine, they eventually found the little plug that still remained in your ass. 

Teasingly twisting the toy, you thought that was everything he had planned, though all of those fantasies fluttered away when he suddenly yanked the small plug out and switched it with the bigger toy still firm in his grasp, your little hole only managing to wink up at him before he stuffed it full once more. 

You lost track of the amount of times he made you cum as the remainder of the intense dance became a bit of a blur. At one point he had you flipped around and lying on your back, gasping up at him as he folded you in half and nearly broke the massage table beneath you from how hard his deep strokes were. At the next, the dildo he drove you mad with was traded out with his own fat cock and he conjured a vibrating wand to hold against your puffy clit as he watched your pussy leak from the bliss. But at the end, once you were nothing more than a puddle on the table, his load painted against your tits as he let his frame drape down atop of yours, a hazy question left your lips.

“Is that usually how that goes?” you asked as you both panted, plastered against one another. 

Raising himself up only enough for his eye to catch your own, he uttered sincerely, “no…” and his gaze flickered down towards your lips, “no, it is not…” before he let himself give you the thing you hadn’t dared to request. The kiss was so sweet it nearly caused you to forget the sinful acts you’d just wrapped up.