crazyunsexycool

[crazyunsexycool]

this is problematic of me (joke) but i really enjoy the splashing of french into english speech or writing. just adds a pizzazz

[crazyunsexycool]

ok but give me one good reason why you wouldn’t date Kermit the frog besides that he is a puppet and a frog

[crazyunsexycool]

I’m not ok

Alright, Siri, you wanna play? Let's play!! 😈

Make me sad with PT!Steve and his omega!!

You will rue the day you put me in angsty jail! YOU WILL RUE IT!!!!

💜💜💜

Bwahaha, I can always count on you to be an absolute angsty menace! My menacing in return is leaving you to decide if the following is a glimpse into PT!Steve x sassy!omega's actual future, or just an AU idea prompted by your ask 😇

Steve awoke to the sound of your distraught whine.

He was alert immediately, shaking off the dregs of sleep as he turned to where you slept beside him in bed, your figure illuminated by the light of the full moon that streamed in through the bedroom windows.

You were curled up in the fetal position, your forehead dotted with sweat, and pure agony twisting your features as you let out another whine before brokenly pleading, "Please, no! Don't make me do it! Please!"

Feeling his heart and gut wrench at the same time--because you were having this horrible nightmare again--Steve eased up in bed beside you, shifting closer.

He spoke your name softly as not to startle you, keeping his touch light and slow as he smoothed a hand over your head, trying to rouse you with gentleness above all else.

Unfortunately, like all the times before, it didn't work.

As soon as you registered Steve's touch, you jolted awake with a pitiful cry of fear before twisting away from him, rolling out of bed, and retreating into the dark corner of the bedroom.

Steve quickly flipped on the bedside lamps, the soft, amber glow aiding his worried gaze in finding you immediately. Again he kept his movements slow as he eased out of bed, moving closer to crouch before you with a quiet, "Sweetheart, it was a bad dream, you're okay."

You were visibly trembling as you struggled to realign to the present moment--your actual reality--and escape the awful images that had consumed your mind while you slept.

And they were made all the more horrible because they weren't just stray thoughts your sleep-mind conjured in the darkness of the night, they were memories.

Those images and actions that tortured you down to the deepest depths of your soul - they had actually happened.

You had done those horrible, unforgivable things.

You whimpered at the thought, recoiling and pressing yourself against the wall as Steve shifted closer.

"Can I touch you, please?" he asked, slowly reaching for you, the need to comfort you consuming both him and his inner alpha, who was stirring just beneath the surface, on high alert and feral with the instinct to protect you at all costs.

You shook your head quickly, keeping your gaze down as you shifted away from Steve even more.

"Okay," he said quickly, keeping his voice soft and soothing. "That's totally fine. I just need you to know that you're okay. You're okay and you're here, safe at home, with me."

Something about Steve's words had you crumpling entirely. Maybe it was the fact that you didn't deserve to be safe, to have a home, to be with such an amazing and loving alpha.

The weight of that realization sank against you all at once, and you sank onto the hardwood floor, dropping your face into your hands as you tried like hell to choke back the sob that twisted painfully in your chest.

Feeling his own eyes sting with tears at your distress, Steve switched tactics, slowly moving to sit beside you, against the wall, extending his long legs in front of him and giving you a moment to gather yourself.

After a long beat, he held out his arm toward you, keeping his wrist turned upright, and his scent gland inches away, hoping that maybe his familiar scent would help you settle, just a little.

Your omega instincts won out over your shame, and you sniffled softly as you raised your head and peeked over at his proffered wrist.

It was an offering you couldn't refuse, not when you were so desperate to not feel this way, to make all of the ghosts and heartache from your past fade back into the darkness where they belonged.

Blinking back tears and swallowing around the lump in your throat, you turned toward Steve, hesitantly reaching for his hand. You cradled it between both of yours, lifting it higher as you dipped your head and brushed your nose along his wrist gland.

You breathed in as deep as you could, allowing Steve's scent to flood your senses, and with it, the sense of comfort and safety and love that came along with it.

Dropping your face against his hand now, you continued to breathe him in, trying so hard to fight back the urge to cry--to be so fucking weak--as all of the feelings that you always tried so hard to suppress seemed to converge on you at once.

"You're okay," Steve's soft voice murmured from beside you.

