morallygraysidecharacter

[morallygraysidecharacter]

This tweet is just... Odd. Very odd.

Like... You live like this? You write like this? You think like this??

[morallygraysidecharacter]

Quiet the Noise

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: The noise is too much for Bucky some days.

Word Count: Over 1k

Warnings: Light angst, reflecting, comfort, fluff, Thunderbolts spoilers, established relationship, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: More Tower Shenanigans. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The world is too loud some days for Bucky. The non-stop noise consumed him until he couldn't hear himself think. Noise cancelling headphones didn't work since he still had too many thoughts running through his head. He longed for quiet and for a time when life wasn't so demanding, where he could sit with a book or relax and not worry about the next fight. Days like that he found himself on the roof sitting on one of the sofas, away from the team, looking up at the sky.

The night air was cool against his skin, a quiet contrast to the weight he carried. Even at the tower height, he could hear the hum of traffic below that never ceased. The distant but constant hum was like the heartbeat of the city, proof that the world kept moving, even as he sat still. It would never sleep, never stop.

The same could be said about him at times. He didn’t sleep some nights thanks to nightmares that had him waking up in a cold sweat, and he didn’t stop trying since he tried to atone for his past. He was still finding his way and carving his path, and he thought being a congressman was the next best thing toward helping people and contributing in a meaningful way. That didn’t last.

Had he done any good during his short term?

Here he was, back on a team, back in the fight, and maybe he never really left the fight altogether. He was mentally in a better place today than he was even a short time ago, but it took patience and grace when he sometimes felt out of sync in the modern world. It took self-compassion and forgiveness when the actions of his past unexpectedly crept up in his mind and weighed heavily on his heart. Each day he faced a challenge of some kind. Even breathing at times seemed both difficult and an accomplishment. 

“Just breathe,” he told himself. 

Bucky inhaled, exhaled, and looked at the stars, considering himself lucky since there was so many shining tonight. There wasn’t a single cloud to hide them either. As he continued to stare the sounds began to fade. Not completely, but enough that he relaxed into the cushions. He found himself smiling a little, too, since the twinkling brightness within the darkness made him hope for a better tomorrow. 

Tilting his head up more when another breeze rolled in, his hair brushed back from his face. For a second it felt like your touch, soft and calming. He took another deep breath and closed his eyes when the scent of your perfume drifted his way, centering him. He didn't have to look behind him to know you were there. The warmth of your presence spread to him like the lingering heat of the day, embracing him even in the night.

“Beautiful night,” you said, your voice even gentler than normal, like you knew everything was too loud for him. 

He opened his eyes, the stars sparkling even brighter than before, as if they were welcoming you to join him. Or maybe a higher being made the stars emit more energy to honor you. The science geek in him knew the logical reasons like atmospheric conditions and stellar brightness shifts, but he also knew there were all sorts of beings in the universe. He liked to think at least one saw the goodness and light within you and wanted to honor it in some way.

“It is,” he agreed, turning to look back at you. 

The lingering noise faded when he looked into your eyes. His chest felt lighter, the ringing in his ears gone. The peace he longed for, even for a second, was there and he savored it. In a way it was frightening how much of a hold you had over him. But you weren’t the kind of person who would exploit it, and he wasn’t the kind to lean on you as a crutch.

Which was why Bucky didn’t beckon you closer at first as much as he wanted to. You had already given him so much by giving your heart, and he didn't want to take more from you tonight. So you didn’t have to stay up on the rooftop with him if you didn't want to. But the tender smile on your face and care in your eyes wordlessly told him everything he needed to hear, everything to ease his worries.

“I don't want to bother you if you want to be alone, but I'm here if you need me.”

“I want you to be okay.”

“You’re a good man.”

“I love you.”

He answered the silent assurance by no longer hesitating and holding his hand out to you, which you graciously took. It fit perfectly, like it belonged there, like you belonged together. And once you sat beside him, he brushed his lips against your temple to assure you.

“You're never a bother, and I’ll always need you.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“I’m finally believing that I’m a good man.”

“I love you, too.”

With a gentle smile and a heart full of love, he felt lucky to be under the same sky as you, noises and all. 

Your brows pinched when he took his hand away, but you smiled again when he slipped his arm around you. He got to hold you close and keep you warm while you leaned into him without hesitation. Resting your head on his shoulder, you didn't dare breathe a word. Neither did he. There was no need to fill the silence, no need to explain why he was up there and no need for you to ask. It was enough for him to know in this vast and overwhelming world that you were there- his safe space. 

So while the world is too loud some days for Bucky and he’s far from being a perfect man and hero, being with you brings him peace. 

And for tonight, that was all he needed.

Bucky deserves so much love, okay? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[morallygraysidecharacter]

𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍 as 𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒/𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐒 as 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒/𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀

Bucky in Thunderbolts* (2025) Steve in Infinity War (2018)

this Steve with this Bucky

[morallygraysidecharacter]

my best tip for anyone trying to get back into reading is to remember that you can read books to avoid other responsibilities in ur life and it can become a vice if you play your cards right

[morallygraysidecharacter]

Just so you know Biker!Ari walks outside like this to get his mail.

He doesn't understand why all the women on his block also happen to get their mail at the same time.

Sunshine does.

She's thisclose to telling him to get his slutty behind back in the house.

Only she's a little too distracted by the bead of sweat trailing down his tattoed chest and that impressive imprint stretches the front of his shorts to form coherent words.

Ari: The guys are going to be here at noon so that should give me enough time to get the grill set up—

Sunshine, staring at his chest: Blah blah blah proper name place name backstory stuff

[morallygraysidecharacter]

um men who are bigger than you and tower over you in every way possible but he's obsessed with the overwhelming intimacy of missionary sex. his whole entire body covers yours, and he loves the way it's almost like he's shielding you from the world, that the wanton expressions you're making and the way your body reacts is all for his eyes only. he can control how deep he fucks into you, can carefully watch the faces you make to see if he's hitting all the right spots. loves the way he can hold your hand as he thrusts into you; especially loves the feeling of every cell in his body going weak from how overwhelmed with his love for you he gets. the eye contact is the best and worst part for him; best because he loves looking at you, to know you feel the same, but worst because you always make him go weak in the knees. his arms can barely keep him upright, and he has to bury his face into the hollow of your neck and shoulder and-

[morallygraysidecharacter]

May I contribute

Bookworm! Bucky Barnes or Librarian! Bucky Barnes.

Like this man can open both books and legs.

Like one minute your both arguing over Shakespeare and the next he's having you read smut out loud as he gives you mindblowing orgasm again and again until you can barely make out the words on the page.

Paring: Chubby!Librarian Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: Smut, Minors DNI, 18+ only and always.

A/N: Don't copy, repost, rewrite or translate. I love likes, comments and reblogs! Written on my phone and unbeta’d

Normally Bucky is a bit shy and reserved. Content to spend his days among his books, making sure everything is in order in between helping people discover new authors.

Some days you stroll into the library to find him with his soft belly pressed into the counter, one elbow on the marble surface, a book in one hand, his lips parted as he reads.

When he’s really engrossed in a story, a wrinkle forms in the middle of his brows and he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. His glasses perched atop his head as he squints at the page.

Occasionally his vibranium hand will sweep across the counter, gingerly searching for his cup of coffee or a snack, his eyes never leaving the words on the page.

You only heard him raise his voice once. Someone, a know it all, tried to insult one of his favorite writers and your soft-spoken librarian lost his shit.

It was beautiful.

The way his eyes widen and he spluttered before finding his voice, eloquently arguing his point as his voice deepened until the man backed away. You smiled to yourself, so proud of him. And you giggled behind your book when he immediately reverted to his shy self the second he realized he had a captivated audience.

A crimson blush swept up his neck to his rounded cheeks, his sky-blue eyes flitting to you. He nervously chewed the corner of his lip, debating with himself. Bucky wanted so desperately to speak to you, but he was worried you would think he was brash after his impromptu outburst.

Bucky looked down at his book with a frown, his brows pinched as he studied the cover, it’s not his usual reading material. As much as he loves the world of elves, knights and hobbits, he didn’t think he could impress you with his vast knowledge of the fantasy realms.

So 'how to ask a woman out in five easy steps' it was.

“Who’s the lucky lady?”

Bucky startled, flinging the book on the floor. You both glanced at it and then at each other. His blush deepened, his face getting hotter by the second until he was sure he was going to combust.

“Um, I wasn’t, I can’t read-I mean I can read, of course, I can read,” he huffed, laughing to hide his growing mortification as he tapped the counter, “but I wasn’t reading that,” he finished lamely.

“Whoever she is, I’m sure she’s worth it.” You said wistfully, setting your library card down.

“You are.”

Bucky sharply inhaled, as if he were trying to pull the words back into his mouth. His eyes flicked up, not sure what he was expecting to see, maybe a look of pity or worse disgust.

Instead, your face brightened, and you beamed, giving him a radiant smile so beautiful that it made him dizzy.

It took a few months but your sweet chubby boyfriend grew more confident around you.

Still sweet and shy as always until you discovered all you had to do was mix up elves and fairies, Roman and Greek mythology or gasp star trek with star wars and he would launch into these passionate tirades.

No, it’s not that you’re wrong Petal, it’s just that Zeus, well...he was nothing like Juno-he explained gingerly bordering between not wanting to hurt your feelings and being appalled by what you just told him-and hold on, hold on, I have a book.

Soon all you had to do was ask him to tell you about his favorite works and he would light up, clutching a book to his chest, his hand waving in the air as he spoke.

You could listen to him for hours, watching his mouth, occasionally breaking his concentration with kisses until his soft lips are swollen and he’s rattled.

Nothing compares to the sensation of him mumbling about a quest to reclaim a kingdom as he slowly melts into your kiss, his eyes fluttering shut as his words trail off into a moan.

Today his handsome face is flushed as he pushes his glasses back, fervently explaining why Langston Hughes doesn’t get enough credit. He’s pacing back and forth around the table as you scroll through your phone hidden in your book.

A particularly spicy scene draws your attention away from your man. Bucky’s rant tapers off to a suspicious hum as he watches you shift in your chair, your thighs clenching together. “Petal?”

You tap the screen trying not to squeal when the main character challenges the alpha.

“I can take it. Please.” You circle your hips, biting your lip when he grunts out a low, gravelly fuck. “Give it to me Alpha.”

You bite your index finger, thinking no you can’t, have you seen the size of his cock girl? You know can’t handle all that-

Bucky places his head on your shoulder. “What did you say?” His incredulous tone making you jump in the seat. Shit, did you say that aloud? Fuck.

“Oh hey Bucky,” you giggle, your face burning, damn it, you can’t let him see this, it’s just porn, you try to close the book over your phone but he places his hand on the page, tilting his chin towards you.

“Can’t handle a big cock, can you, Petal?”

“I-huh?”

Bucky picks up your phone, his eyes scanning across the page. “Remember, you begged for this,” he reads, his voice lowering, the unmistakable lust in his tone has you so damn wet.

Bucky places his cold vibranium knuckles on your jaw and pushes, just enough to turn your face to his, your lips brushing over his. “Is that what you like Petal?” He hums, his tongue darting across your bottom lip. “You wanna be my good girl?”

Fuck yes you do so badly. Hearing those words on his tongue has you dripping, your clit pulsating, begging for his touch.

