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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 3 months ago

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Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit.

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.”

—

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

8K notes · View notes

my-name-is-alice-ayers · 6 months ago

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Needs & Wants Series Masterlist

Bucky Barnes x Reader, Sex Pollen

Parts containing smut are in red.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3 (smut)

Part 4 (smut)

Part 5 (smut)

Part 6 (smut)

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9 (smut)

Part 10 (smut)

BONUS CHAPTER (smut)

This series has been completed. Thank you for reading!

3K notes · View notes

my-name-is-alice-ayers · 6 months ago

Text

Time & Temptation Masterlist

Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader, Roommates w/ Benefits

Part 1 (smut)

Part 2

Part 3 (smut)

Part 4

Part 5 coming soon...

This series is currently in progress and the masterlist will be updated with links as new parts are posted.

832 notes · View notes

my-name-is-alice-ayers · 6 months ago

Text

Breathe: Part 1

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Two-Part Fic

Summary: Bucky hates the way you take unnecessary risks in the field, the way you're so mesmerizing and yet so hard to work with, and he especially hates the way you get on your knees for him during a dangerous mission. Finding out how pretty you look on your knees is the last thing he needs.

Warnings: profanity, enemies to lovers type vibe, Bucky being a moody yet protective little shit, teasing, prelude to smut

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: I've been thinking on this one for weeks, working on it slowly but kept getting stuck with the dialogue. Happy to say that I was inspired tonight and finished enough of it to post for you guys 🖤

The handgun tucked into the waistband of your jeans, the black backpack with a few extra magazines and various pieces of tactical gear, and the determined look in your eyes all tell Bucky one thing. He has a very limited window of time to convince you not to do this, to get you to think rationally and not get yourself killed. He watches in silence as you zip up the backpack and drop it on the floor by the front door of the safehouse. There are so many ways he could choose to go about this, but he has no idea which method is going to get you to sit your ass down and stay out of the line of fire that you’re so set on heading into.

You’re kneeling down lacing up your boots when you feel Bucky’s stare. You dare to glance across the living area, taking in the sight of him on the couch. He sits there with his feet spread on the floor and his elbows resting on his knees. His leather-gloved hands are clasped in front of him, hiding both flesh and vibranium from your gaze. The way he’s staring at you is enough to make you question your entire poorly thought-out plan, enough to make you want to kick your boots off and follow the stand-down order you received from SHIELD less than an hour ago.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask, narrowing your eyes at him, trying to use some form of telepathy to get him to stop.

“Why are you so set on doing this?” He responds with a question of his own. He leans back now, resting his back against the couch cushions. His eyes never leave you.

“We’ve worked on this for months. If we stand down, if we don’t pull this off tonight, we won’t ever get another chance.” You remind him, rising to your feet and lifting your backpack up to sling it over one shoulder. Bucky’s quick to push himself off of the couch and cross the room, coming to stand a foot in front of you. He reaches for the backpack strap on your shoulder but you dodge his outstretched arm with ease. A look of annoyance spreads over his features and he ends up planting one hand on his hip while the other moves up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“So, what’s your plan then, huh? Go out there alone and get yourself killed because you don’t know how to follow orders?” Bucky’s tone displays every bit of exasperation he’s feeling. This is why he doesn’t like being in the field with you. You’re unpredictable and dangerous, you do things your own way no matter what anyone says. He can’t stand it.

“That sounds about right, are you not okay with that?” You’re turning on your heel and gripping the door handle as the words leave your mouth. You’ve only tugged it open an inch when Bucky steps close behind you and flattens a gloved palm against the surface of the door, forcing it shut once more. He’s so close that his chest is brushing against your backpack and you can smell the faintest hint of his cologne. Your resolve crumbles more and more with every second that he stands this close to you. If he keeps this up, you’ll give in and let the target slip through right through your fingers.

“I’m not letting you leave.” His tone indicates that he’s most definitely not bluffing. He keeps his hand against the door, his chest grazing your backpack, and his vibranium fist clenched at his side. You’re still, holding your breath, as your eyes follow Bucky’s right hand. He slides it slowly down the door until the material of his glove is gliding over the back of your hand that still holds the door handle. The touch feels so intimate, so intentional, and yet, it’s pissing you off more than anything. You don’t fight against him when he pulls your hand away from the handle, letting it fall down to your side. You watch as he turns the lock with a metallic click.

Bucky thinks he’s won, he thinks he’s convinced you to put this insane plan aside. You didn’t swat his hand away when he touched yours, you didn’t even stop him when he locked the door. He’s feeling the tiniest bit of relief when you turn around in the small space that he’s given you between his body and the wooden door. He stands there looking down at you, noting the stormy look in your eyes and the palpable tension in the air.

“I’m going.” His eyes dart down to your lips as you speak in a quieter voice than before. “You can physically try to stop me, or you can go with me.” When he meets your gaze again, he imagines himself physically stopping you. He’s so much stronger, he has every advantage. He knows that you know that. But you also know that he won’t hurt you, you know that when presented with those two options, he’s going to take the latter.

That’s how you end up parking the car down the street from a bustling, overcrowded bar. As you step out of the driver’s seat and shut the door, eyeing a few people stepping out of the bar a hundred feet ahead, you come to the conclusion that you need to change up your look to fit in here. You tug your hair out of its ponytail and run your fingers through it as you step up onto the curb. Bucky’s shutting the passenger side door when he sees you mussing up your hair and putting on a bit of lip gloss. He surveys the sidewalk ahead and notices the small group of people standing outside of the bar talking and laughing, then he looks back to you. It’s almost laughable to him that you think you have to change a damn thing about the way you look right now. You could be wearing a trash bag and missing your shoes and you’d still probably end up with a roster of men to choose from by the time you leave this place. The two of you fall into step next to each other, heading for the entrance slowly.

“What’s our cover?” He asks lowly as you near a few bystanders on the sidewalk. You think for a second, knowing that whatever cover you choose is going to have to be good enough to get you to the office upstairs for at least a few minutes. All you need is the right moment to slip up the back stairs and find any piece of evidence with the target’s new alias on it. Just a name, it’s all you need here tonight. “Coworkers having a drink after work?”

You notice the way a woman in the group of bystanders ahead seems to be mesmerized by the super soldier who walks beside you. Something about the way she stares, with her mouth practically watering at the sight of him, does something to you.

“Take off your gloves.” You whisper, moving a little closer to him so your clothed arm brushes against his with each step you take.

“What?”

“Just this one.” You bump his gloved flesh hand with the side of your own, indicating that it’s the glove you want off. He shoots you a slightly confused sideways glance, but strips the glove off and shoves it in the pocket of his leather jacket. When he feels your arm push against the back of his own, and then the sensation of your warm palm meeting his softly, his fingers intertwine with yours as if it’s instinct, as if it’s second nature for him. You no longer have to answer his question about your covers.

The woman who had previously been ogling Bucky quickly averts her eyes when she notices the way he’s holding your hand. But she notices more than you do. She notices more than just his fingers intertwined with yours. She notices the way he turns his head and looks down at you with a softened gaze, with a look that would never have given away the fact that you’re merely colleagues. She looked away because she knew she couldn’t compete with you in his eyes.

When you’re past the group of people and nearing the door to the bar, you drop Bucky’s hand as you step forward and reach for the door, pressing his chest against your back, he reaches around you and grabs the handle first. He leans in close to you as he slowly tugs the door open.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He whispers the question against your ear, letting his breath fan along the side of your face. You can almost feel his lips grazing the shell of your ear and it sends a shiver down your spine. You only nod in response, which leads to him opening the door for you fully and following you inside the bar.

Twenty minutes later, you find yourself in a dimly lit corner of the bar with your back against a brick accent wall and a glass in your right hand. More notably, Bucky finds himself caging you against that brick wall, with his still-gloved vibranium hand resting on the wall beside your head while he leans down and ghosts his nose and lips along your jawline, creating an image for you both. An image that says we’re in our own little world. The strategy has done two helpful things thus far: it’s made a good number of people avert their gaze due to the obvious public display of affection and it’s made for damn certain that no one would question the two of you making your way to the upstairs office for an activity that involves less clothing.

Bucky can’t quite wrap his head around what’s happening right now. You’re letting him press his lips against the skin of your neck, letting him trace your jawline with the tip of his nose, hell, you’re even letting him drag his teeth over your earlobe like you wouldn’t stop him if he decided to bite down on it to see what kind of noise you might make. He doesn’t know why he’s getting so lost in the meaningless actions, but he thinks it has something to do with your intoxicating scent, or maybe it’s the way your breaths come in a little quicker and your chest rises a little more, brushing against his, every time his lips graze over the newfound sweet spot beneath your ear. He’s actually grateful when you slide your free hand into the hair at the back of his head and tug him away from your neck. If you’d let him keep going, it might’ve affected the long-standing disdain he feels toward you. It might have.

“I think we can make it upstairs and search the office.” You say, slightly breathless as you try to bring yourself back down to earth. You’re peering over Bucky’s shoulder at the scene of the bar, still full and busy. No one will think anything of the two of you heading down the hall toward the restroom. No one will even notice when you waltz right past the restrooms and enter the door to the back stairwell instead. You feel Bucky’s flesh hand wrap around your fingers on your glass. He takes it from your hand just as you’re looking up into his blue eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?” It’s the second time you’ve asked him that question tonight. You watch him closely as he takes the last sip of your drink, as if he doesn’t give a shit that your mouth has already been on the rim of the glass.

“Do you really think these lowlifes won’t shoot us on the spot if they catch us kissing upstairs? They won’t even care if we’re there for the intel or not, they won’t wait to find out.”

“I didn’t say we’d kiss.” You retort, letting your hand fall away from the back of his head. You rest your right palm against his chest and lean in close to him, putting distance between your back and the brick wall. You don’t pay attention to the way Bucky’s chest stops rising beneath your hand as your lips come unbearably close to his own. “We’ll do whatever we need to to sell it, to get out of here alive if we get caught up there.”

Bucky watches as you give him a gentle shove and start heading away from him, down the hall leading to the restrooms and stairwell door. He thinks about grabbing you by your hair and pulling you back, telling you that this is dangerous and that there’s a reason this mission was sidelined earlier in the evening. As he sets the empty glass on a nearby table and starts following after you, his mind puts its own spin on the grabbing-you-by-your-hair idea. You’re passing by the restroom doors when he envisions a few other activities that would involve your hair wrapped around his fist. He has to shake his head to clear out the untoward thoughts, mentally kicking himself for stooping so low. Where is his head at tonight?

Bucky had to use a bit of brute force to get the stairwell door open, and then he took on the role of a look-out while you carefully picked the lock to the office door. You’re on opposite sides of the room now, each of you searching through various filing cabinets and paper trails. Bucky’s starting to feel like the two of you are taking too much of a risk, spending too much time up here while being unable to find even a crumb of evidence. It isn’t until you move around to a desk against the back wall that you notice a small lockbox shoved beneath the piece of furniture.

“Over here.” You whisper, pulling the small metal box out and setting it on top of the desk. Bucky’s next to you in an instant, inspecting the box as you fiddle with the lock. “I can probably get into it, just listen for anyone on the stairs.”

The lockbox contained exactly what you needed and a little more. Instead of finding one new alias, you found two. You found two brand new passports with different fake names, but both with passport photos matching your target. Bingo. Bucky’s standing behind you, looking over your shoulder at the two passports. He reaches around you and plucks them from your hands, quickly using his phone to snap a picture of each before dropping them back in the box. You’re putting the lockbox back into place beneath the desk when you hear the sound of distant voices and the bottom stairwell door handle rattling. This would be about the time that your target’s security team is figuring out Bucky jammed the stairwell door back into place, rather than shutting it normally. He rightfully assumed it would make it harder for anyone to follow the two of you up here. Harder, but obviously not impossible. You feel adrenaline surge through your veins as you turn to face Bucky head-on, your eyes widening as he searches your expression for any indication of your next move. We’ll do whatever we need to to sell it. It’s as if your earlier words are echoing in the space between the two of you. One more second of looking into each other’s eyes seals it. Bucky’s sure he knows what you’re thinking. It’s why he tugs his shirt up a couple of inches and starts undoing his belt with nimble hands. It’s why he pushes a few items away from the surface of the desk to clear it off for you.

It’s why he looks so confused when you drop down to your knees at his feet.

“What are you doing?” He asks gruffly, his eyes darting from the still-closed door and then back to you. When his gaze settles on you, on the way you’re holding the perfect position with your knees on the floor and your ass resting on your feet, he feels something brewing inside of him. He feels something building low in his stomach when you tilt your chin up and look at him through your lashes, like getting on your knees for him is something you’d do any damn day of the week.

Fuck.

“Get up.” The words rush out of his mouth in a harsh whisper. He needs you to get up. He needs you to get up and stop looking up at him like you want something. He can’t handle seeing you like this. It’s fucking ruining him. You don’t make a single move to listen to his command, you don’t have any intention of getting up from where you sit on your knees.

Then, he groans. Bucky groans. It’s a smooth, low, rumbling sound that slips past his parted lips. It slips past his lips because the way your eyes are locked on his is giving him the most sinful thoughts, the most sinful feeling. He scrunches his eyes closed but it’s too late, he feels blood rushing to his cock, the velocity of the turbulent bloodflow aided by the super soldier serum that runs through his veins. His cock is fully erect before the bottom stairwell door has even opened yet. When Bucky opens his eyes again and dares to look down at the irresistible sight in front of him, the sound of the bottom stairwell door being forced open spurs him into action. He needs you on your feet and bent over the damn desk so you can pretend you’re using the office to fuck. It’s why he slides his flesh hand around the back of your head and grips your hair, fully intending to pull you up and push you over the edge of the desk himself.