His thumb gently caressed along your warm cheek, and that simple, innocent touch--and the promise of more comfort to chase away all the pain--had you suddenly clambering into his lap.

You pressed as close to Steve as humanly possible, your chest flush to his as you desperately clung to him, hugging him tightly as you hid your face against the crook of his neck, and greedily breathed in more of his soothing scent.

"I've got you, omega," Steve whispered against the top of your head, pressing a kiss there and hugging you back just as fiercely as he felt your breath flutter against his neck as you shuddered in his hold. "Was it the same nightmare as before?"

For a long, tense moment, you didn't respond, and then you nodded, squeezing your eyes shut tight against the burn of tears as that lump in your throat grew more pronounced and impossible to ignore.

Remnants of your nightmare flickered through your mind, the most horrifying loop that was always waiting in the deep, dark recesses for when you were at your most vulnerable and utterly defenseless against it.

"You're never going back there," Steve spoke vehemently, his big, warm hand pressing against the center of your back as he held you just a little tighter.

"Promise?" you croaked against the crook of his neck, needing to hear him say it, to promise it, because you knew that no matter what, Steve always kept his promises, especially to you.

"I promise," he didn't hesitate to reply. "I promise with everything inside of me - you are never going back there, and I will always keep you safe. Always."

You weren't able to stifle the pained whine that rose up your throat and spilled past your lips, nor the way that it morphed into a broken sob.

For the second time that night, you crumpled entirely, and for the first time in years, you began to cry.

You sank against Steve, overcome by a strange mixture of sorrow and relief as all of the feelings and fear, shame and guilt that had been eating away at you for as long as you could remember began to pour from you through your tears and gut-wrenching sobs.

"Shhh, it's okay, honey, let it all out," Steve encouraged you, rubbing your back and rumbling with the quietest, gentlest alpha purr you had ever heard as he held you close and didn't relent until you--and all of your tears--were finally spent.

[crazyunsexycool]

Prologue - Enter Y/N

Series Masterlist

Y/N's POV

I straighten out my shirt,sighing as I watch the corpse ignite into flames in-front of my eyes.

Salt and Burn. Check. The chilly air in the cemetery engulfs my body, I warm my hands over the burning corpse, rubbing my hands together to gather the heat.

Internally rolling my eyes, I pick up my duffle bag and make my way towards my bike. My pride and joy. Quinn's a Harley-Davidson VRSC. I named her after my favorite DC Comic book character, Harley Quinn. Original huh?

Breaking me out of my thoughts I hear my phone ring. Fishing my phone out of my pocket as I lean against Quinn. Rolling my eyes, I answer roughly after seeing the contact.

"I'm alive, f/n" I say hastily. I could practically hear the frown crease on my fathers face with the way I answer. Don't get me wrong, I love the man but boy can he be a pain. "I'm glad to hear you're okay baby....how're things" He asks.

I pull my bottom lip into my mouth answering "Everything is fine, I just finished a quick salt and burn of an old pastor who had been terrorizing atheists" I chuckle ironically at the fact. Like father like daughter, my dad chuckles over the phone. "Wonderful, I knew you'd do well on your own" He says lightly.

"Is that so?" I say sarcastically. "Aren't you the same one who said, and I quote, 'Don't come back if you go out there on your own, don't call, don't text, pretend I'm dead' " I mock his rugged voice as I quote his words to me two years ago bitterly. Granted he's called me every so often since our falling out but I haven't dared called him.

Flashback

September 2003

"Daddy I'm 20 years old! I can hunt in my own. I've been doing it since I've been in diapers!" I yell frustrated at my father. "You better watch your tone with me! Who the fuck do you think you're yelling at!?" He screams back at me causing me to flinch.

"You're not ready! I know the shit that's out there in the world and I'd prefer if you and I do it together. There is no reason we can't hunt together!" He yells in my face, causing me to flinch in habit.

"Your obsession with finding the thing that killed mom is the reason I can't work with you" I say harshly. The look on his face alone, scared the crap outta me. When I was younger, anything he said would scare me. I'd listen to him and follow his orders like a good little soldier but I'm sick of it.

Two decades of this crap, it was bound to happen. My mother died in my nursery when I was six months old. Pinned to the ceiling just like Sam's mom, only a couple months after Mary died, my mom died.

Mom and Dad were childhood friends with Sam and Dean's mom. They bonded through all of them coming from families of hunters. Basically my parents were childhood sweethearts which honestly touches my heart.

