The TBR

You were sitting in the backseat this time–unusual–but somehow it was the least abnormal thing happening at the moment.

Sam was sitting in the passenger’s seat. Over the top of the seats that separated you, you could see him clutching his right wrist with his left hand against his chest, rubbing soothing circles over his pulse.

Dean. Well, Dean was barely injured. So he said, with a large bleeding gash across his forehead.

He was angry–fuming, even. Fingers coiled around the steering wheel, tight, leaving no room for circulation, whiteness slowly infiltrating the skin around his knuckles. His eyes were glued to the empty road ahead, lips pursed, face straight. And you couldn’t blame him. After all, it was your fault. 

You decided to rush in without thinking twice to save the kid despite Dean’s protests.

You decided to push Sammy aside when the ghost came charging at him, knocking him hard onto the ground.

You decided to burn the last piece of the spirit’s remains, which led to it aiming to attack you, which then led to Dean coming to protect you, which, ultimately, led to where you were right at that moment–in the backseat, alone. Body aching, mind racing.

You wrapped your hands around your aching abdomen, feeling a bruise start to form on its side. You shut your eyes, head lolling back against the leather seats, trying to contain the pain as you took in small aching breaths, trying to steady yourself. The blood trickling down your forehead didn’t exactly help your case, staining your eyelid and cheek with its deep red pigment. You gave up trying to wipe it off, letting it seep out of the laceration, laggard but deliberately, trailing down your face in a specific pattern.

The air in the car was polluted, contaminated with displeasure and dejection. You knew Dean was mad, infuriated by what you did, it was written all over his face. Sam wasn’t as mad, you hoped, but he wasn’t exactly happy, eyes remaining glued to the rain-stained window ever since he sat in it. 

And you, you’ve never felt worse. You felt bad, guilt gnawing at you, hurting even more than the wounds that marked your body. And that insatiable need to please everyone was eating away at you, as well, tearing you up, piece by piece, rotting you from the inside out, its impact bleeding into your expressions.

You didn’t mean to get anyone hurt, you didn’t want to, especially not them. What you did was impulsive–detrimental to everyone around, you knew that. But you couldn’t help it. That little girl was about to get hurt, and you couldn’t just stand by and watch the spirit get to her when you could have done something to save her. And you did.

“Hey, you okay?”

Your eyes snapped open. “Hmm?” You looked around, just noticing that the car was at a stop, the bright white light of the motel streaming through the dark interior of the Impala–and that Dean was nowhere to be seen.

Sam eyed you up and down, an uneasy expression slowly forming. “How’re you feeling?”

You sat up straighter, unwrapping your arms from your torso as you pushed yourself up on the heels of your palms, digging them into the leather of the seats. “I’m fine,” you nodded, voice coming out quieter and hoarser than you had expected.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, a little louder this time, not exactly sure who you were trying to convince, “H-how about you?” 

Sam’s eyebrows immediately furrowed as he heard your stutter, before realisation dawned upon him. He sighed, scooting closer so he faced you better from his seat. He wasn’t clutching his limp wrist anymore, instead, you found it lying at an odd angle on his lap.

“I’m not mad at you, Y/N. Not at all,” He shook his head. “You did what you thought was right, and saved us all. I don’t blame you. I would have done the same thing if I were in your position.”

Your eyes drifted to the empty driver’s seat in front of you. Despite him not even being present in the car, you still felt it–the anger, the tension.

“Dean’s…not mad.” Sam started slowly, reading your thoughts. “He’s just frazzled. He worries a lot, you know that. And after all we’ve been through together, all he’s gotten is just more paranoid.”

“But–”

“I don’t blame you. And he's just being Dean. It’s alright–”

Sam’s phone buzzed. You knew who it was.

Sam’s eyes drifted from you to the screen and back at you, a knowing look crossing his eyes when he met your worried ones.

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine. Don’t worry about it. Plus, he could never stay mad at his sweetheart for more than a minute,” Sam said, giving an encouraging smile. “C’mon,” he called, hopping out of the car. 

“I’m not his sweetheart. And I’m really tired. Maybe I should just sleep in here. It’s cosy–”

“C’mon, Y/N,” Sam calls as he slams the door shut.

“I’m good–”

“Not really giving you an option here!”

You groaned but listened anyway. You grabbed your duffle bag and got out of the car, slowly, trying to buy yourself as much time as possible before you had to deal with Dean’s wrath. You walked by Sam’s side, but as you got closer to the building, to your room, your steps slowed, and somehow moved so you were right behind Sam–completely covered, completely protected.

When Sam noticed this–and it didn’t take him long–he immediately grabbed you by the shoulder and put you in front of him, not allowing you to walk behind him, especially in the dark, where he couldn’t see you and ensure your safety.

You reached the room, Room 286, the room you’ve been dreading to see. Sam reaches over, knocking the dilapidated door–three sharp raps, as always. You held your breath, not daring to even breathe. The door groaned open.

Dean stood there, staying for a beat, but his eyes never even glanced your way. You swore you saw him shake his head a little, like he was trying to keep himself levelled, before heading straight for the bathroom and locking it shut.

Fuck.

You immediately turned to Sam, giving him an ‘I told you so’ look.

A sheepish look crossed his face as he smiled. “At least he let us in?”

“Yeah, ‘cause of you. If it were just me, I wouldn’t have even made it to the car,” you rolled your eyes.

“Are we talking about the same Dean? Dean Winchester? My brother?” 

You opened your mouth to defend yourself but he interrupted you. “The same guy who needs to be convinced to let you go anywhere alone. The same guy who’s ready to punch the living daylights out of anyone who so much so even glances at you the wrong way? The same guy who folds like a lawn chair whenever you open your mouth? That Dean?”

Your mouth gaped open. “You’re exaggerating.”

“You’re clueless.”

You glared at Sam, not accepting the way he viewed your relationship with Dean, because it wasn’t like that. That, and that you weren’t exactly sure how to reply to that. Not wanting to back down and look stupid in front of him, you stayed silent–hoping all the words you wished to say came forward through your gaze, which you weren’t exactly sure what it was supposed to be either.

“I’m going to bed,” you muttered, turning around, kicking off your caked boots, and walking deeper into the room. You barely made it halfway into the room when you paused, duffle bag still loosely hanging on your shoulder, and you eyed the beds.

There were two beds–both singles, but only one had an extra pillow, and it had Dean’s bag on it.

There were always two beds, never one, never three, but two. Usually, you would share the bed with Dean, seeing as Sam could barely have enough space to sleep in the beds given by himself, let alone with another person, an adult woman at that. To you, it was always cramped, but it was cosy–somehow giving you a sense of placidity, especially after a tough case.

In other times, you would have stripped down to a tank top and shorts and jumped the bed the second you got the opportunity to. This time, you hesitated–for a couple of reasons:

You were dirty, covered head to toe in gunk and blood.

You were afraid that Dean was going to be pissed off if he found you lying on his bed.

You really wanted to shower, to clean everything up so Dean wouldn’t be disgusted to sleep next to you (although he has before).

Dean.

Was Dean mentioned?

You turned to ask Sam for his opinion, but you were too late. The man was already sprawled out on the bed–broken wrist and all–snoring away.

You sighed, going up to him. You tugged off his flannel for him, leaving him in a faded t-shirt and jeans, and rolled him over so he was sleeping in a more comfortable position. You folded the shirt up and left it on the night stand.

When you turned around, you jumped back a little when you found Dean staring at you, standing right in front of the bathroom with a still hand holding a towel over his wet hair. Your eyes drifted to the gash that was on his forehead. It had stopped bleeding, now looking red and irritated. You had a strong urge to go over to take care of it.

And him.

He didn’t look away, like he physically couldn’t, eyes stuck on you like the blood crusted under your nails. The towel in his hair didn’t even move, stuck motionless under his grip. You weren’t even sure if he realises it, the way he was looking at you; even all away from the other side of the room, you could smell it–the tension, it was emitting like perfume, tasting the bitterness of it on your tongue, staining your tastebuds with the taste of his apprehension.

Dean finally blinked, eyes widened just a fraction for a split second, the towel slipping from his head and onto the carpet below him. He rushed to grab it, bending down to retrieve it, bumping his head against the wall in the process. Unflinching, like it was the least of his worries, he went and locked himself back inside the bathroom.

You bit your lip, unsure of how to react. 

Why was he doing this? Was he trying to give you the silent treatment? To avoid you forever? To hurt you like you had hurt him?

After a couple more minutes of hogging the bathroom, Dean finally came out, all cool and collected. Not even sparing a glance your way once, he made his way to the bed, getting into it, pulling the blanket over himself, and click.

The lights went off.

You were starting to get what he was trying to do–to be an asshole, more than he ever was, and annoy the fuck out of you.

You ignored him, heading straight for the bathroom, trying to feel as unbothered as possible. You peeled off your clothes and stepped into the shower, the deliciously pain hot water streaming down your back, stinging your wounds even more. You liked it, because even though it was hurting, you deserved that, and you relished in that fact.

It had been almost an hour, when you were done. You dried yourself off with your towel, flinching every now and then when it pressed against your wounds. You dressed yourself in loose clothing, a random t-shirt you found in your duffle and some plaid bottoms.

You stared at yourself in the mirror–the deep purple bruise on your cheekbone was there, prominent as ever, dulling your complexion. The scar in your hairline wasn’t leaking anymore, hadn’t been for awhile, but the swelling was a bright angry red, as well as the cut on your bottom lip that was making it jut out in an odd way.

That’s when your eyes drifted down to the t-shirt you were wearing. Dean’s shirt.

For a second you wondered if it was going to upset him, to feel uncomfortable seeing you in his clothing. You knew he wouldn’t, right? You know him, don’t you?

He’s your best friend and you’re overreacting. Stop it.

You shook that uneasy feeling off and moved to the door, twisting the knob slowly, the door creaking open, inch by inch. You stepped into the darkness, only a sliver of light from the moon illuminating the room. You carefully walked towards the bed, making sure not to trip over anything.

You could hear Sam’s light snores from here, as you noticed that he was in a discomforting position, his body lying over his limp hand. You manoeuvred from the bed Dean was in to Sam. You pushed his shoulder, but he didn’t budge.

“Help me out here, Sammy,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. You tugged the hand from under all his weight. He whined, stirring in his sleep.

“It’s okay, you’re good. Let’s just…” you mumbled, trying to shift his body again so he was lying on his back. You smiled, “There we go.” You pushed his hair off his sweaty forehead. He hummed, the snores making their way through his lips again.

You made your way to Dean’s bed, but paused when you saw his face. His eyes were softly shut, lips slightly parted, breathing calm and even. He was so…comfortable. 

You couldn’t ruin that.

Resisting the urge to run your fingers through his hair and bury yourself in his arms, you spun on your heels, grabbed a jacket lying on the table, and stepped out of the room.

It was freezing cold, wind blowing in your face as you pulled on the jacket, which, shocker, belonged to Dean. You wrapped it around yourself tighter, pulling it closer to your body as you breathed in his scent–cheap musk and leather. You sighed, your eyes falling shut.

You wanted to apologise, to make him see what you saw. But for the first time, you weren’t sorry. He would have done the same thing, you were sure of it. He has, and you were supposed to watch him get hurt time and time again. But the second you did it, it’s your biggest crime. The man you trusted with your whole life didn’t trust you at all.

But you couldn’t take him being mad at you. There was this feeling, in the pit of your stomach, gnawing at you. It was just growing, eating away at you like you were its last meal, and leaving a trail of venom as it went, poisoning you with its essence, waiting for the moment you fall, the moment you realise you never do anything right, that all you are is wo–

“Gonna just leave me with an extra pillow, huh?”

You gasped, spinning around as you pulled out a little dagger from your pocket, going to throw it at the intruder.

“Woah, woah. Calm down, Eowyn. It’s me.”

The air got knocked out of your lungs. “De?”

“Yeah, De.”

“Wha–why are you here? You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“This whole time?”

“Mhm.”

You were confused. The way he was acting. He was calm, too calm, and it was making you uneasy.

“So why are you here?” You asked, voice low and hesitant.

He stepped up closer, standing right by your side, facing the parking lot opposite your room. “You weren’t in bed. I was worri–I was wondering where you were and found you here.” He turned to face you. “What are you doing here?”

“Wasn’t sleepy.”

“D’your eyebags get the memo, sweetheart?” Dean snarked.

“Shut up.” you turned to face the lot again, trying to avoid him.

You felt Dean’s gaze burn into your side. You turned to face him. “What?” 

He looked you up and down, eyes lingering on the wounds on your face before stopping at the top you had on–a faded Metallica t-shirt. “That mine?”

“No.”

“The jacket?”

“No.”

“Right.” The both of you turned to face the road again.

You stood side by side, arms brushing, not speaking for a couple of minutes. You felt it–that tension, again. Your chest felt like it was slowly compressing. Weird. He wasn’t saying anything. Why wasn’t he saying anything? He was leaving you to be with your own thoughts, and you were drowning in them.

They hate you.

You’re just a fucking waste of space.

They didn’t even want you, forced to take you with them like an unwanted pest.

You ruin things.

You don’t do anything right.

You hurt everyone you meet.

You ruin everything.

They want you gone.

You ruin.

They don’t want you.

You deserve to be gone.

“Fuck, sweetheart, are you crying–”

“Are you trying to use some kind of reverse psychology on me?” you turned to face him, exasperated, talking over him.