The softest whimper escapes you as he tugs on your hair. As if it’s second-nature for you, your hands move to grip his thighs at the sensation spreading across your scalp. Bucky freezes with his fingers mixed in the soft locks of your hair and his eyes focused as he stares down at you. You fucking whimpered.

——

This is one of the rare moments where Bucky’s thankful for his vibranium arm, rather than resentful of the stark reminder of his past. His metal digits are wrapped around the top of the steering wheel as he guides the car down the highway, skillfully weaving in and out of traffic to put distance between the two of you and the bar. Normally, he’d be driving with his dominant right hand, but he knows that if he was doing that, you’d notice the way his knuckles are white with tension. So, Bucky drives with his vibranium hand on the wheel and his flesh hand resting on his thigh.

You’re, for the most part, blissfully unaware of the affect that you had on Bucky in the bar, of the affect that you continue to have on him now. As you sit in the passenger seat analyzing the pictures that Bucky snapped of the forged passports, you don’t notice his tense posture or clenched jaw, you don’t notice the tent in the front of his pants or the frustrated look on his face. Truthfully, even if you noticed any of those things, you wouldn’t question many of them. Being tense and frustrated is a normal state for the man.

“I’m glad we got his aliases, even if I’ll probably be benched for it.” You say softly, as you lock your phone and drop it in your lap. Bucky shifts in the driver’s seat in an attempt to get a bit more comfortable while still concealing the bulge in his pants the best he can. He hopes you’ll be benched. You’re always so damn reckless, going against orders no matter who they come from and risking your safety just because you have no regard for your own life. A moment of charged silence goes by before you start to wonder why Bucky hasn’t even offered an annoyed sigh in response. “This might be the first time I’ve ever gotten the silent treatment after getting on my knees for a guy.”

This time you notice the ticking muscle along the side of Bucky’s jaw. As more blood rushes to his cock, he wishes you hadn’t brought it up again. He also wishes you hadn’t made him imagine you being on your knees for anyone else, because that just pisses him off.

“Why was that your go-to move?” He asks suddenly. You’re still at least half an hour away from the safehouse you left earlier, so you’re glad he’s decided not to stick with the silent treatment.

“What? Getting on my knees?” Bucky nods in response, but keeps his eyes trained on the dark, winding road ahead.

“It seemed like the right thing to do.” You mumble, crossing your arms over your chest. It’s not like Bucky had made any move besides unbuckling his belt. What was he expecting you to do? Another moment of silence goes by before you decide to ask him. “What were you thinking?”

“Not the same thing you were thinking.”

“Clearly.” You huff. You steep in annoyance for a minute before resigning to dropping the issue entirely. If he hadn’t wanted you on your knees, he could’ve said more than the simple get up that he muttered as you were mere seconds away from being caught.

“I was going to bend you over the desk.”

“And you were pissed about me getting on my knees?” You let out a laugh and tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Hypocrite.”

“My plan was more believable.” He mutters lowly, guiding the car into the left lane to move around a slower vehicle up ahead.

“You don’t think a girl would get on her knees for a guy in a secluded area of some bar?” He doesn’t respond. It calls his confidence into question and suddenly you find yourself studying him from the passenger seat. With every passing second that he feels your gaze coasting over him, he prays you don’t let your eyes linger on his lap for too long. He has to know that there’s probably a plethora of women that would do exactly that for him. Does he really think it’s that unrealistic? “The girl we saw outside of the bar on the way in would’ve done that for you.”

“What girl?” Bucky has no idea who you’re talking about. The only girl he was focused on outside of the bar was the one telling him to take off his glove so she could feel the skin of his hand. You scoff and roll your eyes.

“How do you even survive in the field with such shitty observational skills?” Bucky’s growing tired of hearing your voice. He pushes the gas pedal down with a little more force, speeding around the car on the right. “She was staring at you.”

As Bucky shifts his focus away from the argument that’s brewing between the two of you to getting back to the safehouse as swiftly as possible, he finds himself thinking about one single moment from tonight. When he tangled his hand in your hair and pulled on it, and instead of a reaction of pain or frustration on your end, all he got was your hands on his thighs and a sound of need, of want. You liked it. You liked it and he can’t figure out why that moment is burned into his brain. He wars within himself, telling himself to let it go, to bask in the tense silence for the rest of the drive. Bucky bites down on his bottom lip as he replays the moment, as he replays the sound in his head over and over. Refusing to let himself speak on the moment is what leads to trouble. It’s what leads to Bucky letting a deep breath pass between his lips, exhaling slowly as he decides to take a calculated risk.

Bucky’s eyes never leave the road as his right hand moves from its resting place on his thigh and reaches over toward you. Not a single word leaves his lips as his vibranium hand remains locked on the steering wheel and his flesh hand slides between your head and the headrest. You’re frozen in the passenger seat, your eyes fluttering closed as his palm presses firmly against the back of your head. It feels as if his fingers are moving in slow motion when he curls them against your scalp, grabbing a fistful of your hair. Bucky’s thumb lightly circles over the side of your head, sending tingles all the way down to your toes. You don’t have a second to ask yourself what the fuck is happening, why his hand is in your hair for the second time tonight, why your body is letting it happen. You don’t have the ability to form a single coherent thought when his grip tightens and he tugs on your hair, forcing your head to tilt upward. You don’t even have the ability to stop your lips from parting, to stop the sharp inhale that fills the silence in the car.

Bucky’s satisfied. Though his cock is hard as hell, straining painfully against the zipper of his jeans, he’s satisfied. He lets go of your hair as quickly as he first took hold of it, letting his hand move back to rest on his thigh.

“My shitty observational skills picked up on how much you enjoyed having your hair pulled earlier.” Still, you have no words. You squeeze your thighs together as Bucky moves around yet another slow car taking up the right lane. You take a moment to look over at him, but he doesn’t turn to meet your gaze. Ever the safe and efficient driver, Bucky keeps his focus on the road ahead. His face looks emotionless, stoic. His body language though tense and brooding, doesn’t give off an air of uneasiness. It isn’t until your gaze coasts down that you notice the hard-on hidden in the shadows of his lap.

“You liked pulling my hair, didn’t you?” He doesn’t respond. “You liked seeing me on my knees so much that you couldn’t stand the fact that it was fake. That’s why you wanted me to get up.” You accuse, watching him carefully. You see the way his jaw clenches again and you know you’re getting somewhere with him.

“Watch it, you’re starting to sound a little full of yourself.” He warns. He can feel your eyes on the side of his face, studying him as he maintains his composure.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’d rather see me full of you, right?”

Bucky doesn’t give any thought to his decision to take the next exit. It’s as if a dark haze clouded his judgment when you said what you said, when you made him think about you being full of him. The air between you is silent as he makes a right turn at the end of the off-ramp and steers the car into the mostly empty parking lot of a supermarket. With tensions rising, you take a deep breath and think about how this might be your last night in the field with the grumpy super soldier who’s always been so hellbent on doing the opposite of everything you would do. You should be almost relieved that you’re going to be benched for a while, that you won’t have to deal with his attitude and authoritative tendencies. So, why do you feel a bit sad about it? Why do you feel like you’re losing something?

Bucky parks the car but stays seated, staring straight ahead at the darkened supermarket entrance.

“I hate working with you.” He says suddenly. His expression is unreadable as you study the side of his face, as he continues staring ahead.

“I—”

“Let me finish.” He cuts you off. His tone alone is effective in shutting you up, and you press your lips together. Bucky runs a hand through his hair and lets out a sigh before turning to meet your gaze. His eyes flit down to your lips briefly, so briefly that you think you might’ve imagined it. He wants them, your lips. He wants them in so many ways. On his own, on his skin, on his cock. He has to remind himself to focus. “I hate working with you. You do stupid shit, you take big risks, you don’t like to listen to anyone but yourself.”

Bucky’s eyes roam down to the exposed skin of your neck. He wants to kiss you there again, to drag his tongue along the column of your throat and make you tense up.

“After tonight, once Fury finds out you went against direct orders, you aren’t going to be in the field for a while.”

Bucky lets his gaze travel further down, coming to focus on your hands that rest in your lap. Such small hands, he thinks. He liked the way your palm felt against his when your fingers were intertwined earlier tonight. He liked it a little too much.

“I’m going to be able to breathe knowing you’re not out there doing everything you can to get yourself killed.”

His words set off a burning sensation in your chest. You feel your cheeks heating up, turning a soft shade of pink, as he looks into your eyes once again.

“I can’t fucking breathe when you do stupid shit. Do you know what that’s like? Not being able to breathe?” He questions. You swear you see his black pupils darken impossibly more, dilating to hide more of his blue irises. You swallow hard before slowly, shaking your head. “I would’ve thought you’d know what that’s like, with the way you got on your knees earlier.”

He can’t keep looking at you, not when you’re being so fucking obedient, keeping your mouth shut and listening to him say his piece. Bucky closes his eyes and leans back in his seat, pressing his head against the head rest and tilting his face up slightly. It’s quiet for a moment, but instead of the tension dissipating after he’s said what he needed to say, after he got it off of his chest, the air seems to be growing thicker, more electrically charged. He hears the soft sound of your seatbelt unbuckling and sliding away from your lap and chest. He hears the flutter of a few strands of your hair being tucked carefully behind your ear on one side.

When your right palm ghosts over his thigh, right above his knee, he doesn’t move a muscle. You tread carefully, watching his lack of a reaction as you press your palm flat against the fabric of his jeans and start dragging your hand slowly up his lower thigh. He takes a deep breath, but keeps his head tilted upward and his eyes closed. When your hand reaches his upper thigh, your fingertips brush along the bulge straining beneath his seatbelt.

Bucky’s clenching his jaw as you pull your hand away from him and press the release button on his seatbelt. You guide it away from his chest before using that same hand to trail down the front of his shirt. By hooking one finger in the belt looped through the waistband of his jeans, you’ve chosen your fate for this moment.

Bucky’s eyes snap open and he looks at you with a mix of frustration and pure lust.

“Show me what it’s like.” Your voice comes out in a tantalizing whisper as you drag the tip of your index finger along the ridge of his belt, looking up at him through your lashes.

“What what’s like?” He narrows his eyes at you. Bucky knows exactly where you’re going with this, exactly what you’re going to say next. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to hear the words fall from your lips.

“Not being able to breathe.”

NEXT PART

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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 6 months ago

Text

Does It Hurt? : Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Sex-Pollen Fic Mini Masterlist

Summary: Bucky never would've gone out of his way to help you if he knew that HYDRA was still watching his every move, if he knew that it would shift their focus to you. When you're targeted and taken, it's his fault and he'll do anything to save you. Anything.

ANNOUNCEMENT: I'll be sharing the first 24.3k words of this fic with you all tomorrow. The links will populate here once it's been posted as scheduled. I've been working on this for a while and have a love-hate relationship with it, so please give me some feedback (good or bad) when you read it. I'd love to hear some of your predictions about what might happen with these characters in the bonus part at the end of the week. Anyway, thanks for being patient with me and following along with the short snippets that have already been posted. I hope a few of you enjoy the unhinged shit my brain dumps out. Special thanks to @littlemiss-yeehaw for reading this story multiple times, constantly reassuring me that it wasn't horse shit, and for designing the image that will be used to symbolize skipping time.

Warnings: angst, sex pollen, unprotected sex, fingering, restraints, abduction, violence (b/c Bucky is protective as fuck), profanity, voyeurism/exhibitionism (if you look hard enough), no use of y/n, only pet name use is random mentions of princess (facetiously)/baby/sweetheart, mention of SA of unknown characters from an old HYDRA experiment, MINORS DNI, 18+!!!.

Does It Hurt? (One-shot, can be read alone.)

Bonus Part (Bonus chapter, continues and resolves the story.)

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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 8 months ago

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❤️❤️❤️

“Alan…” You weren’t expecting him yet, as evidenced by the fact that you are curled up on the parlour sofa without even a book nearby, just staring into space while still in your day dress. The only thing you managed to do was leave your shoes by the door before curling up under the spare blanket.

“What’s the matter?” His voice is full of soft concern as he crosses the threshold into the room. “Are you feeling well?”

Many years too late, say hello to my first ever Crimson Peak fic! Leave a ❤️ in my inbox and I’ll post a sentence as I write!

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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 8 months ago

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🖤🖤🖤 also please please PLEASE tag me in that Alan fic if you post it T_T I can hardly find anything with him and it hurts my heart

Oooh, I hope I do his justice for you!! 🌹 He’s such an angel and I’ve been rewatching the film like crazy lately. 💕 It’s gonna get smutty after all the fluff…

“But the usual is an illness, my love.” He kneels at your side and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Did something happen?” His large hand wipes the escaped hair from your forehead, letting him search your face for any signs that something else might be wrong.

Many years too late, say hello to my first ever Crimson Peak fic! Leave a ❤️ in my inbox and I’ll post a sentence as I write!

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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 8 months ago

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Alan: crimson peak lips

(Again if you haven’t watched Crimson Peak, you can skip this or sub with a different character. He had a really small role in this anyways.)

Thanks for another fun request! ❤️

Drabble Fest Rules (3 words –> 💯word smut)

Drabble Fest Masterlist

..................................................