“You want me to eat your sweet pussy until you beg me to stop.” He kisses right over your pulse point, fuck it’s getting hard to breathe. He’s not done, his lips ghosting across your ear. “You always taste so fuckin good Petal, you can fuck my face as much as you want.”

You whimper as he bites down on your earlobe. What happened to your sweet boyfriend and how are you so wet. Bucky places your phone on your lap, stepping around you, letting his finger trail across the back of your neck and you shiver, feeling those cold smooth digits go up your jaw until he’s tilting your chin up.

“Gonna split you open on my cock, fuck you so hard you won’t walk straight for days-“ he promises. “But first I want you to do something for me, Petal.”

“Oh god, please I can’t Bucky,” Your sheets scrunched in your fist as you cry out. “Please, Bucky.”

A deep thrust has you keening, your walls clenching down over his thick cock, sensations clawing up your belly as his swollen tip finds that sweet spot. fuckfuckfuck, that feels so good.

“You’re taking me so well, Petal, being so good for me,” he praises, his soft belly grazing over your back as he thrusts into you. “Keep going pretty girl.”

You rock your hips back, craving more friction, needing just a little more to put you over the edge. Bucky pulls back with a soft tut as you drop your weight your forearms. You want to scream please Bucky, but you know what he wants.

You lift your head, blinking, trying to clear your blurry vision, the words swimming across the screen. “You swear you’re being split into two, ah fuck,” you gasp, his hips snapping faster into your tight pussy, a burst of pleasure has you pounding your fist on the bed.

You have to keep reading, fuck you’re almost there, the coil in your belly forming an almost painful knot as his strokes quicken. It’s hard to concentrate with him fucking you so good, but you know what’s about to happen if you finish and your pussy throbs around him.

You take a deep breath in, “-into two as he moves deeper and deeper,” the words spill out into an incomprehensible jumble.

Bucky places his hands on your waist, lifting his leg on the bed and he slams into you, thrusting so deeply needing you to feel every ridge and vein against your wet velvety walls, wanting you to cum for him. Your back arches as the intense sharp sensations burn across every fiber of your being, the coil shattering with each filthy sloppy grind of his cock into your aching cunt, your loud frantic moans drowning out his that’s it, that’s my girl.

Bucky’s own frenzied grunts echoing in the room, his pace erratic as he chases his high, your warmth squeezing him tighter until he spills inside you, filling you with his thick, hot cum as he praises you for making him feel so good, keep milking my cock, that’s it just like that, fuck you’re so good petal.

You collapse on the bed, arms splayed out, you vaguely hear your phone clattering to the floor as you sigh, soaking in the blissful sensations as your pussy pulsates, the small aftershocks of your orgasm vibrating through you.

Bucky pulls out of you with a wet plop, grinning at his cum seeping out of your puffy cunt. He lies beside you, a sweaty pleased smile on his face, propping his head on his palm.

“How was that Petal?” He asks eagerly, as if he didn’t just fuck your brains out.

You nod, panting heavily through your nose. “Where did that come from?”

Bucky sits up, stretching his arms behind his back. “I saw all those Alpha male books you’ve been hiding from me.”

He chuckles at your shocked squeak, dipping his head to give you a tender, loving kiss. “I may have read one or two and figured why not give my girl what she wants.”

“I’ll be right back,” Bucky smacks your ass, his fingers soothing away the sting before climbing out of bed. Your mouth drops open as you stare at your boyfriend. “Gotta get you cleaned up.”

He saunters to the bathroom, pausing in the doorway. Piercing blue eyes capture yours and your stomach drops from the look he’s giving you. Your heart skips a breath as his lips curl into a mischievous smirk. “Oh and Petal, I may have downloaded some books we can reenact. If you want of course.”

You dive off the bed, snatching your phone off the floor. You fumble through the apps until you find your kindle. And then you see what he bought, oh hell yes, hell fucking yes, you’re so excited you almost throw your phone.

“And Petal,” he starts, waiting for you to look up at him, “I got a few things in my personal collection I can’t wait to show you.”

“More books?” You ask, eyes widening when he shrugs. “Bucky what-what things?”

He winks. “You’ll see.”

[morallygraysidecharacter]

You Said What?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You accidentaly call Bucky babe during a mission briefing in front of the whole team.

Word Count: 506

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating

A/N: This is a short story that came to my mind while I was studying, so I had to write it down. Hope you like it :)

Everyone’s crowded around the mission table. It’s too early, someone definitely stole your last coffee, and you're still rubbing sleep out of your eyes when Steve starts explaining the recon plan with way too many acronyms.

Bucky’s next to you, legs slightly touching, flipping a pen between his fingers like he’s not just waiting for a reason to pull your chair closer. He’s staring straight ahead like a good soldier, but you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye every time your knee bounces.

You're trying to pay attention. Something about rooftops, safehouses, surveillance drones and you’re barely following when—

“…and Barnes, you’ll be on overwatch with Y/N.”

And you, running on 2 hours of sleep and one granola bar, lean toward Bucky without thinking.

“Did you hear that, babe?”

Silence.

Cold. Dead. Silence.

Everyone looks at you.

Nat squints. Sam raises both eyebrows so high they disappear into his hairline. Peter drops his pen. Steve, bless his heart, blinks like someone just smacked him with a frisbee.

Bucky doesn’t breathe. Your soul detaches from your body, floats toward the ceiling, and screams.

You scramble. “I—I said bro. Like, ‘Did you hear that, bro?’ That’s what I said. Like a…cool, soldier-y nickname. Haha.”

The room is quiet again. No one believes you. Especially not Sam.  “You said babe. You said it casually.”

Bucky doesn’t even look at you. He’s locked in full Winter Soldier mode, eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall like he’s trying to transcend to another timeline.

“I think she said brrr,” Bucky offers, stone-faced. “She’s cold.”

“She’s wearing a hoodie,” Peter mutters.

You laugh way too loud. “It’s the energy in here. Very chilly.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, arms crossed, staring straight ahead like if he makes direct eye contact with anyone he’ll combust.

Steve slowly turns to him. “Barnes?”

“…Yeah?”

“You cold too?”

Bucky shrugs. “Freezing.”

You know he’s going to murder you in the hallway. Probably kiss you breathless after. But first—death.

Steve stares a moment longer. Then—mercifully—moves on. But the damage is done.

Nat doesn’t. “So… bro, huh?”

You glare at her.

Later, when the meeting is already over, you burst in Bucky's room, already talking. “I told you this would happen, I told you I’d forget—”

Bucky slams the door shut and corners you. “You said babe. In front of Rogers.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I wanna crawl inside a ventilation shaft and disappear.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and pulls your hands away.

“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs, leaning in.

“…What?”

“I liked it.”

You blink up at him. “You liked almost being exposed?”

“No,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “I liked hearing you call me babe.”

Your heart stutters.

“…Say it again.”

You grin. “Babe?”

Then he kisses you like the whole building isn’t even real. Like the only thing in the universe is your mouth and his hands and the way you said it without even realizing.

A/N: i just wrote a lil part 2 about them, it’s not a direct sequel but if you feel like cheking out, here it is. hope you like it, and thanks for reading <3

[morallygraysidecharacter]

Soldat

She and The Winter Soldier are each other's only solace on the H.Y.D.R.A base.

The Winter Soldier X Reader

Bucky Barnes X Reader

"I need to know, kid-"

The snarl that left her lips was animalistic. "Don't call me that," she said, her voice low enough to be a growl.

A sigh left Steve's lips as he stared at her. But his blue eyes weren't intimidating, not in the slightest.

Not compared with what she was used to.

He held up a picture. "Do you know this man?"

It wasn't a clear picture, not in the slightest. Nearly impossible to make out who the picture was of. But she knew. Of course she knew who he was. He was the most terrifying man she had ever met.

"Have you got a date with death, Captain America?" She mused, tugging at her binds. "Because that's all you'll get by seeking him out."

A single flame appeared on her fingertips. She held it against the rope around her wrist.

Steve let his head fall, shoulders slumping forward slightly. "Why are you doing this, kid? Why do you want to work for H.Y.D.R.A?

She clenched her jaw. "I told you, Captain, don't call me kid." She smirked at him as her flame singed at the rope. "I've fucked men older than you."

Pink dusted his cheeks as he turned away from her.

"And," she continued, "for the record, I don't want to work for H.Y.D.R.A. Just like your friend, I don't have a choice."

Her words weren't supposed to be comforting, but warm blossomed in Steve's chest. Of course Bucky wasn't doing this out of choice. Somehow, he was being forced.

The rope fell away from her wrists, but she stayed still.

"He will come for me."

"The Winter Soldier," Steve said and she nodded, confirming it.

But then Steve crouched in front of her, his arms resting on his legs. "Good."

Her fist connected with his face. Not yet surrounded by fire, that would come if he didn't let her go. "Trust me, Captain, I'm saving you!" She yelled as he stumbled away from her, giving her room to stand up. "The Soldier won't hold back when it comes to me."

It wasn't supposed to be a brag, but it was. When you have Earth's most dangerous assassin at your beck and call, it's kind of hard not to brag.

Each step left marks in the floor, soot in the shape of her boot. "If it wasn't for him, I'd thank you for getting me out, Captain." She said it with such sincerity, Steve could only stare. "But I can't leave him there."

Her fists were on fire as she walked away from him. Captain America should have been putting up more of a fight, but he let her go, watched her walk away from him.

At the sounds of screams from outside of whatever building she was in, she broke into a run. Through the empty halls of the building and through the doors, out into the light of midday.

Whatever plan Captain America had, it was a bad one.

He stalked towards her, killing everything in his path. The mask and goggles covered his face, but she knew it was him. She would always know it was him.

"Soldat."

His movements were slow, purposeful as he moved towards her. He said nothing as he became hurried, almost desperate.

This wasn't the first time she had been his mission. She had never been afraid of him, of the danger he possessed.

He held his gun in his metal hand,his other arm stretched out towards her. He spoke in Russian as he took her hand and pulled her into his side.

"I'm okay," she said back to him, switching to Russian. "I'm safe, Soldat."

He was silent as he took her away, his hold on her tight. She wrapped her arms around him as he took her away on his bike. Her arms were tight around him, face pressed against his muscled back.

All the while, she had no idea she was being tracked.

***

He held her tight as H.Y.D.R.A tried to pull them apart. But The Winter Soldier wasn't going to let her go.

"Soldat," she whispered, thumb moving over his cheek. "I'm okay. You can let me go."

A grunt left his lips, but he made no move to release her. But then they started to say those fucking words. "Longing."

"No!" She cried. She searched his blue eyes, tried to work out who he was. The Soldier, or the man he used to be.

"Rusted."

"Soldat." His hand came to rest on top of hers, his other arm still holding her tight.

"Furnace."

He drew in a sharp breath, but he didn't let go of her. He wouldn't let go of her, until his mind wasn't his own.

When they finished those damned words, The Winter Soldier released her. He was still reluctant, moving slowly and unwillingly.

But, as soon as he let her go, they grabbed her, took her away from him. Unlike the Soldier, she wasn't brainwashed. She didn't need reconditioning.

She struggled as they took her away from The Soldier. But she would find her way back to him, she always did. The last time H.Y.D.R.A tried to keep them apart, The Winter Soldier slaughtered everybody in his way to get to her.

"Kidnapped by Captain America," said her handler, her researcher as he stalked towards her, notebook open. "I thought you were trained better than that."

