Fanfiction recommendations or for later

Your head is pounding. Your patience is nonexistent. And your boyfriend—technically speaking, legally questionable but emotionally established—has been hovering in your kitchen like a man experiencing character development against his will.

“Okay,” Wade says carefully, from the doorway. “I’m just gonna say it.”

You groan into the couch cushion. “If you say anything about crystals or herbal tea, I’m throwing something at you.”

“I was gonna say I brought snacks,” he replies.

You lift your head slightly. “…what kind of snacks?”

There’s a pause. A suspicious pause.

“…the emotionally supportive kind.”

You squint at him. He’s leaning against the doorway like he’s trying very hard not to do something stupid. Which, for Wade, is basically Olympic-level restraint.

He’s holding a bag. And not shaking it. That alone is concerning. “I also,” he adds quickly, too quickly, “did not get you ice cream even though I wanted to. Because you said dairy was a war crime earlier. So I respected that. Growth. I’m growing.”

“You’re rambling,” you say flatly.

“I know,” he says immediately. “It’s because I’m being normal at you.”

“That’s worse.”

“I know.” He steps closer. Stops. Steps back. Then stops again.

You watch this with increasing suspicion. “…are you okay?” you ask.

Wade points at you. “You are in pain.”

“Yes.”

“And I am… a man… in proximity… to a woman in pain.”

“That’s usually how periods work, yes.”

“I am trying VERY HARD not to be weird about it.”

That earns a tired blink.

“…you are currently being weird about it.”

“Correct.” He drags a hand down his mask like he’s physically restraining himself from saying something dumb. “I just—okay—look,” he says. “You’re suffering, and I can fix things. I fix things. That’s my whole brand.”

“You can’t fix this.”

“Wanna bet?”

“No.”

“Smart.” He finally sits on the edge of the coffee table, very carefully not sitting too close. Which is… new. Wade Wilson: personal space enthusiast, apparently.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you acting like I’m made of glass?”

“I’m not,” he says immediately. Pause. “I’m acting like you’re made of… mildly explosive emotional glass that also hurts a lot and I would like to not be murdered.”

“That’s fair.” You shift slightly, wincing as another cramp rolls through.

Wade notices instantly. Of course he does. He goes still. Too still. Like a dog trying not to jump on furniture it was explicitly told not to jump on.

“I can get you heat pads,” he says quickly.

“I already have one.”

“I can get you another one.”

“I don’t need two.”

“I can get you—uh—painkillers?”

“I already took some.”

“I can get you—”

“Wade.” He stops. Immediately. You sigh, softer now. “I’m okay. Just hurts.”

That does it. Something in him shifts. The energy drops. Not gone. Just… gentler. “…okay,” he says quietly. Then, after a beat: “I hate that I can’t punch it.”

A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “Yeah. Me too.”

He hesitates again. Then slowly sits down on the floor in front of the couch like he’s negotiating with gravity. “…can I do something stupidly useless but emotionally supportive?” he asks.

You raise a brow. “Define useless.”

“I can insult your cramps.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I can threaten them.”

“I don’t think they care.”

“I can absolutely fight them.”

You stare at him. “…you’d lose.”

“I would go down swinging.”

That actually makes you smile a little more. Wade sees it. Freezes. Points at you.

“THERE. That. That’s the goal.”

“What is?”

“Not pain. That. The face thing you just did.”

“You mean smiling?”

“I mean your soul stopped screaming for like three seconds.”

You lean your head back. “…you’re weirdly good at this.”

Wade goes very still. Then, “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me feel feelings and I don’t like that I have those.”

You snort.

He takes a breath. Then, quieter, like it’s physically painful: “…you want me to stay?”

There’s no joke in it now. No performance. Just him. Trying very hard not to be annoying about caring.

You look at him for a second. Then nod. “Yeah.”

Wade exhales like he’s been defusing a bomb. “Cool,” he says quickly. “Great. Awesome. I will be here. Not emotionally competent. But here.” Pause. “I brought snacks.”

You sigh. “…bring them here, idiot.”

He perks up instantly. “YES. Okay. I knew I was useful.”

“You’re not useful.”

“I am emotionally adjacent to useful.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

Silence. 

Because the nurse had appeared. You. You always moved like a little ghost in the med bay. Soft footsteps. Soft voice. Soft everything. Soft hands. You peeked around the curtain first. Wide eyes. A little startled at the sheer size of them all.

Thor immediately straightened. Which only made him look larger. The god of thunder suddenly became very aware that he was seven feet tall, covered in dried blood, and holding a cracked piece of alien armor in one hand.

He slowly set it down. Very slowly.

You stepped closer with a small med kit hugged to your chest. “Hi,” you said quietly.

Thor blinked.

You always sounded like you were afraid someone might yell at you. Your eyes moved over the room quickly. “Is everyone okay?” you asked softly.

No one answered right away. Because you had already stepped toward Thor. Of course you had. He was the biggest problem in the room. There was a long cut across his arm, glowing faintly where lightning had burned through his skin.

You looked up at him. And Thor froze. Completely still. Like a massive, golden retriever that had suddenly been told to stay. “…Does it hurt?” you asked gently. Your hand hovered near the injury.

Thor swallowed. “Yes,” he admitted carefully.

Your brow pinched with concern. “Oh,” you murmured, like the idea of him being hurt genuinely upset you. You reached out then—tentatively—taking his wrist. Your hands were so small compared to his. Soft. Warm.

Thor went rigid. He had fought frost giants. He had wrestled the Hulk. He had taken the full force of a star. But the feeling of your tiny fingers carefully turning his arm so you could see the wound made him unbelievably nervous.

You dabbed antiseptic on gauze. “Okay,” you whispered. “This might sting.”

Thor nodded solemnly. You touched the wound. He didn’t even flinch. Not because it didn’t hurt. But because you looked so worried about hurting him that he couldn’t bear to react.

You worked quietly, cleaning the injury with slow careful movements.

Thor stared down at the top of your head. “…You are very gentle,” he said.

You startled. “Oh—sorry,” you said immediately.

Thor looked horrified. “No! No, apologies were not needed!”

Your shoulders scrunched a little. You continued working silently.

Across the room, Tony leaned toward Steve. “…Is the Norse god whispering right now? The Almighty God of Thunder?” Tony murmured.

Steve elbowed him.

Thor cleared his throat awkwardly. “You do not… fear me?” he asked carefully.

Your eyes flicked up to him. You blinked. “…No? I’ve known you and the team for a while now.”

Thor seemed confused. “But I am… quite large.”

You nodded slightly. “You are,” you said. Then you returned to wrapping the bandage. “But you’re nice amd friendly. And you protect the worlds.”

The room went quiet. Thor’s brain completely stalled. Nice. The God of Thunder had been called many things across the centuries. Mighty. Terrible. Glorious. But never— Nice.

You finished tying the bandage and patted his arm softly. “There,” you said. That tiny pat nearly killed him.

You stepped away and looked around again. “…Anyone else hurt?”

Tony raised a hand immediately. “Yes, emotionally.”

You walked over to him without comment. 

Thor watched you go. His massive hands rested carefully on the table where you had left him. He leaned toward Steve. “…I fear I may frighten her,” Thor whispered.

Steve glanced at you across the room. You were quietly scolding Tony for picking at a stitch. “She’s not scared of you,” Steve said.

Thor frowned thoughtfully. “No,” he murmured. Then softer— “But I am terrified of scaring her.”

“Look at me, bunny,” he murmured, low and steady, like velvet wrapping around your spine.

You tried—eyes fluttering, lashes trembling—but the next roll of his hips made your head tip back, mouth parting on a soft sigh at the way the head of his cock brushed your clit every time he dragged it through your slit over and over again.

“Mm,” he chuckled, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Eyes rollin’ back already? And I’ve barely started. Thought my good girl could handle me.”

A broken sound left your throat, half whimper, half plea. “Don’t get shy now,” Bucky teased, tilting your face back toward him. “I like watchin’ you come undone. Every little sigh, every flutter—fuck, bunny, you’re gorgeous.”

Your fingers curled around his wrist where it cupped your cheek. “Feels so good, Buck… can’t—can’t help it.”

“That’s the point, sweetheart.” He leaned in, brushing his lips across the corner of your mouth but not quite kissing you. “I don’t want you to hold back. Want you to let go. Be my sweet bunny, all soft and pretty for me.”

Your eyes fluttered again, a trembling moan slipping out as he bumped your clit again, this time pulling back slightly and pushing the tip in just so slightly, dragging another wave of pleasure through you.

“Yeah,” he praised, voice tightening with hunger. “That’s it. That’s my girl. You wearin’ my collar, lettin’ everyone know who you belong to—look at you. Could eat you alive.”

Your lips parted around a gasp, his words making the heat low in your stomach pulse even sharper. “Bucky—”

“Say it,” he coaxed, thumb pressing against your jaw as his forehead rested against yours. “Say you’re my bunny.”

“I’m—” You broke off with a shiver, then managed, voice weak but certain, “I’m your bunny.”

He groaned low in his chest, kissing you hard, his hand still holding your face like you might slip away if he let go. “Damn right you are. Mine to hold, mine to love, mine to fuck senseless. And you take it so well, don’t you?”

“Y-yes—”

“Good girl,” he whispered against your lips, breath ragged. “That’s my bunny. My perfect little thing. You’re gonna let me take care of you, aren’t you? Gonna let me give you everything you need?”

