aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Short Stack

pairing: rooster x reader word count: 4.8k 🥞☕🥓

"You're driving me crazy over here, honey," Bradley said with a pout from his spot in your kitchen, whining as he stared at you, your back to his front as you stood at your spot in front of the gas stove. 

It was a picturesque Sunday morning, the air was warm and sweet-smelling as the wind floated in from the open window, dainty linen curtains blowing enchanting shapes in the breeze. You had asked Bradley if he wanted to eat breakfast outside today since, as you had put it, it would be such a waste if we didn't. 

"Hm?" you hummed in response, resting your cheek on your shoulder as you craned your neck to glance over at the pilot, your hands busy tending to pancakes sizzling away on the stovetop "what'd you say, baby?" finding it a little hard to hear him over the speaker you had playing next to you on the countertop.

"You expect me to just sit over here while you're over there looking like that?" he questioned in an incredulous tone, his legs were wide open, palms splayed over his bare thighs while he watched you, his pajama shorts riding high on the tan skin underneath. 

You raised your eyebrows, eyes glinting curiously in his direction before you bent over at the waist to check the bacon crisping up in the oven. Old sweatshirt riding up just enough to drive Bradley wild as you batted your lashes at him, stoking the flames you loved to be warmed by.

"What's that, Bradley?" you said, dimples threatening to break through the coy smile you were trying to hide, "don't you want me to take care of you like I promised?" you teased, reminding Bradley of the moments that had transpired not too long before he was sat sipping coffee in one of his favorite places in the world, your kitchen on a lazy Sunday morning.

"Sleepy girl," 

His favorite way to wake you up on Sundays was to whisper in your ear as he snuck his hand up the front of whatever soft top you happened to fall asleep in. Warm hand reaching for your breasts, but wanting you to be awake before he teased you so he could listen to you react.

"Good morning, baby," he rasped in your ear, his eager fingers ghosting over your bare nipples after he felt you stir, relishing in the pleased little sound you made in the back of your throat in response to his touch, nipples pebbling immediately under the tips of his fingers.  

The night before you promised him you'd wake up early and make him a nice breakfast: fluffy buttermilk pancakes, perfectly cooked bacon, coffee the way he likes it — the works — he deserved it, you'd said. 

You spent that night cooing in his ear about how he worked so hard on base, pressing wet kisses across his bare chest as you praised him, moaning desperately into the air as he pressed his thumb softly on your clit as you rode him—couldn't stop telling him how desperately you wanted to make him feel good.  

"You deserve to feel so fucking good all the time, Bradley Bradshaw," you said, your skin hot and flushed as you fell apart on top of him, "and I'm going to make sure you do. I'm going to treat you so, so good, baby." you moaned into his ear before you felt him filling you up in your favorite way. 

So blinking your eyes open, to see your bedroom bathed in the hazy morning glow while Bradley's hard cock pressed firmly against your ass, was not what you needed to have the productive morning you'd promised. 

"Bradley," you forced out in your rough morning tone, a warning, at least that's how you intended it to sound. 

"Mhm?" Rooster grumbled from behind you, pulling you tighter to his sleep-warmed body as he pushed his wet lips and scratchy mustache into your soft neck. "love hearing you say my name," he mumbled, "lemme hear it again, sweet girl," a tiny kiss pressed into the back of your hairline, "y'smell so good by the way, always do." he said, his tone laced with affection as he inhaled your scent, pressing tender kisses to the sensitive skin of your throat.

"Bradley," you repeated, placing your hand on top of the one he had resting on your hip, managing to flip yourself so that you were facing him, staring directly into his eyes. "good morning." 

You kissed him softly on the lips before taking both of his hands between your bodies and pressing them above your breast, inhaling deeply and letting him feel your heartbeat. Rooster was strong, there was no denying it. But, for all that strength, Bradley was also putty in your hands, made utterly helpless at the site of your eyes on his. His body went completely pliant the moment you locked eyes with him and put your hands anywhere on his body. 

"G'morning," he sighed, losing his train of thought in the way the sunlight made your skin glow. Bradley pressed a soft kiss onto your nose as he breathed you in, his chest pressing against your joined hands as he moved closer, tangling your feet beneath the soft blankets. 

"Remember what I promised?" you reminded him, taking in his dreamy expression, keenly aware of how shallow his breaths were as he gazed at you, "I gotta start cooking, honey. Wanna treat you to this."

His mouth parts, tongue coming out to wet his lips as he watches you speak. Leans in closer to listen to you whisper sweetly about how you wanted to take care of him. 

"Or," he started, mustache quirking slightly as a smirk took over his features, "you stay here," he paused for a moment, his larger hands overlapping yours to bring your knuckles up to his warm lips, "and you let me take care of you — let me make you feel good."

Hearing him say that made your heart pound, made your entire body tingle all over and tempted you to no end. But you wanted, no needed, to do this for Bradley. You had been planning this ever since the last time you cooked for him and he wouldn't shut up about how he loved watching you in the kitchen.

Went on and on about how he was ready to be a stay-at-home anything if it meant getting to watch you act out all the fantasies he held deep inside, close to his heart. Fantasies of domestic bliss, of a life with someone who cares for you, who adores you, and in return, someone to make it all worth giving a shit about. 

And as much as you loved taking care of Bradley, you could never get enough of the way he would playfully nudge you away from the sink the moment he saw you starting to wash up after a meal. He always wanted to help, wanted to be involved, wanted to fill you up with the same type of affection you poured into him. 

"Excuse me miss," he would start, his hip bumping yours as he came to stand at the sink, "what do you think you're doing over here?" his smile was always infectious at this point, his large hands coming in to pluck the sponge straight from your wet fingers, "go relax, go get comfy. I'll do the rest." and with that final word, he would kiss you into total submission and send you on your way with a tap to your bottom.

"Later," you whispered, "stay in bed. I'll bring you coffee in a bit," 

You freed your hands from his grip and gently brushed your fingers over his cheekbone. He immediately leaned into your soft touch, allowing you to rise easily, his lips forming a pout as he watched you move to exit the bedroom. 

"You're torturing me," he said, propping himself up on his palm, elbow digging into the mattress as he shifted, his other palm coming out to reach for you in a desperate final attempt to get you back under the warm sheets.

You couldn't help the grin that blossomed on your face as you basked in Bradley's warm gaze. 

"Lucky for you," you started, cheek pressed to the door frame as you watched him, "you're trained to handle tough situations like this. Aren't you, Lieutenant Bradshaw?" you slipped out before he could give you a response. 

Walking down the hall you heard him groan and flop back down onto the mattress, could clearly picture him running his hands over his face and through his sleep-mussed hair as he shook his head with a smile. 

And that's how you ended up here, sunshine coming softly through your kitchen window while Bradley sat wide-legged at your breakfast nook. His large body settled into the cushion you and your friends had DIY'd one Friday evening, after two bottles of chilled red wine sat happily in your stomachs and shared laughter lit up the room. It's how you ended up with Bradley practically white-knuckling his mug as he watches you cook and fawn over him, sweetly asking him, "Can I top off your coffee, baby?" while you stroke the back of his neck, backing away before he can get his hands on you. 

"Honey," Bradley had moved from his spot, taking a few short strides to stand behind you at the stove. His hands coming to rest on your hips as he drags you back to him, "I can't sit there anymore." 

"No?" you question, your gaze on the cast iron skillet on the burner, the final pancake was cooking away on its shiny black surface as you feigned nonchalance. "What's got you so worked up, Bradshaw?"

Once he heard his last name leave your mouth he knew you were teasing him, and god was he ready to tease you right back. 

"I don't know," he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, "maybe just a pretty little thing making me breakfast," another kiss below your ear, "my girl taking such good care of me," 

Bradley moves his right hand to take the spatula out of your grip, meeting no resistance as you melt into the heat radiating from his naked chest, getting lost in the words coming out of his mouth as you lean into his onslaught of kisses.

"I'll tell you what's got me worked up, baby." 

You feel him inhale deeply behind you, the music playing from the speaker filling up the otherwise quiet room as he deftly flips the pancake on the pan, somehow knowing it was the perfect time to turn it as its golden brown surface shows itself. Soon after his perfect pancake has been flipped, he places the tool down, and using his now free right hand, turns off the stove and the oven, signaling the end of that—kitchen closed. 

Every nerve in your body was lighting up now. You could feel the excitement building in your marrow as he stood calmly behind you. 

"Turn around, and I'll tell you," he whispers in your ear, "lemme see your pretty eyes."

There was no other option but to listen, no choice but to turn around and stare into his lust-filled eyes. 

"So, what is it, Bradshaw?" you practically sigh, turning to him as you try to calm your breathing, willing yourself to fill your lungs slowly before he pushes you over the edge with just his words. 

"It's you," his voice still low as his as he reaches his hand up to brush over your lips. The pad of his thumb swipes back and forth gently over your pouted bottom lip, "it's you in this fucking kitchen looking like a dream. It's you saying my name while you pour me coffee," he pauses briefly, "it's that I know you slept in my sweatshirt last night to drive me fucking crazy this morning." 

"Am I in trouble, Lieutenant Bradshaw?" you say coolly despite the blazing inferno ripping through your entire being, despite his finger still resting on the plush of your lip.

Bradley doesn't answer, simply pushes his thumb past your lips and onto your waiting tongue. He loves the way he can make you mush under his touch. But you never let him have the upper hand for long. He groans and squeezes his eyes shut as you gaze up at him, sucking harshly on the digit and wetting it with your eager tongue. He pulls the finger out of your mouth, hand moving to grip your cheeks in a manner that made your panties flood with wetness. Bradley was practically panting — trying so hard to keep his cool, trying so hard not to spin you around right here and fuck you against the oven.

“Breakfast is gonna have to wait, pretty girl,” he declares, “should have never let you get out of bed this morning.”

After that it's a blur of warm hands grasping for bare skin, a symphony of moaning into open-mouthed kisses and when Bradley moves his hands down your thighs, pulling in a signal you've come to know well, you jump. His capable hands immediately come to your ass as you wrap your legs around his middle. You're nose to nose with him as he walks you back to the bedroom.

"I've got you, baby," he whispers, "gonna make you feel so good."

He's dropping you onto the bed before you know it, towering his body over yours to kiss every inch of skin he can touch. He's pushing up your (his) sweatshirt to reveal the soft skin hidden underneath, stopping to bite and lick your exposed breasts, taking extra care of each nipple as he nips and pinches. 

Rooster tosses away the article of clothing, leaving you lying in the morning light in just your underwear. He takes a single step back, leaving you panting on the bed as you stare up at him. He's obviously hard, his pajama shorts tented and hands flexing at his sides as he looks down at the way your almost naked body is being illuminated by the golden light. 

"You look too fucking good," he whispers mostly to himself, "god damn." 

He drops to his knees in front of you, hands coming to wrap underneath your knees as he drags you to the end of the bed, bringing your covered cunt to his waiting mouth. Rooster immediately presses his nose and lips onto the sodden fabric of your panties, his tongue coming out to taste the wetness soaking the cotton. You could come just from this, just from Bradley Bradshaw breathing into your pussy while he presses his perfect nose against your puffy clit. 

"Want me to taste you, honey?" he whispers into your cunt, and you feel like you're burning alive, "cause I wanna taste you real fuckin' bad."

He pulls away from you again, and it really isn't fair that he looks like that right now. His skin is radiant and ethereal, he smells divine and he's looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. Before you even have a chance to answer, Rooster is gripping the fabric on your underwear tightly, increasing the friction on your clit. A little tease. Maybe a little mean—or even a little needy. 

"Talk to me, baby," he says, fingers still pulling the fabric taut against your dripping center. 

"Please, Bradley," you whisper desperately, chest heaving as you look down at him. "Need you," you add, yes because you mean it, but also because you know he loves to hear it.  

With that, he is swiftly pulling the soaked panties down your legs, flinging them somewhere to be found later while the two of you laugh and make the bed together.

His palms come back to separate your thighs and you could die. You feel like you're about to plunge into icy cold water—the shock of adrenaline as your body adjusts to the frigid temperature. Warmth overtakes every cell in your body, as you gaze down at him. Bradley is staring directly into your wet pussy with a lust-filled glaze in his pretty eyes. With every inhale and exhale you feel more obscene, more spread open.

"So wet," he observes, his voice deep and gruff "you showin' off for me? Gettin' nice and wet just for me, baby?"

He runs his thumb up and down your slit, taking one pass to tease at your aching clit. His thumb is bringing you a pleasure that is making your back arch off the mattress, it feels like he is taking you apart piece by piece. His face is still so close to your pussy you can feel his breath fanning over you. His warm breath is a sharp contrast to the wetness of your weeping hole. 

"Oh, honey," he coos, as he dips his middle finger into your soaked cunt, "bet you were wet this morning too, huh? But my good girl wanted to treat me to a picture-perfect Sunday, didn't she?"

He wants you to answer, you know this.

"Want you so bad, Bradley," you whimper into your palm, having pressed the side of it between your teeth to keep from yelling out, "want you always. Wanna take care of you all the time."

When his mouth finally comes down, it makes you weep, makes you cry out in a tone you've never heard leave your body. His supple mouth and tongue are bringing you so much comfort as they simultaneously send all-encompassing shockwaves of pleasure through you. 

You’re bucking into his mouth, unashamed in your want for him, unabashed in the way you spread your wetness over his gorgeous face. You bring your hands away from your fluttering chest and gasping mouth to pull his hair, hard. He moans loudly when you do, making your tummy do backflips as he feasts on your cunt. Breakfast be damned. 

"My perfect girl," he whispers against your clit, "tastes so good. Such a sweet pussy."

You groan at his words, reveling in his praise and storing it away to replay at a later time. No one has ever made you feel the way Rooster does, no one has ever been able to make you completely unravel in the way he can. 

"Need you, baby," you whine from your spot on the bed, "need to feel you inside me, please. Please, Bradley."

He pulls back enough for you to see his face—lips shining, mustache obscenely wet and it makes you dizzy just to look at him like this. His hands are still gripping your thighs, his touch burning the area his palms are claiming. 

"Can't wait for me to finish?" he taunts, mocking you as he smiles into your wet cunt.

That's when you move to sit up, propping yourself up on your elbows to get better leverage. Wordlessly you slip back away from him, sliding back on the soft sheets to rest your back flat against the headboard. Creating enough distance between the two of you to keep him out of arms reach, the only touch he could lay on you now is a soft graze to your ankle with his fingertips. 

"Come here, Rooster," you say, your sultry tone sounds unfamiliar to you, coated in want and lust, "come and take your pussy, Lieutenant Bradshaw."

A beat passes. You hear him curse under his breath. He's so solid when he comes to stand at the end of the bed. Doesn't take his eyes off yours as he rids himself of his soft shorts. Doesn't make a sound as he palms his erection, stroking the length once, twice, three times before he descends upon you. Once again he's flexing that Navy-earned strength of his to drag your body flush against the mattress. His arms coming to frame your head as he brings his mouth down onto yours, soft and kind, kissing you so sweetly as he leaves the taste of you behind on your tongue. 

"You're gonna be the death of me, baby." he moans into your mouth.

"What a way to go," is all you say before you reach down to rub his cock up and down your wet slit, taking extra care to rub his sensitive tip over your clit driving you both wild in the process. 

He's gripping your wrist tight, halting your movement on his length. His eyes are half-open as they peer into yours, his bottom lip lodged in between his perfect teeth as he places your hand back on the soft sheets below you. 

His plunging inside you so suddenly it pushes all the air out of your lungs. His breath hitches as he settles into the deepest, warmest parts of you—his hands coming up to keep your supple thighs snug around his waist as pleasure rocks through your core. Sometimes he moves so fast you can't keep up, can't keep up with the pillow being shoved under your ass as Bradley strokes deep inside of you. 

“Oh, honey,” he moans, “god that pussy is perfect.” 

Your skin sizzles at his praise, pleasure is working itself down to the very tips of your toes, making you shiver. You're gasping for breath as he pushes himself impossibly deeper inside of you, eyes falling shut as you chase the pleasure he is eliciting from you. Your pussy is clenching around him, he feels so thick and perfect inside you it makes you want to cry. Your hands are gripping the sheets so hard your fingers are cramping. 

"Look at me, pretty baby," he whispers, "let me see my girl."

Your eyes snap open, but your head tilts back with pleasure at his request. You feel so close. You don't know how he gets you teetering over the edge so fast. Maybe it's the husky sound of his voice as he calls you a million different lovely names. Maybe it's the way his tan arms look caging you beneath his body. Or maybe it's the way he gets lost staring in between your bodies. 

Rooster is obsessed with the way he looks sliding in and out of you while you cry out underneath him. But he can never look away too long, always needing to see the look in your eyes as he fucks you in a way that makes you whine and beg for him—makes you desperate for him in his favorite way. He never gets tired of the shock on your face when he whispers filthy words into your ear as he touches parts of you no one ever has. And you hope to god that no one but him ever will again. 

Did Bradley love seeing you act out his domestic fantasies? Of fucking course. The pilot could hardly keep his hands off you most evenings, barely getting the chance to say hello before he was winded at the sight of you floating around the kitchen. Always humming along to a tune he liked — or at least he liked the sound of it coming sweetly from you — before you noticed he was in the room. You were always stirring this, or chopping that. Asking him to taste this for salt or, like most times, you simply said "sit and relax, Rooster, let me take care of you." like you did this morning. He loved the way you took care of him. You did it without pretense or motive. Just did it because you loved to see him loved. You adored doting on Bradley Bradshaw because you knew he deserved it. You knew how he craved it. 

But, for as much as Bradley liked you sweet and delicate in the kitchen, he loved you fucked out and messy more. He went crazy over the way you'd suck his fingers into your mouth while he was fucking you, doing anything just to feel fuller. Loved the way you teased—all half-lidded eyes and parted lips, walking around half-dressed with an innocent smile on your face as you stepped in front of the TV, interrupting whatever college football game he happened to be watching with a simple Hi, Bradshaw. He lived for the chase and would do stupid, dangerous things for the reward. 

“Bradley,” you whisper, and it elicits another moan from him, one that is throaty and deep, "Make me cum, please,"

He wants to keep teasing you, wants to make you wait so badly, wants to make you yell out his name desperately as he edges you. But he can't—not this morning—not when you look so, so pretty laid out underneath him, like a fucking angel, he thinks to himself. 

"I've got you, pretty honey," he leans down to press his chest into yours, relishing in the feeling of your hard nipples pressed into his heated skin, "don't have to do a thing, sweet girl, just feel how deep that cock is inside you, okay? Can you do that for me?"

"Oh, Bradley," you whine, crying out at the feeling of his shaft hitting parts of you that hurt so goddamn good. Parts of you that made tears prick at the corners of your eyes, made your toes curl and your heart pound out of your chest. 

He's close too, he can never stop talking the closer to release he gets. "That's it, baby, tell me who's making you feel good. Tell me whose cock is gonna make you cum." his words are filthy as he chases his orgasm alongside yours. 

You would tell him anything he wanted to hear right now, confess your deepest darkest secrets if he asked. 

"It's you, Rooster" you moan. "Always you, only you. No one else can fuck me like you Rooster, please. Please." you plead desperately, you're so close to cumming and it's driving you insane, making your skin tingle all over as you stand over the edge waiting to jump. 

Bradley's mind goes blank at your words, he can't do anything but continue to fuck you deeper, soaking in your praise before it shoots straight into his pelvis and grips him tight. 

You hold on to him tightly as you cum, holding him as close as possible as you grind against him, body moving instinctually at this point to chase the most pleasure possible, to milk every last ounce of euphoria you can from him. 

Bradley's own gratification is close, he knew it was the moment he felt your pussy start pulsing around his cock as you came. He was absolutely basking in every little noise coming from as you came undone underneath him, he loved watching you come apart, loved that he was the one doing it. 

"I want it, baby," you preen underneath him, shocking him out of his reverie and snapping his attention to the fucked out expression on your face, "need to feel you cum inside me Bradley, please, baby. Need it so, so bad, honey."

He growls and you know that did it. The deep, raspy noise coming from him as he spills inside you makes you clench down on his shaft, hard. The feeling of your cum soaked pussy clenching around him makes Bradley curse into your ear. Makes him thrust hard into your sensitive hole as he groans out your name.

When you still, the two of you are slick with a fine layer of sweat, bellies moving in tandem as you fight desperately to fill your lungs and steady your heartbeats. 

If there's one thing Bradley loves, it's the afterglow. He could lie on top of you with his cock soft inside your velvet walls for hours. Wouldn't move if he didn't have the unfortunate human need for food and water. On rare occasions, Bradley would be so relaxed post-orgasm, he would doze off on your chest, his breath coming out in gentle puffs over your skin as you pet the top of his head, basking in the sight of him bare and malleable underneath you.  

"I think breakfast might be a little cold, baby," he says with a smile, gazing up at you with a look you could only describe as smitten.

"Shame," you tut, and your hand grips his hair a little tight, nothing that hurt, nothing that no one but a top naval aviator would notice, a little twitch as you considered what to say next. "can I tell you a secret?" you're grinning now too.

"Spill it," his expression is giddy as he waits for your confession. 

"I love doing this with you," you didn't mean to be earnest. You meant to say something witty, something funny. 

But you couldn't, honesty pouring out of you like a tub overflowing with water. Like someone had turned on the faucet and walked away. 

You see his expression soften before he's rolling the two of you over, his eyes never leaving yours as he brings the both of you to lay on your sides, mirroring the position you were in earlier this morning. Hands gripped tightly between each other, chests moving in tandem as you bring your faces impossibly close together. "Me too, baby," he's smiling so sweetly it's making your stomach fill with butterflies "you have no idea."

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Rooster wasn't for you. You were opposites in so many ways - he was an extrovert to your introvert. The center of attention to your wallflower. You weren't interested in a one night stand, and he couldn't offer more. So his volunteering to help with Friendsgiving was just a friendly gesture after you returned from a deployment...right?

Word count: 7.8K

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“Just a minute!” you called, swiping a strand of hair from your face. The knocking stopped, and you quickly washed the flour from your hands, drying them on the towel thrown over your shoulder while heading to the door.

And there, standing on your front step as the sun started to rise, was Bradley. His normally styled curls were sleep-mussed, his grey t-shirt clinging to his arms and untucked from his Navy PT sweatpants. The smile on his face grew as he took you in - sweatpants, a baggy sweatshirt dotted with flour, fuzzy socks, and not a stitch of makeup. The difference from your normally put-together appearance was stark. “Morning, Duch.”

“You’re late.” Laughing, he held up a bag of microwavable frozen corn.

“Had to turn around when I forgot my contribution.” Rolling your eyes, you stepped back to let him in, watching to ensure he removed his shoes before following you into the kitchen.

“The turkey’s already thawed and in the sink. I just need you to clean it out, and I can take it from there.” Bradley nodded, tossing you the corn before going to the kitchen. You put it in the freezer and walked to the downstairs bathroom to wash your hands before resuming your spot at the counter, picking up your bread lame and staring at the unbaked loaf. A part of you wanted to do a simple score, knowing that it would just be eaten, but the hostess in you demanded a more intricate design. The indecision tore at you. To buy time, you sprinkled the top with more rice flour. 

“Can you get me the trashcan?” Bradley asked, and you nodded, quickly abandoning your project. After you set it beside him and pulled off the cover, he tossed the netting and plastic. You couldn’t help but notice his biceps flex as he shifted the turkey. But you shrunk back when he reached into the cavity and pulled out the giblets and gravy package, shaking your head at his raised eyebrow. He discarded them as you braced yourself, nose scrunching when he removed the neck. “You alright there, Duch?” he teased. 

“Gross.” 

“It’s just a turkey neck,” he said, holding it closer to you. You jumped back.

“I will throat punch you if you touch me with that.” He laughed, edging it closer, and you raised a fist. There was a reason a condition of you hosting everyone for Friendsgiving was someone else cleaning the turkey.

“Didn’t take you for being squeamish.” 

“You would be, too, if your grandpa chased you around the house with it when you were a kid, and you had to lock yourself in a bathroom to escape.” At his barked laugh, you shook your head. “I told that to my ex, and he thought it was funny to put it in his zipper and chase me around the house with it. If floppy dick isn’t attractive, a turkey neck sure as shit isn’t.” 

Bradley choked on a laugh. For as prim and proper as you were at times - hence the callsign Duchess - you sometimes reminded everyone that you also had a military sense of humor. “Maybe you just haven’t seen the right ‘floppy dick,’” he smirked, dropping the neck into the trash. 

Shrugging, you glanced away from him when the oven beeped, alerting that it was preheated. “You’re right. Bob probably has a pretty one.” A rosy flush crept up his cheeks as he turned back to the turkey and forced a laugh. Bradley didn’t want to hear that you were thinking about Bob’s dick. “Put it in this afterward, and I’ll dry it.” After dropping the roasting pan beside him, you rewashed your hands.

Standing in front of your bread, you bit your lip to keep from giggling as you contemplated scoring a dick into the dough but decided to go with a traditional wheat stalk. To your surprise, he grabbed the roll of paper towels by the sink and patted the turkey dry, even the cavity. As you removed the Dutch oven from the preheated oven, he tied up the trash bag and took it out. After putting the bread into the oven, you set the timer and moved to the sink, glancing at Bradley when he came back in. Standing beside you, he reached for the soap and lowered the water temperature before scrubbing his hands. Removing the hand towel from your shoulder, you draped it over his after drying your hands. “Thanks,” he murmured. 

“Thanks for taking care of the turkey.” Standing by the island, you crouched to retrieve a cutting board. The sound of other cabinets closing made you peek over the countertop to see him rooting through the overhead storage. “Are you looking for something?” 

“Coffee mugs.” Biting back a retort about making himself comfortable, you pointed to the right of the stove. You bit your tongue when he grabbed two mugs - including your favorite - and went to the wet bar where the full pot was finished brewing. Placing the cutting board on the counter, you grabbed a knife from the block and were surprised to see a mug of coffee beside your workstation. Murmuring your thanks, you grabbed the creamer from the fridge along with packages of herbs and butter. “What are you making?” Bradley asked.

“A marinade since I didn’t brine the turkey.” 

“You want a hand?” 

“I’ve got it,” you said automatically. “I’ve got a schedule.” He didn’t need to know that you were already behind after falling asleep on the couch early last night and forgetting to set your alarm. And he definitely didn’t need to know that you’d only been awake for 20 minutes before he arrived. If you put your head down and focused, everything would still be ready to eat at the agreed-upon 3:00 PM. Some of your time to get yourself ready would just have to be sacrificed. For some reason, you’d insisted that everyone dress nicely for Friendsgiving. Wearing a uniform almost every day didn’t give you any opportunities to dress up, and sometimes it felt nice to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt. 

Setting your tablet up, you navigated through the bookmarked recipes and rinsed the herbs before pulling them from the stems. Bradley leaned against the counter beside you and sipped his coffee while glancing around the kitchen. Seeing him relaxing there, one leg crossed over the other and looking like he’d just rolled out of bed, made something flutter in your chest. 

“You know, you could have saved a lot of time if you’d just agreed to let Hangman fry the turkey.”

That made you snort. “I just finished my renovations - the last thing I want is for my house to burn down.” It had taken months to get your home exactly how you wanted it. After twelve years in the Navy, you were ready to put down some roots, and buying a home had seemed like the smart thing to do. Living in a construction zone for the last year hadn’t been fun, but a well-timed deployment meant you weren’t there for the worst of it. The results were worth the pain, and you’d jumped at the chance to host when you got back and realized most of the squad had no plans for Thanksgiving. You couldn’t wait for them to see the changes in the Craftsman that had been a definite fixer-upper when you purchased it. The kitchen had been completely gutted and replaced with double ovens and quartz countertops, and the smaller kitchen island had been moved and changed to a wet bar with a wine fridge, replaced with an oversized one. The popcorn texture was scraped from the ceiling throughout the house, the floors redone, and the walls painted. The primary bath had been updated with a large soaker tub and walk-in shower, and you loved the giant closet. The guest bathrooms still needed work, as did the yard, but those were projects for later. 

“It looks good, Duch,” he said softly, gaze holding yours for a long moment. You felt those inconvenient butterflies again and shoved them aside, dropping your eyes to the cutting board. Bradley wasn’t for you. You were too different - he enjoyed nights out at the bar, while you liked to spend time at home. He liked being the center of attention while you preferred to blend into the background. Besides, he didn’t seem much like a relationship guy, given the number of flings he had at the Hard Deck, while the idea of casual dating gave you hives. Pushing away from the counter, Bradley reached under the sink for a trashbag, putting it into the can before washing his hands. He moved closer, nose twitching slightly at the scent of rosemary, and braced his big hands on the countertop beside you. “Alright, what can I do?” 

“You don’t - ”

“Lemme help.” His eyes met yours, smiling when you sighed. 

“Fine. The meat injector is in here,” you said, bumping one of the drawer handles with your hip. “And I’ll need the chicken stock from the pantry.” Pouring the stock, herbs, and a couple of sticks of butter into a stockpan, you handed Bradley a silicone spatula and told him to stir. You rolled your lips together to keep from smiling when he pulled his phone from his pocket and watched videos of turkey injections before declaring he would be in charge of it. Reluctantly, you agreed. Once the marinade had cooled, the bird was given a second drying, you had finished the coffee, and Bradley had rewatched the video three times, it was time. He studied the turkey through narrowed eyes as you tried not to laugh. “You want to - ”

“Ah!”

“The breast and thighs - ”

“I’m doing it, Duch,” he cut you off. 

“Well, remember that if it turns out dry.” The unimpressed look Bradley shot you made you grin as you put your chin in your hand and motioned for him to proceed. The tip of his tongue poked through his lips as he filled the injector and hovered the needle over the turkey. His eyes darted to you, and you raised an eyebrow. “You can tap out at any time, Rooster.” Instead of replying, he pierced the meat and pushed down on the plunger. You couldn’t help but laugh when he yelped, marinade spraying in his face after pushing too hard. But when he reached to wipe it away, you caught his hands. “Don’t put turkey germs all over your face,” you scoffed, towing him toward the sink. You held his chin while cleaning his face with wet paper towels. 

“Now you’re just messing with me,” he chuckled when you scrubbed his mustache, but he didn’t pull away. His breath was hot on your hand, and his smile soft when you reached up to dab away a speck of garlic in his eyebrow. Balling up the paper towel, you shook your head. 

“Wash your face with soap to make sure you don’t get salmonella. Cyclone’ll kill me if you’re out with food poisoning.” Turning on the water, you ensured it was warm before getting a clean washcloth. The oven timer beeped as you dug through the linen closet, and you hurried back into the kitchen, throwing the towel on the sink beside him and grabbing the pot holders to take out your bread. Once it was on the wire rack to cool, you moved to the turkey. 

“What’re you doing?” Bradley demanded, turning while drying his face. 

“Taking over.” You gasped when he closed the space between you in a few strides, wrapped his arm around your waist, and lifted you away from the counter. “Bradshaw! What the hell?”

“Told you I’m doing it,” he chuckled in your ear. Once back on your feet, you spun in his hold and stared at him. Butterflies erupted in your stomach at his cocky smirk. 

“Fine, but if you waste more of my marinade, you’re out of my kitchen.”

“Deal.” 

Thankfully, there were no further incidents, but you kept a close eye on him while slicing up a loaf of bread you’d baked two days before and let go stale for stuffing. After covering the roasting tray with tin foil, the bird went back into the fridge to rest for a few hours. “Thanks, Rooster. I guess I’ll see you later?”

“What else can I do?” 

“You don’t - ” 

“I want to help. I haven’t…” his eyes dropped to the floor as he shrugged. “I never got to do this before. My mom and I would always go to my cousin’s for Thanksgiving before she died, and it always seemed kinda fun.” 

Everyone on the squad knew that Bradley’s parents had passed when he was young. He didn’t mention them often, but you noticed he’d get quiet sometimes when people talked about their families. So his volunteering the information felt important, and glancing at the clock showed that you were still behind schedule. “Fine.”

“Yeah?” he asked, excitement flashing in his eyes. 

“Don’t look so happy - you’re doing prep work. You can peel potatoes, assemble the veggie tray, and roast the garlic. I need to work on sides and desserts.” 

And he did. Bradley followed your instructions, grimacing while peeling potatoes over the trash can until you took out a plastic bag and put it in the sink for him to do it there. You kept an eye on him as he cut the spuds into uniform pieces after explaining that they wouldn’t cook evenly for the mashed potatoes, somewhat worried that he would cut himself. Rather than deal with the onions, you delegated the task and tried not to laugh at his near-constant sniffles and swipes at his watery eyes as you diced peppers. Once you dug out the hand-me-down crystal platters, he arranged the veggies you’d prepped the night before while making pies. Dips were mixed, and cans of olives and bottles of pickles were opened and drained before being plated.

Other than bumping into one another when going for the fridge at the same time, it wasn’t too bad sharing the kitchen. The coffee pot was quickly emptied, and Bradley brewed another between shredding blocks of cheese. You sang along with your playlists, his deep voice joining on a few songs while teasing you about others. When you sang about karma being a kink, he watched your hips sway at the sink, clenching his jaw when you sang a breathy ‘oh god.’ 

He slid the roasting tray into the oven when the turkey was rested and ready to cook. “Now what?” he asked, turning to look at you. 

“Now we keep an eye on it for about four hours. Baste and re-inject it every hour or so,” you shrugged. A glance at his watch showed it would be almost 2:00 PM by the time it was ready. As though realizing it would still be hours before eating, his stomach grumbled its discontent. He blushed when you smirked. “I guess the least I can do is make my sous chef breakfast. Get the muffins and butter from the fridge for me.”  

“Did you make these?” he asked, setting the containers beside you as you heated a skillet on the stove.

“I did - family tradition is grilled muffins on Thanksgiving morning. You okay with blueberry?” At his nod, you started slicing muffins in half. Rather than giving you space, Bradley stayed at your elbow. A comfortable silence fell, broken only by sizzling butter. His gaze met yours when you glanced up at him, and a smile tugged at his mouth. 

An image of reaching up to bury your fingers in his messy curls and tugging his mouth down to meet yours flashed through your mind. Your fingers twitched with the urge to do it, eyes drifting to his mouth and lingering there for a moment too long. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you forced yourself to look away, heat creeping into your face. 

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he reached up to shift a strand of hair that had fallen from your messy bun. “I’m glad you're back, Duch,” he said, voice slightly raspy. 

Forcing a laugh, you plated two muffins and handed them to him. “Everyone misses the mom friend of the group when she’s deployed.” Your eyes darted to his stomach when it growled again, just in time to see the front of his sweats twitch. Pretending you didn’t see it, you nodded to the living room. “The parade is recording if you want to watch it.” 

Bradley opened his mouth as though he would say something before taking the apparent dismissal. Alone in the kitchen, you touched your cheek and felt warm skin. With a deep breath, you grilled yourself a muffin as the sound of the broadcasters came from the living room. After topping up your coffee, you joined him. He sprawled on one end of the couch, plate balanced on a thigh as he sipped his coffee. Sitting on the opposite side, you crossed your legs and let out a soft groan. Only a couple of hours standing in the kitchen and your back was already starting to protest. “What else do you have to do this morning?” he asked after a moment.

Mentally running through your list, you sighed. “I need to do some cleaning and get into the attic. I’ll start cooking a bit closer to noon, so things just have to be warmed up.”

“What do you need from the attic?” 

“My nice china. My parents bought my sister and I sets for our hope chests when we were kids.”

“What’s a hope chest?”

“You know, stuff you’d need once you get married?” When his eyebrows shot up, you shrugged. “They weren’t really serious about it - it was more of a joke. But, every once in a while, they’d buy something for us and put it away for when we were older and say it was for our hope chest.” Taking a bite of muffin, you gave him a sad smile, “Mine’s more of a ‘hopeless’ chest,’ though. I guess they finally gave up on me getting married because they gave it to me when they sold their house and moved closer to the grandkids. I figured I’d get it out and use it instead of having it sit in the cardboard boxes it’s been in for over two decades.” Something passed over Bradley’s face but disappeared in an instant. Wanting to change the subject, you asked, “What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?”

“Nothing. It’s just another Thursday.” When you frowned, he lifted a shoulder. “A couple of times, I went to the Officer’s Club, or someone would invite me over. But most of the time, I just make myself a turkey sandwich and catch up on sleep. What about you?”

“If I’m not with my family, then this. When I first commissioned, I went to the O-Club with some friends but missed cooking and hanging out. And you know how hard it is to go home for the holidays.” He nodded even though he didn’t. Bradley never asked for the time off unless he was dating someone who insisted on it. With no family to visit, he was happy to volunteer when there was reduced manning and allow others to take leave. “So I invited a couple of people from my squad over, and that was that.” 

“It’s a lot of work.”

“It is,” you agreed. “But it’s worth it.” Bradley’s fingers curled around his plate and in his sweatpants, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. When he shifted forward, you quickly stood and reached out your hand for his empty plate. “Do you want another one?” Shaking his head, he stood and took your plate. 

“Do you?” Swallowing hard, you shook your head and watched him walk back into the kitchen. Biting back a groan, you gave yourself a moment to collect yourself. Things had been…different… since you’d gotten home. And as much as you enjoyed these quiet moments alone with Bradley, it also stung. You’d thought the time away would help, but as soon as you were back, it was like no time had passed. He was still there, partnering for foosball in the Ready Room and coaxing you to go to the Hard Deck. Making sure that you sat next to him in briefings. Offering to look at your car when it made a noise.

Friends. That’s what friends do for each other. After all, he did the same for Nat. 

Collecting the empty coffee mugs, you followed him to the kitchen and watched as Bradley cleaned up the mess and set it in the sink. “Don’t feel like you have to stick around, Rooster. I can handle getting everything ready.” 

“I’m happy to help if you want me here. I’d just sit at my house watching TV and wait to come back if I went home.” 

Chewing the inside of your lip, you bit back a wave of want. “Don’t think this gets you out of the dress code,” you replied, forcing your voice to be cool while allowing your eyes to run the length of him. “I’m serious - slacks and button-downs, not sweats.” 

Laughing, he snapped a salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure I run home and change to pass your inspection.” 

The rest of the morning was a blur, punctuated by moments of stark clarity. 

Bradley’s hands on your waist as you climbed down the attic stairs. 

Biceps flexing as he carried your Christmas tree to a spare bedroom to set up tomorrow.

His elbow bumping yours as he dried the china and set it aside.  

The look of concentration on his face when he basted and injected the turkey again.

His body passing close to yours as he emptied the dishwasher and you assembled dishes.

Just after noon, he went home to get ready while you showered. People were due to arrive around 1:30 PM, and you were back on schedule with your unexpected assistant. 

Sooner than you expected, there was a knock at the door. Groaning, you capped your mascara, shimmied into your black sheath cocktail dress, and went to answer it. Bradley stood on the porch, having changed into a pair of slacks and one of his nicer Hawaiian shirts, hands in his pockets. Folded over his arm was a coat, and he grinned at you when he caught you looking at it. “Wasn’t sure if I would pass inspection without a sports coat,” he chuckled, allowing his gaze to rake over you. A flush rose on your cheeks as you reached behind yourself to pull up the dress zipper. It caught just above the top of your thong.  “You look… you’re fine.” Chuckling, he shook his head. 

“Turn around, Duch.” After a beat, you stepped back to allow him inside and did as he said.

“There’s a hook and eye at the top,” you said and inhaled sharply when you felt his fingers brush the back of your neck. The smell of his cologne enveloped you, and you bit back a moan when his hand moved to your lower back and tugged the zipper up. After a beat, you turned to face him and were surprised by how close he was. His mouth curved into a smile as he looked down at you, hand resting on your waist. 

“You look fine, too,” he said softly. Your hands itched to move to his chest. Bradley’s eyes drifted to your lips, and your breath caught as his fingers flexed around you. If asked, you would have sworn you felt the lightest pressure pulling you closer - but then someone knocked on the door. Stepping out of his hold, you smoothed your hair down and ignored the brief moment his hands hung in suspension before being shoved back into his pockets. 

“I came early to see if you needed a hand,” Phoenix said when you opened the door. In her hands was a tray, and she’d also chosen a cocktail dress for the occasion. Her normally tied-back hair was loose around her shoulders. 

“Hey,” you smiled, hoping that you weren’t blushing. Nat’s eyes shifted over your shoulders and narrowed slightly. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Same as you - seeing of Duch needed help.”

“He’s been here all morning,” you blurted out, flushing when both sets of eyes landed on you. “He’s taking care of the turkey.” 

“The guy who hates cooking is in charge of the main dish?” Nat smirked. “Probably would have been better letting Hangman fry it.”

“He’s being supervised,” you assured, glancing over your shoulder to see him rolling his eyes. Stepping back to let Nat into the house, you accidentally bumped into Bradley, who held your hips to steady you. Quickly moving away from his touch, you took the tray from her and motioned for them to follow you into the kitchen. “I haven’t had a chance to put any drinks out, but there’s some coffee left and wine chilling. I still need to make the cocktails, but there’s also soda and flavored water.” The two followed you, exchanging a look that you missed.

As soon as he entered the kitchen, Bradley tossed his coat onto the wet bar and moved to the oven, flipping on the light to check the turkey before glancing at his watch. “I need to do the last basting, right?” 

“It’s about that time,” you agreed, glancing at the clock. Digging through a drawer, you pulled out an apron and put it on, crossing the strings behind your back before tying them in a bow across your stomach. You thought you heard a murmured ‘Jesus Christ’ when you turned around to see him holding the pot holders. 

You could feel Nat watching as you worked together to remove the turkey and then return it to the oven, popping olives into her mouth and smirking. “Looks like you guys have it down,” she said. “Don’t need my help at all.”

“Nope,” Bradley said, drowning out your, “You can feel free to relax.” 

“Might as well do something since I’m here,” she shrugged, pushing off her elbows. “What can I do?” 

And so, with a third set of hands, you set them to making large batches of seasonal cocktails while you cut the bread you’d made that morning, covering it with slices of brie and dried cranberries before drizzling it with honey. A quick scroll through your schedule gave you the times to start cooking, and you preheated the second oven.

The house slowly filled as more of the squad arrived. Countertops were quickly covered with their contributions - thankfully, more than beer and wine, and only a few sides repeated -  and you mentally shifted your schedule to accommodate the additional dishes.

Mav, Penny, and Amelia were the last to arrive, with her new bartender, Georgia, in tow. Penny had asked you if she could invite her, given that the woman was new to the area and didn’t have anywhere else to spend the holiday. You’d replied with, “The more, the merrier,” just like you had for everyone else’s requests to bring a guest. 

But you regretted that sentiment when you saw how she zeroed in on Bradley, staying close to him while you worked in the kitchen. The few times you broke away to mingle - showing off your renovated home, making sure that everyone’s glasses were topped off and that they didn’t need anything - you saw her hanging off his arm, giving him a simpering smile that set your teeth on edge. And, while she’d adhered to the dress code, you weren’t exactly thrilled to see that her breasts were nearly spilling out of her low-cut dress. 

“You need anything, Duchess?” Payback asked, setting down the pitcher of spiced ginger pear and bourbon. 

“I’m good,” you replied, wiping your hands on the dish rag thrown over your shoulder and blowing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Turkey should be done in a few minutes; once it rests, we can eat.” 

“Thanks for doing this,” he said, glancing over at your full house. Aviators were sprawled across your living room and spilled out into the backyard. It was exactly what you’d hoped for when redesigning the house - plenty of space to comfortably entertain. 

“I’m happy to, Payback,” you smiled, allowing him to pull you in for a hug. “Beats having a quiet house for the holidays.” 

“Want me to get the turkey out for you?” 

“I’ve got it covered,” a voice said behind you, and you couldn’t help but wonder about Bradley's slightly sharp tone as you pulled away from the hug. 

“Got it,” Payback replied, raising an eyebrow and lifting his hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Duch.” Squaring your shoulders, you turned to face the man behind you and forced a smile. 

“I’ll clear off a spot on the stove for you to put the pan, and then we’ll let it sit for half an hour.” 

“Then it’ll be done?”

“Then you’ll have officially made your first turkey,” you nodded. When the timer went off, Bradley quickly pulled the bird from the oven and set it on the stove, closely inspecting his work. 

“Does it look right?”

“Yes, relax.”

“Did you make it?” a smokey voice asked, and you felt your shoulders rise. Glancing at Georgia, you saw Bradley’s eyes dart between you.

“He did,” you answered, smiling at the woman. 

“I just followed her directions,” he replied. 

“It looks great!” Georgia giggled. Forcing a smile, you undid the apron strings and pulled it off before excusing yourself. You could feel eyes on you as you walked down the hallway to your bedroom and shut the door, retreating to your en suite.

After washing your hands for the millionth time, you quickly applied lotion while examining your appearance in the mirror. Compared to Georgia, you looked matronly with your hair pulled back and a higher neckline. Sure, your dress was classy - somewhat tight and falling just above your knees - but not attention-grabbing. 

Not that you were trying to grab anyone’s attention.

A knock on your bedroom door startled you, and you peeked out to call, “Who is it?”

“Rooster.” Glancing back in the mirror, you saw your cheeks were slightly pink and scowled at your reflection.

“Get it together,” you hissed before turning off the light and going to open the door. And there he was, smiling down at you.

“Your phone was going off,” he said, holding up your cell. When your eyes flitted toward it, the device unlocked to show your family group chat was going off. Taking it from him, you swiped up to see videos and pictures. A smile crept onto your mouth as you clicked the first and heard your older sister’s voice.

“Guess what?” she said before tossing a card down and throwing her hands up. Cheers and laughs broke out, and you could hear your nephew complaining as your grandmother said, “Looks like Mom won!”

The camera panned to show your other nephew licking whipped cream off his pie, utterly unfazed by the family now pounding on the table in a drumroll. Catching Bradley’s interested expression, you moved so he could see the screen. Scrolling through the other videos, you watched your mom roll down a hill with the boys and your dad holding a glass of wine with your brother-in-law. The sight made your heart clench, and you sighed. Being away from family on the holidays was the worst. Thankfully, they all understood that your job didn’t always give you the flexibility to be with them.

“Looks like a fun group.”

“They are. I’m glad I get to spend Christmas with them.” He nodded, a flicker of sadness and something else in his eyes. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Mav’s already told me I’m spending it with him and Penny.”

“Sounds like fun.” You knew a complicated dynamic existed there but didn’t want to pry. His shoulder lifted, eyes drifting to your now dark phone. And that’s when you recognized the look on his face - longing. “Hey, you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” When he saw your unconvinced expression, he sighed. “Holidays kind of suck when you don’t have family.” 

“I’m sorry, Bradley.” Something in his expression changed when you said his name and reached out to touch his arm. His eyes darted from your hand to your face, and you quickly pulled away. But he was faster, catching your fingers and holding tightly. Your breath caught with the intensity of his gaze, and he stepped into your room. His breath was warm on your face when you refused to retreat. Lifting your chin, you saw his throat bob when he swallowed.  

“Hey, there’s a timer going off,” Bob called down the hall. 

“Be right there,” you yelled back, pushing lightly against Bradley’s chest and forcing space between you. But when you tried to shake off his hand, he held fast. “I need to go, or something will burn,” you breathed. Reluctantly, he nodded and released you. 

You’d already removed the green bean casserole and macaroni and cheese from the oven when Bradley reappeared. Unsurprisingly, Georgia glued herself to his side as he sipped his drink. Though you could feel him looking at you, you refused to meet his gaze. 

When everything was ready, you looked over your kitchen and nodded approvingly. When the guys offered to carve the turkey, you turned them all down and delegated that task to Bradley.  “He earned it,” you said, glancing at him before busying yourself with opening another bottle of wine. With Coyote and Fanboy at his elbows critiquing his cuts, you steered clear of that part of the kitchen and chatted with Penny while pulling out silverware. 

Hangman refused to let you go around the room and tell people that food was ready, instead pulling out a chair and helping you stand on it before whistling loudly to get everyone’s attention. “Dinner’s served!” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder, his arm around your hips to keep you steady. “Thank you for bringing something, and please help yourself. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone - I’m glad I get to spend it with you.” Lifting your wine glass, you took a quick sip and laughed when Hangman lifted you off the chair to set you back on the floor. 

Choosing to wait until your guests had a plate, you leaned against the wet bar and smiled tiredly, watching your hard work be devoured. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone at the table, so the group spread into the living room. You took a few pictures and sent them to your family. 

Someone stepped in front of you, pulling your attention from your phone. “You’re not gonna eat?” Bradley asked. 

“Just waiting for the line to clear,” you replied, forcing a nonchalant tone. The corner of his mouth twitched as he shook his head. 

“Come on, Duch.” His fingers curled around yours, drawing you from the counter and into the line. Grabbing one of the smaller salad plates, you let him push you in front of him, taking small amounts of almost every dish while he served himself larger portions. After topping up your wine, you walked to the living room and felt him behind you, ignoring Georgia's attempt to get his attention. He motioned for you to take the last spot on the couch and sat on the floor. “Jesus,” he moaned after taking the first bite of turkey.

“Mmmm,” you agreed. “You did a good job.”

“Who would have thought the guy who made the barracks evacuate after he burned ramen would make a good turkey,” Nat smirked. Bradley flipped her off, unable to keep the proud grin off his face. 

Dessert was eaten, and the last bottle of wine finished before 7:00 PM. The house felt quiet as it slowly emptied, and you hugged everyone goodbye. Already, tentative plans for a Christmas party formed even as you fought off a yawn. After assuring Penny that you were fine cleaning up, she left with Mav and Amelia in tow. 

Which left only Bradley. 

The sound of running water drew you back into the kitchen, and you paused in the doorway at the sight of him rinsing silverware and loading the dishwasher, a hand towel thrown over his shoulder. “I can take care of that,” you said quickly. Bradley glanced at you and shook his head.

“Relax, I’ve got it. Can the plates go in here, or do they need to be hand-washed?”

“They can go in there.” Ignoring the order, you walked around the house, picked up empty glasses and forgotten dishes, and set them by the sink. Donning your apron, you surveyed the leftovers, “Did you want any of this?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a plate.” Nodding, you started to put the food away. Thankfully, there wasn’t a lot left. Everyone had been happy to take leftovers, and you were glad you’d had the forethought to buy containers for them to keep. 

The silence was comfortable, and you were stifling yawns with the back of your hand. Between the turkey, wine, and lack of sleep the night before, you were ready to change back into comfy clothes and pass out. Without prompting, Bradley started to cut up what was left of the turkey, placing some in the containers you’d portioned for him before putting the rest in the fridge. You started the dishwasher when it was full and wiped down counters. After tossing the rest of the turkey, he took the trash out.

When the door swung shut, you took the opportunity to stretch, moaning when your back popped before bending at the waist and letting your arms dangle. As much as you enjoyed hosting, your body took a beating, being on your feet all day. You would definitely need to invest in some mats to make the kitchen floor more comfortable before your next full day of cooking. 

Even when the door opened, you felt too good stretching to stand up straight. You heard Bradley chuckle and then the sound of water running, followed by the snap of a trashbag being shaken out. Finally, you stood and threw out a hand to steady yourself when the world spun. Hands wrapped around your hips and drew you closer. “You okay, honey?” 

The term of endearment caught you off-guard and had clearly slipped out by the flush on Bradley’s cheeks. “Honey?” you echoed, quirking a brow.

“Duchess,” he corrected. 

“Rooster.” Your hands rested on his forearms, feeling the muscles flex as his fingers clenched around your hips. Taking a deep breath, you felt your chest brush his. His lips quirked into a wry smile. “What?” 

“Just waiting for something to interrupt.” At your questioning look, he chuckled. “Been trying to kiss you all day, and something always gets in the way.” 

“What?” you breathed, shock written across your face. 

“Been thinkin’ about kissing you since that night at the Hard Deck, actually.” 

“T-the Hard Deck?”

“Yup. Before you deployed.” Heat rushed to your face at the memory - or lack thereof - of your going away party. There had been one too many shots, and you had a vague recollection of Bradley driving the Bronco. Of him telling you not to throw up while he helped Nat into her apartment before taking you home. Half carrying you to bed and making sure you had water and medicine - warm hands on your face and a raspy laugh.  

“When I was drunk?”

“When you told me you liked me.” Mortified, you felt a sudden flush of heat and tried to pull away, but he held firm. “But that you didn’t think I was a relationship guy.” 

“Roo - ”

“I am. A relationship guy,” he clarified, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “For the right woman.” Your mouth was dry, unable to force out a single word. “I was gonna say something before you left, but you avoided me. And then you were gone for three months.”

“I… you messaged me.” 

“Wasn’t exactly something I wanted to say over email,” Bradley chuckled. “I like you too.” 

“What about Georgia?”

That drew him up short, and a confused look crossed his face. “The bartender?” 

“Yeah. She… I mean, she’s clearly interested. And more your type.” Groaning, he leaned down to rest his forehead on yours.

“Honey, I’m not interested in her. And she’s not… ask Nat. She’s been on my case about my” - he lifted a hand to make air quotes - “‘hoe phase’ since I got out here.” That drew a snort from you, and Bradley pulled away to smile at you bashfully. “Gimme a chance, Duch.” 

Hesitating a moment, you took another deep breath and gave the butterflies in your stomach free rein. Hands shaking, you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded, unable to keep from matching his smile. 

Moving slowly, as though afraid to spook you, Bradley leaned down and brushed his nose to yours. “As much as this is doin’ things for me,” he said softly, pulling at the apron strings tied at your stomach, “I think we’re done in the kitchen tonight.” Biting your lip, you could only nod, leaning away as he tugged it over your head, balled the apron up, and tossed it behind you. With his hands back on your hips, he walked you backward and lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your knees. “This alright?” 

“Yeah,” you whispered, allowing yourself to reach out and run a hand through his curls. Bradley's eyes closed when you lightly scratched his scalp, and he swayed closer. His breath ghosted over your lips and - 

“Fucking Christ,” he groaned when his phone started to buzz. You jumped, feeling the vibration against your shin, and laughed as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck. Your breath caught, feeling his lips on your throat. When he reached into his pocket and scowled down at the screen, you saw Nat’s name before he sent the call to voicemail. 

Leaving the phone on the counter, he smirked and guided your legs around his waist as your arms went around his neck. His hands cupped your ass as he lifted you. In the doorway to the kitchen, he paused long enough for you to slap the walls until the lights turned off before walking toward the couch and lowering himself onto it. Your knees dug into the cushion on either side of him, forcing the hem of your dress higher. 

From this angle, he had to look up at you. Hands migrated from your ass to thighs, callouses lightly scraping and fingertips darting under the fabric to trace shapes on your skin and drag the hem higher. Lightly, you ran your thumb along the scars on his chin before ghosting over the ones on his cheek that had always intrigued you. A moan rumbled from his throat as he followed your touch, mustache tickling the delicate skin of your wrist. Blushing, you wondered how it would feel on your inner thighs. He chuckled, kissing your cheek, “What’re you thinking that’s got you red?” 

Rather than answer, you turned and kissed him - just a light brush of your lips against his that seemed to catch him off-guard. You stared at one another for a long moment until he guided you closer. His mustache prickled, not unpleasantly but different, when he kissed you again. It was sweet and unhurried, a direct contradiction to the hardness you felt straining against his zipper. 

Pulling away, you smiled tentatively down at him, seeing the remnants of your lipstick on his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and you leaned forward to press your lips to them. “Hi,” you said softly.

“Hey.” 

“You like me?” 

“Yeah. You like me?” 

Rather than reply, you captured his lips again. “Drunk words,” you said between kisses, “are sober thoughts.” He barked a laugh before tugging you closer and licking into your mouth. 

“Shoulda said something earlier,” he chided, gripping your ass tightly. “Coulda been doing this for a long time.” 