“Wha–”

“Because it’s working. You’re mad at me.” You chewed on your bottom lip, trying to regulate yourself. Your face was hot. So hot. 

“I’m not–”

“I didn’t mean to get the both of you hurt, I swear, it was just the girl was there, and the ghost was going to get her, Dean. I couldn’t, I couldn’t–”

He grabbed your shoulders. “Hey, hey, you’re good, sweetheart. You’re good.”

Your eyes felt wet. Your throat was tightening up. Your heart was beating unhealthily fast.

“I’m not,” you whispered, and you saw Dean’s heart visibly break right in front of you.

“I’m sorry. I do everything wrong. And I hurt and I hurt and I hurt. I fuck everything up. I’m so sorry,” You said, letting out a choked sob. Your chest felt tight, squeezing every little bit of oxygen left in you.

“No. No. Don’t say that.” Dean’s voice was heavy, like he was forcing the words out of his mouth. “You don’t fuck anything up–”

“You were so mad at me, Dean. I saw it. You didn’t even want to talk to me–”

“I wanted to.” His eyes locked onto yours. “I didn’t because I wanted to fucking scream at you.” He stepped closer, hands clenched into balls by his side. “For throwing yourself away like that. I know you wanted to save the girl, I know you did. But then I saw it, I saw the look you had–like you were grabbing your reason to lose yourself. L-like–” His voice cracked. “Like your life didn’t matter and that was your chance to throw it all away. I fucking saw it. So don’t even try to lie to me.”

“I…” Tears blurred your vision. You could barely think. “It’s not like that.”

He snorted, void of any emotion. “Yeah? Enlighten me. What could that possibly be like, then?

You sniffled, trying to pull in air into your empty lungs. “I don’t know, okay? I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Damn right you weren’t. I–we could have lost you. And the worst part was that you were willing to.”

“I wasn’t willing–”

“Then what was that?”

“I had to punish myself, okay? I saw what was happening after I made us go in. I made us. It was my fault, Dean. I did whatever it took to protect everyone.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t blame you. No one blames you. And that is not your job,” Dean whispered hoarsely, like he could barely say anything.

“You’d have done the same.”

“That’s different–”

“How could that be any different–”

“Because I fucking love you! And I won’t be able to ever forgive myself if something happens to you when I could have done something about it,” He steps closer, lips trembling. “Never.”

You felt your heart stop, the heavy beats coming to a rapid stop. He’s lying.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, before opening his eyes again, heavy with emotion and pain. “Why can’t you see how much you’re worth, baby?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Dean had this look in his eyes, seeing you like this. It was the same look he had when Sam died after that whole ordeal with the yellow-eyed demon. Not the blatant anger, the part you would notice first. It came between blinks–scared, helpless, like he couldn’t even afford to close his eyes for a split second because he was just so frightened. 

This time you didn’t have to pay close attention to see it, because it was all you could see.

The way his eyes crinkled, the way he slightly bit his bottom lip to prevent it from trembling, the way his cheeks were red from the heat and panic of the moment, it was basically screaming at you.

“C’mere,” he pulled you into his arms, one hand cradling your head tightly and the other wrapped around your back like you were going to disintegrate from his grip if he didn't hold you close enough.

“Nothing is wrong with you. Do you get me? Nothing,” Dean mumbled into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m going to keep telling you this until you do. Be it twice or two billion, you will believe me, sweetheart. Trust me, one day, you’ll see exactly what I see.”

Dean was right, you didn’t believe him. As much as you wanted to, as much as you tried, you couldn’t. But maybe he was right. You would believe him. You will get better. 

After all, you trusted him with your whole life, didn’t you?

“I hope so,” you whispered, voice broken and raw.

dean goes to the trunk.

he comes back with a blanket you have never seen before, a smaller fleece thing that was definitely underneath the blanket you have also never seen, and a hoodie that's possibly sam's but he's been evicted so the point is moot.

he stacks them. he adjusts the jacket so the collar folds back. he tests the angle of the headrest, decides against it, finds a rolled-up flannel from somewhere in the door pocket and tucks it into the corner.

all of this takes approximately ninety seconds.

he steps back, looks at what he's built, then he looks at you.

you're already half asleep standing next to the car. you register: backseat, soft, dean holding the door open. so you get in, and you're lights out before he closes it.

dean gets back in the driver's seat. sam gets in after him, brushing gravel off his jacket, and buckles his seatbelt without saying a single word.

they drive. two miles pass.

"you have a hoodie in the trunk," sam says.

"yeah."

"and two blankets."

"so?"

"dean. i've been cold on stakeouts, multiple times. you've told me to think warmer thoughts."

dean doesn't answer. he's watching the road like it owes him something. both hands on the wheel, which is already unusual. the speed is strange too — sam clocks it at four, five under.

dean does a lot of things wrong behind the wheel of this car. going slow isn't one of them.

"you're driving like someone's grandpa," sam says.

"road's uneven."

"it's a highway."

"there's wildlife."

"dean."

nothing. sam looks out the window and comes back to look at his brother, who has the most painfully private expression on his face — jaw loose, eyes soft, one corner of his mouth doing something that sam is going to process later in the privacy of his own head.

giddy is the word. dean's driving five under the speed limit and trying not to look giddy about it.

sam pinches the bridge of his nose.

behind them, you shift, pull the blanket up. dean's eyes go to the rearview mirror for half a second. back to the road with mouth doing the grumbling thing again.

"dean," sam says, very carefully.

"don't."

"i'm not saying anything."

"good. keep not saying it."

another mile. the highway is empty and the radio's off, which has maybe happened twice in sam's life. he's not going to examine why it's off right now because he already knows.

"they're asleep," dean says. not to sam specifically, more to the windshield.

"yeah," sam says. "i know. i watched you build them a nest."

"it's not a nest."

"you found a travel pillow, dean."

"it was in the trunk —"

"from where —"

"it was just there, sam, some stuff just accumulates —"

you make a small sound in the back, as you settled deeper. dean's sentence stops mid-word.

the rearview again. two seconds this time.

sam closes his eyes, and opens them. outside, a mile marker goes by at a stately, considerate pace.

"if you wake them up," dean says, low, almost to himself, "i will leave you on this road."

"you're going forty-three miles an hour," sam says. "i think they're fine."

dean doesn't answer. he just drives, careful as anything, while the road rolls out ahead of them and you sleep through all of it — through the blanket he apparently owns, through sam's suffering, through whatever is happening in the front seat that dean will never in his life put a name to.

his thumb taps once on the steering wheel, then stops.

forty-three miles an hour.

sam looks out the window and decides, firmly, that this isn't his problem tonight.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hisokamywaifu @elarapheonix

$ join taglist

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he grunted, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your wrist, and you raised your brows.

“I think it means I like it, dummy.”

And that had made him falter. He’d looked at you like he wasn’t sure to trust it. And you knew he didn’t. He’d spent too long, thinking comfort was the one sin he wasn’t allowed to afford. So you’d just kept smiling. You kissed him deeply, and he melted, cupping your face and rolling you over with a satisfied half-grunt.

Maybe he was getting old. With the gain of a real grocery store down the street, he’d turned into a little of an obsessive housewife in the kitchen, and you were being served new dishes every single night. Without the hunting, he gained a little weight, but the mechanic work meant he gained muscle with it. You catch him frowning at the mirror after a shower, and you’re sure a part of him doesn’t recognize the man in the mirror.

But you do. It’s the same man you loved when he was sharp and rough like sandpaper. The same man who’s heart you had to spend years unwrapping from the barbed wire, who you loved with every sting and groveling apology and mistake. He seems to think you’re going to leave, now that he’s gone all fuckin’ soft.

You just count it as a long winter that’s thawed. A spring that took a while to bloom, and now, a rich, eternal summer. And you’re not about to run, right when you can start reaping your rewards.

He feeds you better than you’ve ever fed yourself. He holds your hand in the house, like he’s trying to put some claim on you over the walls. He laughs loudly at stupid parties you have to attended, and charms all your neighbors, and stares at babies and cribs when he thinks you’re not looking, his fingers digging into your hip with a quiet, long buried longing.

The nightmares still come, but he slowly talks about what he can. He doesn’t go to therapy—that was a long shot anyway—but he lets you drag him to the doctor, and takes his stupid heart meds with a grumble and kiss of your forehead, as if you’re the only reason he’s bothering to keep himself upright and kicking. He makes friends that aren’t his brother, and doesn’t even fight with Sam anymore. He drinks a little less and drives a little slower. He knocks out watching TV, but still manages to wake up long enough to carry you to bed.

And bed alone is a reason to love him like this, just a little extra. A sliver that grows from the everything about his handsome, gentle face being inches from yours, the scent of his evergreen aftershave surrounding you better than any drug, massive, calloused hands tracing over your body like, even after all this time, he still finds himself awestruck at your beauty.

“My girl,” he rasps against your lips, and you believe it.

You believe it with the way you’re all but consumed by him, drowning you in his weight and heat. Thick biceps keep your legs shoved apart when he buried his face against your drooling pussy, his beard scraping and tickling your inner thighs. His tongue works you open and flicks against your clit. You tug his hair with a whimpering pleas, and he moans, deep and rich and hungry. Your eyes roll back in your head, the vibration against your cunt almost too much before you’re coming apart on his face, and he doesn’t let up until you’re trembling and gasping for air.

Dean kisses you with your arousal still clinging to his beard, and sinks into your cunt with low, strained growl of need. You hug him tight, barely able to do anything but take it. The girth and size of him was always right on the better side of too much. Now, with the extra strength, you fall into a mess with barely a few strokes. Dean handles you like a doll, flipping you onto your stomach and dragging your ass up in the air, folding his body over yours and kissing your open, gaping mouth.

“So fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he grunts, cock drilling into that gooey, needy spot with every stroke. “Takin’ it so good f’ me, my sweet girl-“

“De- Deean-“ You whine. “Please- Need to cum- Need it so bad-“

Dean grabs your neck with one hand and turns your head, kissing you deep and messy. He splays his hand over your tummy, pressing up into where his dick is splitting you in half, and the extra pressure is too much to bear. You cum with a scream, and Dean buries himself deep inside you with a low, rough groan. Sticky ropes of cum paint over your walls, your thighs, the mattress as it dribbles out of your over-stuffed cunt.

Dean kisses you slowly, in no rush to clean, in no rush to move. He rolls onto his back and you curl into his side, fitting against him perfectly and blinking up at him with worshipful, glossy eyes. He swallows, brushes the hair from your brow, and takes your chin between his fingers. He tips it up and kisses you slowly, savoring every time, satisfied hum from your lips.

Sometimes he still thinks he doesn’t deserve this, but he’s certain that you do. And if you’re happy with him like this—bigger and mushy and comfortable—then you can’t possibly be wrong. For the first time in his life, he really has all the time in the world. And he doesn’t plan to waste a second of it. Not when he has you.

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: request! i would give him such a happy lifeeee put me in coach✦

she nods without meeting your eyes and reaches for another concealer.

the dressing room’s too full. vought has assigned each member of the seven their own space backstage, but homelander decided the team should prepare together. unity photographs better when there are witnesses to enforce it.

assistants move through the room carrying garment bags, tablets, trays of untouched coffee. stylists hover around firecracker’s hair and the deep’s jawline. someone’s polishing the already spotless plates of black noir’s suit beneath the white lights. sage sits near the end of the long mirrored counter, reading through the final event schedule with the detached concentration of someone reviewing an experiment whose outcome she’s already calculated.

soldier boy is watching you. he's been watching since he walked into the room.

he sits several feet behind you in a broad velvet chair that looks too fragile beneath him, dressed in the dark green suit vought has chosen for the launch. they’ve cleaned the metal, sharpened every line, and restored the old eagle insignia. the result makes him look exactly the way they want: america’s first hero dragged out of history and polished until no one can see what happened in between.

his attention ruins the effect.

one ankle rests over his opposite knee, his body settled carelessly into the chair while his eyes remain fixed on the makeup artist’s fingers moving along your throat. he makes no attempt to disguise it. no shame, no nervous glance away when you catch him through the mirror. he simply keeps looking, expression unreadable except for the faint satisfaction sitting at one corner of his mouth.

the makeup artist dusts powder across the bruise. soldier boy’s gaze follows the brush.

“is it covered?” you ask.

the woman leans back to inspect her work. “almost.”

“looked better before,” soldier boy chimes, unhelpful as always.

her hand freezes near your throat.

the room doesn’t go silent. there are too many hair dryers, too many whispered instructions, too many employees paid very well to behave as though they can’t hear what happens around the seven. still, the space directly surrounding you seems to pause.

you keep your eyes on your reflection. “nobody asked you.”

“didn’t need to.”

the makeup artist resumes blending with noticeably less pressure. you let her. there’s no reason to turn the comment into something larger, no reason to give firecracker another detail to inspect or the deep something else to think about while pretending he isn’t listening. 

soldier boy wants the acknowledgement. he can survive without it for another few minutes. 

the rest of you has been dressed to make marks such as his impossible to imagine.

the suit they’ve made for you is softer than the one from yesterday. still cream. still gold. still fitted tightly enough across your waist and hips to ensure no one forgets that vought’s idea of holiness includes being sexually marketable. but today’s bodice has been sculpted into long, curved panels that rise over your ribs and meet at the base of your throat, almost resembling folded hands.

the fabric catches every breath. fine gold thread follows the seams. pale stones have been sewn around the collar and shoulders, small enough not to look cheap, bright enough to send points of light across the walls whenever you move.

the cape’s the real trick. it falls from beneath the gold plates at your shoulders in two lengths of translucent cream, sheer in a way so that your body remains visible beneath it. the material pools behind the stool and stretches almost to the centre of the room, light as smoke whenever someone passes.

there’s no literal halo. sage had vetoed it. instead, a thin fan of golden metal curves behind your head, built into the comb the stylist is currently pinning into your hair. narrow rays spread from the centre without forming a circle, subtle enough for vought to deny the religious imagery while making sure no one misses it.

you look less like a member of the seven than something painted above an altar.

firecracker notices too. she stands two mirrors away in red, white and blue, holding perfectly still while someone fixes the fall of her hair over one shoulder. her eyes move across your reflection in small, careful pieces: the gold, the cape, the exposed shape of your body beneath all that manufactured grace. then they settle on the place the makeup artist is covering.