She stared at him, resisting a scowl. "Father," she said and held her chin up. "I don't understand why I am here."

Her father released a chuckle. "We need to understand how, Darling. How did a highly skilled killer get kidnapped by Captain America."

She shrugged her shoulders and looked down at her boots. "He caught me by surprise," she mumbled and shoved her hands into her pockets.

"How?"

"James."

She stopped in her tracks upon hearing his name, her mission forgotten. She knew that name. James. Her Soldier.

"You know James."

Her hands shook at her sides, ready to swing. "No," she managed to spit. But her voice was strained, as if it hurt to say.

But really, she didn't know a James. She knew The Winter Soldier, not the man he was before. The man he was before wasn't hers to know.

"Sorry about this, kid."

"I'm not a-"

But something hit the back of her head, and she crumpled to the floor.

"I don't know," she answered, her voice shaking. "I wasn't concentrating."

He wrote something down.

"It won't happen again."

"It won't happen again, what?"

"It won't happen again, sir."

They dragged her away after that, dragged her back to her soldat. But they didn't have to drag her, she went willingly. All she wanted was to get back to him. Her steps were hurried, her guards holding her back.

As soon as she was in the cell, she was upon him. "Soldat," she whispered as she stood before where he sat on the bed.

His legs were already parted, but he gave her enough room to climb between them. His hands settled on the backs of her thighs as he stared up at her.

Again, she couldn't tell who she was looking at. The Winter Soldier, or James.

Her hands settled in his shoulders. "Soldat," she whispered again. "James."

"I know that name," he whispered.

"It's yours, according to the man that kidnapped me."

A sigh left his lips. His hands moved up, settling on her waist. "Did he hurt you?" He asked, blinking when she pushed his hair out of his face.

She shook her head. "No, but he wanted to get to you," she answered and kissed him. It was only quick, testing what James would let her do.

He kissed her back, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"What if I could get you out of here?" He whispered, his flesh hand moving up her back. "Would you want to come with me?"

This was all she had ever known. But she hated it. There had to be better for her out there, better with him. With James, with her Soldier. She would take him any way she could get him. As James. As the soldier. As Bucky.

She nodded her head as she climbed into his lap. "In a heartbeat," she whispered as she laid her head against his shoulder.

His hand closed around something around her back. He tugged it from her shirt and held it in his palm. "I think I've found us a way out, sweetheart."

She was so damn scared, but she had him by her side. Her James. Her Soldier.

[morallygraysidecharacter]

I forgot to save the clip before answering the original ask but it was a man bragging about buying his wife diamonds every year. And of course Bucky would do the same.

Imagine you and Bucky at a charity gala being held in a luxury hotel. One of the men at the party makes a joke about how you must be costing Bucky a fortune because you're always wearing different necklaces and bracelets. His wife chimes in, an undeniably envious tint to her voice as she asks if Bucky actually buys you diamonds every year.

"Of course I get her something for every occasion. Diamonds. Emeralds. Sapphires." Bucky ticks off the list with a casual shrug, he loves buying you things so being generous is second nature to him.

Bucky wants you to have items as beautiful as you are. Or close to it because so far nothing he can get has been as stunning as you are to him.

Bucky picks the set of jewels based on his other gifts, he takes matching sets to another level. "She needs new jewelry to go with her new car," he says casually to the dismay of the stingy men around him, their wives glaring at them.

Bucky's blue eyes find you, a smirk pulls at his lips. He really, really loves buying you things. Gets off on spoiling you. "And what else is going to match her new heels?"

His gaze darkens as a memory replays in his mind, judging by the slight shiver making it's way down your body, you're remembering the same night he is.

You covered in diamonds. Wearing only the heels. His body, warm and heavy, on yours. Under you. On top of you. Bending you over. His large hands on your hips keeping you still. Moving you any way he pleases. You can hear his words in your ear, feel the deep rasp of his voice, praising you, telling you how beautiful you are, how perfect you are, how much he loves you, how good you are to him, for him.

"You take me perfectly "

"One more, just one."

"Just like that, that's it fuck you feel so good"

"That's my girl."

"As a matter of fact, I have some new pieces waiting for her upstairs. She can have them whenever she wants." His gaze never leaves yours, his hold on you unbreakable.

Just say the word and everything you want is yours Malyshka.

[morallygraysidecharacter]

Frostbites

Summary : Bucky found you injured in the middle of a snowstorm.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x hero!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Mention of a dead body (neither yours nor bucky) hurt/comfort (?), Fluff! Lots of angst!!! Injury. The ending is open to interpretation.

Word Count : 1.9k

Notes : Hi all! It's moving day for me a this is a queued post. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes hated the cold.

It crawled into his skin, crept into his bones—even in the nonexistent metal one—and wrapped around his lungs like a chokehold. It reminded him too much of long Russian winters, of blood stains in the snow.

But he was out here anyway.

Because you hadn’t come back.

Your comms had gone silent almost two hours ago, right after you reported heading up the north ridge. The snow started coming down harder, so they said it was probably a dropped signal. They said that you'd hole up and wait it out.

But Bucky knew you. You wouldn’t just go dark.

Not unless something was wrong.

So here he was, face numb, human hand freezing through his gloves, trudging through knee-deep snow with nothing but a flashlight and sheer willpower.

He shouted your name into the wind, but got no response.

The woods swallowed his voice, muffling it like the storm wanted to bury everything— including you.

He finally found you by the edge of a ravine, half-covered in snow, lying awkwardly against a fallen log. Your leg was twisted beneath you, and your lips were trembling. There was a body of a man next to you— probably your attacker. If you didn’t kill him yourself, the cold definitely did.

“Bucky?” you whispered when he dropped to his knees beside you.

His breath caught and said your name again, as if he couldn’t believe you were real, yet eternally grateful you were alive.

You tried to sit up, but winced. Your right ankle was broken. “I—I— this guy came out of nowhere. Comms went out. I couldn’t—”

“Shh,” he said, already shrugging out of his jacket. “You're freezing.”

He wrapped it around you, his hands rough but gentle. The cold bit into his skin faster than before, but it didn’t matter. Not when you looked like that— fingers trembling, fear in your eyes.

“I’m so stupid,” you said through your chattering teeth.

“No. You’re not.” He pulled you close, bracing your body against his chest. “You’re hurt. Big difference.”

“But you came out here. I thought—” You looked up at him, eyes glossy. “You hate the cold.”

He laughed, “Yeah. I do.”

“Then why—”

“Because it’s you.”

He tightened his hold on you, ignoring the sting in his fingesr. “Because if it were me out here, you’d come for me.”

You buried your face against his neck. He shifted so your weight rested against his chest and activated the beacon on his wrist, signaling HQ. 

He didn’t get an answer.

“I got you,” he muttered into your hair anyway. “I’ve always got you.”

You were shaking so hard, your teeth wouldn’t stop clacking. Bucky pressed the beacon on his wrist again and cursed under his breath.

Nothing. No signal.

Of course. Mountains. Snowstorm. 

Probably the same things that took away your comms. 

The universe just loved giving him a hard time.

He looked down at you, curled into his arms like a dying ember, and felt a bolt of fear slice through him. Your eyes were barely open now, and your skin was a different terrifying shade than it usually was.

“Okay, okay. Change of plans,” he said, more to himself than you. “Can’t freeze out here. Gotta find shelter.”

You made a half-groan, half-protest as he adjusted his grip.

“I know. I know it hurts,” he whispered, lifting you into his arms carefully, trying not to jostle your ankle. “But if we stay here, you’re going to turn into an icicle. And I like you warm and complaining.”

“Not… complai…ning,” you smacked his back, head lolling against his shoulder.

“You will be once you warm up,” he said with a sad smile, starting the trek up the ridge.

It took twenty agonizing minutes before he spotted the dark mouth of a cave up ahead. It wasn’t much— but it’d hopefully block the wind. 

“Alright. Temporary five-star suite,” he said as he stumbled into the cave and placed you to the ground gently. “Complimentary frostbite. No room service. May or may not be home to a bear.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Don’t joke about bears…”

“If one shows up, I’ll punch it in the face.” He reassured.

He ripped off his gloves and set to work immediately—gathering dry twigs from under the overhang, shredding cloth for kindling, using the flint he kept in his belt pouch. The fire took forever to catch, and once it did, it wasn’t nearly as big as he wanted it to be— there wasn’t enough oxygen for it to feed, which probably meant there wasn’t enough oxygen for you, either. 

Bucky shed the rest of the clothing he didn't need and wrapped you in everything he could. Then, without asking, he settled down behind you, pulling you against his chest, and wrapping his arms around you like a blanket.

But then… Bucky felt your shivering slow.

That was bad.

Shivering meant your body was still fighting. But now you were just…  heavy in his arms. Your breath came in weird, shallow bursts.

He pulled back to look at you and called out your name once again.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glossy. But you smiled.

“Oh, hey,” you slurred. “When did you get here?”

He blinked. “I’ve been here for forty minutes.”

“Nooo,” you whispered, waving a limp hand at him. “You’re too pretty to be real. You’re, like, a hallucination.”

He made a choking sound. “No. No, no.” Your cognitive function was slipping. A sign of hypothermia.

You laughed—or, at least you tried to, but it just came out as a wheeze.

“Sorry. That was dumb. I’m cold.”

“I know,” he said, already piling more of his clothing onto you, pressing his chest to your back, trying to transfer his body heat as he pushed you closer to the barely-there flame. “Just hang on. Come closer to the fire. You’re gonna be okay.”

You squinted at the fire. “That’s a baby fire. Tiny lil’… lil’ guy. He’s doing his best.”

Bucky chuckled sadly. “He’s gonna save your life if he gets big enough.”

You blinked again. You didn’t feel your toes. Or your fingers. “P-pretty,” you mumbled.

Bucky froze.

“…What?”

You smiled faintly. “You’ve got really pretty eyes.”

His hand hovered near your cheek, not touching, as your eyelids struggled to keep themselves open. “Hey—”

“Mmmm… My brain feels like mashed potatoes.” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Bucky said instantly, cradling your face in his hands, tilting it up toward him. “Eyes on me, c’mon.”

You blinked up at him, slowly. Your pupils were blown, unfocused. “You’ve got nice hair.”

Bucky froze for a second. “Huh?”

“You’re always tying it up and stuff, but when it’s messy it looks nice,” you mumbled, your voice thick, like you were drunk on cold. “Like… like a sad prince or sum’thin’.”

“Oh shit,” Bucky whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “Okay. You’re out of your damn mind.”

“Not always,” you whispered. “Sometimes I think real good.”

“Hey—”

“Once I watched you fix a sink with a spoon and I fell in love with you right then.”

He let out a choked laugh that was half sob, half terror. You were slipping from his grasp. “I fixed the sink with a wrench, not a spoon.”

“W-w-wasn’t paying attention,” you hummed, too pleased with yourself. 

Bucky was shaking now, but it wasn’t from the cold. It was from panic. He didn’t know how much longer you’d last. 

Your words were slurring, your breath shallow, your body limp against him. And still, you rambled.

“I u-used to sneak looks at your file, when we first met,” you had to stop mid sentence. Bucky could tell you were struggling spitting your thought out. “I-I said it was for tactical research but I really… I just wanted to know if you liked dogs.”