Dr. Alan McMichael (Crimson Peak) x F!Reader

crimson • peak • lips

♥️🏔💋

His golden mane is swept impeccably off to the side. Bow at his neck perfectly tied. White flowers on his sharp black jacket set just right.

Then you walk in and he has no hope to remain composed tonight.

That crimson dress, the sin that it suggests... the siren’s smile upon your lips, the sultry swaying of your hips... He’s never felt such primal lust consuming him from deep inside.

Before you even speak, his passion has already reached its peak... A fire of desire that he couldn’t fight, not even if he tried.

Such is the fire you ignite.

--- 💯 words ---

..................................................

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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 8 months ago

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Write about DR ALLEN MCMICHAEL!!!! God daaaaamn Charlie in a suit being polite and whizz saving his girl ooooh damn

A/N: Alan McMichael x F!Reader. Violence. Smut.

Alan McMichael is a man of science. Medicine. Numbers and facts and logical explanations.

Observations.

He did have his interests in the dead - in the concept of impressions and spirits caught on celluloid.

But - what he had seen at Allerdale Hall was something else entirely. It had shattered his faith in a way that he might not be able to reconstruct.

He stumbles over the ice and mud. His wounds have grown numb. He is so cold and he can hear your teeth chatter in your mouth.

You cling to his arm - your face round and shocked as you press your cheek to his shoulder. They’re both trailing blood - staining the snow like all the red-clay they had left behind.

Your feet are bare in the ice and he would carry you if he could - he tries to distribute his weight - tries to lift you against him but there’s no use. He is near-delirious with blood loss.

“Stop, Alan,” you chastise as if he were a child. “You’re in a worse condition than me.”

This night would mark him. The months would mark you - scar you in a way he hadn’t quite processed yet.

The girl he knew has drifted away and Alan doesn’t know what you had to do to live. You had come limping back to him - your face streaked in scarlet - your nails caked in gore. Lucille had been a crumpled corpse in the distance when you’d hauled him outside.

When he finally gets you into the carriage, he drags you flush against him, curling his fingers over yours and breathes. “You saved me.”

He shouldn’t be surprised. You had always been headstrong and brilliant and unafraid. You meet his gaze - your eyes faraway and wet with grief.

“You came for me.”

You let him embrace you - let him seek your warmth. It’s so cold. He feels himself fading out and you cradle his face, combing his hair from his brow. “Hold on for me.”

They both live. They’re both physically stitched back together. The poison you’d been fed for weeks on end had sickened your insides - possibly ruined your health for life. Alan vows to get you through it - to protect you and care for you and fix you as best he can.

The nightmares - though.

Alan does not know how to solve that equation. He has no medicine for those memories. He has nothing.

***

You are better. Not the same - never the same. But - neither is Alan.

He comes to understand that while you may have hated what Thomas had done to you, you had also loved him.

In the beginning, you’d cry over him - your dead husband. When Alan would step into the room, you’d try to wipe them away - try to deny it.

“It’s alright,” he murmured as he knelt at your feet. “It’s alright to have loved him - to mourn him.”

Alan practically lives with you after they return to Buffalo. He helps you organize your father’s affairs. He makes sure your home is properly set up. He comes for meals and to monitor your health. He simply visits so that he can talk to you - share happy memories - childhood stories. Anything - but what you had dealt with overseas.

His mother prods at him - needles him. Her opinion of you has swiftly changed after Alan had told her you had essentially saved his life.

When are you going to marry that girl?

When it seems appropriate. She’s been through too much, mother.

The truth was, he was frightened. If he put those words out there, he could not take them back. He loved you in a way that consumed him. He wanted to protect you - cherish you - support you in everything you longed to do.

***

He marries you a year later.

When he had finally told you the truth of his feelings, you had smiled - folding your hands across the clasp of his jaw.

“I know,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Was I terribly obvious?” He pulls you closer to him - just as he did in that carriage when they escaped. It is past propriety - but what did he care when they had already committed the things they did to survive.

Your lips quirk. “Well - you did cross the ocean to save me.” You brush your knuckles over his cheekbone. “Looking very much like a knight in shining armor.”

“Yes - but it was the damsel who slew the dragon.”

You blink at him - a brief flash of pain shuttering across your expression before it disappears. It’s still there. Lucille. The memory of you crushing her skull with a shovel. Thomas’s betrayal.

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have - “

You crush your lips to his - insistent and frantic. He lifts you against him - carries your weight as he had longed to do over the snow.

***

The nightmares come and go. You wake next to him - holding your head in your hands as you tell Alan how you can hear bones crunching - how you can still hear the moans of the Sharpe’s dead mother and wives. The split skull. Blood-red clay. The clink of piano keys.

You ask him to love you then - to make you forget. You grip the lapels of his nightshirt and yank him against you. He climbs over your body - holds his weight as he watches your face. There’s still fear there - the same trembling shock that had burned across your eyes when you had come back to him after killing Lucille.

“It’s alright, my love,” he soothes - running his thumb over the faint scar that splits your cheek. “You’re safe with me.”

These are the nights that you don’t ask him to be gentle. You demand roughness. You tell him to pin your wrists above your head and spear his cock into you at a pace that is far from forgiving. He is deliberate with his touch - fingertips nudging the crux of your sex until you pulse and flex around him. You bloom and arch into the weight of his chest - tongue sweet against his own.

He does not know what you had done with Thomas Sharpe. He does not know if he was cruel in bed or not. It was apparent his feelings for you weren’t completely false judging by what he had done to try and save them from his sister.

Still, there is an ache of jealousy in Alan. He’d never admit it, of course. He had you now - warm and wet beneath him. You clutching at his shoulders and fluttering around him as you mewl like a kitten.

“Alan,” you gasp as he fucks you deeper - as their marital bed creaks and the ghosts between them depart. He grinds himself to the hilt, your knees digging into his ribs. Your wrists fragile - and caught in the grip of his hand while his other strokes you to one more finish.

He burns when he has you like this. When you tighten and pulse and grow silky and slick - kissing him hungrily and heaving with each pump of his cock.

He is reminded of your strength. He is reminded how you ran out into the snow - slowed by poison and fractured bones and cuts and still killed that horrifying woman.

When he’s done, he blankets himself over your trembling body. He peppers kisses across your face - savoring the swell of your breasts beneath his chest - the curves of you notching into his own muscles.

“My knight,” you tease - flicking his hair out of his eyes. Your color has returned - lush and sated. The nightmare now a distant shard of ice that had tried to dislodge their happiness.

Each night - they move farther from Allerdale Hall and the blood fog that had come with it. Each night - they move closer to something like life.

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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 8 months ago

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WardenParker’s Masterlist!

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This blog is 18+ ONLY but you’ll find ** below for pieces that contain explicit smut. Enjoy!

Pedro Pascal Characters, My Beloveds:

Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales Triple Frontier

The Alewife Soulmate AU

“Together” Universe (Frankie x female Reader x Benny Miller): Better Together** Taking Care Together Waking Up Together** Celebrating Together** Together for Christmas

Flyboy**

Full Moon Fury** (Spooktober 2022)

Better Than a Date** (Frankie x reader x Santiago Garcia)

“I have no idea what you just said to me.” (Santi x reader x Frankie microfic)

Three’s Company, pt 1** (Joel x reader x Frankie) Three’s Company, pt 2**

Hurry Home** (Frankie x reader x Santiago Garcia)

The Stars Re-Align, part 1 The Stars Re-Align, part 2 The Stars Re-Align, part 3**

Frankie and Maggie Miller: Beach House Gone Fishin’

Marcus Pike The Mentalist

Ménage à Trois** (Marcus Pike x f!reader x modern!Oberyn Martell)

Sexus, Ars, Amor (Marcus Pike x f!reader x Ezra)

More Than Mistletoe** (Christmas fic!)

Starting Over

The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Dating Your Ex: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3** Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7** Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Epilogue

Mother Knows Best**

First Christmas**

Hummingbird Has Landed (soulmate au): Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8** Chapter 9** Chapter 10 Chapter 11** Chapter 12** (explicit for complications of childbirth) Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15** Chapter 16 Chapter 17** Chapter 18 Epilogue

I’m Yours: (on hiatus) Prologue: Mondays Suck Chapter 1: Two Terrible Ideas Chapter 2: More Evil Than Genius

Agent Whiskey Kingsman: Golden Circle

A Second Chance at Love** A Second Chance at Love pt 2** A Second Chance at Life** (Jack Daniels x reader/Zach Wellison x f!OC)

Bad Moon Rising: pt 1** (Spooktober 2021) Bad Moon Rising: pt 2** (Spooktober 2021)

You, Me & Mexico**

Ghostly Touch** (Spooktober 2022)

Down the Rabbit Hole Soulmate AU

Win a Date with Javi G, pt 1 Win a Date with Javi G, pt 2**

New Year’s Surprise**

“Wait! Please don’t go!”/”There is no ‘us’.” (microfic) “Put me down!”/”Should we make it official?” (microfic, sequel to above)

A Night to Remember, part 1 (Titanic AU) A Night to Remember, part 2** A Night to Remember, part 3**

American as Apple Pie**

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Ménage à Trois** (Marcus Pike x f!reader x modern!Oberyn Martell)

From Dorne, with Love (modern!Oberyn x female reader) Part 1 Part 2 Part 3** Part 4** Part 5 Part 6 Epilogue

The Viper’s Bride soulmate au (Oberyn x reader x Ellaria x male OC) Chapter 1** Chapter 2** Chapter 3** (Explicit for violence) Chapter 4** Chapter 5** Chapter 6** Chapter 7** Chapter 8** Chapter 9** Chapter 10** Chapter 11 Chapter 12** Chapter 13 Chapter 14** Chapter 15 Chapter 16** Epilogue

“Put me down!” microfic

Javier Peña Narcos

The Meeting Place (Javier Peña x reader x Steve Murphy x Connie Murphy)

Broken Road

“There is no us.” (microfic)

If You Were Mine, pt. 1 If You Were Mine, pt. 2**

Night of the Living Wish** (Spooktober 2023)

“Should we make it official?” (microfic)

Bones Full of Words (soulmate au featuring plus size reader) Chapter 1** Chapter 2** Chapter 3** Chapter 4** Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Marcus Moreno We Can Be Heroes

Wish You Were Here Soulmate AU

The Date**

What are you doing here? (microfic)

What Happens in Vegas, part 1** What Happens in Vegas, part 2**

“I’ll protect you.” (microfic)

Ezra Prospect

Sexus, Ars, Amor (Marcus Pike x f!reader x Ezra)

Louder (microfic)

Dave York Equalizer 2

Table for Four** (Dave York x Carol York x f!reader x Quinn McKenna) Couch for Four

Killer Writing Soulmate AU (Dave York x plus size reader)

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” (microfic)

Zach Wellison Brothers and Sisters

Once Upon a Time… (Zach Wellison x plus size reader)

A Second Chance at Life** (Jack Daniels x reader/Zach Wellison x f!OC)

Dieter Bravo The Bubble

You’re So Vain Soulmate AU

Surprising Reunions, pt 1** (Joel x Dieter x reader) Surprising Reunions, pt 2**

Bright Lights & Broken Dreams, pt 1** Bright Lights & Broken Dreams, pt 2** Bright Lights & Broken Dreams, pt 3**

Sweet Temptation**

Red Lipstick** (Spooktober 2023)

“I’m not getting you coffee, your order is ridiculous.” (microfic)

Pero Tovar The Great Wall

Sassenach and the Spaniard Soulmate AU: Chapter 1 Chapter 2** (E for references to assault) Chapter 3** (E for references to assault and violence) Chapter 4** Chapter 5** Chapter 6** Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9** Chapter 10** (E for violence) Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13** Chapter 14** Epilogue

“Does no one here know how to knock?” (microfic)

Max Phillips Bloodsucking Bastards

Close Encounters of the Toothy Kind** (Spooktober 2022)

Vampire Waltz Soulmate AU: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8** Chapter 9 Chapter 10** (Explicit for violence) Chapter 11 Chapter 12** Chapter 13** Chapter 14 Chapter 15** Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Epilogue

Javi Gutierrez The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent

Redbox Romance** (Spooktober 2022)

Win a Date with Javi G, pt 1 Win a Date with Javi G, pt 2**

The King’s Queen (Royalty AU): Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8** Chapter 9

“Wait! Please don’t leave!” (Regency au microfic)

“I’ll protect you.” (microfic)

Joel Miller The Last of Us

“For” Series: For Pleasure** For Her For Protection** For Valentine’s Day**

“I thought you loved forehead kisses.”/”Put me down.” (microfic)

Surprising Reunions, pt 1** (Joel x Dieter x reader) Surprising Reunions, pt 2** Three’s Company, pt 1** (Joel x reader x Frankie) Three’s Company, pt 2**

Next to Normal, pt 1** (Explicit for references to violence) Next to Normal, pt 2** Next to Normal, pt 3** (Explicit for references to violence)

“Put me down.” (microfic)

Detective Tim Rockford Merge Mansion

“You brought me flowers?” (microfic)

Private Dick**

“Wait! Please don’t leave!” (microfic) “I thought you loved forehead kisses.” (microfic, sequel to above)

Maxwell Lord Wonder Woman 1984

In the Heights, pt 1 In the Heights, pt 2**

Charlie Hunnam Characters, My Darlings:

Will ‘Ironhead’ Miller Triple Frontier

Necessary Arrangements (Royalty AU) - On Hiatus: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Alan McMichael Crimson Peak

At First Sight

Boyd Holbrook Characters, My Sweets:

Steve Murphy Narcos

The Meeting Place (Javier Peña x reader x Steve Murphy x Connie Murphy)

Small Towns and Second Chances**

“I don’t need a roommate.” (microfic)

Quinn McKenna The Predator

Table for Four** (Dave York x Carol York x f!reader x Quinn McKenna) Couch for Four

Oscar Isaac Characters, My Dearests:

Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia Triple Frontier

Summer Rose**

Better Than a Date** (Santi x reader x Frankie)

“I have no idea what you just said to me.” (Santi x reader x Frankie microfic)

Hurry Home** (Santi x reader x Frankie)

Garrett Hedlund Characters, My Dears:

Benny Miller Triple Frontier

“Together” Universe (Frankie x female Reader x Benny Miller): Better Together** Taking Care Together Waking Up Together** Celebrating Together** Together for Christmas

Mitch Keller Tulsa King

“Dance with me.” (microfic)

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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 8 months ago

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At First Sight

Alan McMichael x female Reader

Rating: G for General Audiences, but this blog is always 18+! Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: Alcohol, flirting, period manners, fluff, scheming family members, undesirable dance partners. Summary: Alan's sister Eunice is finally engaged and their mother is throwing a grand ball to celebrate. It is the last place that he wants to be...until he meets a young lady who wants to be there just as little as he does. Notes: It's been so, so very long since I wrote anything solo. Please be kind -- all errors are my own, and this is definitely not beta read. It's just a little piece inspired by my downtime at work and countless rewatches of Crimson Peak. Alan deserves some happiness, so I wanted to give him a bit. If there's interest I'll try to write more for these two, but I'll understand entirely if there's not. Thank you so so very much for reading! Dedicated to @julesonrecord for her tireless patience in putting up with me babbling about this character and how he deserved better. And to @ruflirtingwithme for always letting me keep Wade in my pocket wherever I go. There's a bit of him in this as well, for sure.