After knocking back a few, dad could tell the story of when he fell in love with mom a million times. He loved her with everything. I always wondered if I'd have something like that. Frankly, I don't believe love like that exists anymore.

My mother was also a psychic, a powerful one too. She basically had these abilities like seeing into the past/present/future, moving objects with her mind, summoning/binding ghosts and reading minds. Psychics develop their abilities by 18. She could even communicate with the dead.

She and my dad hunted together after meeting and settled down in Lawrence, deciding to have a family. Giving it up for the apple pie life. Honestly sometimes I think my dad's disappointed at the fact that I'm not like my mother.

"So you don't care about your mother then?" He says back to me coldly, rage dripping from his voice. "I never said that dad! I just can't deal with you every single goddamn day breathing down my neck. I love you so much daddy but shit! I can't take this anymore" Tears prick at my eyes as I pick up my helmet and army green duffel bag. I throw on my leather jacket and head for the front door.

Jumping on my bike, before I could put on my helmet I hear his yell from the safehouse. "Listen to me and listen to me good Y/N L/N. Don't come back if you go out there on your own, don't call, don't text, pretend I'm dead". My heart jumped out of my chest, my helmet clutched to my side. Angrily I wipe my tears away from my cheeks "Fine". With that I snap my helmet on and make my way out of the driveway and into the night.

Present Time

September 2005

My father sighs heavily over the phone because of my habit to hold a grudge. I was surprised last year when he called me for my birthday to say the least. Since then, he's called me every so often. "Listen baby, I didn't call to argue. I just wanted to make sure you're okay"

"I'm fine dad, look I've gotta go. I'm hungry and tired. Okay? We'll talk whenever" Without letting him say another word, I hang up. You might think I'm being harsh but if you've lived a day in the life of my childhood, you'd be just as angry as me right now.

I straddle my bike, placing my helmet on my head. The roar of the engine fills the quiet cemetery, revving the engine I make my way towards a local dive bar to pick up some grub and hit the hay.

________________________________

"Say your prayers little one,

Don't forget my son,

To include everyoneeee"

I jump awake hearing the beginning guitar riff and first couple lyrics of "Enter Sandman" by Metallica from my phone. Without looking at the contact I click decline, turning over to see the handsome naked man next to me. I slightly jump before realizing he's the guy I met at the bar. I'm not one for constant one night stands but sometimes I need a release. Especially after that call with my dad. I groan from the pounding pain in my head. Great, I'm gonna get a bitch of a hangover.

Sighing I check the time. 3:33 am. Who the fuck would call me at this hour? It's a bit creepy no? I put my phone back onto the nightstand and wrap my arms around my mystery man, resting my head on his chest. Mark? Mike? Im not sure. He stirs a bit but eventually falls back asleep. As if on cue my phone rings again.

I let out an exhaustrated groan before turning over and answering my phone. "Whoever the fuck this is. you better have a damn good reason to be calling me at this ungodly hour because I am *this* close to reaching into this phone and going all terminator on your ass!" I whisper yell angrily into my phone while I hastily put on my flannel, buttoning it up and slipping on my panties as I was still naked.

The deep humorous chuckle that I, all too well recognize echo in my ear. "Sorry princess, didn't mean to interrupt your night. I've been trying to call you for weeks and couldn't get a hold onto ya" My heart flutters at the sound of Dean's voice, he's one of my best friends. He's always called me "princess" and I've always called him "charming". His brother Sam and me have always been closer, being the same age and all. Me and Sam shared a stronger bond.

Where as Dean and me....there was never a Dean and me I guess. He's sees me as a little sister but while growing up I had a slight crush on him. I always reminded myself that he'd never see me like that so I just discarded it. One thing for sure, he's always protected me when necessary. Same with Sam, he's like a brother to me.

Growing up Dean teased me and Sam all the time, joking calling me his little girlfriend. Saying we'll get married and all that crap. But me and Sam came to the conclusion that we are just friends. Hell. We're basically siblings.

It's kinda bothered me knowing I had a crush on Dean but that died down when I hit my teens and puberty. We all grew up together going from motel to motel to Bobby's house to motel over and over. Our dads were hunting partners, my dad would leave me with Sam and Dean.