Your head tipped back again, eyes rolling as that charm pressed against your throat with every motion. “Yes, Bucky, yes—please.”

He smiled, dark and tender all at once. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Your thighs were trembling from how long he’d kept you there, caged beneath him, both of you naked except for the black-heart charm glinting at your throat. His cock had been dragging against your slick folds for what felt like hours, grinding slow and cruel, never giving you what you begged for.

“Bucky—please,” you whispered, voice hoarse, fingers curling in the sheets.

“Patience, bunny,” he drawled, rocking his hips just enough to make you whimper. “You look so pretty like this. All wet and open for me, just wearing my collar and begging like a good little girl.”

Your nails bit into his shoulders. “It’s too much—need you inside—”

He smirked, brushing his mouth over yours. “Too much? Baby, I’ve barely touched you.” And then, finally, he pushed in.

The sting was instant, a slow stretch that had your back arching off the mattress. Your gaze shot down to where he was splitting you open, your breath breaking into shaky gasps watching the length of his disappearing inside of you.

“Eyes down there, huh?” Bucky’s tone was smug, his hand sliding up your throat until his fingers wrapped firmly around your jaw. “Can’t look away from how good I fill you?”

You whimpered, mouth falling open helplessly as he sank in deeper, every inch deliberate. “That’s it, bunny. Take me slow. Feel me stretch you—fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight.” His eyes darkened as he watched your expression. “Delicious, isn’t it? Hurts just right.”

You moaned in answer, throat working under his palm. “Open,” he ordered suddenly, tilting your face up toward him. The command was sharp, firm—but threaded with that praise that made you melt. Your lips parted instantly, obedient.

He let a slow line of spit fall into your waiting mouth, thumb pressing your jaw so you couldn’t close until he said.

“Swallow.”

You did, eyes fluttering, the stretch of him inside you mingling with the heat that burned in your chest. “Thank you, daddy,” you whispered, voice breaking on the words.

Bucky groaned, deep and rough, his grip tightening on your face. “Good fuckin’ girl. My sweet bunny, wearin’ my collar, thanking me for claimin’ you. Look at those eyes rolling back—God, you’re perfect.”

You sighed, a trembling, wrecked little sound, your body shuddering beneath him.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, rocking into you just enough to make the charm at your throat bounce against your skin. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut before he shook your chin lightly, forcing them open again.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? The sting, the stretch. Nothin’ in the world like takin’ me nice and slow.” You nodded helplessly, then shuddered when his tone sharpened. “Every time it feels like you’re made for me. You are, aren’t you?”

“Yes—” the word came out as a gasp, trembling

“Yes what?” he pressed, his hand tightening on your face, not letting you drift away.

“Yes, daddy—I’m made for you.”

“Mm,” he rumbled, dropping his forehead to yours, hips rocking deep and slow. Your eyes rolled again, another soft, broken sigh falling from your lips as his praise washed over you. “There she is,” Bucky murmured, kissing your mouth like he couldn’t help himself, still holding your face so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

Your moans and hums of agreement started to get more and more high pitched, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised at the shocked but knowing looks your neighbors would give him tomorrow when he went to grab the mail. “That’s my bunny.”

Every thrust was deliberate, slow enough that the stretch never dulled, sharp enough that your nails dragged helplessly down his shoulders.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, hips twitching up to chase him.

He only smirked, kissing the corner of your mouth like he had all the time in the world. “Easy, bunny. Don’t rush me. I like watchin’ you try to take it. The way your body squeezes me—fuck, you’re perfect.”

The black heart charm bounced with every roll of his hips, cool against your overheated skin. You wanted faster, harder, anything, but he just kept that same devastating rhythm.

“Please,” you gasped, eyes rolling back again.

But he only chuckled, dragging out another long, slow thrust that made your vision blur. “Not yet. Not till I hear you beg.”

Your whole body trembled. “Bucky—I’m begging—”

“Not good enough.” He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes locked on yours as your mouth fell open in another broken sigh. “Tell me you need me to let you cum. Tell me you can’t do it without me.”

“I can’t—I can’t—please, daddy, let me—”

“God, you beg so pretty, bunny,” Bucky groaned, his hand still gripping your jaw, thumb smudging over your cheek as if he couldn’t stand to let you look anywhere but at him. “Every ‘please, daddy’ outta that sweet mouth makes me wanna ruin you worse.”

Your lips trembled, your voice catching. “Then ruin me—please—” Tears brimming your eyes just made Bucky want to torture you a smidge more.

His chuckle was low and rough, his cock dragging deep as his flesh hand slid down between you. The first touch to your clit made your whole body jolt, a gasp tearing out of your throat.

“There she is,” he praised, circling you harder, firmer, while his hips picked up a faster, relentless rhythm. “That’s my bunny. So wet, so good for me. Can feel you squeezin’ already.”

Your nails raked down his shoulders as your head tipped back, eyes rolling, every thrust pushing the breath from your lungs. “Oh my god—Bucky—”

“Eyes on me,” he growled, snapping his hips forward harder. “Don’t drift away, bunny. Wanna see you come apart while I fuck you.”

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His forehead pressed to yours, sweat slick at his temple as his voice dropped to a command. “Cum all over me. Right now. Let me feel how much you need me.”

The words cracked something inside you. The rough, fast thrusts, the tight circles on your clit—it was too much. You broke apart with a cry, body convulsing, your walls clutching him so hard it pulled a groan from deep in his chest.

“That’s it,” Bucky snarled, fucking you through it, his thumb never letting up. “Good girl. My bunny—fuck, you’re milkin’ me so good. Beggin’, shakin’, fallin’ to pieces on daddy’s cock.”

Your cries turned into frantic little moans, your hands clawing at his back as aftershocks kept you trembling.

“Again,” he urged, voice fraying, hips pounding harder as he chased his own edge. “Cum for me again, bunny. I wanna feel you gush all over me till I can’t hold back. Show me how good you can beg for it.”

“Please, daddy—want it—need it—”

“Fuck,” he groaned, his rhythm turning ragged, his praise spilling into filth against your lips. “That’s it. That’s my perfect girl. Give it to me. Cum all over me while I fill you up.”

You gasped as another wave rolled through you, your orgasm crashing down again just as his hips slammed deep, his groan tearing out against your mouth as he spilled inside you.

Both of you stayed locked together, trembling, your breath tangled with his as he kissed you through it—filthy, desperate, tender all at once.

“My bunny,” he whispered, voice rough but softening as he pressed his lips to your jaw, still pulsing inside you. “So fucking perfect when you beg for me.”

The room was thick with the sound of both your breathing, ragged and uneven. His hips stayed pressed to yours, but his hand gentled, sliding from your jaw to stroke your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Easy now,” Bucky murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your temple. His voice was raw but warm.

You whimpered softly, body still twitching from the aftershocks, and he pulled back just enough to ease his weight off you. His metal arm slid under your back, lifting you into his chest like you weighed nothing, cradling you against him. “You did so good, baby, fuck- that was so hot.”

A breathless little laugh came out of you, almost a giggle. You were still on cloud 9, dizzy on him and the feel of his body and the weight of his words, you buried your face against his throat. “Feels so good, Bucky.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he whispered, rocking you slightly as if you were fragile. His hand rubbed slow circles into your hip, coaxing the tension out of your muscles. “Breathe with me. In and out. That’s it.”

You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”

You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.

You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.

"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"

Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa." 

Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.

You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.

You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.

Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.

Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.

You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.

“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."

"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing. 

Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.

"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"

“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince. 

You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”

“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.

"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”

His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”

“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.

After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you. 

Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”

Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.

“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”

Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.

“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”

Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”

Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.

Your body went still.

"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."

You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound. 

Okay, it hurt a lot. 

It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that." 

Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.

“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”

“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You swallowed. “Do what?”

“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”

Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”

“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help. 

“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership. 

Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”

The flight home was torture in slow motion.

Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.

And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.

After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way. 

The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off. 

His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.

Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.

“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”

Your stomach dropped.

Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”

Steve glared. “Tony.”

“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”

“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated. 

The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on. 

And Bucky—

Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.

What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in. 

You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.

Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.

“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”

Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”

Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”

Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”

“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”

“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.

He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask. 

Swing. Swing.

Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake. 

You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly. 

Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees. 

He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—

You nearly whimpered.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin. 

Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both. 

And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—

"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”

Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."

"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor. 

“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”

When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between. 

His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”

It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you. 

Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place. 

With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you. 

“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”

"You're not exactly making it easy."

Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”

His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”

The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away. 

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”

“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”

“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were. 

The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.

Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.

He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.

Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough." 

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”

Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”

“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief. “He needs her.”

“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.

“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.

You tried to go about your night. You really did.

You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.

You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.

You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.

But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.

So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least. 

The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path. 

His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.

Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.

He didn’t see you.

He was somewhere inside the fever.

“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.

He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.

Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own. 

Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.

He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass. 

"Get out of here."

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"

"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"

Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”

"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.

"You'd never hurt me."

"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to." 

He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.

“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”

He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.

The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.

“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.

“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside. 

"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you. 

You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.

“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.

“Not enough,” you said quietly.

He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”

Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.

“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”

His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”

His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.

He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.

He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.

You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”

His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.

“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”

His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.

You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.

So you touched him.

Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.

You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.

His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.

“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”

You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.

“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.

The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.

So you sank to your knees.

The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.

You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.

He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.

Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.

“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were meant for me.”

His knees almost buckled.