Despite the tailoring of his tuxedo, the familiar weight of the costume, and the well-traveled ballroom he finds himself standing in, Alan McMichael shifts uncomfortably. He’s lost weight this past year, worry and injury taking their toll, and the tailor assured him that it could barely be seen but took his jacket and the waist of his trousers in anyway. He isn’t as fit as he once was. He isn’t as strong. Not since he followed Edith up that mountain in England, only to bring her back down again to dual hospitalizations and true exhaustion. The doctors at the sanatorium don’t allow him to visit anymore .They say it causes episodes of hysteria.

So now they must live inside their own heads separately, and his mother has taken that as meaning it is time to push him to move on. “It’s for the best.” His mother had said. But Alan couldn’t be sure. Still, he was forced to resume his everyday life, and now it has been a full year since that fateful trip to Crimson Peak.

Eunice’s engagement has been a blessing to distract Mrs. McMichael. Her ploy to whisk her daughter off to New York City in the early summer had paid odd and now Eunice is engaged to the son of some banker who claimed to have an ancestor lead the charge at the Battle of Cowpens. They were all, Mrs. McMicheals told everyone in earshot, quite proud.

Now it was Alan’s turn to once again have marriage prospects pushed on him, and he stood in the ballroom ready to receive guests alongside his father with a false smile and a belly full of dread.

* * * * * *

“I thought you didn’t like Mrs. McMichaels?” The question hands in the air as you finish getting ready for the ball this evening. Spending the Christmas holiday in Buffalo with your aunt and uncle had been your brother’s idea – trying to see that you were taken care of without directly saying that having you in his house would be a burden. So you had reluctantly agreed, giving most of your staff the better part of three weeks off and taking only your maid with you to Buffalo.

It’s not that I dislike her entirely, dear heart,” your aunt Joan insists. “I adore her soirees.”

“How foolish of me.” It takes all your strength not to roll your eyes but your maid recognizes the expression and smiles privately. “I ought to have known. You and Uncle Christian will want to stay until daybreak, won’t you?”

“Certainly.” Aunt Joan quips, appraising herself in her vanity mirror. “Her cook makes the most divine fruit crepes.”

You could point out that her usual overt piety discourages desire and gluttony, but at near seventy years of age, your great-aunt has earned a little indulgence from life. Instead you hum a non-committal agreement and pick up your gloves., “Then it will be well worth staying until breakfast,” you encourage, offering her a smile instead.

“Indeed.” She seems most pleased at the prospect and shoes your maids away with finality. “Your dance card must be full tonight, child,” she warns with an alarming hint of mischief in her voice. “If we want you engaged before the worst of winter snows threaten to keep us all at home.”

* * * * * *

The McMichael’s ballroom shimmers with candlelight and each guest who is announced at the door is another jewel in the crown of the evening. Mrs. McMichaels flits about like a bird with a rare and precious seed, showing it off to everyone around her, and the guests who have eagerly arrived first bask in the shared glow of witnessing such good fortune. Fortunately, very certainly it is a fortunate thing, your Aunt Joan and Uncle Christian do not believe in arriving early to parties. They believe in leaving their home at the time the party is listed as beginning in order to appear both desirably busy and aloof, which means that your trio is squarely in the second half of arrivals to the McMichael house this evening. Even if it is only by a measure of twenty or thirty minutes, the less time you must spend with eligible men being foisted upon you, the better.

“Mr. and Mrs. Christian Tate,” are announced along with your name, and Aunt Joan practically shoves your out in front of them to make sure you’re seen. Not that anyone would have noticed you otherwise, so perhaps it’s wise. The peacock colored gown you chose shimmers softly in the gaslight, but the ballrooms of Buffalo do not have the large, expansive windows and glass doors that you are accustomed to in Newport. It is all mahogany and walnut paneling here, and all the ladies but you – in their pinks and creams and honey yellows – knew better. You will be lost in wainscotted corners in your deep blue, green, and purple hues. Though perhaps it is for the best. This is not your society anyway. You have no intention of ending your time in Buffalo engaged no matter what Aunt Joan might intend.

The two gentlemen at the center of the ballroom could not be anymore obviously father and son, but where the father jokes and jovially signs dance cards at praise of his skills in the country dances, the son seems dour and aloof. His pinched smile does not precisely forbid conversation but it certainly does not encourage it, and he all but sighs in resignation when your Uncle Christian seems happy to see him.

“My wife’s great-niece,” you hear him saying, just before you are shuttled forward again. “Visiting from Newport for the holidays.”

“A pleasure,” the man intones, though you cannot think he means it.

“Is it?” You offer your hand only because your aunt clears her throat so pointedly. But it is at this point that the skyscraper with blonde hair you are being introduced to chuckles. The sound is broken but warm, and you are not so displeased with being here that you miss the way his blue eyes sparkle like aquamarine in the flickering light.

“Perhaps,” he muses, catching the dance card dangling from your wrist before you can take your hand back. “Perhaps you are the first young lady to arrive tonight not to simper and curtsy over the supposed honor of being my mother’s guest. And perhaps I can recognize a fellow soul was was strong-armed into attending.” He looks tired, the heaviness of it hanging deep in his handsome features. Because yes, he is handsome. Intriguingly and admirably so. But that isn’t what is drawing you in to him like a rope tied into your ribcage that tugs you forward whenever he speaks. It’s something else. “Perhaps we will be allies tonight, you and I.”

“Allies?” You watch his hand as he claims both waltzes on your dance card, the first gentleman to do so and claiming what are arguably the most intimate of dances. “How terribly Napoleonic of you,” you droll in response.

He laughs again, a little more deeply, and shrugs his shoulders. “I would avoid the elder Mr. Davies if I were you,” he advises, clearly demonstrating his intent as that very ally he has claimed to be. “His wife passed last spring leaving him with three young children. He has become so desperate for a wife that he is inclined to propose to almost any new young lady he meets.”

“How very concerning for the young ladies.” You murmur back, glancing over at the man being subtly pointed out to you. He is squirrelish and balding, all the hair on his head seeming to have fallen to the bushy mustache adorning his upper lip. “Is there anyone else I ought to be wary of?”

“Oh, a dozen at least.” The mischief returns to this man-shaped mountain’s eyes and he offers you his arm. “It is well worth discussing. Perhaps over punch?”

“Mr. McMichael, I think you are using me as an excuse to abandon the receiving line.” You hum in amusement, not really able to say you blame him for such a thing. Or that you mind.

“Perhaps.” His grin has a shade of mischief and guilt to it. “But perhaps you are using me to avoid the attention of other guests who might bore, annoy, or otherwise rankle you, or even step on your shoes. Which I’m sure are quite beautiful and not to be defiled. This arrangement seems better for us both, don’t you think? I can promise you with surety that it has been more than a decade since I trod on a lady’s slipper at a ball.”

“I had intended to feign lightheadedness from the crowded ballroom halfway through the night,” you confess with a sly expression all your own. “Perhaps I still will. Or perhaps this mischief will prove diversion enough all on its own.”

* * * * * *

There have been many dances in your life that have made you terribly glad for the barrier of gloves between you and the man leading. Whether it was their manners that were unsuitable, the sweat of their palms, or some unsavory odor lingering around them like a drought-stricken pond, there seemed always to be some partners with whom dancing was as undesirable as an overturned stagecoach.

Tonight you fear it might be you.

Dr. McMichael — Alan, he has insisted that you call him Alan — is a divine dancer. The grandeur of his stature does nothing to inhibit his grace and as he twirls you both about the ballroom you have the oddest sensation of floating that has ever been. But as if grace and poise were not enough, the man has a damning and wicked sense of humour as well. It has taken only the smallest encouragement from you to earn you scathing reviews of the other partygoers from you. The descriptions have you nearly in hysterics in his arms, but worse yet is the way that he smiles. It is a sly and puckish expression that makes his eyes light and sparkle in the candlelight, and every time he aims it at you, you can feel yourself sweat in the most unbecoming and unladylike way.

Moist palms or a damp dress back do not make for a desirable partner, and all you can do is hope desperately that your gloves and corset are providing ample barrier so that he has no idea how deeply those smiles and jokes and bright eyes are affecting you.

“I must sound deeply cynical,” he comments after a pause. He has just told you the story of the two Misses Shrewsbury and their positively ghastly attempt at conning the attendants of a seance he attended in Albany some years ago. “I am not. Or at least I do not mean to be.”

“Is it society that you disapprove of? Or faith?” Neither question is a judgment on your part, but you tilt your head to him conspiratorially as you dance. “I have found myself weary of both in the past, that is why I ask.”

“It is neither,” Alan admits, though he does so with a wistful sigh. “I think perhaps I yearn for times past when I reveled in dancing and philosophical pursuits. When the contents of conversation at a dinner party provided fascination for days afterward.” Subtly, so that you can feel it but it is not seen to the plain-eyes observer, he shrugs. “Life soldiers on, I suppose.”

“It does.” You cannot dispute that, and you would not try. You know the trudging on of time as well as any other touched by tragedy. “May I ask what changed? Or is that impertinent?”

“It is not impertinent.” He casts his eye around the room then back down at you. “But I am afraid it is not polite, either. I would not shock you so, to tell it all. I will only say that I lost my dear friend very recently.”

“Then I am very sorry to hear it, but I have every belief in your humanity. Your taste for society, your faith, and your fascinations will return.” The look on his face says he wonders how you can be so sure, and you half-smile. The hint of sadness in your eyes keeps it from becoming full. “Take the word of an orphan of two beloved parents, Dr. McMichael. You will come back to life again after the loss of your friend. It may simply take time.”

“Alan,” he presses softly, reminding you of his insistence. “And I am sorry to hear of your sadness, as well. But it seems that perhaps God or the ghosts of our past have seen fit to introduce us tonight. Whichever it is that you believe in.”

“Whichever it is, I welcome their intervention.” It seems to you at this point that he does not care much for spiritualism or ghosts of any kind, so you will not speak your mind on that topic. As for God? His guidance has not been the one you sought in many years. No, tonight you will not give credence to any of it, if only to keep the mood light and perhaps make Alan laugh again. “I think, however, that I shall ascribe it entirely to my great-uncle. As he was the one to see us introduced.”

“So he was.” As the song ends, Alan bows quite deeply in deference to his admirable partner. “I believe I shall have to thank him for it.”

* * * * * *

“Why don’t I know the girl your son has been doting on all night?” Mrs. McMichael is behind her fan to her husband from the edge of the dance floor, inspecting the dancing and overseeing the needs of all her guests. Her guests. Which is why she is so perturbed not to be able to identify this young woman immediately. “Who is her family? She must be with one of your business associates, yes?”

“Let Alan flirt.” Edwin McMichael waves one hand dismissively, not even looking in his only son’s direction. “It’s good for him. He��s been too dour for too long.”

“I don’t care if he flirts.” Ellen ruffles, her lips pursed and ready for an argument. “So long as he flirts with the correct young ladies.”

“How do you know she is not correct?”

“Because I do not know who she is or who she came with.”

“She is Christian Tate’s great-niece.”

Ellen’s nose wrinkles. “The orphan?”

“The orphan with an eight million dollar inheritance and a palatial cottage in Newport in her name.” Mr. McMichael raises one eyebrow as he peers down at his wife, knowing precisely the sort of affect this news will have on his wife. After all, she married him for his fortune — why should Alan not marry a fortune as well? “Let Alan flirt. It makes him smile.”

* * *

He finds you again later, outside of the ballroom when you’ve wandered away to breath air that hasn’t come from the mouths of five other people first and doesn’t smell distinctly of stale cigars and brandy. He finds you when you are slumped, unladylike, in the window seat of his father’s library gazing out the window at the snow as it drifts lazily down from the pitch-black sky.