Dean always in charge of course, John made sure to enforce that. I tried my best to help Dean out because no kid should have that much responsibility but he'd always say "I've got it" or "It's okay y/n/n, just go play with Sammy". I love those boys with all my heart.

Last I'd seen Dean for my 21st last year, he took me out and I quote he wanted to be "the first person to see me take my first legal drink".

I turn around to see Mark/Mike stirring in his sleep again, grabbing pack of cigarettes and lighter I walk towards the door and unlock it, stepping outside the sleazy motel room. I respond to Dean "Jesus Christ Dean, it's 3 am" I roll my eyes as I flick my lighter, putting one of the cigarettes to my lips, lighting it and taking a puff.

"Like I said, been trying to reach ya but you're basically a ghost" He says ironically. "Sorry man, I've been trying to avoid pops" I say, taking another drag. "Yeah I actually called him to get a hold onto you, told me you hung up on him. Kinda cold not gonna lie" Dean says lightly chuckling and it all clicks into place, that's why my dad called me.

"Shit, my bad. How have you been? You alright?" I ask worried, leaning against the door of my room. I just know he has that shit eating signature grin on his face when he hears my tone. "Awww is the Princess worried about me" He teases. "You better watch that tone before I hang up on you too" I mock threaten, teasing him back, trying to fight the smile on my face.

I take a drag from my cigarette that's nearly done as he dramatically gasps "You wouldn't dare" He say's melodramatically like an old lady in a soap opera and I laugh "Try me, Winchester" I chuckle as we share a laugh. "It's good to hear from you, Charming. What's the problem though? I know it has to be serious for you to call me at this hour" I queried, waiting for an answer.

"It's Dad, Y/N. He's gone on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days" He says, his voice somber. "He went on a case and hasn't updated you? That's strange" I say as I out my cigarette on the door still, now leaning against the railings over the ground floor of the motel.

"I'm on my way to California. I'm gonna grab Sammy from Stanford and head over to Jericho. That's where dad was working his case. You wanna tag along?" He asks hopefully. Without hesitation I say "I'm in Phoenix, just finished a milk run. If I leave as soon as sunrise I can make it for probably the next morning with a few pit stops"

"Great! I'll see you soon princess" He says flirtatiously. "Yeah yeah whatever Charming" I say chuckling "Wait did you say you're gonna grab Sammy? Have you guys talked since...." I ask cautiously. "Nah we haven't, but I'm hoping to change that. Have you?" He asks now sounding a little down. Truth is, I've talked to Sam a couple well times since he left for Stanford a couple years ago. I supported his decision to leave hunting and live a normal life. It's all we've ever talked about as kids.

He's updated me on his life at Stanford, he's got a girlfriend now. Jessica Moore, boy is she gorgeous. My little Sammy is all grown up. Ignoring the fact he's a couple months older than me and never lets me live it down but that's besides the point. He's happy and I feel bad that Dean has to go get him, but his dad is missing. They always butted heads but if it were me I'd wanna know. He needs to know.

"Yeah a couple times..." I say softly. "He misses you Dean" I add, trying to reassure Dean, knowing him he's probably overthinking going to see Sam. Dean sighs heavily before saying "I do too. I miss you as well you nutcase" I smile at this before replying "I miss you too you asshat. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, see you tomorrow" He says and with that I hang up. I walk back into my motel room to see Mark/Mike still asleep on the bed. I gather my things, tossing them into my duffel bag. After taking a shower I wait a couple hours for sunrise so I can leave.

Right as I'm about to pick up my helmet Mark/Mike wakes up, causing me to freeze. "Didn't take you for a dine and dash type" he says chuckling. I laugh as well "I'll take that as a compliment, I'm actually on my way out to meet a friend. It's important"

"That's cool, it was nice meeting you Y/N" he says nicely before laying back on the bed "You too Mark" I say back smiling, his face drops "It's Max". Crap.

Authors Note

HOLY SHIT! I'm so excited I can't. If you haven't noticed this is my first fanfiction, not my first book. The others I've deleted because they were embarrassing and I wrote them when I was 12 lol.

This book however, I plan on sticking to it. I've been contemplating doing a series rewrite on Supernatural for monthssss. Honestly I've read so much and there are plots I loved but also hated in some. So I decided to add a bit of a twist on mine.

I really hope whoever decided to read this that you like the plot I'm going with and I'm sure you've noticed that y/n is a little cold towards her father. I'm gonna be honest, I'm writing based off my my experience with my dad.