The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.

He didn’t last long.

He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.

His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”

“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”

You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.

His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.

“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”

His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water. 

Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights. 

“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.

Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.

He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.

He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“…holy fuck,” he rasped.

You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.

“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.

That was all it took.

A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.

But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.

“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”

You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.

He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.

“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”

He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.

He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.

When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.

“I still need more.”

Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.

Then you stood.

Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.

His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.

“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.

“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”

That did it.

He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”

You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.

“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want an excuse to have my cock inside of you?”

You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.

“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”

“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”

“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”

His rhythm faltered.

You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.

“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—ahhh—milk me dry, baby.”

You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.

Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.

But Bucky didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.

You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin. 

“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”

He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.

Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.

“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”

You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”

His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.

“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”

Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.

“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”

“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”

His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Then he slammed back into you.

You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.

“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”

He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.

“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”

Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.

“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”

“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”

He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.

“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”

You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.

His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.

“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”

“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.

You didn’t know how long it had been.

How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.

You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”

Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.

And still—he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.

“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”

You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

That shattered him.

His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.

His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.

“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”

You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.

“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”

“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”

He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.

Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.

And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.

Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”

“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”

“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”

The door hissed open.

Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.

There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.

Naked.

Dead asleep.

His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.

And the sheets?

The sheets were barely covering anything.

“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”

Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”

Steve groaned. “Tony.”

“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”

“Stop talking.”

Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”

Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”

“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”

Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”

And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.

Tony paused.

“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”

a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!!

But he found you anyway.

A shadow loomed over the counter, and when you lifted your gaze, he crouched down in front of you like a grotesque jack-in-the-box springing free. Greasepaint smeared across his cheeks, scars tugging his mouth into something that might’ve been a grin if it weren’t so jagged. His eyes flickered with a wild light that froze the blood in your veins.

“Well, well, well…” His voice rasped like gravel, too close, too intimate. “What do we have here? Not money. Not guns. Not even a guard.” He tilted his head, studying you like you were an exhibit. “Just you.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even move.

His gloved hand lifted, and for a moment you thought he’d hit you, or worse. Instead, he dragged a single finger down your cheek, leaving behind a streak of black greasepaint. His smile twitched.

“You’re not boring,” he murmured. “You’ll do.”

Then he was gone.

Weeks passed. You told yourself he’d forgotten. That he had bigger, bloodier games to play than tormenting a nobody. But then came the signs.

A Joker card slipped under your apartment door. Lipstick smeared in a crude smile across your bathroom mirror. Laughter—low, throaty, unmistakable—floating through your open window when the street outside was empty.

It wasn’t chance. It wasn’t coincidence. He was circling you, a predator amused by his prey.

And one night, when you returned home, you found him sitting on your kitchen counter as if he owned the place. Boots scuffing your drawers, knife spinning lazily between his fingers, his face painted fresh and raw.

You froze in the doorway.

“You didn’t scream,” he noted, sounding pleased. “Most people, they—” He threw his head back and let out a sudden shriek, high-pitched and mocking, before dropping back into a chuckle. “But you? You’re calm. Calm, calm, calm. I like that.”

Your voice shook. “You—you can’t be here.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He hopped off the counter, boots thudding against the linoleum. “I can be anywhere I want.”

The knife flashed as he twirled it, but he wasn’t pointing it at you. Not yet. Instead, he leaned in close, the sharp tang of gunpowder and sweat clinging to him, his eyes burning holes into yours.

“See, I’ve been watching you. You don’t run. You don’t tattle. You don’t bore me.” His tone dipped low, almost tender. “You’re not like the others. You’re… mine.”

Your breath caught. You wanted to deny it, to shove him away, to say no. But the word tangled in your throat.

And the terrifying part was—you weren’t sure you wanted to say it.

Because the Joker was chaos, yes. He was fire and ruin and blood on the floor. But in his chaos, there was a kind of safety. No one would touch you if you were his. No one would dare.

And when his scarred mouth tugged into a grin as he pressed the knife flat against your throat—not breaking the skin, just resting there—you realized that being his meant something else, too.

There’s breathing on the other end. Soft. Controlled. Then—

“Hi.”

Your stomach drops. It’s not the tone he uses in public. Not the sharp-edged theatrical snarl.

This is quieter. Familiar.

“Where are you?” you whisper.

He hums lightly. “Somewhere dreadfully beige.”

Your pulse spikes. “You got caught.”

“Temporarily detained,” he corrects. “Semantics.”

There are distant voices behind him. A door clanks. Someone curses.

You sit down slowly on the edge of your bed. “What did you do?”

A small laugh. Not big. Not manic. Just… fond. “Oh, you know. A little chaos. A little rearranging of expectations.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re not calling to brag.”

He’s quiet for a second. “No.”

The word lands differently.

You grip the phone tighter. “Then why?”

There’s a shift in the air — even through the line. Like something careful has replaced the usual unpredictability.

“I wanted to hear you,” he says.

You close your eyes. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

And that’s worse.

Your voice drops. “They’re going to hurt you.”

“They’re going to try.”

“And you’re just sitting there?”

He chuckles faintly. “Oh sweetheart. I’m never just sitting.”

Your heartbeat starts to pound. “What did you do?”

A long pause.

You hear metal scrape faintly in the background. Footsteps. A guard saying something you can’t make out.

He lowers his voice. “When you hear something loud tonight… don’t look for me.”

Your breath catches. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says gently, “I won’t be where you think I am.”

Fear slices straight through you.

“No,” you whisper. “No, don’t—”

“You know I hate predictable endings.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

For the first time, he sounds… almost tired. “They think they’ve won.”

“You don’t have to prove anything,” you plead. “Just— just stop. Please.”

He exhales slowly.

There’s something raw in it.

“I never wanted you in the blast radius.”

Your heart stops. “What blast—”

“Metaphorical,” he says lightly. Too lightly.

“You’re scaring me.”

“I know.”

Silence stretches.

In the distance, someone shouts.

He ignores it.

“I need you to do something for me.”

You swallow. “What?”

“Tomorrow morning, you’re going to wake up. You’re going to make coffee. You’re going to open the curtains.” Your vision blurs. “And you’re not going to look for my face in the smoke.”

Your voice breaks. “Stop it.”

“You don’t chase ghosts,” he continues softly. “That’s my job.”

There’s urgency building now in the background. Raised voices. Boots moving fast.

“Time’s up!” someone barks.

You shake your head even though he can’t see you. “Please. Don’t hang up.”

His breathing changes. For one fragile second, the persona slips. “You were the only quiet thing in my head,” he says.

Your breath shatters. “I don’t want quiet,” you sob. “I want you alive.”

He laughs once — broken at the edges. “Alive is relative.”

The line crackles.

“They’re coming,” he murmurs.

“What did you do?” you whisper again.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead he says, “Don’t mourn me.”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to—”

The line cuts. Dead. You stare at the phone.

Dean glances down at each packet. He snorts and tosses the first one into the metal garbage bin beside his desk. Sam frowns.

“What was wrong with that one?”

“He’s a dude. Don’t you think we’ve got enough of a sausage fest going on around here?” Dean says, gesturing wide at the multi-floor building that makes up HunterCorp. His father’s enterprise, distilled down to two sons who, on their best day, have very different opinions on what makes for a good executive assistant.

Sam utters a longsuffering sigh.

“Man or woman, you need a real assistant, Dean. Someone competent enough to deal with your demanding schedule and…personality.”

“What’s wrong with my personality?”

“And I need you to have an assistant so I can focus on my real job. You know, running the entire Legal department.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know how to do my job, okay? I think I’ve picked up the slack pretty damn well since Dad died.”

Sam pauses, acknowledging that with a nod, and a heavier note.

“Yeah. You have.”

“So while I’m throwing money away hiring for a wholly unnecessary assistant, who I’m gonna have to tolerate looking at every day, I might as well be looking at somebody hot,” Dean says.

Another exhale leaves Sam’s body, along with the brief buoyant feeling of admiration for his brother.

And now we’re back where the neanderthals live. 

Sam gets a text from Reception that has his pocket buzzing. After he checks the message, he nods to himself. Here we go.

“All right. The first one is on her way up now, so do me a favor and get yourself together,” he says. “For example, it’s a little early for the booze, don’t you think? It’s 10:00 a.m.”

Dean pauses. The crystal decanter in his hand is halfway to pouring his first fifth of whiskey.

Second breakfast, if you will.

He gives his brother a flat look, one that’s accusing him of being an eternal wet blanket. But he begrudgingly concedes the point and puts both the decanter and the tumbler in a cabinet under his desk.

Classy. Sam rolls his eyes.

A knock at the door stops him from commenting out loud.

Clearing his throat, he walks over to let you in.

“Hi, Sam…and Mr. Winchester,” you say, shaking hands with the slightly taller brother. Then you turn to Dean Winchester, CEO of HunterCorp. He stands and leaves his desk to greet you.

In the time it takes him to cross the room, he takes you in within the breadth of a few seconds. More than the professional pantsuit and your pretty face, he notices your bright smile, the slight bout of nerves in the way you shake his hand. He finds himself smiling back.

“Uh, hi,” he says eloquently. “Call me Dean. Can we get ya some water, coffee, iced tea…”

He doesn’t even think they have iced tea, but he’s willing to make Sam go and find some.

“No, thank you. I’m fine,” you reply.