“I thought you’d run away on me.” His voice is light but the undercurrent of worry, or else embedded sadness, is there if you listen. Like a weariness that had taken hold in him sometime since the loss of his friend that he had not been able to shake. Rather than apologizing for it or paying it any mind, Alan simply holds out one of the delicate cups of mulled wine that he brought with him when he went in search of you. “I’m very glad to see that isn’t the case.”

“I had to make myself scarce from the quadrille,” you admit, having the good sense to look at least a little sheepish about it. “That Mr. Davies…the one you warned me about? He caught sight of the fact that I had been left out of the dance before and attached himself to me.” Though the conversation could not be considered so terrible to be characterized as harrowing or torturous or anything as dramatic as all that, you still had not enjoyed his overbearing presence and unfortunate lack of manners. “I’m afraid that I feigned a headache to excuse myself.”

He laughs. Truly and thoroughly, and from his belly. Alan McMichael laughs so entirely that you bury your face in one hand after you accept the offered drink from his hand and you sigh audibly. “I’m sorry…” he chuckles, gasping for a dramatic sigh when he can catch his breath. “ It’s just that you’re so terribly apologetic and sweet about it. No one would be cross with you for avoiding an impertinent man old enough to be your father.”

“I see you have not met my Aunt Joan.” With a dutiful but resigned sigh, you stand from your place of respite and sip the rather delicious drink that he has brought you. At precisely 4:02 in the morning it is both horrifyingly too late for such a drink and far too terribly early – a dichotomy that delights you. “She has done her best to see me partnered with every single man here tonight. It is only my ill luck that I encountered the only desirable partner so early in the night. To dance together a third time would expose us both to comment.”

“So?” Alan sips his own wine and gazes down at you curiously, wondering whether or not you actually give a damn about all of this convention and these rules that seem to have been mutually agreed upon by the same people who determined what food is served at each course at formal suppers. That is – someone very long ago and far away that no one can remember any longer. “I’d like to dance with you again. And you just said that you’d like to dance with me. So who gives a damn if someone talks about it?”

“Won’t your mother be cross with you?” He had said something earlier about his mother wanting him to dance with just every young lady at the ball tonight. And you know for certain that he has not just as you have not danced with every single man.

“My mother is routinely cross with me.” He admits, enjoying a laugh at the truth of it. “I try not to let it disappointment me too much.”

It is all you can do to consider him – broad shoulders stretching that jacket of his and bright eyes sparkling with mischief, the tilt of his smile and the invitation of his outstretched hand – before you are sighing in a rather dramatic show of resignation that barely shields the actual delight written on your face. “Very well,” you acquiesce, taking his hand and giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Let us be the object of idle gossip tomorrow. Let tongues wag. I will be gone in a week anyhow and that will be the end of it. For tonight, at least, we shall have a bit of fun.”

______

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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 9 months ago

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Snowed In - Jax Teller x OC Oneshot

Title: Snowed In

Rating: T? Swearing, making out and Implied sex.

Fandom: Sons of Anarchy

Warnings: swearing. That's about it.

Summary: It's the last time she does Gemma a favour. Especially now that she's trapped with someone she can't stand.

Notes: This is my first time writing Jax lol. It got way out of hand tbh and it's longer than I planned. Once I started, it basically took over and did its own thing. I hope you all enjoy it. A huge shout out to @lokitrasho and @lovebarefootblonde for helping me out on this. I hope it turned out alright after the final edits. Thanks!

“Hate is a passion that is of equal interest to love. Like love, it is often seemingly irrational and can lead individual to heroic and evil deeds.” - Professor Zeki

She should have remembered that the universe hates her. Maybe if she did, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. It rarely did her any favours before so why would it start now? She doesn’t even really know how the hell this happened. The only thing she’s aware of right now is that she’s never doing Gemma another favour. This one bit her in the ass hard enough to leave a mark. She won’t let it happen again...if they make it out of this.

“When the fuck did California get snowstorms?”

She ignores the man on the other side of the room. She’s trying not to pace and snap back, asking if he’s ever heard of global warming. Or maybe if he even knows the state he lives in. California has mountains. They just happened to be too close and the weather decided to fuck up the plans on going home. Neither her car nor his bike would make it through this. She had already nearly skidded off the road. Jax had appeared, stopping to make sure she was still breathing and they both agreed that they needed to get off of the road. It didn’t mean either of them liked it.

“Yeah, fine.” She looks up to see him close the flip phone he was talking into. Jax pulls out a cigarette and lights it before he looks at her. “They’re sending a truck and tow once the weather clears.”

“Can you not smoke in here?” she asks, scrunching up her nose as the smell hits her.

“You want me to step out in that mess,” he points towards the window. “For the smell? Deal with it, princess.”

She rolls her eyes. Of course, he couldn’t be the slightest bit respectful of other people’s preferences. “It’s more about my preference to avoid lung cancer.” She can’t even open a window with the way the snow is blowing.

She turns away from him and heads for the kitchen of the small place. They got lucky there was a cabin near the road that they could shelter in. Though who the fuck lived out here, she didn’t know. It didn’t look that lived in. Hopefully, there’s something to eat.

“What were you doing out here anyway?”

She’s tempted to ignore him, especially considering he’s still smoking, but it would be better if they didn’t attempt to murder each other. Once Isabelle’s out of this place, she can go back to staying out of his way and vice versa.

“Your mom asked me for a favour. I was just picking something up for her.”

“Yeah? Thought you didn’t like us Tellers?”

“I don’t like you,” she looks back at him for a moment. “I have no problem with Gemma.” Also, Gemma scared the shit out of her half the time. That woman is the fiercest one she’s ever known…not that she’ll ever tell him that. He’ll probably take it as a compliment. She turns back to check the fridge..and closes it quickly, gagging. Nothing in there is edible.

She hears a low chuckle behind her and she clenches her teeth, trying to keep from reacting. She can be the bigger person in this. It’s just one night. She moves to the cupboards. Thankfully, by the third one she checks, she finds canned food. It’s not much but there’s soup. As long as the stove works, she’ll be good.

Isabelle turns the burner on and prays it works. It should. The lights work in this place after all. When it starts to heat up, she turns it off and begins a search for a pot.

“What are you making?”

“Food,” she says, ignoring him.

“You think you can be a bit clearer if you expect me to eat it?”

She turns to look at him. He’s leaning against the small wooden table that separates the kitchen from the rest of the room. “Do I look like your maid? I’m making something for me. You want food, cook it yourself.”

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he drawls out. “Wouldn’t trust you not to poison me.”

“And listen to your whining as you die? I’d be torturing myself.” Not to mention that any goodwill Gemma had towards her would fade instantly. She did not want to be on that woman’s shit list.

“Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction, princess.”

She rolls her eyes at the endearment. It’s meant to be insulting but she’s heard it too often to have any effect. Her jaw drops though as she sees him stub out the cigarette on the table. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You really are a jackass.” She scoffs before turning back to find a can opener.

“You got something to say to me?”

“I got a lot of things, but I’ll save my breath.” She says as she opens another drawer. Whoever lived here had way too many utensils. Finding a can opener shouldn’t be this hard.

“No, no, we got nothing but time. Say it.”

She’s known the man for years and somehow he consistently knows how to push her buttons. She is trying to not react but it’s not working. She turns to look at him. “I called you a jackass,” she says. “You have no respect for anything you don’t deem yours as seen when you put out your smoke into someone else’s table.”

She can practically see the flash in his eyes as he absorbs what she says and she braces herself. They’ve argued before. She knows how this is going to go.

“I forgot, I’m in the presence of royalty,” he rolls his eyes. “It’s not like anyone’s been here in ages and judging from the state of the place, they won’t be back anytime soon.”

“That’s not the point,” she snaps.

“Then what is it, princess?”

“You don’t give a shit about anything that doesn’t impact you.”

He stands, straightening to his full height as he stares at her. “That what you think of me?”

“I know what I see.”

“You only see what you want,” he snaps back. He pulls out another cigarette and she can’t help but scoff at it.

“You just keep proving my point.”

He looks at her, face lit up by the lighter he’s using to burn the end of his smoke. He puts the lighter away before removing the cigarette and exhaling slowly. He points at her. “Keep thinking that, princess. You don’t know shit. You wanna be a bitch, Isabelle? That’s fine, be one, but don’t fucking think you know anything about me.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve grown up in the same fucking town. Hard not to know anything about you.”

“Fucking town gossip,” he says. “You think that’s the truth? That mean it’s true what they say about you?”

“That I’m gonna die alone? Absolutely,” she drawls, just because she knows it’ll piss him off to agree with him. She knows the rumours about her. It’s a small town. It’s hard not to. After a few failed first dates, she stopped dating. She has more important things to worry about. It’s never been anyone’s business but her own. “Should have left me on the side of the road,” she says. “Maybe it’d be sooner than later.” She doesn’t really know why she says it. She just wishes she was left alone right now and didn’t have to deal with this shit.

“Right,” he says, inhaling another drag of his smoke. “It’s my fault we’re here. Don’t even have the fucking nerve to say thank you.”

“For what? Being a dick?”

“For making sure you weren’t hurt!” he snaps. He stares at her for a moment before she looks away. She didn’t realize she hadn’t even said thanks.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Of course, you didn’t. It doesn’t fit into your view of me.”

“You’re free to leave,” she snaps, uncomfortable at the truth of his words. She’s been set in her opinion of him since high school.

“You think I want to be here?” He drops the cigarette and steps on it, twisting his foot to make sure it’s out. “You think I want to be stranded with-” He cuts himself off.

“With what?” she snarls. “Go on. Say it! With what?”

He doesn’t answer. He turns away from her, wiping a hand across his face.

They’ve been at each other’s throats since the day they met. She doesn’t really know why. He’s always just pissed her off. It has nothing to do with the club or whatever they do. She could care less about that. She knows you do what you have to to get by. That’s the way the world works.

It’s the fact that he walks around town like he owns it. Like they’re all completely blessed to be in his presence. She doesn’t believe in treating anyone like they’re God’s gift to women.

The lights flicker for a moment before they completely fail. The two of them are in the dark.

“Fuck!” she hears him swear.

The storm outside has ensured that it’s practically night. It’s pitch black inside and it’s going to be freezing soon. This cabin doesn’t even have a fireplace.

“There goes the soup,” she mutters before reaching out and trying to find her way around. A light flickers and she can see Jax’s face lit up by the lighter.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” she sighs. The fight fades now that they have a new problem to deal with. Whatever. They’ll pick it back up some other time. They always do. “You think they got candles?” The flame from the lighter disappears before he lights it again. She moves forward only to hit the edge of the table with her hip. She swears under her breath, trying to force herself to ignore the pain.

“You alright?”

She waves him off despite the fact he probably can’t see her. “Fine. Check the drawers. I think I saw some matches in the kitchen.”

She turns back, carefully now, before heading to try and find the drawer where she saw them. It’s ten times harder than searching for the can opener considering she can’t see shit. She nearly slices open her hand on some sharp thing in one of the drawers. It’s pure luck that she manages to avoid it. She does find the matches though.

It takes a few strikes on the side of the box before it sparks and lights. She turns to help search for candles. Jax is turned away from her, searching one of the cupboards of the cabinet that’s up against one of the walls. She can barely make out the patch on the back of his vest. It’s a familiar sight, one that she’s seen constantly throughout her life. Everyone in Charming has. She feels something ease in her though at it. Despite all of her desires to be alone, she’s glad she’s not. Especially now.

The flame on the match singes her fingers and she drops it automatically, shaking out her hand before putting the burnt tips in her mouth. It doesn’t do much to ease the pain but it makes her feel a bit better. She steps on the match, just to make sure it’s out. That’s what she gets for getting distracted.

“Got ‘em!”

She lights another match and moves closer to Jax. He shifts before standing up with a lit candle in his hand.

“Here,” he hands it to her. “Hand me the matches. I’ll light the rest.”

She doesn’t bother asking why he’s not using his lighter, just takes the candle. It doesn’t come with a stand and she finds herself heading back to the kitchen to grab and plate or bowl. Something to catch the wax and make sure they don’t accidentally burn the place down. With the way her luck is going, anything is possible.

There are three candles in total. It’s not a lot and they come to the agreement to burn one at a time. Just in case. At least once they’re done finding some blankets.

She finds a bunch in a chest at the end of the bed in the other room.

“Here,” she tosses one of the blankets on his head as she heads to the couch where he’s sitting.

He coughs, yanking it off of his head. “What the–this stinks.” He lifts it to his nose and smells it again. “What the fuck is this smell?”

“Mothballs. Smells like old people.” She has one of the blankets wrapped around her shoulders when she plops down on the opposite end of the couch. “What? It doesn’t smell like Clay?”

He laughs suddenly, seemingly surprised by her remark. “I dare you to tell him that.”

“I like living, thanks.” She watches as he lights another cigarette before looking towards the window. The snow is still coming down. It’s a surprising amount for the state. Even in this area. At least, she thinks it is. She’s not a weather person.

Isabelle pulls her feet up on the couch and wraps her arms around her knees. She can feel him watching her. His words from earlier come back to her. For as much as she claims he’s an asshole, she’s not much better. At least, she’s beginning to realize she might have to share at least some of the blame in this. It burns at her.

“Thanks,” she says softly, breaking the silence. “For helping.”

“What?” he asks. “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t hear you.”

She moves her foot and shoves his thigh with it. “Don’t push it.”