“rough night?” her tone’s pleasant. everything about firecracker is pleasant until you actually listen.

the makeup artist lowers her eyes. soldier boy does not move, though you feel his attention sharpen.

you smile at your reflection. “the suit fitting ran late.”

firecracker’s gaze meets yours through the mirror. she doesn’t believe you, which is fine. disbelief isn’t proof, and women like her rarely need proof before deciding they know something.

“they’re really committing to the angel thing,” the deep says from behind his stylist. he sounds impressed. “not that you look—well, you do look angelic. obviously. i just mean it’s kind of… religious.”

sage turns one page of the schedule. black noir tilts his head slightly.

the deep notices no one intends to rescue him and attempts to do it himself. “in a respectful way.”

“thank you,” you say, because watching him drown would take longer.

homelander enters before he can answer and the room responds before he speaks—shoulders straightening, voices dropping, assistants retreating from the centre of the floor. even the stylist behind firecracker steps back with a brush still raised in one hand.

homelander wears his usual suit. there’s no softer ceremonial version of him, no alternate uniform required for the image vought’s building today. he’s already dressed as the flag, the savior and the weapon. everyone else has been altered to fit around him.

his eyes find you immediately. the approval on his face is so open it almost resembles affection. “wow…” he breathes out.

you turn carefully on the stool, mindful of the cape and the pins still being secured behind your head. “is it what you wanted, sir?”

he walks closer. his gaze travels over the bodice, the gold at your shoulders, the pale rays extending behind your hair. there’s nothing sexual in the inspection. somehow, that makes it more invasive. he looks at you the way an emperor might look at a monument built in his own honor.

“better.”

the stylist finishes the final pin and withdraws quickly. homelander raises one hand toward the metal behind your head but doesn’t touch it. his fingers hover near one of the rays, following its shape through the air.

“they’ll understand the second they see you.”

you glance toward sage before returning immediately to homelander. “understand what?”

homelander smiles. “that you were chosen.”

the word settles beneath your ribs. not recruited. not welcomed. not appointed. chosen.

around the room, everyone’s listening now. even soldier boy’s shifted his attention from your throat to homelander’s face.

homelander finally lowers his hand. “people are scared. you can feel it everywhere. they’ve been lied to for so long that they don’t know what truth feels like anymore. they’ve had weak people telling them weakness is compassion. criminals telling them freedom means chaos. traitors convincing them that power is something they should fear.”

his voice remains calm, almost thoughtful, but there’s a private anger beneath every sentence. it doesn’t need volume. everyone in the room knows what his anger sounds like before it becomes loud.

“today isn’t just about filling a seat… no. we’ve done that before. this is about showing them what comes after all of that. what comes after betrayal.” his eyes return to you. “grace.” 

you hold his gaze. “mine?”

the question pleases him. “yours because I saw it,” he corrects gently. “because I understood what you could be.”

that’s the shape of the story before he ever steps onto the stage. your power is yours only in the same way the sun belongs to a stained-glass window. it may pass through you, but the image belongs to whoever built the church.

homelander looks toward sage. “show her.”

sage sets the schedule aside and lifts the tablet resting on her knee. with one touch, the large screen mounted above the mirrors changes from the vought logo to a live view of the arena beyond the dressing rooms.

the stage is enormous.

white stairs descend through tall panels of illuminated gold, opening onto a central platform shaped around the seven-pointed star of the team’s emblem. screens rise behind it from floor to ceiling, displaying a slow loop of pale clouds parting above vought tower. shafts of light move through the artificial sky. from a distance, they might pass for sunlight.

thousands of people fill the arena. supporters dressed in red, white and blue press toward the front barricades. flags move above their heads. signs bearing homelander’s face catch against the lights. some brought their children. some are crying already, overwhelmed by proximity before he’s even appeared.

outside the building, more people wait behind security lines to watch on massive screens. the event’s being broadcast across every vought channel, every major news network willing to carry it and several that weren’t given much choice.

a choir stands on the upper level of the stage, dressed in white.

your stomach tightens.

“subtle,” soldier boy scoffs.

homelander looks at him. “you have an issue with it?”

soldier boy’s eyes move to the screen, then back to you. “didn’t say that.”

it’s the closest thing to retreat he’s willing to offer, and even that comes wrapped in indifference. homelander watches him for another second before turning away.

“they need something they can believe in,” he says. “something they can feel.”

the last word belongs to you.

homelander steps closer until he stands directly before the stool, blocking part of your reflection. “when i introduce you, you’ll come to the centre of the stage. take your time. let them look.”

you nod.

“then i’ll tell them why you’re here.” his smile returns, bright and assured. “when i give you the signal, let them feel safe.”

homelander doesn’t say what he actually wants. not worship. not devotion. he doesn’t have to say it. safety is softer. easier to sell. safety opens the body before anything else follows.

“how far?” you ask.

sage answers from behind him. “the lower tiers first. broadcasting equipment will measure visible audience response before you extend it.”

homelander’s smile tightens. he doesn’t enjoy hearing his miracle reduced to measurement. “everyone—i want everyone to feel it.”

sage doesn’t argue. she only studies you.

the risk sits there between the three of you. your power works best when there’s already something present to reach for—fear. relief. anger. longing. an arena filled with people who’ve spent hours waiting to see the man they believe will save them isn’t empty ground. it’s dry grass.

homelander places his hand on your shoulder, careful not to disturb the cape. “you can do that.”

it isn’t a question, so you smile. “of course.”

his thumb presses once against the gold plate beneath his palm. “good girl.”

soldier boy’s jaw shifts. the movement’s small enough that you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t spent last night learning exactly how tension sits in his face. 

he remains in the chair, eyes resting on homelander’s hand, expression flat in a way that carries considerably more weight than anger would.

homelander notices none of it. why would he? soldier boy’s only one more body in the room witnessing the fulfillment of his vision.

an assistant appears at the door and announces that the broadcast begins in four minutes. the room breaks apart. stylists rush forward for final checks. the deep stands too quickly and nearly knocks over a tray of hair products. firecracker dismisses her makeup artist with a smile that vanishes the moment the woman turns away. black noir moves toward the hall without a sound.

sage walks beside homelander, speaking quietly about camera positions and audience segmentation. he listens only when the information concerns how he’ll appear.

your makeup artist touches the concealer at your throat one last time. “it should hold under the lights.”

“thank you.”

you rise from the stool. the cape follows in a soft whisper across the floor, requiring two assistants to lift the ends before they catch beneath your heels. the weight of the headpiece pulls faintly at your scalp. the bodice holds your ribs so closely that every full breath feels staged.

soldier boy stands.

he approaches while the others move into the corridor, stopping behind you as one assistant adjusts the cape at your shoulders. his reflection fills the mirror over yours—dark green, broad chest, hard mouth. the old hero standing behind vought’s new angel.

his eyes lower to your throat. the concealer’s covered him completely.

he lifts one hand. you watch it rise in the mirror, expecting his fingers to touch the bruise, but he stops just short of your skin. the restraint feels stranger than contact would’ve.

“all cleaned up,” his voice is low enough that it doesn’t travel.

“that was the idea.”

his gaze moves over your reflection, slower now. the gold. the translucent cape. the rays behind your head. the careful softness painted across your face.

something darker settles into his expression. “they made you look holy.”

“apparently i’m grace.”

“you’re something.”

there’s no smile with it. no easy little insult waiting to turn the moment childish. only the weight of his eyes and the memory of his hands beneath the polished costume.

one of the assistants returns for the last edge of your cape. soldier boy steps back before she can see how close he was standing.

“places,” sage calls from the corridor.

the passage behind the stage is dark, narrow and crowded with security. the noise from the arena reaches through the walls as a low physical pressure, thousands of voices joining and separating until individual words become impossible to hear.

the seven arrange themselves according to marks taped onto the floor.

homelander stands at the centre entrance. soldier boy takes the position to his right, firecracker to his left. the deep and noir wait behind them. sage remains slightly apart, exactly where she prefers to be—included in the image without pretending she belongs to its faith.

your mark is several feet back. you’ll enter last.

a production assistant counts down through her headset. the choir begins before the screens change, voices rising through the arena in a clean, solemn chord. the sound isn’t quite a hymn. vought’s legal department made sure of that. still, it carries the familiar architecture of worship.

the crowd quiets. then homelander steps into the light.

the sound that follows shakes the walls.

your cape moves in the displaced air from the stage entrance as thousands of people scream his name. the noise swells when soldier boy appears beside him, history and divinity walking together beneath artificial sunlight. firecracker follows with one hand lifted to the audience. the deep smiles too widely. noir raises a gloved fist. sage does nothing except take her place.

you wait in the dark.

onstage, homelander lets the cheering continue until it begins to weaken on its own. he stands at the centre of the seven-pointed platform with his hands resting near his hips, chin lifted, expression softened into something patient and almost paternal.

“thank you,” he says. the crowd answers with another roar.

he smiles, glancing down as though humbled by the scale of their devotion. the performance is precise. 

you wonder how long he practiced it before he stopped recognizing it as one.

“no, really. thank you… because i know it hasn’t been easy.”

the arena settles gradually beneath his voice.

“you’ve watched people lie about us. you’ve watched cowards attack everything this country stands for. you’ve been told to apologize for wanting strength, for wanting order, for wanting a future where your children don’t have to be afraid.”

the screens behind him change. images of riots, burning streets and blurred faces appear beneath a cold blue filter. starlight and everything she represents. the crowd begins to stir. fear moves through them first, followed quickly by anger.

homelander feels it without needing your power.

his smile fades with careful sorrow. “they wanted you to believe you were alone. they wanted you to believe no one was coming.”

a woman near the front barricade shakes her head violently, already crying.

homelander looks directly into the primary camera. “but i came.”

the response is immediate. people rise from their seats. hands lift. his name begins somewhere in the lower tier and travels outward, a rough chant gathering rhythm as it reaches the upper levels.

homelander lets them say it.

the cameras move across the rest of the seven. firecracker looks near tears. the deep nods gravely, desperate to appear affected by words he’s heard repeatedly during rehearsals. soldier boy stands with both hands clasped behind his back, staring over the crowd.

the chant fades when homelander lifts one hand.

“strength isn’t enough,” he says. “i could protect every person in this room. i could cross this country before any threat reached your front door. i could tear every enemy out of the sky.”

the crowd believes him. and the worst part is that none of it is technically false.

“but people need more than protection. they need hope. they need to know that the world we’re building isn’t only strong. it’s good.”

the screens brighten behind him. the footage of violence disappears beneath gold spreading slowly through white clouds.

“and when i saw what was missing, i chose someone who could give that to you.”

your cue light changes. the choir begins again, softer this time.

you step onto the stage.

for one suspended second, the audience doesn’t react at all.

the silence has weight. thousands of eyes move over you at once, taking in the pale sweep of the cape, the golden rays behind your head, the light already warming faintly beneath your skin. the cameras catch the moment from below, making the stage appear higher and the air behind you almost endless.

then the crowd breaks open. your name hasn’t yet been spoken, but people scream anyway.

you walk slowly because homelander told you to let them look. because the cape needs time to follow. because everything about holiness becomes cheaper when it hurries.

gold begins to stir beneath your collarbones. not power yet. only anticipation answering inside your body.

as you reach the centre platform, homelander extends his hand. you place yours in it. his fingers close around you, warm and firm. he draws you to stand at his side, slightly forward from the other members of the seven. not equal. displayed.

“look at her,” the arena quiets enough to obey. 

“she wasn’t sent to me.” his thumb rests over your knuckles. “she was chosen by me.”

the words travel across the screens, across the arena, across every television carrying the broadcast. 

behind you, the clouds part fully and white light pours through the gold. homelander turns toward you with pride arranged beautifully across his face.

“halo fever.”

your name appears forty feet high behind him.

“where i bring strength, she brings grace. where i protect this country from the people who want to destroy it, she reminds us what we’re protecting.”

his gaze returns to the audience.

“you.”

the crowd erupts again.

you smile into the light. warm, grateful, slightly overwhelmed. the expression vought chose during rehearsal because people trust beauty most when it appears humbled by their love.

homelander waits until the noise falls.

“some of you are still afraid,” he says. “i understand that. fear has been used against you for years. but you don’t have to be afraid anymore…”

he looks at you. there’s the signal. 