I do plan on developing their relationship but in the later episodes/chapters. Whoever is reading I just want to say thank you for giving my book a chance and I do hope you like the plot I am going to use for y/n's story.

As I am bisexual, I've been thinking about making y/n bisexual also but I know there's a lot of straight girlies on Wattpad. So I'd like to know your opinion if I should add that fact. Also I know Harley-Davidson VRSC came out in 2006 but this is a fictional book so let's just pretend it came out in the 90s or something lol.

Side note.

Y/N- Your name

Y/N/N- your nickname

F/N - your father's name

M/N- your mother's name

Xoxo

[crazyunsexycool]

https://www.instagram.com/p/DG_RpYyREXj/?igsh=amh0d3RvNHpkdzE3

I'm sure this is Bucky from MLL🤣🤣😭

He can't believe how unserious kids are on social media and sugar always shows him memes she saw about him online and makes fun of him😂😂😂

🤭🤭🤭 please he’d be so mad!!!

Memes

Warnings: some teasing I guess!

Bucky walks in from the garage after spending some one on one time with Henry fixing up his motorcycle. He smiles as he hears your laughter from the living room. It was the fully belly laugh from when you found something incredibly funny. Naturally he wanted to know what had you in stitches. Except when he walks in you only start to laugh harder.

“What’s so funny?” He asks, now not as amused as when he first walked in.

“I can’t-I can’t bre- I can’t breathe.” You struggle to reply as you wipe away tears.

“Mama what’s so funny?” Henry asks, although he’s already giggling because you’re laughing.

“Look.”

Henry gets closer in order to see your phone screen better. He starts cackling, head thrown back with one hand over his tummy and the other pointing at Bucky.

“Let me see that.” He snatches your phone and scoffs when he sees the latest meme someone made with one of his pictures. “I’m getting sick of these kids.” He mutters as he finds the post on twitter and reposting it.

“There’s more.” You say while wiping away tears.

“Show me.”

“I wanna see them too.” Henry sits next to you waiting patiently as you show him a few memes you’d saved in your phone.

“They’re not that funny.”

“They’re pretty funny.”

“Yeah daddy.” Henry agrees with you.

“You can’t let anyone on the team see these.” Bucky looks at you seriously.

You scrunch your nose in response.

“No. Please tell me Sam hasn’t seen them.”

“Why are you going to cry in Winter Soldier?” Sam steps into the living room with Lottie and Steve right behind him.

“Yeah Buck, you seem stressed.” Steve adds with a shit eating grin.

“We don’t mind if you scream.” You add before giggling when he glares at you.

“You’re all terrible.”

“It’s ok daddy.” Lottie says sweetly. “Your head is not that big.”

Bucky groans while everyone laughs at his expense. He was never going to live those memes down.

[crazyunsexycool]

signed, sealed, seduced. d.w. ⋆˚࿔

dean winchester x fem! reader

ᰔ summary: she’s high-maintenance, deadly, and doesn’t take shit from anyone; especially not from dean. but when their worlds collide, the hunt becomes personal… and a whole lot more complicated.

⤿ warnings: mdni!! explicit content, (i couldn’t help myself) tons of sexual tension, mild explicit content, cursing, dirty jokes, fluff + filth combo, (because why settle for one?), some light violence, a sprinkle of possessiveness, lots of playful banter, reader is so bela talbot coded, frenemies to lovers.

⤿ notes: thank you anon for the request!! im happy to oblige, such an awesome idea btw >ᴗ< think mr. & mrs. smith meets supernatural with just a pinch of unholy sexual frustration.

The first time you ever met Dean Winchester, he tried to shoot you.

In his defense, you had just scammed a warlock out of a cursed amulet that he’d been trying to track for three weeks. In your defense? He was being a little bitch about it.

“You stole it,” he’d growled, all puffed chest and righteous fury.

You’d just smiled, blood-red lipstick flawless, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “I acquired it. Stole is such a blue-collar word.”

He hated you instantly.

They say hate is just the other side of passion. Dean’s starting to believe it. Every time you roll your eyes, every time you sass him, every time you bend over in that tight little pencil skirt that definitely wasn’t accidental— he gets closer to just snapping and pinning you to a wall.

And you know it.