He chuckles lowly but doesn’t reply. He also doesn’t ask her to repeat it. It’s weird sitting next to him in the dark. Sure, there’s a candle, but it’s not bright enough.

“So what’d Gemma want you to pick up?”

She looks over at Jax. “You can ask Gemma.”

He frowns slightly. “You really not going to tell me?”

“Just because you’re her son doesn’t mean you have to know everything she’s doing. You want her to know everything you do?” She raises her eyebrows at him. She knows there’s shit he’s done that he’s kept from his mother. Every kid does.

“Fair enough. But why you?”

“Why not?” She shrugs. “She asked.”

He stares at her for a moment and she tries not to shift under his gaze. “Didn’t realize you were that close to her.”

“We’re not.” She just likes Gemma.

“Coulda fooled me.”

They sit in silence again. She pulls the blanket closer, trying to ignore the sound of the wind outside. “This fucking sucks,” she mutters.

Jax laughs again but nods. “Yeah, not how I thought my night would go.”

“What? You mean you didn’t plan to get stranded by a freak storm after saving my ass?”

“Well, least you admit it.” They fall silent again before Jax breaks it. “Can I ask you something?”

“Can’t stop you,” she says. She motions for him to get it over with. Nothing good starts like that but they’re stuck in the dark and the cold. Might as well find some way to entertain themselves.

“Why do you hate me?”

“Why do you act like an ass all the time?” She retorts back. She doesn’t know how to answer his question. She just does.

“Just giving back what I get,” he says, tilting his head as he stares at her. “So what’s the reason? I do something? ‘Cause darlin’, we’ve always been at each other's throats. I wanna know why.”

Isabelle frowns slightly, confused. How could he not know? He’s always been a participant in their fights. He avoided and snapped at her the same way she did to him. She always hated the way he presented himself but after today, she’s beginning to wonder if she’s wrong. Not completely but maybe there’s more to it.

“We don’t like each other, Jax,” she finally says. “You’ve always acted like you’re a prince and you expect all of us to be your subjects. You just piss me off.” She’s nothing if not honest.

“You ever think it might be something else?”

She scowls, totally confused this time. “What?”

“How come I’ve never seen you around with anyone?” He asks, completely ignoring her question.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

He shrugs. “Just curious. Got nothing else to do. Might as well get to know each other.”

“We’ve known each other for years, Jax.”

“You gonna answer my question?”

She stares at him, still confused by everything that’s been happening in the last ten minutes. He’s jumping around topics and she hasn’t had any time to process any of this. Though usually, they’re not around each other this long, especially without an escape.

“I have more important things to worry about than dating,” she says.

“Like what?”

“Like taking care of my sister.” His eyebrows raise at that and before she can stop herself, she starts explaining. “I’m her guardian. I gotta take care of her and that involves working. I don’t have time to date some asshole who’s only interested in sex and freaks when he realizes I’m basically a parent to a teenager.”

“Shit. No wonder you’re so wound up.” She glares at him and he raises her hands in surrender. “I’m kidding. I get it. She gonna be okay with you here?” He looks concerned.

“She’s fine. She’s spending the night at a friend’s and she texts me enough to know what’s happening.”

He frowns slightly. “How old is she again?”

“Fifteen.”

“And when’d you become guardian?”

“When I was 18.” Isabelle has long stopped thinking about everything she’s missed in her life. She doesn’t regret making that choice.

He stares at her in surprise. “I knew you had a sister and shit but,” he pauses and shifts, turning to face her more and throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “I never thought about who was looking after you.”

“Why would you? We’re not friends. It’s no one’s business but mine.”

“But my mom knows.”

“Gemma’s known for years. It’s not a big secret and she met her at a fundraiser few years ago.” She shifts, pulling the blanket closer. It’s getting colder in the place.

“Your folks? They died when you were in high school right?” His voice is softer than she expects and she feels the lump in her throat grow at the reminder.

She looks back towards the window. “I was sixteen. She was three.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She just nods. She’s heard it all.

“My dad died when I was fifteen. My brother died when he was six. I was twelve.” He pulls out a cigarette and she barely even notices. How did she not know any of this? Then again, when she was twelve her mother was unexpectedly pregnant and she was likely wrapped up in her own trauma with their deaths to pay any attention to Jax’s life. Like she said, they weren’t friends.

“I had to fight to get Hailey back when I was 18. They put us into the foster system when our parents died. I had to prove I could take care of her.” She rests her head on the back of the couch. That was an exhausting year. She’s tired just thinking about it. It was worth it though. They had gotten lucky to get fostered by a family in town. Still was a bitch trying to get Hailey out of it. “We’re not doing this,” she says suddenly.

“Doing what?” he asks. His gaze settles on her and for the first time, it feels as though there’s a weight to it. Or maybe she’s just noticing more.

“Comparing our sad stories. I don’t want to do that.”

“What do you want?” He exhales slowly and she watches the smoke rise and dissipate. “Come on, princess. No one else around. What do you want?”

When was the last time someone asked her that? “I don’t know. Maybe some sleep.”

“That it?”

“That’s all I can think of. What about you? What do you want?”

He smirks then, looking at her. “You don’t want to know.”

She considers protesting, arguing that she at least answered when he asked but she doesn't. “This is the longest we’ve ever talked.”

“Yeah? Whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” she says instantly. She can’t stop the smile though, especially when he raises his eyebrows at her.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup.” Isabelle tries to move closer into the couch as if she can convince it to absorb her. The place just seems to be getting colder the later it gets. “What time did you say they were coming?”

“When the plows get through. Probably in the morning.” He nods towards her. “You cold?”

“No, I grew up in the arctic and this is downright balmy.” She really needs to curb her tongue. Especially if they’re going to keep playing nice.

“This must be a nice vacation for you, ice queen,” he says, grinning back. Then again, maybe he doesn’t mind. He’s always been able to snap back and argue with her. Maybe that’s part of the reason why she directed all her ire at him. It was easier than lashing out at anyone else. It didn’t help that he walked around like he didn’t have a single care in the world and she was trying to keep the remnants of her family together. God, she was a bitch.

“Well, good to know I’ve been promoted,” she says dryly. “I expect a crown.”

“I can throw you outside and you can make one out of icicles,” he offers.

She glares at him. “Don’t you dare.” She’s already freezing enough. She definitely doesn’t need any help by going outside.

“Come here,” he offers. He opens the blanket he has around him and offers an arm. “Be warmer if we were together.”

She stares at him suspiciously. He’s never done anything nice before. Then again, neither has she.

“Just fucking come,” he says. The look in his eyes tells her he knows exactly what innuendo he just made. “You’re not the only one cold.”

“Oh is the big bad biker cold?” She snarks. “Thought nothing could bother you.”

“I don’t do cold,” he says. He reaches over and grabs her leg before pulling her towards him.

“Okay!” she says, trying to scramble back to a seated position. He lets go and she ignores the heat of his grip. She moves closer to him. “Just don’t try anything.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m only into the willing.”

“Well that’s something,” she mutters. If he hears her, he ignores it. Instead, he wraps an arm around her shoulders as she sits next to him and pulls her closer. She fixes her blanket so that it covers their front since his covers their backs.

He’s not wrong. It’s warmer leaning against him and she tries to ignore the feeling of his arm around her and the smell of him. He smells like oil and smoke and whatever cologne he wears. It was far more attractive than he had any right to be. He didn’t need any help.

“Why’d you put up with me?” She doesn’t look at him as she asks it, but she's curious. Especially now that she’s had the epiphany that she’s been using him as a punching bag and he probably didn’t deserve it. At least, not when she hasn’t actually had a good reason for it.

“Hmm?” He sounds as though he’s falling asleep. “With what?”

“All of our fights. Why’d you keep arguing back?”

“Maybe I just liked seeing you angry,” he says. She digs an elbow into his stomach. “Shit, okay.” He pushed her elbow away and rubbed his stomach. “I don’t know, alright? At first, I was angry right back, you were on your high horse and while I deserve a lot of shit, I didn’t do anything to you. After a while it was habit. Not like we saw each other a lot anyway.” That somehow made sense and also didn’t. “Does it really matter? Or you gonna go back to yelling at me when we get out of here?”

“I don’t yell,” she says. “I just…get frustrated.”

“Yeah, well maybe you need another fucking outlet for that.”

“Hmm, let me guess, you suggest sex?”

“I was gonna say boxing. Get that anger out on a bag or something but if you want sex, I can oblige.”

She laughs softly and rolls her eyes. “Sure, Jax.” He’s not wrong though. She should find another outlet. She just doesn’t know if she can afford anything like that. Or have the time. She’s already working two jobs and while she’s reached out to them about being stuck and unable to make it tomorrow, she’s not sure what type of effect being snowed in will have. She’s pretty sure one of her managers didn’t believe her.

She sighs and closes her eyes, leaning against Jax. The leather isn’t exactly comfortable but it’s an interesting contrast with the flannel against her skin. She’s not going to complain because he’s wearing something he thinks is comfortable. Especially when the layers are helping keep them both warm.

“What?”

“Hmm?” She looks over and up to see Jax’s face. “What?”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Work,” she answers honestly. “Just shit I have to take care of when I get back.”

There’s silence before he asks, “When was the last time you had a vacation?”

“Never.” It’s not a problem. She does what she has to do. “Maybe when Hailey gets into university. Or whatever she’s going to do in the future. I’ll relax then.” When she’s an adult. She shifts without thinking, trying to get closer to the warmth of Jax’s chest. His arm tightens around her.

She feels something loosen in her chest. Or maybe it’s just the existential crisis of self-actualization. She’s oddly comfortable against him and the smell of smoke isn’t bothering her like she expected it to.

Jax turns slightly. “You mind?” He waits for her attention before he moves slightly, shifting more towards her and putting a leg on the couch against hers. It’s oddly intimate. She pulls back without thinking but Jax’s grip tightens and guides her back against him. “It’s fine, darlin’. Just trying to get more comfortable. Don’t go stealing my warmth now.”

“Sorry.” They both pause. It’s the first time she’s ever apologized to him and it’s for something stupid. She had no intention of apologizing for their fights, she used to be certain he deserved it, but now she’s not so sure. God, being wrong sucks. Self-reflection sucks. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “For being a bitch.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

She expected more of a fight but Jax seems content to lie back on the couch, practically boxing her in on the inside. It’s warm though so she’s not going to complain. She never really gave much thought to the man, aside from how much he bothered her when she saw him, and somehow it never occurred to her that he was built. She could tell even through the layers. Maybe because of the way he was still holding her but there was something about being surrounded by his smell, which thankfully was overpowering the mothballs, and being able to hear his heartbeat that was oddly soothing. Maybe it was the same familiarity of seeing his patch, but she didn’t have this memory or anything like it. She hadn’t let someone hold her like this in years.

“What time is it?” Her phone is in her bag on the table by the kitchen. She’s not moving to get it.

He shifts again to pull out the flip phone and checks it. “Past midnight.”

“Okay.” She should get her phone, just to check for any messages. “I gotta move.”

“What? Why?”

“I just need my phone. Make sure everything’s okay.”

“Yeah, okay.” He moves his legs back over the side so his feet touch the floor before helping her up.

“Shit,” she mutters as the air hits once she’s standing and no longer warm. “It’s fucking freezing.” Her eyes have adjusted enough that she can make out the bag. Luckily it’s not far. Isabelle grabs the bag and moves quickly back to the couch. She sits next to Jax, her thigh pressed against his as she drops her bag on her lap and starts looking for her phone. Jax wraps his arm back around her, sharing the warmth she left.

She moves and drops her bag on the table in front of the couch before checking for any notifications. There’s a message from her sister wishing her goodnight and to be safe. She smiles softly at that before opening it and typing back. She can feel Jax staring at her as she locks the screen again and puts the phone on the table in reach.

“Everything good?”

“Yeah.”

She turns to smile at him, which feels strange if she thinks about it. She’s just not used to it. She’s used to snarling and arguing with him. Not have his arm around her as they tried to stay warm while waiting for rescue. His eyes are dark but the candle looks like it’s going to drown in its own wax.

He leans forward slightly, eyes on hers and her breath hitches at the movement.

“Jax, what are you doing?”

“You remember asking what I wanted?” He says softly.

“Yeah?” She can see his eyes glance down and she wonders if she should stop him.

“It’s this.” He kisses her. It’s gentle at first, hesitant as if he’s expecting her to pull back. She doesn’t. Her eyes close at the feeling of his lips against hers. His hand moves to cup her jaw before going under her hair and cupping the back of her neck, keeping her with him. He tilts his head, teeth tugging at her bottom lip. She opens her mouth, granting access and letting him deepen the kiss. She digs her fingers into his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp. He grabs her, an arm around her waist before he pulls her onto his lap so she’s straddling him. He holds her against his chest, and despite her knowing that she shouldn’t be doing this, she doesn’t care. It’s been too long.

“Fuck,” he murmurs as he breaks the kiss.

She tries to catch her breath but he kisses her again and she can’t help but be lost in it. The man knows how to kiss. His lips move from hers and begin laying a trail across her cheek and along her neck. She arches into him, trying to give him move access. His hand on her back slips under her shirt. The cold air seeps in along with the warmth of his skin on hers.

“Jax,” she breathes. He hums in question against her skin and she shivers. “We should…we should stop.”

He pulls back instantly, frowning slightly as he looks at her. “You want to stop?”

“We should stop,” she says again. “I mean, come on, we fight every single time we see each other.”