“Blame the tequila.” The word came out as a moan when he trailed kisses down your neck, and you felt him smile. 

“Thank god for tequila,” he mumbled, nuzzling your breasts and making you grind down on him. Bradley caught your hands when your fingers trailed down his chest to tug at his shirt. “Nuh-uh, honey. Gonna take you on a couple of dates before we get to that.”

“What?” 

“No more ‘hoe phase.’” 

“Maybe just one more night?” That made him laugh again as he shook his head.

“No, Duch. Wanna do this right with you.” 

“I’ve heard the stories. I know you would.” When you rocked against him, he pinned your hand at your lower back and stilled you with a hand on your hip. He growled your name and smirked when your thighs clenched.

“Liked that, huh?” he teased. “Ms. Prim and Proper Duchess likes to be bossed around?” Heat flooded your face, and he chuckled again. Without warning, he stood, and you squeaked, trying to keep from falling. But he held you steady and set you on your feet, towering over you. “Can I stay over?” You didn’t hesitate in nodding, and his kiss was rough before he pulled away and swatted your ass. “Go get ready for bed while I lock up.” 

When you emerged from the bathroom, face cleaned and in your panties and a tank top, Bradley was lying in the middle of your bed in just his boxers. Groaning, he looked at you and shook his head. “Where are those sweats from this morning?” 

“You want me to wear sweats to bed?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe and raising an eyebrow. His hand drifted down to his hard cock, squeezing lightly. “You’ve seen me in less at the beach.”

“Trying to do this right, honey.” Rolling your eyes, you walked to your dresser and pulled on sweatpants before digging out a pair of fuzzy socks. He laughed when you tossed them at his head, setting them aside as you circled the bed to lie beside him. Quickly, he pinned you beneath him, settling in the cradle of your thighs. As he licked into your mouth, you felt his hips rolling against yours. “Still too damn sexy,” he murmured against your lips. 

“Housewife lingerie does it for you?” you teased, running your hands through his hair. Rather than answer, he looped an arm under your knee and drew it up, allowing you to feel him better. “Fuck.”

“Not tonight.” 

And, unfortunately, he was true to his word. Anytime your hands strayed to his boxers, he pinned them over your head, seemingly content to tease and kiss all night. 

Eventually, though, you could no longer keep from yawning. After setting his alarm - Bradley was on duty in the morning while you’d taken the day off - he tucked you against him, your back to his chest. His cock pressed against your ass as he kissed your shoulder, hand slipping under your shirt to brush the underside of your breast. Sighing, he murmered, “Best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time.” 

You couldn’t help but agree.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: Do I think that Bradley has a raging domesticity kink? Possibly.

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[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

emergency contact ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: rooster exploits having you as his emergency contact to get you away from hangman

notes: okay, i am so sorry if this is rushed but i had to get it out before i start my new job (and maybe won't have so much time to write)... i really hope y'all enjoy it!!! please let me know, i really love all kinds of feedback! (p.s. this is also super lame and cheesy but that’s just my genre now)

warnings: swearing, very poor us navy knowledge (i literally just do some very brief googling), very minor and probably inaccurate medical descriptions, text chat screenshots, use of y/n (which is a warning now?), and a kind of rushed ending

word count: 9129

“Damn.” You stop just before stepping into the sun, tipping your head forward so you can see over the frame of your sunglasses. “I should come here more often.”

Fighter jets line the tarmac in two neat rows, and in the middle under the shade of one of the jets are your friends, the dagger squad. They’re all on the ground, half of them in a sit up position and the other half doing push ups. All looking absolutely fine.

Maverick is talking to someone a little off to your right, but you’re more than happy to wait for him while you ogle the pilots performing their punishments. Hondo is standing over the seven of them, counting repetitions loudly and correcting their forms.

“Hey,” Maverick calls, his voice echoing into the hangar.

You turn to see him tuck his helmet under one arm as he walks quickly toward you. “Hey Mav.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I had a day off, so I thought I’d finally get my pre-enrolment sorted out for my DBIDS card.” You hold up the ID badge hanging on a lanyard around your neck. “You’re my sponsor, by the way.”

He frowns. “Aren’t I supposed to be escorting you, then?”

You hike your thumb over your shoulder toward where you’d entered the hangar. “Warlock vouched for me and said he’d get you to take me back to the VCC and sign everything then.”

Maverick glances passed you, giving a short wave to the rear admiral who had stopped to talk to a couple of other officers. “Well then, I better wrap this lot up,” he says. “Are you alright to wait a bit?”

You nod, letting your lips curl into a smirk as your eyes slide back over to the squad. “I am more than happy to wait.”

His gaze follows yours and he chuckles. “They’ll start showing off if they know you’re here. Why don’t you come over and say hello?”

You push the bridge of your sunglasses further up your nose. “I would love to.”

Mav leads the way to the squad, into the sun and across the hot tarmac. It’s unusually warm today, and you can feel your skin start to perspire after only a few steps out from under the hangar’s shade. Or maybe you’re just starting to sweat because of the scene you’re approaching.

You’ve never seen the squad in their flight suits before. You’ve seen pictures and videos, but you’ve never seen them in person. On a hot day. Half unzipped and tied around their waists. As they drip with sweat.

Your eyes find Bradley’s head of tousled golden-brown locks immediately, and your heartrate ratchets up a few notches, your breath catching in your throat. He’s doing push ups, his dog tags touching the concrete on every dip and his back muscles rippling under the black material of his shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.

Your knees almost wobble when you stop beside Maverick, and Jake is the first to notice you as he comes up for his next sit up. “Hey gorgeous,” he calls out, that signature smirk plastered across his flushed face.

“Hey.” You let your eyes wander over the rest of the group before settling back on Bradley. Your sunglasses slide a little further down your nose and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down hard to try and distract yourself from the way Bradley’s biceps are bulging and straining.

When he glances up at you, your head spins. His face is flushed and his brows furrowed, but there’s still a small smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “Hey sweetheart.”

“Eyes down, Rooster,” Hondo barks.

Bradley’s head snaps back down, but the next push up he does seems a little firmer and a little lower. Your mouth waters as you trace the outline of his broad shoulders, letting your gaze slide down his back to his butt, lingering there as his muscular body moves up and down.

“Phoenix, you’re done,” Hondo announces, startling you out of your trance.

Natasha lets out a whoosh of air as she finishes her sit ups and falls back against the concrete. She shields her eyes with one hand, squinting toward you and waving her other hand in the air.

You wave back just as Hondo announces, “Hangman, Coyote, you’re done.”

Javy falls back the same way Natasha had, his hands holding his abdomen as he works on catching his breath, but Jake doesn’t stop. He maintains perfect form as he sinks back and sits up, winking at you before lowering himself back again.

Natasha scoffs. “Show off.”

Maverick catches your eye and smirks before taking half a step forward. “What’s your goal here, Hangman? Are you trying to hurt yourself?”

“No sir,” Jake replies, his expression full of steely focus. “Just trying to impress the lady and outlast these chumps.”

Mickey chuckles as he lowers himself into another push up. “Since when is Y/N a lady?”

“Hey!” you exclaim.

Laughter rolls through the squad, and even Hondo cracks a smile as he says, “Bob, you’re done.”

Bob finishes his sit ups with a sigh and wraps his arms around his knees, chuckling softly through his ragged breaths.

You look at Maverick, tipping your chin in Mickey’s direction. “Can I sit on him?”

Mav chuckles. “As much as I'd love to see that, not with Warlock standing twenty feet away.”

You roll your eyes and sigh, turning back to face the group.

“You can sit on me,” Jake says as he rises into another sit up. He lowers himself back with a shit-eating grin before sitting up again. “Later tonight.”

Javy, Mickey, and Reuben snicker as Natasha rolls her eyes, but Bradley stays silent. You can see little droplets of sweat soaking into the concrete below him, and your first thought is ‘what a waste’. Great, you’re officially creepy enough to want to drink his sweat.

“Alright,” Hondo says. “That’s enough, the lot of you.”

Mickey and Reuben groan as they sit back on their haunches and turn their heads up to the sky, breathing in the warm afternoon air, but Bradley keeps going.

“Rooster, Hangman, that’s enough,” Mav says, his voice stern despite the smirk on his lips.

“I can last as long as you can, Bradshaw,” Jake taunts.

Bradley lets out a harsh breath as he pushes himself up again. “That’s not what I’ve heard, Seresin.”

A chorus of ooh’s fills the air as the rest of the squad watch the two stubborn boys, eyes bouncing between them. You have to keep reminding yourself to look over at Jake, to not make it so obvious that half the reason you’re here is to drool over Bradley.

“Come on, boys,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough.”

Neither of them let up, and Hondo chuckles to himself as he strolls into the hangar.

Maverick clears his throat. “Lieutenant Bradshaw, Lieutenant Seresin, that is enough.”

They both stop and quickly get to their feet, their faces red and glistening with sweat. You can’t help but wonder if that’s what Bradley would look like after a good few hours of sex. You definitely plan on finding out one day, if you can ever find the courage to make a move.

“No debrief this afternoon,” Maverick announces. “So, unless anyone has anyone questions, you’re all dismissed.”

Bob quickly pipes up with a question about one of the exercises they performed earlier in the day, but you can barely hear the discussion between him and Maverick. Your eyes are all over Bradley, because seeing him in his flight suit is doing something to you, something more than usual. He’s standing wide, those big black boots planted further than shoulder-width apart, making his legs look even longer and more powerful than usual. His arms are crossed, his biceps straining against the black fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt. It’s clinging to every inch of his muscled torso, tucked into the flight suit that is tied around his waist. The gold in his hair is shining beneath the hot sun, his tan skin is glowing with sweat, and his slutty sunglasses are perched a little too low on his nose. This man is walking sex, and it’s becoming a health hazard because you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

A voice suddenly breaks through your Bradley-induced trance. “Is that okay?”

You blink a couple of times, refocusing on Maverick who is now standing between you and the squad with his eyebrows raised in question. “Is what okay?”

He rolls his eyes, lips quirked into a small but knowing smirk. “I’m just going to have a quick shower before taking you back to the VCC. Is that okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, of course.”

“Good.” He claps a hand on your shoulder. “You go ahead and get back to that daydream. By the look on your face, it was getting good.”

You scowl at him as he chuckles and walks away, heading in the same direction that Reuben and Mickey are walking. The rest of the squad are still standing in front of you, chatting about something that you assume came up from Bob’s earlier query.

Jake breaks away from the group, stepping toward you with a wide grin. “What brings you out here, gorgeous?”

“Getting my pre-enrolment sorted out,” you reply.

“For a DBIDS card?”

You nod.

“Why do you need to be able to visit unchaperoned?” he asks, that usual cocky glint making his green eyes sparkle. “I’ll gladly be your chaperone whenever you want to visit.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “As much as I would love to be personally escorted by you, Hangman, I thought it would be smart in case I ever need to enact my emergency contact duties.”

He frowns. “Who’s emergency contact are you?”

“That would be me,” Bradley says, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

You bite your bottom lip to keep from smiling so wide as you look up at him, but you know your bright red cheeks are already giving you away.

“I thought your emergency contact was Mav?” Jake asks.

“He was,” Bradley replies. “But then I thought that if I’m ever in an emergency situation, there’s probably a good chance that Mav is in that situation with me.”

Jake nods. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” A beat of silence passes before he turns his attention back to you, that flirty smirk reappearing as he claps his hands together. “Anyway, are we all set for tomorrow?”

“Yep,” you respond. “Are you still sure you want to spend your day off helping me?”

“Of course. Any day with you is a day well spent, whether it involves manual labour or not.”

You asked Jake a few weeks ago to help with the delivery and assembly of your new bedframe and mattress and getting rid of your old stuff, since the last time you did it on your own you nearly ended up in the hospital with a slipped disc. Normally, you would ask Bradley for help with this kind of thing, but your crush has been so stifling the last couple of months that you know it would be counterproductive to have Bradley sweating and moving heavy things in your bedroom. Besides, Jake happens to have the day off because he’s owed an RDO, and he insists that he doesn’t mind helping you out. It’s a win-win situation; you get a new bed, and no one ends up in the hospital with a broken back. Not that you would mind if Bradley broke your back.

“What’s tomorrow?” Bradley asks, his brows pinched into a frown.

“I’m helping her in bed,” Jake replies quickly, his grin downright evil. “I mean, with her bed.”

You roll your eyes at Jake again, before looking up at Bradley. “I’m getting a new bedframe and mattress, remember?”

“Right,” he says, brows still furrowed. “I thought I told you I’d help you with that?”

The way he���s looking down at you is making the butterflies in your stomach riot. He looks like a scolded puppy, wondering what he did wrong to deserve this punishment.

“You did, but Jake has the day off and you’ve already done enough slave labour for me.”

“But I like being your slave,” he says, the corner of his lips tipping up slightly.

It takes all your strength not to groan out loud. He is not making this easy.

“And you will always be my favourite slave, Bradley.” You pat a hand on his chest. “Which is why I need to give you a break every now and then.”

You pull your hand away quickly, immediately regretting the fact that you just felt up his firm chest and damp shirt, because now you’re getting that familiar ache behind your hipbones. The ache that only your vibrator and fantasies of Bradley can satiate, but even that hasn’t been enough lately. You need the real thing.

The sound of your name echoing through the hangar draws your attention, and you look over your shoulder to see Maverick with spikey, wet hair waving you toward him.

“That’s my cue.” You turn back to Jake. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and you”- you look up at Bradley -“on the weekend.”

When you slide out from under Bradley’s arm, it suddenly feels like this very hot day has turned cold. It takes all your strength to keep your feet moving one after the other away from him. You’ve had a crush on Bradley Bradshaw from the moment you first met him, but it’s called a ‘crush’ for a reason, because now it is crushing you. He’s the first thing on your mind when you wake up, and the last name on your lips before you fall asleep.

“Are you alright?” Maverick asks once you reach him, and you know it’s because your cheeks are bright red.

“Yeah, just a bit hot out here.”

He nods as you both start walking toward the door. “It’s supposed to be even hotter tomorrow.”

Back at the Visitor Control Centre, Maverick signs everything he needs to in order to grant you unchaperoned access to the base. After that, he walks you to your car and bids you farewell. You’re more than grateful for your car’s aircon as you take a moment to collect your thoughts, the ones that are running wild with fantasies about Bradley in that damn flight suit.

Eventually, you make your way home and immediately hole yourself up in your room. You spend over an hour in there to trying to satisfy that ache below your belly, but the incessant messages from the group chat popping up on your phone screen make it difficult. Only when your stomach starts to grumble do you give up and head into the kitchen, reading through the messages you’d been trying to ignore.

You hit send on your last message and smack your phone face down on the kitchen counter. Your cheeks are red and your heart is racing, and you’re not hungry anymore because your stomach has twisted itself into one big nervous knot.

You know that whatever it is between you and Bradley is no secret. You assume it’s because you drunkenly confessed to Bob, Mickey, and Natasha one night that you had a huge crush on him, and since then the rest have seemingly caught on. You don’t mind the teasing – at least, you didn’t at first, but it’s becoming more frequent and making you more nervous. Bradley rarely interacts with it, and all you do is tell them to shut up or butt out. You can’t figure out if they’re simply teasing because they can, or if they actually see something between the two of you that is real.

There have been a couple of times when you’ve wondered if Bradley might feel the same way. You even almost made a move once, before chickening out and refusing to look him in the eye for two weeks straight. You know you’re being a little bitch about it, and you hate yourself every day for being like one of those characters in your romance books that pines and pines, despite their broody love interest being obviously smitten. But you still can’t stop yourself from being a chicken. You justify it by telling yourself that it's to protect your friendship and the group’s comfortable dynamic, but you know that deep down, you’re scared. You’re scared that Bradley only wants that one thing, while you’re nothing short of hopelessly in love with the man.

-

You wake up to the sound of your phone vibrating on your bedside table. You know it’s too early for your alarm and way too early for the delivery driver to be calling you, so you’re not surprised when you see Jake’s goofy contact photo lighting up your phone screen.

“Good morning, Hangman,” you say groggily.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he replies cheerfully. “Did I wake you up?”

You sigh and roll onto your back. “Yes.”

He chuckles. “Oops. How’s about I make it up to you with breakfast?”

You sit up quickly. “You’re already on your way here?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter, throwing your bed covers back.

“Just the usual?” he asks.

“Make it a double shot.”

You toss your phone onto your bed before hurrying into your ensuite, quickly stripping down as the shower heats up. You brush your teeth in the shower and scrub everything as quickly as you can before wrapping yourself in a towel and starting to pull all the bedding off your mattress. Just as you’ve finished shoving it all into your already overflowing hamper, your apartment intercom buzzes.

You hitch your towel higher as you step out of your room and press the button on the intercom to unlock the lobby door. There’s an affirmative beep and a click, and then you walk toward the front door and double check that your towel is covering you.

As soon as you hear footsteps, you pull the door open with a scowl. “Since when did I tell you to get here at the ass crack of dawn?”

His green eyes widen as he takes you in, that signature smirk painting his features. “I thought it would be good to get an early start, but this”- he nods at you -“is an unexpected bonus.”

You roll your eyes and step aside, allowing him in. He stops at your kitchen bench and places the cup tray of two coffees down alongside a paper bag filled with deliciously greasy smelling breakfast.

“Give me five minutes,” you say, before walking back into your bedroom.

You quickly change into a pair of exercise tights and an oversized shirt – one that you’re not sure even belongs to you – before fixing your hair and doing a very quick version of your morning skincare routine. When you reemerge into the main area of your open-plan apartment, Jake is seated on the lounge with your breakfast laid out across the coffee table.

You flop beside him and take a hashbrown. “So, what’s the plan?”

He turns to you with a frown. “Why do I have to come up with a plan?”

“I wouldn’t need your help if I had a plan, would I?”

He chuckles softly. “I guess not.”

You spend the next five minutes inhaling your breakfast while Jake asks a few logistical questions. Once you're both finished eating and quietly sipping on your coffees, he pushes himself off the lounge and walks toward your bedroom.

He pauses at the door. “Can I go in?”

You nod, and the door squeaks as he nudges it open. He takes one step in and stops, cocking his head thoughtfully before continuing in. He assesses the area and walks further in, at which point you decide to join him. He’s standing on the opposite side of your bed when you get there, and he’s wearing the type of shit-eating grin that you know comes with some sort of teasing or offensive remark.

“So,” he says, “this is where you touch yourself and fantasise about Rooster every night.”

Your stomach drops and you splutter against the lid of your coffee cup, spraying half a mouthful of it across the room. You can feel your face turning red as you cough, but you know it isn’t just the lack of oxygen to blame.

Jake gasps, laughter bubbling from his lips as he rushes around the bed to you. “I’m so sorry,” he says between giggles. “Are you okay?”

You continue to cough, holding a hand against your chest as you try to blink back the tears in your eyes. It takes almost a minute for you to compose yourself, but Jake takes even longer to quell his laughter.

He sighs loudly and wipes the corner of his eye while you turn to him with a scowl. “Who told you?”

He bats his eyes innocently. “Told me what?”

You hesitate, your eyes narrowed as your mind races to send the right words to your lips. “That I might have a small crush on Rooster.”

He snorts a laugh. “No one had to tell me anything. Any idiot who spends enough time with the two of you can clearly see that you’re obsessed with each other.”

“What? No.” Your frown indignantly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes, still chuckling. “I can practically see you cataloguing your spank bank every time you stare at him.”

Your eyes grow wide and your skin burns. You have to look away from him to stop yourself from smacking that smug smile right off his face.

“You know what,” you say, sparing him only a glance. “I don’t think I want to have this conversation with you, so can we please get back to the bed.”

He sighs wistfully. “If only Rooster heard you say that to me. He’d be ropable.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip from your coffee, ready to turn away from him when realisation hits you. “Wait. Is that why you’re always flirting with me, just to piss off Bradley?”

He shrugs, but his smile is sheepish. “I flirt with you because you’re gorgeous, but annoying Rooster is a small plus.”

“You are unbelievable.” You turn on your heel and walk back out of your room, finding your phone on the couch to check if there are any updates on the delivery of your new furniture.

“Hang on a minute.” He follows you into the living space. “I could help you, you know?”

You scoff. “With what? Moving my new bed in? Because that is why you’re here. Not to make me feel shitty about some stupid, unrequited crush that is apparently pretty fucking obvious.”

He rolls his lips to hold back another laugh. “I could help you make a move,” he clarifies. “Because I’ll tell you this, it is not unrequited. Rooster is as crazy about you, as you are him.”

Your heart stutters, but your walls stay up. “How do you know?”

“Just believe me,” he says. “That man’s right forearm is thicker than his left because of you.”

You frown and cock your head, processing his words until the meaning hits you and your mouth pops open.

“Anyway.” He claps his hands and rubs his palms together. “Let’s get this old mattress out of here and start pulling apart the bedframe. I’ll give you some advice while we work.”

For the next few hours, you let Jake tell you what to do. You hold things, you move furniture, you unscrew things, and you listen to his surprisingly sound advice on what to do about Bradley. The more he speaks, the more confident you feel, because something about Jake’s charisma is infectious. You know you might not feel the same when face to face with Bradley’s big brown eyes and pretty smile, but it at least feels good to talk to someone about it. Even if that someone gags every time you start swooning.

- Bradley -

Today is hot, almost too hot. Bradley has pushed his body to the limit before, it’s basically in his job description, but today feels different. He feels sick. His flight suit is too heavy and his muscles are shaking. His stomach is twisting and gurgling with every sharp move, and his head is spinning.

Bradley is only in the sky – flying like a rookie – for an hour before Maverick grounds him, giving him a brutal workout to do while the rest of the squad finish their drills. Even Hondo has taken shelter in the hangar, watching Bradley complete his exercises from afar with a damp towel wrapped around the back of his neck.

The concrete is hot, and Bradley is pretty sure he’s getting second-degree burns on his palms as he pushes himself up into his twenty-fourth burpee. His flight suit is tied around his waist, and he can feel an excess of sweat gathering in the bunched-up material there. His dog tags are jingling as he jumps up and down, occasionally smacking him in the face when his moves are too jerky.

“That’s enough,” Hondo calls out. “Have a break. Drink some water.”

Bradley stops and swipes the back of his hand across his forehead. He can see the squad getting ready to land now, so it must be time for lunch. He waits for them inside the hangar, his heart beating loudly in his chest even after twenty minutes of standing still. Eventually, the group stroll in and head toward the lockers, grabbing their personal items before going to the mess hall.

Bradley finds a seat while everyone else continues to get food. He’s not sure his stomach can handle anything right now, even his water bottle remains untouched. He pulls his phone out and brings up the group chat that has five new messages.

His insides twist at the sight of Jake in your apartment. It’s not like he hasn’t been there before, but he’s never been there alone with you. Bradley clamps his teeth together and wills that sick feeling in his gut to fuck off. This isn’t the time nor the place to vomit about the fact that the girl he likes is spending the day with one of the most charming men he knows.

“You look pale,” Bob says as he puts his tray down on the table.

“But also kind of red,” Natasha adds, a frown pinching her brows. “You look like you’re trying not to hurl.”

Bradley swallows hard and sits up straighter. “I’m fine, just a little wrung out from the heat.”

The rest of the squad join the table and conversation flows easily. A couple of them reply to you in the group chat, but Bradley doesn’t want to know anything else about what’s going on, so he lets his phone buzz face down on the table. He stares straight ahead at the space between Bob and Natasha’s heads, zoning out and imagining a much worse scenario than what is actually happening at your apartment.

He pictures you both sweating and giggling together, bumping into each other as you move and assemble furniture. Then he sees you both on the new mattress, flopping down exhaustedly after finally sliding it onto the new bedframe. You’d stop giggling with a sigh before turning to face one another, locking eyes, expressions turning serious as Jake’s hand comes up to caress your cheek. You would roll onto your side to get closer to him, and he’d only have to move an inch toward you to press his lips against yours. That kiss would unlock something in you, igniting your attraction to this man and making you climb on top of him. Clothes would be torn off, teeth and tongues clashing, and the bed would quickly be broken in.

“Rooster.” Natasha snaps her fingers in front of Bradley’s face.

He blinks a couple of times before refocusing on the woman in front of him. “Huh?”

“Jesus Christ, dude,” she says. “What is wrong with you today?”

Bradley looks to his left and right before spotting the rest of the squad making their way out of the mess hall. He jumps up from his chair. “Shit, that went quick.”

“Well, you were off with the fairies the whole time.”

He tries not to look her in the eye despite her intense stare. The journey back to the hangar is silent, but he can tell Natasha is studying him, scrutinising his expression until they both approach the rest of the group waiting with Maverick.

Mav takes the floor and announces that today is the perfect day to test limits. He starts explaining the workout that he has planned for the squad, because they may have to face extreme heat on their next assignment, and it’s important to be prepared. Everyone groans in protest, even Hondo, but Mav ignores it. He’s almost excited to torture his lieutenants.

An hour later, everyone is absolutely dripping with sweat. All flight suits are at least half off, some discarded entirely as the squad run, jump, and swerve through the makeshift fitness course Mav set up. It feels more like torture than conditioning, but no one has the energy to even speak up.

“Alright,” Mav calls out. “That’s enough. Take a break, have some water, then come inside and take a seat.”

They all slowly drag themselves toward Hondo, who is handing out towels and cold bottles of water. None of them can muster a single word, they all just huff and puff and groan when they wipe their skin with the wet towels. Bradley is the last to approach Hondo, his gaze fixed on the outstretched water bottle as he wonders when the last time it was that he had a drink.

“Rooster.” Hondo takes a step toward the lieutenant. “Are you alright?”

Bradley blinks slowly, looking up as one Hondo turns into two. His surroundings blur and his limbs start to tingle. His head feels heavy and his stomach sinks, his eyes fluttering shut as his body goes limp.

- You -

“Harder,” Jake grunts. “Push harder.”

You let out a puff of air before tensing your muscles and shoving as hard as you can. The mattress slides along the carpet slowly, making your blood boil with frustration. “Why is this thing so fucking heavy?”

Jake chuckles. “I just assumed you bought an extra sturdy one so you and Rooster can fuck as hard as- woah!”

You push with all your strength, sliding the mattress into an unsuspecting Jake. He laughs as he rights himself and guides the mattress further into your room.

“If I knew that annoying you would give you super strength, I would have started earlier,” he says, leaning around the mattress to show you his cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes. “You’ve been annoying me all day.”

“It’s called bonding.”

“Whatever, just get this thing on the frame.”

After a short argument on how you should manoeuvre the mattress, and a string of cuss words as you heave the thing into place, you finally manage to get the mattress sitting snuggly on the new bedframe. You both fall onto it immediately, facing the ceiling as you work to catch your breath.

“Fuck me,” you sigh.

Jake snorts. “I would, but I think Rooster might flay me alive.”

You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time today. “I wasn’t offering, and I’m still on the fence about believing you, so stop it with the constant remarks.”

He rolls onto his stomach, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Then let’s have sex and see what happens?”

You huff out a half-assed laugh as you sit up. “Like I said, Hangman; I wasn’t offering.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. We shouldn’t play with Rooster’s feelings like that.” He rolls onto his back again and blinks slowly at the ceiling.

It makes you feel better to see a small sign of exhaustion from him, because for most of the day, you’ve been wrecked while Jake has been running off some sort of endless energy reserve. He’s like the human personification of a border collie, a little too keen and full of bounce, and you can definitely see him tearing the lounge apart if he’s bored and locked inside.

You open your mouth to tell him how he reminds you of a herding dog when the sound of your phone’s ringtone cuts you off. You frown, wondering who it could be as you rush out of your room to get it off the kitchen bench.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Mariam. I’m calling from the Primary Health Clinic on North Island Naval Air Station. I need to speak with about Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.”

Your stomach sinks so fast and so hard, you feel like it might have fallen right out of your arse. “Is he okay?”

“He’s in our care this afternoon due to a minor incident, and while he’s doing just fine, we cannot permit him to drive himself home. Would you be able to come pick him up?”

You rush over to the coffee table and pick up your car keys. “Of course.”

“That’s great,” the woman replies, her tone calm and even. “I’ll text our address to this number. Do you require any further assistance locating the clinic?”

“No, that should be fine.” You prop your sunglasses on top of your head. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. We’ll see you soon.”

You pull the phone away from your ear as you hurry back into your room. Jake is sitting up now, his brows furrowed and eyes wide with curiosity. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Something happened to Bradley and now he’s at some health clinic or something.” You’re not surprised by the panic in your voice, if only a little embarrassed. The woman said he’s fine. The last thing you need to do right now is panic.

Jake stands up and rounds the bed quickly, putting a hand on each of your shoulders. “Don’t freak out, I’m sure he’s okay. He’s at the clinic, not the hospital, so he’s probably just tripped on his own shoelaces or something.”

You let out a breathy laugh as you search Jake’s face for any hint of worry. He doesn’t seem concerned, so you let yourself relax and picture Bradley sitting sheepishly in a hospital bed with nothing more than a papercut.

“They said he can’t drive, so I have to go pick him up.”

Jake nods. “You go. I’ll stay here and clean up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go get your damsel in distress.”

You hesitate for a second before throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him. “Thank you.”

He hugs you back with a chuckle before you pull away and practically run out of your apartment. You don’t slow down for anything; you even take the stairs instead of the elevator because you can’t stand still for even a second. You try not to drive like a maniac, but it’s hard not to as your mind swirls with the possibilities of Bradley’s accident.

In less than fifteen minutes, you’re flashing your identification at the front gate and waiting impatiently for them to raise the boom gate. You swerve into the visitor’s parking lot and jump out of your car, legging it toward the health clinic where your phone’s map tells you to go. It only takes a few minutes for you to get there, and you stop a few feet from the door, taking a moment to control your breathing.

The air is thick and the sun blistering. You’re sweating more than you have all day, since you've spent most of the day inside your airconditioned apartment. If Bradley isn’t really hurt, you’re going to actually hurt him for making you worry this much and run in this heat.

Once your breathing feels more regular, you grab the stainless-steel handle and push the door open. The small reception space is painted blue and white, with a couple of plastic chairs on one side and a magazine rack beside a water bubbler on the other. The blonde woman behind the desk peeks up at you through the Perspex shield surrounding her space.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hi.” You step forward. “I got a call about Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.”

To the right of her desk is a hallway leading further into the building. Voices and footsteps echo off the blue walls, and despite the desolate reception area, it seems like the rest of the clinic is rather busy.

“Yes, that was me.” She smiles. “I’ll just get you to fill this out so we can start his discharge, then I’ll take you through.”

You take the clipboard from her and sit in one of the plastic chairs. You barely read the form, skimming quickly over it before answering the few questions and signing your name at the bottom. After you hand it back it to her, you walk over to the water bubbler and fill up a small plastic cup. You drain it three times before she waves you over and starts walking down the hall.

The noises get louder the further you delve into the building, and you quickly realise that this place is something of a mini hospital for minor emergencies to help keep the actual ER from being overrun. The hallway eventually opens up into a larger waiting area with lemon-coloured walls and bigger chairs occupied by sickly officers. One of them is holding a bloody gauze pressed to the palm of his hand, and two others are paper white and dripping with sweat.

“Heatstroke,” the blonde woman says over her shoulder. “We’ve had so many of them today, but your husband was by far the worst.”

You choke on your breath and trip on nothing as you follow her. “M-My what?”

“Oh, sorry.” She turns to her left at the end of the hall. “I just saw you were listed as Lieutenant Bradshaw’s ‘partner’ and assumed. It’s force of habit. I forget that a lot of couples don’t bother with marriage these days.”

Your mind struggles to catch up, half of it rejoicing about the fact that someone thinks Bradley is your husband, and the other half wondering why the fuck he would list you as his partner. Before you can come up with the words to correct the woman, she stops.

“Just in here.” She pushes the door open a small way. “I’ll get his papers sorted and let you know as soon as he can leave.”

You nod, still speechless, and she walks away. You stand still for a moment, your hand on the door and heart racing as you take one deep breath and push.

The room is small, with powder blue walls and the same white linoleum as the rest of the clinic. There’s a stool and tall portable desk in one corner, and one of those plastic waiting room chairs in the other. In the middle of the room is a hospital bed, but there’s no guard rails or bedding, and it's folded up so the sheepish lieutenant occupying it is sitting up straight.

“Hey,” you say, your lips twitching as you hold back a smirk.

He’s hooked up to an intravenous device that has a long tube connected to a bag of clear liquid. His face is flushed and the hair at his neck damp, but otherwise, he looks just as delicious as usual.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

You close the door behind you before approaching the bed. “How are you?”

He shuffles on the crinkly mattress, making room for you to sit. “Never been better.”

"Want to tell me what happened?” you ask as you sit at the foot of the bed.

He rubs the back of his neck, the pink in his cheeks deepening. “Well, it’s hot day, and I forgot to drink water, so I passed out.”

You lose the battle with your maturity and let out a soft laugh. Something about Bradley looking so defeated in a hospital bed amuses you more than it should. That combined with the relief that he isn’t seriously hurt means that you can’t control the elated laughter forcing its way through your lips.

You cover your mouth to try and stop the noise. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I was just really worried and now I’m really relieved.”

He rolls his eyes despite the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad my stupidity amuses you.”

“Do the others have a video of you fainting?”

He nudges your thigh with his socked foot. “Even if they do, you’re not seeing it.”

You laugh quietly for another minute, letting your eyes roam is perfectly healthy and incredibly firm body until it sinks in that he is okay. “I’m glad you’re not seriously hurt.”

“Me too. That would have been embarrassing.”

Your mouth pops open to ask him another question, but the thought is quickly usurped by another. The front reception area had been completely empty despite the fact that there are other patients here. You’re the only civilian here, the only emergency contact for an injured officer, and the injured officer in front of you is looking a hell of a lot better than some of the others you’d walked past.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “Did you ask them to call your emergency contact?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, where are the others?” you ask. “Why don’t the guys out there have their parents or partners here to pick them up?”

He shrugs. “They’re probably going to get patched up and sent back to their squads.”

“Exactly.” You narrow your eyes at him. “So, why am I here?”

He shifts nervously, the mattress crinkling beneath his weight. “They said I can’t drive myself home.”

“And you didn’t think to ask one of the other six friends you have that are already on base to drive you home?”

His lips part but no words come out. You can see him struggling, wracking his brain for any sort of excuse, but the longer it takes, the surer you are of the answer to your next question.

“Bradley.”

He looks at you and rolls his lips, his skin turning pink from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears.

“Did you tell them to call me so I wouldn’t be alone with Hangman anymore?”

His eyes widen and his mouth pops open, but so does the door to the room. The same blonde woman as before walks in with a nurse close behind.

“Alright, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” she says, clipboard in hand. “You’re just about free to go.”

You quickly hop off the bed as the nurse approaches, pressing yourself against the wall while she removes Bradley’s IV and check his temperature one last time. She gives him what you assume is not the first lecture about staying safe in the heat before declaring him well enough for discharge. The blonde woman then steps forward and asks him to sign a few forms on her clipboard.

“Is that everything?” he asks.

“Almost.” She takes the clipboard from him and flips to the last form before turning to you. “I just need one more signature from you.”

You nod and take the outstretched pen. “Just here?”

“Yep. Just under your name,” she says, before giggling.

You pause mid-signature, turning to her curiously. Her smile vanishes instantly, and she takes half a step back, holding a hand over her mouth, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. That was so unprofessional,” she says. “It’s been a long day, and I just remembered that when he was brought in, he kept mumbling your name. I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise. I honestly thought it was really sweet.”

Bradley – who is now sitting on the edge of the bed – groans and drops his head into his hands. You have to press your lips together to suppress your laughter, but you can already feel it rattling in your chest. You sign your name quickly and hand the forms back to the woman, who apologises again before exiting the room.

Silence hangs thick and heavy between the two of you as Bradley laces his boots. You don’t speak, you’re not sure you can, so you simply watch him gather his things from across the room. When he’s finished, he finally looks at you with raised brows and flushed cheeks.

“Ready?”

You nod once, pressing your lips together to keep the giggles at bay. He turns toward the door, and you can swear you see his lips tip up into a smirk, but he walks too quickly into the corridor for you to be sure.

You follow him through the building, not the same way you had come in, but out through a different entrance that you assume is for bringing in the injured officers. The heat hits you the second you step out of the building, and you almost choke on the hot air, but you don’t have time to hesitate because Bradley is already forging across the small parking lot.

He glances over his shoulder, but his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “Where did you park?”

“The visitor’s parking near the front gate,” you reply.

He slows his steps and falls into pace beside you. His mouth pops open as a thought flashes across his face, but he closes it just as quickly, rolling his lips and getting lost in his thoughts again.

You decide to help him out. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He clears his throat, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. “Talk about what?”

“Oh, Bradley,” you sigh, a smirk on your lips. “There are so many things to talk about, but I thought I’d be polite and let you choose.”

His resolve cracks and a smile splits across his face. His cheeks are still bright red, and thanks to the blistering sun, every inch of his exposed skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. You can’t help but watch the column of his throat as he chuckles, his Adam’s apple moving in the most delicious way. It’s probably not healthy how attracted you are to this man.

“I’d barely been awake for five minutes when they asked me who they should call,” he says. “I was still a little out of it.”

“Right.” You nod slowly. “And because you’d just been dreaming about me, I was the first thing that popped into your head.”

He sighs and tips his head back, squinting up at the clear blue sky. “This has to be the most embarrassing day of my life.”

You bite your lip to hold back more laughter, almost stumbling as you come to a halt at the curb. Instinctively, Bradley grabs your hand and laces his fingers with yours, keeping you steady as he checks the street each way for traffic. Little sparks of lightning rocket up your forearm and across your chest, zapping your heart and kicking it into overdrive.

You let him guide you across the street, expecting him to let go once you’re safely on the other side, but he doesn’t. The butterflies in your stomach flap to life, but you refuse to let your nerves get the better of you. You have too many questions you need answered right now.

You clear your throat, peaking up at him from the corner of your eye. “So, just so we’re clear, calling me had nothing to do with getting me away from Hangman?”

He keeps his gaze fixed ahead. “Of course not.”

“Okay, that’s good.”

You resist the urge to smile as you wait for him to take the bait. It takes a few minutes, and you’ve reached your car by the time you notice his brows scrunch into a frown.

“Wait, what do you mean that’s good?”

You walk around the front of the car toward the driver’s side. “I don’t know, I just felt different today. You know? Like, being alone with Jake was nice.”

His frown turns into a scowl. “It’s Jake now?”

You roll your eyes, being careful not to appear too amused as you play with fire. “Yes, and Jake is really sweet. He’s funny too, and really smart and… well, he’s hot.”

Bradley takes half a step back from the passenger door. “So, you like Hangman now?”

You shrug. “I guess.”

His eyes flick down to his boots, his mouth popping open as if he’s going to argue, but no words come out. His lips clamp shut and the muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth.

“Do you have a problem with that?” you ask, batting your eyelashes innocently.

When he looks back up, his glare is lethal. The warm honey-brown eyes you often love to stare into are almost completely black beneath his furrowed brows. “Do I have a problem with that?”

You roll your lips and nod, keeping your eyes as wide and innocent as you can while watching him take long strides around the front of the car. Your heart thunders in your chest, making your pulse thump loudly in your ears as he walks right up to you.

He towers over you, his body barely inches from yours. “You know damn well I have a problem with that.”

You look up at him through your lashes, finally letting your lips curl up into a smirk. “Why?”

His hands grab your hips and turn your body so your backside is pressed against the driver’s side door. “You know damn well why.” He presses his body against yours and moves his hands to lean on the car either side of your shoulders, trapping you.

Your head spins and you struggle to breath, overwhelmed by every inch of him that is pressed against you. “Why?” you ask again, your voice barely above a whisper.

He groans and pushes his hips harder into yours before leaning down and catching your lips with his. Your hands grip the sides of his shirt and pull, as if he isn’t already crushing himself against you. When you feel him slide a leg between yours, you gasp, and he takes the chance to push his tongue past your parted lips. You grind down on his thigh and a let out a soft whimper. You can feel him grin against your mouth before lifting his knee a little higher between your legs.

The rest of the world melts away as you grind and moan against each other, completely lost in the feelings you’ve stamped down for so long. Only when you feel your car door begin to bend behind you do you reluctantly put a hand on his chest and push him back.

He frowns as he steps back, looking adorable with lust-blown eyes and puffy red lips. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re about to put a me-sized dent in my car door,” you reply with a soft laugh.

“Oh.” His shoulders relax and he steps back toward you, his hands landing on your hips. “So, you were joking about Hangman, right?”

You roll your eyes, resting your hands on his chest. “Obviously.”

“Good.”

You give him a small smile before letting your eyes drop, panic seeping into your bones as your usual doubts begin to infect your thoughts. Did he only kiss you because he was jealous? Does he want more than friendship, or just a few extra benefits?

“Hey.” He crooks a finger beneath your chin to tilt your head up. “Do you want to know why I’d have a problem if you really did like Hangman?”

You nod as you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down nervously.

“Because then it would’ve been too late for me to tell you that I’m in love you.”

Your heart almost leaps out of your chest. “In love with me?”

His cheeks go from pink to red and he quickly averts his eyes away from yours. “Unless you don’t feel the same, then I’m just in love with you like a friend.”

You roll your eyes again and softly smack his chest. “Don’t be stupid, of course I’m in love with you. I thought it was pretty fucking obvious.”

His lips split into a grin before he dips back down and kisses you again. “Thank God for that,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You giggle as he trails his lips across your cheek, along your jaw, and down your neck. “As much as I love this,” you say, “I would also really love to get out of the heat.”

“Good idea.” He steps back and pulls your body with his, turning a little to the side as leans toward the car and pulls the driver’s door open. “Let’s get back to your apartment and test out that new bed.”

Your knees almost wobble as you step toward the car and drop into the driver’s seat. Bradley is around the car in less than a few seconds, climbing into the passenger’s side and reaching one hand across the centre console to grab your leg.

“Let’s just hope Hangman hasn’t decided to take a nap,” you say as you begin pulling out of the parking spot.

Bradley turns to you with raised brows. “He’s still at your apartment?”

You nod. “He offered to clean up when I left.”

“What if he refuses to leave?”

You shrug one shoulder, your lips tipping up into a smirk. “Then he can join in.”

Bradley’s fingers squeeze hard around your thigh. “Not a fucking chance.”

You giggle when you glance at his stormy expression, but you’d be lying if you said his jealousy wasn’t a bit of a turn on. “You’re not into wife-swapping?” you ask.

He tilts his head, clearly confused. “Wife?”

“Well, yeah. I’m your partner, right? Your emergency contact partner.”

It takes him a few seconds to realise what you mean, but once he does, he drops his head into both hands and sighs loudly. “They told you that?”

You almost feel bad for laughing at him again, but you can’t help it. “The woman called you my husband when I first got there.”

When he looks back up, you’re positive you’ve never seen a more gorgeous boy in the world. His cheeks are bright pink, his honey-brown eyes are sparkling, and he’s grinning so wide you can’t help but grin back at him. “Well, they didn’t really have an option for ‘best friend who I really want to bang and eventually marry one day’.”

Your breath catches in your throat and you’re pretty sure your heart stops. “Marry?”

He turns his attention out the windscreen, still smiling, and his hand returns to its place on your thigh as he says more to himself than you, “One day soon hopefully.”

END.

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Lost in The Wild ; B. Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: It was supposed to be an easy mission. In and out. But then communication went out. The intel became useless. The weather turned horrific. Bucky lost his gun. And then, you.

Warnings: Fluff, slow-burn, friends to lovers, horrible weather, blood, injuries, yearning, cursing, Ft. Sam, Steve, and Natasha, SMUT, p in v, oral (f rec.), kissing, praise, MDNI, unprotected sex, brief crying, they’re so in love your honor, down!bad bucky, lmk if I missed any! WC: 12.9k

A/N: First ever Bucky post! It’s been years since I’ve written on this account so have mercy on me. Thank you to all the wonderful writers on here that are so talented and inspiring. As for timeline… I don’t know. Canon? What canon? Comments & Reblogs are appreciated!

The rain had been coming down in sheets for hours. Not the kind that offered relief or clarity—no, this was brutal, heavy rain, the kind that blurred the edges of the world and made the earth itself hostile. It was the kind that soaked you to the bone, made every step a battle, and turned even the most solid ground into something slippery, a trap waiting to swallow you whole. 

The terrain had started off rocky, already a pain in the ass. Sharp crags jutted out from the hillsides like broken bones. Narrow passes that barely fit a single person had suddenly become rivers of slick mud and falling debris. Visibility was horrible and comms were patchy at best, and then they were gone entirely—just static and silence, the kind that settled into your chest and made it difficult to think straight. 

Bucky’s boots sank with every step, the mud sucking greedily at the soles, threatening to pull him under. His jaw was clenched tight, his vibranium arm flexing and twitching as adrenaline surged through him. He was briefly glad that he had cut his hair and didn’t have to worry about strands on his face. A small feat, but a significant one. The cold bit through his tactical gear, but he barely felt it. All he could focus on was the silence in his ear. 

Your voice, gone. 

One second, you were right behind him—mud on your face, grinning like an idiot, breathless and half-laughing about the total bullshit of intel you both had been fed. He had grunted and told you to stay close. 

Then, the world cracked open. 

A landslide tore through the ridge, and before he could grab you, before he could warn you—before he could even think–you were gone in a roar of earth and stone and rain.

He screamed your name. Loud, desperate. Absolutely no care as to who may have heard. He screamed once more, the rain slapping harshly against his skin. 

There had been nothing. No response. Just the sound of the storm ripping the world apart. 

Now, he was moving blind and completely alone. Mud covered his hands, smeared across his cheek, soaked into his skin and clothes. His rifle had been torn from him earlier and his sidearm was somewhere in a ravine miles back, lost in the chaos. All he had now was a combat knife and fear—chewing through his chest at an incomprehensible rate. 

In the distance, he could hear the screams of the Hydra agents. Some had been swept away when you had been and the others were trying to hold on, trying to find him and survive. He silently prayed that another landslide, something horrific, would wipe them out. 

He knew that the bunker had been emptied. He stumbled upon it when he began looking for you and had been tempted to go in, try and get some help. But he needed to find you, first. He had turned around and hadn’t looked back. 

He tripped over a root, hit the ground hard, and didn’t even flinch. Just pushed himself back up, spit blood, and kept moving. He had to find you. 

He had to find you. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough and low, throat raw.

“Focus. Come on.” 

Every snapped twig, every distant sound—he turned to it like a live wire. He felt like an animal, something manic, as he listened for any sound of you. Hope and terror felt the same now as his heart beat too fast. He was distantly aware that his hands were shaking, and not from the cold. 

You were out there somewhere. For a split second, he let his mind wander. You could have been crushed—dead. 

No. No, he couldn’t think like that. He blinked once, harshly, before shoving all those horrible thoughts to the back of his mind, where he kept all the bad. 

You were smart. Deadly. He knew that. He knew you were better than most people–most soldiers–he’d ever worked with. But even the best had limits and you were human. Flesh, bleeding, breakable. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. You had looked so small as you disappeared into the landslide. He couldn’t get the picture out of his mind, of the way your eyes had briefly widened and your lips had parted. His tortuous mind wondered if you would have called out for him.

It didn’t matter, he decided. He hadn’t acted fast enough, hadn’t caught you. He didn’t even realize he was whispering your name again until it broke in his throat. 

“Where the fuck are you?” 

Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the twisted trees and gnarled terrain. He whipped his head around, trying to look for anything, then, he caught the shimmer of something. He wasn’t sure if it was metal or blood but he moved fast. Slipped once, hard, landed on his knees again but didn’t stop. His hands clawed through the mud, his breathing loud and ragged. 

Then—there. In the shadow of a fallen tree, half-covered in mud and leaves and blood, was you.

Your body was twisted awkwardly, like you’d been thrown by the force of the slide. One arm cradled to your chest. Cuts littered your face, lips split, blood soaking into your torn-up gear. There was a deep gash along your side—too deep—and your eyes were half-lidded, fluttering like you were waiting to let go. 

Bucky tore through the mud, pulled and stretched his torn muscles and dropped beside you with a choked breath. His hands hovered over your body, not touching yet. Not sure where it was safe. Not sure if he could bear to feel how cold you were. 

His fingers twitched, and he bit down roughly on his bottom lip to prevent the wounded sound that almost left his throat at the sight of you. Your eyes fluttered once more before gently shutting. “Hey—hey, no,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Don’t you fucking dare. Open your eyes, doll.” 

His warm breath brushed against your cheek and your lips twitched, a shallow breath escaping. You willed your eyes to open, even if it was just for a moment.

“Barnes…”

He nearly collapsed from the sound of your voice. It was quiet, weaker than he’d ever heard it or wanted too, but it was there. 

Relief hit him like a truck and he moved closer to you, but it didn’t fix anything. You were still bleeding, still barely breathing. He could feel the tremble in your body as your fingers brushed against his sleeve like you were checking if he was real. He pressed his arm closer to you, finding brief comfort in the way you squeezed his skin. 

It was the first time he had felt warmth in the last three hours. 

“Alright, I got you,” he whispered, lips trembling from the cold. “I’ve got you now, okay?” His voice was low, rough, tight with something he couldn’t name. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/n. Just—just stay with me, yeah?’ 

You tried your best to nod but everything felt too heavy and you were too weak so you simply hummed and he almost choked at the sound. He pushed the tree off of you, murmuring softly when you groaned in pain.

“I know, I know, just a second, doll.” 

He breathed in deeply before he crouched down and scooped you up, carefully, like you’d shatter if he breathed wrong. His arms and body were solid beneath you like he hadn’t suffered similarly, like he wasn’t injured. You hissed in pain but your arms naturally curled weakly around his neck. At the moment, you trusted him more than anything. More than the pain, than your own body. 

Bucky held his breath and kept his eyes ahead, knowing that if he made eye contact with you like this, all broken and bleeding in his arms, he’d crumble. He tightened his grip on your body when your eyes shut and pressed his chin into your hair. 

“Open ‘em, doll,” he muttered. “Come on. Please.” 

You tried, but your head felt heavy so you dug your fingernails into his neck instead. His hold on you tightened even further as he ran, rain striking down, harshly and unforgiving. The temperature was dropping rapidly and he knew he had to get you somewhere dry, somewhere he could take a look at all your injuries. 

By some miracle, and he would later pray about it, he found shelter not far from the ridge–a cave. He remembered seeing it during the initial scope of the terrain, during the mission brief. You had joked about it, something stupid about him retreating into the cave for a nap. He laughed—or, he thinks he did. He wished he had. 

He’d kill a man to hear your laugh right now. 

The cave was barely more than a dent in the mountain—narrow and damp, carved into the rock like the earth itself had given up trying to stay solid. The wind howled outside, slicing through the trees and screaming through the cracks in the stone. Rain still battered the world, relentless in its fall. 

He had to crawl to get inside with you in his arms. 

The stone scraped his knees, his elbows. His back ached from how he curled around your body to shield you from the worst of it. He didn’t stop, barely felt it. All he saw was the blood soaking through your clothes. You were shivering, lips blue, breathing unevenly. A faint wheeze escaped with each breath, and even in sleep, your brows were pinched in pain.

Once he was deep enough, he laid you gently on the stone floor. Bucky knelt beside you, soaked through, hands shaking. His face was drawn tight, teeth clenched so hard his jaw clicked. Rain still dripped from the ends of his hair, trailing down his neck, his face, soaking into his torn shirt. His fingers were red and brown, a deep maroon that he had painted with before. 

He blinked down at your unmoving body and clenched his fists. He could barely think straight with his heart beating out of his chest so he breathed in deeply and flipped the switch, the one he hadn’t used in years. The one that turned him into a machine. That buried softness and kindness and everything he didn’t deserve to feel beneath layers of instinct and orders and purpose. 

He was a soldier. You needed a soldier. You needed him to be smart, tactful. 

He peeled his jacket off and wrung the water out, laying it beside you. He scooped your unconscious body gently and laid you down on his jacket. He cut away the arms with shaking fingers and wrapped them around your side, trying to stop the bleeding. 

He looked through his field kit, whatever was left of it, to find something, anything, that he could use to put some part of you back together. He used the wipes to clean the blood and dirt off your face, sanitized your cuts as best as he could before he plastered on the bandaids. His fingers pressed against your skin, once, twice, and then he pulled away like you had burned him. 

He pulled his belt free and used it to tighten the splint he’d carved for your arm out of his remaining gear. He moved with precision, detachment—like you were just another asset, but his hands trembled when they brushed your cheek and he hated it. Hated how you made him feel even when you were barely conscious, when he was trying inexplicably hard not too. 

“Come on, Y/n,” he breathed out. “Open your eyes.” He curled his hands into your body, trying to stop the tremors. He’s not sure he’d be reacting like this if it were anyone else. He doesn’t even want to entertain the thought, because the conclusion is one he can’t face. You’re his partner, his teammate. You laughed at his terrible jokes sometimes. Shared your food with him when he forgot to eat. You always waited until he got on the jet before calling it in, like you had to make sure he wouldn’t get left behind. 

You weren’t his, weren’t anything. He shouldn’t be shaking like this, blinking rapidly like if he focused real hard, this battered version of you would be replaced by the you he knew. But he knew your laugh. The sound of your footsteps. The way your eyes sometimes lingered on him when you thought he wasn’t looking. You mattered to him, which was so much worse.

And now you were bleeding out in a cave that stank of moss and wet rot, and he couldn’t even fucking stop shaking. He didn’t have the right materials or any way to contact Steve or Sam. He felt useless, which is just another thing he hated about himself at the moment. 

He stood up slowly, recognizing the familiar aches in his body, already mapping the bruises and new scars he knew littered his body. He had to get a fire started, had to get you and himself warm, so he scanned the area for a completely dry place before he dropped to his knees, fumbling through his kit. The cotton lining of his gloves—dry enough. He tore it out with his teeth, rolling it into a crude nest with shaking hands. He shoved it beneath a wedge of dry bark he’d peeled from the heartwood of a split branch, praying the core was dry enough to catch.

The first strike of flint against steel sparked nothing. The second—nothing. He swore, then coughed, the sound raw. His hands were still trembling.

Third strike. A spark jumped.

It kissed the cotton and died.

He closed his eyes. Again.

Fourth strike. Fifth.

A breath. A tremble. A single ember caught—barely a glow, a flicker like a dying star. He hunkered over it, shielding it from the damp air with his body, and blew—gently, desperately, his breath ragged. The ember pulsed. It grew.

It flared.

Tiny flames licked the shredded cotton, then the bark.

Heat.

He nearly sagged with relief as the fire cracked to life, light dancing against the slick cave walls. His hands hovered over it, aching, blistered with cold. He gave himself a moment, a single moment to enjoy the heat before he crawled to you and gently pulled you closer to the fire, close, but not too close. He didn’t want to risk it. 

His fingers moved over your temple, gently checking the wound there. You flinched and Bucky almost sighed in pained relief. At least you weren’t unconscious. Just sleeping. He could deal with that. His fingers scraped gently against ripped skin and you flinched again, a broken sound leaving your throat. 

He froze before his thumb brushed your eyebrow. He blinked once at the action before he snapped at himself, standing up so fast he smacked his shoulder against the cave ceiling. Pain rippled through his back and he lurched forward, clutching his left arm. 

He fell to his knees, coughing. The sound echoed and for a moment, it truly felt like his own personal hell. He looked down and grimaced at the blood. He had yet to take a moment and analyze his own injuries, but he knew there was no point. Whatever it was, he’d survive, and you…you may not. He had to focus on you. 

He wiped his mouth and stripped off what was left of his shirt, wet and freezing, and crouched beside you again, lifting your body into his lap to wrap his arms around you. Your temperature was dropping and there had been pregnant pauses where you had stopped shivering. 