“let them feel it.”

you inhale. the gold wakes beneath your skin.

it begins at the centre of your chest and spreads slowly outward, threading beneath the cream panels of your suit before rising along your throat. light moves through your shoulders, your arms, the backs of your hands. the stones sewn into the fabric catch and multiply it until your entire body appears lit from within.

the audience gasps.

you reach carefully toward the lower tier.

thousands of emotions wait there. fear sharpened by homelander’s speech. longing cultivated over hours of music and screens and testimony. love, anger, resentment, grief. some of them have come because they believe. some because they want to. some because believing in him feels safer than accepting what he might do if they refuse.

you don’t create devotion. you find the need beneath it. then you warm it.

the feeling leaves you in a slow golden wave. it passes through the front rows first. shoulders loosen. hands unclench. the woman crying at the barricade presses both palms over her heart. a man beside her closes his eyes as relief settles across his face with such force that his knees nearly give beneath him.

the cameras catch everything.

sage watches from across the stage, tablet hidden at her side. she gives you no visible signal, but you can feel the audience responding well before the numbers reach her screen.

you extend farther. warmth moves through the arena in widening circles, not heat against the skin but the memory of being held when you were young enough to believe someone else could keep you safe from the world outside. relief without evidence. forgiveness without apology. the physical certainty that, for one breath, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

people begin to cry.

the sound changes. the screams soften into something lower and stranger, thousands of voices breaking beneath the same manufactured tenderness. strangers reach for one another. parents pull children against their chests. hands lift toward the stage with open palms.

homelander stands inside the centre of it.

you let the warmth gather around him. every feeling you release arrives with his face before it. every pulse of safety follows the sound of his voice. the audience doesn’t know where you end and he begins.

his expression changes. it isn’t the controlled smile from the dressing room or the sorrow he performed during the speech. for one second, something genuinely awed opens across his face. he looks over the crowd and sees thousands of people experiencing his love as a physical fact.

a woman near the stage sinks to her knees. another follows. then another. the movement spreads without instruction.

homelander’s hand tightens around yours.

“see?” he says softly into the microphone. the arena listens. “you were never abandoned.”

someone screams that they love him. the words crack through the silence. more voices answer. his name rises again, but it no longer resembles a chant from a rally. it comes slower, broken apart by sobbing, carried through the warmth you have placed inside them.

homelander. homelander. homelander.

your power reaches the stage behind you. for one breath, you let it settle over the seven in the same broad warmth carrying through the arena. something gentle. indiscriminate. easy enough to mistake for the edge of the crowd’s emotion spilling backward beneath the lights.

then you turn it inward.

homelander is still holding your hand when you slip beneath the surface of him. you do it carefully. not because you’re afraid of hurting him, though you are. because homelander notices intrusion too sharply. there’s too much of him packed beneath the skin, too much hunger wrapped around old fear, and you have no intention of disturbing anything you can’t put back before he realizes you touched it.

you don’t search. you offer. warmth gathers where your fingers meet his. it enters him slowly, softer than the tide moving through the audience, carrying no command he could reject and no obvious emotion he could name as foreign. it feels instead like relief taking shape around your presence. the quiet certainty that the woman standing beside him understands what he is. that you don’t merely obey him because you’re frightened or impressed, but because being chosen by him has filled some waiting place inside you. you let him feel useful to you. necessary.

his hand tightens. the shift in his expression is almost invisible beneath the bright stage lights. his eyes remain fixed on the crowd, his smile steady for every camera, but something inside him leans toward you with startling immediacy. the need answers before his pride can examine it. he feels your warmth and mistakes it for recognition, for the rare pleasure of being understood without having to explain why the entire world should love him.

you let the feeling deepen by a fraction. only enough to make your absence suddenly imaginable. unpleasant. his thumb presses over your knuckles. the gesture will look tender in photographs tomorrow. protective, perhaps. the mighty hand of america’s savior wrapped around the delicate fingers of the grace he selected for the world.

only you know he’s holding tighter because you’ve made some private part of him believe it needs to keep you there.

the realization settles into place beside every other decision that brought you into this building. vought doesn’t reward innocence. innocence is something they photograph before feeding it into a contract. if homelander’s chosen to imagine himself a god, then survival means becoming the thing a god keeps closest—not equal, but precious enough that destroying you would feel too much like damaging himself.

you withdraw before the feeling can become obvious and homelander exhales softly through his nose. the sound disappears beneath the chanting, but his body follows you for half a second, attention turning toward the warmth as it leaves. then the cameras reclaim him.

you move on.

the deep is the easiest. his emotions sit close to the surface, crowded and poorly organized. awe, envy, the desperate relief of being included, and beneath all of it the nervous confusion of someone who can feel the room changing without understanding why. your power brushes through him and he stiffens, eyes moving briefly from homelander to you.

you don’t give him anything sharp enough to keep. only warmth and the faint impression that he’s forgotten something important. his brow furrows. he glances toward noir, perhaps expecting confirmation that something unusual is happening.

black noir doesn’t feel empty at all. if anything, he’s louder than the others. there’s a restless, flickering quality to him, like someone constantly checking whether they’re doing the right thing, whether they’re being seen the way they’re supposed to be seen. 

your warmth hits him and he reacts immediately—he straightens and his head turns toward you fast, attention snapping into place with something close to curiosity. he feels it, recognizes that something is happening, but instead of resisting or dissecting it, he leans into it just enough to understand how it fits into the moment. his body language adjusts, shoulders squaring a fraction more, as if your presence has reminded him of the role he’s meant to be playing. his gaze flicks briefly toward homelander, checking, measuring, making sure he hasn’t stepped out of line. whatever impulse your power stirred settles into something more controlled, more performative.

sage isn’t bored. the moment your power touches her, she knows. you feel the recognition form before she moves so much as a finger. her mind is too quick for softness to pass through unexamined, too disciplined to mistake an emotional shift for revelation simply because it feels pleasant. the warmth reaches her and is taken apart instantly: origin, strength, direction, purpose.

her eyes lift from the tablet. they meet yours across the stage. sage doesn’t resist. resistance would tell you more than stillness does. she allows the feeling to rest along the edges of her body while she calculates what you’re doing, how many people you’re touching at once, how much control it requires to keep the crowd awash in relief while moving through the team one person at a time.

you don’t press deeper. you don’t need to. something changes faintly around her mouth. not approval. certainly not surprise. interest.

sage had warned you not to confuse humiliation with victory. perhaps this is her discovering that you listened. you aren’t humiliating anyone. no one but you has to know the room’s becoming safer because you’re quietly placing yourself inside every person with the power to kill you.

then you reach firecracker. her devotion is loud enough to be convincing from a distance. up close, it has seams. you feel it immediately: love twisted through fear, ambition wrapped tightly around resentment, the constant exhausted vigilance of a woman who’s built her entire survival around knowing what homelander wants before he has to ask. she wants to believe in him. she’s repeated it so many times that belief and necessity have begun wearing the same face. but doubt is there. small. ugly. alive. it flinches when your power touches it.

firecracker’s smile remains perfect for the cameras, eyes shining as she looks toward homelander with the reverence expected of her. you could leave it alone. you should. there’s no reason to make an enemy of someone already watching you too closely. instead, you curl your fingers around the doubt. 

not physically. your hand is still inside homelander’s. your body is still turned toward the arena, light moving under your skin while thousands of people sob with relief.

but inside firecracker, you take hold. you squeeze. her breath catches. the doubt swells beneath your attention, suddenly too large for her to bury beneath slogans and scripture and practiced gratitude. every moment homelander frightened her. every time his approval felt conditional. every small private thought she swallowed because it sounded too much like betrayal.

you don’t drag it into the open. you only let her know you found it. firecracker’s eyes snap toward you. 

the movement is quick enough that most cameras will miss it. sage doesn’t. you look back with the same gentle smile you’ve been giving the crowd—warm. angelic. forgiving.

there’s no evidence in your expression. no threat anyone else could recognize. only the pressure around the secret place inside her and the certainty that you could make it louder if you chose.

you finally release her. 

you’re not a saint. saints can afford martyrdom. you’d rather remain alive.

your power reaches soldier boy last.

perhaps because you save the greatest risk for the end. perhaps because you’ve been aware of him since the moment you stepped into the light, standing several feet behind homelander with gold catching along the hard lines of his suit. or perhaps you’re simply enjoying yourself.

you let the warmth brush over him. his chest answers first. the faint gold beneath the dark green pulses once, then steadies as your power moves through him. he recognizes it immediately. you feel the instant his body braces, the old reflex to resist anything that’s entered without permission.

his eyes narrow.

you don’t touch the bruised need from yesterday. you don’t reach for humiliation or anger or the raw wound beneath his pride. you’ve already shown him you can hurt him there. this time, you choose somewhere simpler.

the warmth sinks lower. soldier boy’s jaw locks. his stance doesn’t change. his hands remain clasped behind his back, shoulders squared toward the crowd. decades of cameras have taught him how to hold a pose even while something deeply inconvenient happens beneath the suit.

his glare finds you across the stage. you widen your smile.

the feeling curls through his stomach and lower still, heat collecting with slow, unmistakable purpose. not desire created from nothing. you know better than to tell yourself that. there’s already too much of it in him, stretched taut beneath the memory of last night and the sight of you wrapped in cream and gold, throat scrubbed clean of every mark he left.

all you do is make it impossible to ignore.

his nostrils flare. he looks at you with murder in his eyes and arousal gathering heavily below his belt, the two reactions sitting together inside him so naturally that you almost laugh.

you push again. his fingers curl behind his back.

a sharp rush of satisfaction moves through you, bright enough to feed the power without your permission. he feels that too. the knowledge that you’re enjoying this, that you’ve singled him out from the thousands of people bent beneath your warmth and chosen to turn the miracle filthy inside his body.

soldier boy shifts one foot half an inch. to the audience, it’s nothing. to you, it’s victory. 

his stare promises consequences. not the vague, theatrical violence he gives everyone else. something private. something already imagining the moment there are no cameras between you.

you let the heat tighten once more. his lips part around a breath he refuses to release.

then homelander lifts your joined hands before the crowd, and the moment disappears inside another explosion of noise.

confetti falls from the ceiling. thin pieces of reflective gold shaped into narrow feathers, catching the light as they drift over the stage. they settle across your cape, along homelander’s shoulders, over the dark green of soldier boy’s suit. the choir swells.

homelander looks at you as though the spectacle has proved something sacred.

the warmth continues spreading until the arena no longer feels like a room filled with frightened people. it feels united. cleansed. temporarily absolved of every doubt that brought them here.

it’s the most beautiful violation you have ever committed. and when the crowd kneels before homelander, he believes every second of it.

the dressing room isn’t quiet when you first return to it. 

it’s never quiet while vought still has something to collect from you. assistants follow you through the door carrying discarded pieces of the performance—the edge of your cape, a tablet filled with interview requests, the flowers someone’s already sent in homelander’s name. your makeup artist wipes away the powder beneath your eyes while another woman removes thin strips of gold confetti from your hair with tweezers, careful not to disturb the metal rays still pinned behind your head.

everyone talks over everyone else.

the audience response exceeded projections. footage of people kneeling is already being clipped for social media. a woman in the front row claims the warmth cured her shoulder. three churches have asked to host you. someone wants to know whether you can cry on command before tomorrow’s interview.

you sit before the mirror and let them touch you. your smile aches at the corners. the gold beneath your skin has faded, but not completely. it lingers in thin threads across your collarbones, fed by the residue of thousands who left convinced they had experienced something holy.

homelander had kissed your forehead backstage. he’d held your face between both hands, eyes too bright, and told you that you’d made them understand. you’d thanked him. sage had given him the numbers before he could say anything else, and they disappeared. the deep tried to hug you. black noir offered a single thumbs-up.

soldier boy had said nothing. he watched from the opposite end of the corridor, expression controlled, body held with rigid patience.

you dismiss the assistants one by one. the cape goes first. then the tablet. then the flowers, left on the counter. your makeup artist asks if you want help removing the headpiece. you tell her you can manage. 

she hesitates at the bruise beneath your jaw. the concealer has held. “tomorrow at six?” 

you resist the urge to groan. “tomorrow at six.”

the door closes behind her.

finally.

the silence that follows is broken only by the hum of the vanity lights and the muffled movement of crews dismantling the stage somewhere beyond the walls. your reflection looks unchanged by what happened. cream bodice still fitted perfectly. hair still curled around the golden rays. mouth soft. eyes bright.

the angel survives the evening.

the moment there’s no one left to watch you, your spine gives against the chair. the movement’s small, more surrender than collapse, but your reflection drops several inches in the mirror. your shoulders ache beneath the gold plates. the pins anchoring the headpiece pull sharply at your scalp. even the fitted pressure of the bodice has become exhausting, forcing each breath to stop somewhere too high in your chest.

you lift one hand toward your hair and miss the first pin entirely.

your fingers are trembling. not visibly enough for the cameras to have caught it. you’d kept the power controlled through the speeches, the photographs, the three additional appearances homelander demanded after discovering how eagerly the crowd responded. each time, you’d stepped beneath the lights and opened yourself again. warmth for the donors. reverence for the press. tearful relief for the families chosen to meet you backstage. hours of reaching into people and leaving pieces of yourself behind.

now your body feels hollowed out by it. cold beneath the skin despite the faint gold still twitching around your collarbones, your power continuing to search for somewhere to go because it hasn’t yet understood that the performance’s over.

you try the pin again.

the dressing-room door opens behind you and soldier boy comes into view in the mirror. the dark shape of him enters without hesitation, one hand shutting the door before he reaches back to turn the lock. he’s removed the shield and loosened part of the suit at his throat, but otherwise he still looks prepared for the stage. solid. polished. infuriatingly untouched by the evening.

his eyes settle on you.

there’s intention in the way he came inside, something already decided before the lock clicked. you recognize it. under different circumstances, the recognition would’ve sent heat straight through you.

right now, it manages a weak pulse somewhere beneath your stomach.

you turn back to the mirror. “if you’ve come to complain, take a number.”

soldier boy walks closer, boots heavy against the floor, watching your hand search uselessly through the curls at the back of your head. 