“Okay, then. Just, uh, take a seat.” He gestures to the open seat in front of his desk before he returns to his own plush leather chair. It squeaks as he swivels back in place. He shares a nod with Sam, who heads out of the office. The door closes behind him.

Dean glances down at the list of questions Sam prepared for him to ask each candidate, a sheet of paper that lies over your resume. He brushes the questions aside and focuses on the information printed under your name.

His brows raise in interest. “You graduated from Stanford University like my brainiac brother?”

The sound of your light laugh draws his gaze from the page, up to your face.

“Yeah, we were actually friends. It’s just been…a while,” you say, clearing your throat a little.

Dean inclines his head. His understanding grows along with his suspicion as he reads.

“Look at that, a Marketing major. Looks like you had a couple of promising internships too.”

“In college, yes.”

“And you were a Communications Specialist at Ashland for…eight months in 2021?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Again, you nod, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle in your pants. Your gaze falls away from his.

This time, Dean thinks you know full well what he’s getting at when he sets down your resume.

“That was five years ago,” he says. “You haven’t worked in five years since getting out of college?”

“It’s a bit complicated,” you admit, though you sit a little straighter. “I gave birth to my daughter, Emma, in November of 2021. My ex…was not supportive. My mother was also having some heath issues, so I moved back home to help my father take care of her. They took care of me too.”

Your fingers flex and interlace together in your lap. Dean notices the subtle fidget, but otherwise you’re calm and professional as you admit to something so personal. He can respect that you didn’t try to bullshit him.

“Hmm. Complicated,” he nods, then hesitates. “How’s your mom doing now?”

Your lips tug, but not at a smile. “She passed away a few weeks ago.”

Dean dims further as he inhales deeply. “I’m sorry.”

You give a tight nod, your throat swallowing.

“Look, since you’ve been honest with me, I’m gonna be real with you,” he says. “I run a company of 300 employees, 20 departments, 10 floors. I work 60-hour weeks minimum. I meet with department heads, shareholders, business partners and prospective clients on the daily—the kind of schedule that would make your head spin. I know you’ve done what you had to do, but I’m not sure you’re ready for a job like this. And that’s besides the fact that I’m not convinced I even need an assistant who’s probably just going to slow me down by sticking her nose into my process and asking questions I don’t have the damn time to answer.”

You tighten up at that, understandably taken aback. Your lips purse, but instead of tossing him a fuck you then and walking out, like he half expects, you sit with his words. You think it through, and you give him exactly what he doesn’t expect. 

“I may not have been clocking into an office for the past few years, but I haven’t been a stranger to hard work, Mr. Winchester. I’ve done nothing but fulfill the role of an assistant,” you say, and your gaze never leaves his when you say it. “Appointments, calls, messages, emails, paperwork, finances, data reports, coffee, power lunches, drycleaning—whatever you need, however quickly you need it, I can get it and I can make it happen. If there’s someone you can rely on, it’s a single mother who knows how to get shit done.”

Dean understands now. He understands the pain hidden in your eyes, and the too-tight set of your shoulders that hold the weight of responsibility. Urgency. A hint of desperation.

You need this job, maybe a little too much.

He should let you down gently. You’re not the kind of girl he’s looking for.

But whenever his mind and his gut are in conflict, he usually heeds his gut. That’s worked out well for him so far.

So he shrugs, and he stands up, holding out his hand to you across the desk.

“Like I said, call me Dean.”

Two Weeks

He groans into the ceramic mug at the first sip. Jesus Christ, you make a good fucking cup of coffee. That’s not even in the top five of the talents you possess, as it pertains to his business and your ability to learn quickly, talk minimally, and begin to anticipate his needs.

You dress nice, you’re always on time, and hell, you smell good too. Like body lotion and just the right amount of perfume. Obviously he can’t comment on any of these things, unless he wants a visit from Meg in HR. But it doesn’t stop him from noticing you, his heart thumping whenever you come in close to show him a document or ask him a question about a report.

Instead of rolling his eyes or snapping that you should have someone who’s not running this entire company explain it to you—like he did the last assistant who didn’t even survive three days—Dean finds an ounce of patience to spare for you.

He sits there and explains the difference between an M1911 handgun and a shotgun, and why the background checks take two months for one model and a few weeks for the other one is just a difference of state law, not HunterCorp’s manufacturing techniques.

Sam is rather fucking gloaty about it too—mainly at the fact that his top candidate made it through Dean’s initial hiring plans.

“Admit it, she’s good,” Sam says later in the day, while the two of them eat lunch together in his office. You just had it delivered ten minutes ago, still piping hot.

“She’s all right, for being your little college friend.” Dean slurps his lo mien and casts his brother some side-eye. “Is that all she was, or did you two occasionally sneak off for a little rec room break on the side?”

Sam gives him a flat look. “No, I was with Jess by then.”

“Just asking.” Dean shrugs. Secretly, he’s pleased. “You know anything about the ex-boyfriend, Father of the Year?”

Sam snorts in derision. “Some asshole in Sales while she was at Ashland. From what I heard, they were dating for six months or so, and she got pregnant. He, uh, tried to get her to end it.”

Dean frowns, and actually pauses eating to raise his head.

“She told you that?” he asks.

Sam holds back on answering for a suspicious moment, his eyes shifting down at his food.

“Made a couple calls to some contacts I have over there,” he says.

Spies, in other words. Dean nods in understanding. His brother’s always been the smart one. That’s what everyone used to say, including their father.

Two Months

You’re not sure if you should do it.

You have a sensitive report in your hand, fresh off the printer. You really think Dean should see it before he gets any deeper into his negotiations with Roman Enterprises, but he’s meeting with them right now in the big conference room, with Dick Roman himself, as well as the rest of his sales and legal representatives.

This isn’t the first meeting Sam and Dean have undergone with the company; Roman Enterprises been courting HunterCorp into a partnership on a new product, but this could be the day that makes the big swinging dicks in the room shake hands (even if that little visual almost makes you snort).

Dean’s never expressly warned you about entering a meeting uninvited, but it’s still nerve wracking as you stand outside the door. You can hear familiar voices, including the nasally tone of Alastair, the one who gives you the creeps whenever he slithers through the office and gives you a “charming” once-over.

But you also hear Dean. His voice is deep and smooth and confident. It gives you the little confidence boost you need to twist the knob and push the door open.

Just as you predicted, with a sinking feeling, all eyes turn to you when you enter the conference room. Sam and Dean and their lead sales manager, Cas, look over at you in varying degrees of surprise (Cas with disapproval). Dick Roman remains impassive, if slightly amused when you squeak out an, “I’m sorry.”

It’s Alastair’s gaze you feel on your profile when you quickly make your way around the large conference room table and over to Dean. You lean over to hand him the paperwork.

His lips purse when he notices the line of Alistair’s gaze—on your ass.

Dean then frowns at you, and your express delivery.

“What’s this? You think it could’ve waited?” he asks in a low whisper.

“Look,” you whisper back, pointing to the section you starred. It’s a report that Roman Enterprises failed to disclose about their product, a double-chambered gun that can store silver rounds and witch-killing bullets as well as salt rounds: the perfect gun for a hunter.

The problem is the safety and performance report. The one Dean has up on his laptop doesn’t match the one now physically in his hands—the one that says two out of three units of this gun fail to chamber correctly on reloading, resulting in a backfire on the user.

Dean’s brows furrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Is something wrong?” Dick asks. He straightens in his seat, his demeanor a fraction sharper.

Dean glances up at him, then at Sam and Cas, who wear similar looks of confusion. Sam raises his brows expectantly.

“Sorry, one moment,” Dean says to the room, before redirecting his attention to you.

You’re all too aware of being the rabbit caught in the proverbial trap in this room of nearly all men, but you rest a hand on the table and lean in near his ear.

“Their weapons analyst sent this to me,” you explain. “He almost got his hand blown off. Said they didn’t want to go back to the drawing board and waste time when they had us as a prospective distributor.”

Dean blinks in surprise. A fucking whistleblower just outed his own company, but he supposes he can’t blame the guy. If he had half a hand, he’d sue everybody.

“Okay, thank you,” Dean tells you.

It sounds like a dismissal, and truth be told, you’re ready to get the hell of this room. You make a quick escape and shut the door carefully behind you.

Dean watches you leave, but then he collects the report you gave him and passes it along to Sam, with a pointed look that says read it now. Sam doesn’t need the prompting. He shares it with Cas, and they both eventually come to the same frowning conclusions as Dean.

“You gonna fill us in on what that little skirt just gave you that has all of you so fucking sour?” Alastair remarks.

It makes Dean bristle. “That’s my assistant. Have some fucking respect.”

Dick shoots his associate a warning look, as well as a placating hand before he folds both of his on the table.

“Apologies. I’d like to move forward here. How about we discuss oversees shipping—”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Dean says. He shares a look with Sam. He’s disappointed, but he nods in agreement all the same.

Dick’s head tilts. His fake-ass smile twitches at the corners. “Excuse me?” 

Dean closes his laptop and slides your report across the table.

“We deal with all kinds, but there’s nothing I hate more than a liar,” he says. “Cas will see you guys out to your line of Teslas out front.”

You’re sitting at your desk, stress-eating with a snack bag of popcorn while you answer emails, even though your mind is racing as you imagine what might be going on in that conference room.

You perk up in your seat when the door swings open, and the entire team of Roman Enterprises files out with steam practically coming out of Dick’s ears. You’re more than happy to see the back of Alastair. Cas follows them closely, while Sam and Dean are the last ones lingering outside the door.