He didn’t like what that may mean. 

You were limp against him, your face tucked under his chin, breath fanning across his throat. He could feel every line of you—every bruise, every tremble. He murmured a soft apology when his arm accidentally grazed the gash in your side. The fire’s orange hues danced across your skin and he watched carefully, momentarily awed. 

You were alive, he had to remember that. He was rocking back and forth like he had forgotten. 

“I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispered, barely audible over the raging storm outside. “I should have kept you in front of me. Watched your back, instead of you watching mine.” 

His hold on you tightened and he released a small breath when you pressed your nose into his throat. “I could have grabbed you, kept you from falling…” 

His voice cracked and he pressed his mouth to the top of your head, breathing you in like a man starved. All he could do now was wait, wait for your body temperature to rise, wait for you to wake up. 

He hated waiting. 

The cave was wet, and water dripped steadily from the ceiling into the puddles forming near the entrance. The air smelled like steel and earth and his knees ached from the cold rock floor, his back stiff from how tightly he held you.

All he could do was ignore all the feelings that threatened to crawl through his chest by thinking about next steps. When you were awake, able to move, he knew that getting in contact with Steve or Sam was going to be difficult, but it needed to be done. 

Briefly, his mind flashed to the bunker. Hydra had kept it a secret but SHIELD had found out, as it sometimes did. It should have been an easy mission, in-and-out, but as reachable as everything sometimes seemed, the weather had always been untameable, with a mind of its own. 

Still, while they had prepared for it, no one had expected it to get this bad. Even now, the storm raged wildly outside. The sound of it was both anxiety-inducing and welcomed, background noise he hadn’t asked for but didn’t mind. 

While your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed you closer to his body and angled you closer to the fire and shut his eyes.

You woke to the sound of breathing.

Not yours—his. Measured. Steady. Like he was forcing every inhale calmly, despite its aggression. 

Your head was on his shoulder. His hand was on your thigh, warm and still. The cave was still cold and dark but the fire offered welcome heat and glow. Everything inside you ached—bones and skin all stiff and frozen, some cracked and some bruised.

You stirred slightly, a soft movement of your chin. Bucky felt it, he had listened closely as your breathing changed and your muscles shifted. 

“Bucky…” Your throat was hoarse, lips dry. You were still pressed against him, his hands warm and solid, holding you together. 

He didn’t answer at first. Just a small movement of his shoulder. 

Then he exhaled hard. “We’re moving.” 

The softness from before—his trembling hands, the whisper of your name, that broken honesty in his words and body—was gone. Replaced by that rigid, sharp-jawed version of him you’d only seen in combat or when he was forced to engage with strangers. He wasn’t looking at you, just staring toward the mouth of the cave like the storm may break in at any second. 

You slowly nodded, your nose brushing against the skin of his throat. His throat bobbed before his hold on you loosened just a fraction. 

“I can walk,” you rasped, words muffled as you tried to sit up. 

Instantly, Bucky’s arms around you tightened. “No, you can’t.” 

You tried again, “I can—”

“You can’t.” His voice cut like a blade, a little throaty and gruff. “Your ribs are unstable. Your shoulder’s fucked, and the gash on your side will rip open any second. You’re not getting back up.” He exhaled. “I’m not risking it.” 

Instead of answering right away, you slowly wiggled your fingers and toes, trying to get feeling back in them. After a moment, you lifted your head off his shoulder and groaned in pain, wincing when your unused muscles moaned in pain. 

“Hey, fuck,” Bucky’s exterior slipped for a second and he looked panicked, one hand on your good shoulder and the other on your arm, trying to offer some support. “Be careful.” He helped you slip off his lap, hand on your back—warm, solid, pulsing. 

Once you were sitting up straight, Bucky leaned back on his heels, one hand subtly reached out towards you in case you needed him. 

You swallowed hard and blinked away the exhaustion in your eyes. “Where are we going?” 

“I’ve got a plan.” His tone was clipped, controlled. Every word chosen to shut you down before you could argue. You could tell by his stiff shoulders and the way he refused to look at you that he wasn't to be reasoned with right now. 

Still, you had to try. “Bucky, look at me.” 

He froze, kept his eyes on the floor. For a second, you thought he’d listen. You just needed to see him. Needed to hear everything his eyes had to say. Instead, he shook his head. 

Bucky stood, already pulling his remaining gear together—knives, makeshift medkit, the remnants of his utility belt. He moved like a machine, like he’d mapped the next twenty steps and was already living in them. 

You watched him carefully, watched his body and the stretch of his muscles. By his movements alone, you knew he had injured his leg a bit, perhaps a sprain. His ribs hurt, probably bruised. He hadn’t cleaned himself up, not like he had you. There was still mud and blood on his face but it did little to hide his exhaustion, the frustration that had etched into his skin. 

Remnants of his soft whispers, his delicate touch still danced across your skin and you locked them away, kept them close to your heart as you came to terms with this version of him. You wanted him to look at you. 

He rolled his shoulders once, picked up his jacket, now warm, and slipped it on before he knelt in front of you. 

“This is gonna hurt.” His arms slid under your knees and shoulders, lifting you like it was nothing. But you could see the strain on his muscles. “Try not to pass out.” He slowly maneuvered you until you were draped across his back, legs and arms locked around him to the best of your ability.

You gritted your teeth, breath catching as pain stabbed down your side and back. You didn’t fight him—couldn’t, because his body was warm and solid against yours, still slightly soaked through, even trembling slightly beneath the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. 

You wanted to thank him, wanted to tell him to take a moment for himself, knowing he must have spent hours just taking care of you, but you also knew better. Knew that you both had to get out of this storm. 

You pressed your face into his neck as he bent to crawl out the cave. His knees and hands scraped against the rough, cold floor and you winced for him. He said nothing as his hold on your waist tightened and he stepped out into the storm. 

The cold slapped you both in the face. The wind cut sideways through the trees. The rain had turned the world into a mess of slick rock and rotting leaves and ankle-deep mud. Bucky moved like he had done this a hundred times, like he had spent hours analyzing the terrain and perfected where to step. 

You didn’t speak as he carried you down the ridge, every muscle in his body tense with focus. He didn’t look at you once, even when you had hissed in pain. His jaw was locked, veins tight in his neck, eyes scanning every inch of his surroundings. The rain  and mixture of leaves slapped against his face. Instinctively, you wiped his cheek clean. 

You didn’t recognize the path he was taking. It wasn’t toward the evac point—not unless he’d circled back, which didn’t make sense in this terrain or weather. You stretched your neck, trying not to pay attention to the coldness that seeped into your bones. His fingers tightened under your thighs. 

“Where are we going?” You asked, lips brushing against his ear. 

He hesitated for just a second. “The bunker.” 

You lifted your head weakly, eyes wide. “The Hydra bunker?” 

“There’s a comms room. Secure line. I can tap into SHIELD frequencies. Get a ping out.” 

He really had thought about this. You frowned, the thought of Bucky holding you in that cave, his mind running rampant as he kept you alive, circled in your mind. 

“But it’s full of—” 

“It’s empty,” he said, with certainty that chilled you. “I already scoped it. Before I found you.” 

“You—” You blinked, once, twice, and then leaned your head over his shoulder, trying to understand him. “What?” 

“I saw it when I was looking for you. It was empty. I was going to go call and wait for help, but I turned around.”

You stared at him. Logically, you knew that made sense. If he had called for help, maybe neither of you would be in this situation. But, a small, twisted part of you frowned.

“You were going to leave me,” you whispered, even though you knew it wasn’t true. He had just said that he turned around and he did find you. But he could have taken longer, or not come to find you at all if he had been ordered not to. 

Bucky finally turned his head and met your eye. And, there it was—something breaking loose in his face, just for a second, like the very thought you just had, had been eating away at him. “I was going to get help. But I knew I had to find you. So, I did.” 

You looked away, chest tight, heart fluttering with something unexplainable.

He didn’t speak again. 

It took an hour to reach the edge of the treeline. An hour of silence, mud, and Bucky’s unyielding grip around your trembling body. Every step he took was a choice, to not panic, not spiral, not let himself fall into the noise that threatened to tear his mind and heart apart. 

He needed to stay sharp and diligent. You were depending on him. 

So, when he saw the crumbling silhouette of the Hydra compound through the trees—half-collapsed, rotting into the ground—he didn’t hesitate, just kept walking. 

“We’re close,” he muttered, and set you down gently behind a fallen log, hidden beneath wet pine boughs. His hand gripped your thigh and his finger curled under your chin, tilting your head so you could meet his eyes.

“Stay here. No matter what.” 

“Bucky—”

He dropped his hand and pulled his knife from his side holster, checking the edge. “One of them might still be in there. I’ll handle it.” He pointed the knife at the ground. “Do not try and help me.”

You sighed. “You don’t have to—” 

“I do.” His voice was rough now. Not angry, but final. An edge to it that resembled the very sharpness of the blade in his hand. “I’ll come back for you.” 

He looked at you one more time. Let his eyes meet yours for a moment before they travel the length of your body, pausing at your side. 

Then he was gone. 

The forest swallowed him whole. 

You waited, every breath sharp in your chest. You were drenched, hair sticking to skin. Rain pattered softly on the leaves above you. Your hands trembled in your lap. You hated the way your body felt like a prison—useless, aching, broken. Hated that you couldn’t follow him. 

You had been through worse, had survived so much worse. You could have helped him, could have stood on your own if you really had to. 

Bucky made it so you didn’t have to. You didn’t know how you felt about that, about him. 

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Or, so you guessed. 

Then, you heard it. A single, muffled thud. A body. There had been someone in there. 

But then came nothing else. Just silence. 

The underbrush shifted and he reappeared, soaked and stone-faced, blood drying on his knife and on his neck. You didn’t ask, didn’t have to. He was breathing more heavily, slowly, and you knew his injuries had worsened. 

He was a super soldier, but he wasn’t immortal. 

Bucky knelt beside you, eyes meeting yours briefly before scanning the sky through the trees. “I got through. Signal’s weak, but I managed to reach Steve. They’re getting the jet in the air.” 

You reached out, fingers grazing his wrist. He didn’t look at you and didn’t pull away either. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife and you slowly pried it from his hands, tossing it beside you. 

“You’re going to be okay,” he said softly. It was so quiet, like you weren’t meant to hear it. 

He barely acknowledged what he said and you decided that he didn’t know he had said it, pretended like the words didn’t make you freeze, remind you of him in the cave, feeling and talking to you like he had already lost you. 

You sat shoulder-to-shoulder as you both waited for the quinjet. 

The warmth of your bodies pressed together reminded you strangely of home.

The extraction was supposed to feel like relief. 

But to Bucky, it felt like exposure—too loud, too bright, too late. 

The quinjet split the sky open with its roar, cutting through the clouds like a blade. Trees bent under the force of the rotors. Wind tore through the clearing. And all Bucky could do was hold onto you tighter, shielding your body from the chaos and branches like his own didn’t matter. 

Sam was the first down the ramp. Steve right behind him. Both armed, both scanning for threats. 

Bucky didn’t speak at first, just waited until Sam looked over at him, then stood up, his leg pressed against your back for stability. 

“She’s critical,” he yelled, voice flat. “Bruised ribs, busted shoulder, hypothermic, and infection risk.” You looked at him, eyes wide. “She’s lost too much blood.” 

Steve’s eyes flicked over both of you—your limp body, Bucky’s slashed and bloodied arm, the bruises blooming across both of your cheeks. He didn’t ask questions, just nodded. “Let’s move.” 

A medic stepped forward with a stretcher. Bucky stepped in front of them like a wall. “Be careful.” You almost smiled. The medic—young, wide-eyed—nodded quickly. You slipped your hand into his and fingers curled around your hand.

Bucky helped you onto the stretcher, murmured something soft when you winced in pain. He didn’t let go of your hand until they forced him to.

Sam and Steve watched closely as Bucky followed right beside the stretcher, matching their steps, never more than an inch away. His jaw was locked, eyes burning. You reached out for him again and he took your hand in his. 

You turned to the medic and pulled Bucky closer. “He’s injured,” you rushed out. “Badly. His leg, ribs, and arms.” Bucky tried cutting you off but you squeezed his hand. “Shut up, Barnes.” 

The medic stared at you both and you blinked slowly. “Treat him, okay? Don’t listen to him. Listen to me.” You smiled softly, trying to ease the tension between the poor, young medic’s shoulders. “Talk to Steve if he complains.” 

“Y/n,” Bucky muttered, “I’m fine.” 

The quinjet lifted, slicing up through the trees. 

You passed out again before they hit altitude. 

The world returned slowly. 

A dull ache in your side, your chest. The sterile scent of disinfectant. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. 

And then, warmth.

A heavy hand around yours. Thumb brushing back and forth in a pattern you could feel in your bones, something soft and ingrained. 

You recognized the weight, the press of skin. You blinked, the ceiling fuzzy above you, mouth dry.

“Buck?”

His head snapped up from where it had been resting on his forearm. His eyes were bloodshot. His stubble had grown into something darker, rougher. His hair was a mess, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in centuries. 

You tried to smile, muscles groaning after minimal use.

“You look like shit.” 

For half a second, something cracked—his face shifted like he was going to laugh, maybe even cry. His eyes widened and his lips wobbled. But then he shut it down, wiped the emotion clear. 

Slid the mask back into place. 

He sat upright, hand still enclosed around yours. “You’re awake. Good.” He kept his voice smooth, monotone. It was killing him, pretending to be indifferent, but he couldn’t express the relief he was feeling. He hadn’t heard your voice in so long, hadn’t seen that smile. 

You frowned, eyebrows furrowing. It hurt a bit and you faintly recalled soft fingers brushing against your forehead. “Don’t do that,” you whispered, clearing your throat. 

Bucky blinked before he brought a paper cup filled with water to your lips. “I’m fine.”

Eagerly, you pulled the straw into your mouth and sucked, letting the water wash away the dryness. You finished all the water and wiped your chin. “I didn’t ask if you were fine.”

His jaw flexed. He looked away. Hand still around yours, thumb still tracing patterns into your skin. 

You tightened your grip on his hand and his eyes met yours briefly before he looked at the monitors as if he couldn’t describe your charts with his eyes closed. 

“Thank you,” you said, quietly, a small smile on your lips.

It was silent for a moment, something that could have stretched into something uncomfortable, but then he bowed his head and broke—his shoulders shaking just slightly, his hand gripping yours like he was trying to ground himself. 

He didn’t cry, not really. But you could feel it—the sheer weight of everything he hadn’t let himself feel, the weight of your life on him, the heaviness of his guilt. 

You stayed silent, held his hand tightly as your thumb drew circles on his skin. You had your own guilt; the weight of what you could have done, how you should have been more diligent, reached out for him, fought for yourself harder and made it to him, been less of a burden. 

But this wasn’t about you. This was about him, and how he tried his best, his very hardest to keep you alive. How you made him confront his feelings for the first time, with the threat of loss looming behind him. 

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted, hoarsely. “I—fuck. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I’ve never been that scared in my life. Not during Hydra, not even when I came back.” 

You stared at him, heart tight and eyes shiny. You weren’t usually an emotional person, but these were unusual circumstances. When you had been swept away, as you were thrown around and bruised, all you could think about was him; how he’s your best friend and you never told him, how all you wanted was for him to be more, someone you could love and hold. 

“I would never have made it,” he said, eyes bright, “If anything happened to you.” 

Your eyes stung and your heart beat faster, the monitor beeped in warning. Neither of you noticed. 

You breathed his name and he leaned closer, the heat of his body caressing yours. You brought your joined hands to your lips and kissed the back of his hand, slow and soft, eyes on him. 

His breath caught like you’d hit him with a bullet, his entire body stilling. His lips parted in wonder and his eyes widened slowly. 

“I’m okay,” you smiled. “Nothing happened. You made sure of that. I’m okay.” You needed him to know, needed him to understand that you wouldn’t have made it if anything happened to him, that you were grateful to him. 

Before he could answer, the door slid open and Dr. Bates stepped in, tablet in hand, coat wrinkled like she hadn’t taken it off for weeks. 

Her eyes fell on you, Bucky, then your joined hands. She smiled, just a little. “Sorry to interrupt.” Bucky straightened up but didn’t let go of your hand. You turned towards her. “I’m glad you’re awake, Y/n. It’s good to have you back.”

You smiled at her, glancing at the tablet in her hand.

“Thanks, Doc.” 

“You’ve been under for two weeks,” she started gently, coming to the edge of your bed. Your eyes widened in surprise and you glanced at Bucky, who stared at you, unblinking.

 “We had to keep you sedated—” she explained, “your body was in rough shape when you came in. Ribs deeply bruised, bordering on contusions. Your right shoulder was nearly dislocated, and you had early-stage sepsis. If you hadn’t been found when you were—” she paused, glancing at Bucky—“you wouldn’t have made it.” 

You turned your head slowly towards him, lips pulling into a frown. 

He looked away. 

“You’re lucky,” the doctor continued. “He kept you alive long enough for us to stabilize you. Field-treated half of your injuries himself. Not exactly regulation, but…” she smiled, gently, “it worked.” 

You gave Bucky’s hand the faintest squeeze. “So…Am I cleared to go?” 

Dr. Bates hesitated, then nodded. “As long as you don’t overdo it. No combat. No gym. No carrying anything heavier than a coffee cup. You’ll need regular check ups—especially to monitor your lungs and immune response. And, you shouldn’t be alone.”

Before you could speak, Bucky’s voice—clear, rough—cut in. 

“I’ll be with her.” 

The words were simple, but the way he said them—calm, final, almost soft—settled something in your chest and made warmth swim through your body. 

Dr. Bates blinked, almost like she’d expected a fight. Then she nodded again. “Good. Then I’ll start the discharge paperwork.” 

She turned and left, and the door hissed closed behind her. 

Silence fell again, heavy, but not uncomfortable. 

You stayed quiet for a beat, still absorbing it all. The ache in your ribs had settled into something manageable, but another kind of ache twisted low in your chest, one you couldn’t ignore. 

You turned your head slightly on the pillow, eyes slowly growing heavier. “What about you?” 

Bucky looked up from where he was still gripping your hand, a blanket of something softer, something resembling relief had been draped over his shoulders.

“What?” 

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice soft. “Your leg…and your arm. Your ribs. You were limping when—when you carried me.” 

His brows pinched together like you’d just reminded him of something he’d forgotten and you briefly panicked. Bucky would refuse to get medical attention if it meant he had to leave you, you knew he would. It was just who he was. You loved him so much. 

Abruptly, you blinked—eyes wide for a second before you schooled them. You had never let yourself think it, much less admit it so openly. 

“I’m fine,” he replied, quickly, trying to brush it under the rug. 

You narrowed your eyes and swallowed the lump in your throat. “Don’t give me the bullshit brush-off, Bucky. What did they say?” 

Before he could dodge the question again, the door slid open and Dr. Bates reappeared, a different tablet in her hands. 

“Something wrong?” She asked, glancing between you. 

You nodded gently towards Bucky. “Can you tell me the truth? About him. Did he let you take a look?” 

Bucky gave a little sigh, leaning back in the chair. And yet, even then, he didn’t let go of your hand. You briefly wondered if he knew he was still holding it, but the weight of it, the way it felt like his lifeline, made you aware that he did. 

Dr. Bates didn’t even hesitate, like she had expected this sooner. “He came in with three fractured ribs, a torn ligament in his left leg, and deep lacerations on his arm. Didn’t want to be checked and told us to prioritize you.” She sounded almost fond. 

You blinked at him slowly and he looked away, mouth twisting into a hard line. He didn’t want you to know these things, didn’t think they were relevant. He had half a mind to remind the doctor of patient confidentiality, but then he lifted his eyes and the genuine concern on your face, in the tremble of your fingers, kept him quiet. 

She continued, tapping her screen. “The serum accelerated his healing, of course. Most of it was resolved within days. He’s been medically cleared since the first week.” She paused, then added, almost like an afterthought, “He also requested a bed next to yours. Just in case.” 

Your heart flipped and your ears felt warm. He was so obvious in his care, it dripped and leaked out of him no matter how hard he tried to keep it locked up and it was so beyond endearing, you almost burst into tears. 

Bucky still wouldn’t meet your eyes. 

“He said—” she glanced at him, a small curve in her lips “—and I quote, ‘I’ll only sleep if I can hear her breathing.” 

Heat bloomed in your cheeks and you blinked hard, trying not to let it show too much but your heart rate had picked up and it was obvious on the monitor. “Oh.” 

Dr. Bates softened, just a little. She leaned in, like she was about to tell you a secret. “He hasn’t left your side since the quinjet. If that tells you anything.” 

With that, she set the tablet down on the edge of your bed. “Just sign whenever you’re ready and press the red button. It’ll only take an hour or so to get you discharged.” She smiled at you and then turned and left again, door shutting gently behind her. 

Silence, familiar, settled between you, thick and humming. 

You finally looked at him, a smile on your lips. “You’re an idiot.” It’s all you could stay, your heart on fire and chest bubbling with affection and love. 

His mouth twitched and for a second, he looked younger. “Takes one to know one.” It was stupid, something he would have said to Sam, but your eyes were bright and his attention was divided. 

You reached up slowly, hand trembling, and brushed your fingers across his knuckles. He didn’t usually let you touch him this easily. It was riveting, freeing. “You should’ve told me.” 

“I didn’t want you worrying about me,” he muttered. “Not when you were fighting for your life.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, softly, replied. “I’m not fighting anymore.”

He stared at you, deep blue eyes reminding you of the ocean, of the storm you both had survived. 

“I’m not fighting anymore so you can stop worrying.” You smiled at him, sweet and soft. “I know you think that it’s your fault but it isn’t. You found me, saved me.” 

Bucky cleared his throat and clenched his jaw. He didn’t need you telling him not to worry because it wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t change the fact that he stayed awake at night and hovered in the hallways, slipping into your room to make sure you were breathing, keeping an eye on your vitals. 

“Bucky,” you said, voice thicker and full of steel. He sighed and slowly nodded. He was many things, filled with guilt, but he wasn’t immune to you, to your wants and needs. And what you needed was him to be honest, to listen. 

“I hear you, doll,” he sighed, quietly. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He squeezed your hand once and almost pulled away but your grip tightened and you smiled. 

As if you knew what he meant, could see the depth of his care. Like he hadn’t folded and crushed the love he had for you and shoved it in the deepest parts of him, trying to keep it hidden. It was unravelling, fast and without permission. 

The door slid open quietly. 

Natasha stepped in first, concern in her eyes but a small grin tugging at her lips at the sight before her. 

Steve followed behind her. Sam too. They all looked tired, but relieved. The doctor had alerted them when you had woken up an hour ago, wanting to give you time to adjust. 

They looked at you and Bucky—still close, your hand in his, his chair pulled right up against your bed—sleeping. Your head rested on the pillow and Bucky’s on his arm.

They didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really. While they had been in and out of your room, sending flowers and asking for updates, Bucky hadn’t moved. He had only complied with getting medical help because it had been your last demand before passing out. He had stayed by your side for two weeks, unwavering. 

Steve hadn’t seen him sleep. Bucky had refused any drugs that may have knocked him out and every time Steve came to check on him, he was up. Usually watching you. This was the first time either of them had seen him at peace, and it was with his hand around yours. 

“They’re sweet,” Natasha whispered, her smile growing. She had known, of course she did. She saw the way you both looked at each other when the other wasn’t looking. 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “About time, too. I almost owed Clint $50.” 

Steve frowned, eyes drifting to Sam. “You bet on them?”

Sam shrugged and quietly laid down the flowers he had gotten you on the already full table. “It was Tony’s idea.” 

Dr. Bates entered last, holding a juice box. “Oh, visitors.”

“Sorry, Doc,” Steve apologized, moving to the side. 

“No worries, Mr. Rogers.” She set the juice box down on the table beside you. You needed the sugar before getting on your feet. 

Before Steve or anyone could respond, Bucky shifted and his eyes flew open. His spine snapped up and he blinked at the people in the room, a frown on his lips. He glanced at your sleeping face and momentarily, his eyes softened. 

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “She’s sleeping.” 

“Hey, you,” Sam cooed, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Before Bucky could growl in annoyance, you stretched your arms and yawned, your hand slipping out of his.

“I’m awake.” Then, “Don’t provoke him, Sam.” 

Natasha snorted and you opened your eyes, smiling at the people standing in front of you. Sam rolled his eyes before he moved closer and ruffled your hair, his eyes softening. 

“Hey, Y/n.” He picked up the juice box and poked the straw through it, handing it to you. “Glad you’re not dead. Don’t do that again.” 

You smiled in thanks and squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Sam. Don’t plan on it.” 

Steve and Natasha moved closer too, soft smiles and softer words. They asked you how you were feeling, if you needed anything. Bucky stayed beside you, his fingers twitching, now that your hand wasn’t in his. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and leaned back in his chair, head falling back. 

He hadn’t slept properly in days. Figures that he’d find a moment of peace beside you. 

As you spoke to Natasha, your hand searched for his. You were okay, the pain was dull and the trauma wasn’t at the forefront. But, you still needed his comfort—no, wanted it. 

Bucky felt your fingers brush against his and, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he captured your hand in his. His heart fluttered when you squeezed and he looked away. He was in deep. 

Dr. Bates cleared her throat and smiled sheepishly when the conversations died out. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’re cleared to go.”

You sat up, eyes wide. “Really?” Steve’s lips quirked upwards at the excitement in your voice. Bucky felt his heart settle at the sound, at the way you had managed to light the room in a soft glow.

The doctor nodded. “All the paperwork is done. I’ve prescribed you some painkillers you can take, as well.”

You sighed in relief and turned to Bucky, eyes bright. You were glowing and he felt like a moth with the way he leaned in.

“Thank you, Dr. Bates. Truly.” 

She smiled at you before glancing at Bucky. “Of course, Agent. Take care. I hope I don’t see any of you soon.” With that, she turned and left. 

Natasha grinned at you and Bucky before she stepped back. “I’ll get your clothes, Y/n.” 

You smiled at her gratefully as she slipped out of the room. Steve and Sam stood by your bed and you looked up at them. “So, what’d I miss?” 

Sam clapped his hands together, instantly filling you in on all of the drama you had missed. Steve laughed quietly at his antics and Bucky snorted, the tension in his shoulders slowly fading and a real, genuine ghost of a smile on his lips. 

The elevator ride to your floor was quiet. 

Not in a cold, distant kind of way—but in the way people are quiet when there’s too much to say and not enough breath to say it. You moved slowly, one foot in front of the other, careful of your ribs and side. Bucky walked beside you, close enough to feel the heat of him, one hand a steady weight at your lower back. 

The metal was cold against your thin sweater, but there was still something soft about it. The way he stayed beside you, rubbed his thumb up and down your skin, absentmindedly. 

You could feel him watching you. 

Not like before. Not scanning like a soldier. Just…watching. Like a man trying to memorize every detail before it’s gone. He was desperate, soaking in all your warmth and all the time he got with you. You could feel it, his earnesty. 

Your floor was dim when you entered—peaceful, untouched since the mission. But, not entirely untouched. A folded hoodie on the couch. Your plants watered. A fresh pair of pajamas neatly laid across your bed, one you couldn’t see but knew was there. 

You turned to look at him, brows raised and a hint of a knowing smile dancing on your lips. 

Bucky’s jaw ticked. For a second, he looked embarrassed, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I, uh, came by a few times. Brought you fresh stuff. Didn’t want your plants dying while you were—” He cleared his throat. “—while you were healing.”

Your insides felt all warm and gooey. He was making it so difficult to stay indifferent, to keep all your feelings and wants and needs hidden, like they weren’t about to bleed out of you.

You took a step closer to him. 

“Thank you.” 

His eyes flicked to yours, then away, like he couldn’t quite take the weight of your gratitude. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, a rare and endearing nervous habit, eyes scanning your space like it was unfamiliar now. Like he didn’t belong, even though he fit here so perfectly. 

You saw it clearly, the way he moved. The way his boots thudded soft against your rug. The way his broad body filled your kitchen doorway. He belonged here, in your space. With you. Not just for now, not suddenly. But always. 

You ached for it, for him.

Bucky hesitated near the door, shoulders stiff. 

“I’ll head out, let you settle in. Just…yell if you need anything. I’ll be around.”

You knew what that meant. It meant he would wander, hover. He’d be in the shadows, waiting and anxious. He had this habit, when he was worried. You first learned about it when Steve was injured on a mission they both went on. He never said it, but Bucky wanted to be there for Steven in case he wanted anything. 

You had run into Bucky late in the night. Steve had missed dinner so you were checking on him, making sure he was pushing fluids, when Bucky’s large frame obscured your path. 

Sometimes, and he’d never admit it, but when Bucky had nightmares about you, or anyone else on the team, he’d often seek them out at night. Just a moment, outside the door. All he needed was to hear you breathing, make sure you were okay. 

That the Winter Soldier had not gotten to you. 

“Stay,” you said softly. “Have a cup of coffee with me.” 

He blinked, his hands dropping. “I—yeah. Sure.”

You padded into the kitchen slowly, feeling him trail behind. He sat on the stool at the island while you made two cups. His eyes were heavy on you the whole time, tracing every moment. He watched you carefully as you brewed fresh coffee, getting both of your favourite cups from the cupboard. As you waited, you glanced back at him and to your surprise, he smiled at you; soft, crooked, and quick, but attractive and warm all the same. 

He loved you like this. In your space, as you carried yourself with no expectations. When he was new to the tower, years ago, he often found peace in just watching you to the most mundane tasks. It brought him a sense of calm, normalcy. How you moved with grace, carried yourself like you didn’t have skeletons in your closet. 

It made him have hope. Like he could one day be okay, or a semblance of it. 

When you turned to hand him the mug, his fingers brushed yours, a quiet jolt of warmth passing between you. 

“You okay?” 

He was quiet, eyes drifting across your face before he nodded. “Yeah. I am now.” 

You sat beside him on the stool, legs barely touching, cups between you on the counter. The coffee was simple—black for him, creamy for you—but it felt like a ritual. Something sacred. You couldn’t remember the last time you had shared a mug with anyone else. 

“Are you going on your run tomorrow?” Your voice was quiet, like you couldn’t dare to disturb the peace. 

Bucky hummed, drinking slowly. “Maybe. Why?” He raised an eyebrow at you, concern creeping in. “Do you need something? Tell me, I’ll get it.” 

You laughed, soft and breathy. “No, no. I was just wondering.”

His shoulders sagged and the edge of his lip curled up. “I’ll tell you if I go.” He paused. “I’ll run past that bookstore you like. Get you something so you won’t be bored.”

Your grip on your mug tightened and you lifted your gaze to meet his, warm and heavy. “You don’t have to.” He didn’t like small spaces and you weren’t even sure if he liked the bookstore, even though he always came with you, even when you didn’t ask. 

“I know,” he replied, meaning something else. He set the mug down. “That was good. Thanks.” 

You thought he might stay. That maybe, just maybe, he’d slide a little closer. 

Instead, he stood. 

“I should let you rest—”

“Bucky.” 

He stopped. In his tracks, and breathing. 

You stood too, slow and careful. You stepped towards him, giving him the chance to step back. He didn’t. Just stood still, frozen, like if he didn’t move, this dream might never turn to a nightmare. 

You said his name again, like a prayer. He was almost undone. He should have stepped back, should have done something, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He needed this, needed you. 

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him towards you. He stumbled slightly, caught off guard—but his hands went to your waist without hesitation. 

You kissed him. 

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was desperate, full of years of tension—your lips crashed onto his, hands fisting his Henley. He kissed you back just as hard, like he’d been starving. He swallowed your gasp of surprise and kissed you ferociously, pressing his chest against yours, hand cupping your cheek. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him messily, teeth against teeth. He pulled you unbelievably close, flush against him. He was wrapped around you, or you around him. He slipped his tongue into your mouth and you moaned, your hands sliding up his solid chest and into his hair. 

When you pulled back, your chest was heaving, lips plump and bruised, face flushed. Your eyes fluttered open and you almost whimpered at the sight of him, hair tousled, lips plump. He looked completely undone, absolutely perfect. 

“Stay,” you whispered, borderline begging. “Please, Buck. I want you. You belong here—with me.”

He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer before the deep blue swept you away. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he rasped, breathless. 

“I do.” You pressed your forehead harder against his, kissed the edge of his mouth. “I do.” 

You kissed him again. This time, it was slower, sweeter. Your hands moved to cup his jaw, your lips soft against his. He melted into it, groaning low in his throat. HIs hands trembled against your waist. He pressed a sure, hard kiss to your jaw before he pulled away, breathing heavily, gasping. 

“Fuck, doll—fuck.” His arms pushed you into him further, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the skin under your eye. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He glanced down at your side before lifting his eyes. “Are you breathing alright?” 

You exhaled through your nose, a quiet laugh. So caring, so obvious in his love. You don’t know how you never saw it before. How it wasn’t painfully obvious to you. He was filled with love, all you had to do was let him feel it. 

Gingerly, you moved the hand on your waist to your side, slid it up to your abdomen. Then, up to your heart. It was beating incredibly fast, you wondered if he could hear it. His breath hitched and his eyes flickered to yours. 

“I’ve never been better.” 

He looked like he was a second from losing his mind. His throat bobbed and he tilted his chin. 

“You sure?” 

You sighed and fisted his shirt again. Nothing but pure honesty and desire and love in your eyes. 

“Just kiss me, Bucky.” 

He pressed his thumb into your skin, his pulse in his fingertips. He looked at you again, really looked, trying to search for the answers. You couldn’t tell what he was looking for so you stood still, smiled at him widely. 

Whatever it was, he found it. 

Bucky surged forward and captured your lips again, his heart beating rapidly against your chest as his arms circled your waist. In a rush of confidence, Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth, trached the crevices of your teeth and gums before sucking your tongue, guiding your hips into his. You clawed at his back, guiding him blindly through your apartment. His hands never stopped touching—your sides, your arms, your face, reverent and shaking. 

You barely made it to your bedroom. 

He laid you gently on the bed, like you were something fragile and breakable—but his body trembled with restraint. He hovered over you, breathing hard, his eyes almost black. 

“We don’t have to,” he whispered. “We don’t have to do anything. You’re still hurt.” 

“I want to,” you whispered back. “I need to feel you. All of you. You’ll take care of me, I know you will.” 

He kissed you again, tender and slow. Took his time exploring your mouth. Then, he kissed the edge of your lips, licked and kissed down your throat, nibbling and sucking. His hands brushed against your warm skin, your cheeks and neck and then slipped beneath your sweater. You lifted your arms carefully, letting him peel it off, revealing faintly bruised skin and healing ribs. 

He stared for a beat, his expression softening, endearing, filled with affection. You had never really cared about your appearance, but his attention, the heat of his eyes, made you feel wanted. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your scars. “You’re beautiful.” 

His lips immediately reattached to your neck, kissing down to your collarbone and your head fell back, trying to pry yourself open for him. “Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, “So fucking pretty.”

You smiled, pulling his shirt up. He let you strip him bare. His chest was covered in scars, blemishes, burns, healing wounds. 

You traced them with your fingers, touch as light as a feather. The lamp beside your bedside cast a low amber glow across the room and painted his skin in warm gold. He looked godly, absolutely stunning above you. 

He had one forearm braced by your head, the other cradled your cheek. He watched you as you watched him, anxiety swimming in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently. 

“Y/n,” he whispered, begging. You smiled at him and tilted your chin up, kissing a scar on his shoulder. He kissed you softly and your hands found home in his hair, fingers sliding through the thick, soft strands, tugging gently just to feel him melt. He made a sound in his chest, low and aching, and deepened the kiss, tongue flicking gently against yours. 

His body—muscles, scars, and heat—pressed closely against yours. You could feel it, though, he was holding back. Whether it was because you were injured or he was afraid, you didn’t know. You wanted all of him, his strength and roughness. 

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before he pulled back, eyes glassy and softer than you’d ever seen them. “This what you want?” His voice cracked a little. “Am I what you want?” 

You touched his cheek, feeling the rough edge of stubble and the quiet vulnerability just under his skin. “I want you, Bucky.” He held his breath. “I want the man who waters my plants and dusts my shelves. The man who carried me through a forest and saved my life. The man who learned how to play different card games for me, the one who learned how to make tea the way my mother used to.” 

He blinked, lips parting slightly. “Y/n…”

“I notice everything,” you said, voice trembling. “How you always walk on the outside of the sidewalk. How you breathe deeper when you’re trying to stay calm. How you always make sure you’re between me and danger. Regardless of what it is.” 

He let out a soft, stunned breath. His hand slid from your cheek, down to your shoulder, then your waist, clutching like he needed to anchor himself. 

“I didn’t realize…” His voice cracked and he bit his bottom lip. “Didn’t realize you watched me so closely.” He watched you closely, knew all of your habits and quirks. He hadn’t realized you were watching him just as closely. 

“I always have,” you murmured, as if you hadn’t just turned his world upside down. 

Something cracked open in him then. 

He kissed you hard—like the dam had broken, like every piece of love he’d locked away had finally burst free. His mouth moved with aching reverence across your lips, your jaw, your throat. He kissed down your collarbone, your shoulder. 

He pulled back only to help you undress completely. His hands were so gently—touching, peeling away fabric like it was sacred. He unhooked your bra and dropped it somewhere behind him, pausing when you were completely bare beneath him, worshipping. 

“You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, doll.”

You reached for him in return, pulled at the waistbands of his jeans. He let you, watched with a gaze so soft it made your chest ache. When he was finally bare, you ran your hands over his ribs, his thighs. He shivered under your touch, leaning into it. 

He kissed down your body, pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin between your breasts, licking and sucking, swallowing the taste of your sweet sweat, memorizing it. You were a mess above him, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut, incoherent mumbles and whimpers leaving your lips as you pulled and scraped his hair and the nape of his neck. Your entire body felt like it was on fire. 

Under a trance, Bucky pressed a soft kiss on one of your breasts, his fingers brushed the nipple of the other. He kitten-licked your swollen, aching bud before he latched on, circling his tongue as if he could have convinced your body to submit to him completely. 

His other hand pinched and squeezed your other nipple, before he released your swollen and wet nipple with a pop, not even breathing as he latched onto the other one. All of your senses were going crazy, overwhelmed to the point of hysteria and tears. 

He pushed himself up, rested his forehead against yours as both of your chests heaved. You leaned forward and pressed a swift kiss to his swollen lips, licking his bottom lip. You both breathed in the other, bodies sweaty. 

“I’d kill for you,” Bucky admitted in a rush, hoarse. You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath. 

“What?” 

“I would,” he said. “For you. I think I have, already. But you have to know. I’d kill anyone for hurting you.” 

You heard what he was saying—really saying. It was a clear day. His devotion. He was panting, sweat collecting on his forehead. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose. 

“I know,” you answered. “I love you, Bucky.” 

His arm trembled but he caught himself. He stared down at you for a second before his entire face softened. He brushed his cheek against yours, lips and breath warm, tickling. “I love you, Y/n.” It was soft, like it was still a secret, but it took your breath away all the same. 

He went back to kissing you. 

Everywhere. 

He took his time, dragging his mouth across your stomach, your hips, your thighs, murmuring soft praises into your skin. He kissed along the edges of your scars like they were maps that led him home. 

When he finally kissed between your legs, it was with awe. 

“Let me taste you,” he begged, voice gravelly. 

You nodded, breath catching as he settled between your thighs. He shifted downwards and pressed his nose against your cunt, holding down your hips as your legs twitched. You cried out and pulled at his hair but he was adamant, ignoring the pain and pushed your legs further apart. 

You squirmed under him as he stared at your cunt before blowing warm air on it, finding your agony adorable. You knew though, that he’d notice if you were in pain before you did. 

He spread your legs even further before he kissed your pussy softly. “Fucking pretty pussy,” he praised. His tongue was slow, teasing, reverent—licking up through your folds, curling just right against your clit. His hands held your hips, thumbs stroking circles into your skin as he worshipped you like you were holy.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “Please.” 

“I know, doll,” he nodded, his nose brushed against your slick folds. You grinded your hips against him, trying to get some sort of relief. “You taste like heaven,” he groaned. He licked a harsh stripe of your core. Pressed his face closer to your cunt as his tongue pushed in and out of your sopping hole, licking and sucking as if you were his last meal.

He traced his name, his devotion, into your gummy walls, his nose pressed against your clit. You moaned out a broken, gagged version of his name and arched your back as his nose dug further into your clit, rubbed it until he’s sure you’re all he’ll smell for weeks. 

His hand pressed against your cheek and you clutched his hand, brought his metal fingers to your lips and sucked. He groaned into your cunt and the vibrations had you seeing stars. 

He curled the tip of his tongue upwards and you almost screamed, tears fell down your cheeks at the pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” you chanted, words muffled by his fingers. 

Lifting his eyes, Bucky hummed at the sight of your pleasure, the way tears prettily fell down your cheeks, and lifted his fingers from your tongue. Before he could bring his hand back towards him, you grabbed it and settled it on your chest. His wet, dripping fingers pinched your nipples, teasing the sensitive skin.

“Bucky,” you panted, hips arching. “I’m close, please, baby.” 

Despite everything inside him telling him to keep going, he pulled up, releasing your clit with a messy pop. He kissed your folds and cooed as you cried out, licking you clean. “I know, Y/n, I know.” He kissed your inner thigh. “But if you’re gonna cum, I want it to be around my cock, pretty girl.” 

You stopped breathing. “Bucky…Oh my gosh.” He kissed up your body, licking the wetness from his lips, grinned like he’d never truly lived before. He hovered above you again and you cupped his face. 

“You’re insane,” you laughed, giddy. 

“I really like you, doll.” Bucky was grinning, and although his eyes burned into yours, you couldn’t tell if he was speaking to you or your pussy. 

You laughed and curled your fingers around his dog tags, pulling him close. “I need you,” you whispered. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged. He kissed you softly before pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. 

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised. “I’ll go slow.” He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifted your head. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation before he glanced down at your lips. 

Pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Bucky lifted your head, his gaze almost scoldering. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation, before he glanced down at your lips.

“You’ll tell me if it hurts, right?” Bucky needed you to know that you were safe with him. “I’m serious, Y/n.” 

“I know, Bucky.” You traced one of his dog tags. “It won’t. I trust you.” 

He wrapped one of his hands around his hard, leaking cock and slid up and down once. “I’ll make it feel good, doll.” Your pussy fluttered at his words and he could feel it against his legs. He almost, almost, lost it right there and then, instead, he brushed the back of his hand against your cheek, looking as sinful as ever. 

Slowly, he pushed himself in. 

The satisfying tightening and burn of his veins against your gummy walls made you both moan in unison, your body lit up as he sunk in completely, the base of his cock hit your core. The stretch felt amazing, so good, and all you could do was tuck your face into the crook of his neck, biting back a sob. 

“Fuck,” he groaned out, knuckles white with how hard he gripped your skin. “Fuck, so fucking tight and warm.” You pressed a soft kiss to his neck and he jerked his hips upwards, filled you to the brim, his tip reached parts of you no one ever had. 

When you licked a long stripe of his neck, sucked his adam’s apple until it was red, he collapsed on top of you, his cock leaking in your pussy, veins pulsing. 

You welcomed the weight of his body. He felt so warm; so real, so yours, you could feel the weight of his muscles against yours, the weight crushed the lingering loneliness that had crept into your bones over the years. 

You wrapped your arms around his body, scratched his back and pulled at his hair as you littered his throat and jaw with kisses.

Desperation clawed at Bucky and his thrusts became erratic as he pushed your body flush against him, forcing your hips to match his bruising pace as more slick poured from your legs and onto the sheets, your needy moans mixed with his broken ones. 

“Close–I’m, oh,” you stuttered out, eyes closing when Bucky’s fingers grazed your clit, his own eyes shut for a second when your walls squeezed him impossibly tight as he pressed his fingers against your clit. He could feel it, the dizzying feeling of euphoria building in his chest, the way it was running through his veins. He could tell you felt it too by your breathing, the way your pussy wept for him. 

Stars danced around in your vision and he knew his own vision mirrored yours, the tightness in his core was almost unbearable and he tipped his head forward and pressed his lips against yours, smiling briefly when your hold on him tightened. “Go ahead, doll. Cum for me. Cum all over my cock,” his voice was sweet, borderline crazed. 

You fell limp in his arms when he thrusted into you once, twice, right against your cervix, and you had come undone for him, release washed over you, body weak as your legs shook under his. His hands were all over your body, caressed your skin to comfort you as your body convulsed for him. 

His lips littered soft kisses to any skin he could reach, and when your walls tightened completely, coating his cock in your cum, he softly cried out your name as warm ropes of his cum filled you to the brim. 

You could barely blink, senses still overwhelmed as he kept kissing you, kept cumming, filling you up so well, until you could almost taste him. Quiet praises filled with love and encouragement were whispered against your skin as he remained buried up to the hilt in you, his hips still pushing his cum into you, almost as if he had no control over himself. 

Your entire body was shaking and he wrapped his arms tightly around you, rubbed your back gently until your whimpers turned into heavy breathing, until all you could mumble was some variation of his name. He forced his hips to still, forced himself to breathe deeply. 

“I love you, Y/n,” he said, devout. “You mean so much to me. I’ll protect you, always.”

Bodies sticky and sweaty, he ran his hands up and down your back, nails grazed your skin to ground you. He was sure he was still cumming but if he could distract you, keep your attention on anything other than your overly stimulated, stuffed pussy, he’d do so. 

“That’s it, doll,” he cooed lovingly, kissed the shell of your ear. “I got you.” He smiled when he felt you nod in the crook of his neck. “Did so well for me, pretty girl.” You simply hummed in response, unable to form any sentences at the moment. Bucky rested his cheek against your head, fought the urge to grind his hips against yours. 

You breathed in Bucky’s scent slowly, head safely tucked in the crook of his neck. The way he held you now, so soft, so lovingly, had your heart settling. You could barely feel your legs, moaning lightly when his cock twitched inside you. Wrapped around his body, you pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck, sucked softly when he tilted his head to give you more access. 

Your fingers tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck and he shuddered. You could have fallen asleep right there and then, with his cock stuffed safely in your pussy, sticky wetness fusing your both together.

Slowly, Buckley lifted himself off your body and you both hissed. He brushed your hair out of your face. You stared at him and his legs wobbled at the look in your eyes. You brought a hand up to his face and traced the length of his eyebrow, brushed your fingers down his nose, and along his cheek. 

“Pretty,” you mumbled, and he leaned forward and kissed you softly. 

It was different, slower, more intimate as he cupped your cheek and tilted his head, lips plush against yours. You moaned into his mouth at the intimacy of it; the way his cock was still buried inside you, the way your mixed juices still leaked out of you, the gentle caress of his hand as he whispered loving praises into your mouth. 

Gently, Bucky pulled out of your sopping cunt, biting back a groan. He shifted his weight and maneuvered your body until you were laying in his arms, your back pressed against his chest. He knew he had much to clean up, but your eyes fluttered shut occasionally so he put it off, knowing you needed him more. 

He ran his hands along your arms and then your shoulders, pressing into your skin occasionally to remind you that he was right behind you. You snuggled into him, back pressed flush against his chest and he wrapped an arm around your waist. 

“Let me run you a bath,” he whispered, pressed a kiss to your head. 

You shook your head and waved him off. “Maybe later. I can’t feel any part of my body.” 

Bucky laughed, but he lifted himself a bit, looked down at you. “Do you need anything? Medicine? Water? Does anything hurt?” 

You snorted and slowly shifted, chest pressed to his. You wedged your leg between his, ignored the stickiness that coated you. “Only you could fuck me like this and be this worried after. Just hold me, Buck.” 

He smiled at the fucked-out look on your face, pride bubbling in his chest before his eyes skirted to the scars on your skin. He kissed your cheek and slowly pulled himself away from you and out of bed. 

“I’m going to grab you a glass of water and clean you up. I’ll be right back, doll.” 

You hummed and squeezed his bicep. “Okay, baby.” 

By the time he came back, you had fallen asleep. He placed the glass of water on your side and sat beside your sleeping body. His hand hovered before he cupped your cheek. “I don’t think I could survive ever losing you, Y/n.” 

"I love you," he whispered, the words flowing out easily.

Maybe it had always been easy, with you.

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

domestic fantasy ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend

notes: did i spent the last three days writing for 8-10 hours a day? yes... am i going slightly insane? also yes... but guys!!! fake dating!!! i don't know how i vomited this fic up so quick, jake is just so easy for me to write (i think it's because i love him but not in a soul-crushing way like the way i love rooster?) anyway, PLEASE enjoy and please, please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader is shorter than hangman (just want to mention it), allusions to sex, and it's pretty horny so 18+ ONLY please! let me know if i’ve missed anything!

word count: 10937

“This weekend?” Your voice is unsteady, but you hope the crackling from the poor phone reception is enough to mask it. “I’m not sure if I can do this weekend.” 

Spencer sighs, clearly frustrated by your repeated attempts to keep him away from San Diego. “Look, I know you don’t want to do this—and honestly, neither do I—but it has to be done. I’ll only be in town for a couple of days. I’ll grab some boxes, hire a van, and get them shipped straight to my condo. Don’t you want your spare room back?” 

You gnaw nervously on your bottom lip as you glance out at the open-plan office space, hoping none of your coworkers are listening too closely to your phone conversation. 

You broke up with Spencer six months ago, after dating for nearly four years, and he left in such a rush that almost an entire room of his stuff stayed behind. It isn't anything important—mostly old sports gear and college memorabilia—and it’s not like he’s needed any of it. The breakup hit him hard, and he spent the following four months backpacking around Europe to clear his head. He’s only been back at his condo in Upstate New York for two months, and during that time, he’s been relentlessly bugging you to let him come pick up his things. 

It’s not like you want to hold on to anything that reminds you of him, but you desperately do not want to see him again. You offered a few times to pack up his things and ship them to him, but he flat-out refused. He even called it a violation of privacy now that you’re no longer together. So, about a month ago, you told him you’d find a free weekend for him to come by and collect the rest of his stuff—and you’ve done everything you can to avoid it since. 

“Okay,” you mutter, turning away from the office to face the window overlooking North Island Naval Air Station. “But you can’t stay at the apartment.” 

“What?” Spencer snaps. “Why? It’ll be so much easier. I’ll be in an out in three days, tops.” 

“Three days?” you echo. “Spence, that’s my whole weekend gone.” 

“There’s a lot of stuff,” he argues. “I could bring Harry with me, if-” 

“You are not bringing your brother, Spencer.” You stomp your foot, despite the conversation being over the phone. “Look, if that’s how long it’ll take, then fine. But you are not staying at the apartment. You can’t. My boyfriend just moved in last week.” The last few words slip out before you can stop them. 

Fuck. 

There’s a beat of silence before Spencer speaks again, his voice wavering. “Boyfriend?” 

You tip your head back and take a deep breath. “Yes, boyfriend.” 

Another awkward stretch of silence. 

“Okay... I’ll stay at the motel around the corner,” he says. 

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Good.” 

“See you Friday, then.” 

“See you Friday.” 

You pull the phone away from your ear and tap the red button, watching Spencer’s caller ID photo flicker out before the screen goes black. With a sigh, your arms drop to your sides, and you lean forward until your forehead rests against the windowpane with a soft, dull thud. 

What the fuck did you just do? 

- 

Gravel crunches beneath your tires as you swerve into the parking lot of The Hard Deck bar. You pull up beside a familiar Ford Bronco, yanking the parking brake just a little too hard before practically stumbling out of the car. Your feet carry you across the lot and through the front door before coming to a stop as you survey the room, searching for the familiar face you came here to find. Across the bar, tucked into the booth closest to the pool table, are your friends. They’re sipping beers and chatting happily, blissfully unaware that an electrical storm of stress and anxiety is headed right for them. 

You weave through the tables and other patrons with determination, your breath coming and going in quick, anxious bursts. Your feet only stop when you reach your friends’ table, and their conversation quickly dies as they each turn to look at you. 

Jake’s brows pinch. “Hey, are you okay?” 

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down nervously, unsure how to reply. 

Javy, who was sitting next to Jake, stands up and nods toward the bar. “I’m going to grab another drink. Want anything?” 

You nod. “Whatever you’re having.” 

He gives you a cheeky wink before striding off toward the bar. You watch him for a few seconds before turning back to the booth and sliding in beside Jake, leaning into him and letting your head fall on his shoulder. 

Natasha sits across from you, her head tilted and a curious glint in her narrowed eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“Not yet, I haven’t,” you say, before letting out an exasperated sigh. “My ex is coming back this weekend.” 

She rears back and sits up straight, her brows raised. “Coming back to stay?” 

You lift your head from Jake’s shoulder and shake it softly. “Nah. He just wants to pick up everything he left behind.” 

Jake shifts beside you, his arm sliding around your lower back almost possessively—but you know he only means to comfort you. “Including you?” he asks, his tone playful but laced with a hint of uncertainty. 

You snort and turn to face him, a little startled by how close those piercing green eyes are. “Of course not. Or at least, I hope not. I mean, I think I made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t getting me back, even if he was planning to try.” You trail off, turning away, unsure how to bring up the real reason you came here tonight—the question that’s been gnawing at you since your phone conversation with Spencer. 

“Okay,” Nat says, “so, what’s the big deal?” 

You suck in a deep breath, filling your lungs as you gather every shred of dignity you still have left. “I told him he couldn’t stay at the apartment because… my boyfriend just moved in.” 

Natasha’s brows shoot up toward her hairline and her mouth pops open. Amusement dances behind her eyes, but she has the decency to hold it back as you drop your head into your hands and let out a groan. “I fucked up.” 

Beside Natasha, Mickey leans forward. “But you don’t have a boyfriend?” 

You look up at him and scowl. “No shit.” 

“Oh.” He nods slowly, fighting the grin that tugs at his lips. 

“So, what are you going to do?” Reuben pipes up from the other end of the table, looking just as amused as the rest of your friends. 

“Well...” You lean back, pressing your shoulder blades into the vinyl of the booth as you twist your neck to glance at the man beside you. “I was going to ask Jake if he could help me... pretend.” 

Jake’s smirk fades, and a flush creeps into his cheeks. His green eyes widen, the usual cocky confidence replaced by startled confusion. “What? Why me?” 

You shrug, trying to act nonchalant about asking the man you regularly fantasise about to be your fake boyfriend. “It just makes the most sense. I’ve known you the longest.” Your eyes flick toward the other boys at the table. “No offense, but Jake and I just have better chemistry—and Spencer knew it. He was always a little threatened by our friendship.” 

You shift your gaze back to Jake, who’s still looking stunned, his lips parted slightly. 

“Plus, I only broke up with Spencer six months ago. I couldn’t have met someone new and asked them to move in that fast. It has to be someone I already knew.” You widen your eyes and bat your lashes dramatically. “Please, Jake. I’ll do anything.” 

He blinks at you, cheeks still tinged pink. “Define anything,” he says, that cocky smirk slowly starting to return. 

“Whatever you want,” you reply, planting both hands on his thigh closest to you—oblivious to the fact that it makes his dick twitch in his jeans. “You know I’m good for it.” 

Jake coughs into his hand, shifting slightly, trying to hold onto his bravado while making sure your touch doesn’t creep any higher. “Alright,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “I’ll do it.” 

You raise a brow. “That easy?” 

He lifts a finger. “On one condition.” 

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Which is?” 

He leans in, that cocky smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “I want a home-cooked dinner. Every night I’m there. Candles. Music. Maybe a little wine. You know... boyfriend perks.” 

Natasha snorts across the table. “You mean domestic fantasy perks.” 

Jake just shrugs, eyes still locked on yours. “Hey, if I’m going to play house, I want the full experience.” 

You swallow hard, but your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Deal.” 