“You absolute little shit,” Bucky breathed, brushing the snow from your eyebrows, from your lashes, his voice cracking. “You’re just saying everything, huh?”

“Bucky. I’m tired.” You laughed weakly, then let out a soft groan, “My head feels leaky.”

“No,” he gripped you tighter, “Don’t. Don’t fall asleep.”

“Just for a sec—”

“No.” His voice broke as he pulled you tighter against his chest, practically wrapping himself around you. “You’re not sleeping. You’re gonna stay awake, yeah? How bout this? You wanna tell me about your most recent dream?.”

“…I had a dream once that we got married. In like… a Taco Bell.”

Bucky stared down at you. “A Taco Bell?”

You made a little noise. “You wore a leather jacket over your suit and wouldn’t let go of my hand even when we were eating.”

His chest hurt. It ached. His heart felt like it was being pulled in two— half of it melting at your words, the other half broken because your pulse was thready. Even his supersoldier hearing could barely pick it up now.

You looked up at him, pupils barely tracking any movement. “I think I love you.”

He went still. 

What?

Your lip trembled. “Is that o-okay?”

His voice broke as he whispered, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear.”

“Oh good,” you sighed. “Because I think I’m dying and I didn’t want to die while embarrassing myself—wait. Am I dying?”

He didn’t answer.

That told you everything.

“Oh,” you breathed. “Shit.”

“No, no. You’re not,” Bucky snapped suddenly, grabbing the bundle of twigs from the corner of the cave. His hands shook as he fed them to the tiny fire, sparks crackling weakly. 

“Stay with me,” he barked. “You don’t get to drop ‘I love you’ and then peace out into the afterlife, alright? That’s not how this works.”

You giggled faintly. “‘Peace out?’ That’s so lame.”

“You little—” He choked out another half-laugh, half-sob, burying his face in your neck. “Fuck. You’re insane. You’re actually insane. And I- Fuck, I... Argh!! I-I love you, too.”

You didn’t react.

He pulled back fast. No, no. “Hey. Hey. Did you hear me?”

Your eyes fluttered, head lolling uncontrollably. “Mmhmm. Say it again, louder. For the people in the back.”

Bucky let out a hysterical, wrecked laugh. “I love you. I love you. I have loved you for years, so you gotta stay awake for me, okay?”

“Hmm,” you agreed faintly. 

“Stay alive,” he whispered, rocking you gently, cradling your body close to the heat. “Please, just stay alive. We can talk about all of this when you’re not dying. You can tell me about your Taco Bell wedding dreams and I’ll tell you about the time I nearly kissed you in the quinjet.”

“You what?” you slurred.

“Remember that time you were dressing my wounds? I…chickened out.”

“Loser.”

Bucky could feel tears pricking in his eyes as he saw you fight the darkness that threatened to take you away. You were drained— he could see it. You’ve used up all your energy trying to stay awake, he wasn’t sure how much you had left in store.

Desperately, he chuckled his gloves into the fire. It was flammable— so it would help. It should.

The fire caught a bit brighter, and it gave you the first bit of warmth in your cheeks he’d seen in a while. Still, he didn’t know if it was enough.

Your eyes fluttered again. “I’m cold, Buck.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I know. Just hold on.”

“Will you be here when I wake up?” you asked, like a child asking about a bedtime story.

His heart splintered into a million little pieces.

“Yeah,” he said, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m not going anywhere. So you better wake up, sweetheart.”

“…Love you, Bucky.”

He closed his eyes, frozen tears pricking at his skin.

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside the cave, two hearts —barely— kept beating.

“Love you, too.”

Your lips parted. You let out a breath. It was faint, but it was there. 

Somewhere in the haze, you closed your eyes and smiled.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

[morallygraysidecharacter]

Raw

Dean x Reader, really more like an unnamed OFC

Word Count: 9,726

Warnings: torture, gore, death, Stockholm syndrome, loss of virginity, smut (18+ only)

Written for @jacklesversebingo

Square Filled: “I’m not ready to give up.”

gif: x

The silence is the only comfort she finds. Otherwise, her own screams echo through her ears, still ringing even after the men are gone and the blood has dried. It’s caked in sticky streams, rivers running down her arms, deep burgundy stained into her skin. She’s trapped - ankles snared tight in thick, splintering ropes, wrists bound in metal restraints. Her range of movement is less than half a foot in any direction. She’s an animal bound within a cage, left to go insane inside the four barren walls of the cement room where they keep her. 

When they’re gone, there’s not a sound to be heard. Not a creak above her, not the dull thud of footsteps overhead, though she knows she’s underground; she hasn’t seen even a sliver of sunlight since they ripped the cloth from over her eyes. It’s only silence. Inside the silence, she counts the beats of her heart, uses them in an attempt to measure time, but it’s useless.

It could be daybreak or it could be midnight. The sun could be streaming through the Georgia pines, scalding the bright red berries on the dogwood trees. It could be twilight, just after the sun has nestled below the horizon, fireflies twinkling in the backyard while mosquitoes whine in her ear. She doesn’t know, though, and she never will. She’s stuck here, for as long as they keep her alive.

She’s been doing her best to keep track of the days by scratching a line in the concrete with a bloodied fingernail, and she suspects the dim light hanging in the corner of the room is on a timer synced with the sun’s rising and setting. As she scrapes her fingertip against the damp floor beside her thigh, marking the eighty-fifth day she opened her eyes only to find herself here, the realization washes over her. They might keep her alive forever. The only other option is to kill her - or to let her die. To forget about her and to leave her to rot into the room surrounding her. She stares down at the blistered flesh of her fingertip, where the skin has eroded away and left only blood and deep red pulp. It’s raw. She decides then, she’s not sure which fate is worse.

It’s all she’s known for just shy of two decades. They found her when she was eight, crying in her closet full of princess dresses and glittery, plastic, heeled shoes. Frills from long skirts hung in her face, but weren’t enough to hide her. They came up the stairs and into her bedroom, grabbed her from within the closet, and dragged her here. She’s been here for 7,200 days - give or take. She lost a day or two, she’s sure, during the times when they knocked her out cold for refusing to give them what they wanted.

Seven. Thousand. Days. And she hasn’t seen them, hasn’t heard them coming, hasn’t gotten fresh food or water from them - even if it is just a dry bologna sandwich, sometimes spotted with flecks of fuzzy, green mold - for what she can only assume is four days.

On day two, she started rationing her water, fearing it was the beginning of the end. They were leaving her alone to die. The food would no longer come, the water would surely cease, so she rationed. She nibbled her sandwich, sipped her water one capful at a time. She prolonged the inevitable - her death. 

She screams. She screams until her voice gives out completely, wishing for anyone to hear her. Her wails echo off the walls, reverberate in her ears, give her splitting headaches, but still she cries. She weeps for the men who left her, the men who, despite treating her worse than their hunting dogs, she considers family. They’ve left her behind, truly and surely abandoned her. She sobs for herself, for the little girl shoved through the dark, metal door on the far wall all those years ago, who could’ve done so much, who had such a life to live. She whimpers at the memories. They flash through her mind at night, when sleep evades her and she’s alone in full darkness.

Her grandmother teaching her to roll out cookie dough, the stray kitten she found in the barn and begged to keep, the laughter around the Christmas tree every year, casting her pink fishing rod into the water and propping it beside her uncle’s only to catch an eight-inch bass while he came up with nothing. The splintering glass hitting the wood floor when the windows were broken, the shrieking of her mother as she scrambled for the phone to call the police, the muffled voices from behind the masks, the thud of bodies hitting the floor, the wet slice of a knife being pulled from between her sister’s ribs.

Her heart cracks open, shattered by the reality that the men she loves - Alexander, the man she considered her father, Russell, the eldest brother, Justin, the middle child, and Danny, the baby of them all - have forgotten her in the dirt, left her to return to the earth, buried her alive. They took her family from her, her flesh and blood stripped away from her as a child, and now again, they’ve stolen any chance, any semblance of a family right out from under her like a magician ripping off a tablecloth.

At the end of the sixth day, or what would’ve been the end of it for her, as she allows herself to close her eyes and escape the reality that death would find her soon, she hears it.

Footsteps.

“Hello?” Her voice comes out just above a whisper, hoarse without use. She clears her throat and forces saliva down with a rough swallow. “Hello! Please!”

The footsteps draw nearer. But they’re different. Her family - her captors - their footsteps, she’s learned inside and out. She could replicate their exact footfalls if only she put on their shoes. These footsteps are new. Lighter, more urgent. Sneaking. The footsteps she hears belong to someone who isn’t supposed to be here.

She freezes as the footsteps stop outside the door, holds her breath. She hears a voice, whispering. Then another set of feet shuffle beside the first – she can see their shadows in the small crack under the door. The door creaks against the weight of a fully grown man.

“Son of a bitch.” She hears him mutter. Then she hears another sound, unmistakable to her trained ears. A gun cocks, the hammer clicking into place. She covers her ears only a second before the sound splits the barrier between the men and her. The door falls as one of the men kicks it open. “She’s here.”

She’s here.

They knew about her. They were looking for her.

They step closer, slowly, one hand outstretched in warning, or perhaps compassion, from the taller man as the other tucks his gun into the waistband of the back of his jeans. She backs herself as far as she can into the cement wall behind her, trembling at their unfamiliar faces.

“Who-” she chokes on the dryness of her throat.

The taller of the two men offers her a water bottle, but she doesn’t take it. Instead, seeing her fear, he sets it down in front of her, within her reach even with her restraints. 

“It’s alright.” His voice sounds like a boom of thunder in her ears. “We’re here to help.’

“Help?” She feels bold just speaking to him. She hasn’t spoken to anyone other than her captors for almost as long as she can remember. The other man watches her carefully.

“We’re here to get you out. To take you back.” He finally says.

Her scratchy throat releases a humorless chuckle. “Take me back to what?”

The men glance at each other, only for a beat. An untrained eye would miss it, but she doesn’t. She’s learned to catch everything, even the most minute of movements. 

“I have nothing.” She croaks, finally caving after inspecting the unopened water bottle. She takes a long, slow sip, indulging and savoring the wash of it over her tongue. “No one. No home but here. No fami-” she cuts herself off; she’s revealing too much, too quickly trusting these strangers. 

Holding up his hands to her, revealing he has no other weapons in his grasp and isn’t a threat to her, that he has no intention to hurt her, the shorter of the two men crouches down on one knee and studies the ropes.

“I have a knife.” He raises a brow at her. “Don’t be scared. Just gonna…” He gestures to the ropes around her ankles. She nods, almost imperceptibly, and he gets to work on the ropes while the other man picks at the metal locks on her wrists.

She’s free. Her wrists and ankles are unbound, but she doesn’t move. 

She looks down at her hands, again bloodied, from the past four days spent banging them on the floor, from balling her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms, from shoving her full weight against the walls in a desperate, frenzied attempt to escape. Her hands match her heart - ripped open, bleeding, raw. She takes a step away from the wall, her first step in days, the shackles removed fully for the first time in twenty years. She collapses against him, the stranger encircling her in his arms as her world fades to blackness.

She wakes up warm. 

Warm.

She jumps, startled by the feeling of blankets surrounding her, a real mattress beneath her. There’s water running, the faint scent of soap fills her nostrils. Slowly, she slides her legs from under the sheets, wincing at the pain and stiffness of her own body. Her eyes widen as she takes in the bandages wrapped around her ankles where the rope used to be. Her wrists are bandaged too, her palms have been coated in a salve and her hands wrapped.