He shrugs. “So?” He shifts slightly and she tries not to react to feeling his body under hers. He sighs but his thumb of the hand on her back strokes the skin softly. “Ain’t gonna do anything you don’t want.” His eyes meet hers. “What do you want, Iz?”

She pauses as she thinks. What does she want? Not in general but right now. There are no responsibilities. There’s nothing she can do except wait here with him. It’s a weird sort of blessing when she thought the universe hated her.

She leans forward and kisses him. He smiles against her lips before he takes control of the kiss, deepening it and pulling her closer against him.

It doesn’t take long before her shirt is off and she’s moved so she’s lying on the couch and Jax is above her.

“You good?” he asks once he pulls off his own top layers.

“I’m fucking cold.”

His eyes glance down and he smirks. “I can see that.”

“Then hurry up and do something about it,” she says, ignoring the flutter in her stomach at his look.

“Sure thing, princess.” He leans down and adjusts himself so he’s in between her legs before he kisses her. “I’ll make you warm.”

She laughs.

They wake up to a phone ringing.

It’s not her ringtone but she shifts and nearly falls off of the couch they passed out on. Jax catches her just in time, pulling her back against his chest. They really should have used the bed. It’s a bit of awkward maneuvering before they’re both sitting up. Isabelle has a blanket wrapped around her, trying to ward off the chill and find her clothes. Jax doesn’t seem bothered as he finds his jeans and pulls out his phone.

“Yeah?”

She ignores him as she grabs her clothes and heads to the bathroom. Surprisingly, they didn’t do too much damage to the place. When they first got here, she expected to be tempted to murder him. Not this.

She gets cleaned up and dressed in the bathroom. The water is freezing, but at least it works. She wraps the blanket back around her before heading back into the living room. She goes for her phone. The table got kicked back a bit during the night but her phone is still on it. There are a couple of messages from Hailey and one from the manager who didn’t believe her asking why she hasn’t shown up. Isabelle sighs. She’ll deal with that once they’re on the road. She sends a text to her sister before she closes the apps and locks it again. It needs to charge.

“You alright?” Jax asks, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck while he wraps an arm around her waist. She didn’t expect that.

“Yeah. Any word?”

“They’re at the road. We gotta go meet them there. You ready?”

She glances around, drops the blanket back on the couch and grabs her purse before nodding. “When you are.”

He leads her to the door, arm still around her and pauses. He lets go and darts back, grabbing the blanket. She frowns slightly, confused about why he grabbed it. “Souvenir,” he grins.

“Ew.”

He laughs at her but wraps an arm back around her and leads her outside. There’s about a foot of snow on the ground. Luckily, they can see the road from where they are. “Come on, princess. Gotta get your feet wet.”

Isabelle bends over and scoops up some snow, forming it into a ball.

His eyes go wide. “You don’t want to do that.”

“You better run Teller,” she says. “Before this princess shoves snow down your back.”

“You think you’ll get a chance?” He raises his eyebrows at her.

“I have a little sister. I think you don’t know what you’re in for. Last chance.”

“You throw that and I’ll dump your ass in the snow.”

She considers it for a second before she throws it and takes off running. She hears him sputter but it’s a hundred percent worth it. He really didn’t think this would all be easy just because they slept together, did he? She laughs as she gets close to the trucks. So of course that’s when she’s tackled and gets a mouthful of snow.

Isabelle’s flipped over quickly to see Jax grinning above her.

“Told you I’d catch you. Can’t run from me, princess.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” She asks.

He offers her a hand. “Come on, let’s get you dried off and we can grab breakfast on the way.”

She takes it simply for the promise of breakfast. He yanks her to her feet instantly before helping her brush off the snow. He offers her the blanket.

“Glad I kept it now?”

She takes it and wraps it around herself. “Ass,” she says but it’s more affectionate than usual.

“Got a great one,” he winks. “Come on.”

They finally reach the trucks and see a couple of guys from his club waiting for them.

“You two have fun?” one of them calls out.

“You know it. My bike in the trailer?”

“Yeah, and her car’s hitched.”

She rolled her eyes at being blatantly ignored. “Where am I going?” she asks. The cold was beginning to seep back in now.

“You’re with me. We’ll take the truck. You two take her car to the garage. She skidded off-road. Make sure there’s no damage.”

“Got it.” Both of the men waved before climbing into the tow truck her car was attached to.

“Come on, princess. Your chariot awaits,” Jax says, motioning for her to head to the large truck.

“How charming,” she drawls.

“That’s the destination.”

Isabelle snorts at that and climbs into the passenger side. She waits until he’s inside and they started driving before she speaks. “Let’s get food. I’m starving.”

“Worked up an appetite?”

“I will kick you out of this truck.”

“Then how will you get back?”

“I’ll figure out how to drive it,” she shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“And here I was gonna buy you breakfast.”

“You’re paying?” she asks, looking over at him.

He looks at her like she’s insane. “‘Course I’m paying.”

“Then you can stay,” she says as though it’s a sacrifice she’s willing to make.

“Gee, thanks,” he drawls. “That all I’m good for? Food?”

“Well, not only food.” She grins at him and he laughs before reaching over and placing a hand on her thigh. She lets it remain the whole drive.

taglist: @raith-way @ocfairygodmother @lokitrasho @zeleniafic @jewelswrites-ish @tessasocs @reggiemantleholdmyhand-tle @chickensarentcheap

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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 1 year ago

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You Won't Let Me

“Toff Girl” (aka “Damsel” Universe) Masterlist

A/N: I had a good chunk of this chapter written out even way before the last chapter was started. I got a little stuck on this but I think I finally got this to where I want it to be. I am sorry (not sorry) for all the angst in this. "You Won't Let Me" by Rachael Yamagata was the driving force behind this. "Under the Table" by BANKS was an inspiration as well (YT link for both below). Those are both beautiful songs and recommend checking them out if you're not familiar.

Rating: T/M (no smut, but some mentions of D/s dynamic/elements)

Word Count: 1,378

Pairing: Raymond Smith x F!reader

Plot: Things don't go as expected when you thought you had it all figured out.

Contains: lots of hurt and angst, some mentions of D/s dynamics/elements, bratting, possible death threats?

Ray is sitting at the bar of Princess Victoria enjoying his afternoon tea while reading the paper. The pub isn't open for a few more hours for evening service. The quietness is interrupted when he hears the front door open.

"Sorry, we're not open--" Ray stops mid-sentence when he sees your reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

As you strut towards him, he spins around on his stool and is met with your lips crushing his. You grab his face and dig your fingers into his beard. You practically melt into him. Getting caught off guard, Ray allows it for a moment until he puts his hands on your waist and gently pushes you off as he stands up.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Ray asks.

"We had a problem you couldn’t solve and I just did that for you. For us.”

“What are you talking about?” Ray tilts his head, confused at what you’re referring to.

“Fletcher! He’s never going to blackmail us - I mean you and Mickey - ever again,” you tell him, unable to contain your excitement. “We can be together again!”

Ray quickly looks around the pub and the street right outside before locking the front door and pulling you into the dining area in the back where he and Mickey usually conduct their business for more privacy.

“What did you do?” Ray turns to face you with knitted brows.

“Let’s just say you and Mickey are not the only ones in London who have power and resources," you answer smugly with a smirk.

“For fuck’s sake!” He huffs and shakes his head. “That was my problem alone. Not yours to fix and I had fixed it!”

“God damn it, Ray!” You chuckle and shake your head. “I thought you would be happy about this.”

Your chin starts to tremble and you put your hand over your frowning mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” Ray breathes out as he helplessly watches you cry yet again.

You shove him, slap his chest and then start pounding on it. Why do you torture yourself like this? You must truly be a masochist.

“No, you’re not! Just tell me Fletcher wasn’t the problem. If you didn't want to be with me anymore, just tell me instead of fabricating this stupid elaborate excuse,” you shout.

“It wasn’t an excuse–” Ray starts.

“Then why can’t we be together? I handled the only thing that was keeping us apart!”

“Fletcher is a greedy, sneaky cunt and will find any and every opportunity to milk as much money as he can from anyone. You should have talked to me about this before impulsively doing that,” he scoffs.

“Like how you talked to me about ending our relationship before deciding that for us?” you jab back. “Well I did what I thought was best for us.”

“Would you stop being a spoiled brat for one fucking moment? So what if you’re filthy rich? Money can’t solve every problem!” Ray steps in and gets right into your face.

You stare at him and step in closer to him, your noses practically touching.

"Yes, I am a filthy rich spoiled brat and I would pay Fletcher off each and every time to keep his bloody mouth shut for the rest of my life if that’s what it takes for me to get what I want. What are you going to do about it, huh?" One of your eyebrows lifts slightly.

Ray glares at you.

“I already did what was best for everyone and there’s nothing more I need to do. If you want to continue to throw money away at Fletcher, that has nothing to do with me,” Ray shakes his head and crosses his arms.

You suddenly slap him hard across the face, nearly knocking his glasses off. He looks back at you in shock.

“What do you think you are doing?” He takes a small step back and adjusts his glasses.

“Being. A. Filthy. Rich. Spoiled. Brat.” You punctuate each word with a poke to his chest, making his eyes twitch.

“Stop it!” Ray snarls.

“Make me!” You challenge as you take another step closer to him and try to slap him again but he catches your wrist.

Ray’s eyes go dark for a moment, focused on the satin collar around your neck hiding slightly under your jacket collar, after hearing the sweet jingle of the bell. His favorite.

You stare back at him, anticipating his next move. His eyes move back to yours and his face softens. He then intakes a quiet sharp breath when you kneel down in front of him.

“Get up,” he commands.

“Make me!” You repeat.

“This isn’t a game!”

“No, it’s not,” you agree, shaking your head.

“Michael is going to be here any minute,” he spits, glancing at his watch.

“I don’t care! Tell me you don’t want this, that you don’t love me anymore and you’ll never hear from me or see me ever again,” you tell him.

Ray adjusts his glasses as he continues to stare down at you, exasperated.

“You need to leave,” he says while glancing at his watch.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” you demand again.

“It’s… it’s complicated,” he answers, his eyes twitching again.

“No, it’s not. It’s either you love me or you don’t.”

“Be a good girl for me and get up,” he tries again, changing tactics.

“No! Not until you-”

“The only reason we’re in this situation is because I love you!” he finally says. “We shouldn’t have even started seeing each other in the first place and I can only blame myself for allowing it to happen knowing what the risks were.”

“I don’t care about the risks,” you tell him. “It’s worth it.”

“I care about the risks. This isn’t just about you and me,” he starts. “There are a lot of people - innocent people - who can get hurt including your family if the wrong people find out about us.”

“I’ll behave,” you plead as you crawl over to him and rub your face against his thigh. “I’ll be a good kitten. I promise–”

“Stop begging like a desperate fucking dog!” Ray snarls in disgust. “It’s pathetic!” he grabs your arm and yanks you up to your feet.

Normally, his degradation would turn you on, but his intentions behind his words feel far from playful and for once, it absolutely crushes you. Is that how he truly feels? Has he always felt this way?

“It’s over! You have to accept it!” he shouts.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Ray frantically takes a step back from you, creating distance and turning around to find Mickey walking in.

“H-hi, boss! Not at all!” he quickly spits out, feeling embarrassed.

“Uh, Miss–” Ray glances over at you and does a double take when he sees the hurt in your damp eyes. It wasn’t the same sadness he saw earlier when he shot down your idea, not even when he broke up with you. He didn’t just break your heart just now. He also broke your spirit.

His face falls, regretting his choice of words in the heat of the moment.

“I was just leaving,” you finish his lingering sentence, before rushing out the pub without saying goodbye.

For a moment, Ray reaches out for you when you walk pass him, but he restrains himself at the last moment. He didn’t want to leave things between you like this. He watches you as you make your way through the pub until you’re out of sight.

“Ray, I thought I told you to handle that,” Mickey says as he pulls out a chair and settles in.

“I thought I did,” Ray replies. “But I don’t think there will be any more problems.”

“Well, there better not be or I may have to handle this one myself,” Mickey tells him.

“Boss…you don’t mean–” Ray’s eyes start twitching.

“Ray, I’m not in the business of killing people,” Mickey cuts him off. “That is only reserved as a last resort for people really deserving of it.”

Ray lets out a breath of relief.

“But if I have to handle it myself, she’s going to wish she was dead. Do you understand?”

“Yes, boss,” Ray nods.

“Good. Now, where are we with the Sheffields?”

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my-name-is-alice-ayers · 1 year ago

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Build Me Up - Chapter 4 (Final Chapter)

Pairing: William “Ironhead” Miller x f!reader (inclusive - stock photos suck)

Word Count: 3200+

Rating: M for mature - 18+ only!

Warnings: Mature themes and some canon mentioned. Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story.

Notes: The last chapter! I never intended this fic to be super long, but I loved their meet cute(?) idea and had to write it. As always, I take asks for any of the fics I write for, even if it’s just questions or a little drabble! Thank you for waiting so LONG inbetween that first and second chapter. Y’all the real MVP’s!

❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

--If you like this, please let the algorithm know by reblogging! This way it can be shared with multiple people (it's how it works here. I don't make the rules!)

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

Build Me Up Masterlist

General Masterlist

Will Miller Masterlist

<<Chapter 3<<

—----

Several months later, Will takes you out for drinks after a nice dinner, your usual Friday night date. It was a great chance for you both to catch up on what the other was doing during the week, as sometimes life got so busy you’d barely get a chance to speak. This last week, Will had been out of town at a few different bases, making his speech about joining the Armed Forces, so your conversations take longer than normal. Will places a drink order with the bartender, leaning against the bar on his elbow as he watches you talk about the kids archery camp you’ve been instructing, eyes lighting up as you talk about them, when his eyes glance over your shoulder and his smile drops, his eyes instantly becoming hard. You stop talking and follow his gaze to a really pretty women, tall, lean, and blonde.