He grins wider, and this time you’re pretty sure it’s not just cockiness—it’s anticipation. 

- 

You pace in circles around your kitchen island, one arm tucked under your breasts, holding your opposite elbow as you anxiously gnaw on your thumbnail. Jake is supposed to be here any minute, and the cork in the bottle of nerves rattling around in your stomach just won’t stay put. 

You’ve known Jake for years. You met in college and, despite the distance with his deployments, have been metaphorically inseparable ever since. But physically? That was a little harder, obviously. 

You’ve always had a soft spot for Jake—a bit of a crush, but you were never foolish enough to think anything could come of it. You’ve been perfectly content being his friend, never pushing for more. But every single one of your boyfriends? They hated him. You can’t blame them, really—Jake has that effect on people. That cocky, irresistible charm that makes it impossible for anyone else to ignore him. 

Still, you can’t shake the guilt creeping in. Fooling Spencer into thinking you and Jake are together? After all those times you promised him there was nothing more than friendship between you and Jake? It feels wrong. Even if Spencer never really took your word for it. 

A knock at the door pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you hurry to answer it. Jake is standing on the other side, looking even more irresistible than usual. There’s no uniform today, no flight suit or polished boots. Instead, he's wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and somehow that makes him look even better. His hair is messy, not gelled like it usually is, and the scruff on his jaw—a day’s worth of stubble—only adds to the allure. He looks... delicious in a way that’s totally different from the polished, put-together fighter pilot you’re used to. 

“Hey, girlfriend,” he says with a smirk, “sorry I’m late.” 

Your brain and mouth have completely short-circuited, leaving you with no choice but to smile, nod, and step aside to let him in. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a box of random belongings in his arms—little odds and ends that someone might have lying around their apartment. 

Jake drops the box onto the kitchen counter and turns back to you. “What time is Spencer the Snob getting here?” 

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “In about an hour. Do you think you can manage to be civilized?” 

“Yes,” he replies, his voice sharp as he props his hands on his hips. “Can he be civilised?” 

“Spencer is always civilized.” 

You walk over to the box and start pulling out items, mentally sorting them. But Jake isn’t done. 

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Spencer is not always civilized. He’s just really good at hiding what a complete dick he is.” 

You turn and lean your hip against the countertop, raising one eyebrow. “You only don’t like him because he didn’t like you first. And let’s be honest, that’s because you bought me lingerie for the first birthday that I was with him. He didn’t get the joke and thought it was way too suggestive.” 

Jake snorts, his jade eyes lighting up with mischief. “Yeah, that was a good one. I’ll never forget the look on his face.” 

You resist the urge to laugh and roll your eyes again, turning back to the box. “I’ll admit, Spence is a little snobby. But that’s just how he was raised. It’s not his fault he’s got money.” 

Jake’s expression darkens, and he narrows his eyes at the affectionate nickname. “Spence?” 

“Sorry,” you say, your cheeks flushing pink. “Force of habit.” 

The two of you move quietly around the apartment, slipping into an easy rhythm as you make space for Jake’s things. You tuck two framed photos of his family onto the bookshelf, nestled between your novels, and slide one of his official Navy portraits beside them—one you definitely wouldn’t mind keeping. 

He hangs a jacket and a couple of worn caps on the hooks by the door and drops two pairs of his boots beside your own lineup of shoes. You clear off a bedside table for him to clutter with his things, and listen to the soft clink of bottles as he unpacks his toiletries in the bathroom. 

Finally, you add a towel for him to the rack beside the shower. And for a moment, you let yourself imagine it: the two of you in there together. His hot, slick skin pressed to yours, the steam curling around your tangled limbs. His hands sliding soap across your body, rinsing you slow and thorough. He’d wash your hair too, fingers working into your scalp until your eyes fluttered closed—and then you’d return the favour, watching his mouth part in bliss beneath your touch. 

“Hello?” Jake waves a hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?” 

You blink rapidly and turn to face him, only to find him standing way too close with that maddening smirk tugging at his lips. Your eyes flick up to his, and the look he gives you is downright dangerous—curious, cocky, and just a little bit amused. 

“You good, sweetheart?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’re lookin’ a little hot under the collar.” 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Instead, you let out a weird half-laugh, half-scoff and sidestep him like he’s radioactive. “I’m fine. It’s just warm in here. Is it warm in here?” 

Jake leans back against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed and eyes glittering. “Could be. Or maybe you were just thinkin’ about something real steamy.” 

You choke on air. “Excuse me?” 

He shrugs, all faux innocence. “Just sayin’... you’ve got that look. Like your brain wandered somewhere it probably shouldn’t have.” 

You grab a towel—any towel—and smack him in the chest. “Shut up.” 

Jake laughs, catching the towel with one hand like he knew it was coming. “Whatever it was, must’ve been good.” 

When he finally steps aside, you scurry past like lingering too long might scorch your skin. Only once you’ve turned down the hall and reached the kitchen—putting a safe stretch of space between you and him—do you exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

“Okay,” you say, planting both palms against the cool, marble countertop. “Spencer is going to be here in half an hour, so we have exactly thirty minutes to practice being a couple.” 

Jake smirks like this is nothing—like he’s been in this exact situation a hundred times before. “You tell me what you’re comfortable with, darlin’.” He steps up to the other side of the kitchen island and leans forward, mirroring your posture. 

You tilt your head slightly, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you narrow your eyes at him. “We need to look convincing. No weirdness, no pulling faces. Just... act natural.” 

Jake cocks an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Natural, huh? So, no kissing? Not even a little peck?” 

You try to focus, but the way he’s leaning across the island—just far enough to make the space between you feel electrified—throws you off. “Uh, no. Nothing like that. We’ll start slow. Hold hands, sit close... you know, the easy stuff.” 

Jake’s grin widens, his gaze flickering down to your lips before locking onto your eyes. “Hold hands, sit close. Got it. But what if I make you want to kiss me? I’m really good at that.” 

You feel the heat spreading through your chest, but you refuse to let him see it. “You think you can make me want to kiss you?” You raise an eyebrow, trying to match his cockiness. 

He leans even further toward you and drops his voice low, the teasing edge still there but with a smouldering intensity you’re having a hard time ignoring. “Oh, sweetheart. I know I can. All I need is the right moment.” 

You can’t help but laugh nervously, your pulse quickening as he stays there, so close you can feel the heat of his presence even if the island bench is still separating you. “Well, we’ve got thirty minutes to see if you can keep your hands to yourself, Seresin,” you tease, but there’s an edge to it now—a hint of challenge. 

Jake leans in a little more, his gaze fixed on you, like he’s seconds away from crossing the line. “Trust me, darlin’. I can keep my hands to myself... but only if you can keep your hands off me.” 

Your chest rises and falls faster than usual, your head spinning slightly from all the extra oxygen surging through your blood. You part your lips, ready to fire back something just as cocky—something to keep the volley going—but the sharp chime of your phone slices through the tension, and both your gazes snap to where it buzzes on the countertop. 

You settle back onto your heels, and reach for your phone, huffing out a small, frustrated sigh before sliding the answer button and pressing it to your ear. “Hey, Spencer.” 

“Hey, how are you?” 

Your eyes slide toward Jake, who is looking almost as frustrated as you feel. “Fine. How far out are you?” 

Spencer chuckles, and something inside of you instinctively recoils, even though the sound itself isn’t particularly offensive. “I’m great, thanks for asking. The flight was fine, a little bumpy, but we made it. I’m just waiting at baggage claim, so I’ll be about twenty minutes.” 

“No worries,” you say, “see you soon.” 

You hang up before he even finishes saying goodbye, drop your phone face-down on the bench, and glance back at Jake. “Alright, let’s go over the details. We started dating three months after Spencer left. You asked me out, and I was a little surprised.” 

Jake frowns, already halfway to an objection, but you cut him off with a raised hand. “Just go with it, okay? It keeps my integrity intact. You have no idea how many times I had to convince him I wasn’t into you.” 

His frown fades fast, replaced by that maddeningly smug smirk. “Go on, then.” 

You roll your eyes, but continue. “I was surprised, but everything just... clicked. Being best friends made the relationship feel natural. That’s why things have moved fast. You were already here most nights, your rent went up, so you moved in two weeks ago.” 

Jake nods like he’s logging it all away. “Okay, but more importantly—how’s the sex?” 

You stare, deadpan. “Seriously?” 

He shrugs, hands raised like a saint. “What? It’s a legitimate question. Spencer might ask.” 

“I highly fucking doubt it.” 

Jake chuckles. “Yeah, fair. Still worth a shot.” 

With a long, theatrical exhale, you walk around the kitchen island and stop in front of him. “Alright, let’s talk touching.” 

His eyes light up, devilish. “Now you’re speaking my language.” 

You ignore him. “I’m ticklish, so don’t touch my ribs or ghost over my arms—I will flinch.” 

“I know.” 

You pause. “Okay…” You shake your head, ignoring the question trying to form. “I’m not huge on PDA, but I like lingering touches. Just small things, to remind each other we’re there.” 

“I know,” he says again, that smirk glued in place. 

The question in your head itches a little louder, but you push it aside. “And if we go out—which I really hope we don’t—make sure you’re always sitting next to me. I hate it when couples sit across from each other. I don’t want to gaze into your eyes, I want to feel your warmth.” 

Jake’s smirk splits into a wide, boyish grin. “I know.” 

The floodgates crack. “How the fuck do you know everything?” 

He leans in just slightly, voice soft but sure. “Because I know you. I’ve watched you with every guy you’ve dated. Just because I wasn’t the guy doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention.” 

You blink, reeling from the quiet truth in his tone. It hits you like a gust of wind—real, unshakable. You actually have to take a step back to steady yourself. There’s no teasing in his voice, no smug edge. Just Jake, earnest and open in a way that’s rare. 

And it almost wrecks you. 

Jake might be cocky and insufferable ninety percent of the time—but when he loves, he does it fiercely. Deeply. Fully. And you’ve always known you were lucky to be one of the people he loves. 

But for the first time, you let your mind wander somewhere dangerous. What would it be like to be loved by Jake Seresin—not just as a friend, but as his person? His everything? 

“So,” Jake says, cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter, “where should I touch you first?” 

You close your eyes for a beat, reminding yourself that this is still Jake—insufferable, irritating Jake. “You don’t have to be weird and over the top about it. When he gets here, you can just sit on the couch, then I’ll join you and sit close. You can put a hand on my thigh.” 

Jake’s brows furrow, his face contorting with mild disgust. “I know you’re trying not to make him uncomfortable, but that’s not going to work. Think about it—your ex is coming over, and your current boyfriend is just sitting casually on the couch? Not buying it.” 

You roll your eyes again, hoping to avoid yet another pointless argument. “Jake, this doesn’t need to be-” 

“You told him you’re dating me,” he interrupts, poking his chest with a finger. “And if this was real, I’d be making damn sure I had a hand on you at all times.” 

You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your body reacts to his proximity and his words. Heat floods your chest and settles behind your hipbones, desire tightening in places you don’t want to think about right now. “You don’t need to stake your claim, Jake. Spencer isn’t here to win me back.” 

Jake steps closer, cutting the distance between you until there’s barely two feet separating you. “You don’t know that.” His voice lowers slightly, making the air between you feel thick and electric. “And yes, I do. If you want him to believe we’re dating, then you need to let me do exactly what I would do if this was real.” 

You’re not sure whether he’s just being cocky or trying to show off, but damn it, he’s making a good point. “Okay, fine. But don’t make him uncomfortable.” 

Jake’s smirk widens, taking on that familiar, smug edge. “No promises, darlin’.” 

You spend the next ten minutes pretending to clean—wiping already spotless counters, rearranging throw pillows, and dusting things that definitely don’t need dusting. All while Jake lounges on the couch like this is the easiest job he’s ever had. 

“It’s three days, sweetheart,” he says. “By Sunday, Spencer will be back in his overpriced New York apartment sipping single malt and Googling himself.” 

You snort but say nothing. Three days. Just two dinners and one brunch. You’ll keep the visits restricted to daylight hours, keep Jake close, keep your story straight—and by Sunday afternoon, Spencer will be out of your apartment and out of your life. 

That’s the plan, anyway. 

But as you glance over at Jake—sprawled out, so completely at ease in your space, looking infuriatingly good even in his most relaxed state—you start to question the rest of it. 

Because it’s not Spencer you’re worried about fooling anymore. It’s yourself. And when Jake turns his head and catches you staring, smirking like he knows exactly what you're thinking? 

Yeah. This might be harder than you thought. 

The intercom buzzes, loud and sudden, startling you from your task of rearranging the flowers on the dining table. Your heart launches into your throat, pounding like you’ve just jumped from a plane without a parachute. 

Jake chuckles and rises from the couch, strolling over to the intercom with infuriating confidence. He presses the button and leans in. “Come on up.” 

You force your feet to move, carrying you toward him and not stopping until you’re right beside him. You press yourself against him and the moment your body meets his, heat blooms under your skin. It’s not new—you've touched him before—but it feels different. More charged. More deliberate. Jake’s arm slides around your waist without hesitation, and his fingers curl into your hip, firm and possessive. There’s a subtle squeeze and the pad of his thumb grazes a sliver of skin just beneath the hem of your shirt. 

You feel it everywhere. 

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “It’s showtime, sweetheart.” 

Your breath stutters. This is just pretend. 

Your heart pounds against your sternum, each beat like the tick of a countdown clock. The elevator dings. Footsteps echo down the hallway. Closer, closer. You draw in a deep breath and hold it, ignoring the sharp ache it sends through your chest. 

“Relax,” Jake murmurs, pulling you tighter against his side as he reaches for the doorknob. 

The second the footsteps stop, he yanks the door open—no chance for a knock. 

“Spence!” Jake beams, like they’re old frat brothers reunited. “Come in, buddy. How are you?” 

You nearly snort. The absurdity of his enthusiasm bubbles up in your throat, but you bite your lip hard enough to keep it down. 

Spencer looks good—but all it does is remind you how little you miss him. His perfectly coiffed blonde hair hasn’t changed one bit, but he’s tanner than you remember—courtesy of the European sun, no doubt. He’s not as tall as Jake, but he’s got that same overinflated ego. The difference? Jake’s cockiness comes from… well, let’s just say it’s probably anatomical. Spencer’s is inherited—passed down with a trust fund and a country club membership. 

He’s dressed exactly as you expected: a sky-blue Ralph Lauren polo, crisp white pants with a crease so sharp it could slice bread, and tan boat shoes—an ironic choice, considering he’s terrified of boats. 

But it’s his face that really seals the moment. Jaw unhinged, eyes wide, staring at Jake like he just opened the door to a ghost. Or maybe something worse: the ghost of his ex-girlfriend’s new sex life. 

“Jake?” Spencer finally says. “Your new boyfriend is Jake Seresin?” 

Jake’s grin is unbothered—like this is the moment he’s been waiting for his whole life. “The one and only.” 

You feel his hand press a little firmer into your waist, anchoring you there like you might suddenly run—and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. 

Spencer steps further into the apartment, his eyes glued to Jake’s smug face. “I thought you said there was nothing going on between you two.” 

Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice even. “There wasn’t. Not back then.” 

Spencer glances at you. “You told me I was being paranoid. That he was just your friend.” 

Jake chuckles. “I remember you telling me about that.” 

You shoot him a look that’s supposed to say “not helping,” but he just smiles innocently and shrugs. 

Spencer looks seconds away from spontaneously combusting. “I trusted you,” he says, starting to sound like the whiny, private-school rich kid you always tried to ignore. “You promised me nothing would ever happen with him.” 

“Yeah, that was then, and this is now. Things change, Spence—and this has nothing to do with you,” you say, tone sharpening. If he’s going to act like a child, then you're going to treat him like one. 

Jake’s hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, his thumb sweeping in a slow, easy circle like he’s soothing a spark before it ignites. “People change, bud. Timing is everything.” 

Spencer folds his arms, visibly rattled. “So, what—he swooped in the second I left?” 

Jake tilts his head, eyes full of mock offense. “Swooped? Come on. Give me a little credit. She came to me.” 

You snap your head toward him, about to object, but his grin is wicked and the mischief in his eyes dares you to play along. 

“Well...” You drag the word out, buying a few precious seconds to stitch your story together. “Technically, yes. I was upset after the breakup, so of course I turned to my best friend for comfort.” 

Spencer’s blue-grey eyes narrow. “You broke up with me.” 

“That she did, pal.” Jake tries for a sympathetic look, but you know better—he’s enjoying this a little too much. 

“Just because I ended things doesn’t mean it didn’t rattle me,” you shoot back, trying to shift the focus away from Jake. “We were together for four years, Spencer. That’s a long time. I just had the guts to do what you didn’t. So, forgive me if I’m not in the mood to explain myself to you. I don’t owe you anything—and my new relationship? It’s none of your business.” 

You see his expression twist into an offended scowl, and anger flickers in your chest. The nerve of him, acting like you still owe him something just because you pulled the plug first. 

“For the record,” you continue, voice cool and firm, “yeah, I leaned on Jake. And somewhere along the line, I found something a lot deeper.” 

Then, without missing a beat, you glance at Jake—who’s already wearing that cocky smirk—and let one of your own curve across your lips as you look back at Spencer. 

“Actually,” you say, eyes narrowing with satisfaction, “I think it was Jake who found something a little deeper… if you know what I mean.” 

Jake snorts, slapping his hand over his mouth, but he can’t suppress the gleeful chuckle bubbling from his lips. Spencer, on the other hand, looks utterly humbled—his cheeks are bright red and his jaw is hanging open like he’s just been slapped across the face. 

You step away from Jake, waiting for his hand to drop so you can grab it. The second your fingers slide into his, a rush of warmth zips up your arm, and you try to ignore how good it feels, but damn, it’s hard. 

“Get your boxes,” you say to Spencer, keeping your tone cool. “Jake will help you pack some stuff this afternoon, but it’s date night, so you’ve got exactly two hours. You can come back in the morning.” 

Spencer's lip twitches, like he's about to argue, but then he stops himself. He nods curtly and unties the fancy cashmere sweater draped around his shoulders, hanging it carefully on a hook by the door. He hesitates when he notices Jake’s clothes tossed haphazardly alongside yours. After a moment, he huffs, shakes his head, and stomps out of the apartment. 

You fight to suppress a grin as you turn to Jake, but he’s already beaming at you. “You’re amazing, you know that?” 

You pretend to flick your hair off your shoulder with theatrical flair. “Oh, I know.” 

He chuckles. “I can’t believe you just told your ex I’ve got a huge dick.” 

You shrug, one shoulder rising nonchalantly. “You’ve got the ego to match, so I figured I could make an educated guess. Besides, it’s not like Spencer will ever know for sure.” 

His brows shoot up. “Oh, so you were just guessing?” 

Heat floods your cheeks, and suddenly his eyes are too intense to meet. “Well, obviously.” 

He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, voice low and teasing—laced with a challenge that feels dangerously not like a joke. “Want to find out for real?” 

Your breath hitches. Words abandon you. All you can do is stare at his face—too handsome and too tempting. 

“Because I’d go a hell of a lot deeper than that weasel. So deep, you’d be screaming-” 

The intercom buzzer cuts him off, and you’re hit with a wave of relief and frustration all at once. Your pulse is racing, your chest tight, and the thrum of your heartbeat fills your ears. 

Jake chuckles, clearly amused by the timing, and leans back, releasing your hand to press the button on the intercom. He glances over at you, winks, and casually strides toward the lounge, sprawling out like he owns the place. Like he’s some modern-day Adonis—there to wind you up and then claim your couch like it’s his throne. 

You force your limbs to move, opening the door for Spencer and helping him carry in the flattened cardboard boxes tucked under his arms. You lead him to the spare room—where all his abandoned belongings have been gathering dust for the past six months—and leave him to it. 

You don’t have to ask Jake to help. The second you return to the living room, he stands, crosses the space without hesitation, and steps right up to you. His palm finds the back of your head as he pulls you in, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to the top of your hair. 

You know he’s just doing what you asked—pretending to be your boyfriend. But the tenderness of the gesture feels heartbreakingly sincere. It sinks into your skin, fills your chest like warm water, and when he pulls away, he takes the comfort with him. 

Your eyes trail after him as he walks toward the spare room, and you shamelessly ogle his ass on the way out. Then you collapse onto the lounge where he’d just been sitting, curling up in the lingering scent of his cologne. You tug a blanket from the wicker basket beside the couch and wrap it around yourself, clicking on a show you barely register—because all you can think about is the way Jake Seresin touches you. 

This might not have been such a brilliant idea after all. 

- 

Spencer uses up his two hours like he paid for them, waiting until exactly 5:59 PM to dust off his palms on those stupid white pants—as if he hadn’t made Jake do all the heavy lifting—and announce that he “better get going.” 

You give him a tight smile as you hold the door open, already half-relieved just watching him walk out. It's not that pretending to love Jake is hard—you do love him. It’s the reminder that all the lingering touches, the soft smiles, the stolen glances—they’re just an act. That’s what’s draining you. 

The second the door clicks shut, you let out a long, theatrical sigh, like you’ve been holding your breath for the full two hours. “Oh, thank God. I don’t know how I’m going to survive a whole day tomorrow.” 

Jake chuckles, but there’s something tight about it—like he’s forcing it out through gritted teeth. “Am I that hard to love?” he asks, and though his tone is teasing, something flickers behind his eyes that doesn’t feel like a joke. 

Your brows knit. “No, it’s not that. It’s just...” 

He steps closer, invading your space like he’s done all day—and you hate how much you don’t mind it anymore. In fact, you kind of want him to stay right there. 

“What is it?” he murmurs, voice low and rough enough to make your skin prickle. 

You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close he is, how good he smells, and how charged the air between you feels. “It’s just Spencer, you know? Having him around is... exhausting.” 

Jake’s lip quirks, but his eyes are sharp, studying you. “Oh? So you’re not struggling with this fake relationship thing at all? Not even a little confused? Frustrated? Having trouble remembering it’s not real?” 

You blink, stunned silent. You’re not sure how, but you’re starting to believe Jake Seresin might actually be a mind reader. 

“I-” The words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his stare. His piercing green eyes pin you in place, make you forget how to speak, how to breathe. 

Then, just when it feels like you might combust, his smirk cracks into a grin and he takes a step back, letting the tension snap like a rubber band. “Alright then,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what’s for dinner, gorgeous?” 

You inhale like you’ve just broken the surface of the water. Your lungs burn. Your head spins. This man is giving you whiplash. 

It takes almost a full minute to regain control of your body, and when you finally do, you walk straight into the kitchen without giving Jake an answer. You can’t even look at him right now—but he has no trouble looking at you. 

He watches you like he’s starving and you’re the feast. It makes focusing on dinner nearly impossible. 

You busy yourself preparing the meal you planned yesterday—Italian sausage spaghetti with a pull-apart garlic loaf. You don’t usually go all out for dinner, but you’re using Jake’s presence as an excuse to cook something hearty and delicious. Maybe after eating, you’ll both be too full to maintain this unbearable sexual tension. He can crash on the couch, and you’ll curl up in bed. Or maybe you’ll take a long, steamy shower and do what you need to do to unknot the tension pulsing behind your hipbones. 

Dinner comes together quickly, and after a few casual questions from Jake about the food, he drifts back to the couch, half-watching whatever show has been playing in the background for past few hours. You set the dining table just the way he asked—candles, wine, and soft music humming from the speaker on your bookshelf. 

Finally, you place two full bowls of pasta on the table—opposite each other. Because you’re not really dating, so why would you sit beside him? To feel his warmth? Let him rest a hand on your thigh? 

The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine. 

You try to shake it off and glance at Jake—only to find him already watching you. 

You clear your throat. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin, your dinner is served.” 

He grins like a kid in a candy store, pushing off the couch and sniffing the air like a Loony Tunes character. “Damn, I think Phoenix might’ve been right. This is a full-on domestic fantasy.” 

You roll your eyes and duck your head, hoping he doesn’t see the heat rising in your cheeks. “Just sit down and eat, Hangman. I’m tired and hungry.” 

You flick off the kitchen lights, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of the candles. The atmosphere feels far more romantic than you intended. Is this what Jake wanted? 

You don’t give yourself time to overthink it—because the food smells amazing, and there’s a very attractive naval aviator sitting across from you, looking like he was plucked straight from a dream. 

You spend the first few minutes eating in silence, both too busy shovelling pasta into your mouths and tearing into buttery garlic bread to speak. Somehow, Jake even manages to make slurping spaghetti look hot—and you hate when people make noise while they eat. 

“So,” you say, slowing your pace and setting your fork down, “did you want to stay here tonight or head back to your place?” 

He keeps his eyes on his plate, as if avoiding yours will mask whatever he’s really thinking. “Up to you, darlin’. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

“Well, Spencer did seem pretty suspicious about the whole thing… so I think it’s safer if you stay.” 

His head snaps up, and that signature smirk spreads across his lips. “Is that so?” 

“Yeah,” you say, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks, “he might sniff around tomorrow. Like, literally. He might be a creep and notice your towel’s untouched, or that your side of the bed hasn’t been slept in, and-” 

“You want to share the bed?” he asks, looking far too pleased with the idea. 

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “We’ve shared a bed before.” 

“Yeah,” he says, a low chuckle slipping out, “blind drunk.” 

His eyes are too pretty, too intense, and your chest feels tight under their weight. You look away, eyes darting around the table until they land on the wine bottle. 

“Well then,” you say, picking it up and refilling his glass, “drink up, Seresin.” 

Two bottles of wine later, you’re both loose-limbed and laughing—less awkward about the day’s chaos, and a lot less anxious about sharing a bed tonight. 

You giggle at one of Jake’s ridiculous jokes while clearing the table, and when he insists on helping clean up, you swat him away, telling him it’s all part of his domestic fantasy. He rolls his eyes but still hovers, drying dishes and pretending not to notice the way you keep throwing him side-eye glances every time he guesses wrong about where something goes. 

“Do you want to shower?” you ask as you finish wiping down the stovetop. 

His green eyes go wide, that crooked grin slipping across his face like sin itself. “Is this you offering?” 

Your stomach flips, heat crawling up your chest. “I meant—do you want to shower first?” 

“Oh,” he chuckles, almost disappointed. “Yeah, sure. If you don’t mind?” 

“Wouldn’t have asked if I did,” you mutter, turning back toward the lounge. 

You listen to his footsteps fade toward the bathroom, then collapse onto the couch, burying your face in a pillow that smells maddeningly like him. 

What the fuck are you doing? 

Yes, you’ve always had a little crush on Jake, but you’re not delusional. He’s out of your league. You’ve made peace with that. You’ve always been happy just being his friend. So why does all of this feel so good? Why is it getting harder to remember that he doesn’t see you the same way? 

He’s thrown himself into this charade like it’s more than just pretending, and it’s messing with your head. Does he want something more? Something casual? A few nights, maybe? Or... does he want you—the whole messy package? 

The shower starts, and you groan into the pillow. You’re confused. You’re also so fucking horny. Red wine was a terrible idea. 

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open. “All yours,” Jake calls, his voice smooth and casual as he walks toward the bedroom where he left his duffel bag. 

You drag yourself upright, every step toward the bathroom a battle against the mental slideshow of naked, wet Jake. You shut the door, strip down, and step into the shower, letting the hot water calm your skin and chase away the ache blooming low in your belly. 

You don’t have the guts to do what you really need to make that ache go away—not with Jake just a paper-thin wall away. The thought creeps in, bold and reckless, whispering what if you just called him in here? But then you laugh softly under your breath and shake it off. As if. The idea of Jake rejecting you would be a level of humiliation you’re not prepared to face tonight. Or ever. 

You shut off the water, swipe a towel from the rack, and give yourself a quick dry before wrapping it snugly around your body. The bathroom is thick with steam, your skin flushed and dewy, your pulse still thudding from thoughts you shouldn't be entertaining. 

You open the door to let in some air—only to nearly collide with Jake. 

He’s right there. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants slung low, a towel around his neck, and an annoyingly cocky smirk on his lips. 

“Damn,” he says, leaning one arm against the doorframe, eyes roaming blatantly. “I was coming to see if you drowned, but now I’m thinking maybe I should’ve brought more wine.” 

You try to step back, but he follows, slipping inside like he belongs here. You grip your towel tighter. 

“Jake,” you warn, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?” 

“Just enjoying the view,” he says casually, his eyes far too warm for comfort. “This your idea of torture? Walk out here looking like a damn dream and expect me to just keep pretending?” 

You’re not sure what’s pretending and what isn’t anymore, and you have no idea what his words mean. Is he just messing with you? He has to be. 

“I didn’t ask you to come in.” 

“And yet,” he says, grinning, “here I am.” 

The heat in the room is stifling—and it's not just the steam. Jake moves in closer, crowding your space, eyes flicking from your lips to your towel and back. His fingers reach up, slow and deliberate, and tug lightly at the edge of the fabric resting on your collarbone. 

“Think this is regulation towel length?” he teases. 

“Do you want me to report you to HR?” you ask, trying not to smile. Your voice wobbles on the last word when his fingers brush across the swell of your breast. 

“Only if HR gives out spankings,” he says with a wink. 

You laugh, then immediately regret it, because the movement loosens the towel just slightly—and his gaze drops. The air between you crackles. 

“Jake,” you murmur, breath hitching. 

He leans in, his lips brushing your temple like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. “Say the word,” he whispers, voice lower than a dare. 

You turn your face toward him, your lips just inches from his—and then: 

BZZZZZZZZZZZT. 

The intercom buzzes loudly from the living room, startling you both. You jump, and Jake curses under his breath. 

“Saved by the buzzer,” you mutter, half annoyed, half relieved. 

He takes a step back, eyes still dark with want, running a hand through his hair. “Or maybe cursed by it.” 

You give him a pointed look. “Shut the door on your way out, Hangman.” 

He backs out slowly, smirking the whole way. “You know I’m not going to forget this, right?” 

You roll your eyes and wait for him to close the door before locking it for good measure. After drying off, you go through your usual skincare and haircare routines, trying not to think about whatever the hell just happened between the two of you. But one glance down the hall as you exit the bathroom makes your heart plummet. 

Spencer is standing by the front door. And Jake—still very much shirtless—is looking smug as hell. 

“Hey, darlin’,” Jake drawls, turning to Spencer with a wink. “We just finished up in the shower, if you know what I mean.” 

You freeze like a deer in headlights, towel clutched to your chest. You feel like a naked model caught mid-pose in front of a life drawing class—except your ex is the one holding the sketchpad, and Jake is… well, Jake. 

“Spencer,” you bite out, “what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“I-I forgot my sweater.” He holds up the creamy cashmere one he’d left by the door, eyes darting anywhere but your body. 

You raise a brow. “And that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” 

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—clearly trying not to ogle you while very aware of the broad, half-naked man beside him who is allegedly your boyfriend. Jake’s green eyes darken the longer Spencer’s gaze lingers. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters. “I guess I didn’t think-” 

“Yeah, thinking’s never really been your thing, huh, pal?” Jake cuts in, clapping a firm hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind fucking off, I’d like to get back to round two with my very satisfied girlfriend. And just so we’re clear—if you show up before 9AM tomorrow, all you’re gonna hear is her screaming my name in ecstasy.” 

Your body lights up like a struck match. You don’t even look at Spencer as Jake all but escorts him out the door. Your focus is entirely on the shirtless man—the ridiculously hot, dangerously cocky, fake boyfriend who just made you feel completely and utterly claimed. 

You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the caveman behaviour, but suddenly, the idea of crossing that line doesn’t seem so dangerous anymore. In fact, it sounds like the best idea you’ve had in years. 

Jake shuts the door and flicks the deadbolt before turning those dark green eyes on you. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and you’re gonna make my dreams—and Spencer’s nightmares—come true.” 

His dreams? 

Your breath catches in your throat. Then, like a startled chicken, you turn and bolt to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. Your head spins as you scramble to grab the pyjamas stashed under your pillow. Every inch of your skin feels hypersensitive, like Jake’s gaze alone has lit up your nerve endings one by one. 

Once you’re dressed and your face isn’t quite so scarlet red, you head for the bathroom. You hang up your towel—deliberately ignoring the sight of Jake’s hanging next to it—and start brushing your teeth. But the flutter in your stomach is relentless. 

Jake appears a moment later and joins you silently, his eyes finding yours in the mirror. You try to avoid them, but your gaze keeps drifting back, always checking, always wondering. And every time, he’s still watching. 

You rinse and spit, then flee the bathroom before your knees give out. You don’t bother with the rest of your night routine—you need sleep, or space, or maybe a total reset of your entire hormonal system. 

You crawl into bed and flick on the TV perched atop your dresser, the hum of background noise a small comfort. But it does nothing to quiet the static under your skin when Jake steps into the room. 

He flicks off the main light, shuts the door with a soft click, and then sits on the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight, and it feels like the whole room tilts with him. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits beside you in the dim glow of the TV, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. 

You pretend to be engrossed in whatever’s on the screen, but your heart is thundering, and you can feel his gaze on you like a brand. 

Then his voice, low and rough, slices through the quiet. “You always wear shirts like that to bed, or is this part of the fantasy?” 

You try to scoff, but it comes out a little breathless. “You think everything’s about you.” 

Jake chuckles. “You’re sitting here braless in a tissue-thin shirt, biting your lip like you want me to devour you—and I’m the one with the ego?” 

You turn your head, ready to throw back some snark, but he’s already watching you with that look. That look that makes your insides clench and your breath catch. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the first real meal he’s had in days. 

“Jake…” 

His gaze drops to your lips, and his voice is rough around the edges when he says, “I’m not gonna make it through this night if you keep lookin’ at me like that.” 

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper, but even you don’t believe that. 

Jake leans closer. “No? Then why’s your chest rising like that? Why are your pupils blown wide? Why is every part of you screaming touch me?” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. 

He shifts toward you slowly, like a predator moving in, until his thigh brushes yours and his hand finds your jaw. His thumb drags lightly along your cheek, then down to your bottom lip, tugging at it just enough to make your breath stutter. 

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Just say the word.” 

You stay frozen, heart galloping in your chest. 

“Because if you don’t…” he leans in, voice barely audible now, “…I’m gonna lose every ounce of self-control I have left.” 

Still, you say nothing. Can’t say anything. 

Jake’s eyes search yours for a second longer. Then— 

“Fuck it.” 

He crashes into you like a storm. His mouth slants over yours, hot and possessive and desperate, like he’s finally giving in to something he’s been denying for far too long. His hands cup your face, then slide down, over your neck, your shoulders, gripping your waist like he needs to ground himself. 

You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping in to taste you. It’s not gentle. It’s fire and tension and not just one day, but years of pretending finally snapping all at once. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips and pushes you back into the mattress just slightly, moving over you, his body caging yours in without touching more than he has to. 

You arch up into him, chasing his heat, his weight. And when his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, resting just above your waistband, your breath catches in your throat. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—his pupils dark, his lips kiss-bruised. “Still pretending?” he breathes. 

You shake your head, dazed. “Not even a little bit.” 

- 

You wake up warm. Too warm. 

Jake Seresin is sprawled across half your bed, one leg tangled over yours and an arm wrapped around your waist like you’re his personal body pillow. His bare chest is pressed to your back and his breath ghosts hot across your neck with every slow, sleepy exhale. 

You’re painfully aware of two things: one, you’re very, very naked. And two, so is he. 

And then... you remember everything. 

The kissing. The touching. The downright Olympic-level sex. The way he looked at you like you were something he’d been starving for. 

Your body aches in the best way, but your brain is in full meltdown mode. You try to untangle yourself without waking him. Emphasis on try. Because the second you shift, Jake groans and tightens his arm around you. 

“Nuh-uh,” he mumbles, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.” 

You huff, trying to wriggle free. “I have to pee.” 

“Fine,” he says, releasing you with an exaggerated sigh. “But don’t even think about climbing out the window. You’re mine now.” 

You roll your eyes as you slip out of bed, grabbing the closest shirt—his shirt—and tossing it over your head. It hangs low on your thighs, smelling like him and sex and very bad decisions. 

By the time you return from the bathroom, Jake’s propped up on one elbow, watching you with the same hunger in his eyes as last night “Damn, you look better in my shirt than I do.” 

You scoff and head for your dresser. “Don’t you get tired of hearing yourself talk?” 

“Not when I’m this right.” 

You grab a pair of shorts, but before you can pull them on, Jake is already moving. He slides off the bed, all muscles and tan skin, and corners you against the dresser. 

“You know,” he murmurs, eyes dark and wicked as his fingers slip under the hem of his own shirt you're wearing, “you didn’t officially wake me up yet.” 

Your heart kicks up a notch. “Is that a thing now?” 

“Absolutely.” He leans in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “You gotta wake me up right, darlin’. Or I’m gonna be all cranky.” 

You arch a brow. “Define right.” 

He grins, lips brushing yours. “Tongue. Teeth optional.” 

You laugh into the kiss he gives you—hot, deep, and toe-curling. His hands roam down your back, tugging you flush against him. You can feel he’s already half hard again, the cocky bastard. 

But before things can spiral into round two, your phone buzzes loudly from the nightstand. 

Jake pulls back with a dramatic sigh. “If that’s Spencer again, I swear to God-” 

You smirk. “Jealous?” 

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Jealous? Sweetheart, I just spent the night making you scream my name.” 

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, and he grins like he just won the damn lottery. 

To Jake’s great disappointment, it is Spencer. He’s on his way over, and the motel he’s staying at is only five minutes away. You both overslept—but can you really be blamed? No way. You were up most of the night tangled together, doing something that definitely didn’t feel pretend. 

“Come on, Romeo,” you say, tossing Jake his shirt. “Get dressed before Tybalt gets here.” 

Jake pauses, one brow arched as he tries not to stare at your naked chest. “Did you just imply that you used to date your cousin?” 

A light laugh bubbles out of you. “Not intentionally, but I’m surprised you know Shakespeare.” 

He grins, smug. “A little knowledge never hurt anyone. Helps win the ladies over, too.” 

He’s joking, you know he is—but the way he says ladies—plural—hits you like punch to the gut. That’s what Jake is: a ladies’ man. It was stupid to think this could be anything more than a bit of fun. Some stress relief between two friends who spent all day teasing each other until they snapped. 

If anyone can do casual sex, it’s Jake Seresin. It doesn’t matter how many pretty words he said last night—you can’t let yourself believe he actually meant them. 

“Hey,” he says gently, catching the shift in your energy. “You okay?” 

You nod a little too quickly, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your nose starts to sting, and you blink fast, trying to will the emotion away. Who the hell cries after the best sex of their life? 

You gather your clothes and retreat to the bathroom, needing a buffer between you and Jake’s curious, overly perceptive eyes. You dress quickly, trying not to think about how good his shirt felt against your skin. 

It isn’t long before Spencer buzzes the intercom again, and you’re almost grateful. Jake doesn’t get the chance to press you, to ask about the look on your face that feels like it could crumble into a sob at any second. 

You’ve really fucked up now—because you let yourself believe it might’ve meant something. 

The two men spend the morning in the spare room, exchanging nothing more than grunts and sidelong glances while packing Spencer’s things into boxes. You don’t bother checking on them—you're not sure you can look at Jake right now anyway. So, you remain firmly planted on the couch, stuck in a spiral of your own damning thoughts. 

Around midday, you consider offering them lunch, but then you remember the mischievous glint in Jake’s eyes when he said that “it helps win the ladies over,” and you quickly decide against it. Instead, you grab your keys, tuck your phone into your back pocket, and head toward the door. 

“I’m heading out for a bit. Won’t be long,” you call out, not waiting for a reply before stepping out. 

“Wait,” Jake’s voice calls after you as the door swings shut. But you pretend not to hear. 

You stride toward the elevator, pressing the button more forcefully than necessary, but it doesn’t arrive fast enough. By the time the doors finally slide open, Jake is already in the hallway, his brows furrowed in concern. 

“Hang on a second,” he says, stopping right beside you, raising a hand to hold your jaw gently. 

When you step back, his face falls, confusion and dread flickering across his features. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you answer, stepping into the elevator. 

But he follows you in, jaw ticking with tension. “Darlin’, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking I broke you.” 

You shake your head. “I’m not broken.” 

“Then what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?” His voice softens, but the underlying concern is still very present. 

You take a deep breath, averting your eyes to the floor of the elevator as you try to carefully assemble your thoughts. You don’t want to hurt him, but you also can’t ignore how wrong everything feels in your gut. 

“I just... I can’t do this, Jake,” you say, your voice almost cracking. 

He looks absolutely gutted, like you’ve just sucker-punched him. 

“I know it shouldn’t be a big deal. Plenty of people do it without any consequences,” you ramble on. “But I think there could be some huge consequences if we keep doing this. There’s just too much on the line. And while the sex was—God, it was mind-blowing—I just don’t think I can handle you doing it with other people while I’m over here trying to... figure out what this is.” 

The hurt on his face quickly morphs into utter confusion. “What the hell are you talking about, sweetheart?” 

“This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Last night. Us having sex and the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing.” 

Now, he looks genuinely offended. His eyes widen, green irises flashing with disbelief. “You think that’s what this is?” 

Your heart races, the pulse in your throat thrumming. “Isn’t that what you want?” 

Jake lets out a short, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. He glances briefly at the elevator doors before locking his gaze on you, intense and unyielding. 

“Is that what you think?” he asks, his tone a low warning. 

Suddenly, you feel very small—not in a sad way, but in a vulnerable, exposed way. He steps closer, stalking toward you with predatory intent, and you instinctively back up against the elevator wall. His presence fills the small space, and the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable. 

You swallow thickly and nod. Just a small movement, but it’s enough to make him pounce. He presses his body to yours, trapping you between him and the wall, the metal rail digging into your lower back as he cages you in. 

“I thought I made it pretty fucking clear last night, darlin’,” he whispers, his voice low and almost dangerous. “But if I didn’t, then let me say it now.” 

He pauses, eyes burning into yours as you breathe in each other’s air, hearts racing in sync. 

“I want you. Only you. All of you,” he growls. “I’ve been waiting years to do what I did last night. And now that I’ve had a taste?” He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle. “I’m never letting you go. You’re mine.” 

Your mind goes blank. Your mouth is dry, and your heart’s thundering in your chest as his words hit you like a freight train. 

“Say it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he pulls you closer. “Tell me you understand.” 

“I’m yours.” The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them, but they feel right. Like they were meant to be said. 

Jake smirks, a wicked, cocky grin that makes his eyes sparkle with unspoken mischief. “Good.” 

And just like that, his lips crash into yours—urgent, fiery, and full of need. The kiss is wild and untamed, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. His hands drop to the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly, forcing your legs around his waist as he presses you harder against the elevator wall. 

Every inch of your skin hums, the heat between you two scorching. You can’t get enough of him, his touch, the rawness of this moment. You claw at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours, and before you can even think, you're already lost in him, all logic and restraint flying out the window. 

But then, right on cue, your personal cockblock arrives. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Spencer stands there, completely flustered, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Neither of you had pressed a button when you entered, but the look on Jake’s face suggests that it might have been intentional. 

“Sorry, pal,” Jake grins, his lips bruised and swollen. “I just can’t get enough, you know what it’s like.” 

Spencer’s mouth moves, but no words come out. 

Jake casually takes the box from Spencer’s arms. “Let me help you with that. Go grab another one. Let’s get you out of here before you see more than you’re willing to, hm?” 

Spencer nods woodenly, still staring in complete shock. 

You can’t help the giggles that escape you as you slip past Spencer and out of the elevator, back toward your apartment. 

There’s nothing fake about you and Jake anymore—not that there ever really was. And now, you can confidently say that Jake’s ego is as well-proportioned as the monster between his legs. 

END.

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Obsessed 🤩

real people masterlist

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

series warning: actor!bucky x f!actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, bucky is an asshole, angst, smut, slow burn (or at least my attempt at a slow burn).

updates every friday.

intro

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

drabble: caught

chapter seven

chapter eight

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Hey there! I’ve got a little request for you.

What about a fic where the reader has to go back in time to the 40s (perhaps for an infinity stone? Work it however you want). It’s supposed to be a quick mission. Until they run into a young Bucky.

a/n: hi anon! i hope you don’t mind but i made some tweaks to the request to fit the story i came up with. however, the original idea of reader going to the 40s is still there!

warnings/notes: angst, fluff, sort of an enemies to lovers piece

summary: after accidentally sending yourself back in time, you run into a younger version of the man you loathe only to find yourself questioning your feelings for him

“You’re such a jerk!”

“Oh, so saving your ass makes me a jerk now?” Bucky retorts in annoyed disbelief at your insult. The two of you haven’t exactly been getting along as of late, so it wasn’t a surprise to either of you that your first assignment together was proving to be disastrous.

“Saving me?” You repeat incredulously, halting in your steps to whirl around and angrily point a finger against his chest. The firmness of his muscles has you faltering for a split second, but you’re adamant not to let your stupid little school girl crush on the man stop you from tearing into him.

Sometimes you’re not even sure why you have feelings for someone who constantly pushes your buttons and tests your patience, but it’s hard not to fall for his good looks and charm, especially during the rare moments of pleasantness you experience when he’s not getting on your nerves. You and Bucky rarely see eye-to-eye, and though for the most part you can tolerate each other, your camaraderie doesn’t last long.

“Shoving me out of the way when I had a clear shot isn’t saving me! I had it covered before you decided to play hero and treat me like some damsel in distress!”

“You had a clear shot and so did the sniper sitting on that rooftop,” Bucky points out with an irritated tick of his jaw. “You couldn’t have gotten the hit with a bullet hole in your head.”

You falter momentarily at being presented with your error, face beginning to heat with embarrassment at being in the wrong. However, your stubborn nature takes over and causes you to double down on your anger instead of admitting fault.

“I don’t need your help. In fact, because of your little stunt my inhibitor is broken,” you state indignantly while lifting your wrist to show the damaged metal band, “so now I have no way to safely get us home.”

Bucky blanches at the realization, and now it’s his turn to feel hot with embarrassment and guilt for his mistake. You’re one of the enhanced members on the team, an Avenger with the power to teleport not only from place to place but also through time, but your ability isn’t always the most reliable. It can be unstable when used too often or without proper concentration, which is why Tony had crafted your inhibitor bracelet to ensure you didn’t accidentally teleport yourself or your teammates to the middle of nowhere. You didn’t trust yourself to make the jump back to the compound without it, and now the two of you were stranded.

He curses under his breath and runs an anxious hand through his hair before saying, “We’ll have to call for someone to come get us.”

“No shit,” you retort only to earn an eye roll from him in response. “But that’s going to take hours, and if we stay here we’re dead.”

“Look,” Bucky sighs depreciatively, “we need to figure this out together, so I’d appreciate a little less sarcasm and a little more-“

The sound of gunfire interrupts Bucky’s rant and sends you both ducking for cover. Your arguing had allowed enough time for the enemy to counterattack with an ambush, and now you were cornered with nowhere to go. You find yourself pressed against a metal crate, making yourself as small as possible while trying to form some sort of an exit plan. Your attackers were closing in, and you felt the anxiety beginning to rise in your chest at the fact that you had nowhere left to run.

Bucky calls your name frantically, breaking you out of your panicked daze quickly enough for you to register the woman approaching you with her gun raised. Your eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights, and when she pulls the trigger you feel your powers activate on instinct as you’re teleported out of the line of fire.

You land on the ground with a groan.

Tingles run down your body from the use of your powers, and it takes you a moment to adjust to the new surroundings you find yourself in. The packing warehouse you’d been dodging gunfire fire in is long gone, and instead you find yourself in an alleyway nestled between two apartment buildings. Your mind is frantic as you try to scramble back up onto your feet only to crumple down in pain from your fall. You think you’ve twisted your ankle, and you don’t know where you are or how to get back home.

You attempt to use your powers to jump back to the warehouse to help Bucky, but without the inhibitor bracelet your teleportation has become shoddy. You let your head fall back with a frustrated groan at being completely helpless and try to clear your mind to figure out your next move.

“Excuse me,” an oddly familiar voice calls from the other end of the alleyway, “are you alright, miss?”

You lift your head at the sound of approaching footsteps and are met with a set of kind blue eyes that have your breath catching in your throat. His face is so much younger and full of life, not yet tainted by the trauma he’d endured after the events of the war. He’s beautiful, and you find your heart nearly leaping out of your chest when he makes his way towards you. He reaches out to you with his left hand, and you stare down with uncertainty at the warm flesh that replaces metal.

You’d accidentally sent yourself back in time, and now you found yourself face to face with a Bucky who had yet to become the Winter Soldier.

“I… I’m fine,” you finally manage to get out after willing away your initial shock. You hesitantly accept his hand and are unnerved by the unusual warmth his palm emits against your own. He helps you back onto your feet only for you to stumble as a result of your bad ankle. His strong arms catch you in an instant, holding you upright while you brace yourself against his firm chest.

“Looks like you had quite the fall,” Bucky says with a lighthearted smile while meeting your gaze. You see something shift in his features when he looks into your eyes, an awestruck sense of admiration washing over him as he takes in your disheveled appearance. You begin to fear that he has you figured out, that somehow he knows who you are and that you don’t belong, but instead he merely wipes away a smudge of dirt from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“You’re a knockout,” he compliments before letting out a sheepish laugh at his own boldness. Your stomach flips at his confession, and you have to stop and remind yourself that this is a completely different Bucky from the one you know. The Bucky you have back at home would sooner call you a pain in his ass than ever call you beautiful.

“Thank you,” you breathe out nervously, flashing him a meek smile while subtly trying to free yourself from his hold. You have no idea what repercussions will come from you interacting with him, and you still need to figure out a way to get back to your own time now that it’s been made clear you sent yourself to the past. You attempt to walk only to wince again at the ache in your leg, something Bucky notices immediately.

“You’re hurt. Let me take you home with me, my Ma can fix you right up and get you something to eat,” he offers only for you to quickly shake your head.

“I couldn’t impose. I’ll be fine, really,” you try to assure him, but your obvious discomfort isn’t very convincing.

“Nonsense. What kind of a man would I be if I left you here in this dingy alleyway to fend for yourself? My mother raised me better than that.”

You can’t help the soft smile that forms on your lips at his kindness. Steve had often mentioned how charming Bucky was in his younger days, how he had swept countless girls off their feet with his chivalrous nature and good looks. Bucky would always grumble about his friend’s need to exaggerate on the details of the past, but you were now seeing firsthand the truth to the Captain’s stories.

You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t stop yourself from finally relenting to Bucky’s request. How can you deny him when he flashes you such an endearing grin and looks upon you with eyes full of tenderness? You expect him to take your hand or give you his arm to steady yourself for the walk home, but he instead surprises you by literally sweeping you off of your feet and carrying you in his arms. You gasp, fingers anxiously clutching at the fabric of his dress shirt while you look to him with wide eyes; his strength is unwavering, and his lips sport a proud grin as he whisks you away to his apartment.

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got you.”

Your inner turmoil is almost unbearable as you struggle to comprehend the sweetness of this Bucky in comparison to the brooding nature of your own Bucky. You’re not used to such acts of chivalry or flirtatious remarks, and it certainly doesn’t help alleviate the crush you harbor on your teammate. If anything, you’re even more confused now than you’ve ever been when it comes to your feelings for the Winter Soldier. You’re adamant about not falling into the fantasy, about staying focused on the task at hand, but it’s hard to do so when Bucky is so obviously sweet on you.

“I’ve just realized I don’t know your name,” he notes thoughtfully. “Most guys usually know the name of the girl they plan to bring home to their mother.”

“Y/n,” you reply gently despite the heat that spreads across your face at his jest, not even sure if giving your real name is the right move.

“Y/n,” he repeats sweetly, devoid of the usual tone of annoyance or irritation you’re used to. “I think that suits a pretty girl like you. My name is James, but most people just call me Bucky.”

“I like James,” you admit truthfully while avoiding his burning gaze. “I think it suits a gentleman like you.”

“A gentleman, huh? Mom will proud to hear that.”

You find yourself subtly sneaking a glance at his face while he speaks, unable to resist drinking in the details of a younger, innocent Bucky who has yet to endure the horrors his future has in store for him. He exuded confidence and light, and you could see why girls would throw themselves at his feet just to see his smile. This Bucky was full of hope, and your chest ached at having to keep what you knew about him hidden. You couldn’t risk stirring up trouble in the past by telling him what would take place after being shipped off to England and meddling with a future that had already been set in stone, and you knew he might not even believe you anyway. You had no choice but to keep your mouth shut and maintain your composure until you managed to get back to the present.

You eventually make it to his apartment and find your stomach twisting with nerves as Bucky carefully sets you down so he can unlock the door. You’re not sure how you’re going to handle meeting his mother or setting foot into his childhood home, and the entire situation feels much too intimate for you to bear. You’re an intruder in his life, the one he kept close to his chest away from everyone but Steve, and you wonder how much he’ll hate you for this when you finally get back.

“Let’s get you inside,” James urges, gently guiding you through the doorway while being mindful of your bad leg. He lets you hold onto his arm while escorting you towards the couch. The living room is quaintly decorated with photos and antique furniture, and the floral patterned wallpaper reminds you of the one your grandmother had kept in her home. The smell of a freshly cooked meal wafts through the apartment, and from the distance you can hear the quiet crackle of the kitchen radio playing a tune.

“Wait right here,” he says with a wink before disappearing down the hallway and leaving you to your own devices. You debate making your escape while he’s gone in order to avoid delving deeper into Bucky’s past life, but you know you won’t get far with a twisted ankle. Instead, you choose to quickly comb your fingers through your hair and dust yourself off to make yourself somewhat presentable in the presence of his mother.

“I’m telling you, Ma,” Bucky’s voice echoes through the hallway as he makes his return to the living room, “she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat at his flattery and try to appear as inconspicuous as possible despite your nerves. You can’t help but wonder how you’re supposed to go back to normal after all of this is over, and a part of you is starting to dread returning home.

Bucky walks into the room with an older woman on his arm. She has beautifully curled hair that’s been pinned back neatly to frame her weathered face. Despite the wrinkles under her eyes, they are bright with joy when she gazes upon her son, and her ruby red smile flashes pearly whites your way when she finally rests her attention on your awkward form.

“Mom, this is y/n,” Bucky introduces proudly, “I promised her you could fix her right up.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” his mother croons as she seats herself beside you. “James told me all about your nasty fall, but I don’t want you to worry. You’re in good hands here with me.”

“Thank you so much for your hospitality, Miss,” you express earnestly as you look into her striking blue eyes she shares with her son. “I promise I won’t be in your way long.”

“Nonsense,” she dismisses you with a wave of her hand. “Any friend of my James is welcome in this home. And please, call me Winnifred.”

“Thank you, Winnifred,” you repeat with a grateful smile, the woman’s kindness having alleviated some of your stress. You watch as she begins to scan over your features for any other possible injuries while taking in your disheveled form; her brows furrow slightly when she takes note of your attire.

“What peculiar clothing,” she murmurs while running her fingers along the rip in your tactical suit. You blanch slightly at the realization that you aren’t exactly dressed for the time period you’re in and scramble to come up with a lie.

“It’s my factory uniform,” you quickly fib, grateful for the fact you’d paid attention in your high school history class. “I make munitions for our boys overseas.”

“I love a woman in uniform,” Bucky notes with an innocent smile despite the flirtatious tone of his words.

“How admirable of you! But surely it must not be very comfortable. Why don’t you get cleaned up and changed out of that uniform before I wrap your ankle? I’ll find you something else to wear.”

“I’ll show you to the bathroom,” Bucky offers before assisting you back onto your feet. You wrap an arm around his midsection to keep yourself propped upright while lamely limping down the hallway with his help. “Mom really seemed to like you, not that I’m surprised.”