Suddenly, her mind flashes back to the room - the prison where she was kept. The men who freed her. Her eyes dart around the room and land on a few things - a wallet on the bedside table, a leather jacket slung across a chair in the corner, duffel bags set on the end of the other bed.

They’re here. They brought her here.

She moves cautiously, or maybe her slowness is because of the ache pulsing throughout her body. She’s headed for the wallet. She needs to know who they are. Without warning, the room fills with a burst of damp heat, a heady scent.

“Oh. Mornin’.” He drawls as he runs his towel over his short hair. “I didn’t think you’d be up so soon.”

“Feels like I slept a year.” She rubs at her left wrist, careful not to displace the bandage. 

“Water’s still hot if you wanna wash up.” He nods over his shoulder in the direction of the shower. “I’m sure Sam has some conditioner if you, y’know.” He mimes lathering long hair.

“Thanks.” She moves her eyes to the floor and lets her mind wander. 

Sam. 

“He’s Sam?” She looks around vaguely, noting the taller man’s absence.

“He is. I’m Dean.”

“Dean.” She nods once.

“Sam went to grab us a bite to eat. Figured you’d rather stay tucked away than eat in a restaurant full of people on your first day back in the real world.” Dean tosses his towel over the hook on the back of the motel bathroom door.

The corners of her lips turn up in a hint of a smile. It’s thoughtful, kind, that they’d consider her first.

“Should be back soon, but the shower’s all yours.” He reminds her, and she realizes it’s likely because she looks like she hasn’t bathed in years. Truth be told, she hasn’t. A bucket of cold water and a sponge was all she was allowed.

“Thank you, Dean.” Her voice is still scratchy. She takes three steps toward the bathroom, then pauses with realization. “I don’t…” she glances down at herself, her clothes tattered and dirty.

“Oh.” Dean clears his throat before rifling through one of the duffel bags. He pulls a shirt and sweatpants from within, handing them to her. “We can - one of us will go out and get you some stuff later.”

“Thank you.” She repeats, once again heading for the bathroom. She realizes when she’s a step away from the threshold of the door, the bandages need to come off in order for her to wash herself. She stops short of the room containing the shower, leans back against the edge of the countertop surrounding the sink, and starts tearing at the dressing wrapped around her left wrist. 

Dean hears the faint scratching sounds, the attempts at tearing duct tape - it was all they had to secure the bandages - with unpracticed hands. He turns over his shoulder, catches sight of her feebly pulling at the bandages. A small smile tugs at his lips, and he pads toward her after pulling socks onto his feet. His hands cross her field of vision before anything else, his fingers catching hers where she’s scraping the edge of her nail under the corner of the tape.

“Let me.” He looks up and their eyes meet. She swallows roughly and gives a small nod, thankful for this, thankful for all he’s done for her, but without words to express just what she’s feeling. She’s mourning the family she’d lost - the family she found out Dean and his brother had killed - while also being endlessly grateful to Dean for getting her out of that prison they’d kept her in. She’s pulled from her frenzied thoughts as the tape catches on the fine hairs on her arm and yanks a few from their follicles. She sucks in a breath through her teeth, a pained hiss of air that stops Dean in his tracks.

Dean mimics the noise. “Sorry - I’m sorry.” He rubs the pad of his thumb over the soft skin of her wrist. In a bit of a daze, he returns to his task, gingerly removing the tape and bandages from both wrists and hands. “If,” Dean clears his throat, “if you sit on the edge of the bed, I can help you with the ankles too.” She feels her face flush but moves toward the closest bed, the one with duffles perched at the end. She eases herself down and sits on the rough, floral-print blanket. Dean kneels at her feet, and while she’s watching him pull and tear at the tape and gauze on her skin, all at once, she’s struck by just how attractive he is. He’s almost too attractive, his features too symmetrical, his eyes too green, his freckles too perfectly scattered across his face. Suddenly, she’s grasping her right forearm to physically restrain herself from tangling her fingers into the mess of short, slightly spiked, still-damp hair tousled perfectly atop his head.

She inhales with intent, exhales with fervor. She needs to steady her breathing before he notices the stutter in her pulse, the way her chest is heaving with excitement at just the sight of him, at his proximity. She leans back on her palms, instantly regretting the decision, and inhales sharply once more. Dean’s gaze shoots to hers, worry creasing his forehead. 

Her head shakes. “Not you.” She winces as she sits upright again. Dean’s face softens with understanding and he gets back to work. Once her bandages are fully removed, Dean takes her foot in his hand, slowly turning it and assessing what more she’ll need to heal properly.

“Couple more days, I think.” He concludes aloud, glancing up at her through thick lashes. “Then you’ll be good to go.”

Good to go.

Go to… where? Go to… what? To who? She’s alone. 

Except - in this moment, right now - with Dean on his knees in front of her, his fingers wrapped so gently around her ankle, their eyes locked together, she feels the least lonely she’s felt in a very long time.

After a struggle to figure it out, she turns the water on and lets it warm while she assesses her own wounds. The water burns as it runs over her open skin, but she just flinches slightly and lets the heat soak through her skin and into her bones. It’s been decades since she washed her body in hot water, decades since soap lathered in white bubbles over her arms, chest, stomach, decades since steam has opened her pores and they’ve been washed clean, decades since her tangled hair has had a comb pass through it easily, aided by Sam’s conditioner. 

She relishes in the shower, savors every ounce of hot water the motel has to offer until it starts growing cold. Quickly, she shuts the water off and wraps herself in a towel. It should feel scratchy, judging by the look of the fabric, but it feels like a cloud against her hardened skin. Once she’s dry, she lifts Dean’s shirt in front of her. She hasn’t eaten a proper meal in almost twenty years; his shirt will hang from her like a tent, but she pulls it over her head anyway. It falls over her and envelops her in a scent unfamiliar but so warm that it feels like a home she’s never known. She doesn’t know it, can’t place it against anything she’s ever smelled before, but Dean smells like leather, gunpowder, coffee. There’s a tanginess to his scent, and she’ll learn quickly that it comes from his whiskey. She lifts the shirt to her nose and inhales deeply.

After fully dressing, she emerges from the bathroom to find Dean lounged back against the headboard of the bed opposite where she awoke. He’s paying her no mind, eyes locked on the television screen in front of him. 

“Those are much smaller now.” She frowns, examining the screen. “And also… bigger?” She tilts her head and walks around the television. 

Dean chuckles. “They’re thinner.” He nods. “But the screens keep getting bigger.”

She nods too, agreeing with his assessment and suddenly embarrassed that she couldn’t find the words to describe it herself. She hasn’t had schooling since she was eight years old. She doesn’t even know if she could write the alphabet anymore.

“So.” Dean interrupts her self-sabotaging thoughts. “I’m Dean. Sam is my brother.” He explains. “What’s your name?”

Name.

Her name.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t remember. She hasn’t heard her name since before she was captured. The men never used it. Alexander only ever called her “girl,” and “bitch.”

Dean sees her thoughts stuttering. 

“It’s alright.” He sits up and looks at her head-on. “Take your time.”

“It’s not - I don’t…” She blinks and falls to sit on the end of the other bed.

“Hey, okay.” Dean lets his legs fall off the side of his own bed. “That’s alright. We’ll work on it.” He gives her a soft smile. “How about for now we just get you bandaged up again?” He takes her hand in his palm, his touch so light compared to the roughness of his exterior, the way he kicked down the heaviest metal door she’d ever seen, the quickness with which he holstered his gun, like it was a practiced move from years of doing the same. 

He’s gentle. Delicately, precisely, he wraps her wrists and ankles, bandages her palms, and pats her knee.

“Good as new.” His smile washes over her again. He’s kind, she can see it in his eyes, and her own fill with tears. 

How broken is she that someone offering her a bed, food, a shower, things people live with - things they take for granted - every day, is overwhelmingly kind? What a horrendous life she’s lived until now that all of this seems like luxuries she may never have had again.

“Thank you.” Her voice breaks, cracking as she fails to make eye contact with Dean.

His brow furrows slightly. “I told you we’d get you patched up.”

She shakes her head. “Not for that.”

She doesn’t have to say anything more. Dean understands. His eyes meet hers, his full of sympathy and hers full of gratitude. He moves to sit beside her, cautiously, then reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing softly and lacing their fingers together. As they sit in silence, just as the moment begins to feel too long and uninterrupted, the door swings open and Sam walks through, two brown paper bags in one hand and a drink carrier in the other.

Their days continue on together, her staying in, Sam and Dean venturing out for food, drinks, some other secretive reasons they don’t like to discuss in front of her. But they’re always sharing these looks, like they have to keep it from her, or she’ll break.

And she might.

She’s lived with no one for so long that any news from the outside world feels earth-shattering. She’s done her best to adapt as quickly as she can, but she hasn’t seen civilization since she was eight years old. When she finds herself slipping away, unable to come to terms with reality, she finds the smallest bathroom, a shower stall, a dark closet, locks herself inside, and pulls her knees into her chest. She wraps her arms around her legs and rocks back and forth, tears streaming from her eyes as silent sobs wrack her body.

The prison was her own personal version of Hell, but it was her home. It was the only place she’d known for more than twenty years. The small spaces, the darkness, the dampness of the shower. It brings it all back, and she finds herself rubbing her wrists in harsh circles where the restraints used to be, squeezing until her skin bruises where she’s freshly scarred.

She hides it from them, washing her face with cold water before returning to the day. But they know. They know you don’t just move on from what she went through. Sam and Dean are patient with her - as patient as they can be with a fully grown woman who has the social skills of a child.

She still can’t remember her name, and Dean has taken to calling her, “babe.” Sam doesn’t directly address her, really, just kind of fits himself into conversations when she’s already involved so he can avoid it altogether. They’ve given her books from local libraries and secondhand stores, taught her to write, taken her to hobby shops, craft stores, antique stores - places they know don’t get too crowded unless it’s a special occasion. She’s picked up painting, and while the books she chooses are small and look childish compared to Sam’s, she loves to read them. 

One night, while they’re eating dinner in Dean’s car, she sees the brothers share a silent look, and she knows she’s supposed to avoid listening to their conversation. They exit the car and stand at the front bumper. Pretending to be lost with her nose in her book, and fully avoiding looking at them, she reads and rereads the same sentence six times while eavesdropping on them.

“We have to tell her soon, Dean.” Sam’s muffled voice comes from outside the car.

“Tell her what, exactly?” Dean’s voice sounds taught.

“We can’t just let her think this was all normal. People don’t just - she can’t just go on like this.” Sam stumbles over his words.

“She’s doing fine, Sam. I don’t want to throw her back into that hell. She’s moving on.”

Is she moving on? She hasn’t thought about her captors in a few days, which is the longest stretch yet. She likes being with Sam and Dean, likes living with them, even if they are strangely codependent and rarely leave each other’s side. She’s codependent too; she wholly depends on them to support her, but if she lets her imagination wander just a bit, she could swear Dean depends a little on her too. 

The nightmares come back that night, after they check into another motel. In her sleep, she relives the day the men came for her, the day they murdered her family and dragged her to hell on Earth. She relives every day within the confines of those four walls, rats as her only companions. She wakes most nights sweating, crescent-shaped indents pressed into her palms, her head pounding as she tries to unclench her jaw. Tonight is different. She can’t wake up. She feels herself dreaming, knows she’s asleep, but her body locks her into her subconscious and holds her there - a prisoner again, but this time inside her own mind. Her eyes flood with tears, they streak down her cheeks as her eyes hold shut.