They speak for a moment there in the hall, though you’re too far to hear what they’re saying. Dean eventually rubs a hand over his stubble-covered cheeks and jawline as he heads toward his office, and toward you. He gives you a wry look when he steps through the glass doors of the reception area, squeezing your shoulder as he passes by.

“Good job, sweetheart.”

That’s all he says as he disappears back into his office. You can’t help the warm blush blooming across your cheeks, but you do get up to follow him.

“Um, Dean…”

He turns to you as the door of his office closes behind you. You fold your hands in front of you, an almost contrite expression across your face.

“I’m sorry. That just cost you a lot of money, didn’t it?” you ask.

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. What you saved me is one bitch of a headache, and probably millions in legal fees. So thank you.”

You smile, making him smile in return.

“Okay, um, would you mind if I leave just a few minutes early today?” you ask. “My father usually picks up my daughter after school, but he has a doctor’s appointment. I can come back after she’s settled.”

Dean frowns. “What time does she usually get out of school?”

“Three. She’s in kindergarten.”

He considers it for a moment. “You know, we have a daycare. Cas brings his kids here too.”

You do know that, all too well. Cas is married to Meg in HR, and they have two, very odd twin daughters. You think they’re stealing ink from the printer and using it for “ink blot tests.” You didn’t know that eight-year-olds knew what those were.

“We do. But I, uh…I can’t afford it,” you admit, with some embarrassment. You’re still helping your dad pay off your mom’s medical bills, and even her funeral. It’s not easy to afford to live and provide for a child, but it seems like it’s almost as expensive to die.

Dean taps his fingers on his desk. He shrugs and rounds his desk to sit down in his comfortable chair.

“How much does it cost?” he asks.

“$500 a month. I’m already trying to get her into a private school…”

Dean does the math in his head, easy. Then he sends a quick text to Meg in HR.

“Well, now you can afford it. I’m gonna raise your annual salary by $10K,” he says. “That should cover the tax deductions and extra gas mileage.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. It closes, then opens again before you’re able to make words pass through them.

“Um, w…what?” you ask.

Dean leans back in his chair and smiles. It isn’t often he gets you flustered.

“Consider it an early Christmas bonus,” he says.

You laugh, slightly breathless still in wonder. “It’s the middle of July.”

Again, Dean shrugs. “Just say thank you.”

You bite your lip in amusement, but you nod. Your gaze on him is sincere, and a little shiny with emotion. Your daughter’s definitely getting into private school now.

“Thank you,” you say.

Dean watches you walk out of his office, along with that brief look over your shoulder before you close the door. His smile fades.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He sits up in his chair and goes for that stash of whiskey under his desk. If he wasn’t already an alcoholic, you sure were on your way to making him one.

Three Months

Dean blows out a sigh, then rubs his eyes at the strain of just how long he’s stared at a screen and tried to make these goddamn numbers work.

The building is probably empty by now. Even his brother left two hours ago to go home and have dinner with Jess. Dean’s reluctant to go home to his empty apartment. So here he sits, the workaholic that he is, as the sun fades behind other buildings and casts his apartment into darker shades. He switches on the desk lamp.

A knock on the door kicks his thoughts out of alignment, like an old engine sparking out, into crispy defeat.

“Yeah,” he calls out without looking up. He does though, when you come into view.

“Hey, I’m heading out,” you say.

He can see you’re ready to go, packed up and on your way downstairs to pick Emma up from daycare. He still hasn’t met the kid. He’s surprised himself with the idea that he wants to, though he’s never asked. Never wanted to intrude on your life outside of work. Never wanted to get too close to it.

You’re a single mother living with your father, and that’s complicated enough. You don’t need a man like Dean upsetting the delicate balance. And he doesn’t think he can give a woman like you what you need…besides the fact that you’re his employee.

“All right. Make sure Benny keeps an eye on you heading to your car. It’s getting late,” he says.

“Not that late,” you say with a smile. Though you’re a bit concerned when you step further into his office. “When do you typically head home?”

“Uh, around eight or nine, usually.”

“That’s pretty late. You don’t have anyone waiting on you?”

“Not unless you count the beers in the fridge,” he remarks, sending off another email to a sales rep to get his ass in gear if they’re going to make quota for Quarter 3.

By the time Dean looks up, he sees your small frown. Concern.

It rubs him the wrong way (or maybe the right one), so he clears his throat and waves you over to his computer, opening up a tab he was looking at earlier.

“Hey, do me a favor. Tell me what you think of these. I have to go to some tech expo this weekend with Sam,” he says.

You look over his shoulder at the rows of ties on the screen.

“Well, first of all, don’t get them off Amazon. Go to a men’s store,” you say with a short laugh. “Second, what color is the suit?”

“Uh, just black,” he says in amusement.

You hum in contemplation. The man does look good in his usual slacks and nice buttoned-down shirts, but picturing him in a full suit and tie is an enticing image.

“This burgundy one looks nice. Or the blue one with the pattern,” you suggest.

“You don’t think it’s too loud?”

“No, I think it would look nice with a black dress shirt. Or hey, a black vest with a white dress shirt underneath.” 

“A vest?” Dean intones.

“Yeah, with your shoulders, you’ll look really sharp when you pair it with the suit jacket,” you say.

“My shoulders, huh? What about ‘em?” he asks in amusement, verging on the edge of flirtatious, before he realizes what he’s doing.

You both pause then.

You eventually find something approaching a respectable response, if not really a professional one.

“Just…you have a strong frame for a suit. I’m sure whatever you pick will look good,” you say. Though you turn away to grab your purse from where you left it leaning against his desk on the floor. Your face is blushing hot all the while. “Um, have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you too,” he nods, clearing his throat. He tries not to watch you leave, but he can’t help himself. The natural sway of your hips is too hard to ignore, as is the way you walk away from him on those heels.

Once the door is firmly shut, he tips his head back against his chair and groans. He hates himself for hoping, even fantasizing, that one day you’ll come back and straddle him on this goddamn chair and fuck him with those heels still on.

He bangs the back of his head repeatedly against the chair, as if that could rid him of his pig-like thoughts.

Fuck. Me.

Four Months

Dean steps into his office after four hours of solid back-to-back meetings. If he had to sit through even five more minutes of Crowley’s condescending ass explain 15 subsections of a contract, as if Dean didn’t know how to fucking read, then he was going to throw his laptop into the nearest window.

He expects to find the quiet refuge of his office, and very quickly his stash of Angel’s Envy. What he gets is a kid sitting in his chair, eating his Doritos. She doesn’t look older than five or six, swinging her little legs as she swivels in his nice leather chair.

The sight is so dumbfounding that Dean stops not two steps through the doorway, his hand still lingering on the doorknob. He frowns.

“Hey,” he says. Not in a nice way. In a who the hell are you way.

“Hi!” The kid smiles and waves at him with fingers coated in Cool Ranch Dorito dust.

Dean’s head tilts. “Uh, hi.”

“You said that,” she says.

His lips twitch upward. He points at her, and the chair she’s sitting in.

“That’s my seat,” he says, with some censure in his voice. “You wanna get down?”

She blinks and pauses, realizing she might be in trouble.

“Sorry.” She slides down carefully without letting go of her snack. She wears a private school uniform: a plaid skirt, navy polo, and a matching headband. Her pink Peppa Pig sneakers give away her personality though. It matches her backpack, which boasts a Minnie Mouse keychain and a princess sticker of Belle in her yellow ballgown.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Emma,” she replies.

Dean’s brows raise high in recognition, then they furrow.

“Interesting. Where’s your mom?”

“She had to talk to Miss Nancy, so she told me to stay here.”

Miss Nancy. Gotta be the daycare lady, Dean thinks.

“Here? As in, my office?” he asks in suspicion. “Or did your mom tell you to hang out at her desk?”

Emma guiltily glances down at her feet instead of at him, like Sammy did when he was four, and didn’t want to admit he broke their dad’s watch.

Here, it looks like Emma got bored and wanted to go into the big mysterious room. She continues eating her Doritos.

Dean can’t help but smile. “Did you find those in my desk drawer?”

She blinks up at him with the face. Like when Sam got caught looking through their dad’s old collection of baseball cards with peanut butter and jelly stains on his hands. That puppy dog look had Dean taking the fall—and the week-long grounding.

Emma tentatively offers him her snack. “Want one?”

The look on her face tells him that she’d rather not share, but it’s a clever little manipulation with those big doe eyes. Girls learn quick, don’t they?

Dean shakes his head and pulls out a nearby guest chair after setting down his laptop on the desk.

“It’s okay. You can sit here if you want,” he says.

The chair is a little high, so she reaches for the edge of his desk to help her. Dean offers her his hand instead. She’s happy to settle her little Dorito grime-covered hand in his and have him help her into the chair.

“Thank you,” she says, with that cute little voice. He almost laughs.

“You’re welcome,” he says. You’re definitely going to owe him for this one.

Dean sits at his desk and contemplates just what the hell he’s going to do with this kid for the next few minutes. At least, he hopes it’s just a few minutes. Does he need reinforcements? Should he call Sam up here? Cas?

“Are you and Mommy friends?” Emma asks.

Dean considers her question with a quirk of his head.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I work with your mom.”