“I can see where you get your charm,” you tease gently, almost melting at the boyish grin that forms on his lips in response. Would it be wrong of you to wish you could have such an easy rapport with your own Bucky as you do with this one?

You make it to bathroom where James shows you how to work the shower before giving you your privacy. The water pressure isn’t as strong as what you’re used to back at the compound, but it does the job. You’re grateful to finally scrub off the grime and dried blood that had accumulated from the mission, and you feel like you’re in a much clearer headspace now to start planning your next move.

A simple dress is laid out on the dresser for you when you finish your shower, and once you’re decent Winnifred sits you down and wraps your ankle. She insists you keep off your foot and rest for the remainder of the evening in her daughter’s bed seeing as she’s off at a sleepover. You know better than to object to the woman’s demands, and so you find yourself seated on the cushiony mattress with a dinner tray on your lap. You’re absolutely starving, and you’re grateful to finally have the chance to eat considering you need your strength in order to attempt teleporting without the help of your inhibitor.

A gentle knock on the doorway interrupts your ruminative dinner, and you watch curiously as Bucky slowly peeks his head into the door.

“Mind if I keep you company?”

“Of course not,” you hum gently, heart thrumming in your chest when he seats himself on the edge of the bed beside you. The scent of his cologne mixed with his natural musk drowns your senses, causing a longing ache to settle in the pit of your stomach as you’re reminded of the fact that you must leave him behind when this is all over.

“How’s the ankle?”

“Your mom says the swelling should go down in a day or two as long as I keep off of it.”

“Does that mean you’ll be sticking around here a bit longer?” Bucky asks with a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. You smile faintly, but it isn’t very convincing.

“I can’t,” you relent gently, guilt consuming your entire being at the way his features falter in result. “I have to get back home.”

“You have someone waiting for you?” He prompts softly, absently fidgeting with a loose thread from the comforter.

“I do,” you confess quietly. You watch his gaze drop down to hide his disappointment, head shaking slightly as he lets out a soft chuckle.

“I should have known a girl like you would already be spoken for. Is he handsome?”

“Very,” you nod sheepishly, your face growing hot at having to confess such thoughts to the younger version of the man you picture in your head. “His eyes are blue like yours, but his hair’s a bit longer. He doesn’t smile much, but when he does it lights up an entire room.”

“Does he treat you the way you deserve?”

“He can be cold and closed off at times, but I know deep down he cares. He just isn’t very good at showing it, and I certainly don’t make it easy for him. I can be a handful, and we fight a lot, but I think I love him anyway.”

Sighing, Bucky runs his fingers through his perfectly combed hair before meeting your gaze. You watch as he reaches out to gently take hold of your hand in his left one. You can’t remove your eyes from the flesh no matter how hard you try, and you don’t think you’ll ever get over the feeling of being able to touch the arm that has yet to be tainted by Hydra’s touch. You almost want to tell him, but you’re able to bite your tongue.

“There isn’t anything I can do to change your mind?” He asks while giving your hand a gentle squeeze. His eyes are full of hope and admiration for the woman that had spontaneously fallen into his life, and though he’d only known you for a short period of time he knew that something about you was special. You were unlike any woman he’d ever met, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life getting to know you.

“I don’t think so, James,” you comfort softly. You feel so bold as to rest a hand gently upon his cheek, and you’re rewarded by the feeling of him leaning into your touch as he melts into your palm. “You’re a wonderful man, and I have a feeling this won’t be the last time our paths cross.”

Smiling faintly, Bucky cheekily turns his head to press a chaste kiss to your palm. Your breath catches in your throat at the act while your stomach flutters with nervous butterflies, but you don’t make a move to pull your hand away.

“I’ll hold you to that, sweetheart. I’d be a fool to let a girl like you out of my life,” he says with a wink before reluctantly beginning to pull away from you. Before you can stop yourself or think it through, you frantically shoot your hand out to keep him in place.

“Wait!” You exclaim desperately, catching both Bucky and yourself off guard. You know better than to bring the future to the past, and you know in the end that altering the course of his life won’t change the events of your present time, but you owe it to the man who had shown you such kindness to warn him about his fate.

“What is it, y/n?”

“I…,” you begin to say, faltering as you struggle to get the words out. He looks to you patiently for you to finish your sentence, and despite the guilt that consumes you for changing your mind, you continue, “I want you to promise me you’ll be careful in the future. I couldn’t stand anything happening to you, and I just want you to be safe.”

“Oh,” Bucky breathes as if he hadn’t been expecting such a serious profession. After processing your words, the man simply gives you an affirming nod and replies, “of course I will, doll. Anything you ask.”

The turmoil within you at keeping the truth to yourself persists, but you’re unable to say nothing more as Bucky rises from his seat on the bed and takes your empty tray from your lap. “I’ll get this out of your way.”

He leans down to press a tender kiss to your forehead before excusing himself from the room, shutting the door behind him to give you your privacy. You let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding and blink back the tears that threaten to spill. You cherish the time you’ve spent with him here in his own time, but you also miss the Bucky you have back at home. You’ve never hated him, you just never understood him or the walls he insisted putting between you, but you can see now just how much Hydra had taken from him. He hadn’t always been the grumpy soldier you knew him as, and your stubborn nature certainly didn’t help him come out of his shell.

You needed to make things right, not only with the Bucky from your timeline but also with the one who had just spent his entire day looking after a complete stranger.

Despite the painful throbbing of your ankle, you will yourself out of bed and desperately rush towards the door. You know that exposing his true fate will not alter the course of your timeline, but perhaps there’s a possibility it can give him the chance to create a new timeline where he never gets the chance to become the Winter Soldier.

“Bucky!” You call out in hopes he’ll come rushing back down the hall. You’re so desperate to reach him that you don’t notice the soft glow of your inhibitor bracelet, and your frantic state of mind creates a lack of control over your teleportation ability.

You reach the doorknob just as your powers activate, and when you step through the doorway you are no longer in the apartment of James Barnes but instead in your own bedroom back at the compound.

You stagger forward in a daze, mind reeling from the use of your powers as you struggle to adjust to your new surroundings. Your heart drops to your chest when you finally come to the realization that you’re back where you belong, and you slowly sink down to your knees in tears over the fact that you’d been too late. Bucky would return to an empty bedroom, and he would go on to live the life that fate had chosen for him.

You couldn’t protect him- you’d failed.

You begin to sob as the amalgamation of emotions from your experience overtakes you, and you’re so consumed in your grief that you fail to hear the sound of your door sliding open behind you.

“Y/n? It’s been three days, where the hell have you been?” A startled voice sounds, causing you to jump in surprise. You turn to find Bucky standing in your doorway, his irritated features morphing into confusion at the sight of your distraught state. Tears steadily stream down your cheeks in time with the trembling of your shoulders, and he slowly makes his approach towards your figure on the floor. “Y/n?”

Bucky cautiously sinks to his knees beside you and places a careful hand on your back. The coolness of his metal arm has you shivering, a stark contract to the warmth you’d felt when he’d held your hand in his Brooklyn apartment. “Are you alright? What happened?”

You don’t think before throwing yourself into his arms and holding tightly onto his frame. Bucky nearly topples over from the impact but is quick to regain his balance so he can hold you both upright. Initially he isn’t sure how to react considering this is the first time you’ve ever willingly gotten this close to him let alone hugged him, but he’s eventually able to reciprocate the act by wrapping his arms around your trembling figure and holding you close to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, fingers tightly clutching at the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to ground yourself. “I’m sorry for always giving you such a hard time, for being so stubborn. You don’t deserve that, and I should have tried to be a better teammate.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Bucky shushes gently, his tone unusually gentle as he carefully pulls away to look you in the face. “I know I’m not exactly the most pleasant person to be around sometimes, and I haven’t always been the nicest to you either. I’m sorry for that.”

“You mean you’re not going to yell at me for disappearing on you? You don’t hate me?” You snivel, prompting his lips to quirk up into a rare smile.

“I’m not going to yell at you for something you can’t control. And I never hated you. I just… never really knew how to be around you. Steve always speaks so highly of you, you’re everyone’s favorite, and I never felt like I had the right to know you so intimately the way they do. I figured keeping my distance would be easier, and I thought you preferred it that way considering our track record.”

“I don’t want you to keep your distance anymore,” you plead softly. “I want to be around you, I want you to feel comfortable around me.”

“That can be arranged,” Bucky notes with a faint smile while carefully brushing away the last of your tears, “but can I ask you what brought this on?”

“It’s a long story,” you admit while guiltily avoiding eye contact with the man. You’re not sure if you should tell him the truth about your venture just yet, but you don’t have it in you to lie to him. You know you’ll have to tell him one day, but for now it can wait. “Being gone these past few days just gave me time to get a new perspective on things.”

“Well, whatever happened, I’m glad it did,” he says truthfully. “Now let’s get you cleaned up so you can let the rest of the team know you made it back safe.”

You allow him to help you up off the ground just as he had in that alleyway, and when he looks down at you with his soft blue eyes you’re able to see his younger self once more. The charming, chivalrous James Barnes who had taken such good care of you still existed within Bucky, it would just take time for him to come out of his shell and open himself up to you the way his past self had done so.

And you would wait all the time in the world for him.

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Sour Candy

Summary: Tyler Owens x Fe!Reader -> You and Tyler have known each other most of your lives, so what happens when you finally admit your long harboured feeling for each other?

Disclaimer: This does contain swearing and smut (towards the end) so 18+. A lot of fluff, mutual pining, oblivious idiots. Brother's best-friend/ best friend to lovers. Tyler helps reader with prom-trouble, mentions of anxiety, tornadoes, reader being an EMT, blood and minor injuries. Mostly fluffy moments between Tyler and Reader. Also, this is a long one -- kinda takes place over ten-ish years (starting from senior prom). Not fully proof read.

You’d known Tyler since you were a kid. When your brother was in the fourth grade and he brought home a scrappy blonde kid who introduced himself by shaking your father’s hand and handing your mother some flowers he’d picked from the side of the road on the way home, you saw your brother had a friend for life. 

A good one. 

And it was only proved time and time again. 

Of course, they were still boys so you couldn’t join in all of their games. But you’d still sneak to your bedroom window to watch them play cowboys in the backyard when you should have been in bed. 

Stuipd older brothers getting a later bedtime.

However, as you thought back, the time when he proved it without even trying was during your senior prom. 

For weeks you’d been looking for the right dress. You’d tried on at least forty with your mom over the course of two weeks, another ten – some repeaters – with your best friend, and a further fifteen with your brother. 

He’d stomped into your room when you were in the middle of completing extra credit for your chemistry class. 

“Come on,” he said. 

“Where’re you goin’?”

He just stood by your bedroom door with a hand on his hips. A look you’d see often when he finally had his own kids. “You’ve not picked out a dress yet and your prom is in three weeks. Mom says I need to help you find one.” 

You looked back to your homework. You were almost finished. 

“It can wait. Come on. Let’s go.”

Two hours later you were inside yet another dress store trying on different dresses. 

“I thought girls were meant to be excited when dress shopping.”

You rolled your eyes from behind the changing curtain as you wriggled another dress up your body. “We do. I know I do but…it’s…” You grunted as you pulled the dress up. Was each one getting heavier? 

“What are you doin’, ridin’ a bull in there?”

Eventually you pulled the curtain across and picked up the dress as you walked out and turned to look in the mirror. “It’s exhausting.”

“So why not just pick one? What about this one?”

You turned in the mirror a few times, considering it. Then shook your head. “Not this one.”

“If you’re not that bothered, why not just-”

“Because it’s gotta be perfect,” you turned and told him. “I know people party at college but I’ve already seen some of my assignments. I’m gonna be swamped if I wanna pass with honours. This is the last night I get to be…free? I want it to be perfect.”

So, for the next thirty minutes, you tried on more dresses until finally your brother knocked on the curtain. 

“Knock, knock.”

“What?”

“Don’t bite my head off.” He stood back and held up a dress. “Tyler said try this one.”

You held up the hanger before looking back at your brother surprised. “Tyler’s here?” Peaking your head around the corner, you spotted him standing leaning against the wall across from you. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he drawled, a slight grin on his face. “He said he needed back-up. Try it on.”

“I think I’ve tried on every-”

Your brother pushed your face back inside your dressing room, along with your dress. “Just try it on.”

You sighed and did as he said. Another day, you might have fought him on it. But you were tired. And hungry. 

Letting the other dress drop to the floor with a heavy thud – you were thankful to be out of it – you let out a long breath before finally unzipping the dress and trying it on. 

It went on easier than a lot of the others, and it didn’t feel as restricting. Finally opening up the curtain, you walked out and stood on the small step up before looking at yourself in the mirror. 

And for the first time you had that smile slowly growing on your face. The feeling your mom had told you about. The giddiness and excitement to put it on again. 

“So, is this the dress?” You looked into the mirror and found your brother and Tyler stood back. Tyler had his phone out, recording the whole thing. 

You nodded. “This is the dress.”

“Hallelujah!” Your brother threw his arms in the air and turned around. “I’ll go and tell the cashier.”

As your brother disappeared, Tyler closed his phone and slipped it back into his pocket before sauntering over to you. “Glad he called me?”

You smiled, turning to look at him. “Very. Remind me to bring you instead of him when I chose a wedding dress.”

Tyler chuckled and looked back at you through the mirror. “I’ll be there.”

Little did you know, the week before your prom, your opinion on the prom would do a complete 180. 

“A-actually, I don’t think I’m gonna go.”

The dinner table went silent. “What?”

“I don’t think I’m gonna go.”

You parents exchanged a long look before looking back at you. “Why not, honey?”

“I…I just don’t feel like it, s’all.”

“Are you sure that’s all?” Your dad asked. “I thought you were excited to wear your dress?”

You nodded in a slight panic. “I am. I am. And thank you for getting it for me. It’s just…I don’t want to go anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Just because.”

That was the only answer your entire family got out of you all week. 

“She’ll come back around. Maybe it’s just her cycle.”

“Keep the appointments, just in case.”

Your mom nodded. “I will.”

A week later however, you were lying on your bed staring at your ceiling. Your mom had still taken you for your hair, make-up and nail appointments. Even if you weren’t planning on going, the nails would last you a few weeks and your hair would last a few days. The make-up was just a bonus. And it wasn’t too much. It could pass for day make-up with something a little extra. 

But you still weren’t going. 

Your brother had tried talking to you, as had your parents. They’d called your best friend’s house to ask if she could come round and help but she wasn’t home. 

So, they had to call a last resort. Or rather, he showed up at your home. 

“What y’all doin’ down here?” Tyler appeared at the end of the hallway, finding your mom, dad and brother either stood or sat outside your door. 

“She won’t come out of her room.”

Your brother tilted his head. “Technically we haven’t tried to get her to come out but she’s been in there since she came home.”

“She had any food?”

“We picked something up on the way home,” your mom explained. 

“Tyler, son, do you think you can try and talk to her?” Your dad asked. “She might talk to you.” 

Tyler nodded. “I can try. She still fixed on not going?”

“We think so.”

Tyler nodded and slowly they all disappeared down the hallway and downstairs. Tyler knocked twice. 

“Y/n? You in there?”

There was no answer. But Tyler waited. 

“I’m gonna open the door in ten seconds if I don’t hear a reply. For all I know you could be dead-”

“It’s already open.” Your voice replied from inside. And slowly, Tyler turned the knob before opening up the door. “I’m here.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hey.”

You just turned and looked back up at the ceiling. And Tyler closed the door behind him before leaning against the wall beside it for a moment. Your room was clean. Like post-exam, anxiety-flurry clean. The window was open with your net curtain softly billowing to outside. Your dress was hung up on your clothing divider in the corner of your room and you were laying on your bed, staring at the ceiling. 

“Wanna tell me what’s been goin’ on? One minute you're excited for prom, planning every last detail and now you just…don’t wanna go?” Tyler slowly walked over to you. 

“That’s about it. Yeah.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Nobody’s stoppin’ ya.”

Tyler laid down beside you on your bed, turning to face you for a moment before reaching over and wiping away one of the small tears from the corner of your eye. 

“You wanna tell me what’s really goin’ on with you?” Tyler’s voice was soft when he spoke to you, waiting for you to answer. And for a while, you thought about it. 

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

“It’s between you, me and these four walls, sweetheart. Like always.”

You smiled at that. Over the years, as much as Tyler had been your brother’s best friend, he’d been there for you, too. One afternoon when he and your brother were playing hide and seek, he’d climbed the tree only to find you sat against your bedroom window in tears. He’d slid it open, crawled inside and hugged you. He was the first person to know you were getting bullied at school. He was also the first person to help you through your science homework when you got stuck with it and the first person, outside of your family, who you knew you could go to for just about anything. 

“Well,” you took a breath. “I found out my best friend not only stole my date for prom, but is also now dating him.”

“What?”

Three months before prom, you’d been asked by one of the guys in your school to go to prom together and you were ecstatic. Not only had you harboured a crush on him for almost two years, but he’d noticed you and wanted to take you to prom. He didn’t have a girlfriend, he hadn’t been dared to ask you out or some other kind of bullshit. He’d asked because he wanted to take you. 

Only, your best friend, who’d known since day one about your crush had been sneaking behind your back and just over a week ago you’d caught her texting someone and smiling like an idiot at her phone. It was after she told you she had to go to work that you’d gone to the local coffee shop to pick you and your mom some drinks up. That was when you saw them. Sat in the corner, talking to each other before your best friend leaned over and kissed him. 

That was when it clicked with you that the guy she’d been so secretive about for the last two weeks was your date to the prom. 

“Shit. Y/n, that’s…”

“Fucking unbelievable? I know.”

“That’s why you don’t wanna go to the prom?”

You nodded. “Knowing they’re both there. I just…I don’t wanna.”

“You shouldn’t let them ruin your prom night. You can still have a great time.”

“Oh, it’ll be wonderful. Sat in the corner for the entire night.”

“Look,” Tyler reasoned with you. “Just go for an hour. And if you hate it, I’ll come and pick you up and we can sit in the Walmart parking lot for a couple hours so your folks think you’re still out having a good time.”

You looked over at Tyler. “You’d do that for me?”

He nodded as easily as breathing. “Of course I would.”

Ten minutes later, you were finally putting your dress on. “Wait, Ty- can you zip me up? I can’t do the rest without my hair gettin’ caught.”

Tyler turned back from your door and walked across as you turned around. Holding it at the bottom, he was slow to pull it up and when he’d finally finished, you turned around only to be met with his gaze. 

“You look beautiful, darlin’.”

You felt yourself smile, if with a little blush. “Thanks.”

Then he stood back. “Your mom’s probably gonna want pictures.”

You nodded. “I know. Meet you downstairs?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

You took a few moments after the door closed to find your breath again. Puberty had hit Tyler like a freight train after middle school. And along with his town's fame of climbing the bull riding ropes, so like every man and woman in town, you haven't failed to notice how attractive he’d become. But it wasn’t just that. The feeling you got in your chest when he looked at you could rival any tornado that had torn its way through the fields. 

But then you reminded yourself of who he was to you. Your brother’s best friend, secretly one of your best friends. 

Nothing could ever happen there. 

Your mom took plenty of pictures of you and both your brother and Tyler drove you to your prom. 

“Want me to kick his ass?”

“I can give him an alibi,” Tyler added, looking over his shoulder at your brother before looking back at you in his passenger seat. 

“No, that’s…thanks guys. But I’ll be okay.”

“Well, you’re my sister. The offer always stands. Twenty years from now? Or twenty minutes? Just give me a call.”

You chuckled. “Thanks.”

As you hopped out of the truck and headed inside the venue, your brother climbed his way over the seat and into the front all the while Tyler’s eyes never left you. 

“You wanna head to the batting cages?”

It took a minute before Tyler realised someone was talking to him. You really did look beautiful. 

“Oh, uh, no. I can’t tonight, man. I’ve gotta help my mom with the attic.”

Your brother just nodded. “Fair.”

Tyler drove your brother home and just as he hopped out of the truck, reminding him about the rodeo training next Thursday, a text beeped from Tyler’s phone. 

“See you later, man.”

“See ya!”

Once your brother was finally in the house, Tyler looked at his phone. 

I know you said an hour-

It had been forty minutes. 

But I think I’d rather spend tonight in the parking lot than here.

Tyler smiled at the text. He’d hoped you’d have fun but he couldn’t lie. Having you prefer the idea of wasting a couple hours in the parking lot of the grocery store with him made his heart beat faster than usual. 

Once his truck pulled up, he found you already sat on the steps outside. Spotting him, you stood and quickly rushed over to his truck. 

“Is everything okay?”

Tyler could hear the music beating from inside just before they announced the King and Queen. 

You nodded, hopping into the other side. “Thank you.” You surprised Tyler by leaning over the truck bench and hugging him tight. 

He hugged you back for a moment before you sat back down. 

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

You chuckled. “You have no idea. But I’ll tell you once I’ve got ice cream.”

Tyler drove to the twenty four hour grocery store twenty minutes from the venue. Inside, he was quick on your heels as you rushed to find the frozen section. You called out two of his preferred flavours and he picked one. You grabbed two tubs before rushing to the party section and picking out some spoons. By the time you got to the checkout, Tyler handed over the cash before you had a chance to. 

And sat on the back of his flatbed, eating ice cream under the parking lot lights and the stars, you told him everything that had happened in the ninety minutes he’d been gone. 

You told him how you’d found your other friends and for a while it was fun, until they walked in. And for a while it was calm until after twenty minutes things went from zero to sixty. Your date had tried to apologise to you, along with your ex-best friend. They told you about how so in love they were and how it was just meant to be even though they never wanted to hurt you. After that, chaos kinda ensued. You’d told them how it had hurt and planned to leave. That was when you’d text Tyler. 

But then your ex-date caught you outside. He’d apologised and told you your friend had surprised him that day in the coffee shop since he thought he was there to discuss you. Then he tried to make a pass at you. But you’d put a stop to that before his hands could touch you. Then your friend found out about the pass when her date went back inside with a reddened cheek and stormed outside. It all kicked off before the teachers came outside to break up the fight and took them all inside. 

“I was just thankful to get out of there.”

“I don’t blame you but if you’d have told me-”

“You would have stormed inside and done more than what I did. Tyler, I handled it. It’s okay. But, please don’t tell my brother. Or my folks. I don’t need anyone starting a duel to defend my honour or some shit.”

“Okay, but if he ever so much as looks in your direction again-”

“Then you can do with him as you see fit. Just nothing illegal. I don’t want to visit you in prison.”

Tyler chuckled. “Deal.”

Neither your folks or your brother knew what actually happened on your prom night. Just that you had a good time. You never told them that Tyler had picked you back up or that you’d been sitting in the parking lot eating ice cream before he asked you to dance. 

And Tyler, as promised, never told them. 

That night, despite its beginnings, was a memory you cherished. And continued to do so. 

Little did you know, your future held so many more. 

Just a little over five years later, you’d long since finished your degree and had gone on to work as an EMT. Tyler had also graduated from college himself, swapping out getting his head stomped on by bulls for learning everything he could about the weather and chasing tornadoes. 

However, despite work, there was something neither of you missed. And that was the yearly road trip to your parents cabin. It was surrounded by rolling hills and was at least forty minutes from any small town stores.  And since Tyler had indirectly joined your family when your brother met him in fifth grade, he and his family had been invited to join each year. 

However, where you would usually travel with your folks and your brother, your brother was travelling up with his girlfriend and you didn’t feel like third wheeling your parents. 

“You can ride with Tyler,” your mom told you as she turned towards Tyler’s mom who was sitting with her at the kitchen table. 

“That’s a brilliant idea!” His mom replied. “Oh, it’ll give you kids a chance to catch up.”

“I don’t mind driving myself-”

“What’s going on?”

Tyler's mom smiled up at him as he walked inside and kissed her on the cheek. “We were just saying Y/n could ride with you. There’s no point in all of us taking our cars and it’ll give you kids a chance to catch up.”

Tyler just smiled. “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“You sure?”

Tyler nodded. “Want help packing your stuff into the back?”

You didn’t know why you were a little shocked. This was Tyler. If he was anything with you it was helpful. 

So, the next day just as the sun was starting to peak out over the fields, you all clambered into each of your respected vehicles and started the seven hour drive to the cabin. 

It took all of an hour before you and Tyler started talking about the two things you’d both been avoiding for the last two days. Talking about your break-ups. 

You knew Tyler had been dating a girl he’d met at the rodeo. She’d been working at one of the food stalls with her family for years and once he started college, they’d run into each other. From what you knew, they seemed deeply in love. 

Until two weeks ago when your mom let it slip over your weekly phone call that they’d split up. 

You didn’t quite know what to say at the time. There were a lot of mixed emotions; why did they break up? Was it for good or was it just a break? Did she break up with him? Why would she? No girl would ever get much better than Tyler. Or did he break up with her? 

Meanwhile, a week later you’d come home to a surprise break up. Your boyfriend’s things were all packed up and he was waiting on the sofa for you to come home. You’d asked what was going on and then he dropped the bomb on you. He’d lost feelings for you, a few months ago, but couldn’t find it in his heart to leave you. You asked if there was someone else and he denied it. And, to his statement, he was yet to post a new girlfriend on any social media page. 

You’d unfollowed him, but your roommate from college was keeping tabs on him. 

“Do they know yet?”

You looked over at Tyler. “Know what?”

“That you and Richard broke up.”

You looked at him, a little shocked. “How do you know?”

“You’ve been avoiding the questions, same as me.” Tyler told you. “Does anyone know?”

You sighed and shook your head. “You’re the first.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“You wanna talk about yours?”

Tyler shrugged. “They say it’s better out than in.”

“They also say that about a fart, but you know.”

Tyler chuckled at your statement as you turned and looked out of the window at other cars passing by on your right. 

“Did she break up with you?” You asked, turning back to look at Tyler. You didn’t want to talk about yours much, but you still had questions about his. 

Tyler was quiet before he nodded. “Yeah. I’d kinda seen it coming. We hadn’t been talking as much as we used to and it wasn’t like a comfortable silence either.”

“How are you feeling after all of it?”

“Well, it hurts, but I’m gettin’ there. How about you?”

You shrugged. “I don’t really know. I think I’m more hurt I didn’t see it coming. Just…came home and he told me he’d lost feelings for me months ago. Worst part is, I didn’t even notice. But the more I think about it, the more I noticed what I’d missed.” You took a deep breath. “But, there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

“Do you still love him?”

You thought about it for a long moment and Tyler couldn’t ignore the slight stabbing pain in his chest as he waited for you to answer. Did you still love him?

“Ask me again in a month.”

Tyler just nodded. 

The rest of the drive covered almost every topic of conversation twice and not once did either of you get bored. Every couple of hours Tyler pulled into a gas station and you’d take a break. You had offered to drive but Tyler had declined. You didn’t quite know why since you had driven his truck before. 

“Ready to go?”

Twenty minutes later on the road, you and Tyler were in a relaxed conversation when the sky started to change. It had gone from a cloudy blue sky to a swirling grey colour that seemed a lot darker in the distance. 

“Is that?”

You leaned forward, pulling your seatbelt with you in order to look out of the front window. 

Above the sky in front of you, you watched the clouds swirl around itself before a small vortex started to slowly lower down. 

And you were mesmerised. 

“Wow. That’s beautiful.”

Tyler’s eyes turned from the tornado to you. And he couldn’t look away. The traffic had come to a stop, waiting to see if it would land on the ground or not. And still, Tyler couldn’t take his eyes from you. And in that moment, his mind took a mental picture of you. One that would pop up over the years just before he’d fall asleep. 

The tornado might have been beautiful but you…

You were gorgeous. 

Your expression both intrigued and mesmerised at once. Before, you’d looked a little sullen, still grieving your relationship. But now, sitting there, looking at you, Tyler saw you alive. It was the same look in your eyes that you used to get when you were all kids. Excited, eger, ready. That last time he’d seen you look like this was at your graduation. He’d heard it in your voice when you’d call him every once in a while and he’d ask you about your job. 

But he was finally seeing it again. 

However, he didn’t have a chance to look for too long because you were turning to look back at him just as the wind started to whistle outside. Most of your family were long past the tornado so they would be safe. 

You watched Tyler, watching the tornado. You didn’t know what he was seeing but whatever it was, he was calculating something. And without another word, he turned his engine back on and turned his truck off the highway. 

Suddenly, Tyler was driving past the speed limit down a backroad. Far behind you, the sky only seemed to grow darker and the wind was only getting louder. 

“Tyler-”

“Cars’ll only start flying. It’s safer out here but we need to find someplace in case it decides to shift.”

He was right. You knew he was right. 

At the end of the backroad, it wasn’t too far from a motel and community swimming pool. Tyler threw on the handbrake before you both hopped out and ran towards the office door. The darkened sky was travelling in your direction. 

“Do you have a shelter?”

The owner behind the desk looked around just as the shutters outside started to rattle. “Yes, I do. Follow me.”

“Is anyone else here-”

“I’ll take care of it.”

From behind the desk, she pulled a fire alarm that rang out through the entire motel. Then everyone started running, following the owner to the storm shelter a little further out in the field. 

Tyler made sure you were in front of him as the doors opened up and he helped you down inside before helping the others. And for a moment, that felt like too long, you were slowly slipping into a panic. He wasn’t inside yet. 

But when he was and the owner slipped the bolts across the door, you hugged him tight. 

“Hey, come on. Stay down here.”

Without a second thought, Tyler pulled you down to sit on the floor behind one of the shelves. 

“Hopefully it’ll just miss us.”

You just looked up at Tyler as he looked back at you, your hands tight on his shirt as his arms wrapped around you. The wind only started to get louder. Someone screamed when the door rattled and everyone got down and held onto anything they could just in case. 

But Tyler just held onto you. 

Tyler could feel your hands trembling as you held onto him. So, raking a hand down your hair, he held you closer. “We’re safe, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.”

By the time everything went deadly silent, you didn’t know whether it was because the tornado had stopped or if you had lost all sense of hearing. Your heartbeat had been drumming in your ears after hearing Tyler’s voice close to you. 

“We’re safe, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.”

However, when you all started to finally emerge from the shelter, rather than a feat of destruction, you found the grassy field’s upended, some stray pieces of fences and spare garage parts – none which looked close to being from one car itself. And the tornado had swung around the entire motel itself. 

By the time you and Tyler loaded yourselves back into his truck, he turned and looked over at you. “You okay-”

You hugged him. Just like you had done when he came and picked you up on Prom night. You held him tight. 

“Thank you.”

He held you back, his hand rubbing up and down your back for a moment. “You okay?”

You sat back and nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

Tyler watched you for a moment before reaching into his glove box where he pulled out one of the packets he bought from the gas station. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Sour candy. They’ll help with the nerves.”

You just looked at Tyler perplexed. 

“The sourness…it helps distract the brain from any anxiety. Supposedly. Not quite sure if doctors have written medical journals about it but…it’ll help.”

“Thanks.”

Tyler nodded, “Get your seatbelt on. We should be able to make it before dinner.”

Driving back towards the highway, Tyler had to double back on himself before finding a new way out. By the looks of it, not too many people had gotten hurt. Some bumps and bruises but the tornado had done most of its damages on the fields. 

With an extra hour of traffic on top of your estimated arrival time, Tyler’s truck pulled up outside the cabin just as the smell of a barbecue floated down from the top deck. 

“Where did you kids get to?”

“It’s a long story, mom.” You kissed her cheek as she came running outside to meet you and Tyler. 

“Did you get lost?”

Tyler shook his head, “Tornado hit us after the second pit spot. Had to take a detour.”

“Oh, my goodness. Are you both okay?”

“We’re fine, mom. Just tired.”

In the days that followed, you kept your eyes on news articles talking about the tornado that had hit you and Tyler. He explained everything he knew about them, and after a ride into the small town and a pit stop at a coffee shop, you decided to pull up some videos of Tyler’s tornado chases. 

Your brother had told you about it in passing, but you’d thought he’d been kidding. You knew Tyler had put together a team and in the summer months would drive up and down tornado alley, chasing each tornado they found. 

But you didn’t think it was anything like what you were watching. 

You didn’t think it was anything like what you got caught watching.

“Pretty cool, huh.” Tyler appeared over your shoulder, placing a coffee cup down beside you. You hadn’t even heard them call your name. Had you really been that distracted?

Tyler then stepped around you and sat across from you. 

“Do you really do this for a living?”

Tyler nodded. “Pretty much. I teach a couple community college classes in the off-seasons. Presented the weather a couple times for the local report. But, it’s looking good so far.”

“How do you do it? How do you drive into one of these things?”

Tyler felt something in his chest bloom as he saw how you looked at him. Intrigued. Plenty of people had judged him, called him an idiot for doing so. But they were also the same people who called him an idiot for being a bull-rider. 

“Well, how do you run into a crisis to help people?” He asked you. You were an EMT. He knew that. He’d also heard some of your terror stories, as well as the funny ones. 

“Because it’s my job.”

“Aren’t you scared when you do it?” He asked you and you shook your head. “Well, that’s what it’s like. You don’t face your fears. You ride ‘em.”

You felt yourself smile. “Always with the cowboy wisdom.”

Tyler just smirked and you felt a small chaos of butterflies in your stomach. “It came with the hat.”

By the time that stay was over, you were a lot more relaxed than you were when you’d first arrived home. And your heart wasn’t hurting as much as you thought it would have been. 

“You should come with me.”

“What?” You turned and looked at Tyler, unsure of what he meant since neither of you had talked for about an hour. You’d just let the country songs on the radio wash over you both as cars sped past you both, clearly in a bigger hurry than you and Tyler. 

Part of you was glad he was taking his time getting back home. There were still plenty of hours left on the road without any traffic, but the time away with Tyler had made you realise something. You missed him. His smile, his voice first thing in the morning before coffee, his company over said coffee. 

Unknown to you, he was purposely taking his time. He’d missed you too, and he’d be damned if he rushed what time he had left with you. 

“You should come with me,” he repeated. “Us. My team and I…” He checked the road in front of him before looking back at you for a moment. “We’re gonna be chasing again soon. There’s meant to be an outbreak in Tornado Alley soon. You should come with us.”

“Tyler-”

“Just think on it,” he told you, his eyes secretly pleading with you to consider it. “I’ve seen you watching our videos. And some of our rivals, which I’m gonna ignore, but-” Tyler smiled. “You should come with us. I think you’d really enjoy it.”

Tyer knew he would. 

You watched him, looking between you and the road. You’d probably never tell anyone out loud, but you wanted to. It was true – since that tornado hit the motel, you’d felt yourself getting hooked. The thrill you felt in your bones, the laughter that encapsulated your lungs before things became serious. It was the same thrill that made you want to do your job. 

But there was also the other thing.

Tyler. 

You’d have this time with him, in his space. With his friends. Within his life. Even if just for the day. You’d be with him, without the watchful eyes of your entire family. You wouldn’t have to worry if your brother spotted just how differently you looked at Tyler compared to other guys. You wouldn’t have to worry about your parents worrying about you – they worried enough about you and you were the one that helped people. Being an EMT puts you in a myriad of different situations, everyday. And they not only liked Tyler, they trusted him. 

And so did you. 

So, you said yes. 

A little over four years later, you were still with Tyler and his team. Not only that, you were a part of the team. It had taken one season of chasing with them to know you wanted to do it again. So, taking as many extra shifts you could away from tornado season, you’d join them on the road in season. 

Bumps, injuries, cuts, bruises, splinters – anything and everything – you fixed. Whether it was for the team or if it was for the general public when the team would head in to help with the aftermath, you helped out where you could and who you could. 

“Shit,”

You sat up from the camper chair. “What? What happened?”

Boone appeared from behind Tyler’s truck, holding out his hand to try and see it in the light better. “Splinter. I think.”

Putting down the beer, you stood and walked over to him. “Let me see.” Boone placed his hand up right in your palm. “Yeah. Kate, can you pass me the zipper kit?”

From the side of your camper chair, she handed it over to you. Zipping open the hard case, you let it rest open on the side of Tyler’s truck before taking out a pair of tweezers. 

“Ready?”

“Yeah, just say- ow!”

You smiled, holding up the wooden splinter. “Got it.”

“What happened to a countdown?” Boone said before sucking on the side of his finger. 

You just looked at him. “Last time I gave you a countdown you pulled your hand away and I had to get Dani and Tyler to hold you still.”

“That’s because it hurt!”

“Well, it’s out now. Just be careful.”

Boone nodded. “I will. Thanks, Doc.”

You smiled, packing your things away. “You’re welcome.”

Twenty minutes later, you heard your name being called from the balcony of the motel. 

“Hey, Sweetheart?”

You looked up and found Tyler leaning over the balcony. 

“Can you come up here a second? I need you for…something.”

You didn’t like the sound of that ‘something’ so grabbing your travel med bag from the back seat of his truck, you headed up to his room. 

You knocked on the door twice before entering. “Ty? You okay?”

“I don’t want you to get mad-”

“What did you do?”

Tyler fully emerged from the bathroom and held up his hand and you gasped. “Tyler.”

“It was purely an accident. I was tryna’ fix one of my truck parts and it got caught.”

“Jesus, come here. Tyler, this is deep. Are you sure you just caught it?”

Tyler nodded, hissing as your fingers pressed lightly into his palm. “Yes. Ow, hey, that hurts.”

You sighed, pulling him back into the bathroom behind you. Accidently slamming the toilet seat down, you twirled Tyler around you feeling his fingers brush against your back as you pushed him to sit down. Throwing the tap on, you shoved his hand underneath it and held it there. 

Muttering to yourself as you cleaned up his wound, Tyler watched you. The attentive and focused look in your eyes. Every now and again he’d hear you repeat his words, doing an impression of his voice, quietly under your breath and he’d laugh. This hadn’t been the first time he’d gotten hurt, and he doubted it would be the last. But if it meant he got this time with you; the quiet moments, the mocking tone out of worry masked by anger, the ability to take a long lasting mental image of you before the imprint of you on his skin and heart sunk deeper. 

Then he’d put up with the pain. 

“Quit it.”

“Quit what?” The soft smile from Tyler’s face didn’t drop. 

“Lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you lo-” You managed to stop yourself before you said the rest of the sentence out loud. Like you love me. You knew he would reply and your heart wasn’t ready for the truth – whatever the truth was these days. 

Some days you’d catch him looking at you and there would be this look. It was in his eyes and his smile. It was different, compared to the way he looked at everyone else. Maybe it was just because he’d known you longer, or some psycho-freud thing where a patient falls in love with their nurse. Either way, for a moment, you’d let yourself believe it was what you thought it was. That he did feel the same. That he did get the same tornado of butterflies in his belly whenever he looked at you. 

“Like I what?” Tyler pressed, his expression dropping for just a moment as he leaned in. Could you see it? Could you see the way he was looking at you? 

For a moment, you held his gaze. His green gaze bore into yours as your eyes flicked around his face, From each of his eyes and down to the curve of his lips. And just as you let the wall in your mind slip in front of him, you remembered why you were there. 

His hand. The blood. The water. 

Shaking your head, you stood up from the wooden desk chair you’d pulled inside when you went back for your medical bag. Clearing your throat, you shook your head. 

“Nothing, just…like that. I can’t work properly when…when you watch me.”

Tyler sat back, the smile slowly coming back onto his face. “Right, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you mumbled quietly before flicking your eyes back to his for a moment. And he looked back. Again, for a moment, you let the wall in your mind slip. 

But you were there to help him. 

Looking away, Tyler looked away, too and shifted in his seat. Every now and again, you’d hear him hiss and you’d apologise loud enough for him to hear. Twenty minutes later, you were done and finally wrapping his hand. 

But, you took your time. Not only to be safe with the cut but also because there was just something about having Tyler’s hand in yours. His touch, you didn’t know when or how, had made an imprint on you. On your skin, on your head, on your heart. 

Tyler’s fingers held onto yours for a moment as you tucked the final piece of bandage into place. 

“There you go,” you said, quietly. 

“Thanks.”

And you both just stayed like that for a while. No talking, just touch. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him in fear that, if you did, the wall in your head would completely fall and you’d never be able to get it back up again. 

Tyler was your best friend. The person you told the most to. He was also your brother’s best friend. And your team mate. 

When you finally did speak, it seemed to come out in a whisper. You told him how to keep his palm dry for a few days. You’d check on it every now and then but he should be okay in a week's time. 

“We better get back.”

You eventually nodded, wishing you didn’t have to. 

“Yeah.”

“Everything okay?” Kate asked as you came and sat back next to her, Tyler hurrying to the other side of his truck to replace the piece he’d been fixing. 

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

Only, by the time you all headed to bed, you couldn’t sleep. The feeling of Tyler’s hand was still tingling on your skin and every time you closed your eyes, the look in Tyler’s eyes was staring right back at you. 

So, finally pulling the covers from you, you wrapped yourself in your short dressing gown, slipped on your shoes and opened up your motel door. 

And for a while, you stood out on the balcony. Everyone in the lot was in bed, fast asleep. A gentle breeze was passing through but the heat of the day was still hovering in the air. Nothing but fields surrounded the motel so away from the dim lights dotted around the parking lot, the only thing that provided any real light was the moon hanging in the sky, along with the dusting of stars. 

However, just as your mind was beginning to clear of one certain green-eyed cowboy scientist, a door opened from down the hall. 

At its entrance, Tyler stood in a plain white t-shirt and some long cotton pajama bottoms. His hair wasn’t as neat as it was earlier, but it wasn’t stuck out completely either. 

Clearly, he couldn’t sleep, either. 

“Hey.” your voice was quiet as he looked up at you. 

“Oh, hey. What’re you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” You answered honestly. There was no point trying to lie to him, not that you could think of a plausible lie at that moment. Tyler always had this magical power to read you when you didn’t want him to. “What about you?”

Tyler slowly walked until he stood beside you, leaning against the railing with you. “Same story. Wanna talk about it?”

You turned away from him. “Not particularly.”

“You sure? You’ve got that I’m-tryna-make-sure-Tyler-won’t-read-me look about you. Gotta be serious if you’re looking like that.”

“How do you do that?” you asked him. “How can you read me like that?”

Tyler just shrugged with a smile. “That’s the thing, Sweetheart. I just can.”

“Very smooth.”

Tyler gave a breathy chuckle. “So? What’re you tryna keep from me?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You shook your head, trying your best to hide your smile. “Nothing. Really. It’s not something you can help me with.”

“You sure, sweetheart?”

You tried not to smile too much so you kept your eyes from his, keeping your gaze on your chipped nail polish. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

You didn’t know when he’d first called you ‘sweetheart’, just that he was the only one who ever called you that and that he’d done it for years. You were also the only one he used that nickname with so it wasn’t long before you answered to it. 

And that every time you heard him call you that, the gentle butterflies in your stomach would start swirling and fluttering their way into an EF-3. 

You had to find a way to change the subject, to turn his attention away from you. At least for a little while, before the moon moved higher and shone directly down onto you like a large spotlight. 

“How’s your hand doin’?”

Tyler flipped it over. “Good. I think. It’s not hurtin’ too bad. Bandage might be a little loose, but-”

“Show me.”

Tyler’s hand was back in yours as you stood in front of him, checking the bandage over. It was coming loose, a little. 

“It should hold til the morning,” you told him after tightening it. “Then I can clean it again and change them out.”

Tyler nodded, taking advantage of the time he had with your hand back in his. “Okay.”

Carefully, his fingers closed over yours and he stepped a little closer. 

You could feel his gaze on you and it only made your heart quicken. Your hand in his, you didn’t want to let go. But you knew you had to. 

“Tyler…”

“Y/n, look at me.” You couldn’t bring yourself to do as much. You knew if you did, you wouldn’t want to look away. “Sweetheart, please look at me.”

With a breath, you forced your head up to look at him. Even in the moonlight, even with the long day and tiredness behind his eyes, even in his pajamas on a rickety old balcony…

Tyler was still as handsome as ever. 

And you were so deeply, madly, stupidly in love with him. 

Tyler’s other hand itched to touch you, to reach up and brush the wild strands away from your face, to cup your jaw. And it did. 

“I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”

Tyler held your gaze to his and he lightly shook his head. “Sweetheart, the only thing I could regret in this moment would be to walk away right now. Not without asking you this.”

You were both quiet for a moment, waiting for Tyler’s heartbeat to calm down in his chest for a moment to let him speak freely.

“If I kissed you right now…would you run away?”

If it was anyone else, if it was any other day, you would have taken longer to answer. You would have taken time to answer before, probably, saying ‘yes’ – no matter how much you wanted to say ‘no’. 

But the wall had broken. 

Not even broken. It had been shattered into a million pieces. And you didn’t have time to rebuild it. Not that, after his question, you would even want to. 

So, before you can stop to think. Before you can stop your heart from answering before your head, you spoke. 

“No.”

You wouldn’t run away. 

You wouldn’t want to run away. 

You felt your breath hitch in your chest as he moved closer, his thumb caressing your skin. Whatever silence had been passing in your ears was suddenly gone, replaced with your heartbeat. 

If he didn’t kiss you soon, you might die. 

But if he did, you’d probably still die. 

Finally, he did as much. 

It was soft. New. And yet somehow…right. 

You leaned in closer, kissing him back. With a contented sigh, your lips parted ever so slightly and he took the opening. Tasting your lips for the first time was a feeling that would forever be imprinted in his memory. Mint from your toothpaste but something…sweet. 

Your back bumped against one of the metal rods set every few paces above the metal railing of the balcony. Tyler’s hand pushed through to the back of your head, his entire being practically swallowing you whole in the darkness. 

Reaching up, you pulled him closer by his neck, a soft groan rippling from his chest. You tried your best to ignore the ache it gave you in between your legs. 

Before you knew it, your back was no longer against the metal rods outside your room, but rather up against the back of your motel door as it closed behind both you and Tyler. 

His hands were everywhere, and you still couldn’t get enough of his touch. Carefully, his hands slid down your body, tugging you in by your hips before his palms came under your ass and lifted you against the door. Your legs wrapped around him as if you’d done it a thousand times before. 

And, technically, you had. 

Just never in this position. Or in this situation. 

Your heart beat out of your chest and Tyler could feel it. Under his tongue, he found your pulse. It was going almost as fast as his. A small moan left your throat as he sucked and nibbled at your pulse point, all before softening it with his tongue. 

Pushing his face back to yours, you pushed a searing kiss against his mouth as your hands tracked through his hair. He was careful when carrying you over to your bed, slowly laying you down as he climbed over you. 

His hands pushed down your thighs until he was met with your dressing robe. And for a moment, he leaned up and broke the kiss. 

He made light work of untying your robe and by the time it fell open, despite the face you still had your pajamas on, he was looking at you like he’d just found pure gold. Slowly, his fingers traced up your body as he pushed the robe from your shoulders. 

Your legs spread wider for him as he knelt up to take you in. 

“If you wanna stop at any point-”

“I won’t.”

Tyler looked directly in your eyes. “Sweetheart, it’s important to me that I have your consent. If, at any point, you wanna stop. We will. You have my word on that.”

You sat up on your elbows, your gaze not breaking from his. “I trust you, Tyler. And consent goes both ways.”

A small smirk came to his face. “Sweetheart, you have no idea how long I’ve been dreaming about this. I have no plan on stopping if you don’t want me to.”

“Good. Because I don’t either.”

Reaching up, you pulled him in to kiss you again, and he got to work. Removing your robe, you came to kneel on the bed along with him. Eventually he threw the robe across the room, just before you pushed him down and straddled his lap. 

As you did so, he helped you remove his shirt and he couldn’t help but take a mental image of you as you took one of your own. 

You’d known Tyler was muscular. He was a bull rider once, but that mostly sent your eyes looking at his ass and thighs when you weren’t looking for cuts and bruises.  But the chest and arm muscles on this man…maybe you’d been looking at the wrong part of him all these years. 

But, he did have a nice ass. 

“You okay there, darlin’?” Tyler drawled. 

“How the fuck-”

Tyler chuckled, his fingers deftly tracing up and down your spine. “It’s a lot of lifting and protein, mostly.”

You didn’t know what else to say as you looked back at him. Leaning in, you kissed him again. 

As one of his hands pushed through your hair, your own trailed down his body before you started working at the drawstring of his pants. 

You squealed a little as he flipped you onto your back, and a small laugh left both of you before he started to rid himself of the bottom half of his clothing. Then he pulled yours down. They, too, got tossed somewhere else across the room. 

As he leaned over you, you hooked one of your legs around him and pulled him closer. You could feel his smile in his kiss. And as you shifted a little under him, you felt the hardness of him push against you. 

With your hand, you palmed his cock before letting your fingers run down its shaft. Tyler’s kiss became stronger as you carefully wrapped your hand around him, pumping up and down. 

His body jerked as a groan left him. And when he saw that wicked glint in your eye as you lay under him, your pussy only growing wetter for him, a deep groan fell from his lips. 

“Fuck, baby.” Tyler growled below your ear and into your neck. 

Leaning closer, he started to nibble at your neck, no doubt leaving his mark on your. Finally, his fingers slipped down your front and pushed your legs further apart. 

His fingers ran down your folds before bringing your wetness to circle around your clit. With a little pressure, he continued to circle his fingers around as your hips bucked, his cock getting its first touch of your pussy. 

You pushed yourself up until you were straddling him once more. And with his help, you slowly lowered yourself down onto him. A small whimper left your lips as you eased yourself down his shaft. 

“That’s it, sweetheart.” 

You pulled up a little, hearing a strangled groan from Tyler as his fingers bit into your flesh. 

Once more, you eased yourself onto him. With your eyes locked on his, he pecked a kiss to your lips. 

“Take what you need, sweetheart. Take what you need.”

You started off slow at first, circling your hips. Eventually, you picked up the pace as Tyler’s head dropped to your chest. He could feel you pulsating against him, getting ready for more. And if it wasn’t more than he ever dreamed of…

“Fuck, Sweetheart. You’re too good at this.”

Continuing to circle in his lap, his hips bucking against yours begging for more, your hand fisted his hair and pulled his head back. Leaving his neck exposed, you leaned forward and left your own mark for him to discover in the morning before finally kissing his lips. 

Softly biting his bottom lip, your fingers relaxed and slid down the back of his neck before softening the sting with your tongue. You felt Tyler’s finger bit deliciously into your skin as he reached for your thighs and pulled up closer to him. 

“Baby, fuck.”

Leaning in closer, you let your tongue slip into his mouth as you kissed him. With the kiss becoming wet and hot all at once, you slowly lifted yourself from him. 

“Baby, I need you to keep- oh. Fuck. That-that’s it, Sweetheart.” Tyler watched as you slowly rode him, his cock pumping in and out of your glistening cunt. “Fuck. You’re taking me so well.”

You moaned, feeling his fingers trace your body as you circled your hips once more, his cock buried deep inside of you. 

“Sweetheart, can I touch you?”

“Yes.” You hissed the word, your head falling back for a moment as your cheeks flushed and your body begged for more. 

Slowly, his fingers slid between the tops of your folds before finding your clit. A loud moan escaped your throat and by the time you looked back at Tyler you found a tender yet smug smile on his face. “You like that, baby?”

“Y-yes.”

“Do you want me to do it again?”

He kept a small pressure on your clit, but refused to move his fingers until you answered him again. You swallowed thickly before nodding. And for a moment, his fingers teased you, tapping gently at you. Then he stopped. 

“I need your words, darlin’. Do you want me to do it again?”

“Yes. Please,” you begged him. 

Finally, his fingers moved, applying a gentle pressure before curling you. Your hips bucked. He could feel your walls beginning to clench around him as you tried your best to keep a steady rhythm. 

“Take what you need, darlin’.”

His fingers pushed deeper inside you. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re soaking.” 

You felt Tyler’s free hand push back up your thigh before rounding your ass and pulling you down on him once more and squeezing. 

“You’re so fucking hot like this, sweetheart.”

Finally, his lips were against yours, his tongue dipping in and out of your mouth as he kissed you, only to leave you wanting more. 

A soft moan gargled at the back of your throat as you held onto his shoulders, deepening his kiss and letting him stuff you with his cock. 

Pulling his hand from your folds, you let out a whimper before a groan as he switched hands. And with some of your wetness still coating his fingers, his hand traced up your sides before rubbing slowly against your pebbled nipple. 

With guttural moans, groans and gasps, your eyes locked onto Tyler’s as he kept you riding through your high before you felt him empty himself inside of you. 

Your gasp and moan was muffled with his searing kiss once more, his hand coming to the back of your head to keep your lips locked onto his. 

Eventually, the room settled with heavy breaths and closed eyes. Your forehead resting against his, his cock still inside of you, he just held you there for a few minutes. 

“Did you mean it?”

Tyler, with heavy breaths, leaned back to look at you. “Did I mean what?”

“That you’d been dreaming about this?”

Tyler swallowed, a little nervously, but his eyes never left you. His clean fingers pushed the stay hairs from your head as he did so. 

“Every word.”

“How long?”

Tyler couldn’t give you a date. He just knew… “A long time.”

You didn’t say anything. But you did lean down and kiss him. It was tender, this time. Soft and kind. Tyler was careful when flipping you over to lay down on the mattress. And he was careful still when he pulled himself out of you. 

“Stay there. I’ll help clean you up.”

It was the first time it had happened, but you stayed where you were, watching as Tyler pulled his pajama bottoms back on and walked across to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he came back with a warm cloth and with soft kisses pressed against your belly and hips, he helped clean you up. 

“Tyler?”

He looked up from where he was knelt by your feet. “Hm?”

“Promise me…promise me this isn’t just a one time thing.” He looked at you a little confused, but you looked away. “Because…you mean a lot to me, Ty. More than you know. And I…I don’t think my heart can take this just being casual.”

Tyler’s eyes remained on yours, despite the fact you weren’t looking at him. So, putting his hand up to your face, he made you look at him. 

“Sweetheart, I don’t plan on this being a casual one-time thing. I’m too madly in love with you to do something like that.”

“You are?”

Tyler smiled, a little relief resting behind his eyes. He’d waited years to finally tell you. 

“For a long time. I don’t know when it changed, but I know it did. So, I promise. This is not a one time thing.”

“You’re really in love with me?”

Tyler chuckled. “I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed by now. Pretty sure Kate’s got a wager with Boone on how long it would take for you to notice.”

“So earlier…when you were looking at me…”

Tyler nodded, the soft smile never leaving his face. “Yeah. Because I do. I do love you, Y/n.”

Your eyes tracked over his face. Nothing but truth. 

Tyler could physically see the weight fly off your shoulders. “I’m in love with you, too, Tyler.”

One look at your face, and Tyler knew he didn’t have to question it. So, leaning up, he pressed a kiss to your lips as you fell backwards and pulled him with you. 

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

No Way But Through | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: A snowstorm swallows the world whole, leaving you and Bucky stranded in the middle of nowhere during a mission with no way out. The cold is merciless, but giving up isn’t an option—not when survival means dragging each other through the ice, one agonizing step at a time.

MCU Timeline Placement: Pre-The Falcon and The Winter Soldier (ish?)

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: Hypothermia, injury, near-death experiences, mild medical descriptions, mutual pining, forced proximity, Bucky being stubborn, you being just as stubborn, slightly suggestive themes near the end, and some good old-fashioned slow-burn tension

Word Count: 9.7k

Author’s Note: swear i wrote this in a fugue state while thinking about how much i love a good near-death, emotionally repressed, forced-proximity scenario. did i consider the logistics of dragging a half-frozen supersoldier through a blizzard? absolutely not. did i care? also no. anyway, hope you enjoy this and remember to hydrate, stretch, and maybe go touch some grass if you’ve been staring at a screen for too long (i will not be taking my own advice).

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The storm swallowed your voice.

You had been screaming Bucky’s name for what felt like hours, the wind tearing the sound from your throat before it could travel more than a few feet. Snow lashed against your face, slicing like glass, the wind howling so violently that your steps felt uncertain beneath you. There was no sign of him. Not even a disturbance in the snow where he might have fallen.