She screams.

Sam and Dean bolt awake, Dean running to her from his place on the couch across the room. He holds her shoulders, more gentle than he should be in his panic. 

“Babe?” He rasps, his voice full with the hoarseness of sleep. “Hey, wake up. Come on.” He shakes her softly. His fingers stroke over her cheekbones, move up to just below her eyes, swiping at the tears falling from them. “Wake up.” The tone of his voice shifts. He’s pleading.

Inside her head, the nightmare changes. It’s never done this before, but tonight, as Dean holds her, her brain conjures something new. The door to her cell, the concrete room, opens. Instead of Alexander or one of his sons, a black cloud zooms through the doorway and forces itself down her throat. Her body goes rigid, both in her dreamland and in Dean’s arms.

In the nightmare, she chokes on the black smoke in her throat. In the motel room bed, she thrashes and screams. When the air finally leaves her lungs, her body sags like there’s nothing inside, no bones to keep its shape or support its weight. She inhales sharply, a gasp like she’s been underwater too long and has just reached the surface. As she breathes in, Dean looks into her eyes. His own breath catches in his throat at what he sees. Her left eye, usually a gray hue that seems to match the color of the sky on a rainy day, mirroring the sun fighting its way through the overcast clouds, has turned wholly black.

“I’ve never heard of anything like this before, Dean. A demon possession through a dream?” Sam raises his brows. “There’s no way. Right?” He looks at his brother. “Right?”

“You think I have an answer to that?” Dean snaps. “I’m seein’ the same thing you are.”

“I’ll make some calls.” Sam runs a hand through his hair.

“See if anyone’s had a case like this.” Dean nods his agreement sharply. “I’ll stay here with her.” He tosses Sam the keys, which Sam catches swiftly before he takes off toward the car.

Dean returns to her, her eyes their normal stormy hue again, but the blackness flickers like a loose lightbulb.

She sits on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the side so hard her knuckles are white. Her breathing is shaky, her whole body is trembling, she hasn’t spoken since before she fell asleep last night, since before the nightmare. Dean perches himself beside her tentatively and waits. He sits for just shy of thirty minutes before she moves, before she makes any indication of being conscious of the world around her.

“A demon.” Her words are quiet, her voice matching the quaking she shows on the outside.

“I - I’m not really sure where to start explaining this to you.” Dean admits.

“Maybe you could start by telling me what your brother means when he says I was possessed by a demon in my sleep.” Her tone is new to both her and Dean, a bite behind her words neither of them has heard.

“We don’t know.” Dean’s confession burns his throat. They - he and Sam - have never dealt with this before. Demon possession is usually pretty straight-forward, an exorcism would take them out and send them back to Hell. But this - the demon half showing its face, half hidden - that’s new. “We’re afraid to try anything we usually do because - because you’re obviously still you, and the way we usually handle demons doesn’t, uh - doesn’t end well for the suit.”

“The suit?” Her eyes all but bulge from her head. She’s a suit, being worn by a demon. She shakes her head to rid herself of the thoughts. “So demons are usually…”

“Demons usually inhabit people who are dead or close to it.” He sighs, running his hands down his face. “Or if someone summons them.”

“People… summon… demons…” She forces her eyes shut and clenches her teeth together.

“Since pretty much the dawn of time, I’m afraid.” He grimaces at the truth. He knows it all, it’s nothing he’s unfamiliar with, but bringing it to light like this, to someone who’s never known the darkness that exists in the world - aside from the horrors of human beings - it feels like he’s ripping open a wound in her, and in himself. She shouldn’t have to deal with this. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. Sam shouldn’t have to deal with this. 

“Me and Sam, we try to… handle things like this. Exorcise demons, hunt monsters, put ghosts to rest.” Dean continues his explanation cautiously. “But it’s just the two of us, and we’ll never get them all. They’re still out there, always will be.” He swallows. “And we - we’re gonna take care of this. Of you.” He reaches for her hand, covering it with his own. “We’re gonna figure it out.”

She believes him. She feels his hand over hers and she knows he’s real. He’s telling her the truth. 

She trusts him.

When Sam returns over five hours later, he’s visibly distraught. His fingers have been tangled into his hair, running through it to relieve stress.

“So, nothing, then.” Dean notices the look on Sam’s face, follows him down the bunker’s long corridor of a hallway, then into Sam’s room.

“Nothing easy.” Sam huffs and falls onto his back on his bed. He closes his eyes and lets himself settle into the mattress. “She’s like, a one-in-a-million case.”

“Of course she is.” Dean mutters under his breath. 

“She is right here.” Her sharp tone is back as she eyes them from where she’s leaning against the doorway. “What did you find? How do you… research stuff like this?”

“Oh, Sammy is an expert.” Dean teases, a feeble attempt to lighten the mood while he plants himself firmly in Sam’s desk chair.

“Well, not much of an expert if he can’t find a solution.” She realizes how rude she sounds, especially talking to the men who saved her life not two months ago. “I’m sorry. I - I shouldn’t have said that, I know you’re trying, and I appreciate it. Thank you.”

Sam sits up slightly and glances at her. “You’re welcome.” He brings himself fully upright and turns toward her, long legs dangling off the side of the bed. “I’m sorry I can’t find much, but it was only one day. I’m still looking.”

“I know.” She nods slowly. “I know you are. You’ll find something.”

Dean clears his throat to interrupt them. “What did you find?”

“There’s an exorcism, one different than the one we usually do. That was the first thing I found. In dad’s journal.” Sam explains, eyes moving between the two of them.

“So then let’s try it.” Dean offers. “An exorcism won’t hurt. It’ll just send the demon back to Hell. It won’t hurt her.” Dean finds her eyes. “Thoughts?”

“I - I mean…” She hesitates, obviously unfamiliar with the way things usually go with a demon exorcism. “Sure.”

Sam sends a knowing look in Dean’s direction and shrugs. He moves to his bag in the corner and digs through it, under the clothes, until he finds a flask of holy water, a Bible, and an old leather bound book - the journal he had mentioned, maybe? He skims through the book, finds a page that looks like it’s taken a beating over many, many years, then clears his throat.

“You - you should maybe lay down? Close your eyes? Find a happy place and go there in your mind, or something.” Sam is out of his depth, completely unsure how to make an exorcism more comfortable. “Uh…” He looks at Dean. Dean shrugs and walks toward her, holding out his hand and guiding her into the room, closer to Sam’s bed. 

She takes it cautiously. “Is it… gonna hurt?”

“It might.” Dean offers his honest answer. “I can’t honestly say I’ve ever been through it before.” She nods and he laces their fingers together. “I - I can…”

“Hold my hand?” She chuckles. Dean smiles and squeezes her hand in confirmation. “Thank you.” She makes her way onto the bed, then lays down and Dean sits beside her, their hands staying connected as Sam begins his incantation.

“Crux sacra sit mihi lux

Non draco sit mihi dux

Vade retro satana

Numquam suade mihi vana

Sunt mala quae libas

Ipse venena bibas”

Sam’s voice fades as his eyes flicker between the pages of the journal and the bed where she’s laying. Dean’s gaze never leaves her - her face, her body, their joined hands. But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t react to the exorcism, the Latin being spoken over her. Her black eye doesn’t return, her body doesn’t seize; she just remains completely still, eyes closed while Sam recites the words in front of him. When he’s done, he recites it again, flicking the flask, half open, across her body and sprinkling her with holy water. Again, there’s no reaction. Her skin doesn’t sizzle, her eye doesn’t flicker to an onyx abyss, nothing changes. 

She cracks an eye and glances sideways at Dean. “Am I… okay? I don’t feel anything.”

“You’re okay.” Dean assures her. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but you’re okay.”

Sam huffs and shakes his head. “I don’t know either. For right now, this is all I’ve got. Give me another few days and I’ll figure something out.”

“Do you need help?” She sits up, fingers still linked with Dean’s.

Sam’s brows jump in surprise as he looks to Dean. “You wanna help check this out?”

“I do. It’s my body.” She shrugs. “I’d like to get this - this demon out of me as soon as possible, and I can read… kind of.” She mutters the last part as quietly as she can manage, but they hear her and give her a look she assumes can only mean they’re skeptical. “I’ve been reading a lot since you brought me here.”

“She has.” Dean nods toward the stack of young adult chapter books in the corner. She brings them to Sam’s room when she’s done so he can return them to the library for her, on the off chance she doesn’t want a change of scenery.

“I swear, I’ll keep my head down and be quiet. I just want to figure this out.” She promises, then her voice falters. “I - I’m not ready to give up.”

Sam narrows his eyes and looks between the two of them, contemplating. “Yeah, alright.” He finally caves, directing his eyes to Dean. “She can come.”

It’s another week before she finds any kind of lead. Despite her unwanted passenger - a demon from the literal depths of Hell hitching a ride inside her skin - the week isn’t entirely unpleasant. She spends most of her hours nestled into a back corner in the Lebanon City Library, rifling through old tomes, searching for any word that even looks like the word demon. 

She finds a few ideas, tries them herself. She dunks her head into a sink full of holy water. She presses wooden crosses to her chest, then switches to pure silver instead. She swallows a handful of salt - admittedly, Dean’s idea. There’s no result, no change in her, not even a glimpse of the black eyeball that haunts Dean’s dreams.

Her dreams, meanwhile, subside. She no longer has visions of the room she spent twenty years locked inside. She doesn’t see the faces of Alexander, or Russell, or Justin, or Danny. They’re not digging their blunt fingertips into her forearms or the sides of her neck. They’re not dragging her along the cold, hard floor despite her being chained in place, they’re not choking the life out of her because she called one of them a bastard. They’re gone. Her dreams seem to be nothing more than a thick cloud of black smoke, and it’s simultaneously the most comforting thing and the most terrifying thing she’s seen in quite some time.

One afternoon, a Thursday, while Dean is out on a “milk run” (whether he’s actually getting milk or not, she’ll never know), she finds something. She runs from the back of the library through the wooden rows of shelves - a hushed scolding coming her way from a middle-aged woman pushing a metal cart and reshelving books - to the front desk, and checks out the book in her hands. After a too-long process of obtaining her first ever library card, she doesn’t bother to wait for Dean to return to pick her up, just bolts out the door and follows what she thinks is the way back to the bunker. 

The way home.

Sam is seated at a table in the war room, Dean insisting he stay in case she needs something while he’s gone. The bunker door swings wide, immediately sending Sam on the defensive. His knife in one hand, gun in the other, he springs upright and takes cover behind a wall. He peeks around it, until he sees her walking through the door. She’s panting - she’s been running - and she’s carrying an old book under her arm.

“I got something!” She calls into the empty room, her voice echoing off the metal walls of the chamber. “Sam! It’s - I think I found it!” 

“Oh my God I almost killed you!” Sam shouts, emerging from his place behind the wall and tucking his gun into the waist of his jeans behind his back. “I almost killed you.”

“But you didn’t!” She reasoned without hesitation. “You didn’t kill me, and good thing, because I think I just found the solution to our problem.”

“Our - you mean your problem.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not the one running around with a dormant demon living inside me.” She looks at him incredulously. “Alright, what is it?”