“jesus christ.” he stops behind the chair. his reflection fills the space over your shoulder, broad enough to block several of the vanity bulbs, casting part of your face into shadow. “hold still.”

“that sounded dangerously close to concern.”

“it’s not.”

his hands enter your hair before you can answer. there’s nothing delicate about the first touch. his fingers push through the styled curls, searching impatiently for the pins buried against your scalp. he finds one and pulls it free with enough force to tug your head backward. you hiss.

“said hold still.”

“you’re yanking my hair.”

“you usually enjoy that.”

under ordinary circumstances, you would.

the observation sits between you. his eyes meet yours in the mirror, mouth settling into something that isn’t quite a smile. the faint pulse beneath your stomach strengthens, fed by the memory of his fist wrapped around your hair somewhere in the semi-privacy of your room.

he removes another pin. then another. each one lands on the counter with a sharp little click. he works faster once he understands how the headpiece has been attached, fingers finding the hidden anchors beneath the curls and stripping them out one by one. the pressure against your scalp loosens gradually. strands of hair fall around your shoulders, flattened in places, still stiff with product.

“fucking ridiculous,” he mutters.

“the halo?”

“the whole thing.”

“the audience liked it.”

“audience would’ve liked it if you walked out naked and told them their dead mothers forgave them.”

“i think that would be more up your alley.”

his eyes lift to yours again. you manage a tired smile.

the final pin comes free. soldier boy grips the base of the metal fan and pulls it carefully so it doesn’t catch your hair, though his expression suggests the restraint annoys him. 

the golden rays rise away from your head. without them, your reflection looks abruptly smaller. human, almost.

he sets the headpiece beside the flowers. it lands across the counter with a thin metallic scrape.

his hands return to you. one settles at the base of your skull. the other presses into the muscle beside your neck, thumb driving hard against the tension there.

your breath leaves you before you can stop it. “fuck.”

“you’re wound tight.” his thumb moves higher, finding the knot and attacking it, pressing until the ache turns hot and bright beneath his hand.

you tip your head forward despite yourself.

soldier boy adjusts his grip, fingers closing around the back of your neck to hold you where he wants you. the position should feel threatening. tonight, the weight of his hand keeps you upright.

“you did something to me out there,” he murmurs. the words carry no curiosity. only accusation.

you watch his face in the mirror. “i did something to everyone.”

“don’t get cute.” his fingers tighten. “you stood on that stage making a thousand people ready to crawl over broken glass just to touch you.”

“and?”

“and you got into my head.”

you close your eyes when his thumb presses beneath the edge of your jaw, dangerously close to the bruise hidden there.

“you came into my dressing room,” you remind him.

“because you started it.”

“you came looking for me before the event too.”

“to warn you.”

“you cornered me in a hallway and put your hand under my cape.”

“you were asking for it.”

“i was standing there.”

“exactly.”

a tired laugh escapes you. it makes the remaining gold beneath your collarbones flicker. soldier boy sees it. his gaze drops immediately, following the thin threads of light as they shift beneath your skin.

his hand leaves your neck. for half a second, you think he’s finished. 

then his fingers slide around the front of your throat, thumb against your pulse, feeling the quickened beat beneath it.

“does it plant shit?” he asks.

“what?” you open your eyes.

his expression has gone hard in the mirror. irritated by the question. irritated that he has to ask it.

“does it put them there,” he continues, “or does it just turn up whatever’s already happening?”

you could lie. vought would prefer you to. ambiguity makes people more afraid of you, and fear’s always been easier for the company to market than honesty.

you look at him through the mirror. “it heightens what’s already there.”

his jaw shifts.

“most of the time,” you add.

“that supposed to make me feel better?”

“i don’t care how it makes you feel. you’re the one who keeps finding me.”

his thumb presses against your pulse.

you turn your head enough to look at him directly, though the angle pulls against his grip. “you find me backstage. you find me in hallways. you walk into my dressing room and lock the door behind you.”

his eyes narrow.

“you clearly want me.”

“your power—”

“is nearly gone.” the gold beneath your skin flickers again, weaker this time. “and you’re still here.”

the room goes still around you.

outside, something heavy rolls across the corridor. metal wheels. stage equipment being stripped away. the sound fades, leaving only the vanity lights and the pressure of soldier boy’s hand.

his gaze drops to your mouth. “you want me too.”

you don’t insult either of you by pretending otherwise.

“yes.”

something in his expression settles. victory.

his hand slides from your throat to your shoulder, dragging down over the cream fabric until his fingers reach the edge of the gold plate. he traces it once, rough skin catching against the polished surface.

“then get up.”

you shake your head. “i’m tired.”

“you just said—”

you let your head fall back against the chair. “i’m also one demand away from passing out in this dumb costume.”

his eyes move over you again. the trembling fingers. the fallen line of your shoulders. the gold twitching beneath your skin without direction. his mouth pulls tight. not pity exactly. calculation.

“that can be resolved.”

“unless you’ve developed the power to make homelander cancel tomorrow’s interviews, i doubt it.”

soldier boy steps around the chair.

you expect him to pull you to your feet anyway. to tell you that you’ll manage. to make your exhaustion another thing you have to push through because he arrived hard and angry and unwilling to leave unsatisfied.

instead, he stops in front of you and lowers himself. one knee meets the carpet. then the other. the sight of him there wakes something your body had nearly forgotten.

soldier boy kneeling between your legs, still dressed in the dark green suit, shoulders broad enough to fill the space beneath the vanity. 

his hands settle on your knees.

“what are you doing?”

“solving the problem.” 

he pushes your knees apart. the cream fabric stretches across your thighs. his palms drag upward, rough and hot against the suit, until his fingers find the hidden fastening at your hip. 

you catch his wrist. “i said i’m tired.”

his eyes lift to yours. “then don’t do anything.”

the answer runs through you with more force than it should.

“sit there,” his thumb presses beneath your grip. “try not to give a speech.”

“and this helps you how?”

his mouth curves. “you’ll see.”

he pulls his wrist free and opens the fastening. the lower section of the suit loosens for his hand to slip beneath it. 

the change in his face is slight, but unmistakable. his mouth parts. the anger doesn’t leave him; it narrows into concentration, fixed entirely on the space he has exposed between your thighs.

you shift beneath his stare. “are you gonna stare at it all day?”

his hands clamp down immediately. “got eyes, don’t i?”

“you’ve never needed this long to figure out what you’re looking at.”

his gaze lifts slowly. there’s no embarrassment in it. no apology for the way he’s examining you beneath the bright vanity bulbs, still dressed above the waist as vought’s immaculate angel while he kneels between your open legs.

“making sure it’s worth the trouble.”

you’d laugh if his thumbs weren’t dragging firmly along the insides of your thighs, opening you farther. “shut up.”

his mouth pulls into something mean and he leans in. the first contact tears the breath from your chest. there’s no warning kiss against your thigh, no slow trail intended to make you beg. soldier boy puts his mouth on you with all the restrained hunger he carried into the room, tongue moving over you in one broad, determined stroke, licking a thick stripe from your entrance up to your clit.

your hand snaps to the edge of the vanity. his grip tightens when your hips jerk forward.

“fuck.” 

the curse barely leaves you before he does it again. slower. harder. his mouth closes around your clit, sucking hard while his tongue flicks mercilessly against the swollen bud. the force of it pulls a broken sound from somewhere beneath your ribs. he groans in answer, so low that you feel it more than hear it, the vibration rushing through your body and settling behind your stomach.

you look down. soldier boy’s eyes are already on you.

he watches your face while his tongue moves, expression almost challenging, as though your pleasure is something he intends to drag out of you by force and then hold up as evidence.

the vanity bulbs burn behind your reflection. cream and gold. loose curls. flushed skin. his dark head between your thighs. the image feels obscene.

he pulls back only far enough to speak, lips shiny with your slick. “still tired?”

his tongue returns before you can answer properly, this time pushing inside you. he fucks you with it, thick and wet and insistent, spearing into your cunt while his nose grinds against your clit.

your legs tense around his shoulders. he refuses to let them close, hands spreading you apart with casual strength. there’s no strain in his arms, no indication that holding you exactly where he wants you requires any effort. he could keep you here all night.

the thought brings a weak flicker of gold beneath your skin.

soldier boy pauses, tongue still buried deep. his eyes follow the light as it spreads over your collarbones, faint and unstable. he hasn’t moved his mouth far enough away for his breath not to reach you, hot against oversensitive skin.

“thought you said it was nearly gone.”

“it is.”

“doesn’t look gone.”

“you’re giving it something to work with.”

his stare darkens. “careful.”

“why?” you whisper. “worried i’ll make you want me?”

his fingers bite into your thighs. “that’s already been established.”

the admission comes out rough, annoyed by its own existence. then he drags you forward until your hips nearly leave the chair.

you gasp and reach for him, fingers sinking into his hair as his mouth seals over you again. whatever patience he might’ve possessed vanishes. he works at you with open hunger now, tongue and lips relentless, his grip keeping you exposed beneath every stroke. 

two thick fingers push into you, stretching you open while his tongue lashes your clit. your head falls back. 

the metal plates at your shoulders strike the chair. the flowers on the vanity tremble in their vase. somewhere outside the locked door, equipment continues rolling through the corridor, voices passing close enough that you should care.

soldier boy shifts closer, forcing your thighs over his shoulders. his hands slide beneath them and lock around your hips, lifting you from the chair as if you weigh nothing.

“soldier boy, what are you—”

your question dissolves when he pulls you down against his mouth. the angle changes. everything sharpens.

your fingers twist in his hair. your body moves before you can stop it, hips rocking into the pressure he gives you. soldier boy makes a satisfied sound, one hand spreading across the small of your back while the other grips hard enough to leave marks along your thigh. he curls his fingers inside you, stroking that perfect spot while his tongue fucks in and out of you in filthy rhythm.

he isn’t permitting you to ride his face. he’s making you. guiding every movement. forcing your rhythm whenever you falter. keeping you anchored to his mouth while your muscles begin to shake from more than exhaustion. 

his cock strains hard and obvious against the front of his suit, the thick outline twitching every time you moan.

“soldier boy.”

he answers with another rough groan, the sound vibrating straight into your cunt. you look down again and catch the hard line of him trapped beneath his suit, the material pulled tight where his body responds to every sound you make.

he came into the room for that—to take care of himself. to confront you about what you’d done to him beneath the stage lights. to make you admit that the hunger belonged to your power rather than him.

instead, he’s on his knees, still fully dressed, using his mouth as if your pleasure has become the only argument he knows how to win.

the realization sends gold rushing beneath your skin. this time, you don’t try to suppress it. you reach for the feeling inside him. 

it isn’t difficult to find.

lust burns through him, dense and impatient, tangled with anger, competition, and a possessive satisfaction every time your body moves against his mouth. deeper beneath it sits something more dangerous. not tenderness. nothing so clean. fascination. the need to be the one who does this to you. the need to watch vought’s perfect angel come apart for him while the halo lies discarded beside a bouquet carrying another man’s name. you curl your power around it. 

soldier boy’s entire body locks. his mouth stills against you. the sound he makes is muffled, almost furious.

his eyes snap up. gold reflects in them. “what the fuck are you doing?”

you’re breathing too hard to disguise it. “heightening what’s already there.”

“cut it out.”

“you don’t mean that.”

the glow strengthens. it moves through you painfully now, drawing from reserves you’ve already emptied for the crowd. cold spreads beneath your ribs even as the light burns across your chest.

you tighten your grip in his hair and push his mouth back against you. he devours you. the power rushes between you, no longer the carefully measured warmth you gave the audience. it catches every spark of pleasure and feeds it back amplified—his hunger becoming yours, your pleasure becoming his, the two folding together until you can’t tell where one body ends and the other begins.

he drags you harder against his mouth. you cry out. 

the gold beneath your skin flares bright enough to wash across the mirror, turning your reflection into something unrecognizable. the angel is gone. all that remains is your body twisting in his grip and soldier boy kneeling beneath you, taking everything you give him and demanding more.

his fingers flex against your flesh, three thick digits now pumping deep and fast into your soaked cunt, curling relentlessly against that spot while his tongue sucks hard on your clit. his nails bite through the suit at your hips. the strength in his hold becomes the only solid thing in the room. 

your thighs shake uncontrollably around his head, but he keeps you spread, keeps you moving, mouth relentless while your power presses deeper into him.

you feel the moment his control begins to fracture. his breathing breaks. the muscles across his shoulders pull tight beneath the green fabric. the hard line trapped against his suit jerks violently as the pleasure you’ve built inside him becomes too large to contain.

his eyes close. the sight makes something vicious and triumphant unfurl inside your chest.