Your pulse hammered in your ears.

Bucky had been right behind you. He had been right there. You’d barely made it out of the compound before the explosion hit, and then—the ground had shaken, and the world had gone white. By the time you had turned back, hands raised against the gale, he was gone.

The quinjet was already gone too. The evac window had closed.

You were alone.

The mission hadn’t even been a high-stakes one. A simple recon and extraction, get in, get out. But someone had fed the target bad intel, and before you could make the call, the entire place had gone up in flames. Bucky had shoved you toward the treeline, snarling something about covering you, but he had been a step behind. 

One fucking step.

And now he was—

Stop it.

You shook your head, blinking against the flurry, scanning the stretch of ice and white in every direction. The cold was seeping in. It hadn’t been bad at first, but now your fingers barely felt real around the grip of your weapon. 

Your boots crunched against the ice as you pushed forward, arms tucked tightly against yourself, the wind making each step feel heavier than the last. You had no direction—just blind instinct, just the hope that he hadn’t been buried too deep, that you hadn’t already passed him.

Keep moving. Keep looking.

Your gloves were stiff with frost as you wiped the snow from your lashes, scanning the expanse ahead. Think. If he was injured—if he fell—where would he be?

You had mapped the terrain before the mission, studied the elevation changes, the weak points in the ice. There was a ridge to the north, a steep drop to the east. If he had gone down in the explosion—no, don’t think about that. If he had slipped, if the wind had knocked him off balance—

Your eyes caught something in the snow.

A shape, half-buried.

Your heart stilled, then lurched, as you staggered forward, falling to your knees, hands already digging into the ice and snow.

Bucky was on his side, unmoving, his body half-consumed by the drifts. His vibranium arm was almost fully covered in ice, black combat gear stiff with cold, frost clinging to his hair. His face was slack, unnaturally pale beneath the bruising at his temple.

“Shit,” you breathed, hands shaking as you brushed the snow from his face. “Hey. Come on, Barnes. Open your eyes.”

No response.

You shook him, hands grabbing at his shoulders, fingers searching for warmth. Too cold. Too still.

Your fingers dug into his coat. “Barnes. C’mon, wake up.”

Nothing.

His lips were blue.

The panic in your chest turned sharp, slicing through bone.

You pressed two fingers to his neck, forcing yourself to steady, to focus. His pulse was faint, slow, but it was there.

You exhaled shakily, your breath a cloud of mist in the freezing air. “Okay. You’re okay. You just have to—” Your voice broke, and you shook your head, forcing the panic down. You had no one to help you. No extraction. No backup. If you didn’t get him out of this, no one would.

Gritting your teeth, you grabbed at him, adjusting his weight, trying to lift. He was heavy, dead weight against you, his body stiff with cold. Your muscles screamed as you hoisted him up, nearly toppling over from the effort.

Your voice was hoarse, rough, but you spoke anyway, because the silence was worse. “Come on,” you muttered, voice barely audible over the wind. “You do not get to pull this shit. Do you hear me? You don’t get to check out.”

No answer.

The storm howled around you as you dragged him forward, one agonizing step at a time.

You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t know how far you’d have to go. You just knew you couldn’t stop.

Your legs barely worked, each step more of a stagger, your grip on Bucky slipping every few seconds as you adjusted, shifted, dragged him forward through the relentless storm. It was thick enough now that you could barely see your own breath, the world around you a swirling mess of white, swallowing everything whole.

Finally, a shadow.

It didn’t register at first. You thought your vision was playing tricks on you, that the exhaustion had started warping the landscape. But the outline sharpened, something dark against the endless white.

A structure.

Not a house, not a proper cabin, but something man made.

You nearly sobbed in relief.

You adjusted Bucky’s weight, teeth gritted against the pain, and forced yourself to keep moving. The closer you got, the more details emerged—an old hunting shelter, long abandoned, half-buried in the snow.

You reached the door, shifting your grip so you could shove it open with your shoulder, nearly stumbling inside with Bucky still pressed against you.

The inside was marginally warmer. Not by much, but enough that your breath didn’t feel like it was freezing on contact. 

You barely had the strength to lower Bucky down without dropping him completely. “Stay with me, Barnes,” you muttered, your own breath clouding in the air. “I swear to god, if you die on me, I’m going to be so pissed.”

His eyelids flickered.

Your chest clenched.

“Yeah,” you encouraged. “That’s right. Don’t make me do all this work for nothing.”

A groggy noise escaped him, barely more than a breath.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your hand to his chest, feeling the slow, sluggish rise and fall beneath your palm. He was still in there. You just had to keep him in there.

You clenched your jaw, flexing your frozen fingers as you scanned the dim interior of the hunting shelter. It wasn’t much—four walls, a half-rotted wooden floor, a few rusted hooks along the far wall where someone had once hung their gear. But the stove. The stove. That was your saving grace.

He needed heat, fast.

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, forcing yourself to move. Your gloves fumbled against the firewood as you reached for the old cast-iron stove, yanking the door open. The smell of old ash and rust filled your nose. 

You shoved your pack off your shoulders, ripping into the inside pocket where your mission notes were tucked. The classified briefing folder, the extra map—fuck it, they weren’t important anymore. You tore the papers into strips, shoving them into the stove before reaching for your flint. Your fingers were stiff, sluggish, but you forced them to work, striking the steel over and over until, finally, a spark caught.

Flames flickered weakly to life.

You exhaled sharply, adding more paper, feeding the fire until the flames licked higher, hotter.

Behind you, Bucky made a noise. A weak, hoarse sound that barely registered.

You twisted back toward him, crawling to his side, reaching for the ice-crusted edges of his jacket. Your fingers fumbled with the zipper, cursing under your breath when it wouldn’t budge.

“Alright,” you muttered, half to yourself, half to him. “We’re doing this the hard way.”

Your knife was already in your hand before you finished speaking. You wedged the blade into the zipper seam and yanked down, cutting through the stiff fabric. The moment you peeled the jacket open, your stomach turned.

His undershirt was soaked, ice clinging to the edges where the snow had melted and refrozen. His chest barely rose with each breath, his body locked in that dangerous place between shivering and stillness.

“No, no, no,” you muttered, grabbing at his gear, peeling off layer after layer. “You do not get to go quiet on me.”

Nothing.

You pressed your hand flat against his sternum, shaking him again. “Barnes.”

His head lolled slightly, but he didn’t open his eyes.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your own coat hit the floor. You reached for the thickest blankets in your pack, yanking them over both of you before pressing your body against his, arms curling around his freezing torso, trying to transfer what little heat you had left.

He barely reacted.

“Come on, Barnes,” you murmured, your lips against his temple. “You’ve been through worse than this. What’s a little snow, huh?”

Nothing.

“Damn it, Bucky,” you whispered. “Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

You pressed your forehead to his shoulder, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt, the shudder in your breath threatening to become something else entirely.

“You were right behind me,” you muttered, voice shaking. “You always—” You swallowed hard. “You always catch up.”

A beat.

Then—

His fingers twitched weakly against you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Bucky?” You lifted your head, hands tightening on his shoulders. “Hey, hey—come on, open your eyes.”

A slow inhale. Then another. His lashes fluttered.

You exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against his cheek. “That’s it,” you encouraged, voice barely above a whisper. “You with me?”

His brows furrowed, just slightly. A flicker of something behind those half-lidded eyes, something barely clinging to wakefulness.

You swallowed down the relief threatening to break you in half.

“You’re okay,” you murmured, pressing your forehead against his. “Just stay with me.”

His voice was barely a rasp, barely there at all.

“—cold.”

You let out a quiet, broken laugh. “No shit, Barnes.”

His fingers curled weakly into the front of your shirt, like he was trying to ground himself, like he needed something to hold onto.

His fingers were trembling, body still cold, but the weight of his touch was there—real, insistent, like he was afraid you’d slip through his grasp if he let go. His breath was uneven, shallow, but it hit your collarbone in slow, stilted exhales, proof that he was still here.

His lips parted, and for a second, nothing came. Just the slow drag of his pulse beneath your palm, just the almost imperceptible furrow in his brow.

"Don’t leave me again."

The words barely made it past his lips, but they hit like a gunshot. They weren’t an order, weren’t a demand. They were something smaller, something breaking open at the seams. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard desperation in his voice, but this was different—this wasn’t rage, wasn’t sharp-edged panic, wasn’t the frantic bellow of someone pulling a trigger before the world collapsed beneath them.

This was fear. A kind you had never heard from him before.

Your stomach twisted, throat tightening as your fingers flexed against his shoulder, smoothing over the fabric of his undershirt, as if that alone could ground him, could hold him here. With you.

"I’m right here," you murmured, voice cracking in the middle. "I’m not going anywhere."

A lie. Maybe. Because you had left. You had turned, only to find him gone, had felt the sickening weight of helplessness settle in your chest like it belonged there.

He must have known it, must have felt it too, because his grip on you didn’t loosen, didn’t relent. His vibranium fingers pressed into your side—not hard, not painful, but just enough to make sure you were real.

"You were—" Bucky's breath hitched, and he swallowed thickly. His lashes fluttered, still heavy, still clinging to the edges of exhaustion, but his grip did not ease. "—gone."

You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead against his again. "I know," you whispered. "I know."

───────────────────────────────

Pain lanced through you.

Not the dull ache that had settled into your muscles the night before, not the kind of exhaustion that pressed heavy against your bones, but something worse. Something sharp. Something that could not be ignored any longer.

You sucked in a breath, and the pain spiked, sharp and unforgiving, carving its way through your ribs like a blade.

Shit.

Your fingers curled against the blanket, pressing into the fabric as you forced yourself to stay still, to breathe, to assess. The air was warmer than it had been. The fire was still burning. The wind outside had softened into a distant howl instead of the full-throated rage it had carried before. You weren’t freezing anymore, but your body was wrecked.

Everything hurt.

Your limbs felt leaden, muscles stiff from overuse, but the real problem was your ribs. You didn’t have to move to know something was wrong. 

Not good.

You blinked up at the ceiling, trying to piece through the haze in your skull, trying to remember what had happened after you’d pulled Bucky inside, after you’d gotten him warm. You remembered the fire. The weight of his body against yours. His breath ghosting against your collarbone, slow and even. You must have fallen asleep at some point—finally letting the exhaustion take you under.

A shadow shifted across the room.

You didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just watched as Bucky came into view, moving with a careful deliberation that felt entirely unlike him. He was slow. Measured. Like every movement was being calculated. His vibranium fingers flexed at his side, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the room before landing—

On you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Rough.

You exhaled, slow and steady. “Hey.”

Bucky didn’t sit. Didn’t relax. His eyes flicked over you, cataloging, dissecting, assessing. You had seen this version of him before—the soldier, the strategist, the man who had learned how to see damage before it could be hidden.

You hated that he was using it on you.

You swallowed. “M’fine.”

His eyes flashed. “Bullshit.”

You sighed, shifting, trying to push yourself up, but the second you did, the pain flared, vicious and immediate. You barely swallowed down the gasp that crawled up your throat.

Bucky heard it anyway.

His jaw clenched, and before you could stop him, his hands were on you, one gripping your arm, the other pressing firm but careful against your ribs.

You flinched.

Not because of him—never because of him—but because the second his fingers made contact, the pain roared.

You exhaled shakily, trying to level your voice. “I’m fine. Just bruised—”

“No, you’re not,” he snapped.

The heat in his voice startled you. It was frustration, not at you, not exactly, but at the situation. At the fact that you were lying. At the fact that he hadn’t noticed sooner.

Bucky sat back on his heels, dragging a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “You carried me,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Through the snow. In a fucking blizzard.”

Your throat tightened. “You were dying.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched. His hands curled into fists.

“And you weren’t?” His voice was quiet. Cold.

Your breath hitched.

Because the truth was—you didn’t know.

You hadn’t been thinking about it. Hadn’t been processing it. You had just moved. Because he had needed you. Because there hadn’t been another option. Because you had refused to let him die out there.

But now, now that the adrenaline was gone, now that your body was catching up to what you had done—

Maybe you hadn’t been far behind him.

Bucky shifted, pressing a palm to your forehead, checking your temperature. “We need to wrap your ribs,” he muttered, more to himself than you.

You pressed your lips into a thin line. You wanted to argue but couldn’t bring yourself to. Maybe your ribs were broken. Maybe your whole body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder. But Bucky was the one who had nearly died. Bucky was the one who had been half-frozen in the goddamn snow, who had been barely breathing when you found him.

So why was he looking at you like you were the one who had almost been lost?

Bucky exhaled sharply. “Shirt off.”

Your brows shot up. “Jesus, Barnes. Buy me dinner first.”

He didn’t even blink. “Not funny.”

You sighed but didn’t argue. You didn’t have the energy for it, and frankly, it wasn’t worth it. You winced as you peeled off your shirt, leaving you in just a sports bra, revealing the bruises painting your ribs—deep, dark, already beginning to swell.

Bucky’s vibranium fingers twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach out but was forcing himself not to. His throat bobbed. His nostrils flared. He swallowed once, hard, then turned away, grabbing the first aid kit he had apparently already assembled.

You frowned. “How long have you been up?”

“Long enough,” he muttered.

That wasn’t an answer.

You watched him tear into a roll of medical tape, his hands steady, his movements quick and capable, he had done this a hundred times before. His vibranium hand was shaking, though. Just slightly.

The sight of it made something in your chest ache.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath before moving closer. “This is gonna hurt.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “No shit.”

He shot you a look before his fingers found your ribs, gentle but firm, wrapping the bandages around your torso, securing them with the kind of careful precision only he could manage. He was focused, meticulous, but his jaw was still tight, his shoulders tense.

Bucky exhaled sharply, finishing the bandages before sitting back, his hands resting on his knees, watching you. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were dark.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered.

You huffed. “Would you rather I left you to freeze to death?”

His jaw clenched. “I would rather you didn’t almost die for me.”

Your chest twisted.

Bucky’s voice was quiet, but there was something raw beneath it, something close to anger but laced with something else.

Something like fear.

Your lips parted, but no words came. Because what could you even say?

That you hadn’t thought about it?

That you hadn’t cared?

That his life had mattered more in that moment than your own?

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair before reaching for one of the blankets he’d draped beside the fire. 

You expected him to pull away. Expected him to put distance between you the way he always did when emotions ran too high, when things got too real. But he didn’t.

Without a word, he wrapped the blanket around your shoulders, pulling it close, making sure it covered you completely. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the edges, tucking the fabric against you with a careful precision that made your throat tighten.

Your voice came quieter than you meant. “Barnes—”

His jaw clenched. “Just—” He shook his head, cutting himself off. “Just let me.”

You let out a slow breath, something unsteady crawling up your spine, something heavy settling in your ribs that had nothing to do with the pain. His hands dropped back to his lap, curling into loose fists. His gaze flicked over you again, scanning, assessing, like he was still trying to convince himself that you were actually here. That you weren’t just something the cold had conjured up to taunt him.

“You could’ve frozen to death,” he muttered, voice tight. “Dragging my sorry ass through the snow.”

You scoffed, shifting against the blanket. “So could you.”

“Not the same,” he bit out.

You frowned. “How is it not the same?”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to yours, and the heat in it caught you off guard. “Because I can take it,” he said, voice rough. “Because I was built for it.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You—Jesus. You break easier, you bleed, you—” He ran a hand over his face, frustration bleeding into the edges of his exhaustion. “You almost didn’t make it.”

You swallowed. “But I did.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “This time.”

Your fingers curled against the edge of the blanket, the fabric rough beneath your touch. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

Bucky let out a breathless, humorless laugh, his vibranium hand flexing, releasing. “Yeah,” he muttered. His gaze flicked back up, something sharp behind his exhaustion. “You should’ve.”

Your heart stopped.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him.

Then—anger. Pure and burning, tearing through your exhaustion like wildfire.

“Don’t,” you bit out, voice shaking. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

His lips parted slightly, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But his jaw was still tight, his hands still curled into fists, like he was daring you to argue.

So you did.

“I don’t care if you think you can take it,” you snapped. “I don’t care if you think you were built for it. I don’t care if your body can survive the cold better than mine, or if you can get back up after taking a hit that would kill me. You’re not invincible, Bucky. And you sure as hell don’t get to decide that you’re worth less than me.” You exhaled shakily. “I had to get you out.”

“It nearly killed you,” he said, voice lower now, but just as frayed. 

You huffed a breath. “It didn’t.”

“But it could have.” His voice was rough, like the words were being pulled out of him against his will. His shoulders were taut, his jaw locked, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides. “And you don’t get to do that. Not for me.”

You frowned. “Bucky—”

“No.” His voice was sharp, cutting through whatever excuse you were about to give. “I need you to understand something.”

You swallowed.

His gaze burned into yours, something dark, something heavy settling in the space between you.

“You don’t get to throw yourself away for me,” he murmured, his vibranium fingers twitching against the fabric of his pants, like he was trying to anchor himself. “Not like that.”

Your throat tightened. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” His voice broke, just slightly, and something in your chest ached. “I know what that looks like. I know what it is to make that choice.”

You blinked, staring at him.

Because fuck. He did.

He knew better than anyone.

His vibranium hand flexed once against his knee before he pushed himself up, moving toward the supplies he had managed to scavenge from both your packs. His movements were sharp, efficient, but the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased—not even a little.

You exhaled, long and slow, pressing a hand to your ribs as you shifted, wincing as the pain flared up again. The argument had burned hot and fast, but it hadn’t changed the fact that your body was still barely holding itself together.

Bucky returned a moment later, kneeling beside you again, with a canteen of water and an unopened ration pack.

“Drink,” he ordered, unscrewing the cap for you, because apparently, he thought you were too banged up to do that yourself.

You narrowed your eyes at him, snatching the canteen from his hand, but didn’t argue. The moment the water hit your tongue, you realized just how dehydrated you were. You swallowed greedily, throat working, ignoring the way Bucky watched you like a damn hawk.

He handed you the ration bar next. You took it, but your hands were sluggish, clumsy, the ache in your arms making the simple act of unwrapping it more difficult than it should have been.

Without a word, Bucky reached forward and took it from you, peeling back the foil with steady fingers before handing it back.

You stared at him for a beat, then sighed, tearing off a piece with your teeth.

The first few bites sat heavy in your stomach, but you forced them down. You needed the energy. You both did.

Bucky sat back on his heels, watching you, his expression unreadable. His hands were still curled into loose fists, his gaze flicking over your face like he was searching for something he didn’t know how to name before his gaze flicked towards the window.

“We need a plan,” he muttered, more to himself than you.

You swallowed. “We already have one.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You call barely standing a plan?”

You exhaled through your nose. “You couldn’t even walk yesterday.”

He didn’t answer that. Just dragged a hand over his jaw, tension rolling off him in waves.

“I’m serious. We don’t have time to wait this out.” You shifted, wincing as the pain in your ribs flared again, but you forced yourself to keep talking. “Once the storm slows, we should move.”

Bucky shook his head. “No.”

You blinked. “What do you mean, no?”

His jaw flexed. He was still looking at the snow, but you could tell his mind was elsewhere. “We don’t know how far we are from the extraction point,” he said finally. “We were running blind before the blast. And without comms, we—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “We don’t even know if the team’s looking for us.”

The words landed with a dull thud.

You hadn’t let yourself think about it. Not really. 

Your stomach twisted. “So what? We wait for them to maybe find us?”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed. “No,” he said. “We make them find us.”

You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

Finally, finally, he turned back toward you.

“There was an outpost about five miles west of the compound,” he said, crouching again, this time closer, close enough that you could see the exhaustion shadowing his eyes, the bruising along his temple. “SHIELD used it years ago for off-the-books surveillance ops. No one’s supposed to know it exists.”

You frowned. “But you do.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t shift. “I know a lot of things I shouldn’t.”

“Is it still active?”

“Doubt it,” Bucky muttered. “But if the structure’s still standing, there should be a radio. Or something we can fix.” His vibranium fingers flexed slightly. “It’s our best shot.”

You inhaled slowly. Five miles wasn’t impossible. Not under normal circumstances. But you weren’t exactly in peak condition. And you had no idea how long you’d walked to find this hunting cabin.

“You think we can make it?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away.

You frowned, looking back at him. His shoulders were still tight, his brows furrowed, like he was thinking—like he was trying to weigh something in his head.

“What?” you prompted.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “You can’t make that trek in your condition.”

Your stomach twisted. “I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t,” he bit out. “You have broken ribs. Probably a mild concussion. You can’t—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You can’t move like this.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “So what, you’re just gonna leave me here and go on your own?”

“No,” he said instantly, voice sharp. “I’m not leaving you.”

You blinked.

Something about the way he said it—the finality in it—made your breath catch.

“I just need to make sure you can walk before we try anything,” he continued, tone lower now, more controlled. “If we move too soon, we’re both screwed.”

You huffed, glancing down at the ration bar in your hands. He wasn’t wrong, but you hated it anyway. You hated feeling useless.

Bucky must have sensed it, because he moved back down to your level, reached out, pressing two fingers under your chin, tilting your face back up to meet his gaze.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched.

Because—fuck.

Your throat tightened. “You don’t have to.”

His fingers lingered against your jaw, the heat of his touch burning even through the cold. His gaze stayed locked on yours, something raw behind those blue eyes.

“I know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I want to.”

The words settled deep into your ribs, heavier than the bruises, heavier than the weight of exhaustion pulling at your limbs.

You swallowed.

Then—finally—you nodded.

───────────────────────────────

The snow had stopped falling, leaving behind an eerie kind of stillness—like the world had been stripped down to nothing but ice and silence. The wind had quieted to a whisper, no longer screaming through the trees, but it still bit at any exposed skin, slipping beneath layers of fabric .

You gritted your teeth, pressing forward, step by step.

Your ribs ached with every movement. You had woken up sore, stiff, your body protesting even the thought of getting up, but Bucky hadn’t given you a choice.

“You need to breathe.”

That had been the first thing he had said when you’d finally sat up, groggy and unwilling, blinking through the haze of exhaustion.

You had barely managed a glare. “Pretty sure I’ve been doing that this whole time.”

Bucky hadn’t looked amused. “Not well enough.”

You hadn’t understood what he meant until he had pulled you upright, hands steady at your waist, and the pain had nearly sent you right back down.

“Deep breaths.”

You had cursed at him, at yourself, at the entire goddamn situation, but you had done it. You had inhaled, slow and sharp, and Bucky had pressed his fingers against your ribs, feeling for tension, for anything shifting beneath the skin that shouldn’t be.

“You’re lucky,” he had muttered, adjusting the bandages around your torso, securing them tighter. “No punctured lung. But if you don’t keep your breathing steady, you’ll be in trouble before we even get moving.”

So, that had been your first task. Breathe. Deep, measured, painful as all hell, but necessary.

And then, once he was satisfied that you weren’t going to collapse from lack of oxygen, he had started with your footing.

Now, hours later, you were grateful for it.

Bucky had forced you to take small, deliberate steps, keeping your weight balanced, keeping your core engaged so your ribs wouldn’t take the brunt of every movement. He had cut strips from his undershirt, tying them around the top of your boots to help keep the snow from filling them up with every step. He had even wrapped a length of rope around his own waist, tying the other end around yours—not tight, not restrictive, just there.

A failsafe.

If you slipped, if you lost your footing, if you collapsed—he’d know.

You hated how much you needed it.

He was a few steps ahead of you now, leading the way through the trees, his steps sure and steady. The snow was still deep, still an unforgiving stretch of white swallowing everything in its path, but it was easier to move through than it had been before. Without the blizzard, without the howling wind stealing your sense of direction, there was nothing to distract you from the rhythmic crunch of your boots against the ice.

The only sound besides that was Bucky’s voice, every few minutes, cutting through the cold.

“You with me?”

Each time, your answer was the same.

“Still here.”

The words sat heavy in your chest, wrapped around your ribs like a second set of bandages. You had almost lost him, and now he was making damn sure that you weren’t about to disappear on him, either.

A branch snapped beneath your boot, and you stumbled, catching yourself against a tree. Bucky turned instantly, the rope between you pulling taut before he moved back toward you, his hand gripping your forearm.

“You good?” His voice was sharp, but not unkind.

You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. Just… slippery.”

He didn’t move immediately. His fingers flexed against your sleeve. His gaze flicked over your face, assessing, before he exhaled and stepped back.

“We’ll take a break soon,” he muttered, turning forward again.

You frowned. “We don’t have time for that.”

Bucky huffed. “We have time to not have you faceplant into the ice.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

Because you knew the truth.

If you had been alone, you wouldn’t have stopped. Wouldn’t have even considered stopping. You would have pushed forward, ignoring the pain, ignoring the exhaustion, until your body gave out beneath you.

But Bucky wasn’t going to let that happen.

The thought sent something hot curling through your chest, something you weren’t sure you could name—not here, not now. But it stayed with you, pressing against the space between your ribs, lingering in the way Bucky kept glancing back over his shoulder, the way he tightened the rope between you every time the ground got unsteady.

The trees began to thin.

You hadn’t even noticed at first, too focused on keeping your footing, on breathing through the sharp ache in your ribs, on ignoring the burning fatigue that had settled into your limbs like a second skin. But then, the landscape shifted—the endless stretch of snow-draped trees giving way to something else. 

Bucky slowed in front of you, and you nearly bumped into his back before you caught yourself, fingers gripping the strap of his pack to steady yourself. He was standing completely still, his broad shoulders tense, head tilted slightly like he was listening for something.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Then, finally, he exhaled. “We’re here.”

You forced yourself to look past him, blinking through the cold, through the exhaustion pulling at the edges of your vision.

The outpost wasn’t much—just a squat, reinforced structure tucked into the side of a rocky ridge, half-buried in snow, the steel plating dulled and weathered by years of abandonment. The roof had partially caved in on one side, leaving a jagged hole where the sky pressed in. The door was still intact, but the heavy security pad beside it had been ripped out long ago, wires hanging uselessly from the panel.

Bucky took a step forward, and the rope between you went taut before you hurried to follow, the both of you moving toward the entrance.

“Think there’s power?” you asked, voice hoarse.

Bucky grunted. “Doubt it.”

He reached for the handle, testing it, and it didn’t budge. He pressed his shoulder against the metal and pushed.

Nothing.

You blew out a slow breath. “Great.”

Bucky ignored you. He glanced up at the jagged hole in the roof, then back down at you. You knew that look.

“No,” you said immediately.

He arched a brow. “No?”

“You’re not throwing me up there.”

Bucky huffed, rolling his eyes. “Relax. I’m not that much of an asshole.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Step back.”

You took half a step before realizing what he was about to do. “Wait—”

Too late.

Bucky planted his feet, set his jaw, and drove his vibranium shoulder straight into the door.

The crack of metal against metal echoed through the trees. The door groaned, but held.

Bucky’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “Alright.”

Before you could even open your mouth to argue, he did it again.

This time, the door wrenched free of its rusted hinges, slamming inward with a resounding bang.

Snow crunched beneath your boots as you stepped into the outpost. The air inside was thick, stale, the scent of old dust and metal lingering in the cold. You took a cautious step forward, your boots scuffing against the floor, the only sound in the heavy silence. The walls were lined with empty shelves, rusted filing cabinets, and what looked like the remnants of a disassembled weapons locker.

Bucky scanned the room, brow furrowed. “If there’s a radio, it’ll be in the back.”

You followed as he moved toward the far end of the room, his steps sure, his movements steady. The last door stood slightly ajar, and when Bucky nudged it open, the hinges creaked in protest.

Inside was a control station—or what had once been one.

A long, dust-covered console stretched across the back wall, an ancient-looking radio setup still intact, wires running along the floor, vanishing into the walls. A single chair sat in front of the equipment, tipped over, the fabric seat torn and frayed.

“Jesus,” you muttered, stepping closer, brushing a hand over the desk, the dust lifting in thick clouds. “How old is this place?”

Bucky crouched beside the radio, inspecting the wires. “Old enough that I don’t trust it.”

You huffed. “Encouraging.”

He didn’t answer, too focused on the task in front of him. His hands moved with precision, checking the dials, flipping a few of the switches. The old tech flickered, static crackling weakly from the speakers, but the signal was too faint, too buried under years of neglect.

Bucky’s jaw ticked. “We need a power source.”

You shifted on your feet, exhaling. “There’s gotta be something here. A backup generator, maybe.”

Bucky turned back to you, fingers brushed against your waist, rough and precise. A slight tug, the slip of coarse fibers loosening, and then the rope connecting both of you fell away. He coiled it once around his hand before tucking it into his belt.

He nodded once. “Stay put.”

You shot him a look, but he was already moving, disappearing back through the doorway.

With a sigh, you dropped into the chair, wincing as the motion jostled your ribs. The adrenaline that had carried you through the hike was wearing off fast, leaving only the gnawing ache of exertion behind.

Your head dropped back against the wall. Your limbs felt heavy, exhausted. The cold was still there, settled deep in your bones, but it wasn’t the same life-threatening chill that had nearly swallowed Bucky whole the night before.

He had been so close to—

You clenched your jaw, shaking the thought from your head before it could settle.

Bucky wasn’t dead.

You weren’t dead.

That was all that mattered.

The outpost was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of Bucky moving through the adjacent room, searching for something—anything—that would give you a fighting chance at getting out of here.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your coat, pressing against the bandages beneath.

The truth was, you weren’t sure how much farther you could go.

Bucky might have been right.

Maybe you had pushed yourself too far.

A scuffle of boots against the floor had you lifting your head just as Bucky returned, a small, dust-covered generator in his hands. He dropped it beside the radio with a grunt, crouching down to inspect the wiring.

“Think it’ll work?” you asked, voice rough.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed, his fingers working over the tangled cords with practiced precision. He was quiet for a long moment before he exhaled sharply and flipped the switch.

For a second, nothing.

Then—a low hum.

Your heart lurched.

The radio crackled.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He adjusted the dials, fine-tuning the frequency. The static cleared, and for the first time since you had been left for dead in the snow, a voice filtered through.

“—this is Extraction Team Bravo. Repeat, Extraction Team Bravo. Do you copy?”

Your breath hitched.

Bucky pressed the transmitter. “This is Sergeant Barnes, Priority Echo-Three. We copy.”

A long beat. Then—

“Sergeant Barnes?” The voice sounded almost disbelieving. “Shit—hold on. We thought you—standby, patching you through.”

Another pause, then a new voice, this one sharper, more controlled.

“Barnes? Report.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to yours.

“We need a ride,” he said.

The radio crackled.

There was a beat of silence, nothing but static and the faint whir of the generator, then the voice returned—more alert now, clipped, professional.

“Barnes, confirm your position.”

Bucky’s fingers flexed around the transmitter, his gaze flicking to the maps pinned to the wall, faded from years of neglect. “We’re at an old SHIELD outpost, west of the compound. Five miles, give or take.”

A low curse on the other end. Then, “We have your last known coordinates, but the storm knocked out satellite tracking. Say again, how far from the compound?”

“About five miles,” Bucky repeated, glancing toward you.

The radio hissed. “Acknowledged. Standby.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, his jaw still tight, his free hand flexing at his side.

You swallowed. “Think they’re actually coming?”

He didn’t answer right away. His expression stayed unreadable, his focus still locked on the radio like he could will it into giving him a better answer.

Then, finally— “They better.”

You huffed, shifting against the chair, wincing at the sharp pull in your ribs. The pain had settled into something deeper now—an ache that made itself known with every breath, every movement. Bucky saw it. Of course he did.

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

The radio flared to life again. “Barnes, we have a window for extraction in the next hour. Nearest safe LZ is twelve clicks south. Can you make it?”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “We’ll be there.”

Your stomach twisted tighter. Twelve clicks. A little over seven miles. Rough terrain. The cold creeping back in.

You saw it the second Bucky did the math in his head, the second he weighed what you were capable of against what needed to be done.

And you knew.

You knew what he was about to say before he even turned toward you.

“No,” you said instantly.

Bucky barely blinked. “We don’t have a choice.”

You pushed yourself forward in the chair, forcing down the wave of exhaustion that threatened to drag you under. “I can do it.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “You barely made it here.”

“I’ll make it.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. A sharp, assessing look. Then he scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

You shrugged. “Not my fault you’re hard to fool.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing at his sides like he was bracing himself for the inevitable argument. Like he knew exactly how this was going to go but still didn’t want to deal with it.

Then, without a word, he turned and crouched down in front of you.

You blinked. "What—"

"Get on."

Your stomach twisted. “Barnes—”

“Get. On.”

It wasn’t a command, not exactly. But there was no room for negotiation, no edge of irritation or impatience. Just something solid. Final.

Your jaw clenched. “I can—”

He twisted just enough to look at you, breath coming slow and measured, eyes flicking over your face. There was no challenge in his expression, no dare, no frustration—just understanding. The kind that came from someone who knew you, who had spent too much time reading between the lines of your stubbornness.

And then, quieter, rougher—“Humor me? Please.”

Your chest ached.

This wasn’t about pride. It wasn’t about proving yourself. Bucky knew you could do it—if you had to, if it was the only option. But it wasn’t.

And he wasn’t going to watch you suffer through something you didn’t have to do.

You huffed. “Fine.” Then, after a beat—“But if you drop me, I will kill you.”

Your ribs screamed in protest as you shifted forward, wrapping your arms over his shoulders first, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. He was warm. Solid. A grounding kind of weight beneath your hands, one you hadn’t let yourself rely on before now. You shifted forward, gripping a little tighter as you carefully slid onto his back, your chest pressing against the expanse of his shoulders.

Bucky barely flinched, his hands gripping under your thighs, securing you against him like it was nothing.

Like you weren’t a burden.

Like he had never considered for a second that you might be.

His hold was firm but careful, fingers pressing into the backs of your knees, his vibranium arm steady as he adjusted your weight. You could feel the warmth of him through the layers, the solid press of his back beneath your arms, the slow, controlled inhale as he steadied himself.

“You good?” His voice was quieter now, his head tilted slightly toward you.

You swallowed hard, your chin nearly brushing his shoulder. “Yeah.”

His fingers flexed against your leg once, just for a second. A silent reassurance. A quiet I’ve got you.

He moved and the shift was effortless, his body adjusting to the added weight like it was nothing. You barely had time to register it before he was stepping forward, out of the shelter, into the cold.

───────────────────────────────

The first thing you registered was warmth.

Not the sharp, biting cold that had seeped into your bones for days, not the numbness that had lingered beneath your skin. This was different. Softer. A kind of heat that didn’t come from fire or body warmth pressed against yours in the dead of winter.

The second thing was the pain.

It was duller now, a muted throb in your ribs, the kind of ache that told you something had been done about it. Something medical. Something official. The stiffness in your limbs had been replaced with a floating kind of exhaustion, the weight of painkillers smoothing over the worst of it. Your fingers twitched at your sides, barely registering the cool press of an IV line taped against the crook of your elbow.

The third thing—

Bucky.

Your eyes flickered open, and there he was.

Slumped in a chair beside your bed, head tilted slightly forward, eyes closed, arms folded across his chest. His posture wasn’t relaxed, not really, but it wasn’t tense either—just settled into the kind of stillness that came from someone who had been running on empty for too long. His jacket was gone, his black shirt slightly rumpled, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, revealing the steady gleam of vibranium beneath the fluorescent lights.

His hair had fallen slightly over his forehead, strands slipping free from where they had been brushed back. The bruises along his temple had darkened, shadowing the edges of his face. He looked exhausted.

Your chest tightened.

You didn’t remember getting here.

The last thing you could recall with any clarity was the slow, rhythmic sound of Bucky’s footsteps against the ice, the steady press of his heartbeat against your shoulder as he carried you forward. The heat of his breath against your cheek, the faint murmur of his voice, telling you to stay with him.

And then—

Nothing.

A blur of voices. The chop of helicopter blades. Hands reaching for you, prying you away from the warmth of him. Someone pressing an oxygen mask to your face. The cold giving way to something blindingly bright.

You had passed out before you ever reached the quinjet.

And now—now you were here.

Alive. Warm. Bandaged and hooked up to more medical equipment than you wanted to think about.

And Bucky—

Still here.

The thought made something hot curl low in your stomach, something you weren’t ready to name. You let your eyes drag over him, cataloging every little detail—the way his fingers had curled slightly against his biceps, the faint crease between his brows, even in sleep. His breathing was slow, deep, steady.

He must have been exhausted if he had actually let himself fall asleep.

Your fingers flexed weakly against the blanket draped over you, mind still sluggish with whatever drugs they had pumped into your system. You let yourself stare at him for a second longer than you probably should have.

Bucky shifted.

His fingers twitched, brow furrowing slightly, a slow inhale pulling him toward wakefulness. His shoulders tensed before relaxing again, like his body hadn’t quite decided if it was safe yet. His head lifted just slightly, lashes fluttering, a slow blink as he adjusted to the sterile lighting as his gaze landed on you.

You barely had time to react before his posture straightened, something sharper flickering behind his exhaustion. His hands dropped from where they had been folded against his chest, his vibranium fingers flexing once before his gaze swept over you, scanning, cataloging.

You didn’t say anything. Not at first.

“You staring at me?” Bucky rasped, voice still thick with sleep.

You blinked.

Bucky huffed, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand over his face. “Creepy.”

You let out a short, breathless laugh. “You’re one to talk,” you muttered, your voice rough from disuse.

His eyes flicked back to yours, something softer, something unreadable settling in them as he watched you shift against the bed, your fingers flexing weakly against the blanket.

“How long have I been out?” you asked.

Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Too long.”

You frowned.

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away. “Forty-eight hours,” he muttered, voice quieter now.

Your stomach twisted. “Oh.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just watched you, gaze flicking over your face like he was still convincing himself that you were actually awake.

You cleared your throat. “Guess I needed the sleep.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s one way to put it.”

You swallowed, your fingers twitching weakly against the IV line in your arm. “You stayed.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed slightly, like he didn’t understand why you’d even bring it up. “Of course I did.”

Something lodged itself in your throat. You swallowed hard.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened. You shifted against the pillows, forcing a small, wry smile. “I could say the same to you.”

His lips twitched, but it wasn’t really amusement. More like something wry, something self-deprecating.

You swallowed. “How bad is it?”

Bucky’s gaze flicked over you again, and you knew he was running through the list in his head, breaking it down like a mission report. “Cracked ribs, minor concussion, dehydration,” he muttered. “Hypothermia’s gone, but your body’s still playing catch-up.”

You huffed. “Could be worse.”

Bucky’s expression darkened. “It almost was.”

Your stomach twisted.

His hands flexed against his knees, his vibranium fingers curling slightly. “You nearly—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

“I carried you,” he rasped, his voice dropping, lower, rougher. “For hours. You were barely breathing, and I—I kept talking to you, kept telling you to stay awake, even when I knew you couldn’t hear me. And then, when we got to the evac point, you—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, dragging a hand through his hair. “You were out.”

Your chest ached. It felt like a fist to the ribs.

There were a thousand ways you could respond. A joke, a reassurance, a deflection—something to make him roll his eyes or shake his head, something to break the intensity that had settled into his shoulders like a weight he didn’t know how to carry. But none of them would be the truth.

"Buck," you murmured.

His breath hitched.

You never called him that. Not really. Not unless something had broken open between you, not unless the air had gone too quiet, too heavy, and the weight of whatever sat between you couldn’t be ignored any longer.

You held his gaze, eyes searching, searching, searching. For what, you weren’t sure.

Maybe for the thing neither of you had let yourself acknowledge.

Maybe for the thing that had sat between you since the moment you realized Bucky Barnes was someone you would throw yourself into a storm for.

Maybe for the thing that had been stitched into every shared glance, every late-night conversation, every time you had patched each other up without saying why it mattered.

Bucky shifted forward, just slightly, his knee bumping against the edge of your bed. He didn’t speak, didn’t pull away, just let the silence stretch between you like a wire pulled too tight.

Your fingers flexed weakly against his. “Bucky.”

He exhaled, slow and steady, before dragging his free hand over his mouth, a quiet, humorless huff escaping from between his fingers. “Jesus.”

You arched a brow. “That bad?”

His eyes flicked back up, the corner of his mouth twitching—just barely, just enough to make your stomach twist tighter.

“I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind,” he muttered.

Your heart lurched.

Your fingers curled slightly against his, breath catching at the way his hand turned over, the way his vibranium fingers closed around yours.

You swallowed. “So why don’t you?”

Bucky huffed another breath, shaking his head. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and deliberate. His fingers were steady now, like he had finally decided to stop holding himself back.

You wet your lips, watching the way his gaze tracked the movement.

The room felt smaller. The air heavier.

Your ribs ached, your body exhausted, but none of that mattered.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

Not when his touch had gone from tentative to certain.

“Bucky,” you murmured again, voice barely above a whisper.

His free hand moved, slow, fingers brushing against the edge of your jaw, calloused and warm and so careful.

You barely breathed.

He swallowed hard. “Tell me I’m not making this up.”

“You’re not.”

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer until his breath ghosted against your lips, until the space between you was barely a breath, barely a choice at all.

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re injured.”

You hummed, lips twitching. “So don’t make me do all the work, then.”

His mouth parted slightly, a sharp inhale cutting through the space between you, something taut winding through the broad stretch of his shoulders. He looked at you like he was trying to commit this to memory, like he didn’t quite believe this was happening.

You swallowed, fingers curling tighter into his shirt, tugging just enough to make his balance shift, just enough to make him feel the tension thrumming beneath your skin. His free hand traced along the curve of your jaw, dragging a slow path to the hinge, then lower, the rough pad of his thumb skimming the corner of your mouth.

Your breath hitched.

He hummed, gaze flicking down to your lips. “You sure you can handle this right now?” His voice was lower now, rougher.

Your stomach clenched. “I think I can survive.”

His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip, teasing, testing. "Yeah?"

Your tongue darted out, just barely flicking against the tip of his finger. His breath stuttered, and that—that reaction sent something smug, something hot, rushing through your chest.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice laced with something softer, something edged. "But you might have to take it easy on me."

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was trying to ground himself. "That doesn't sound like your style."

You smirked. "Wouldn't want to make things too easy for you."

His mouth twitched. And then—he kissed you.

Slow. Deliberate. Not tentative, not careful, not the kind of touch that suggested uncertainty. This was Bucky Barnes kissing you like he had already made up his mind, like he had been waiting for this, like he had been holding himself back for so long he wasn’t sure if he could stop.

The kiss was warm, lingering, more pressure than movement, but enough to make your fingers tighten in his shirt, enough to make your body forget—just for a second—the dull throb in your ribs, the lingering exhaustion that had kept you tethered.

You made a small noise in the back of your throat, something pleased, something you hadn’t even realized was bubbling up. Bucky swallowed it, his vibranium hand sliding up, cupping the side of your neck, his thumb pressing just below your jaw. You let him tilt your chin, let him deepen the kiss, your breath coming in stilted, uneven pulls as he angled himself closer.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was something better—something slow, drawn out, like he wanted to memorize every second, every shift of your body against his, every shallow breath, every way your lips parted for him without hesitation.

You sighed against his mouth, the sound turning into something close to a quiet fuck when his tongue flicked against yours, teasing, just enough to send heat pooling low in your stomach.

Bucky pulled back an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

His fingers moved to trace absent patterns against your hip, his voice lower than before, something dark curling around the edges.

“Easy,” he muttered.

You smirked, tightening your grip against his shirt, your breath still uneven. “That wasn’t even close to my worst.”

He huffed a short laugh, shaking his head before tilting back just far enough to look at you, to see you. His pupils were blown, his mouth red, his hands still on you, like he had already decided he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Your chest still ached, but not from the pain anymore.

Bucky let out a breath, slow and measured. “I should let you rest.”

Your lips twitched. “Should you?”

His grip on you tightened, just slightly. “You really are the worst.”

You grinned. “So prove it.”

His brows lifted. “Yeah? How?”

You curled your fingers against his collar, tugging just slightly. “Get in the fucking bed, Barnes.”

His breath hitched. Then, a deep, gruff chuckle rumbled in his chest as he shook his head. “Jesus.”

You just arched a brow, watching him, waiting. Daring him to deny that he wanted it.

He didn’t.

With a muttered fuck, Bucky kicked off his boots and moved, shifting up onto the bed beside you. The moment he settled, his arm curled around your shoulders, his warmth pressing against you in a way that made your breath hitch for an entirely different reason.

His lips brushed against your temple. Not a kiss. Not really. Just something there.

Your chest clenched.

His hand flexed against your hip, like he was still grounding himself, like he was still trying to believe this was real.

You turned your face toward him, lips just barely skimming his jaw. “Comfy?”

He exhaled, his grip tightening against your waist, his vibranium fingers pressing into your skin. “I’m getting there.”

You smirked. “I can make it worse.”

His grip tightened.

“Don’t push your luck,” he muttered.

You huffed, settling against him, your body pressing closer, your exhaustion creeping back in—but it wasn’t so bad now. Not when his hand was tracing light circles against your back, not when his breath was warm against your hair.

You let your eyes slip shut, let yourself sink.

His voice came softer this time, quieter, almost careful.

“Get some sleep.”

You sighed, lips quirking just slightly as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

“You first.”

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[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Backseat Fever

Summary: Award season is in full swing, and Hollywood’s golden boy, Glen Powell, is at the center of it all. By his side? You. The woman who’s captured his heart. From the flashing lights of the red carpet to the electrifying energy of the after party, Glen keeps you close. But behind the glitz and glamour there’s a different kind of tension building, one that crackles like electricity between you. And when the night winds down and the two of you are finally alone…well, some things just can’t wait until you’re back at the hotel.

Warnings: 18+. 🍸Alcohol Use. 🔥Explicit Sexual Content. (Fingering, Semi Public Nudity, sex in the backseat of a car, Unprotected PinV). 🔥Semi Public Intimacy (They get a little frisky in a bathroom and have sex in a car.)

Word Count: 9,417 (I don't even know what to say about this. 9k words of pure filth.)

A/N: Thank you to @hunterthecharmer for giving me the idea for this one (and for giving me the blessing to go ahead and write this). I really hope I did your idea justice. And yes I am still not over the look we got at the GG so of course I had to use that in this story. Also this story is basically pure filth and I swear I had an out of body experience writing this because I’ve never felt this confident writing smut, nor have I ever written something this long in once sitting. (I started working on this starting this morning after getting the okay from Hunter and spent most of today working on it.) I blame it on ovulation and not having a release for all those hormones on the smut for everything that happened in this story.

The hotel suite is bathed in a soft light as the afternoon sun shines in through the window. Outside the muted hum of cars passing by can be heard, but it’s mostly drowned out by the low music playing in the suite. Your hair cascades in soft waves down your back as the stylist’s fingers curl each section. The makeup artist in front of you hums quietly to herself as she applies the finishing touches of your look.

Your eyes move to where Glen is lazily lounging on the bed nearby. He’s already in his tuxedo pants and a charcoal colored silk shirt is stretched across his frame. He has the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms as his fingers move idly against his phone. 

“Do you always take this long to get ready or am I distracting you?” Glen teases, his voice smooth and warm like honey, as he looks up and catches your gaze.

You roll your eyes. “I’m just making sure that you’re not the only one that turns heads tonight.”

He raises an eyebrow as the corners of his mouth curve into a half-smile. “Don’t think you need to worry about that, sweetheart. I think I’ll need to fight off half the room with the way you’re looking.”

A few minutes later both the hair and makeup artists are finished with your look. You make your way into the bathroom and gently close the door behind you. You glance at the dress hanging on the shower rod. It’s a shimmering Elie Saab gown in tones of gold and silver, the slit running high up your thigh. It was a gift from Glen or more accurately a recommendation from his stylist that Glen paid for, the dress designed to complement Glen’s look perfectly.

You slip your hands into the fabric of the dress and admire it as you pull it off the hanger. The weight of it is luxurious against your fingers and the fabric glides easily as you step into it. It’s tailored to fit you perfectly, and hugs your curves in all the right ways. But the last step of putting it on, the zipper, proves to be a challenge. 

You hesitate knowing it’s a one of a kind dress and not wanting to tear it by jerking on the zipper too hard. And truthfully, a small part of you doesn’t mind asking Glen to help you.

“Glen, can you help me with the zipper?” You call out as you crack the bathroom door open just an inch or two.

He glances up at you and immediately stands up. He makes his way into the bathroom, softly closing the door behind him. You turn away from him, your back now facing him.

There’s a long pause before he smirks. “Need some help, huh?”

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, your lips curving into a sly smile. “Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

His fingers reach out and brush over your skin as he takes the zipper in his hand. You can feel the heat of his body close behind you. The scent of his cologne hits your nose, notes of sandalwood and vanilla but something deeper and richer that you can’t quite identify is there too. 

Your heart skips as he starts to slide the zipper up, but then he stops. You can feel the slight shift in his posture, and the way his breathing catches just the slightest.

“Damn…” he mutters, his voice low and hushed almost like he’s saying it to himself.

You glance at him over your shoulder with an eyebrow raised and a smirk on your face. “What?”

His eyes lock with yours before his gaze lowers just enough to catch a glimpse of the lingerie set you’re wearing underneath - a delicate black lace set he bought you a few months ago. A set that you purposely planned to wear tonight.

His lips curve into an almost devilish smile as he looks at your eyes again. “Sweetheart, that’s just cruel.”

You let out a soft laugh, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, but you refuse to let it faze you. “What, you don’t like it? I thought you liked this set.”

His fingers tighten slightly around the zipper, pulling it up just a little more. “Oh, I like it. I just might not be able to focus on anything else knowing this is what you’ve got on underneath.” As he says it his voice drops an octave, edged with something darker.

Once the zipper is fully secured Glen steps back, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary against your back. A teasing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but before he can say anything your gaze flickers towards the vanity. Sitting there glinting under the lights is the necklace he gave you for Christmas last year. A delicate piece made of fine yellow gold with a small but beautiful diamond. It’s understated yet elegant, which is what you loved about it. You’re secretly a little happy that the Glen’s stylist chose that piece in particular to pair with your dress for the evening given the sentimental meaning behind it.

“Can you put this on for me?” You ask picking the necklace up and turning to face Glen.

His expression softens as he takes it from your hands. “Of course.”

You gather your hair, lifting it off your neck as he steps behind you. His fingers brush against your skin as he secures the clasp, and the warmth of his hands sends a shiver down your spine. Instead of stepping away immediately he lingers, letting his hands drift down to your shoulders.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp in your ear. Then he presses a lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder, his lips warm against your skin.

You exhale as the heat of the moment settles between you as his arms slip around your waist from behind. He pulls you closer, his chest flush against your back as his thumbs idly stroke over the fabric of your dress.

“You know,” he whispers, his tone laced with something dark. “If you wanted me to take this dress off you later, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to tease me like this.”

You bite your lip, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze in the mirror. “And here I thought you liked when I tease you.”

His smirk widens, fingers flexing against your waist before he finally releases you with a reluctant sigh. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

You turn, smoothing your hands over his silk shirt before adjusting the collar. “Only because I know you’ll play along.”

He chuckles as he shakes his head, and his hands settle at your hips. 

“Behave for me tonight,” he says as his thumb brushes over your hip bone, just barely grazing the slit of your dress as he leans in and brings his mouth to your ear. “And then I promise I’ll give you whatever you want when we get back.”

With one final glance, he turns and makes his way out of the bathroom. You take a deep breath and then follow behind him. 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, reaching for the heels that Glen’s stylist had chosen to finish your look for the event. But before you can slip them on, Glen is already in front of you sinking onto one knee. His fingers brush against your ankle as he takes the first heel from your hands.

“Let me,” he says softly, sliding the shoe onto your foot. 

His gaze flicks up to yours, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he secures the strap.

You swallow, watching as he repeats the motion with the other shoe, his fingers grazing along the curve of your calf before he finally leans back on his heels.

“Perfect fit, Cinderella.” His voice is warm and rich, with just the hint of something more playful lingering just beneath the surface.

Before you can respond, he pushes himself to his feet in one smooth motion and turns toward the suite’s open closet. He shrugs into the jet black velvet tuxedo jacket, the fabric seemingly molding perfectly to his broad shoulders as he adjusts the cuffs. There’s something about the way he carries himself with an effortless confidence that makes you stare for a second longer than you probably should.

Glen catches you staring. A smirk returns to his lips, slow and smug, and he moves toward you extending a hand. “You ready, sweetheart?”

You place your hand in his, and he helps pull you effortlessly to your feet. You slide your arm through his to ensure you keep your balance as you walk.

“Ready,” you say as you let him start to lead you toward the door.

As the two of you step into the hallway the energy between you changes slightly. The night is only just beginning and yet you already know neither of you will be able to keep your hands off each other.

Glen’s hold on you remains firm yet easy, his fingers brushing lightly over your knuckles as you approach the waiting car once you’re downstairs. The driver moves to open the door, but Glen is a second too quick. He takes a step forward and pulls the door open himself and then extends a hand toward you.

“After you, sweetheart.” His voice is warm, edged with amusement, but there’s something deeper in his gaze as he watches you step forward.

You slide into the plush leather seat, the slit of your dress shifting as you settle, baring nearly the full length of your leg. Glen eases in beside you and pulls the door shut behind him.

The car hums to life, the city lights outside casting fleeting shadows across his sharp features. Glen’s eyes sweep over you, lingering where the gown parts at your upper thigh. A quiet exhale slips from his lips, his palm finding your leg with an easy familiarity. His fingers press lightly as he starts tracing absentminded circles of your skin.

He leans in, the warmth of his breath tickling your ear as he murmurs, “I should tell you to behave tonight…” his voice then drops an octave. “But we both know you won’t.”

A slow knowing smirk tugs at your lips. You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze beneath the soft glow of the passing streetlights. “I promise not to do anything your PR team will have to handle tomorrow.”

Glen chuckles a deep husky sound that vibrates through the space between you. His fingers tighten slightly against your thigh before he leans back, stretching an arm along the back of the seat.

The air outside the car is filled with electricity as the car pulls into the long procession of sleek black vehicles, each one filled with celebrities and their teams preparing for their turn on the red carpet. Camera flashes flicker in the distance, a chaotic yet dazzling rhythm of cameras waits outside.

Glen’s thumb strokes idly against your thigh, his grip still warm and firm. He glances out the tinted window, his expression easy, but you can tell from the way his fingers tap against your skin that he’s ready to get out of the car.

After several minutes your car inches forward, and it’s finally yours and Glen’s turn. The driver steps out first, moving around to the side of the car facing the red carpet. The door swings open and Glen steps out first. He nods to the driver and thanks him with a polite nod before turning his full attention to you.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he offers you his hand. His fingers close securely around yours, guiding you out with a level of care that makes your pulse race in your veins.

The moment you step onto the carpet a wave of flashing cameras erupt around you. Photographers call Glen’s name, their voices blending with the hum of the event. Glen’s hand slides to your lower back with a possessive warmth that grounds you amid the chaos.

His agent appears from the side, flashing a practiced smile as he steers you both toward the first stop on the carpet. Glen moves effortlessly, but even as the cameras and lights demand his attention, his focus remains on you.

You feel his gaze before you turn your head. When you do turn and meet his gaze his eyes are dark and filled with something you can’t quite pinpoint. He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him. “You’re making it impossible to look at anything but you.”

A smile tugs at your lips. You shift slightly, your hand rising to rest lightly against his chest. His shirt is already unbuttoned at the top two buttons, revealing just enough of his chest hair and the gold necklace he has on. 

Your fingers hover over the third button, the pad of your fingertip barely brushing it. To the cameras and anyone watching it looks like you’re simply smoothing out his shirt in a casual gesture. But Glen knows better. His body tenses just slightly, his breath catching for half a second. His gaze sharpens, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. But he doesn’t move. He just watches you, waiting to see if you’ll actually do it.

But you don’t. Instead you drag your fingertips over the fabric once more, feigning innocence before resting your hand lower against his stomach.