“We need a mirror.”

“We should wait for Dean.” She watches as Sam gathers what he thinks they’ll need - ropes, gallons of holy water, buckets of salt.

It’s the ropes that get her. They stop her dead in her tracks, make her trip over her words, get her heart pumping nearly twice its normal speed.

“What are they for…” She deadpans, eyes locked on the offending supplies.

“What are-” he stops when his eyes follow her gaze and fall on the ropes. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Sam stumbles as he reaches for the ropes, looking for a way around using them. “We - I’ll find another way. I just wanted to - to hold you in case…”

“In case the demon comes out and I try to hurt you.” She nods. “We should wait for Dean.”

But Dean doesn’t come back. Not that night, and not the next morning. 

It’s nearly midnight, on the day after she found a potential answer, when Dean finally falls through the bunker door. His face is caked with blood - not his own, there’s not a single scratch on his perfectly symmetrical face - and he has a knife dangling from his hand like he had to fight his way through something to even approach the bunker.

“Dean…?” Sam finds his way to the door. “Dean, where the hell have you been? I’ve called you like eight times.”

“Yeah, Sammy. I know. It wasn’t as easy as we thought it’d be to summon them and then get the answers we need.”

“Answers?” Her voice comes quietly from behind Sam. “You did this for me? To help me?” Dean’s face falls. She isn’t supposed to know.

“Yeah, babe. We did.” He confesses. “I summoned a few demons, kept them held inside the biggest and most brutal devil’s trap I’ve ever drawn, and I questioned them. I asked them everything I could’ve possibly asked them. They have no idea what - who - could be living inside of you. They haven’t noticed anyone missing, but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t missing from downstairs.”

“From Hell.” She begins to understand. It’s slow-going, her picking up on the nuances of what he’s saying. Dean Winchester is torturing demons.

Torturing demons.

It hits Sam at the same time, the realization of what Dean’s doing - what he’s doing again.

“Dean, I think we-” Sam starts, but she cuts him off.

“I think we have the answer.” She glares at Sam. “I think I found the answer. Yesterday.”

Dean’s eyes grow wide. “That’s why you called so many times.” His eyes find Sam’s, and Sam nods.

“We wanted to wait until you came back.” Sam explained. “In case-”

She interrupts him again. “In case the demon came out and I couldn’t hold it back. In case Sam was in danger. In case we needed you to…” Her voice falls to the floor along with her gaze. 

“In case you needed me to kill you.” Dean’s voice is rough, and she’s not sure if it’s with grief at the realization of what he might need to do, or because he’s been torturing demons for the last forty-eight hours.

“In case you need to kill me.” She nods. “Sam - he wanted to restrain me with-”

“No.” Dean jumps in. “No way in Hell.”

The pun isn’t intended, but it does make her chuckle, which earns a scowl from both brothers.

“We - you are not restraining her in any way, shape, or form.” Dean continues after her muttered apology for the chortle. “No ropes, no chains, no cuffs. She will never be tied up again, do you hear me?”

“Dean.” Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “Loud and clear, dude. I got it. No ropes.”

“Good.” Dean said sternly. “I’m gonna shower.” 

“Uh, yeah, you should.” Sam sidestepped to clear a path for Dean. “Then we can-”

“Then we’ll figure it out. We’ll talk about it.” He gave a single nod to his brother, then another to her. “We’ll get that damned thing out of you, and if I never see another black-eyed-sonofabitch again, it’ll be too soon.”

Dean disappears and reemerges with reddened skin, having scrubbed fiercely at the bloodstains on his arms and hands. He goes first to the refrigerator and the unmistakable sound of a bottle cap leaving a glass bottle echoes through the silence of the bunker’s kitchen, followed within two minutes by the sound of empty glass clanking against the metal countertop. He makes his way into the room with Sam, looking around for any signs of her.

“She said she wants a minute.” Sam answers Dean’s unspoken question.

“Got it.” Dean nods. “What’s the plan?”

Sam explains what she found, the mirrors, the incantations, the reason he’d considered using restraints. Dean’s on board with all of it - all of it except anything being tied around her wrists or ankles. He’d never see her like that again, so helpless and tied up, desperate for escape. They’d saved her, brought her into their home, given her back a chance at the life she deserved to have. He couldn’t be the one to make her feel like that was being taken away from her again. He knew about the showers, about the closets, about the small rooms she secretly tried to find as an escape. He knew she was stuck inside her head more days than not.

And he also knew about her mother.

About the way her mother had sold her soul. The way it took more than a kiss to seal the deal from that particular demon. The way her mother fell pregnant as the deal was written in the stars. The way the demon came knocking that night, with a crew to back him up, and upturned every ounce of her life. The way they took down her parents, jammed a knife into her sister’s ribcage, found her in that closet, threw a bag over her head, and dragged her to that hellhole of a basement where she spent the next - the last - twenty years.

Every demon he’d summoned while he was gone, they’d told him all about it. They knew it was a button they could push and he’d react every time. She’d become a weak spot for him, and it was so blatantly obvious to everyone but himself.

Sam clears his throat and shakes Dean from his thoughts.

“Whatever we need to do - whatever I need to do - I’ll do it. I’ll hold her back myself.��� Dean offers.

“Dean, I can’t let you do that and you know it.” Sam rolls his eyes. “She could hurt you. She could kill you.”

“She won’t.” Dean shakes his head. “She won’t kill me. It’s still her in there, I know it, Sammy. We just have to get her back to her again.”

And they do.

She enters the room. Sam has a mirror, veiled in black cloth, perched against a wall at the far side of the space. She looks at him and nods knowingly, then finds Dean’s eyes. He meets her gaze and walks to her, reaching out his hand. She places hers in his palm and he runs his thumb over her skin.

“We’re gonna figure this out.” He promises, and she nods as he looks into her eyes. She feels it, the charge between them, and it’s Dean who acts on it. His face leans toward hers, tilted just so, and she inverts the position with her own face before meeting him in the middle. Their lips find one another in a gentle brush before the kiss turns needier from both sides. Dean pulls her closer, his hand leaving hers in favor of the small of her back. Her body is against his, a fire within her she’s never known before. Her fire comes from anger, from sadness, from darkness, but this feels like a light.

She pulls back, her eyes lift to his, and Dean grabs her then by the upper arms. He spins her to Sam, to the mirror, and she catches sight of her left eye - fully shrouded in pitch black. She gasps, but Sam has already started the incantation. By the second word, he uncovers the mirror and Dean forces her right in front of it. When she tries to turn away, a growling sound emanating from her chest, up her throat, and finally into the air, Dean wraps an arm around her chest and grabs her chin with his other hand. He wrenches her face back to the mirror and watches as her face melts into a mask of pure, unadulterated pain. She’s shrieking like he’s never heard a woman scream before, and then a flash of red-orange light comes from within her. It outlines her ribcage, her heart, her lungs, the column of her spine, neck. and throat, and then with a whoosh, black smoke pours from her mouth. It fills the room, clouds the mirror, a shrill sound coming from within the column of blackness, and falls to the floor before dissipating back into the depths of Hell.

She collapses against Dean’s body, her eyes closed, jaw slack.

“Shit.” Sam runs to them, crouching so he’s level with her limp body. He reaches up and holds her face, presses two fingers against her neck. “She’s alive.” He glances up at Dean with confirmation in his eyes. “She’s alive.” The relief floods Sam as Dean’s own washes through him, his shoulders sagging when the weight finally leaves them.

Dean lifts her, cradles her against his chest, and carries her back to his room. He lays her in his bed, pulls the blankets over her, and sits in a chair across the room. He stays there, guarding her, keeping watch over her, until her eyes flutter and she wakes with a start.

He’s there in an instant, by her side. “Hey, hey.” He holds her gently. “Hey, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

She crashes into him, her body falling against his chest while she buries her face into the crook of his neck. She wraps her arms around his neck and sobs. He holds her. He just holds her through the worst of it, until she finally pulls back and her eyes find his. 

The gray-blue of them has returned, fully, in both eyes. She’s back.

The adrenaline courses through their veins, the high, then the relief of it all. She lunges for him, crashing their lips together in a fit of thankfulness she doesn’t quite know how to otherwise express. His hands hold her face, fingers pushing into her hair behind her ears, thumbs cupping her jaw. Their breaths mingle, she smells him again, that leather-gunpowder-coffee-whiskey scent, except this time, she can taste it too. It’s on his tongue as it slides over her lower lip and into her mouth. He invades her senses.

She grips the collar of his shirt, pulling him over her as she lays down. His body presses into hers where their hips meet, his pelvis settles between her thighs. She’s never felt like this before - so desperate for someone else to touch her. She needs this, needs his weight on top of her to keep her grounded. She needs him to distract her from the reality of what happened outside this room. She realizes suddenly that it’s not her room, but Dean’s room that they’re in. She takes in the sensation of his soft blankets surrounding her, of how the sheets, especially the pillow, clings to the scent of Dean more than any other place in the entire bunker. His lips are everywhere, kissing from her own lips to her jaw, down to her collarbone. He stops as his lips hover over her soft skin.

“I need to know that - that this is you, that you’re fully aware of what is happening right now.” He huffs, and she knows he’s holding himself back. She can see the restraint in his eyes.

“It’s me.” She assures him. “It’s me, Dean, and I want this. I want you.”

It’s all Dean needs to hear. It’s her - he’s sure - for maybe the first time since they’d found her, for maybe the first time in her entire life, whether she knew it or not.

His hands move down her body, trailing over her ribcage, finding her hips and giving a tentative squeeze, over her thighs. She arches her back, creating a friction between them she’s never felt before. His lips ghost over her skin, teeth scraping, just barely, at the junction of her neck and shoulder, and she’s never realized how sensitive that area is. His hands are on her hips again, but he’s barely holding her. His palms are simply resting over the hem of her shirt.

He’s being gentle. She’s never done this before, but she knows gentle isn’t what she wants, isn’t what she needs. Dean is wound tight - from the summoning, the questioning, the torturing, the exorcism. He needs a release, and so does she, so that’s what she’ll give them both.

“Dean.” She whispers, and he stops moving. His lips cease their assault on her neck, his hips no longer rut against her inner thighs, his hard length no longer strains in his jeans while it presses against her clit through the fabric of their clothes. He pulls his body almost entirely away from hers. “Stop holding back.”

Something snaps inside of Dean, his movements are no longer languid, but rather rushed, choppy, frantic. He’s gripping at her clothes, silently asking to take them off of her, and when she agrees with a panted, “yes,” he’s tearing them from her body. The garments hit the floor, and before he can bring himself over her again, she tugs at his shirt. Reaching up, Dean discards the fabric with one hand, eyes locked on hers before they begin to roam over her body.

“So fucking beautiful.” Dean huffs.

She’s put on weight since they found her, her bones no longer visible on her torso. She’s put on the weight in the right places, too. Her hips have plumped up, something for him to hold onto. Her breasts are fuller, and he takes the time to appreciate that particular fact with not only his hands, but his mouth as well. His tongue glides around her right nipple while the thumb and index finger of his hand pinch the left. After he laves over the hardened bud, he bares his teeth and bites into her sensitive flesh. 