His ex fiance.

She’s with a friend but splits from them, pointing to the bar directly where Will was standing. You try to drag him away but it’s like he’s frozen, unable or unsure of what to do.

“Oh. Hey, Will.”

He stares at her for a few moments longer than socially acceptable. “Ashley.”

She glances at you and back at Will, making the connection that you’re together. She sticks a hand out to you.

“Hi, you must be the new girlfriend. I’m Ashley. Will and I used to…well, we were engaged.” She says the last word like it holds some giant meaning, like she was hoping it would cause a fight between you both. You take her hand, gripping it firmly and shake.

“Oh so you’re the ex fiance? Amber?”

Her eyes narrow at you slightly. “Ashley.”

“Right, right. I knew it was something that starts with A.”

She glares at you for a second before rallying, schooling a look of indifference on her face. “So, how long have you two been dating?” She looks at Will but he seems incapable of answering her so you take over.

“About a year.”

She raises her eyebrows. “A year? You made it a whole year?” She sounds like she’s shocked, as if she wasn’t with him long enough to be engaged.

“Yeah. Will’s great.”

She smiles at you, but the look in her eyes, like she knows some terrible secret and is going to save you from something, makes you want to punch her even more. She leans in closer to you, but still speaks loud enough for Will to just hear it over the sounds of the bar.

“He can be…a lot. Did he tell you to say that?”

“What?”

She leans in closer. “Blink twice if you’re in trouble.”

The color on Will’s face drains and you square your shoulders, sitting up straighter as you turn the full force of your gaze on her.

“That’s really not funny. And honestly? I’m glad you couldn't handle him because that made him available for me. Will is the best thing to ever happen to me-”

Ashley waves her hand, cutting you off. “Yeah, yeah. Just wait until he finally shows you who he is in bed. A real freak. If you need help, just blink and I’ll call someone.”

You stand abruptly, your barstool wobbling dangerously on one leg as you do. “You know, I have to thank you.”

She blinks at you. “Oh? So you do need help?”

“Thank you for showing me exactly what a terrible person you are. It’s easy to see who the problem is. Now, unkindly, get the fuck out of our way.” You take Will’s hand and pull him up, Ashley staring at you open mouthed as you push past her, Will’s hand squeezing yours as you make your way through the crowd and out of the packed bar, heading straight for his truck. Will fishes his keys from his pocket and unlocks it, hopping in and you do the same. He starts it but doesn’t move, letting the ac cool it down.

“What a fucking bitch,” You say, half to yourself and half to Will.

He’s quiet a moment. “I never thought…I didn’t know she was still in town.”

“Well fuck her. She is so rude. I wanted to fight her but I didn’t want to ruin date night.��

Will chuckles lightly. “Now that I would’ve loved to have seen.”

“Oh? I can go in there and drag her ass out here,” You point over your shoulder with your thumb, pretending to go for the doorhandle. Will smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes as he shakes his head.

“Hey…where are you?” You reach out and cup his cheek. Will leans into it for a moment, sighing deeply.

“She just…brought up a lot of memories. Ones that I didn’t want to think about again.”

“You’re a good man, Will. I know I say it all the time. I’m hoping it’ll sink in that Ironhead of yours one day.”

He smiles a little brighter this time, still not reaching his eyes. “I know.”

You watch him for a few moments before scooting close to him, pressing your lips to his and letting him lead. He responds after a second or two, kissing you back and pushing his tongue into your mouth. Moaning into him, you toss your leg over his lap, your hands sliding around the back of his neck, gripping and tugging on his hair. You tug a little harder, his head moving back and he smirks at you, that glint in his eye when he knows you’re about to sparkling in the dim light. Sucking at a spot on his neck, Will whimpers, fingers digging into your hips as you let go, a hickey quickly rising in palace of your lips. Will fumbles with his belt and you slap his hands away, quickly undoing his belt and jeans, pulling him out as he gasps at your touch, kissing him once more as you take him in hand and pump him a few times. Moving your panties aside you sit up and slide yourself down onto him slowly, which apparently doesn’t work for Will as he grips your hips and pulls you down quickly while thrusting up into you, chuckling darkly at your cry.

“Fuck, Will! You feel so good!”

He guides you as you fuck him, pulling you down harder as you chant his name, random words and sounds tumbling from your lips as he fucks you. One hand is gripping his arm and the other slaps against the window and it’s then you see her. Ashley, standing a car length or two away, staring directly at you and Will having sex. As Will leans forward to suck hard on your neck, you smirk at Ashley, giving her a small wave and flipping her off as Will hits that spot inside of you and you cum, screaming his name a little louder than you probably needed to. Will comes a moment later, grunting and panting your name as he spurts inside of you, biting you hard on the shoulder. Chests heaving, Will looks up at you, eyes still dark as he takes in your face, hair all askew and sweaty.

“I fucking love you, Robin.”

A smile spreads across your face. “I fucking love you, Will Miller.”

“Move in with me?”

“Was the sex that good?”

He chuckles. “It’s always that good with you.”

“Why don’t you ask me that when you’re not balls deep inside of me.”

He grips your chin lightly with his thumb and pointer finger and you meet his gaze.

“I mean it, Robin. I’ve been dying to ask you for a few months. I just…”

“You never have to be afraid to ask me anything, Will.”

He nods. “I know. So…will you?”

“Yes. But if you feel different in the morning, it’s ok. Just tell me.”

“Deal.”

—----

He does not feel different in the morning, and he proves this to you by burying his face between your legs until you beg him to stop, overstimulated and nearly crying from so much bliss.

“742,” Will says matter of factly.

“742? Really?”

He smiles proudly. “I love to make my girl cum.”

“I still can’t believe you track that.”

“Wanna know how many times we’ve had sex?”

You throw a pillow at him and he throws it back, expertly hitting you in the head.

–

Both of you take a couple weeks to pack your things and move them over slowly, since work was still super busy. Once you’re moved in, you settle into a comfortable routine, making Will a quick breakfast and coffee before he heads into work or off to the airport to make another recruitment speech. You can see his job wears on him, but when you ask him about it, he shrugs and says “It’s what I can do.” Once you pressed him more and he said a lot of places don’t want to hire veterans that have seen active combat. They don’t outwardly say it, but he’s been turned down for jobs that he interviewed great at, making it all the way through the process until they saw his forms, suddenly not so interested. He’d once asked a recruiter why and they mumbled something about “not worth the risk”.

He takes up archery with you as his coach and he takes to it well, which doesn’t surprise you in the slightest, considering his history. Will also pays very close attention to detail, making it easier for him to hone in on the target and how best to get there. He still loves it when you come and stand behind him, fixing an elbow here or a wrist there. You finally got him to snap out of concentration Will when you came up behind him and pretended to adjust something on his posture before he drew and ground your hips into his ass. Will burst out laughing, not used to being the one grinded on and you both laughed about that for a long while.

You’ve been together a year and a half and finally, Will gets to meet your family. They’re having their annual “2nd of July” celebration, as most of the family will be inside on the fourth, none of the veterans big fans of all the firework noise. They’d had to cancel last year and so were extra excited for this year, especially since you were able to fly in with the now infamous Captain William Miller.

“Do I look ok?” Will asks, fidgeting with his collar in the hotel mirror.

“Let me see.”

He turns to face you, arms outstretched to his sides. “Do I need to change?”

“As much as I’d love to take this shirt off of you, you look fine, Will. You don’t need to impress anyone.”

“Easy for you to say. Everyone loves you.”

“They have to. They’re family.”

When you arrive, Will knocks on the door, wiping his palms on his jeans that you’d convinced him to wear over business pants. He’s visibly nervous and you can see him getting in his head. So you lean up to him, speaking quietly by his ear.

“If you relax, we can stop at the store on the way back to get that stuff for that thing you’ve been wanting to try in the bedroom.”

Will’s eyes snap to yours, darkening instantly. His eyebrows raise but before he can say anything, the door opens and your dad is there, hugging you and grasping Will’s outstretched hand, a smile on his face.

“Will! It’s so good to finally meet you! You want a burger or a dog?”

“Whatever you have more of, sir.”

“Sir! You hear him? I like him already.”

“Dad!”

He chuckles. “Alright, alright. No need to call me sir. I’m fairly certain you outrank me.”

Will shakes his head. “Negative. You are the father of the love of my life. You definitely outrank me for bringing her into this world.”

Your dad stops, looking between Will and you and seeing the look of utter devotion on both of your faces. “That’s very kind of you to say, Will. Now come on - let’s get you some food before these heathens eat it all.”

Will’s eyes widen when you step out into the backyard and he sees the amount of people gathered here. Kids running around with sparklers, throwing snaps at each other and laughing, some people swimming in the pool, and others talking, some loudly and some not, red, white, and blue colors everywhere.

“I thought you said it was quiet?” He doesn’t look at you but the corner of his mouth ticks up.

“It is. We don’t do fireworks so it’s quiet for 2nd of July.”

You make the rounds, introducing Will to everyone, his shoulders relaxing more with every new person that he meets. “You weren’t kidding - almost everyone here has served or is serving.”

“Yup. I told you the truth that day in Publix.”

Everyone loved Will, but no one more than your mom. She fawned over him, squeezing his arm, making sure he had enough to eat and drink, that he knew where all the exits were and that there were no pets, the best places to stand with your back against a wall and clear line of sight to the door. The backyard was set up so you could stand pretty much anywhere and achieve this, but she wanted any excuse to talk to him. When your dad came over and pulled Will towards the grill to “help him”, your mom came up to you and gushed about Will, how he was so respectful and kind and a really nice man.

True to your word, no fireworks were had that night. Instead, your parents had put up a giant inflatable screen and played a video of fireworks with no sound effects, just classical music over top. Will and you sit on the ground, Will leaning back on his hands and you between his legs as you watch.

“This is amazing, Robin. I gotta tell the guys about this. We should do something like this back home.”

You lean back into his lap further, turning slightly to the side to look at him. “That’s a great idea! Frankie and Vanessa have plenty of room in their yard for this sort of screen. They aren’t too expensive. And their daughters would love to watch Frozen on this thing.”

The fireworks end and you sigh, stretching slightly as you stand up, finally able to make a full stretch. You turn to Will to offer him your hand, but your voice gets stuck in your throat when you look at him, kneeling on one knee, a ring box sitting in his hand.

“Robin, I know I’m not an easy man. Hell, you met me in the middle of a PTSD episode in the middle of a Publix. But somehow, even though I didn’t know you, you were able to pull me out. You saved me that day, but more than that, you’ve saved me every day since then. I feel…normal around you. Or as normal as I can be. You make me feel safe..safe to be me, all of me. I never thought that was possible. I thought that I would have to live my life half a person. You never judge me for the things I’ve had to do, any of the nightmares or quirks, none of it. Other women would’ve walked away, but you take my hand and guide me through the fog. And I hope I give you even an ounce of the happiness you bring me and I want to spend the rest of my life making sure that you’re happy and feel loved.” Will opens the little black box, exposing a beautifully crafted ring. “Will you marry-”

“YES!”

You launch yourself at him, cutting off his sentence to laughter and whoops all around, your lips crashing to his as everyone cheers. You take his face in both hands and pull back, tears falling not just from your eyes but his as well.

“I love you, Captain William Miller.”

“I love you so much, darlin’.”

On your flight home, you covertly join the mile high club, Will grinning from ear to ear watching you exit the bathroom and smoothe down your dress a few minutes after he’d left the same one.

—----

Everyone flies out to your parent’s house for the wedding, as they had practically begged you to have the wedding there. And Will enthusiastically agreed, as the yard was literally set up for veterans. Everyone was there, even Santi flew up from his job in Colombia and asked you to tell him who your single family members were with a wink.

The wedding was small but grand, flowers picked from your mom’s garden were woven into your braided updo, mathing the ones your mom had hand embroidered onto the outer layer of your dress, a matching embroidered handkerchief in Will’s coat pocket.

The reception went on long into the night, the kids all passed out on sleeping bags in the living room as they watched a movie. Will always had a hand on you at all times since you said “I do”, pressed to your lower back, lightly gripping your arm, or linking fingers with you and pressing a kiss to the back of your hand.

You’d both decided to skip the honeymoon and save that money towards a downpayment on a house of your own, a discussion of kids sometime in the next couple of years or so. “We can always go on some fancy trip later,” you say as you take another sip of the beer Will had brought you.

You did, however, take the week off anyway and spend it in bed, only leaving it to make food and use the bathroom, Will demanding that the only clothing you were allowed to wear was one of his shirts and nothing else. When you said “Yes, sir” he growled and chased you until he pushed you into the bed, both of you living out your now shared dark desires.

And in the morning, you woke before him, watching his sleeping face as the light hits it just right and you think about how lucky you were to have been in Publix that day and how much you love the man in front of you, even if he was snoring loudly.

—----

About a year or so later, Will and you are sitting on the couch cuddling, yelling out wrong answers to Wheel of Fortune, when his phone lights up. He leans forward and grabs it off the coffee table, letting you settle back into his side while he looks at the screen.

“Everything ok?”

“Yeah. I just got a text from Santi.”

“If it’s about some girl, I don’t need to know.”

“No. He says he has a job for us.”

—----

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