“look at me,” you whisper.

his eyes open with visible effort. anger burns there. hunger. disbelief.

you push the power one final time, flooding him with every filthy sensation, wrapping it tight around his cock without a single touch.

soldier boy groans against you, the sound ripped from him without permission. his grip turns crushing, holding you against his mouth while his whole body shudders. pleasure rolls through him in violent waves, reflected back into you through the connection until your own breath stops. his cock pulses hard inside his suit, thick ropes of cum spilling untouched as he comes with a wrecked, muffled groan buried in your pussy.

he hasn’t touched himself. he doesn’t need to.

you feel his release in the abrupt collapse of his restraint, in the harsh sound buried between your thighs, in the way his forehead presses against you for one fractured second before pride forces his head back up.

and still he doesn’t stop. his mouth returns with renewed fury, as though making him lose control has become an insult he intends to punish. his fingers keep fucking into you, faster, wetter, obscene squelching sounds filling the dressing room as he curls them just right.

“wait—”

his hands drag your hips forward. your warning turns into a moan. you’re already too sensitive, already shaking, but soldier boy holds you in place and works you through it. 

the light beneath your skin becomes erratic, flashing with every movement of his tongue and fingers. 

your hand slips from his hair to the vanity. the vase of flowers tips. water spreads across the counter, soaking the card bearing homelander’s name. neither of you looks at it.

“i can’t,” you gasp.

soldier boy lifts his head just enough to growl against your dripping cunt. “yes, you can.” he pulls you down again, tongue spearing deep while his fingers thrust brutally. the command shatters whatever remains.

your hips move helplessly against his mouth. your fingers knot in his hair, holding him there even though he needs no encouragement. the pressure builds too quickly, sharpened by exhaustion and the power still looping between you.

you break with a cry you can’t swallow.

the gold erupts. it races across your skin, spills around his hands, floods the mirror until every bulb seems to burst brighter. your body arches in his grip, pleasure tearing through you hard enough to empty your lungs and erase the room. your cunt clenches violently around his fingers and tongue as you squirt hard against his mouth, hot and messy, soaking his chin and the front of his suit. he drinks it down greedily, groaning like a starving man, tongue fucking you through every pulsing wave while his arms keep you locked in place.

he holds you through every convulsion. his mouth never softens. he takes everything until the light begins to die and your thighs go slack over his shoulders. only then does he let you sink back into the chair, guiding you down with a control that feels almost mocking after what he just did.

the dressing room returns slowly. the hum of the bulbs. the wet counter. the fallen flowers. your own ragged breathing. 

soldier boy remains between your legs. still kneeling. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up at you. there’s no gratitude in his expression. no softness. only the dark satisfaction of a man who’s proved something to himself, even if neither of you knows exactly what.

you look down at him. “didn’t need to touch yourself, huh?”

his gaze turns murderous.

you manage a weak smile. “that looked pretty convincing.”

he rises so quickly that your legs fall from his shoulders.

one hand catches the back of your chair. the other plants against the counter beside your head, trapping you beneath the broad, looming shape of him. his face comes close to yours, breath still rough, eyes burning with the humiliation of having lost control exactly as you promised he would.

“you nearly passed out.”

“and you came from me looking at you.”

his jaw flexes. you expect anger. a threat. his hand at your throat. 

“next time,” he says, voice low, “you don’t get to sit there.”

“next time?” the word leaves you before you can stop it.

soldier boy’s mouth curves. victory, restored. “you heard me.”

he reaches down and drags the loosened fabric back into place with rough, impatient movements, covering what he had uncovered. not modesty. possession of the aftermath.

his knuckles brush your thigh. “and next time,” he adds, “you don’t get to just sit there.”

you look at the man standing over you in a ruined suit, still breathing too hard to pretend none of it happened. “you keep finding me,” you remind him.

his eyes drop to your mouth. “yeah,” he says. “starting to think that’s your fault too.”

“Yes,” you whisper, throat tight with anticipation. “I want this. Want you.”

That’s all it takes. His control snaps like a frayed wire, and he closes the distance in one stride, his hands cupping your face with a gentleness that contrasts the fire in his gaze. His thumbs brush your cheeks, reverent, like you’re something precious, and then his mouth crashes down on yours.

The kiss is hungry, desperate—all teeth and tongues clashing in a frenzy of pent-up need.

You taste the faint salt of the game-day hot dog on his lips, mixed with the sweetness of Coke, and it grounds you in the reality of him. Your fingers dig into his hoodie, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. His teeth graze your lower lip, nipping just enough to sting, but he soothes it immediately with a soft lick, his hands tilting your head to deepen the angle.

He breaks away first, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. Eye contact unwavering, he searches your face. “Okay?” he murmurs, one hand sliding to the nape of your neck, thumb stroking soothing circles.

“More than okay,” you breathe, and he smiles—that crooked, boyish grin that melts you every time—before claiming your mouth again, slower now, savoring.

His hands roam, mapping your body with careful touches: down your arms, over your hips, pulling you flush against him. You feel the hard length of him pressing through his jeans, and a whimper escapes you. He pulls back again, eyes dark with desire but still so damn attentive.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and commanding yet threaded with care. “Anything, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You tug at his hoodie, needing skin. “Off. All of it.”

He chuckles, that deep rumble that sends heat pooling low in your belly, and obliges, stripping the hoodie and tee in one fluid motion.

His chest is a masterpiece—toned from garage work and campus life, freckles dusting his shoulders, a faint scar on his ribs from some childhood mishap he won’t talk about. You trace it with your fingers, and he shivers, catching your hand to kiss your palm.

“Your turn,” he says, but it’s a question, his fingers hovering at the hem of your shirt.

Your arms lifting up is all the consent he needs, and he peels it off slowly, eyes drinking you in with reverence.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

He guides you back toward the bed, lips trailing kisses along your jaw, down your neck, nipping at your collarbone. His stubble scrapes deliciously, leaving a trail of fire. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he eases you down, following with his weight, but he’s careful not to crush you—always the gentleman.

“Dean,” you gasp as his mouth finds your breast, tongue circling the nipple through your bra. He unhooks it with expert ease, tossing it aside, and lavishes attention on your skin, sucking and licking until you’re arching into him.

“Patience, baby,” he murmurs against your sternum, kissing lower, lower, his hands undoing your jeans. He pauses at the waistband, looking up at you through his lashes. “Off?”

“Yes,” you say, lifting your hips to help him slide them off, along with your panties. Exposed under his gaze, you feel vulnerable, but his eyes are so full of awe, of hunger tempered with adoration, that it chases any doubt away.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, settling between your thighs, broad shoulders spreading you open. His hands grip your hips, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there. “Gonna make you feel good.”

“Please,” you beg, and he grins wickedly before lowering his head.

His tongue drags a slow, flat line up your slit, and you cry out, hands fisting the sheets.

He’s methodical, devastating—circling your clit with teasing flicks, then sucking it gently between his lips. His stubble rasps against your inner thighs, adding friction that makes you squirm. One hand slides up to pin your hip down, keeping you steady, while the other teases your entrance, a finger circling before pressing in slow, curling to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Dean—oh God—”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, and he groans, the vibration sending shocks through you. He adds a second finger, thrusting in rhythm with his tongue, lapping at you like he’s starved.

The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and intoxicating, your arousal coating his chin.

He pulls back just enough to watch his fingers disappear inside you, lips shiny with you.

“So wet for me,” he rasps, eyes locked on yours. “Taste so good.”

You nod frantically, hips bucking. “Fuck—please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He dives back in, tongue relentless on your clit, fingers pumping faster, curling deeper.

The coil in your belly tightens, snaps, and you come hard, thighs clamping around his head, back arching as waves of pleasure crash over you.

He works you through it, gentling his touches as you shudder, until you’re oversensitive and gasping. Then he crawls up your body, kissing a path back to your mouth. You taste yourself on his lips, and it’s filthy, perfect.

“Still with me?” he asks, brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead.

“Jesus, yes,” you say, reaching for his belt. He helps you undo it, shucking his jeans and boxers, his cock springing free—thick, hard, tip glistening.

You wrap a hand around him, stroking, and he hisses, eyes fluttering shut.

“Condom?” he grits out, even as his hips thrust into your grip.

You shake your head. “I’m on the pill. Clean. Want to feel you.”

His eyes snap open, searching yours. “You sure? I’m clean too, but—”

“I trust you,” you say, guiding him to your entrance. He groans, positioning himself, rubbing the head through your slick folds.

“Gonna go slow,” he promises, pushing in inch by inch.

The stretch is exquisite, filling you completely, and you both moan when he bottoms out.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he breathes, holding still to let you adjust, his forehead against yours.

Eye contact intense, he starts moving—slow, deep thrusts that hit every nerve. His hands brace beside your head, muscles flexing, and you wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper.

"Harder," you plead, nails raking down his back, leaving faint red trails that make him hiss in pleasure.

"Yeah?" Dean's voice is a low growl, his hips snapping forward with more force, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room.

He grinds deep on each thrust, the angle perfect, rubbing against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. "Like that, sweetheart? You want me to fuck you harder?"

"Yes—God, yes," you gasp, your body jolting with every powerful drive.

His cock fills you so completely, stretching you in the best way, the friction building heat that spreads like wildfire through your veins.

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth, before pulling back to watch your face. His green eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust, but there's that tenderness underneath, always checking in.

"Look at me," he commands softly, one hand cupping your jaw to keep your gaze locked on his. "Wanna see you fall apart on my cock."

The words send a shiver down your spine, your walls clenching around him involuntarily.

He groans, thrusting deeper, his pace steady but relentless. "Fuck, you feel so good—tight and wet, just for me. Been thinkin' about this, about buryin' myself in you, makin' you scream my name."

"Dean—" It's all you can manage, your breath coming in ragged pants as he picks up speed, his hips pistoning with precision.

Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, and you lean up to lick it away, tasting salt and him. His muscles ripple under your hands, the flex of his biceps as he holds himself up, the roll of his abs with each thrust—it's overwhelming, sensory overload.

He shifts his weight to one arm, his free hand sliding down your body, fingers finding your clit. He circles it slowly at first, teasing, then faster, matching the rhythm of his hips.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "Squeeze me like that. You gonna come again? Gonna soak my cock?"

The dirty talk pushes you closer, the coil tightening low in your belly. "Oh, God—don't stop—"

"That's it, baby," he rasps, his thumb pressing harder on your clit, flicking it in tight circles that make your vision blur. His thrusts turn erratic, deeper, hitting that sweet spot over and over. "Come on, sweetheart. Let go for me. Wanna feel you come undone."

It's too much—the fullness of him inside you, the skilled swirl of his fingers, the intensity of his gaze holding yours. The pressure builds, crests, and shatters.

You cry out his name, back arching off the bed, walls pulsing around him in waves that milk him relentlessly.

"Fuck—yes," Dean grits out, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release, but he doesn't let up, fucking you through your orgasm with shallow, grinding thrusts. "So fuckin' perfect—gonna come—"

At the last second, he pulls out with a guttural groan, his hand wrapping around his cock. He strokes himself fast, once, twice, and then he's spilling hot over your stomach, ropes of come painting your skin. His face twists in ecstasy, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted on a moan that's pure sin.

He collapses beside you, chest heaving, one arm draping over your waist possessively.

For a moment, the room is silent except for your shared breaths, the air thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction.

"Jesus," he mutters finally, turning his head to look at you, that boyish grin creeping back. "You okay? That was—"

"Incredible," you finish, rolling onto your side to face him. Your body feels boneless, sated, but the sticky warmth on your stomach reminds you of the mess.

He notices, chuckling softly as he sits up. "Hold on, don't move. Lemme take care of you."

He disappears into your tiny bathroom, returning with a damp towel. His touch is gentle, almost worshipful, as he wipes you clean, starting with your stomach and moving between your thighs with careful strokes. The cool cloth soothes your sensitive skin, and he murmurs apologies for the chill, pressing a kiss to your hip bone.

"There," he says, tossing the towel into your hamper before sliding back into bed. He pulls you against his chest, his hand stroking your hair. "All good?"

"Better than good," you whisper, nestling into him, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

He kisses the top of your head, holding you close. "Good. 'Cause we're just gettin' started."

The thing about Dean Winchester is—he’s yours now. And you’re his. No more pretending.

The sun dips low, painting the common room in soft gold. Bucky’s sprawled back against the couch cushions, Nat curled tight into his side—her head resting on his chest, his arm slung loose around her shoulders, their legs tangled together under the throw blanket. You’re tucked right beside Steve, your feet propped comfortably over his thighs, his hand resting light and warm on your calf like it’s always been there.

A comfortable quiet settles over you all, only broken when Nat lifts her head, eyes flicking between you and Steve with a little curious tilt of her chin.

“Wait a second,” she says, like something just clicked. “Have you two ever actually been together?”

You snort out a laugh, heat rushing to your cheeks as you drop your gaze, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. Before you can even tease or dodge, Steve’s thumb strokes slow over your thigh, and he nods easy, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Mhm. Yeah, we have.”

Nat’s eyes go wide, and she nearly bolts right off the couch—Bucky fumbles to catch her before she topples sideways—as she lets out a sharp, delighted scream. “WHAT?!”

You double over laughing, shoulders shaking so hard your feet slip a little on Steve’s lap, and even Bucky’s grinning so wide his cheeks dimple. Steve just huffs a quiet laugh, squeezing your thigh gently while Nat gapes at you both like you’ve just told her aliens are real.

“You—you mean to tell me I’ve known you two for years and you never said a word?!” she exclaims, still half-off the couch, clutching Bucky’s arm for balance.

“Never came up,” Steve says, shrugging, but he’s smiling down at you like he’s pretty fond of the secret.

You just grin back, and for the first time all evening, that soft, aching twist in your chest feels light, instead of heavy

Nat doesn’t let up for a second—she leans right over the gap between the couches, firing off question after question like she’s interrogating a suspect: Since when? Who kissed who first? How did we all not notice? Did you hide it on purpose?