“She said you’re her boss.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yeah. Your face is on her phone when you call,” Emma says. When she finishes the chips, he can tell she’s looking for a garbage can. He takes the empty bag from her and tosses it in the small bin under his desk. He wishes he could pour himself a much needed adult drink, but he thinks you’d have something to say about that later.

He settles on the bottles of water you keep putting in his other drawer. He grabs one for the kid, and even opens the cap for her, like he used to do for Sam when they were little.

“Uh, how was school?” Dean asks. Because what else do you ask a kindergartner?

She shrugs. “Okay.”

Fair enough, he thinks. He never liked school much, but he has to keep this conversation going somehow.

“Just okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. I don’t like math, but Music was fun. We’re learning how to play the recorder. Oh! And I drew Peppa after school. Wanna see?” she says, pointing at her backpack.

Dean raises a brow, but he grabs her backpack off the floor and hands it to her. She unzips it and rifles through her notebooks and her modest collection of crayons. She then pulls out her prized drawing to show him. It looks more like a ball of pink squiggles to him. But he looks harder, and he can see the eyes and the mouth and the nose are close enough to the character on her sneakers.

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” he indulges her, earning her shy smile.

“Thank you,” she says. But her face soon falls. “I wanted to draw her yellow crown, but a boy took my crayon and broke it.”

“Aw, that sucks,” Dean says. Though a smile threatens his lips at the little angry pout on her face. “What did you do when he wouldn’t give it back?”

“I just pushed his arm and he fell and cried,” she says.

Dean blinks in surprise. “Oh.”

Yikes. No wonder you had to go back and talk to Miss Nancy.

“But I didn’t mean to! He was mean to me first,” Emma argues.

Dean shakes his head in amusement, once again tempted to laugh.

“Well, you know, you should never put your hands on somebody. You wouldn’t want him to hit you, right?” he reasons.

The girl considers it, still with that little pout, but she nods begrudgingly.

“See? But if that kid messes with you again, you come tell me, okay? I’ll set him straight, man to man,” Dean says.

She starts to smile again. “Promise?”

“I promise. Let’s shake on it,” he says, giving her his hand. She puts her much smaller one in his, and they shake on it like adults.

“Emma?” your voice calls from outside the office in worry. The door is still open, so you catch sight of your daughter just as Dean tells you to come over. Your eyes grow wide with embarrassment as you realize where Emma ended up. You hasten inside his office.

“What are you doing in here?” you ask her sternly, taking her hand and leading her off the chair. “You were supposed to be doing your homework at my desk. Dean, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it would take so long.”

“It’s all right,” he says.

You still look a bit mortified and apologetic.

“Seriously, it’s okay. She’s a good kid,” Dean says. You smile, if a bit wryly as you caress her head.

“Well, she wasn’t on her best behavior today, so we’re going to sort that out tonight. But thank you for watching her.”

Dean sends you off with a raised hand, though it turns into a small wave when Emma looks back at him with a sneaking smile.

He chuckles and shakes his head. Kids. Jesus.

She looks just like you.

Five Months

The insistent ring and vibration of your cell phone disturbs your deeply rooted slumber. You slap at the device charging on your nightstand and nearly yank out the cord in attempt to bring the screen to your eyeballs.

Once your bleary vision adjusts to the brightness, you growl in annoyance.

Still, you answer the call.

“Dean. Jesus Christ, it’s three in the morning.”

“I just need your opinion on the new crossbow flame throwers.”

Your sigh can probably be heard across the Atlantic Ocean.

“It’s fine, but it would make more sense on a gun, right? Half gun, half flame thrower.”

“That’s what I said! But Cas says we need to diversify—”

“Dean. Three. In the morning. Go to sleep and let me get back to dreaming about Pedro Pascal as a gladiator, feeding me grapes as his queen.”

“…You like Latin guys, huh?”

You groan and turn your face fully into your pillow.

“Sleeping now. I’ll see you in five hours.”

Six Months

“Look! Emma got first place in the Spelling Bee.”

You pass Dean your phone while he scrapes the pickled onions off his burger and onto your plate. In turn, you give him the pickle wedge off your plate. By now you know that he’s a veritable bottomless pit when it comes to food in general, except for the fact that he doesn’t like pickled onions, and doesn’t trust sushi.

He smiles as he scrolls through the pictures of your daughter’s kindergarten class.

“Clearly taking after her mom in the smarts department. Though you didn’t have to do her like that with those Pippi Longstocking braids,” he remarks.

You scoff in amusement. “Oh, come on, they’re not that bad. It’s not like she’s got a wire hanger in there. She’s just going through a frizzy phase. No matter what products I use, I can’t seem to tame that hair.”

Dean chomps his burger. You’ve reminded him at least 30 times, but he still talks with his mouth full.

“Looks like she’s trying to land a plane,” he says.

You snort, shaking your head. You shove his arm lightly and go back to eating, while Dean takes another look at the pictures.

He sees a lot of you in that little girl. She’s got your eyes, your smile, but she probably has her dad’s hair, his chin. Dean hopes that’s all the girl’s going to get from that fucking deadbeat, biologically speaking. From what you’ve told Dean, all that guy is good for is sending monthly wire payments. After you got your raise, he even tried taking you to court to get his child support reduced.

“Did you want kids—you know, before? Was that even on your radar?” Dean asks.

He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he asks.

You hum in contemplation. “Honestly, it wasn’t. I was focused on my career.”

You wipe your mouth as the thought settles in.

“I thought I’d do it right, you know? Work hard, achieve my goals, find a husband who wanted the same things I did, then build a life, and a family. I always thought I was smarter than a broken condom in the back of his goddamn Lexus,” you say, your tone bordering on disgust at the end. You shake your head and sip your iced tea.

Dean quirks his head. “Well, we’ve all been thrown a few curveballs in life. What matters is how you take it. And I’d say you’ve got the better end of the deal. You get Emma, a good job, the best boss in the world…”

You shoot him a knowing smile.

Dean smirks, but he’s still serious.

“And that guy, all he gets is a life without his kid, and without the woman who could’ve given him a family,” he says. “Sounds like a fucking chump to me.”

He continues eating, but you’re not sure if he realizes how that just tilted your entire axis. It makes you look at him differently, the warmth of admiration in your chest, and something deeper coiling in your belly, stirring up something unexpected.

You stare at him long enough that his brows furrow.

“What? Got something in my teeth?” he asks. 

Your face relaxes, your lips tugging at a smile.

“Yeah, ground beef. Can you please swallow before you talk?”

“This is how I am, sweetheart. Don’t try to change me,” Dean says, taking another massive bite. Oily ketchup dangles from the bun and threatens to stain one of his nicer buttoned-down shirts.

You roll your eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stick a napkin in his collar, just in time for the ketchup drip.

Seven Months

You and Sam have lunch together every Wednesday. It started out as a way to reconnect with your old friend, but it’s often devolved into an hourly venting session about his brother’s many idiosyncrasies, how he’s driving you both fucking crazy, and how to best manage the man’s schedule, as well as steer him away from any half-cocked decisions that could cause a PR disaster.

Like the time he accidentally asked a reporter at a charity benefit why albacore tuna was becoming an endangered species.

“I mean, come on. They’ve literally got fish on the menu tonight. Maybe if you people stopped eating so much damn sushi with your avocado toast, we wouldn’t need this bougie dinner party. $5,000 a plate? Give me a fucking break.”

The fact that he slept with her that night still didn’t save him from the article she published later that week, complete with direct quotes. She had a good goddamn memory.

Today though, your weekly lunch with Sam is less about quasi-therapy, and more about celebrating the fact that Jess is pregnant. You’re even helping her and her sister plan the baby shower.

“Any advice? Just, you know, about parenting in general,” Sam asks. For once, he seems less his normal confident self, and a little more sheepish. It’s sweet, even endearing.

You smile. “God, I don’t know. I’ve been winging it from the beginning. Just…be present, as much as you can. Jess is going to need you to show the hell up, without being asked, without being nagged. You’re the rock she’ll need to lean on, even when she thinks she can do it all while you’re here trying to show up for the job. Especially when the baby’s born. If you’re not covered in three layers of bodily fluids, then you’re not doing it right.”

He laughs a little. “Noted.”

Your mind veers into other directions as you finish up your sandwich and crumple up the foil wrapper. Most predictably, along the road that leads back to Dean.

“Dean doesn’t seem to be the family man type,” you remark. “More married to his work, but…he’s been really good with Emma every time I’ve brought her up to visit the office.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. He basically half raised me after Mom died. More than half, actually. Dad was always working,” Sam says.

“What about relationships?” you ask.

It earns you a certain look from Sam. You’ve come to learn that both Winchester brothers are incredibly sharp, just in different ways. Dean knows how to read people. He’s a good judge of character, and it makes him a shark in the board room, the kind of man that can take in the information his department heads serve him and make swift decisions that often pan out well for HunterCorp.

Sam is perceptive in an almost clinical way, analytical and methodical. He’s the one who can read the data and find the one thing that’s missing. He can anticipate problems before they start, and when it comes to people, Sam often catches the little things, tells and underlying motivations. It gives you away before you’ve even realized it.

“Well, Dean’s been pretty predictable when it comes to women, even before Dad passed,” Sam says.

And it’s true. Dean’s never seen the same woman more than a week at a time. You know this, because you’ve seen the “consolation gifts” he sends them. A Tiffany bracelet. An Apple Watch. Gucci sunglasses. The perfect gift that tells a girl she won’t need to stick around for breakfast.