Glen’s jaw flexes for the briefest moment, but then he regains his composure and slips effortlessly back into that easy charming persona as the cameras flash again.

After the final interviews are done and the last of the camera flashes are snapped you and Glen are guided inside by his manager. Inside the venue, the atmosphere is intimate. Low flickering candlelight from the centerpieces on each table reflect off of the crystal glassware, the quiet hum of conversation blends with the soft notes of the music playing overhead. The gold sequins of your gown catch the light as you settle into your seat beside Glen. His presence is warm and familiar next to you.

His hand finds your thigh almost immediately, fingers resting just beneath the slit of your dress on your thigh. It’s nothing overt or inappropriate, just a familiar touch between partners. 

At least, that’s how it starts. Glen is effortlessly charming as he talks with the others at the table. He laughs at a particular joke from someone across from him at the table, engaging in conversation as though he’s completely at ease. 

But every so often his fingers tighten against your skin in a slow, possessive squeeze that makes your breath hitch. He plays it cool though, never letting on that his focus is split between the discussion at the table and the slow absentminded circles his thumb is tracing on the inside of your thigh.

You take a slow sip of your wine, the deep red coating your lips. Then you lean in slightly. The movement shifts your dress in a way you know Glen notices, offering the faintest peek at the top of the lace strapless bra you both know is underneath. His hand tightens just barely on your thigh.

Your voice is barely more than a whisper, meant only for him. “You’re awfully quiet tonight, babe. Something distracting you?”

Glen doesn’t answer right away. His expression doesn’t even shift. If someone were watching the two of you right now, they’d see the same composed, award winning smile he’s worn all night.

But under the table his fingers start to slide higher, his touch slow and deliberate, teasing at something for too bold for a setting like this where a camera could be on the two of you at any given moment. Your breath catches and your gaze flicks to him. His eyes are locked on you now, dark with amusement. 

And then, just as his fingertips dare to brush higher, just as heat starts to pool low in your stomach…someone at the table calls his name, pulling him back into conversation. 

His hand stops its movement, sliding back down just enough to keep things appropriate. But you catch the smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he turns back to the discussion at the table.

The venue is buzzing with excitement as the 2025 Golden Globes officially kicks off. The stage is bathed in warm golden light, the audience a sea of glamorous gowns and sharp tuxedos. Glen sits beside you, one arm draped casually along the back of your chair, his fingers idly tracing the bare skin of your shoulder.

Nikki Glaser takes the stage with ease, her opening monologue sharp and quick witted, sending waves of laughter through the audience as she points out several celebrities in attendance. 

You’re sipping from your champagne flute when she suddenly shifts her attention to Glen. “Glen, you were in everything this year…Hit Man, Twisters…my head when I’m having sex with my boyfriend.”

The room erupts into laughter, a mix of surprised gasps and delighted applause. Glen, ever the good sport, flashes a grin and shakes his head slightly as the camera captures his reaction. 

You’re laughing too. But then the way he takes it in stride, not letting it fluster him, sparks an idea. As soon as the camera moves away from him you lean in. Close enough that your lips almost brush the shell of his ear. 

“Funny,” you murmur, voice low enough for only him to hear. “Because you’re in my head when I’m touching myself.”

Glen inhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. The subtle movement is barely noticeable to anyone else, but you catch it. His fingers twitch against the skin of your back as if resisting the urge to react. 

You let the words settle. Then as if nothing happened, you press a soft, lingering kiss to the edge of his jaw, letting your lips brush just enough to make his pulse jump.

To the outside world, it’s nothing more than an affectionate moment between a couple…just you whispering something sweet to your boyfriend before kissing him.

But Glen knows exactly what you’re doing. And judging by the way he exhales again, slow and controlled as he shifts slightly in his seat, you know it’s working.

Satisfied, you smile against his skin before pulling back, returning your attention to the stage as if you hadn’t just began to unravel him with a single sentence.

Nikki’s monologue ends and the applause fades as the first presenters takes the stage. But Glen still hasn’t fully recovered from your whispered confession. You can feel the tension in his body. The way his fingers flex subtly against the back of your chair, his breathing just a little deeper than before.

Then, as the announcer reads off the nominees for the award, Glen leans in. His voice is even, but there’s an edge to it. “I’m gonna hit the restroom,” he murmurs. “You want anything from the bar on my way back?”

You turn to him feigning innocence, and your lips curving into a knowing smirk. “Another glass of champagne would be perfect. Thank you, babe.”

He nods, but just as he stands and steps away from the table you catch it. The quick yet subtle movement of his hand adjusting the front of his dress pants as he disappears into the hallway.

Satisfaction hums through you. You lift your nearly empty flute to your lips, holding your smirk behind the rim as you take another sip as you settle back into your seat.

A few minutes later Glen still hasn’t returned. You glance at the hallway and then back at your table. You politely excuse yourself before slipping into the hallway. 

The hallway is a quiet, stark contrast to the hum of conversion and laughter that spilled from the ballroom where the award show was taking place. Your heels click softly against the polished floor as you head to the end of the hallway where the restrooms are.

Just as you reach for the door handle of the ladies’ room, the men’s room door wings open. Glen steps out, his shoulders broad in the jet black tuxedo, his hair slightly mussed like he ran a hand through it in frustration after leaving the ballroom. 

But it’s his expression that stops you in your tracks. The way his gaze locks onto you.

You don’t have a moment to even react before his fingers curl around your wrist, and in one fluid motion, he pulls you into the women’s restroom. The door clicks shut behind you, and your back meets the cool wood as Glen presses close. Glen fingers slide the lock into place before his hands brace on either side of you, caging you in. The air crackles between you, thick with everything unspoken.

He leans in, his lips brushing just below your ear as he exhales, his voice low and laced with amusement. “You like driving me insane, don’t you?”

A small smile tugs at your lips before you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. You let your fingers trail down the front of his shirt, hovering just above the third button from the top before smoothing over the fabric.

“Maybe just a little.”

His laugh is quiet but rough as he exhales through his nose. But then he’s kissing you. It’s hungry and impatient, like he’s been waiting all night for this. His hands find your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress as he deepens the kiss, his body warm against yours.

The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from outside the door, and it’s enough to break the spell. Glen pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. His breathing is uneven, but there’s a teasing glint still there.

“As much as I’d love to keep going,” he murmurs, “we should probably head back before someone comes looking for us.”

You let out a breathy laugh knowing he’s right. But as Glen takes a step back and you both straighten your clothes like nothing happened, you catch the way Glen’s jaw tightens when he looks at your lips, like he’s still thinking about the way they felt against his.

You’re just starting to catch your breath when Glen’s phone buzzes loudly in his pocket. His expression shifts as he pulls it out and looks at the screen.

“I need to take this,” he murmurs holding a finger to his lips as if warning you to stay quiet.

He takes another step back, answering the call with a curt professional tone. You can barely make out the voice of his agent on the other end, but as Glen’s nodding along his gaze never leaves you. 

After a moment, he pulls the phone away from his ear. “Yeah, I’ll be right back in. She had a…wardrobe malfunction,” he smirks as if he’s dealing with a minor inconvenience. “We have it taken care of, no worries. Give me sixty seconds and I’ll be right there.”

Glen looks at you for a beat, his expression softening as he steps closer. “You okay with me heading back in? They need me for something.”

You nod quickly, giving him a smile that’s more genuine and supportive than any of the others you’ve given him tonight. “Thanks for the help with the zipper,” you say, your words thick with playful innuendo.

His lips twitch for just a second. He glances toward the door, and then takes a deep breath.

“Of course. Wouldn’t leave you hanging.” He grins at the subtle double meaning before straightening up and heading back towards the ballroom.

The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left standing in the ladies’ restroom, an impish smile playing at your lips. Because you both knew this wasn’t the last of your teasing for the night.

Back in the ballroom the atmosphere is still buzzing with excitement. The laughter and clinking of glasses mix with the soft hum of conversations that fill the room. But for you it feels quieter as you settle back into your seat next to Glen.

Glen is quiet for the first few minutes after you return. His hand rests gently on your thigh, his thumb drawing slow absent minded circles over the fabric of your gown. It’s less of a possessive touch than earlier, more like a subtle yet comforting reminder of his presence. His gaze flickers over to you as you sip your champagne, eyes warm with a tenderness that matches the calmness that’s overtaken him.

“Are you okay?” Glen’s voice is low enough that only you hear, almost as if he’s checking in on you after all the teasing that had unfolded throughout the evening.

You nod and offer him a soft smile that’s a mixture of affection and gratitude. “I’m fine just…taking it all in,” you murmur, your hand reaching up to smooth a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

Glen’s smile is small but genuine. He leans in slightly, his lips brushing your temple in the most casual of kisses. The gesture isn’t some public display, it’s just for you. And you know that. It’s a reminder that no matter how much you tease each other, there’s a deeper connection that holds you together. 

“Good,” he says softly.

You smile, catching the way his thumb continues to trace along your leg, gentle but firm as he offers you reassurance. Over the next half hour, despite the attention on him like his name being called for several photos or other actors, actresses, and directors finding their way to your table to chat with Glen, he keeps a small part of his focus on you. Whether it’s his arm draped protectively around the back of your chair or his hand on your thigh, there are subtle reminders to you that he’s there.

It’s moments like this, when you truly see a side of Glen that few others do. Even when he’s the confident and playful man everyone else sees, a part of him is still right there with you. He’s attentive and undeniably present as his hand stays on you.

After the award show you step out into the cool night air. The crowd outside the venue is beginning to thin, and the flashing lights of cameras dim as the chaos of the evening starts to subside. The contrast between the glamor of the show and the calm that begins to settle around you is almost surreal.

Glen’s hand is warm on your back as he leads you to the car. His steps are confident and steady. The door to the car is already open when you reach it, and Glen helps you slide in with the kind of gentlemanliness that you’ve come to love in Glen. 

The car hums to life and the city lights start to streak past as the vehicle pulls onto the street. Inside the atmosphere is quieter, the tension of the night melting away. For the first time all evening you let your guard down, and lean into Glen’s side. The faint scent of his cologne is mixed with the crisp air coming in from outside where the window is cracked. The air settles around you and you find yourself breathing a little easier.

Glen notices immediately, his arm gently wrapping around you to pull you closer. “You okay, sweetheart?”

He knows how draining these events can be, especially to you who isn’t used to it yet. He’s been through them a thousand times before, but it’s different for you. The flashing cameras, the endless small talk and mingling, the constant attention…it can be overwhelming.

You nod slowly, closing your eyes for just a moment. The exhaustion starts to creep up on you now that the adrenaline has started to wear off. “Just a lot. You know how overwhelming these things can be,” you murmur in a volume that’s just above a whisper as you press yourself a little further into his side, seeking the calm you always seem to find in him.

Glen looks down at you, his expression softening and concern flickering in his eyes. “I can have the driver take us back to the hotel if you want. We don’t have to go to the after party if you’re not feeling it.”

You know his offer is genuine, but you can’t bring yourself to take it. You know how important the after party is for him to network and meet others in the industry. You just need a minute, another moment of peace before facing the chaos again. And then you’ll be okay and ready for the next stop of the night.

Shifting slightly you look up at him, your voice quiet but filled with sincerity. “Just hold me for a minute, yeah?”

It’s simple, but the request means everything. Glen nods without hesitation, a small smile tugging at his lips. He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively as you settle into his embrace. The car ride, the noise of the night, and the rest of the world all fade into the background as Glen holds you, the steady beat of his heart a grounding presence beneath your cheek.

For a moment there’s no red carpet, no cameras, no crowds. Just the two of you in the quiet of the car, sharing something far more intimate than anything the public could ever see.

The after party is a completely different world. The buzz of excitement from the award show has transformed into an electric energy that fills the entire venue. The music is loud and pulses through the air. The space is alive, full of laughter, clinking glasses, and filled with well dressed guests mingling.

Glen stays close to you, his presence steady by your side as you navigate the crowd. He talks to a few people, exchanging polite words with other actors, producers, and directors. But his eyes are constantly flicking back to you.

He’s aware of the ever watchful eyes around you both. The buzz from the whirlwind year he had in 2024 has left the media and the fans hungry for any new details about him. Add in the fact that your relationship is still fresh enough to be interesting, and it’s like you’re a constant topic of conversation in any room you’re in.

You catch him glancing at you every so often, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It’s like a silent agreement between the two of you. You’re here for the networking that Glen’s manager wants him to do, but neither of you can quite keep your focus entirely on anything other than each other.

At one point you stand at the edge of the dance floor,and Glen’s gaze shifts as the beat of the music picks up. Without a word he takes your hand, his fingers curling around yours. He gently tugs you toward the center of the floor, and you follow, your heart picking up its pace as you leave the edge of the room behind.

Once you're in the midst of the dancing crowd, Glen’s hand slides to your lower back, pulling you closer until your bodies are nearly pressed together. The heat from his touch sends an immediate rush of warmth through you. The proximity makes everything feel heightened, every brush of his skin against yours sending sparks of electricity through you.

His lips hover near your ear, his voice low and suggestive as he speaks, just loud enough to be heard over the music. “You look so damn good tonight, baby.”

His mouth is still near your ear, and his next words are even more suggestive, a whisper that sends a chill down your spine. “You’re killing me, you know that? Every time you touch me, I feel like I’m about to lose control.” His breath is warm against your skin, the words almost a promise, a warning.

The subtle shift in his touch sends a thrill through you, your own body responding to the heat building between the two of you. You lean into him and feel the hard press of his chest against yours, and you can’t help but push back against him just a little, teasing him with every move.

Each time you “accidentally” brush against him, his grip tightens. The pressure on your lower back sharpens, his hands now bold as they slide around your waist. The energy between you two builds with each passing second, like an unspoken game that neither of you wants to end.

The music continues to pulse around you, bodies swaying in the dim light, the room alive with energy. But all you can focus on is Glen. You lean into him, the warmth of his body a steady presence behind you. His hands find their place on your hips, holding you close, his fingers brushing over the fabric of your dress. The closeness feels intoxicating. 

With a playful smirk, you decide to test the limits. You spin in his arms, your back now pressed against his chest. The action is fluid, and before you know it you’re tucked into him, your head resting against his chest.

You can feel his breath catch, his body stiffening for just a moment. His lips hover near your ear, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. The press of his body against yours becomes undeniable now. There’s no mistaking what’s happening. His tuxedo pants tighten at the front, a subtle shift that makes you smirk to yourself. Because you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

Your fingers reach up behind you and graze over the hair at the nape of his neck, barely brushing the collar of his shirt as your lips curve into a mischievous grin. You stay like that for a moment, enjoying the power you have over him, the way his breath quickens, how his grip on you tightens just slightly as if trying to control himself.

But then, just as you’re about to lean in and whisper something playful back, his voice comes out low and commanding, the heat in it unmistakable. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Glen doesn’t give you a moment to respond, his hand gently but firmly pressing against your lower back as he guides you through the crowd. His touch feels urgent, yet controlled. You can feel the eyes around you, the whispers of the people still enjoying the party, but none of it matters. All that matters is the man beside you guiding you toward the exit.

When you reach the doors, Glen’s hand slips to the small of your back, urging you forward. You glance up at him, heart pounding, his expression a perfect mix of hunger and determination. Without a word, he opens the car door and helps you inside, his hand still lingering on your waist as he follows you in. The moment the door closes behind you, the tension that had been building throughout the night snaps.

Before you can fully settle into your seat, Glen is already there, his lips crashing against yours with a desperation that leaves you breathless. It's fierce, unrestrained, and everything you’ve been craving since the moment you stepped into that ballroom. His hand moves to cradle your jaw, holding you firmly in place, while the other slides under the hem of your dress, fingers curling against the soft skin of your thigh, dangerously close to where you ache for him.

The world outside the car window blurs into streaks of light as you lose yourself in him. You reach up, your fingers running through his hair, the length just long enough for you to tug. And you do, you tug enough to draw a deep, guttural groan from his throat. His body presses into yours, every inch of him impossibly close.

But just as the kiss deepens, Glen pulls back, his breath ragged against your lips. His eyes, dark with desire, search yours, his voice rough, thick with need. “Think you can last until we get to the hotel?”

You smile, that teasing spark in your eyes. “I don’t know...you seem a little impatient right now.”

The air between you crackles with the raw, undeniable tension. His thumb brushes over your lower lip as if trying to memorize the feel of you, his gaze never leaving yours. 

“You have no idea,” he mutters under his breath, leaning back in for another kiss, but this time, he’s taking it slow, savoring every moment before the storm that’s clearly coming.

Glen leans forward, his movement smooth and deliberate, and taps the control panel between you and the driver. His voice is low, almost too calm as he says, “Raise the partition.”

You watch as the tinted glass slides up, cutting you off from the rest of the world. It’s just the two of you now, a world of your own where nothing exists but the heat between you and the air thick with unspoken promises.

His hands return to you almost immediately, his fingers grazing the zipper of your gown with a quiet, assured touch. The movement sends a rush of warmth through you, and for a split second, doubt flickers across your mind. You pull away, just enough to catch your breath, unsure about what Glen’s suggesting.

His lips brush against your ear, and the soft whisper of his words cuts through the haze. “Windows are tinted. Partition’s up. No one can see you but me, promise, baby.”

You can feel your pulse quicken, and your heart skips a beat. You bite your lip, torn between desire and hesitation. “But what about the driver? What if he hears?”

Glen’s chuckle rumbles against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His thumb gently strokes your hip through the fabric, his touch somehow soothing and electrifying at the same time. “He’s got an NDA. Even if he hears anything, he legally can’t say a damn word.”

He leans back slightly watching you with that infuriatingly confident smirk, the one that says he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “But if you’re worried about that...guess you’ll just have to be quiet.”

His words hang in the air between you, daring you to give in. There’s no turning back now, and the space in the backseat of the SUV seems to close in around you. You know you want this, want him…right here, right now.

The final wall inside you crumbles, and before you can second guess yourself, your hands are on him. You pull him closer, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that burns with the intensity of everything you’ve been holding back all evening. Glen smiles against your lips, that cocky grin of his still there even as he feels the shift in you. His hands move with practiced ease, the zipper of your dress sliding down a few inches under his touch.

His lips leave yours, but the loss of contact is only brief. Glen’s mouth moves to your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trail downward, sending a shiver through you. You tilt your head back to give him more access, and in that instant he pulls the bodice of your dress down, exposing the black lace beneath.

You gasp at the sudden exposure, the cool air against your skin a stark contrast to the heat between you. Glen takes a slow breath, eyes dark with want as he gazes at you, drinking in the sight. His hands, so sure, push the dress further down, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin at the top of your chest, making you bite your lip to keep from letting out a sound as his hands squeeze you through the cups of the lingerie.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low and raw, his hands reverently tracing the curves of your body as if memorizing every inch of you. His eyes flicker between your face and your exposed skin, his desire evident.

His lips return to your skin, his kisses slow and deliberate, as if savoring every reaction he draws from you. The ache between your legs deepens, the pressure unbearable as Glen’s touch continues to tease and tantalize. 

You can’t hold back the soft whimper that escapes your lips, the sound a mixture of need and frustration. Glen hears it and smirks, a knowing look flashing across his face as his fingers slide higher, moving up the slit of your dress, where you’re aching for him most.

His touch is slow and deliberate, and it drives you wild. The heat between you builds, and as his fingers reach the spot you crave, you bite down on your lip to stifle a moan. He’s tormenting you, and you’re helpless to stop it. The way his fingers move, his touch just shy of where you need him most, makes you feel like you’re losing control.

As if sensing your desperation, Glen’s hand shifts, pressing firmly against the little bundle of nerves where you ache for him most. A gasp escapes your throat, the tension inside you winding tighter with every passing second. You feel yourself melt against him, lost in the sensation, every inch of your skin burning under his touch.

At the same time, your hands move with urgency, your fingers reaching for the buttons of his silk shirt. One by one, you undo them, your breath shallow and erratic as the anticipation builds between you. Each button undone is like a countdown to the inevitable moment when you’ll finally have him, just as he has you.

His lips brush against your ear, his voice a low rasp as he watches you, his fingers never faltering in their pursuit of your pleasure.

"God, I love you, baby," he murmurs again, and the words send a shiver down your spine, making the ache between your legs even more unbearable.

Your hands roam down his chest, fingertips grazing over warm, newly exposed skin. The contrast of soft silk against hard muscle makes your breath hitch, and without thinking, your nails dig in just enough to get a reaction out of him. Glen groans, his head tipping back slightly, the sound deep and raw, sending a thrill through your body.

Emboldened, you let your hands wander lower, reaching for his belt, but before you can undo it, Glen’s hand catches yours. His grip is firm but gentle, his thumb stroking over the back of your hand as he gives you a look that sends a new wave of heat pooling in your stomach.

"I want you to give me one first," he murmurs, his voice rough, filled with quiet command.

Your breath stutters as his fingers move faster, his touch growing more insistent, purposeful. A shiver rolls through you as realization dawns, your body tensing in response. Glen’s gaze softens, sensing your hesitation.

He leans in, his lips brushing against your cheek, trailing toward your ear. "Just let go," he whispers, coaxing, encouraging. "I’ve got you, baby."

The knot in your stomach tightens, the tension coiling like a wire ready to snap. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, your nails pressing into his skin as you try to steady yourself against the mounting pleasure. Glen’s touch is relentless now, and you can feel yourself slipping further, the world around you fading until the only thing that exists is him. His hands, his voice, the way he’s completely unraveling you.

You close your eyes, surrendering to the sensation, to the way he makes you feel utterly weightless and lost all at once. And then it snaps. Your orgasm washes over you. Glen is right there, coaxing you through it as your hips move against his fingers. His voice is a low murmur of praise and reassurance, grounding you even as you come undone in his fingers. Your body shudders, fingers clutching at his open shirt, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Just as you begin to regain control, Glen withdraws his fingers, his eyes locked onto yours as he brings them to his mouth, his lips wrapping around them to taste you. A satisfied hum vibrates in his throat, and the sight alone sends another rush of heat pooling in your core.

Your hands fumble with his belt, fingers shaking slightly as you undo the button of his pants. Glen shifts beneath you, helping as much as he can while his own hands remain possessive on your hips. When you finally free him, wrapping your hand around him, his breath hitches, and his grip tightens.

"Fuck," he exhales, his head tipping back against the seat for a moment before his gaze darkens, zeroing in on you.

With a teasing smirk, you shift, straddling his lap, the fabric of your dress pooling around you. One of Glen’s hands moves to your waist, guiding you as you position yourself over him. The other reaches up and pulls the lace of your underwear to the side.

Then as you sink down, a soft moan slips from your lips at the delicious stretch, Glen’s grip on your hips tightening as he exhales a sharp curse.

His head rolls back against the sat, his breath warm and uneven. "You’re gonna be the death of me," he rasps, voice filled with both adoration and hunger.

The air in the car is thick, charged with heat and longing, the rhythm between you and Glen pushing you both closer to that inevitable breaking point. His grip on your hips tightens, guiding you as your breaths tangle in the small space between you.

And then it happens. That tension inside you snaps, the knot in your stomach unraveling as a wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you breathless. Glen isn’t far behind, his movements growing erratic as a low, guttural groan leaves his lips. His hands grip you tighter for just a moment before he stills, his chest heaving against yours as the last remnants of pleasure pulse through both of you.

For a while, neither of you move. The only sound in the car is the heavy mix of your breaths and the faint  distant hum of the city just beyond the glass. Your forehead drops to his shoulder, your body still trembling slightly in the aftermath. Glen’s head is still rolled back against the seat, his fingers tracing absentminded circles on your hips, grounding you both in the quiet.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, holding you as if you might disappear if he lets go. The heat of the moment fades into something softer, something deeper. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your palm, steady and strong, mirroring the way he makes you feel.

"You okay?" he murmurs after a beat, his voice rough, but there’s something tender in the way he asks.

You nod against him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. "Yeah," you breathe. "You?"

His lips press against your temple, lingering there for a moment. "Never better."

Neither of you rush to move, to pull away. Instead, you stay wrapped in the quiet, in the warmth of each other, savoring this moment that feels entirely your own.

As the rush of the moment fades, you shift in Glen’s lap, still catching your breath. That’s when you feel it. The cool brush of air conditioning against your lower back. Your brows furrow as you reach behind you, fingers grazing over the fabric of your dress…The zipper. Or rather, the complete and utter lack of one.

Your head snaps up. "Oh my God."

Glen who’s still recovering with his head tilted back against the seat, lifts his chin at the alarm in your voice. 

His lazy grin fades the second he sees your expression. "What?"

You turn slightly, trying to get a better look, and that’s when he sees it. The once seamless zipper now split wide open, the expensive fabric pooling loosely around your waist, revealing the lace underneath.

Glen blinks. Then drags a hand down his face. "Shit."

A beat of silence.

Then, his lips twitch. "Babe—"

You groan, dropping your head against his shoulder. "Tell me you did not just rip a designer dress."

His chest shakes with a quiet laugh. "Okay, I won’t tell you."

You smack his arm. "Glen!"

He winces but doesn’t even try to hide the smirk tugging at his lips. “In my defense, you looked really, really good in it."

You lift your head to glare at him, but his boyish grin makes it impossible to be truly mad. He exhales a guilty chuckle, eyes scanning the damage before shaking his head. “Yeah, that’s…that’s not fixable.”

Another groan leaves your lips as you sit back, attempting to gather the fabric around you. “What am I supposed to do? Walk through the hotel lobby like this?”

Glen doesn’t hesitate. He shrugs off his suit jacket and carefully slides it onto your shoulders, his fingers brushing your arms as he adjusts it into place. The warmth of it, the scent of his cologne, wraps around you instantly. He lingers for a second, his hands resting against your arms as his eyes flick over you. He then buttons the jacket up in the front to cover the front of you since without the zipper you run the risk of people seeing both the front and back of you.

“There,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “No one’s gonna see a thing.”

You then become acutely aware of just how thoroughly wrecked you both look. The lipstick smudged at the corner of his mouth, the way his once styled hair is a mess from where your fingers had been in it. And of course the disaster that is your dress.

You reach up, swiping the smudge of lipstick from the corner of his mouth with your thumb, and he lets you, his gaze locked on yours. 

“You’re a mess,” you tease, smoothing down his shirt where it had bunched up.

He smirks then rolls his shoulders to straighten up. “So are you.”

“We should…probably fix ourselves,” you say, already reaching up to run your fingers through your hair, trying to smooth it down.

Glen huffs out a low chuckle, tilting his head back against the seat. “Yeah, probably.”

He moves to button his pants back up first, then starts redoing the buttons of his shirt, though his movements are slower, lazier like he isn’t in a rush at all. You catch the way his fingers fumble slightly, and without thinking you reach over, taking over the task of smoothing the fabric and fastening the last few buttons for him.

His gaze flickers up to yours, something softer in his expression now. You don’t acknowledge it, just keep working, pretending like your fingers aren’t slightly trembling from everything that just happened. As you finish, you notice his hair is a complete mess from where your hands had been tangled in it earlier. With a quiet hum, you reach up, smoothing the ends of his hair back into place.

Glen watches you the whole time. Then, just as you start to pull your hand away, he leans into your touch, just for a second, eyes half-lidded.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “I’m that much of a wreck, huh?”

You shake your head, lips twitching. “A little bit.”

He huffs a laugh and rolls his shoulders, like that’ll somehow make him look more put together. “Well, you’re no better, sweetheart.”

You scoff, but before you can fire back, the car slows, the city lights outside flashing across Glen’s face as you near the hotel. His smirk fades just slightly, his eyes scanning the entrance ahead. His hand finds yours, squeezing gently.

“You good to make a run for it?” he asks, voice low.

You let out a breathy laugh. “I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

Glen smiles that same playful, heart melting grin, and without missing a beat, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Stick close to me, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

And just like that, he’s back to being your Southern gentleman. Even after all that just transpired in the backseat, his priority is making sure you feel safe, covered, and comfortable.

The car eases to a stop, and before the driver can even step out, Glen is already moving, one hand reaching for the door handle, the other finding yours. He squeezes your fingers gently before slipping out, standing tall as he subtly scans the entrance for any wandering eyes. Then, with practiced ease, he turns, offering you his hand with a smirk that’s all charm, all Glen.

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you inside before we cause another scene.”

Glen keeps a firm arm wrapped around you as he helps you inside, his tux jacket draped over your shoulders, shielding you from any further wardrobe malfunctions. His grip is steady, protective, and despite the teasing glint in his eyes, there’s an unspoken possessiveness in the way he holds you close.

The hotel lobby is dimly lit, elegant, but you barely register it. Your focus is on Glen. The solid warmth of him against you, the subtle flex of his muscles beneath your fingers as you clutch onto his shirt. He walks with confidence, guiding you past the check in desk and toward the elevators, ignoring the way the night staff sneaks curious glances your way.

When you reach the elevator, Glen reaches out and presses the button with his free hand, keeping you tucked against his side. The silver doors slide open, and the moment you step inside, the tension crackles back to life. The doors close, and before you can take a breath Glen moves.

His hands are on you again. They’re fast, desperate, but never rough. He presses you gently but firmly against the cool metal wall, one hand tilting your chin up just as his lips crash against yours. The kiss is hungry and all consuming, reigniting the fire that had barely simmered down.

You gasp against his lips, your hands flying to his chest, gripping the collar of his shirt. His breath is hot and uneven as he kisses you deeper, his tongue sweeping against yours with a level of skill that leaves you lightheaded.

Then his lips trail lower, ghosting over your jaw, down the side of your neck.

His voice is low, rough against your skin. “Think you’ve got enough energy left for one more round?”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you tug him closer, fingers curling tighter in his shirt. You let your lips graze his, teasing. “With you? Always.”

Glen exhales sharply, his grip tightening on you. Just as his hand slips beneath the jacket, tracing the curve of your waist with slow deliberate intent, the elevator dings.

Your floor. The doors begin to slide open. Glen barely pulls back, his forehead resting against yours as his chest rises and falls, his smirk a little breathless.

“Guess we’ll have to pick this up inside,” he murmurs.

You bite your lip, eyes locked onto his as you slide your hand down, lacing your fingers with his. “What are you waiting for, then?”

Glen doesn’t let go of your hand as he leads you down the quiet hotel hallway, his stride purposeful, filled with anticipation. You can still feel the imprint of his hands on your skin, the way his lips had moved against yours in the elevator just moments ago, leaving you breathless and wanting.

The tension between you is electric, a live wire humming with energy, ready to spark the second you’re alone again.

Reaching your room, Glen presses you against the door for just a moment, his hands resting on your waist as he leans in, his voice a husky whisper. “Last chance to back out.”

You smirk, eyes locked onto his as you slide the key card from his hand, the smooth plastic cool between your fingers. “Not a chance, babe.”

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, but before he can respond, you swipe the key card and push the door open. The moment it clicks shut behind you both, Glen’s hands are on you again, his lips grazing your ear as he murmurs, “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

For your Sweethearts Game: Johnny Storm and Let's Kiss 🥰

light up the night

pairing: best friend!johnny storm x female reader

summary: at the valentine's day carnival, your best friend makes a wild suggestion that leads to both of you confessing your real feelings.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, brief dry humping, piv sex, protected sex/condoms, kissing—like SO much kissing, semi-public sex (in johnny's truck in an empty field), dirty talk, praise kink, aftercare, love confessions, friends to lovers, pet names (firefly), happy ending

word count: 3.0k

a/n: ahhh i was so happy to get this request, Jaqui!! i haven't really written/posted anything for Johnny Storm before, and i've been wanting to ever since i saw Deadpool & Wolverine, so this was a fun excuse to try it out! and i'm really happy with how sweet and fluffy this turned out (with just a little bit of spice 🤭). thank you for playing my sweethearts game, i hope you enjoy ♡♡

sweethearts game masterlist

“Let’s kiss.”

The words, said by your best friend, Johnny Storm, were so unexpected that they startled a laugh from your lips. 

“Johnny…what?” you spluttered, pushing yourself back from your best friend’s chest, where you’d been burrowing into his thick winter coat to ward off the February chill. 

You were all too aware of the fact that you could only put so much distance between you and him since you were strapped into the metal seat of a ferris wheel, which was slowly lifting you and your best friend toward the gunmetal gray clouds in the sky. 

It had been Johnny’s idea to go to the Valentine’s Day carnival together, and though you’d tried to tell him that he must have women lining up around the block to be his date, he’d insisted on taking you. 

You supposed you should be grateful to your best friend for not wanting to let you wallow in misery alone on the holiday meant for couples while you were hopelessly single. But there was a special kind of torture in going to a Valentine’s Day carnival with the best friend you had secret feelings for and pretend it wasn’t killing you that it wasn’t a real date.

“C’mon, firefly, haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like?” Johnny was asking, dragging your attention back to your handsome best friend. His voice was low and earnest, and sounding nothing like the playful tone he had when he was teasing you. 

You swallowed and bit your lip, looking out across the carnival to give yourself time to try to think up something, anything to say that wasn’t the truth. Which was that of course you’d wondered what it would be like to kiss Johnny Storm. You’d laid awake too many nights in your life wondering exactly that. 

But you couldn’t say that. So you looked out at the expanse of red and white striped booths, the other carnival rides lit up in bright neon in shades ranging from flamingo pink to flaming fuchsia, and all the people milling about. 

A light snow was falling from the dark sky, making the scene even more magical. But you couldn’t enjoy it, not with Johnny’s question hanging around your shoulders like an impossible weight.

“Have you?” you found yourself asking, cutting your eyes to Johnny without turning your head and finding him watching you intently. 

Having all of your best friend’s attention on you was a heady feeling and you nearly lept into his lap and kissed him, just to sate the curiosity that had burning in your soul for years. But you managed to hold yourself back with all your practiced self-control.

A grin spread across Johnny’s face at your question and he wrapped an arm around your front, the other snaking between your back and the metal seat to haul you closer until you were tucked into his side. The position put your face very close to Johnny’s, and instead of pushing away like you knew you should, you found yourself drifting even closer. 

“I didn’t,” Johnny admitted, and the bluntness of his statement made you reel back. 

Your best friend was quick, though, and he cupped your cheek in his hand. His palm was so warm against your chilled skin that you couldn’t help the happy little chirp you made as you leaned into his touch. He was always so warm, and always so willing to share his warmth with you. How could you possibly not fall for him?

“But then I did,” your best friend murmured, staring deep into your eyes, nothing but genuine affection in his gaze. “And now I can’t stop thinking about it.” 

Your eyes widened and you sucked in a soft gasp of surprise at Johnny’s revelation. Of their own accord, your eyes drifted down to his mouth, taking in the plump lower lip framed by the rough stubble decorating his jaw. 

Johnny’s sister Sue was always on him about shaving, and cutting his slightly shaggy brown hair, but you hoped he never did. You liked his scruff—you wanted to feel it against your cheeks…and other places.

“You can’t stop thinking about kissing me?” you asked, your voice barely a wisp on the wind. But that didn’t seem to stop Johnny from hearing you. He always managed to hear you. 

Your best friend’s eyes softened, pure affection—and something deeper, something even warmer—in the curve of his mouth as he smiled at you. 

“Yeah, firefly,” he rumbled, ducking his head until his forehead was pressed to yours. “I can’t stop thinking about kissing you.”

“Oh.”

It was all you could think to say, and yet it sounded so insufficient for everything you were feeling. There was excitement, bright and unmistakable, burning in your heart. But there was also cold fear churning uneasily in your belly. You were afraid of kissing Johnny and it leading to more, and then something happening to ruin your relationship. 

He was your best friend, the person you always counted on. The stakes couldn’t possibly be higher because you simply could not lose him. 

And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him either. Especially not with the way you could taste the peppermint hot chocolate on his breath as he shifted even closer. The warmth of his exhales fanned across your lips and you felt a pull toward him like a physical tether that you were growing tired of resisting.

“Let’s kiss,” Johnny said again, his words low and pleading. “Please, firefly, I need to…” His words were bitten off by a sound of pure need and emotion low in his throat. The fierceness in his tone had your body lighting up, coming alive beneath the layers of your winter clothes despite the chill in the air.

“Johnny.” His name was the softest of sighs slipping from your lips. 

Suddenly, you knew, with absolute certainty, that you couldn’t possibly step off that ferris wheel without kissing your best friend. So you whispered the words that would seal your fate, a challange to the universe to try to ruin your relationship with Johnny. You’d like to see the universe try. 

“Do it.”

The brash, confident Johnny Storm didn’t need to be told twice. 

Your best friend’s mouth crashed down on yours, not giving you a chance to take back your words—not that you would’ve wanted to. 

The moment’s Johnny’s lips sealed against yours, you knew you were done for. He was the man you’d wanted to kiss for so long, and you quickly realized he was the only man you ever wanted to kiss again for the rest of your life.

Johnny’s mouth was ravenous as he devoured yours. It felt like the first touch of your lips had opened the floodgates on the emotions both of you had been burying for years, and there was no stemming the tide of affection that surged forward and swirled around your heart. 

You could feel the hunger in every sweep of Johnny’s tongue, in every pull of his mouth as he sucked on your lower lip, in the greedy handfuls he helped himself to through your winter coat. And you were just as voracious with your kisses, nipping at his mouth and twining your tongue with his, your fingers twisting in his fluffy brown hair and yanking him closer until there wasn’t any space left between your bodies.

It wasn’t until a loud cough sounded close by that the two of you broke apart. Your exhales puffed out of you in white little clouds in the cold February night, and it made you giggle to see them mingling with Johnny’s as you tried to catch your breath. 

When you tried to extricate yourself a little from his hold, Johnny’s arms tightened around your waist and it was only then that you realized the ferris wheel had come to a stop. The metal bar that had been locked into place over your laps was rising and a bored-looking teenager was standing by the controls, waiting for you and your best friend to exit while a line of people looked ready to board.

“Aren’t you guys a little old to be making out on the ferris wheel?” the teen muttered as you scrambled out of the ferris wheel car, making your face flame with embarrassment. 

“You’re never too old to mack on your girl, kid,” Johnny replied easily, clapping a hand on the teen’s shoulder as he passed. Your best friend threw his other arm around your shoulders and tucked you into his side as he led you away from the ferris wheel. 

A light, giddy laugh fell from your lips and you buried your face in Johnny’s chest until you’d gotten ahold of yourself. And until you’d left the ferris wheel and everyone who’d caught you making out with your best friend behind.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said to him, your voice thick with affection as you pushed up onto your toes to press a kiss to the scruffy underside of your best friend’s jaw. “Who even says ‘mack on’ anymore?”

“Me, obviously,” Johnny teased, pulling you closer and cupping your cheek. He nipped at your lower lip playfully, all while still walking through the crowded fairgrounds and making sure neither of you bumped into anyone. “You love it.”

His voice was low and husky and it sent a shiver racing down your spine, heat gathering between your thighs despite the chill in the air. Your fingers curled into the softness of Johnny’s jacket, clinging to him as you walked together, unable to pull away and look at the sights of the carnival around you.

“I do,” you agreed with a smile. He ducked down and kissed you, making your body light up and an ache to throb between your thighs. There was a desperate feeling in your chest, and you had the undeniable urge to get closer to Johnny, to feel him everywhere. So before you could think better of it, you asked, “Can we get out of here?”

A grin spread across Johnny’s face, having that edge of arrogance you associated with your best friend. But there was also a hunger in his eyes, one that matched the feeling burning in your chest, and you were thankful when all he said was, “Absolutely.”

The two of you couldn’t possibly be expected to keep your hands to yourselves, even on the short walk out of the carnival to Johnny’s truck, and you drew plenty more aggrieved coughs and clearing of throats before you finally broke free from the crowd. Your hands kept slipping beneath Johnny’s coat, tugging on the belt loops of his jeans to pull him closer, while his palms seemed to be glued to your ass and hips. 

It was all you could do to make it to your best friend’s truck without a public indecency charge, and even then, it was a near thing. But you couldn’t seem to stop touching him, kissing him, trying to get closer to him. 

For a long, blissful moment, Johnny pinned you against the passenger side door of his truck, kissing you deeply while his hands groped greedily at your ass and thighs, hiking your leg up so he could grind into your center. It was only when you tossed your head back against the truck and let out a loud moan that he seemed to remember where the two of you were. 

Johnny made quick work out of opening the door to his truck and helping you up into the passenger seat. You had to bite your kiss-swollen lip hard not to whine when he pulled away to walk around the front of the truck and hop in. As soon as he was inside, you slid across the bench seat, curling around his bicep while he cranked the engine and pulled out of the parking spot.

Carefully—extra carefully, since your lips were fastened to his neck and he was gripping your thigh tightly in one hand—Johnny maneuvered the truck into a desolate corner of the field being used as the parking lot for the carnival. It was shrouded in shadows from the tall trees surrounding the field, and so far from the crowd that you knew no one would interrupt the two of you again.

As soon as Johnny put the truck in park, leaving the heater on and cracking the windows to make sure it didn’t get too hot or too cold in the cab, it felt like the two of you were in a race to see who could undress the other faster. Coats and sweaters and boots and pants were strewn haphazardly across the dashboard and the steering wheel in your excitement to get naked. 

But when Johnny lay you down, the leather bench seat warm and smooth against your back, he slowed to a pause. His narrow hips were slotted perfectly between your thighs, a condom already wrapped around his hard cock, but he took a moment to cup your face in his big hands and stare at you.

“You’re it for me, firefly,” he murmured, staring deeply into your eyes and letting you see the love and devotion plainly in his dark sapphire gaze. “I didn’t know….” Johnny trailed off, swallowing thickly. 

You could see him struggling and you squeezed his arm reassuringly. He smiled faintly, ducking his head to kiss your knuckles and then gathered himself enough to continue on.

“I didn’t understand what it meant to always want to be near you, to be out and always wanting to come home to you,” Johnny confessed, his voice husky with emotion. His bright blue eyes stared at you carefully, watching you absorb what he was saying. “I thought that was just friendship, but then I started thinking about kissing you, and I realized it was something more.”

“Oh Johnny,” you said, your voice thick with tears, but you blinked them back, not wanting to go a moment without seeing his handsome face hovering above yours. “I’ve loved you for ages,” you admitted, laughing giddily at the relief that came from finally confessing your feelings. 

“And you didn’t tell me?” Johnny acted affronted, ducking down and nipping at your lip in a way you knew was meant to be playfully chastising. “You shoulda smacked me upside the head and told me to stop being an idiot, firefly, to see what was right in front of me.”

“You got there eventually,” you said, teasing him a little since you couldn’t help it. Your laugh was cut off by his kiss, Johnny growling good-naturedly while he licked into your mouth, tasting your happiness straight from your tongue. It was blissful and indulgent, getting to kiss your best friend whenever you wanted, and you melted even further for him.

Then the urgency returned and Johnny was wrapping his fist around his cock and guiding the tip to your dripping entrance. He pushed inside your aching, needy hole, and the time for confessions was over. Johnny buried himself inside your body to the hilt, and you let out a little sob of pleasure at finally being joined with your best friend in the most intimate way possible.

He cooed at you sweetly, whispering filthy words in your ear about how good you felt and how perfectly your pussy felt wrapped around his cock. You muffled your whimpers and whines in his scruffy jaw, your teeth scraping over his warm skin as he told you what a good girl you were, how perfectly you were taking his cock. 

Johnny fucked you slowly, with deep, firm thrusts that made you feel every inch of his cock. Your ankles hooked around the backs of his thighs, pulling him in even deeper, your pussy gripping him tightly as you clung to his body and moaned your pleasure into his mouth. 

You were the first to shatter, Johnny’s hips grinding the base of his cock against your clit until you were shaking and crying through your release. He followed you over the edge right after, your squeezing pussy wringing every drop of cum from his hard length. 

Johnny murmured his love and affection in your ear, brushing sweet, bristly kisses to your cheeks and lips as he eased his softening length from your body and made quick work of disposing of the condom. Tenderly, he cleaned you up as best he could in his truck and helped you get dressed again. Only once your winter coat was all zipped up did he pull on his jeans and sweater.

You curled up against his arm while he drove you home, your body warm and loose and sated—for the moment. 

He parked in your driveway, getting out to open your door for you and help you down from the truck. Johnny walked you to your door and paused beneath the porch light, pulling you in for a kiss while he wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Do you know why I call you firefly?” he asked in a soft, sweet tone that you were coming to associate with the boyfriend version of your best friend.

“No, why?” you answered breathlessly, pushing up onto your tiptoes and nuzzling your face into Johnny’s scruffy cheek. You were already making a mental note to make sure he never shaved it again—even if the thought of rubbing your face against his smooth skin also held a certain kind of appeal…

“Because you always light up the night,” Johnny said, his voice filled with affection as he turned his face into yours, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. “No matter what is going right or wrong in my life, you’re always the brightest, most beautiful thing about it.”

“Oh Johnny,” you breathed on a soft, happy sigh. A part of you might’ve thought it was too soon, but, for the life of you, you couldn’t bite back the words even if you’d wanted to. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too, firefly.” 

Johnny’s smile melted as he kissed you, long and hard, until your nose grew cold in the chilly February air. Then, he helped you fish your keys from your pockets and fitted them into the lock on your door. 

On the arm of your boyfriend, Johnny Storm, you pushed inside your home, and spent the rest of Valentine’s Day showing him your love with kisses and words and everything in between, while he showed you his love in return.

Together, you lit up the night.

sweethearts game masterlist

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Be alright (Bucky Barnes x female reader)

Masterlist

Pairings: Boyfriend/Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend/Avenger!Reader with mutual best friend!Steve Rogers

Summary: You struggle to cope in the aftermath of witnessing Steve take a bad hit on a mission, leaving him in critical condition in the hospital.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, talk of injuries and the cause and treatment, language, limited use of Y/N, mentions of sibling-like relationship between Y/N and Steve, pet names.

So, somehow, I ended up with a one way ticket to procrastination station. My motivation said BYE, and my sanity went out of the window. So if you’ve sent me a message, or I haven’t spoken to you in a while, I can only apologise. It’s been a downward spiral for me since Christmas..

Bucky sits at home, watching TV and lounging on the couch as he waits for you to return from your mission.

You’re late, and he’s starting to get worried. As he picks up his phone to check the time once again, your name flashes up on his screen.

“Hey, beautiful.” He greets, his voice warm, yet tinged with concern. “You’re running late. Everything okay?”

You inhale sharply, releasing a soft sob. “You need to come down to the hospital…”

Sitting up quickly, his tone immediately shifts to one of deep worry and urgency. “What happened? Are you hurt?!”

“Not me.” You whimper. “Bucky, it- it’s Steve… he took a bad hit.”

His heart drops, and he’s on his feet in an instant, grabbing his shirt from where it had been draped over the back of the couch, pulling on a hoodie and his shoes before grabbing his keys from the bowl. He locks up the apartment behind him, sprinting down the stairs to his car. “I’m on my way, baby. Hold on, I’ll be there soon.” He assures you, his mind racing with worry for not only you, but for his best friend and teammate

“Bucky…?”

“What is it, baby girl?” He asks quietly, his phone now on speaker and sitting in the cup holder as he speeds through the streets to reach you, his knuckles white due to the force of his grip on the steering wheel.

“I’m- I’m sorry.” You managed, your voice so small and vulnerable that it’s almost inaudible. “This is- it’s all my fault…”

He’s taken aback by your words, shaking his head even though you can’t see him. “What? How could this be your fault?”

“He took the hit to protect me…” You sob. “We were in the city, trying to evacuate everyone when a building got hit. It started to collapse, and Wanda’s magic couldn’t hold it long enough for me to get out of the impact zone. So, Steve-” You choke, recalling the incident all too vividly. “Steve pushed me out of the way and took the hit himself…”

Bucky’s grip tightens further, his jaw clenching as he tries to keep a lid on the emotions surging within him. He knows that Steve loves you like a little sister, and that he would do anything to protect you - proven through this act. “Hey, listen to me, okay?” He says firmly. “This is not your fault. Steve- he’ll be alright.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t seen him, Buck…”

Pausing, he takes a deep breath to calm himself. “You’re right. I haven’t. But I know Steve. He’s been through worse and come out okay. He’ll pull through this, too.” He tries to reassure you, even as his own fears gnaw at him.

You sigh softly. “Just… please tell me you’re almost at the hospital…?”

“I’m turning into the parking lot now, gorgeous.”

“I’m coming to the entrance.” You say, panting slightly as you hang up and run to Bucky, leaping into his arms the second he steps out of the car.

He catches you easily, his embrace strong and comforting. “You’re shaking. He’s alive, isn’t he?” He asks before he’d an stop himself, worrying something might have happened in the short time it took him to get to the hospital.

Nodding, you set yourself back down on the ground, holding onto Bucky to keep yourself steady. “But he- he’s got a collapsed lung, among other things. They had to take him into surgery to drain it, or something… things went awry, so they inserted a breathing tube…” You try to explain, but your mind races with a blur of information and flashbacks to the incident. “It should be me in there…”

“Hey.” He begins sternly, cupping your face in his hands, forcing you to look up at him as his own eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “Steve wouldn’t want you talking like this. He’d just be glad you’re okay. And if I know him, which I do, he’d take that hit again and again if it meant you being safe.”

You sigh, reaching up to hold his hands against your cheeks. “I’m sorry…”

He bends down, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. As he pulls back, he nuzzles your nose with his own. “Don’t be sorry, gorgeous. You’ve been through hell today.” He murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “Let’s just… go see what we’re dealing with, okay?”

As he heads for the entrance, his hand in yours, you tug on his arm. “I ca- I don’t- I don’t think I can see him again right now. Not- not like this…”

Stopping in his tracks, Bucky turns to face you, taking your other hand in his and squeezing them both reassuringly. “Hey…” He says softly, his eyes searching yours. “I know it’s scary, but I’m here now. We can see him together, and if it gets too much, you can step out, okay?”

You hesitate, taking a shaky breath before nodding. “Okay…” You say weakly.

He gives your hands one last squeeze before releasing one and entering the hospital. Seeing your lingering distress, he asks the receptionist for directions to Steve’s room, smiling and thanking her when she obliges.

As the two of you reach Steve’s room, the reality of the situation hits you all over again. All the tubes in various places, his sedated state. You release Bucky’s hand and approach the window outside the room, your eyes suddenly going black as your legs buckle.

Bucky catches you before you can hit the floor, lifting you into his arms and carrying you to a nearby bench, sitting down with you and cradling your face in his hands. “Hey, hey…” He coos. “Come on, baby, look at me…”

You whimper, meeting Bucky’s gaze. “It should be me in there… being prodded and poked with all the tubes, and the needles, and-”

“No, it shouldn’t.” He cuts you off sternly, sighing before softening his tone. “Sweetheart, you understand the thing with the serum, right? That me, Steve and all the other people who had it are stronger than we once were, whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”

You nod, taking his hands from your face and holding them tightly between your bodies. “Yeah…”

He takes a deep breath before continuing. “So, you understand that… we can take hits that would kill the average person?” He waits for you to nod again before concluding. “If it were you who took that hit, baby, you wouldn’t be in there… you’d be dead. I think- no, I know- that Steve would have had the time in that super soldier brain of his to calculate the risks of you taking that hit versus him. He knew he could handle it…”

With a soft chuckle and a deep breath, you lean forward, resting your forehead against Bucky’s. “It’s just scary, seeing him like this.” You pull back, your eyes reflecting your exhaustion. “I mean, he’s Steve Rogers. And… he’s like a brother to me…”

“I know, sweetheart…” He murmurs softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I know how much he means to you. But, I promise, he’ll be back on his feet, giving orders in no time.” He says, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“God, I hope so…” You mutter under your breath. “I’m gonna- I’ll sit here for a minute if you wanna go in and see him…” You suggest.

Bucky hesitates for a moment, not wanting to leave you alone in this state. “You sure, beautiful?”

You force a smile, nodding. “Yeah.” You croak. “I’ll be fine here, just… go be with Steve.”

After another brief moment of hesitation, Bucky stands. He leans in to kiss your forehead softly before straightening up again. “I’ll be back before you know it, okay?”

You nod. “Buck, I- I don’t know if he can hear us, but… will you tell him I say thank you? And that I love him…?” You ask, your voice breaking slightly.

His expression softens as he nods. “I’ll tell him, baby.” He turns to walk into Steve’s hospital room, pausing at the door to glance back at you one last time before disappearing inside.

As Bucky disappears, you slump in your seat, burying your head in your hands and sobbing.

Inside the room, Bucky approaches Steve’s bedside, scanning the sterile environment before settling on his best friend. “Hey, pal.” He says softly, sitting down and cautiously taking Steve’s hand in his own. “You got us all terrified, you know that? But Y/N… she’s really struggling with this. She wanted me to tell you… thank you for sparing her, even if you ended up like this, and that she loves you. So hurry up and get back on your feet so you can give her a hug. She really needs one, and… not from me.”

As Bucky remains inside Steve’s room, you stand, daring yourself to glance through the window before quickly turning away. Your whole body begins to tremble again, so you head off for a walk, unsure exactly of your intended destination.

Steve remains unresponsive, but Bucky continues to sit by his side, holding his hand and talking to him in the hopes he can hear. After a while, he stands, squeezing his friend’s hand once more before exiting the room, surprised to find you no longer sitting on the bench where he’d left you. He pulls out his phone, calling your number.

Seeing Bucky’s name come up on your phone, you hesitate before answering. “Hey… I’m sorry, I- I needed to clear my head…”

He sighs in relief as he hears your voice. “Hey, babydoll, it’s okay. I understand it was a lot. Just… tell me where you are, I’ll come find you. You shouldn’t be alone right now.” His voice is soft, but filled with concern.

“I just… headed down to the canteen. Figured I could use something to eat, but… I haven’t made it to the counter yet.” You chuckle humourlessly. “I feel too shaky…”

“You’re still in shock, gorgeous. Sounds like you need some sugar. Stay right where you are, okay? I’ll be right down.” He says, already heading for the elevators.

“Okay…” You mumble, your voice small and vulnerable.

He hangs up, heading down to the canteen in the elevator. He finds you leaning against the wall, hugging yourself tightly. He approaches you slowly, not wanting to startle you anymore than you already seem to be. He reaches out, cupping your cheek gently. “Hey, baby… I’m here.” He murmurs softly, tipping your chin up to meet his gaze. “You okay?”

You nod uncertainly. “I don’t- I’m-”

He pulls your arms from their position around you, drawing you into a tight embrace. “Shhh, it’s okay. You don’t have to talk, beautiful.” He soothes, rubbing your back gently. “Let’s get you something to eat, yeah?”

You cling to him momentarily, nodding as you pull back.

He kisses your temple, murmuring against it. “Why don’t you go sit down while I order us something?”

Smiling up at him faintly, you nod again as you head off to find a table and slowly sit down.

Bucky steps up to the counter, ordering some hot chocolate and some cookies for you, along with a coffee for himself. He pays and swiftly returns to you. “Here you go, babydoll.” He says, setting the drinks and cookies down before sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“Thanks, bubba…” You sigh heavily, leaning into him.

He looks down at you, his expression softening as he notices your weariness. “You’re really beat, aren’t you?” He asks concern lacing his voice as he gently rakes his fingers through your hair.

“I’m fine…” You try.

“No, you’re not. You’re exhausted, and in shock.” He reaches for the cookies, pulling them closer. “Come on, you need some sugar in you.”

Still leaning against him, you reach for the cookies, grabbing one with a shaky hand and nibbling at it.

He watches you eat, a small smile on his face, before taking a sip of his coffee. “I know you’re trying to be strong, but it’s okay to not be okay right now.” He says softly, his arm tightening around you slightly. “You’re allowed to fall apart, baby…”

You inhale sharply, setting the cookie down and pulling back to look up at him, your eyes filled with tears. “It was so scary, Buck… seeing that building collapse on him, I- I really thought he was gone…”

He smiles sympathetically, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb rubbing back and forth over your skin. “I know, sweetheart.” He murmurs. “But he’s strong. He’ll pull through this…”

“Yeah…” You exhale shakily in disbelief, slumping back in your chair and reaching for the cookie again, picking at it.