Then she pauses, eyes glinting mischievously, and drops her voice like she’s sharing top secret intel. “Okay, real question. Have you two ever… y’know… done it here in the tower?”

Steve snorts so loud Bucky chokes on his drink. He wraps his arm tighter around your waist, grinning unapologetically, and nods.

“Yep. Last night and this morning for one. And plenty of times before that.”

Your eyes blow wide and you gasp so loud it echoes. “Steve!” You shriek, shoving his shoulder hard as heat floods your face, but you’re laughing so hard you can barely hold yourself upright. “You actually have zero filter!”

Nat whoops so loud the windows rattle, clapping her hands like she just won the lottery, and even Bucky’s shaking his head, grinning from ear to ear. “Of course you did,” he teases, throwing a throw pillow straight at Steve’s face. “Typical Rogers.”

Steve just catches the pillow one-handed, pulling you closer to press a kiss to your flushing cheek, still laughing. “What? She asked!”

Nat’s smirk only grows, sharp and playful as she leans forward, propping her chin in her hand like she’s just uncovered the best secret of all. “Wait a minute,” she teases, waggling her eyebrows between you and Steve, “so let me get this straight—you go all soft and starry-eyed for him once, and now you’ve got a type? You both have a thing for super soldiers? That’s adorable. And very on-brand for this tower, honestly.”

You groan so loud it comes out half-laugh, half-sob, covering your burning face with both hands. “Okay! Okay! This conversation is officially over! I’m revoking your question privileges—effective immediately!” You try to push yourself upright to escape, but Steve’s arm loops loose and warm around your waist, tugging you right back against his side like he’s not letting you get away that easy.

Nat just chuckles, completely unbothered by your dramatic protest, and leans in a little closer, her voice dropping to that teasing, knowing tone she only uses when she’s got you exactly where she wants you. “Oh no, you don’t—you can’t just drop that bombshell and then run away. I need the full picture here. So… what actually is this? Are you two properly together? Like, official, exclusive, call each other yours? Or is it just… fun? Friends with benefits, no strings attached?”

The room goes quiet for half a second, Bucky watching with a lazy, curious smile from where he’s still got his arm draped over Nat’s shoulders, while you freeze for a moment, your gaze darting from Nat’s expectant face up to Steve. He’s already looking down at you—all that easy amusement softening into something warm and steady, his thumb brushing slow and gentle over your hip where his hand rests.

You take a breath, then let out a shaky little laugh, shrugging one shoulder like it’s no big deal, even though your heart’s thumping a little faster than before. “Uh… well…” You start, then pause, glancing back up at him. “We… we didn’t really put a label on it at first, y’know? It just… happened. We were friends first, for ages, and then one thing led to another, and it was nice—really nice—and we didn’t want to mess it up by overthinking what we were.”

Steve nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours as he picks up where you left off, his voice quiet but sure, like he’s saying it just as much to you as to them. “But somewhere along the way… ‘just fun’ stopped feeling like enough. And ‘friends’ never felt like the right word anymore, not after all this.” He turns his gaze back to Nat, and there’s no hesitation at all when he finishes, his arm tightening just a little around you. “So yeah—we’re together. Properly. Have been for a while now. We just… kept it quiet for a bit. Wanted to figure it out ourselves first before we let everyone else have their say.”

Nat lets out a long, dramatic sigh, but she’s grinning so wide her eyes crinkle at the corners, nudging Bucky hard with her elbow. “See? Told you they weren’t just messing around!” She looks back at you both, softening just a little, that familiar warmth shining through her teasing. “Good. I’m glad. You two fit together better than anyone I know.”

You lean your head against Steve’s shoulder, feeling him press a kiss to the top of your head, and smile—for the first time all afternoon, there’s not a single ache or doubt left in your chest.

Nat cackles so hard she snorts, leaning into Bucky’s side. “Oh come on—now it all makes sense! That panicked look you get every time Steve’s about to ship out? And the way you walk like you’ve been bucked off a stallion some mornings? I knew there was more to it!”

You bury your face in Steve’s neck, shaking with laughter, while Steve just groans and drops his head back against the cushions. “You are the worst people I know.”

Just then the common room doors slide open, and Tony strolls in with a half-empty coffee cup. The whole room goes dead quiet instantly—you freeze, Nat sits up straight, even Bucky stops grinning.

Tony pauses, glances around at all of you, and snorts. “Relax, I’m not blind. Or deaf. Or clueless.” He smirks, tossing his cup onto the side table. “I’ve known Rogers and his little shadow have been sneaking off together for months.”

Steve blinks. “You… you knew?”

“Please. This is my tower. Jarvis is everywhere” Tony leans against the doorframe, grinning wider. “And for the record? I’m the one who had his room soundproofed. Couldn’t have the rest of the team waking up at 3 a.m. wondering if someone was testing heavy equipment up there.”

Your face burns bright red, and Steve just stares at Tony like he can’t decide whether to be mortified or grateful. Bucky bursts out laughing, clapping a hand over Steve’s shoulder. “Man, you owe him a drink. Or five.”

“Tell me about it,” Tony says, pointing a finger at you both. “Don’t make me regret it, though—keep it down, or I’m installing a karaoke machine right outside his door.”

Bucky leans forward, grinning like he’s just found his new favourite hobby, and prods Steve’s chest with his metal finger. “Wait a second—soundproofed? That’s the real tea. All those times you’d slip out of briefings early, saying you had ‘reports to finish’? You were just sneaking off, weren’t you?”

“Or the way you’d turn up to training late,” Nat jumps in, waggling her eyebrows, “hair all messy and neck covered in very suspicious marks you tried to hide with a high collar. We all thought you’d gotten into a fight with a tree branch!”

Tony snorts, crossing his arms. “Oh please, I’ve seen the security logs. ‘Captain Rogers: heading to private quarters at 02:17 am. Returning to kitchen at 02:48 am for snacks.’ Snacks. Sure, Rogers. That’s what we’re calling it now.”

You hide your face in your hands, but you’re laughing so hard your shoulders shake. “Okay okay, enough! You’re all horrible!”

“Nah, we’re impressed,” Bucky says, throwing his hands up. “Old man’s still got it. Though for the record—next time, leave the shield outside the door. Tripped over it twice last week.”

Steve’s face goes bright red, and he throws a pillow straight at Bucky’s head. “Shut up, Barnes! At least I don’t—”

“At least he doesn’t what?” Nat cuts in instantly, eyes sparkling. “Go on, Steve. Don’t leave us hanging.”

“—at least I don’t leave my combat boots scattered all over the hallway!” Steve finishes quickly, but he’s smiling so wide he can’t even look mad.

Tony claps his hands together. “Alright, ground rules. Number one: glad you two are happy. Number two: if you break the soundproofing? You’re paying for the repairs. Number three—” he points at you “—if Rogers ever does anything to upset you? You come straight to me. I’ve got plenty of very embarrassing photos of him from the 40s to use as blackmail.”

“Hey!” Steve protests, pulling you tighter against his side. “No blackmailing my girlfriend!”

“Girlfriend!” Bucky and Nat cheer in unison, like they’ve just won a bet, and Tony winks at you. “There we go. Finally said it out loud.”

Bucky leans back, grinning so wide his eyes crinkle, and nods at Steve like he’s doing him a huge favour. “Hey, just so you know—if you ever run low, don’t go sneaking to the med bay. I’ve got a full stash in my drawer. Help yourself, no judgment.”

Steve snorts so hard he nearly chokes on his soda, shaking his head. “Condoms? Please. Pull out game’s working perfectly fine so far.”

The whole room erupts—Nat cackles so loud she snorts, Tony whoops and claps his hands, even Bucky bends over laughing. You bury your burning face right into Steve’s shoulder, wanting nothing more than to vanish into the couch cushions, mortified beyond words.

Bucky wipes at his eyes when he calms down a little, raising an eyebrow. “Alright, tough guy. But c’mon—what if there’s an accident? Super soldier swimmers are no joke, y’know. You think that serum didn’t crank everything up to eleven?”

Steve’s arm tightens comfortably around you, and he shrugs easy, like he’s not discussing this in front of three of the most chaotic people he knows. “If it happens, it happens. We’re adults—we’d handle it. Honestly? Wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened to either of us.” He glances down at you softens, then adds quickly, “But hey—we’re not actively trying or anything. We’re just… us. Taking it as it comes.”

The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.

You can’t keep doing this to yourself. 

Or, rather, he can’t keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, it’s so much worse when they’re not.

Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbour’s house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.

Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ‘no’, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.

On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.

Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still won’t. 

You’re not really sure what is up with Bucky’s family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.

Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Bucky’s room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your mom’s overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they don’t know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.

It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.

And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one you’re experiencing right now.

It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.

You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - they’re blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.

What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of What’s-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.

You never looked at him the same. 

It’s not for lack of trying.

God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes. 

Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. You’re sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.

But you have graduated now. You’re back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. It’s remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today. 

And you’ve tried everything there is to try. You’ve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.

At Wanda’s recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.

You know it’s a stupid idea. It won’t work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.

The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasn’t ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Bucky’s strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that you’re lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.

You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up. 

Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. You’re just a little floating head above the window sill. He can’t make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.

You’re back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.

He doesn’t need to be here, if he’s being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and there’s not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isn’t exactly a paradise, but it’s not bad either. 

You won’t be here forever, though. He’ll take what he can get in the meantime.

He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard. 

He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull. 

His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions haven’t. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. It’s much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.

You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.

He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your  phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to “stop being such a pain in my ass”, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.

He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.

He’s sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether it’s yours or his, he can’t remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good. 

He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what you’re doing right now. He wonders if you’re on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if you’re wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.

He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.

He imagines Matt as some football player. He can’t picture a face - just some obscure blur - but he’s probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He can’t see you going for someone without good grades. 

Bucky’s grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. It’s probably the only reason he graduated high school.

Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. He’s probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel. 

But that’s a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now he’s thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend? 

Obviously not. But it’s a nice thought.

You probably don’t do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. You’re too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.

He doesn’t even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. You’re arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but he’s also just a man.) 

Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isn’t strictly sexual - in fact, it’s mostly something else - but he’s not sure how to define it. He likes you, except ’like’ doesn’t seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So it’s easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself it’s all he wants.

He has run out of patience. You still haven’t come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.

He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you don’t hear his footsteps and think he’s eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesn’t.

He can’t remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room. 

The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.

He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.

Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesn’t.

This is your diary.

The first entry is from three weeks ago.

22 May I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didn’t want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. It’s not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. I’m just glad it’s over.

I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I don’t. I’m just relieved and feeling awkward. I don’t think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.

Bucky can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.

23 May My family are ditching me. They’re all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I won’t be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.

He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, it’s kind of cute.

Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesn’t quite believe them when they say it’s not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.

23 May Now that I have thought about it, I can’t stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said he’s going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while they’re gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think I’ll die if I have to see him do something like that again. 

Bucky’s grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that he’s done everything else - he had forgotten about that. 

He wasn’t aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word ‘porno’, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.

24 May I might be going insane. I shouldn’t have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think it’s a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers aren’t big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Bucky’s fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.

The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didn’t black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.

25 May This stupid diary isn’t doing shit. It’s making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Bucky’s stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until I’m an inch from passing out. Maybe that’s all I need to get this out of my system.

26 May Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.

Bucky looked so angry. I think that’s why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending he’s my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guy’s name too. 

Bucky hasn’t forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.

28 May Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I haven’t gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-

“Fuck,” he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. He’s not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.

Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isn’t so prissy after all. He’s a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.

He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like he’s won some game that he didn’t even know he was playing. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it. 

You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he can’t help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasn’t finished.

14 June He came around with the lawnmower again. It’s getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-

He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.

-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. I’m so fucking wet. I’m going to have a long, cold shower and tonight I’ll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.

Then and there, Bucky decides that won’t be happening.

You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. He’s probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.

And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.

Except it’s not there. 

You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure they’re not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t carry it in with you. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.

You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except that’s not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your mother’s hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.

You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, don’t let him find it. Please don’t let him find it. 

You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didn’t touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.

Your parents’ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isn’t there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadn’t even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, you’re absolutely certain of. But you’re running out of options.

You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.

Your fingers linger over the wood of Bucky’s bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and it’s untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.

He’s lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesn’t move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. You’re distracted by it momentarily. You didn’t think this would be his sort of thing.

“What’s up?” he asks you, still not looking your way. He didn’t shower. He’s still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.

“Just saying hi,” you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.

He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. “Just saying hi.”

You nod. His smile breaks free then, but it’s not altogether a nice one. “Well, hi,” he says.

“Hi,” you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.

“What’s got you all buggy?” he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. He’s not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didn’t. 

“I’m not buggy.”

“Yeah y’are. You got bugs.”

“You got bugs,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”

He laughs. “Alright, you don’t got bugs. I have bugs ‘cause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?”

Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. “Maybe I just wanna talk to you.”

“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. “So what have you been up to?”

“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. “You know what I’ve been up to. You saw me out there.”

“Duh,” you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.

“Duuuhhh,” he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. “Why’d you ask then, smartass?”

“I meant, like, after that.”

“After I finished the lawn?”

You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.

“Not much. Watched this,” he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. “Did a bit of light reading. What about you?”

Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. “I’ve been in the shower,” you say casually. “What are you reading?”

“Long shower,” he says.