“But to his credit, he’s up front with them,” Sam says, drawing your gaze. “They know what not to expect.”

Your lips quirk. “Sounds so transactional…and lonely.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “but I get it. He took a lot onto his shoulders when Dad died. Right now, Dean’s more focused on making sure we survive than on what he might want. To be honest, I doubt he’s even thought about what that is.”

For some reason, that hits you behind the ribs in a quiet, sharp strike. In your mind, you can’t help but see the familiar tense set of Dean’s shoulders hunched at his desk, eyes glued to his computer while an evening sun sets behind his head.

Even in that big office overlooking the entire city scape, he never has time to admire the view.

Eight Months

It’s your mistake.

Your fingers brush Dean’s for half a second too long when you give him a stack of purchase orders to sign. His eyes meet yours. You point out the new way you’ve color-coded the departments for each PO.

Your heel wobbles on your pivot, an uneven floorboard. Suddenly it’s his hand closing around your wrist and the other wrapping around your waist, giving you stability. Your eyes meet his, heated breaths in between.

A thank you falls from your lips, drawing Dean’s attention there.

But he lets you go.

You walk away, pretending you don’t know his eyes are following you.

You bite your lip against a smile.

One Year

“Seriously, which one?”

“Jesus, Dean. Green! I already told you.”

“No need to get snippy. I just want your opinion.”

“You always want my opinion. That’s why I already laid out the green one for you.”

“But I like the black one.”

“You always wear the black one. The black one says politician. The green one says you’re the boss, but you’re approachable.”

“I don’t want to be approachable. That’s how I get stuck in a 45-minute fucking conversation in the break room with Garth about his side hustle YouTube sock puppet show. That shit was deeply uncomfortable. I just wanted my damn coffee.”

“You know, you could also cut back on the caffeine and the booze while we’re on the subject.”

“Oh, what are you, my mother?”

“You tell me. I’m the one dressing you right now.”

You work the collar dark green suit jacket over his shoulder and smooth down the wrinkles. You firmly ignore how his gaze roams your face, and lower still. You want to pretend you haven’t noticed these signs, all while you try to stop yourself from giving any yourself.

“There, looks good,” you say. Though you make the mistake of meeting his eyes.

He grins. One of those grins that makes you want to grab his face, either mushing it into his seventeen mugs of coffee, or kissing him fucking stupid. You’ve been restraining the latter urge by a tenuous thread for several months now, mostly because you sicken yourself.

He’s your fucking boss. It’s unprofessional. You’ve already been down this road once in your life, and—

“You okay?” he asks.

Suddenly you realize how close he is. You can feel the warmth of his body, you can smell his cologne, and he sounds so sincere in his concern, briefly touching your arm.

You nod, knowing you should create some distance between you and him. Somehow you can’t force yourself to take that one small step back.

Instead, you reach for his tie. “Remember, you’re meeting Frank Devereau and his wife tonight, and Charlie Bradbury. She’s the brains behind the project, so you’ll want to talk to her about the details, how the program works, and how we can incorporate it into our existing tech.”

Dean hums in agreement, but in truth, his attention is on your nimble hands as you work on his tie. You slide the knot up to settle snugly, but not too tight against his throat. You allow your hands to slide down his chest while you admire your handiwork with satisfaction, but your small smile fades. Your mouth goes dry as your gaze travels back up to his, lingering on his parted mouth.

His hands slowly come to hold you by your arms, making your heart tap a syncopated beat.

“Does that look mean you want me to kiss you, or am I just seeing things?” he says at last.

Your eyes widen. You bite the inside of your lip, nervous energy fluttering through you, even as everything within you would like to scream a resounding yes.

“We can’t…shouldn’t,” you say, in a quieter voice. His office door is closed, but it’s not locked. There are far better reasons than that though, and you struggle to remind yourself of each and every one of them.

Dean steals your focus, however. His eyes seem greener than usual, probably because of the jacket. You picked it with that in mind.

“In this case, shouldn’t isn’t a moral argument,” he says. “It’s society’s rules. I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I’ve never much cared about what people who don’t matter think about me.”

Your brows begin to knit together. “Who matters to you? Because my daughter and my father. They matter to me.”

“Being with me doesn’t hurt them,” he argues, a little peeved at the implication that it would; that he would hurt them, or you.

“Being with you?” you ask in shock.

Dean’s mouth opens, but he hesitates, like what he just said surprises even himself. His lips quirk at a smile.

“I know you, uh, probably think I’m not capable of something like that,” he asks.

“I mean, it is surprising,” you admit airily. Your cheeks warm in a blush. “You could have anyone, Dean…and you have.”

He chuckles dryly. “All right, fair enough. But other than Sam, who gets me better than you? Who else is gonna handle this, the pressure of my life and everything that goes with it…better than you?”

Your eyes widen. A softer smile threatens your lips, because you realize then that he’s actually serious.

About you?

Of course, that’s when your very real, rational doubt creeps in.

“People are going to talk,” you point out. “That’s why shouldn’t always matters. And you and me? Jesus, Dean, this is the oldest cliché in the fucking book.”

His hands move down to your waist, squeezing gently. Enticingly.

“Then we’ll be discreet,” he says, with one of his crooked grins. You shake your head, but you start to smile too. You allow him to pull you back in, figuratively and literally as he bows his head closer to yours.

“You really think you can pull that off?” you ask.

“Sweetheart, with the right motivation, we can pull off anything,” he says, half whispering them on your lips as he captures them with his own.

It’s slow and laced with a curling heat that licks tingles down your spine, just like his hand moving to the small of your back, pressing you into him. Your body betrays you then, with a moan in your throat and your own hands traveling up his arms, over his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck.

The graze of your nails at his nape makes him shiver and groan as he licks into your mouth, holds you tighter. You feel the press of his growing arousal against your belly.

Your good sense knocks at the door of lust and yearning, reminding you that you’re making all the same mistakes again. This isn’t a man you can trust—not with this. But Dean’s lips are hard to ignore, covered in the remnants of your lipstick as he kisses his way along your jaw and down your neck, where he sucks and nips just hard enough to make you gasp his name and writhe against him. He squeezes your ass and smiles against your skin.

“So fucking beautiful, you know that? Even the little sounds you make when I touch you. I wanna find out what that pretty voice sounds like when you come,” he says, in a voice dripped in whiskey and wicked promises.

Jesus. Your heart flutters. You haven’t been touched like this in so very long. You haven’t felt desired like this in…

“How long have you been thinking about that?” you ask, a little breathlessly. He continues his exploration, his lips blazing a sensuous trail down the column of your throat, along the line of your collar bone, and between the rise and fall your breasts. He slides open the buttons of your blouse with a practiced hand, his eyes drinking in the sight of your lace bra.

“Since the day you started wearing these sexy fucking heels,” he says, dragging his hand up your thigh, over your skirt, in a way that raises goosebumps on your arms. But he hesitates. His eyes ask a question as they meet yours.

“You need to tell me what you want though,” Dean says, more seriously than you expected. “You want me to touch you?”

Your heart feels like it’s beating in your throat, but you nod, biting your lip.

“Kiss me, touch me, make me fucking come,” you say. “But first, you need to lock that door.”

A crooked grin spreads across Dean’s face. He steals another kiss before he does exactly that—he crosses the room and locks that fucking door. You lean against his desk for a breather, but you realize that half this shit needs to go. You move stacks of files to the side, the coasters you put for his mugs of coffee along with the empty cups themselves. You push his double-screen monitors forward, giving Dean just the angle he needs to hold you from behind and start laying more tantalizing kisses along your neck.

You sigh and help him with the zipper of your skirt while he works on the bra clasp. The straps loosen down your arms, and he flings the bra away so he can get a handful each of your breasts. You moan and rest your head against his as he begins to squeeze and tease, gently twisting your nipples between his fingers. He leaves open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, sucking at your pulse point.

When his hand moves further down and slips behind the waistband of your skirt and panties, he feels your pulse flutter and trip along with your gasp. His fingers dip between your folds and find the slick mess of your arousal.

“Goddamn, baby. Soaked for me already,” he teases.

You don’t need to see his face to know that smug smirk is plastered across it. You reach back and tug sharply on his hair.

“You can gloat, or you can fuck me,” you retort.

He chuckles and kisses your temple. “Don’t you worry. You’re gonna have to bite down on my belt to keep from screaming in a minute.”

His hand that never left your breast begins to strum the hardened, sensitive nub, at the same time his other hand finds your clit. You shudder against him at that first touch, that perfect moment when you realize he knows exactly what he’s doing as he learns your body. He circles your clit slowly, but with a delicious pressure until it swells under his fingertips.

Then his long fingers dip down into your needy channel, making you whimper as you hold onto him and the desk for stability. His fingers pump smooth strokes inside you, almost as deep as he plans to fuck you with his cock.

He knows he has you when his fingers curl and brush deliberately against that perfect spot inside your inner walls. Your thighs begin to shake, your breaths labored, your hips bucking against his hand in a quiet plea.

Your orgasm rolls swift and steady against his fingers. Your pussy flutters around his hand, and he groans along with you.

“Good girl. Can’t wait to feel that squeeze around my cock,” he says, a filthy whisper in your ear.

You laugh a little, nodding in agreement. You turn around to help him with his belt.

“Yeah, right now. Want you inside me before we run out of time. You have to meet Sam downstairs soon.”

It’s another work event Dean can’t get himself out of, even if the networking opportunities are good for the company.