Catching your sceptical expression, Bucky’s hand moves to rest on your thigh, squeezing reassuringly. “Drink your hot chocolate, gorgeous. Then I’ll take you home so you can get some sleep.”

You shake our head, still picking at the cookie. “I wanna stay.”

“I know you do, baby, but you’re too exhausted.” He points out gently. “Besides, he’s heavily sedated, he won’t be waking up any time soon. And you know he’d tell you the same thing. You need to sleep…”

You turn your head, looking up at Bucky sadly. “I don’t think I can… every time I close my eyes, it’s all I see…”

He nods understandingly, his hand tightening slightly on your thigh, his heart breaking for you. He nuzzles his nose against your temple as he whispers softly. “I know, doll, but I’ll be with you, okay?” He pulls back, smiling tenderly. “We’ll get you home and showered, then into bed and in my arms…”

“I like the sound of the last part…” You sigh.

“Good.” He grins, leaning over to pick up your hot chocolate, bringing the mug to your lips. “Drink up, baby girl.” He coaxes gently. “You need the sugar.”

Sitting up straighter, you take the mug from him and sip at the hot chocolate.

He watches with a soft, loving expression, sitting back and finishing his own coffee. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. “That’s my girl.”

After a while, as you both finish your drinks, you return your cookie to the bag - barely half eaten. Bucky doesn’t miss this, but decides not to push right now. Instead, he smiles sympathetically, stuffing the bag of cookies into his pocket before standing up and extending a hand to you. “Come on you. Let’s get you home…” He says softly, pulling you to your feet.

“Shouldn’t someone stay with him…?” You ask quietly as you cling to his arm.

“Sam texted when I was in with Steve, he and Natasha are taking turns. Sam’s on the way now to sit with him, and he said he’ll call if there’s any change.” He assures you, kissing the top of your head as you both exit the hospital.

“Okay.” You murmur, totally exhausted.

Bucky helps you into the car, buckling you in before closing the door and walking around to the driver’s side. Once he’s in, he starts the car and begins driving home, keeping a close eye on you. “Maybe we should skip the shower, just get you straight in bed…?”

Immediately, you shake your head. “No, I- I need to wash the day off me…”

He nods understandingly, reaching over to gently rub your knee. “Alright, beautiful. We’ll get you cleaned up, properly fed, and then straight to bed, okay?” He says in a tone that proves he’s hoping to get a smile out of you.

You offer a small, weak smile that falls far too quickly. “Thanks…”

Squeezing your knee, he hesitates before speaking again. “I’m worried about you, baby girl. You’re exhausted, you’re shaking like a leaf…” He begins, his voice low and concerned. “Did someone check on you after the mission?”

You shake your head. “Steve was hurt… I wasn’t important.”

His eyes narrow, his jaw clenching in anger at the situation before he forces himself to take a deep breath. “How about I take a look at you in the shower?”

“Sure…”

He sighs softly, his heart aching as he sees you shutting down. He keeps his hand on your knee, glancing over at you periodically as he continues driving home.

Your eyes flutter as the drive wears on, your speech slurring as you grow sleepier. “I need to… file the mission report…” You mutter, barely conscious.

His heart breaks a little as he hears you mumbling about the mission report, showing your dedication to Avenging over your own health and wellbeing. He squeezes your knee once more. “No, beautiful, the mission report can wait. You need to focus on yourself, okay?”

You say nothing, resting your head back against the seat and closing your eyes, your mind racing.

He pulls into the garage and kills the engine, getting out of the car and coming around to your side to carefully help you out. He holds you close as you both make your ways inside, helping you get comfortable on the couch and covering you with a blanket before kissing your temple and heading to the bathroom to start the shower.

While Bucky’s gone, you rub your eyes and grab the laptop to make a start on the mission report, your hands shaking as you mentally run through the events, flashing back to Steve’s injury once more.

He returns to the living room to find you siting on the couch, laptop open in front of you, typing away. He frowns, noticing your shaky hands and the distant look in your eyes. Approaching you slowly, he sits down beside you. “Hey, just… stop for a minute…” He says softly, taking the laptop from you and setting it down on the coffee table.

“Please, just- just let me get it done now. If I wait until tomorrow, my mind will be too hazy to remember everything…” You plead with him.

Noticing the desperation in your eyes, his resolve crumbles. He sighs. “Okay, gorgeous. But while you file your report…” He pauses, grabbing the bag of cookies from his pocket, holding them out to you. “You’re gonna eat, okay?”

You look at the cookies, then back at him. “Crumbs on the laptop, bub…” You tell him, a poor excuse not to eat.

He chuckles softly, catching your deflection and shaking the cookie bag enticingly. “Come on… it’s every kid’s dream to have cookies for dinner…”

“Too bad I’m not a kid.” You frown, sighing as Bucky continues trying to persuade you with his frustratingly adorable face. “Fine…!” You grab the cooking you’d started at the hospital, nibbling at it as you reach for the laptop again, continuing with your mission report.

Satisfied, he quickly gets up to turn off the shower, returning to watch you as you eat your cookie and file your report, his heart still aching for you. He knows that look in your eyes, the distant look, and he sees the way you’re still shaking. He knows that you’re not just tired and hungry, but still in the early stages of shock. He also knows that it’s gonna be a long night…

Almost an hour later, you finish the report, hitting send and closing the laptop. You set it back down on the coffee table and snuggle up to Bucky, resting your head on his shoulder. “Thank you…”

Wrapping his arms around you, he’s grateful for the opportunity to hold you close. “For what, gorgeous? For forcing you to eat a cookie, or watching you while you work?” He chuckles, trying to lighten to mood.

“Both.” You scoff. “Just… for being here. For understanding and… being patient with me.”

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulls back to look at you, his steel-blue eyes filled with love. “I’ll always be here for you, no matter what. You know that, right?”

You nod, smiling genuinely for the first time since the incident. “Yeah, I know.”

His heart lifts, relieves to see you smile. “There’s that smile.” He says, his hand coming up to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “Now, can we please take a shower so I can check you over?”

You chuckle softly. “Yeah, okay.”

He helps you up from the couch, guiding you to the bathroom. He turns on the shower again, slowly undressing you. As you step into the shower, he begins to carefully examine your body, his touch gentle, yet thorough. He checks for any signs of injury, his brow furrowed in concentration. “You’ve got some bruising already forming on your ribs.”

You wince softly despite his tender touch. “Mhmm, yep. I feel it…”

His fingers trace lightly over the discoloured skin. “You’re pretty banged up, babe…”

Inhaling sharply, you gently push his hands way from your body. “Not as bad as Steve…” You mumble, almost inaudibly.

He stills, his expression turning sad. He takes a deep breath, visibly trying to control his emotions. “Don’t do that to yourself, sweetheart. Don’t minimise your pain…” He cups your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks as he remembers your earlier words. “You’re important too, okay?”

You offer a small smile. “Okay…”

He leans down to kiss you tenderly, his love pouring into the gentle gesture. He pulls back, his hands moving to gently turn you around so he can wash your hair. As he massages the shampoo into your scalp, he speaks softly. “We’re gonna get you cleaned up and into some nice, cosy pyjamas. Then we’re gonna get you into bed for some much needed rest, okay?”

You sigh. “I told you.. I can’t close my eyes without seeing that building collapsing on Steve all over again…”

He hums in understanding as he rinses the shampoo from your hair, repeating the process with the conditioner before turning you back around to face him and gently washing your body, cleaning away any remnants of the day. “Then we’ll just lay together. You can watch me sleep.” He adds with a smile, hoping to earn another one from you, too.

You chuckle weakly. “Who says I don’t do that already?” You tease.

He grins, relieved to see a glimpse of your usual spark. “You’re adorable…” He taunts, rinsing the soap from your body.

As her finishes washing and rinsing you, you reach out with shaky hands to grab the soap, lathering the washcloth up once more and gently washing Bucky, retuning the favour.

He watches you affectionately, his heart swelling at your tender gesture. Noticing your lingering tremors, he helps you finish washing him, his large hands covering yours as he guides the washcloth over his skin. “You okay standing a little longer, or do you need to sit down?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine…” Despite your words, you practically stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist.

Quickly returning the embrace, he wraps his strong arms around you to support you. He holds you close, his hands gently stroking your back as he rests his chin on top of your head. “I got you, baby girl. Always.” He murmurs reassuringly.

You cling to him for a while before pulling back, your teeth chattering.

His brow furrows in concern, and he quickly shuts off the water, helping you step out and onto the bathmat. He swiftly grabs a fluffy towel, wrapping it around you and rubbing your arms to generate some heat. “Let’s get you warmed up, beautiful…”

“You- you’re still… n- naked…” You speak through shivers.

Grinning unabashedly, Bucky quickly grabs another towel for himself, securing it on his hips before returning his attention to drying you. “You’re my priority, gorgeous. Now and always.”

You watch him, hesitant to speak.

Noticing your pause, Bucky tilts his head to the side. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He prompts gently, his tone laced with love and warmth.

You open and close your mouth a couple of times before successfully getting the words out. “Are you mad at me…?” You ask sadly.

He instantly freezes, a look of shock and utter disbelief crossing his face. He steps impossibly closer, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “What?! Baby, of course not! Why would I be mad at you?”

“Steve’s in the hospital because of me… I know he’s your best friend, and… I almost got him killed…”

His expression softens, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re right, he is my best friend… but I know how much he means to you, too. And seeing him put himself in danger like that to save you… I know how shaken that has you.” He pulls back, cupping your face in his hands. “But listen to me very carefully, babydoll. I am not mad at you. I don’t blame you. Not at all, okay?”

“You’re sure…?” You sniffle.

He nods vehemently, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “Absolutely sure. You’re my world, sweetheart, and I love you so much. I’m just so relieved you’re safe. And I know Steve will pull through, because he’s a stubborn old fool.” He smiles, trying to lighten the mood again.

You chuckle sincerely. “I love you too.”

He beams, his eyes shining with happiness as he finishes drying you off. “Come on, let’s get you all warmed up and cosy, okay?” He secures the towel around you and guides you to the bedroom, sitting you down on the loveseat at the end of the bed while he searches the dresser for some pyjamas for the both of you.

As you sit waiting, you absentmindedly tug on some loose threads in the towel.

Catching your anxious fidgeting, Bucky quickly dresses himself in a pair of boxers and some pyjama pants, allowing him to focus all his attention on getting you comfortable and settled. He pulls out a pair of your panties and one of his shirts, returning to your side and helping you slide on the garments. “Comfy, beautiful?”

You jump slightly, snapping back to reality and noticing his shirt on your frame. You nod, smiling faintly. “Thank you…”

Returning your small smile with a warm one of his own, he sits down beside you and pulls you into his arms. “I meant what I said, you know? You are my world. Nothing will ever change that.” He promises, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Now, let’s focus on getting you relaxed and rested, okay?”

Leaning into Bucky, the two of you stand, making your ways over to the bed. He helps you slip beneath the covers, sitting you against the headboard before he makes his way to the door. “Where are you going…?” You ask quietly, though your panic is clear in the soft tremble in your voice.

He pauses, looking back at you. “I’m gonna get you some toast or something. You need to eat more than just a single cookie, dollface.” He urges gently.

You hesitate. “If I agree to eat the toast, will you call Sam for an update…?”

He scoffs lightly at your bargaining, understanding your desperation for any word on Steve’s condition. “He’s strong, baby. And Sam promised to call if there was any change.” His smile turns sympathetic as he sees the pleading look in your eyes. “But… if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll call him while I make your toast. You want any toppings?”

You hum softly in consideration. “Chocolate spread please…”

He grins, winking at you. “You got it, beautiful.” He pulls out his phone, dialling Sam as he heads to the kitchen.

You hold your breath, trying to listen to the conversation, but hearing nothing.

A short while later, Bucky returns with a slice of toast, covered generously with chocolate spread. His solemn expression makes your heart sink. “No change?” You ask knowingly.

“No change.” He confirms, sitting beside you in the bed and setting the plate of toast in your lap. “I’m sorry, baby. I know it’s not the news you wanted, but it hasn’t been long. There’s still time.”

You smile weakly at his attempt to reassure you. “Yeah…” You mutter, picking up half of the slice of toast and nibbling at it, keeping to your side of the deal.

As the days turn to weeks, and the weeks turn to a month, you find yourself internalising your grief, spiralling since the accident, hardly showering or leaving the house. Steve was making little improvement since the accident, and each day, you were losing hope that he’d ever make a full recovery.

You stopped your visits as the lack of progress became too much for you too handle, turning you into an emotional wreck every time you even approached Steve’s room.

One day, you’re sitting on the couch while Bucky is visiting Steve at the hospital, still in your pyjamas with a blanket wrapped around you. Your phone rings, and despite seeing Bucky’s caller ID, you have barely any hope left to rush to answer.

“Yeah?” You murmur.

“Take a shower and get dressed.” He demands calmly. “I’m coming home with a surprise for you.”

You sigh, agreeing begrudgingly and taking a shower, dressing in some simple sweats and returning to the couch while you wait for Bucky.

A short while later, you hear the key unlock the door, expecting Bucky to enter and sit on the couch with you as he always did. To your surprise, a slightly larger presence sits beside you.

“Heard someone was worried about me.” Steve’s unmistakable voice hits your ears.

Unable to contain yourself, you throw your arms around him, earning a soft wince from him. “Sorry, sorry…” You blush. “I just- I can’t believe you’re here. You- you’re okay…?!”

Steve shrugs, a grin on his face. “Cuts and bruises. They’ll heal.” He pauses, his expression turning serious. “How are you?”

You glance at Bucky as he comes to sit beside you on the couch, catching his tender smile before turning back to look at Steve on your other side. “Better now.”

Seeing your relieved smile, Steve can’t help but pull you into his side, ignoring his pain in order to heal your own lingering sorrow. “I’m alright, Y/N...”

“Just like I told you he would be…” Bucky adds, resting his hand on your thigh.

Posted January 13th 2025

©️@buck-buck-buckaroo

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Will always be one of my favourites 🥰

Hi!!!! I love your work and talent, you are so amazing!💗 I was wondering if you could do a light angst fic. Like bucky is a player who is just running through women, and the avenger reader has a big crush on him . She has to watch him string girls through the tower all the time and it makes her sad. Bucky's type is dark,red lip, baddie but reader is the mom of the friend group and wears pink and is super sweet and a little awkward, she is also a mutant who has like earth powers. So whenever she's happy or laughing flowers will bloom in her hair. She's so cute. Kinda like the trope: she fell first but he fell harder. And like bucky realizes that he's madly in love with our sweet baby angel reader. And the FLUFF!! 💗💗💗

Thank you, love Binks 💖

Yes. Yesyesyes. I hope you're all ready cause I sat with this piece for weeks. Jealously, Misunderstandings, love sick Bucky, idiots in love, SO MUCH ANGST AND FLUFF . Protective best friend Steve and dash of smut cause I can't help myself, its so sweet and soft and I love these two, put myself in my feelings with their spicy and sweet loving.

-

"See you later Sargent" A gorgeous woman walked by the kitchen on her way out or the tower, winking over her shoulder and blowing a kiss to the soldier who smirked at her in response. Her lipstick hadn't budged even after a night of who knows what with Bucky, her perfectly curved hips swaying along with the click of her heels.

You were busy with making breakfast, dustings of flour covering your nose and cheeks, still in your baby pink pj's, looking the total opposite of the gorgeous girl Bucky spent the night with.

"Damn Barnes" Tony whistled after the she had left, clapping a hand on his shoulder, "Where do you find em'-Ow!" Tony yelped when Nat gave his ear a flick, cocking her eyebrow up in amusement.

"I'll let Pepper know you're curious-

"Nope. No. I was just admiring Terminators taste" Tony threw his hands up, swiping a hot pancake from the stack you were plating making you giggle, tiny daisies blooming around your hair "These are delicious Petal. I'll never get tired of seeing that" Tony smiled, looking at the fresh little flowers that reflected your mood, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before returning to the lab.

"Sure, admiring taste" Nat snorted while Bucky snickered, taking a seat at the kitchen island; his fluffy hair still messy from bed. You set down a plate in front of him, adding butter and some fresh strawberries on the side just the way he liked.

"Here you go Sargent" You smiled softly before getting started on cutting up more fruit for Steve and Sam who would be returning from their run soon.

"These are amazing" Bucky hummed, reaching for more; he'd never get tired of your cooking. You tried to bite back a smile while vines of baby pink roses weaved their way through your hair, matching the fuzzy feeling the soldier made you feel. The flowers were not missed by Bucky who watched you continue to flit about the kitchen like a little garden fairy, making sure everyone would have something for breakfast. He couldn't help but chuckle at the way you crawled up onto the counters like a cat to reach the highest shelves, a few knotty tendrils sneaking their way through your hair indicating your frustrations when you nearly dropped a cup.

"Do you have different flowers for different moods?" Bucky continued to watch you while you slinked off the counter, starting on a smoothie.

"Sort of? Yeah I guess" You thought to yourself, noting you'd often have yellow ones when you'd laugh, or purple ones when you were excited. You only ever got pink ones around Bucky; the only person to make you feel warm and shy and soft. You were caught off guard the first time you saw the tiny pink buds in your hair the same day you met him when you joined the team. No one else seemed to notice, too busy admiring the fact that gorgeous petals decorated your hair.

Everyone except Bucky.

The soldier was trained to notice everything.

He'd seen every type of flower adorn your hair but these ones were just around him.

"What do the little pink roses mean you're feeling?" Bucky asked, cocking his head when you looked at him like a deer in headlights.

Shit.

"It-I-happy! It means I'm happy" You stuttered out unconvincingly while Bucky hummed, cleaning off his plate before heading down to the gym, taking one last glance over his shoulder before rounding the corner.

Those tiny pink roses suited you perfectly; the human embodiment of a little fairy.

Ever since you'd joined the team, they were blessed with a full breakfast almost every morning, sometimes even dinner. Outside of your role as an Avenger, you took on a nurturing role within the team and of course that was just who you were, being so in tune with nature and naturally caring for those around you. Still, it was evident you went above and beyond just instinct when it came to taking care of others; you were very much the mom of the group. Initially Bucky found it confusing, wondering why you were so nice to everyone, always checking on their needs and being prepared for just about anything. He was so used to functioning on his own, he found it jarring when you were looking out for him too; didn't you know who he was? Why were you being nice to him?

He didn't even have it in him to give you the cold shoulder like he did with everyone else. What kind of person would he be if he was rude to the sweetest person he'd ever met. You were just so precious and sweet and you always smelled like fresh flowers and sunshine, he would've basked under your light for hours on end if you let him-

Bucky shook his head, breaking away from the train of thoughts he was having about you yet again. You didn't make sense. More specifically, him thinking of you didn't make sense. He was rough, rugged, made of muscle and metal, didn't like most people and the last time he'd been nurturing was back when he'd nurse Steve back to health more than 70 years ago.

You on the other hand were literally made of flowers, combined with soft sweetness, shy smiles and giggles. You were cute. Too cute. He had no business thinking about you, ignoring the fluttery jitter in his heart as he tossed a wink to a SHIELD agent who was training at the weights. She had joined recently, typically taking on missions which required her to go under cover in skin tight dresses and bodysuits; it was perfect for her given her tall and toned build. The woman smirked in response, biting her dark red painted lip before making her way over to him by the punching bags.

"Hey Sarge" she purred, bringing her hand up to toy with his dogtags, tugging at them suggestively, "Busy tonight?"

"We're having a movie thing" Bucky shrugged, not suggesting they had to do anything else after but if that's where the night led then-

"Hmm, I'll see you later then" She batted her lashes at him before going back to her set.

This made sense.

Casual. Sexy. Flirty.

Everything Bucky was good at and comfortable with. No feelings, no attachments. No deep, undying love he felt for a certain sweet girl on his team that he'd give his life for.

This made perfect sense.

-

You were the last to make it down to movie night after spending most of the evening prepping drinks and snacks for others. Movie nights were rare and it was even more rare for everyone to be present. You made sure there was something for each member of the team, from sour candy to chocolate, chips, cookies, tiny sandwiches and an array of drinks you'd set up on the coffee table.

You stood at the edge of the living room dressed in your warm oversized sweater and mismatched fluffy socks, nervously peering around the room for an empty space; usually you'd curl up on the two seater sofa with a thick fuzzy blanket draped over you but-

Your heart sank seeing yet another beautiful girl cuddled up next to Bucky, taking up all the space on the couch. A part of you contemplated on going back to your room; the sinking feeling in your stomach worsened seeing the new agent adjust herself until she was pressed right against the soldier. Why did you have to fall for for the person who wouldn't look at you twice. You were dressed in clothes too big and soft, a stark contrast to the matching silk lounge set she was wearing, leaving no doubt over how absolutely perfect her body was.

"Hey Petal, c'mere" Steve noticed you looking for a spot, patting he seat beside him, shifting over so you could join. You smiled at the Captain, quietly shuffling through the room, hiding into the cushions as the movie started. Your heart dropped further each time you heard the girl Bucky was with giggle, slinking around his lap while he gave her his flirty smirk. There were occasional times where flowers wouldn't bloom in your hair and this was one of them.

Steve noticed your less than enthusiastic demeanor, catching you glancing over at the brunette super soldier and his friend for the night, internally rolling his eyes at what an idiot his best friend was. He threw his arm around you, pulling you in to snuggle with him, whispering his own commentary as the movie progressed, hoping to lighten your mood.

You giggled, a few yellow flowers blossoming in your hair making Steve grin. Bucky watched carefully, a new emotion flaring in his chest as he watched bright petals fall onto your lap each time you laughed. He didn't like the new feeling that started off as warm to blazing hot, what was it he was even feeling-

Irritation? Sure a bit.

Confusion? Most certainly but not quite.

Jealously.

That's what he was feeling. He wanted to be the one who caused gorgeous tendrils of flowers to bloom, the one to make you giggle and laugh, the one who got to snuggle up with you. He was envious over how lucky Steve was, getting to cuddle up with such a soft bunny, his jealously momentarily interrupted when he took a moment to look at what you were wearing.

You looked so comfy with your warm sweater, your feet nice and toasty with your favorite socks. Bucky remembered you talking to him about them once, reading socks you'd called them.

"They're super soft and warm!" you grinned, clutching them to your chest after a trip to a book store. "I've been wanting a pair for ages. I finally caved and got them, I can't wait to put them on"

Bucky remembered chuckling to himself over how excited you'd gotten over a pair of socks, a few buds of lavender poking through your hair from how relaxed and calm they made you feel.

You looked so soft to cuddle up with like a little bear he'd hold to his chest, one that would protect him and keep him warm and safe. He wished he had a spot beside him because you would've sat where you always do and it would be him with his arm around you instead of Steve. He didn't want anything else. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to create some distance between himself and the agent, her close proximity suddenly feelings much to hot. She frowned, feeling him pull back, scooting over till she was cuddled up with him again.

Great.

"Did you want me to grab you something?" Steve asked you as he reached over for some chips, popping a few into his mouth. Before you could respond, you saw the woman whisper something in Bucky's ear, winking playfully before sitting up and taking his hand, the both of them leaving the movie half way. You felt like throwing up knowing he was taking her to his bedroom though you knew you had no right to be upset. He wasn't yours and he was welcome to do as he pleased though that didn't make the pain go away.

Bucky's POV

"How about it Sarge" She moved her hand up his thigh, giving it a squeeze, not bothering to wait for the movie to finish. Bucky stared at her like a deer in headlights while she cocked her head waiting for a response. Bucky glanced over to you, his heart breaking seeing your face fall. "Bucky? Are you listening to me?"

Bucky blinked realizing he was paying attention to you, mumbling an apology before turning to the agent. He didn't know who he was fooling but it was getting embarrassing, especially when he knew Steve was glaring at him from across the room. Neither of them had to open their mouths to understand the silent conversation they were having through their eyes alone.

"You're an idiot"

"Shut up"

"You know you like her"

"I-I don't..."

"Then why do you keep glaring at me like I stole your girl punk"

"Don't worry about it"

"You better figure it out before you hurt her more"

"She likes me?"

"You're an idiot"

"Jerk"

That did it. Bucky couldn't' last another second seeing your petals fall, the flowers Steve brought all retreating away and he couldn't sworn he saw you blink back tears. He couldn't keep doing this.

"Um, yeah sure" Bucky nodded, leading the woman away, walking past the elevators and towards the compound exist instead. As soon as he'd told the new agent he just couldn't do it he ran back to the living room in hopes of finding you only to find your spot empty.

You did your best to bite down on your trembling lip but it didn't work. As soon as the first whimper slipped out, Steve hugged you softly, telling you to to go to your room. You looked at him through wet lashes, his soft blue eyes filled with understanding. You rushed straight to your room, zooming right past Bucky's hoping you wouldn't have to hear anything, curling up into a ball in your bed where you wept under the covers.

Why did you fall for him?

Bucky looked over to Steve who nodded towards the elevators that took you to your floor, the super soldier wasting no time pressing the button to the 4th floor. He was at your door as soon as the elevator dinged open, softly knocking while his stomach continued to churn.

What would you think of him.

Why didn't he just accept his feelings the second he fell in love with those pretty little pink roses?

God you probably hated him now.

Bucky nervously chewed his lip,

"Petal?" Bucky called for you, hoping you'd open the door, his his heart hammering against his chest hearing soft sniffles from the other side of the door. "Petal, can you open the door sweets?"

He heard you continue to softly cry, his body working before his mind could catch up as he let himself into your room. He hated the sight of the little ball buried under a pile of blankets, hiding away from the world with a broken heart because of him. He made his way to your bed, sitting on the edge, petting the blanket gently to let you know he was there.

"Bucky?" You shuffled some of the blanket off, surprised to see him there, what was he doing in your room? Wasn't he spending the night with the girl he'd brought? Why did he look so distraught? You sat up with concern, looking him over to see if he was hurt because why was he here with you when he should be with her?

"Did-did you need something, is everything okay?" You tried to keep you voice steady, quickly wiping away your tears and forcing a smile that didn't quite meet your eyes.

"No sweet girl, everything isn't okay" Bucky whispered, smiling at your confused pout, his hand coming up to brush some of the strands of hair that were near your forehead. He let his hand linger on your cheek, wiping away your wet cheeks with his thumb before sitting closer to you. "Why were you crying"

You averted your eyes as soon as he asked the question, staring at your lap instead, playing with your fingers. Your voice was caught in your throat, shrugging as if you didn't know the answer. Bucky was surprised with himself, equally shy to actually say anything even though he wanted to pour his heart out. With others the smooth talking, the flirting, the boyish smirks came easy.

Not with you.

Not with his little fairy.

"Y/n, please" He tilted your chin to meet his puppy like eyes, hoping you'd understand how he felt without saying anything. His innocent gaze caused your cheeks to heat up, feeling his rough calloused hands touching you so softly. You bit your lip as your hair betrayed you, pink petals starting to decorate your hair.

"What do the little pink roses mean?" He whispered with hope in his voice, his heart aching with need seeing your shy smile, "Please tell me pretty girl. I- I only see them when I'm around you"

"It-it means-" you hesitated, scared this would all come crashing and burning if you told him the truth. Maybe he was just being nice, pausing his date to check on you. Or maybe-Just maybe? "I like you"

Had he not had super hearing Bucky would've missed your near silent whisper. The blush on his cheeks matched the flowers in your hair as he reached out for you, pulling you to his chest.

"C'mere my precious little petal" Bucky cooed, scooping you in his arms. You squeaked in surprised before giggling into his chest, the sound making Bucky's heart swell. "There she is" He smiled against your hair seeing little buds blooming again, the tiny pink roses he loved so much sprouting to life.

"Don't you have a date" You asked hesitantly while Bucky shook his head, holding onto you tighter.

"You should've been my date petal, m'sorry for not telling you how I felt about you earlier. I was scared"

"Scared?" You cupped his scruffy cheek, letting your thumb stroke his beard while he nodded, leaning into your touch.

"Scared I wasn't right for you. It didn't feel right falling in love with someone so precious when you're the complete opposite of me" His confession caused stray tears to slip down your cheeks while Bucky kissed them away. "But I promise, if you'd let me have you, I'd take care of you and love you with my whole heart. I promise I'd never hurt you sweets, I've fallen so hard for you, there's no one else I'd rather be with"

You couldn't help yourself, pulling him down for a kiss, giggling at the surprised squeak he let out before groaning and melting into your sweetness.

"I'm yours Jamie"

Stop here if the fluff was enough. Cause next is their sweet love making.

I know it's not part of the ask but imagine their first night together where Bucky doesn't want to over step so he doesn't make a move. He notices you being more cuddly and shy, burrowing into him when you're in his room and that's when he sees gorgeous deep red roses blooming in your hair. He knows by now how to read your mood based on your flowers but he hadn't seen this before.

"Petal?"

"What is it Buck" You look at him with wide doe eyes, hoping he doesn't feel the the heat you feel radiating through your body. You need him. It's more than just physical; you need him as close as possible in the most intimate way because you adore him so much.

"Your hair sweet girl" He runs his fingers through your hair, stroking the velvety petals making you whine from sensitivity, immediately silencing yourself from embarrassment. "What do you need love, you can tell me"

"Need you closer" You whispered, nuzzling your face into his neck where you could breathe in his cologne and a scent that was distinctly him.

"Closer how baby, you're-" It takes a moment for the pieces to click for Bucky to figure out just how much closer you need him, moving his hands to your hips, rubbing them up and down. "oh. OH. Is that all baby? Need me extra close?"

You nodded with another whine while Bucky moved you to lay against his pillows before slowly undressing you until you were both bare with nothing separating you.

"Bucky please, just-just want you" On any other night, you'd allow him to tease and toy with your body but you needed him so badly, your body throbbing, feeling more empty than ever.

"Shhh, m'here baby, it's okay, breathe for me petal, okay?" He stroked your hair while rubbing his weeping tip through your folds gathering your slick before pressing his cockhead against your entrance, "m'right here"

You both gasped at the feeling of him pushing his length inside, his movements slow until he was buried to the hilt. Your pussy quivered trying to pull him in deeper, tears welling along your lash line as he started to move, hardly pulling out, keeping his cock deep inside you.

"Look at these pretty roses" Bucky whispered against your lips as he rocked his hips, his hands laced with yours while more flowers bloomed, your legs moving to wrap tightly around his waist.

"All-all just for you Bucky" You hiccupped with pleasure between moans feeling a different level of satisfaction with him inside you. You finally felt complete as he moved faster, clinging onto him so you'd feel his full body weight lay on you. "More-I-I need more"

You'd never felt like this before, your powers starting to manifest throughout the room as you grew closer and closer to your orgasm. Dark green stems crawled up the bed posts as he fucked you harder, your gorgeous floral scent sending Bucky into over drive. He was the only one who'd make you feel like this, the only person to ever get to see those dark red petals strewn across his bed.

There was something so intimate knowing no one else would ever get to see you like this, no one else would smell how sweet you were when he drove you mad with pleasure.

All the dark red roses full of love and lust just for him.

"I'll give you more pretty girl" Bucky growled, his own high licking down his spine feeling your pussy tighten around him, begging for him to keep going.

"Don't-please don't stop" you begged, clawing at his back, "I-I'm gonna-"

"Cum baby, cum for me petal, give it to me" He pleaded right back, sweat beading at his forehead, his pace growing sloppy. Your back arched off the bed as he reached to rub your sensitive bud sending your nerves into over drive. "OH BUCKY"

As soon as he felt your pussy clamp around his cock as you cried out in pleasure Bucky moaned loudly, tucking his face into your neck as he spilled into you.

"Take it love, t-take it" He stuttered, trembling as the last of his orgasm dribbled into you. He watched in awe as the deep red petals that previously covered the room disappeared into thin hair, his classic favorite little pink roses decorating your hair once more. Bucky pulled the sheets over you both, holding you to his chest while kissing your forehead at you closed your eyes.

"Sleep tight, petal"

[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

YEEEEEES 😍 My favourite couple are back

HI HI HI I JUST READ ALL OF BUCKY AND FAIRY AND I'M IN LOVE!!!!! If you're willing, I'd LOVE to see a time when Fairy had to fuck someone up (like Bucky did when Phil touched Fairy in 'Cruel') now that she's the queen of New York. But like after she does it, Bucky just thinks it's the hottest thing ever

omg yes

respect

18+

as bucky's new wife, you've inherited a lot - power, money, status. but there's one thing you're yet to gain: respect. and respect isn't something you can buy or marry into, it's something you earn.

content warning: mob!bucky x wife!reader, mature themes, dark themes, threat, violence, physical violence, mention of blood and injury, minor character death, reader is slightly unhinged, smut, breeding kink hehe.

series masterlist

"This isn't a good idea."

Ignoring Bucky's grumbles, you continue placing the expensive presents into the black and gold gift bag on the kitchen island. Tonight is the first big event you'll be attending as Bucky's wife, so you're determined to make sure you come across well.

"Don't ignore me," He cuts into your thinking with a cold tone.

Huffing, you look up at him from the Belgian chocolates. "You're just being negative, James," You say curtly. "I don't need that kind of energy right now."

"I'm being realistic," He corrects you pointedly, walking over to where you're leaning over the kitchen counter. "Accepting an invitation from the Brugias is a mistake. I don't trust that Aldo fucker."

"You don't trust any of them; that's the point of tonight!" You tell him, standing up straight. "Having them on side would make our lives a lot easier. As much as you hate them, they created a damn good encryption system, one which could give our operations another level of security."

Bucky raises a brow. "And you think eating a few hors d'oeuvres with them will dissolve years of conflict?" He asks you incredulously as he walks around the counter. "That is, if this isn't a trap?"

You fight the desire to roll your eyes and instead wrap your arms around him. "No, but it'll be a start," You say, looking up at him. "They've waved their white flag. Don't throw it back in their face."

His hands tightly squeeze your hips. "I told you when I married you that I'd do whatever you ask me," He reminds you lowly as his lips brush against yours. "Granted, I didn't have this in mind, but if it's what you want, then so be it." He gives you a soft kiss before his eyes slightly darken. "But if tonight ends in blood-"

You lightly hit his chest. "Jamie, you better not fight any of them," You say sternly. "They're extending an olive branch. I want you on your best behavior."

Bucky lets out a sigh. "I'll do my best," He promises. "But don't say I didn't warn you, fairy."

It's a forty minute drive in the limo to the Brugia estate. Bucky had an important business call to take so he's up front with the driver, while you pre-game with Sam and the others. They're in high spirits despite their wariness of the Brugias' intentions, but you're a little guarded. Though you're now Bucky's wife, and are treated by most of his people as such, you can't help but feel that there's something missing.

"What's got you down on a night like this?" Sam asks as he nudges your arm. "Need another shot?"

Shaking your head, you sit back in your seat. "I don't know, Sam," You reply. "I guess I thought that, after I married Jamie, things would change. Not drastically, but..."

"What's he done now?" He asks you with a frown, lowering his voice so the others can't listen in.

"No, it's nothing to do with him," You assure him quickly. "It's more to do with everyone else. They're polite, and all, but... they don't look at me the way they look at Jamie. It's glaringly obvious that, whatever pedestal they put him on, I'm not up there with him. I'm just an accessory he wears," You explain, feeling a slight weight leave your shoulders as you finally admit how you feel out loud to someone. "As if they don't think it'll last. Our marriage, I mean. Like I'm not worth the effort. They don't..."

"Respect you," Sam finishes before slowly nodding. A few moments pass before he turns his head to look down at you. "I ever tell you about when I started working with Bucky?" Once you shake your head, he continues. "I grew up with next to nothing, not even a name, until I was adopted. That wasn't much better, though. I was put to work early; doing drug runs and stealing money bags. It was rough, but it taught me a lot. I met Bucky when we were sixteen years old. His father had just passed and his uncle Jack refused to take charge, leaving Buck to take on the family business. He didn't always have the respect he has now - you know that, right?"

You nod, recalling the stories Bucky's told you about when he first took over. It wasn't simple, and he had a lot of people to win over.

"Well, imagine how little respect I was given. Some random little runt off the streets that Bucky seemed to believe in for some reason," Sam goes on to say. "Most of the people who work for Bucky worked for his dad. And their fathers worked for his grandfather, and so on. If you don't have that history, it's hard to be accepted."

"So, how did you do it?" You ask him. "How did you get their respect? I mean, I'd argue some of those guys respect you more than Jamie."

He chuckles at that. "They did what they do to anyone they don't trust- they tested me," He answers plainly. "They got one of their police friends to arrest me, to see if I'd rat on them. When I didn't, they welcomed me in with open arms."

Frowning, you look up at him. "Somehow, I can't see them doing that with me," You say flatly.

"Bucky would kill them if they tried anything like that on you," Sam says with a laugh. "Trust and respect aren't one in the same. You've been in Bucky's life a long time. They already trust you."

"But they don't respect me," You mutter. "How do I gain their respect? Make them fear me?"

"Fear and respect aren't the same, either," Sam points out. "Sure, there's a little overlap, and Bucky definitely has both those things."

"They should be afraid to disrespect me," You say bluntly.

"They are," He responds before adding, "Because they're afraid of what Bucky would do to them if they did."

You let out a huff. "What about what I would do?"

He raises a brow. "Tell Bucky?"

Offended, you hit his shoulder. "I don't just hide behind my husband," You claim firmly. "I can fight my own battles."

"Well, maybe one day you'll get the chance to prove that," Sam says with a shrug. "Respect isn't demanded. It's earned."

The talk doesn't make you feel much better, but it does make you more determined. You figure that, the more you get involved with Bucky's work, the more likely you'll get an opportunity to show his people that you're your own person who can defend herself.

It's almost midnight when you arrive at the Brugia estate.

Bucky holds your hand tightly as you walk up to the large doors. It's an impressive property, but a little tacky for your liking, with rows of brightly colored sports cars filling the front. The front doors open before Bucky has a chance to knock, and immediately, the loud music booms. A man stands there, a smile on his face, and he's wearing a purple, velvet suit. Two younger men stand behind him, the three of them looking too similar to not be the infamous Brugia brothers.

"Evening, Barnes," The eldest one in purple says, giving Bucky a wry smile. "I have to say, I was surprised when we received your RSVP. Aldo was sure you'd think it was a trap."

"Enzo," Bucky replies with a slight nod. "Admittedly, the thought crossed my mind. But my wife, Y/N, convinced me to give you a chance to say your piece."

Enzo's eyes light up at his words, and he takes your hand before placing a kiss to the back of it. Bucky instinctively tightens his grip on your other hand, which remains encased in his. "It is always a blessing for a man to receive a loving woman in his life," Enzo says, before releasing your hand and taking a few steps back. "Please, everyone, come on in."

After the initial introductions, Enzo and Carl - the eldest two - take Sam and Bucky to the side to discuss how they can work together. Bucky's other men do their best to look intimidating as they stand together. That leaves you with Aldo, which Bucky doesn't seem too happy with, but he knows you can look after yourself.

"I have to say, I was incredibly surprised to hear that you had accepted our invitation," He admits as he walks you over to the bar. "I didn't expect Barnes to be the type to grovel."

You're thrown by his wording but you do well to keep your face straight. "Grovel," You repeat lowly. Raising your voice, you glance over to Aldo and say, "Who said he's grovelling?"

Aldo doesn't answer. Instead, he asks the bartender for two shots of something you've never heard of before.

"What is it?" You ask, picking up the small glass of dark red liquid.

"Awakens the senses," He claims before clinking his glass against yours. "Saluti."

Deciding it's harmless, seeing as it's doubtful he'd try to poison you with your husband on the other side of the room, you shrug and take the shot with him. He looks pleasantly surprised, as though he expected you to refuse it.

"I never thought I'd see the day when Barnes had settled down," He says, looking you up and down. "Especially not with such a beautiful woman."

He may not have the balls to poison you in the same room as your husband, but he has no shame in flirting with you. "Yeah," You reply, looking around the crowded hall. "I never thought I'd land someone so beautiful, either."

Aldo hums, moving closer to you. "Barnes is a lucky man. And who knows? After tonight, he could become a lot luckier," He says cryptically.

"What are you talking about?" You wonder, frowning at him.

"I mean, if we were to align with him," He clarifies. "He'd be a much more powerful man with the Brugias on his side. Together, we could rule more than just New York."

"Right," You mumble, not enjoying the way he's staring deep into your eyes.

He moves closer still. "I know the type of woman you are. I know you want to prove yourself as worthy of being his queen," He says, his tone shifting from light and friendly to something darker. "As a woman, you need to establish your use, else he'll get bored and look somewhere else. Do you agree?"

You say nothing.

"Let me tell you something; Barnes is a traditional man, just like me," Aldo goes on to say. "He knows the kind of agreements men like us have. The things we trade with one another in return for allyship."

Narrowing your eyes, you wonder where he's going with this.

"It's just a part of the business," He states.

"What is?" You ask, sick of his vague statements.

"You're gonna let me fuck you," Aldo says bluntly, throwing you for a loop. "Barnes will let me use you as I see fit, and then my brothers and I will strike a deal with him. They might want a turn, too, and if that's so, you and Barnes will be more than happy to oblige. Do you understand me?"

Shocked by how brash he's being while saying the most abhorrent things, your lips part, and you take a step back. You turn around to see Bucky and Sam still talking to the older Brugia brothers. Bucky's hands remain at his side, so you doubt they're having a similar discussion to you and Aldo.

"This isn't the kind of thing men discuss over dinner," Aldo tells you. "It's a silent agreement. When I take you upstairs, Bucky will know what's happening, and he'll understand that it's necessary. Why else would he bring you here looking so beautiful? Now, are you ready to comply, or would you like another drink?"

Your mind is spinning. Confusion, surprise, and disgust swarm together in a flurry, blurring into one - and then, out of nowhere, a fourth contender joins. Anger. He's louder than the others, taking over until all you see is red.

For Aldo to assume you're nothing but a sex object that Bucky can use to gain advantage over enemies makes your guts churn. Is that how everyone sees you? Even Bucky's men, who claimed you as their Queen, do they see you as nothing more than a bartering tool?

Aldo's hand on your lower back pulls you from your thoughts.

"Take your hand off of me," You say firmly, giving him a warning glare.

His smirk only deepens and the position of his hand only lowers, until it's on your ass. "Don't be like that, baby," He mumbles. "We're all friends here. Right?"

Having had enough, and sick of the smug on on his face, you pull back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. A few of the guests immediately look over, shock on their faces. Aldo stumbles backwards, his eyes wide as he brings his fingers up to his bloody lip before he looks back at you, appalled. You don't give him a chance to say anything and punch him again, right in the same spot, making him groan in pain. This time, he looks angry. He takes a second to recover before stalking over to you and slamming his fist into your cheek.

This the point at which the kerfuffle gets the attention of Bucky. Him and the other men look over at the sound of gasps and shouts, only to see you on the floor at the feet of a bloody-faced Aldo. Immediately, Bucky begins to stalk over, Sam hot on his heels as each of them plan in their heads how they'll draw out Aldo's death to make it as slow and painful as possible.

You recover before they reach you, getting up to your feet. Aldo lets out a scoff, but you're on him before he can get a sly comment past his lips. You jab him in the throat with your fingers and lift your knee into his groin, making him double over with a groan. The burning pain on your cheek only pisses you off, driving you to continue hurting him. How dare he touch you? Does he not know who you are?

You kick him in the stomach and he falls onto his back, but he's no amateur. He's quick to get back up, aiming to grab your throat, but you dodge him. Sam and Bucky reach you but you push your husband back, shooting him a warning glare that says, stay out of this or you'll get beat, too. It takes a lot for Bucky to stand back, but when he sees you driving your balled up fist repeatedly onto Aldo's face, he knows you can handle it. He watches on in adoration - and a slight sense of intimidation - as your skin is spattered with Aldo's blood.

His brothers step forward, but Sam and Bucky keep them at bay. "Don't even think about it," Sam utters to Enzo, who holds his hands up in defence.

"Hey, this is between them two," Enzo says, him and Carl sharing a laugh.

Aldo falls to the ground, trying to kick at you but lacking the energy to land a real blow. You meet him on the floor as you sink to your knees next to him and continue slamming your fist into his face. At one point, you feel the bones in his nose crack.

"Alright, alright, you've taught him his lesson," Enzo calls out.

You look up to see a crowd has formed around you. Bucky and Sam look shocked as they stare at your bloodied hands. With heavy breaths, you slowly stand back up, unable to tell if this is a dream or if it's really happening.

Carl walks over with a smirk, kicking Aldo's still body. "C'mon, little brother, get up," He says, shaking his head. "Embarassing yourself in front of all our guests."

Slowly walking backwards towards Bucky, you feel his hand on the small of your back and allow it to help you calm down. "Fuck me, fairy," He mumbles, pulling you closer to him as he cups your cheeks and looks down at you. "Are you alright?"

"I think so," You whisper back to him.

His lip pulls up at the corner. "That was-"

"Fuck!" Carl suddenly yells from behind you.

You spin around to see him on the ground with his fingers pressed to Aldo's neck. "He... he's not breathing," He utters lowly as his eyes slowly roll up to land on you, nothing but pure contempt in them.

There's a beat of silence before at least twelve people pull out their guns, including Bucky, Sam, and the two remaining Brugia brothers.

"You killed him!" Carl yells, fury on his face. "You will pay for this!"

A second before bullets begin to fly, you feel yourself being dragged away. Your legs have no choice but to run with the person whose hand is tightly clamped around your arm, and amid the chaos you can barely see a thing. All you can hear is gunshots and screams.

It isn't until you get outside that you realise it's Peter that stole you away. He continues dragging you to the limo, only stopping once you're seated in the back. Peter takes his gun out and aims it towards the doors of the Brugia mansion, waiting for a threat to make itself present while you catch your breath.

"Fuck," You mumble, wondering if you've just got Bucky or any of his men killed. The thought of Bucky being hurt makes you spiral, and you lean out the door to grab Peter's shoulder. "We need to go back. We need to get Jamie and Sam back."

"It's not safe in there," Peter replies sternly. "They'll be okay."

"What if they're not?" You cry, turning back to the inside of the limo. Grabbing the small black case that lives under the back seats, you open it up and pull out the small pistol. You check that it's loaded before spinning back to Peter. "We can't just sit out here. We have to-"

Just then, you see some figures emerging from the front doors. Peter straightens his back and the two of you aim your guns, unable to decipher whether the men walking towards you are friendly or not in the dark.

You squint your eyes, trying to see clearer but failing. "Peter," You whisper shakily. "Who are they?"

"I don't know," He replies flatly.

Preparing for the worst, you stand up and leave the limo, taking a few steps forward. Peter doesn't stop you, which you're grateful for.

"Don't come any closer," You call out as the men arrive within earshot. "Not unless you wanna die."

"That's not very nice," One of them says, his voice instantly relaxing you.

Your shoulders fall and you let out a heavy sigh, and Peter lowers his gun, too. Bucky rushes over to you, with Sam and a few of his other men trailing behind. He grabs your hips and pulls you tightly into his body, enveloping you in his arms. You're filled with utter euphoria as you pat his back and shoulders, checking for wounds.

"You're okay?" You ask, pulling back and looking him up and down.

"I'm okay," He replies before he turns his head to the side. "Sam, round up the others and find another way home."

"What?" Sam hisses, but Bucky's too busy packing you into the back of the limo to respond.

"Jamie," You whisper as he gets in and shuts the door behind him.

He ignores you, pressing the button on the right side door, causing the partition to come down. "Take us home, Bobby."

Shit. He's pissed.

The driver turns his head and gives a nod, setting off while Bucky pulls the partition back up. He turns to you with a wild look in his eyes, the lighting in the limo finally allowing you to see the bruises and blood dotting his face. Half-expecting him to tell you how stupid you are for what you did, that you almost got him and the others killed, that you put yourself in danger, you brace yourself.

"What you did in there," He begins, placing his hand on your cheek. Here it goes. You almost wince, pre-empting his angry rant. He opens his mouth to continue. "I've never been so fucking hard in my life."

You suck in a short gasp, wondering if you heard him right. "What?" You ask with a small voice.

Bucky takes your hand and places it on his crotch, and low and behold, his boner threatens to burst through his pants. "You heard me," He mumbles, leaning in unless his lips are a mere breath away from yours. "I've never seen you like that. You were... gorgeous."

"Really?" You ask, your hand still on his clothed cock. "You're not mad?"

"Mad?" He repeats with a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Fairy, I'm in love."

You can't say anything else before he's on you, pushing you down onto the seats. He spreads your legs before leaning down to kiss you, hungry and wanting. Your dress is all but ripped off of your body as he moves his mouth down to your neck, sucking and biting on your skin. His hips can't help but grind and hump against you, his motions sending pangs of pleasure through your body.

"Fuck me," You whimper, running your hands through his hair. "Please, daddy."

He all but rips off his suit jacket and pulls down his zipper. You know he isn't about to take his time or be gentle or make love to you, and you've never been so excited. He pushes your panties to the side while rubbing his cock against your soft inner thighs, his precum staining your skin.

"You're the sexiest woman I've ever seen," He utters while sinking his cock into you. You throw your head back as you anticipate him filling you up, and he doesn't disappoint. Your pussy sucks him deeper into you and Bucky falls forward, his head in your neck. "Oh, fuck, baby."

Your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt as he bottoms out. He lifts his head and brings his mouth to yours. His breath hits your lips. For a second, the two of you just stare into each other's eyes while his cock sits inside you. Then, with a clenched jaw, Bucky begins to thrust in and out of you. He quickly gains speed, his eyes still boring into yours.

"You're mine," He grunts, slamming into you. "You're all mine. Nobody else will ever get to fuck you like this. No-one."

"Just you, Jamie," You cry, your chest fluttering as pure pleasure overwhelms you. "I'm only yours. Forever."

"Forever," He repeats with a whisper, fucking you harder with his hand wrapped around your throat. "You're mine to own. Mine to fuck. Mine to breed."

His words make your eyes roll back. For a couple that have agreed they don't want children, you and Bucky can't help but give into your breeding kinks.

"Yes, daddy, yes!" You moan, placing a chaste kiss to his lips.

"That's it, good girl," He grunts, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "So good at taking my cock, aren't you?"

Your heart races as your mind swarms with nothing but dedication to Bucky. The chaotic events that took place just moments ago can be thought about later; right now, all that matters is him.

"Fuck," He groans, resting his forehead against yours. He brings his thumb to your clit and rubs circles on it, making your legs tense up around his waist.

"Bucky," You breathe out. "I'm close."

"Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby?" Bucky asks with a lazy smirk on his lips as he continues rubbing your clit. "C'mon, show me how good I'm making you feel. Cum for me."

A shiver travels down your spine with a cool trickle, ending with an explosion of ecstasy. You scream his name, at least you think you do- for a few moments, you can't hear anything. Then, slowly, Bucky's voice fades back into earshot as he chants your name, his cock twitching inside you.

"Take my cum, fairy," He groans, thrusting harder as he reaches his end inside you. "Just like that, my good girl, my baby."

You're breathing heavily as he collapses onto you, fully spent. His face rests against your rising and falling chest, his hands finding yours and linking your fingers together.

After a few moments of utter bliss as you both slowly float down, Bucky sits up. You remain on your back as you stare at the roof of the limo, listening to the sound of his zipper with a whisper of a smile on your lips.

Once you've fully recovered, you sit up too, and he pulls you onto his lap.

"Jamie," You begin, swallowing thickly. "Did he... is he really dead?"

His eyes flicker up to meet yours. He takes one of your hands and kisses your fingers before nodding.

You're expecting to feel something heavy at his confirmation. Guilt? Fear? Regret? You search for those things, but all you find is indifference. Perhaps that should scare you in itself.

"I killed him," You mutter.

"You did," Bucky says. "And, knowing you, I don't doubt for a second that he deserved it."

Just then, you find it - a tiny hint of doubt. Conflict in your mind. Did he? You replay the events of the night. His words. The way he touched you, as though you were just something to hold. Something to use.

You rest your free hand on Bucky's shoulder. "He did," You reply.

He kisses your fingers again, before taking your hand and placing it on his cheek. "You gonna tell me what he did?" He asks you with a quirked brow.

Your lips purse. "No," You decide. Knowing what Aldo said to you will only give Bucky anger, with nowhere to release it. He's already dead.

Though he wants to know, Bucky also knows that he won't enjoy hearing it. If you think he doesn't need to know, then so be it.

"Hey," He whispers, squeezing your thigh. "I love you."

"I love you," You return.

You recognize the glint in his eyes to be one of concern. And rightfully so; you just killed a man. You knew marrying Bucky would put you in a heightened position of danger, but it never once crossed your mind that you'd ever hurt anyone. The fact that Aldo deserved it makes it easier to swallow, but it's still shaken you.

But this is your life now. You can't crumble because you've done something you weren't expecting to - being Bucky's wife means you'll have to do some unsavoury things sometimes. You weren't forced to kill Aldo - you wanted to hurt him. You didn't want to kill him, but it happened.

Your lawyer brain wonders if you'd get away with it if the law was something you still had to worry about. "I'd probably be able to swing involuntary manslaughter," You find yourself saying out loud. "I mean, if I got arrested."

"You're not gonna get-"

"No, I know," You assure him. "I'm just saying. I have no priors- oh, except for that little fraud thing your uncle Jack framed me for. If I cried self defence, I'd probably get less than 5 years."

"Fairy, you don't need to think about that," Bucky says softly. "No matter what you do, you will always be safe with me."

"I know, Jamie," You insist. "I know I'm safe. I don't think a SWAT team are gonna barge into our bedroom tonight. I'm just... thinking. Processing."

"Okay," Bucky mumbles, giving you the space to process things the way you need to.

With a small smile, you can't help but release a little laugh. "Did you really... was that...?"

He frowns, gently rubbing your thigh. "What are you asking me, hmm?"

"Uh..." Your cheeks heat up and you look down. "That really turned you on?"

Bucky laughs before pushing your chin up. "You still get shy asking me stuff like that?" He wonders with a glint in his eyes. "You're my wife now, fairy. If you wanna make inquiries about my dick, feel free to."

"I just- I didn't know," You stumble, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. "You really... enjoyed seeing me like that?"

He stares at you for a few seconds, thinking to himself before speaking. "You're never quicker to get on your knees than when I'm covered in someone else's blood," He states bluntly. "We're the same animal, fairy."

You start to laugh, but the look on his face makes you stop. You realize he's right- you're just as deranged as him. There's very little about you that's different to Bucky - very little that separates you.

"The same animal," You repeat with a mumble, before he pulls you in for a deep, long kiss.

happy new year <3

bucky x fairy masterlist

buy me a kofi x

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Touch and Go

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader

Summary: You and Jake had been sleeping together for months, and as sure as you were of your feelings for him, you were unsure of his for you. He, however, certainly knew how he felt about you, and after you decide to go on a long trip without telling him, he lets you know just exactly what’s on his mind.

Notes/warnings: 18+ (No Minors!) public smut, fingering, angsty-ish stuff, fluffiness, love confessing and all that, self-doubt, insecurities, cursing-type language, best-bud Rooster (not really a warning but I love him). This was not supposed to be this long at all, but ya know, things happen and unexpected stuff (smut) weasels its way into your careful plans without permission, which I personally think is rude, but here we are.

Words: 4101

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[aaqua-tofana-ffreblogs]

Is It Working For You? masterlist (Rooster x Reader)

Rooster has had his eye on you all week at work, and now you’re at the Hard Deck looking too good to be true.  The Roo and Baby Girl origin story! roosterforme masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18