“Well it was an everything-shower,” you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.

“The hell is an everything shower?”

“Don’t be dense. It’s literally in the name. It’s called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.”

His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.

“A-as in,” you stammer. “You do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.”

His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. “Right. That kind of everything.”

Your face heats up. There’s a brief pause. 

“So what are you reading at the mo-”

“Y’know I think you’d like this,” he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You can’t help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.

“Why is that?” you ask.

“There’s this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. She’s been working there five years and she still cries every time. She’s like you.”

“I’m not like that.”

“Yes you are,” he laughs and the sound travels through you. “Remember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?”

You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead. 

“I was sixteen-”

“And if you’re tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say you’re full of shit.”

You look at him resentfully. “Like you’re any tougher. You’re the one who saved him.”

“Well you know I can’t help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. You’re a pretty crier, sweetheart.”

You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and you’re forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though it’s at your expense. You know instinctively that you’ll be failing at your new resolution tonight. 

“Shut up. Don’t be weird,” you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and there’s something in his expression that you don’t like.

“So you said you were reading something?” you say. You’re aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.

“Mhm,” he says, nodding once. The programme can’t be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.

“I didn’t think you liked reading.”

“I have a newfound appreciation for it.” He smiles at the screen and maybe you’re feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise. 

“What are you reading?”

Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.

“Don’t worry about it. ’S’too dirty for you, sweetheart.”

You really fucking hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, don’t let him have the book.

Your voice comes out weak and fractured. “Are you… reading smut?”

He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. “That what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.”

“Bucky,” you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. There’s a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. “What are you reading? Please.”

He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.

You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.

But then you’re rolling forward, hardly aware of what you’re doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually you’re played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re saying.

Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didn’t mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him. 

You suppose it’s better that he’s laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful. 

“Where did you get that?” you bark.

“Your room,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “Interesting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?”

“Fuck you!” you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. “You had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!”

Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch. 

“Like I said,” he says sternly. “Don’t be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re an inch from passing out?”

You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.

“Fuck you,” you say again with considerably less vitriol.

“I will,” he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. “If that’s what you want.”

Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. You’re not sure if he’s messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.

“Got nothing to say now? That’s ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Let’s look.”

He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.

“I came home from college today,” he starts to read, voice low. “Everyone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I don’t know how it’s possible but he’s so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what he’s like in bed. I don’t think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.”

He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.

“You’re goddamn right I do,” he says, smiling as if he’s talking about something totally innocent. “You want me to show you, sweetheart?”

Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. You’re still suspicious. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.

He huffs an impatient sigh. “Don’t go dumb on me already, silly girl.”

He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.

“Why don’t you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.”

You’re not sure what you’re doing, but at this point it’s easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.

“I want him so bad. I think I’ll die if I don’t have him. The orgasms I’m giving myself aren’t enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. I’ll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. I’m going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.” 

Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.

“Fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.

Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.

You’re in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined. 

If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?

He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. You’re already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. You’re high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.

“You ready to admit it yet? That you want me?”

“I want you,” you breathe. It’s almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.

You feel his smile spreading against your own face. “I know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”

Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.

He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesn’t fumble even remotely with the clasp.

Once you’re bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.

A moan slips out at the sensation. So that’s what that should feel like.

“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you. 

“Want you too. Wanted you since we were kids.”

You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.

“Since when?”

“Just fuckin’ told you,” he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. It’s a distraction tactic.

“No but when? What age?” Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. You’re soaked through.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.

“Yes it does. Tell me,” you say. Because you’re muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - you’re stubborn.

He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. You’re not.

“Was sweet on you when I was ten,” he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.

“Isn’t that when we first-”

“Yes.”

The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still haven’t lost your head completely.

“You’ve liked me since we first met as little kids?”

He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so you’re on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.

“Can you shut the hell up for two seconds?” he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Tryna do something here.”

You laugh at him, but it doesn’t last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - you’re struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.

He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. “You see how fucking desperate you are?” he asks. “Barely touched you and look how you’re reacting. Nobody’s ever touched you right, have they?”

You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. It’s almost predatory.

“Poor thing,” he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. “I can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait ‘till I get my cock in you.”

The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didn’t quite cover it.

None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?

He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.

“Y’feel so fucking tight,” he grunts, eyes on your lips. “This what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.

“Yes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.”

“For how long?” he demands.

“I- what?” you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.

“How long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?”

Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you don’t answer him, he will stop again. And that’s a lousy deal. 

“A long time,” you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Should’ve told me. Wouldn’t have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Would’ve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldn’t have had the time to write in that silly little book. Would’ve put you in your place.”

“Put me in my place?” you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you can’t concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasn’t so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.

“Yeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well I’ll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when they’re home.”

There’s something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. You’re not sure if you’ve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.

Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even make a show of it - he’s not even trying to make you watch him. He’s just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.

When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but you’re not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.

He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.

You’re still a little mad at him over that boorish ‘putting you in your place’ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.

He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and it’s not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didn’t think it would be this pretty. You didn’t even know a cock could be pretty.

It’s huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. It’s very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. “Feelin’ shy?” 

Your mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know how much…” you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. You’ve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?

“Y’don’t know if it’ll fit?” he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.

“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to break you. Not this time, anyway.”

Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.

“What the hell, Bucky? Don’t-”

He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. “I know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. I’ll let you play with it as much as you want. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?”

You’re back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.

He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.

“Good girl,” he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. “My good girl You’re so sweet when you’re doing what I tell you to. Wish I’d known I could shut you up like this.”

You’re trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, it’s just turning you on more.

Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. “Condom,” you gasp. “In my room.”

Bucky laughs against your neck. “You think I’m wearin’ a rubber with you?”

“Wha- yes?” 

“Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart, I know you’re on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.”

“What were you doing in my-”

“I’m clean, just got checked. And I’m willing to bet you’ve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.”

You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and you’re squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You don’t say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.

“Yeah?” he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. “You gonna let me skip the rubber?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just stop fucking around Bucky. Please.”

He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. It’s leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.

“Such a good girl,” he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. He’s thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if he’s trying to comfort you, but it’s still coming across slightly patronising. “Letting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.”

You’re loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. It’s starting to feel good - more than good. But he’s still not in all the way. You have no idea how you’re going to take him.

His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.

“This what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?” he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this. 

He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. “Answer.”

“Yes,” you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. “Pictured you every time.”

He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. You’re filled to the brim with him. “I know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.”

Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. It’s creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. It’s all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you can’t help but love.

“It’s okay, angel. I’m no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.”

Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where you’re taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.

He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. “Always been such a crybaby. You’re so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.”

It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.

“I know, baby. It’s so much, isn’t it? I know,” he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. It’s not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You can’t work out exactly what you’re feeling, and you know that now isn’t the time to figure it out anyway.

Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You can’t stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when he’s still pretending he hasn’t lost an ounce of control. 

“Stop with those fuckin’ eyes,” he grunts, catching your gaze. You’re still teary-eyed and pouty. “Gonna make me lose it early.”

The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.

“Turn around,” he bites out.

With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You don’t disobey a man at either point.

You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you don’t feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.

When you finally do feel his touch, it’s his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.

“What you whining for now?” he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.

“Put it back in,” you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. You’re no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. You’re too far gone.

He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. “You need it that bad?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

He laughs low. “Still so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?”

You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.

“That’s it,” he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. “Knew you’d take my cock like this. Knew you’d feel this good, just didn’t think you’d be this fucking dirty.”

“Fuck, Bucky, I need you,” you moan. You’re obscurely aware of the fact that you’ll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. “Needed you so bad.”

“Yeah?” he grunts. “Why don’t you tell me what you needed so bad?”

Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. “I- no, Bucky, I can’t-”

“Let me help you out.”

His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. You’re still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.

“Read.”

Your head spins back, even though you can’t see him from this angle. He can’t be serious. 

One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.

Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.

“Matt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!”-

Bucky’s hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.

“- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until I’m dripping with his…”

You can’t go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and you’re already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.

“Jesus, you have a thing for this shit? That’s real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. You’re the only one who is gonna take it from now on.”

You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. He’s panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you can’t do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.

“Aw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Can’t help but give you what you want. You want my cum?”

You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.

“Fuck, yeah you do,” he growls. “Such a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.”

With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.

A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. It’s either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.

You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.

You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but you’re sure you’re likely giving as good as you’re getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what you’re saying.

Bucky wasn’t lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. You’re sensitive and sore, but there’s something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises it’s making are obscene.

Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.

“Uh huh” you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.

You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna break me,” you say sardonically. 

He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. “Might have gotten carried away.”

You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesn’t work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.

“You really meant that?” you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. “About wanting me since we were kids?”

“Hell yeah,” he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. “I was so crazy about you when we were kids. Can’t believe you didn’t know.”

“How could I know? You were always so mean to me.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means in kid-language.”

“You still are. Sometimes.”

He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. “Old habits.”

You nod, but you’re still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago. 

“I’m sorry for reading your diary,” he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t regret it, because I don’t know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.”

It’s so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. He’s looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe it’s the two orgasms.

You still don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. “Just wait ‘till I get my tongue on you.”

You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.

Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.”

a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs

🏷 bucky taglist: @dolcesaints @marina468 @avgdestitute @tw1sters @dxnsgrl @thegirlwhowaited5everok @pjo4life1939 @otheliesstuff @domitaylorsversion @simplemind-simplematter @love-stucky @queen-acdc @epiphanyrogers @monicasposh @daddysbitchybaby @yearninglustfully @starr-jazz @las-galletas @thatesqcrush @mathcat345 @openlyluckyartisan @buckmybarnes @atsumubabe @annoyingrebelsoul

The words sat heavy on his tongue as he fought to keep them from tumbling out. I love you. I love you so much I don’t know who I am without you. I love you so damn much it hurts to breathe when I’m not holding you. I fucking love you so damn much, sweetheart. I love you.

“Okay, sweetheart.” He tips his head to the side and exhales carefully. His thumb slowing slightly where it draws a pattern delicately on your shoulder. His chest tightening in a way he’s become accustomed to— leaning into its itchy uncomfortable warmth while his eyes drift back to the glow of the screen. “I won’t.”

Knowing damned well that he would mean it. Has meant it. For years. Because it’s been the one solitary thing he’s been sure of.

He shoves a big hand down his pocket and fishes Baby's keys, winces when they clink, and holds them out for you to take. When you do, he catches your wrist gently.

"Start the car and wait for me," he whispers.

You nod. He lets go and stares again at the cigarettes. Walks to the dusty couch where his bag is and ignores John's sleeping form in the armchair, because he might tether permanent to this motel and the next and the one after that if he doesn't. Let the fighting and the tensing and the anger keep him forever.

The Reds fit nicely at the bottom of his duffel, beneath a tin of menthol and a worn leather belt. He tugs the zipper up and slings it over his shoulder, feeling something strange shake in a deep, clogged gutter between his ribs.

Years worth of resentment purging in clumps.

This is so weird, Dean thinks. A low, coaxing purr sounds from the Impala outside. It thrums his entire body and he remembers the nights spent gazing at stained ceilings, feigning sleep, wondering if he'd ever get out.

His jaw works. In that time spent wondering, he'd thought this would be different. Louder, storming off after another fight, probably, with that awful, booming voice ringing in his ears.

Instead, the room is silent. He takes it in and starts for the door. John groans in his sleep.

Walk through the door and don't glace back.

Don't grant him the respect of that.

It shuts quietly behind and frozen air sneezes at his face. He steps over a lip of parking lot cement that's been cracked and eaten by dull grass. Pops open the driver door and throws his duffel towards the back. Sees you, blinking at him proud.

His heart aches pitifully.

"Hey," he breathes and settles, green eyes owlish.

"Hi, De."

He imagines burying his nose to the warm, sugary spot beneath your ear but remembers that priorities are a thing he's got to get together. Drive away from here, far, far away, before his father notices he's left.

"Thanks for starting the car."

You hum. Your arm reaches, fingertips kissing the amber shadow that the night has drawn along his cheekbone. It's the easiest task in the world, leaning into your touch. His lashes flutter, a dark canopy, and he allows two more seconds before sitting straight.

A quick kiss to your cheek, and then he's looking ahead.

The reverse is slow, until his boot presses firm against the gas and the motel quickly becomes a washed, beige speck in the rearview, swallowed by night. It feels like a dream. He can't pinpoint exactly what it is and tries to squeeze the wheel tighter, but his palms are too clammy to grip.

Maybe everything. It can be everything, it is everything, you're everything. Sitting perfect beside him with a new sort of smile curling your mouth; excited, nervous, ready. So, irrevocably ready to go and go and go.

He brings a hand onto your thigh and kneads.

"This is cool," you murmur. "Don't you think?"

"Really cool," he agrees easily. "I'm... he's gonna be pissed."

Your head swivels calm, watching his profile; he can tell from his peripheral. His thumb wears fast adrenaline circles on the seam of your denim.

"So what?" you offer. "You won't have to deal with it."

Dean has absolutely no idea what he'd do without you. Loves you so much, the fact that his organs haven't ruptured from the force is bewildering.

The road stretches before him, for him, thick-spreading tar unrolling like an unusual red carpet. A sudden shed of old skin makes him weightless, light, there's a growing plethora of things he needs to do. Wants to do, finally can.

His lips tug when he glances at you. Beautiful, sweet angel you, showing him all this bravery he wasn't sure he truly had.

"Where are we supposed to go?" he asks.

"Anywhere," you reply. "Everywhere."