A cry leaves her lips, his name lost on a whimper while he descends her body. His tongue trails down the center of her abdomen, tracing a line from her cleavage to her belly button, circling her navel before dipping into the elastic of her underwear. His teeth scrape at the fabric before catching it between them, then dragging it downward. His hand comes to aid him in pulling them down her thighs, over her knees, until they finally find her ankles and she kicks them off. When he’s back between her legs, she realizes he’s shed his remaining clothing as well. His skin presses against hers, the two of them moaning in sync as their most intimate parts meet. 

She doesn’t know how, but she knows she’s ready. She doesn’t want anything else first - just him. Just the intrusion of his cock pushing into her and stretching her to her limits. She tells him so, and he checks, double checks, that she’s sure, and then there he is. The head of his cock notches against her opening and she whimpers. He’s not even in yet, and she’s barely holding on. 

It hurts, it burns, it’s so much, but it’s not enough. 

“Please.” She writhes beneath him, scared to move too much. “Please, Dean.”

He pushes further, entering her at a glacial speed. The front of his pelvis meets the wet warmth of her as he bottoms out within her. Her head is thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure - or pain, he’s not sure which - until he slowly backs out, dragging his cock within her walls, and she exhales. The sound could’ve come straight from a porno, and Dean’s body reacts as if it has, as if he’s living inside his own personal porn video right now. She’s blissed out, wholly strung out on his cock, and he’s barely even thrusted. She’s so good, so tight, so warm wrapped around him. 

She pushes up to meet his first thrust, slow, but deliciously so. His movements pick up speed, but it doesn’t matter how fast he’s going, how he’s moving, the rock or roll of his pelvis. All she feels is him. He’s filling her so full, stretching her with every move, and she knows it’ll hurt tomorrow, but she wants it. She wants the pain. Pain is all she’s ever known, and for the first time in her life, the pain feels good.

Dean’s thumb first hits his tongue, wetting it just enough, and then finds her clit, circling it with purpose. He’s pushing her to the edge, but she’s already on her way off the cliff. As his finger circles her again, for only the third time, she falls. It’s a freefall into nothing. She’s hanging in the open air while her body shakes beneath him. She’s supposed to feel the crash, she knows she is, but it doesn’t come. She just falls, and then she feels him falling right beside her.

He’s losing himself to her, in her. He’s filling her completely, emptying himself inside of her. It’s reckless, it’s irresponsible, and they both know it, but they don’t care. They can’t find it in them to care about anything other than this moment, right here, right now. They’ve fallen together for the first time, and they both know it’s far from the last.

She looks down then, catches a glimpse of the sheets below them as Dean withdraws himself from within her, and she sees it. There’s blood. 

She’s given everything to him, let him take it all without a second thought, and she knows then, that Dean Winchester holds her heart. And she’d let him rip it to pieces, let him leave her just as he’d found her - just as he’d fucked her - vulnerable, bleeding, raw.

She’s sleeping soundly, Dean laying beside her, but he has no idea what’s raging behind her closed eyes. For the first time in weeks, she has a nightmare. A real, true nightmare, no longer just a cloud of black living in her subconscious. They’re back. Alexander, Russell, Justin, Danny. They’re surrounding her, knives in their hands. Only there’s someone else with them now, a woman. Her brain, even asleep, even on the brink of death, would recognize this woman.

It’s her mother.

She’s weeping, the screeching sound of her sobs breaking through the men’s voices, splitting her ears from the inside out. Then a sound breaks through the shrieking, and she realizes it’s her mother’s voice. She’s speaking, or trying to.

“Run away.” Her mother says. “Run from him.”

From Alexander. 

But her mother shakes her head. “Not them.” Her eyes move to the corner of the room, to a mirror - an exact replica of the mirror they’d used to pry the demon from her body. In the reflection of the mirror, she can see herself, and someone standing behind her. She squints, trying to clear her vision. When she does, she gasps. It’s not just someone standing in the mirror. 

It’s Dean.

His arms are wrapped around her waist, holding her stomach - her pregnant stomach. She gasps and flicks her eyes up to meet Dean’s, but her heart falls to the floor when she sees who - what - is staring back at her. It’s Dean, but it isn’t.

She’s staring into deep pools of nothing but darkness. His eyes are black.

Forever Tags: @atc74 / @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce / @beththedemonhunter / @blacktithe7 / @caswinchester2000

@chelseadanielle19 / @countrygal17a / @danathewitchywoman / @deansgirl7695 / @deanwanddamons

@elizzysnow13 / @ellen-reincarnated1967 / @emoryhemsworth / @esoltis280 / @essie1876

@feelmyroarrrr / @foxyjwls007 / @heartsaved / @hillface89 / @holyfuckloueh

@hunterpuff / @in-deans-arms / @ladylachesis / @lilredniki / @linki-locks11

@mottergirl99 / @mrswhozeewhatsis / @notyourtypicalrose / @plaid-lover-bay25 / @riversong-sam

@sandlee44 / @sea040561 / @shaelyn102 / @smoothdogsgirl / @deanna45

@soulmates8 / @speakinvain / @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester / @spnbaby-67 / @supernatural3002

@superromijn / @tumblr-tidbits / @vicmc624 / @voltage-my2dlove / @wayward-gypsy

Dean Tags: @adoptdontshoppets / @ashki8278 / @cherrycokegirls1 / @clarewinchester / @dean-winchesters-bacon

@deanandsamsbitch / @deansgirl215 / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @iamabeautifulperson18 / @lessons-of-red

@mereka18 / @princessofthefandomrealm / @shamelsslydean / @torn-and-frayed / @yoursmilemakesmeloveyou

♡ Thanks for reading! ♡

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[morallygraysidecharacter]

[morallygraysidecharacter]

Every photo and video I’ve seen of Seb at the Oscars is giving me Malyshka’s Husband vibes. Even the silly goofy clips of him I can help but imagine her just taking photos of him being silly as they get ready for date night together. I love your mafia Bucky so much 😍❤️

Yes!!! That's how he acts when hes taking her to the grand opening of a new hotel or restaurant or show. He always wears her favorite suit (the one that makes him look even more like a mobster). He smells amazing, looks even better.

He loves to show her off too. Bucky makes sure she has a good time. And if she's having fun, then so is he. It's rare to seem him act lighthearted and silly but she brings that side out of him.

[morallygraysidecharacter]

I want to be in a threesome with both bi men talking about me as if I'm not present, "Look how wet she is." "How bad do you want to fuck her?" "What position do you want her in?" "She's got you so hard, look at you, you're throbbing."

[morallygraysidecharacter]

Hello, Navy! Hope you're doing well. I'm here back again because i have a mighty need to tell you this:

just bucky saying "sit and take what you need, honey" and encouraging her to ride him with all her want/need... and not even 5 minutes in he's pleading "jesus, honey, wait you're gonna make me cum too soon" but his hands still encouraging her to keep going hard.

— 🍯anon

Oh, my beautiful nonnie.

Ride It

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky encourages you to take what you want.

Word Count: Over 760

Warnings: Established relationship, unprotected vaginal sex (wrap it before you tap it), light choking, dirty talk, possessive behavior, slight feels if you squint, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Work was a big ball of suck today, but I hope you lovelies enjoy. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

“Sit and take what you need, honey.”

That was what Bucky told you almost five minutes ago, and now he's forcing himself not to move as you brace your hands on his thighs and roll your hips. He watches, completely entranced, letting you bounce on his cock and take what belongs to you. Your nipples still have a bit of shine from him sucking on them and he can’t help but slide a hand to your throat and gently squeeze.

You giggle, a breathy sound, before you say, “Harder.”

He obliges and feels you tighten around him. His strength doesn’t scare you. You crave it. “So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs when you moan. “Bounce on my cock. Take me.”

Just like he has his days when he simply fucking needs you, which is quite often, you have those days, too. So, when you went into the living room, naked, tugged on his sweatpants, and straddled him without a word, he was more than happy to let you take control. It makes him feel good that you need him. Though it was taking everything in him to not thrust up into you or flip you over and pound into your pretty pussy until you cried.

As long as you get off, you can fuck however you please.

But he feels his head start to spin, his eyes half lidded when he feels the dam close to breaking. “Fuck, honey, wait,” he begs when you move faster, dropping his hand to your hip. He doesn’t keep you still. His touch only encourages you. “Gonna fill you up too quickly if you don’t stop.”

And he has to get you off.

His words only encourage you more. “Yeah, big boy?”

“I’m serious. Gonna come if you keep doing that,” he warns. Only you can make him lose control.

“You can. It’s okay,” you smile, a heart stopping smile, when he bites his lip. “I want you to.”

“Honey…” he growls, another warning. He isn’t sure if it’s for you or himself.

“My pussy’s that good, isn’t it?” you asked, circling your hips. “You wanna fill me up, don’t you? Make my pussy yours.”

“Fuck me,” he groans, his head falling back. He loves when you talk dirty. Loves fucking each of your holes. Bucky just loves you.

“I am. I’m fucking this thick… huge… cock,” you moan, your back arching and your hand moving between your legs to play with your clit. It’s such an erotic, filthy display and he swears he’s going to blow his load in a few more seconds. “Making it mine.”

His breath hitches when you lean in, your lips touching the corner of his mouth. “Fuck, yeah. It’s yours,” he promises, his breath ragged as you grind yourself down on his cock. Your cunt feels too good, squeezing him like you own him, the same way he owns you. He just doesn’t want to let go without you. “Want me to come? Wanna milk my cock for all it’s worth?” he asks, smacking your ass and smirking when you shriek.

“Yes!” you cry.

“Then keep riding me. Use me. Own me.” The wet squelch from your bodies meeting is almost obscene and he loves it. Loves every sound, every movement. He still can’t believe some days that he has you. That he gets to fuck you, love you, keep you. You’re his, and he’s yours. “‘Atta girl.”

“‘m close, Bucky,” you moan. He can feel it. You’re practically dripping. Such a pretty fucking mess. He wants to clean it up with his tongue. “So, give it to me. Come with me. I need it.”

Bucky will never deny what you need.

His fingers dig in as he starts to quiver. Bucky wasn’t a man who quivered until you and your perfect cunt showed up in his life. And your greedy cunt milks him just like you want, and he wonders if his release is what triggers yours. The moans you let out don’t stop him from claiming your mouth and swallowing down the last sounds from your orgasm. And he can’t stop himself from finally lifting his hips, drawing one last moan from you.

“Fuck…” he pants, smiling and framing your face. “I love you.”

“I love your cock,” you sigh, and giggle when he nibbles on your bottom lip. “And you.”

That makes his heart soar. “Get what you need?”

“Almost.” There’s a spark in your blissed out expression, and his cock stays hard inside your clenching walls. “Think I need one more.”

He gives you three, and you thank him for it.

Nothing to see here, lovelies! Go about your business. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[morallygraysidecharacter]

Moving Faster to a New Disaster

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Song Prompt from Unclaimed Love Songs: I Run to You by Lady A

A/N: This is such a sweet song, I don’t know why my mind did this but here we are.

Word Count: 100

"When I tell you to get out of here, I mean it!" The exclamation was punctuated with a Hydra agent being thrown through a glass pane to then fall thirty stories below.

Chest heaving and beautiful mouth snarling, Steve all but glared at you so that you didn't dare move from the spot you had backed yourself into when the fighting began.

"They were going to kill you!"

"There’s always going to be someone trying to kill me." He stepped towards you, broken glass crunching beneath his weight.

"Well tough shit, Rogers, I don’t abandon the people that I love."