“You should come with me,” he says, grinning at the way you slide his jacket off his shoulders, but you toss it as carefully as you can across the nearest chair. You just had it drycleaned this morning.

“What?” you laugh. “Dean, you don’t need me there. I’m just an assistant—”

“No,” Dean says, stilling your movements when his hand cups your cheek. Your lashes raise as you look up at him, finding him serious again. His gaze roams your face, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “If it ain’t fucking obvious, you’re more.”

Your mouth falls open, but you’re not sure what’s going to spill out. Dean doesn’t give you time to figure it out, or even let himself settle into his own admission.

He just kisses you, hard and thorough, knocking any more doubts out of your mind, and any deeper thoughts out of his.

He grabs you up by your hips and seats you on his desk, rattling the surface. Your arms wrap around his shoulders on reflex. You feel the muscles flexing under his dress shirt—a crisp black. You help him yank up your skirt and kick off your panties, though they get tangled around your ankle. His slacks and boxer briefs end up coiled around his knees, just far enough to give him room and leverage to slide into your heat.

You both moan at the feeling of him settling snug inside, bottoming out, his almost bruising grip on your ass. Your thighs are wrapped almost as tightly around his waist as he lays you out more fully on the desk. It’s probably harder to do it this way, instead of him just bending you over the hard mahogany. But you’re glad you get to see his face, get to run your fingers through his hair and share his breaths while he fucks you in a slow-rolling rhythm.

It’s more intimate. It feels like it means something, especially when he once again cradles your cheek and brushes wild strands of hair away from your face. Especially when he kisses you deep enough to taste the Almond Joy you snacked on earlier.

You kiss him back just as fervently, as if this will be the first and the last time. You have no idea what happens after today, and you know that probably makes you a fucking idiot. It could lead to the end of your second chance at a career, but you want to trust this. You want to trust the steadiness in Dean’s hands and the look in his eyes.

So you give into what you want, sitting up to lay nipping kissing along his prickly cheek and neck, sucking your own marks against his skin. The way he groans and shudders and fucks you harder—it makes you feel powerful.

“Lean back, sweetheart,” he grits out. “Touch yourself for me.”

You manage to follow his lead, shakily laying back down and letting your hand drift back down your body, finding your clit. Dean watches you play with yourself, his fingers flexing against your hip. You feel him so deep, so good, that the coil of pleasure in your lower belly begins to tighten in earnest.

He’s only satisfied when you have to smother your own mouth against a cry, your hips snapping up to meet his as your release finally hits. Another few ragged strokes, and he spills into you as well.

“Fuck,” he groans into your neck, catching his breath. That was awesome.

But then, his eyes widen. “Christ, forgot a condom.”

“I’m on birth control.” You breathe out a laugh as you soothe him, caressing his shoulders.

He blinks, then he relaxes, chuckling faintly.

“Guess you just make me lose my head,” he says.

“It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to doing the thinking for you,” you tease, biting your lip.

Dean stares down at you, brows raised, yet amused at your cheek.

“Hmm, I’m gonna remember that one. Might have to punish you tomorrow,” he remarks.

You smirk, though a blush burns down your neck at the idea, and the depths of his voice.

He withdraws from you with a quiet moan, then helps you up with a steading grip on your arms when he feels that you’re still a bit shaky. After pulling up his pants, he finds the paper towels you keep handy in one of his desk drawers for the cleanup.

“Seriously, come with me tonight. I’m sure you’ve got a nice dress. If not, I’ll buy you one on the way,” he says, as you two start to pull your clothes back on. And in your case, find your bra.

“Dean, I need to take Emma home,” you say.

You pause with your fingers poised on his dark green jacket, ready to smooth down any wrinkles. The color matches his slacks perfectly. His hair is a bit messy, but overall, he looks edible and professional at the same time. He’s ready to shmooze with the heads of conglomerates and Silicon Valley tycoons and the politicians they own.

But you know you’re not a part of that world.

“Maybe next time,” you say, though you don’t really mean it. Your hand falls.

Dean nods, but he catches your hand before you walk away from him. He slowly winds you back in and kisses you thoroughly enough to make your knees buckle, just a little.

You’re still not sure if he meant what he said about wanting to be with you, or if this is just something he’ll change his mind about in the morning after a few glasses of whiskey.

You definitely think about more than just the road ahead while on your way home, Emma’s chatter filling the car. For once, you can’t say you’re fully paying attention.

Your fingers keep touching the memory lingering on your lips.

AN: 😘❤️‍🔥 How'd you like the slow build? lol Did Dean's earnest appeal surprise you there at the end? He's been a pretty successful play boy up until now, but he's really going to prove himself in Part 3 of our adventure, set shortly after Pratt Fall.

Next Time in Nothing by Halves:

Dean finds a guest spot in front of the school. The old Impala rumbles to a stop there, and he climbs out, grabbing the bouquet resting in his passenger seat.

His keys jangle in his other hand as he makes his way to the front office to check in, just like you told him to in your texted instructions. The nice ladies there give him a guest badge that he slaps on his chest, over his dress shirt, and they tell him how to get to the theater. He feels awkward and out of place walking down the halls of this school alone, but you had to take Emma over there early before the show. 

The hell am I doing here?

He has to fucking wonder.

But he promised you. He promised the kid. So he’s here.

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“Enjoy the peace while it lasts because as soon as Tamara and Akane wake up, all Hell breaks loose.”

She solemnly warns; however Maybelle just giggles lightly. Her voice is soft and barely above a whisper as her smile brightens the room,

“Aww. They’re so precious though.” 

Deandra chuckles in response before sitting up, setting the gun down next to her.

“I suppose they can’t be any better than Toji.”

“Aw shit. What happened this time?”

Jasmine is already laughing as she twirls the plastic straw in her mimosa.

“My girls…” 

Deandra begins.

“My Pride and Joy are angels but got the worst mouths. I heard Akane shoutin’ ‘FUCK YOU!’ the other day.”

Martha gasps into her drink.

“And Toji?!”

“He let that shit happen like it is supposed to be funny!” Deandra leans back, rolling her eyes.

“Damn.”

Jasmine bursts into more laughter as she leans into Maybelle. Deandra just grins before picking up the gun again to resume wiping it.

“And they be pushin’ around Megumi. That poor boy just take it.”

“Sounds exactly like Choso!”

Jasmine immediately follows up.

“The love of my life! A warrior. Curse - or whatever them sorcerers wanna call him - gets tossed around by a fucking four-year-old!”

She pauses dramatically.

“And Lorenzo ain’t even that big!”

Martha snorts out laughing, her glasses nearly slid off her face when she covered her mouth.

“That’s unfortunate of him!”

She squeaks.

“Damn right.”

Jasmine agrees with a wide smile before taking a sip from her drink.

“And do Choso say something? No!”

She pauses again as she takes another sip.

“He just says that Lorenzo is asserting dominance. Meanwhile, Chance clings onto his daddy for dear life and Choso accepts it like he’s a mother possum.”

Martha melts, holding her hand to her chest.

“That is so precious. Chance is turning one soon, isn’t he?”

“Yep. Gotta plan for his birthday.”

Jasmine confidently says as she finishes her drink.

“Speaking of planning…”

Martha lets out an exasperated sigh as she leans forward because ranting requires good posture.

“Kento decided to change our entire parenting plan for Kenji!”

Maybelle dramatically gasps like this is a telenovela.

“Oh no!”

“We agreed to a simple One Year Milestone plan. Easy peasy. He then changed it to Six Months instead!”

Jasmine slaps her forehead, and Deandra tilts her head while lifting a pierced brow. The latter then asks:

“He doubled his workload for a baby?”

“Printed out a binder and EVERYTHING! He has Kenji doing tummy times with a timer now! He's still not even six months yet!”

Martha squeaks out while Maybelle is wheezing. Her hand instinctively rests on her belly.

“I think Kento needs hobbies.”

She gently suggests. Martha giggles lightly while shrugging her shoulders.

“He said raising Kenji is his hobby.”

“Cute.”

Deandra dryly says while shaking her head. Maybelle is now rubbing her belly with both hands as both her feet rests on the couch.

“Satoru won’t let me lift anything heavier than a pillow.”

Martha tilts her head, and Jasmine blinks.

“The pillow?”

“He panicked when I picked up the tv remote.”

Maybelle softly explains with small giggles.

“And he carries me everywhere. Upstairs? He carries me. Bathroom? He’s there. From couch to the kitchen? Of course. I dropped one of my crotchet needles yesterday and he yelled DON’T MOVE SWEET PEA, I’LL SAVE YOU.”

Jasmine bursts into laughter again, feeling fuzzy from her mimosa.

“Oh girl, it is the baby. The moment he saw that belly get real big, he lost his damn mind. It’s like he became a bodyguard but is ironically bad at his job. Respectfully.”

Maybelle giggles shyly at her friend while taking a sip of orange juice. After a few minutes of laughter and Deandra refilling the drinks, everyone is clutching their stomachs and wiping their face masks off because the tears ruined them.

“Our husbands are disasters."

Deandra remarks.

“Affectionate disasters.”

Martha giggles while shrugging her shoulders.

"They be a handful sometimes."

Jasmine adds.

Maybelle smiles softly.

“But they are our disasters.”

A collective ‘awe’ fills the space and the wives continue to lounge as if they are not the emotional anchors for the strongest men on Earth.

~~~

A/n: And Scene!