You flirt like it’s war. Batting your lashes just to watch him sweat. Dropping dirty little one-liners that leave him choking on air.

“So serious, Dean. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying not to get hard.”

He whips his head toward you. “Jesus Christ.”

“Oh relax,” you hum, leaning your head back against the seat. “I’m not gonna jump you. You’re not my type.”

He scoffs. “Good.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “I like men who at least pretend they don’t want me. It’s more fun when they break.”

You’re a ghost in the hunter world. No last name. No phone number. Just rumors and red lipstick. You’ve sold hex bags to demons and then double-crossed them for hunters. You flirted your way through vampire nests and stole angel blades from under Heaven’s nose. Nobody knows whose side you’re really on.

That’s your whole thing.

Dean hates that it turns him on.

The job takes you to Louisiana. Swamps, heat, and the kind of cursed object no sane hunter touches without gloves, prayers, and a last will and testament.

It’s an old Creole relic. An amulet that traps souls in a loop of violent death. You’ve seen it before. Once. You didn’t walk away clean.

Dean doesn’t ask about it.

You don’t offer.

Instead, you two ride down in the Impala, sniping at each other the whole way. He complains about your luggage (“We’re not staying at the goddamn Ritz!”) and you call his music “sad divorced dad anthems.”

But underneath the sarcasm, something’s shifting. You catch him looking at you longer. Laughing under his breath at your jokes. And when you fall asleep in the car, head resting against the window, he doesn’t say anything. Just glances at you, once, and turns the music down.

The house is cursed, because of course it is. Two people already dead, one missing, and a sulfur trail leading straight to the basement.

You go in first. Dean protests, obviously.

“You’re not bulletproof, you know.”

You glance over your shoulder, smirking. “Neither are you. But I look better while risking my life.”

He doesn’t argue.

Not out loud, anyway.

Inside, the air is heavy. Thick with bad energy. The kind that sticks to your skin. Dean’s right behind you, flashlight sweeping, gun drawn. You’re holding a small dagger you stole got from a Haitian priest once. Dean always makes fun of it— until it saves both your lives.

Which it does.

Twice.

“You okay?” he breathes after the second time, chest heaving.

You glance at your bleeding shoulder and shrug. “Ruined another blouse. Guess you’ll have to buy me a new one.”

He glares at you, then rips part of his flannel and presses it to the wound. “Stop joking.”

You blink. His hands are warm. His voice is serious. “You could’ve died,” he mutters.

You smile, softer now. “So could you.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours. And for once, there’s no banter. No sarcasm.

Just that look.

That goddamn look.

The one you’ve seen flicker in motel rooms and over diner coffee, in the lull between hunts. The one he always hides before it can mean anything.

This time, he doesn’t hide it.

He brushes your hair back, careful of the blood. And you let him.

You defeat the cursed object together; barely. It shatters in a flash of flame and screams, and when it’s over, you’re both on the floor, breathless, singed, bleeding.

You laugh.

Dean groans.

“You’re the worst,” he says.

“I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but stops. Because he’s realizing you might be right.

Next thing you know, the air in the motel room is heavy. You’ve both cleaned up—sort of. You’re in a silk robe now, blood rinsed from your skin but not from your memory. Dean’s wearing an old band tee with a rip near the collar and sweatpants, barefoot, jaw still clenched. He hasn’t looked at you since the kiss.

You don’t know if that’s a good sign.

You sit across from him at the little table between the beds, picking at your nail polish, pretending you’re not waiting for him to say something. Anything.

“You could’ve died today,” he finally mutters.

“You already said that.”

He looks up, eyes sharp. “You didn’t react the first time either.”

You shrug. “I didn’t feel like getting all misty-eyed about it while covered in ghost goo.”

Dean leans forward, elbows on the table, and you swear— his gaze softens. Just for a second.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Your stomach flips. Violently.

And now you’re just… staring at him. He’s not looking away. He’s not covering it with sarcasm or barking an insult or making some gruff joke about how everyone dies in this line of work, sweetheart. He’s just sitting there, looking at you like losing you would gut him.

You don’t do emotions. Not like this. Not in daylight. So you smirk, instead. “God, you’re being so clingy.”

Dean chuckles under his breath, but it’s not amused. It’s devastated.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend this doesn’t matter.”

You open your mouth to toss something clever back, but nothing comes. Because it does matter. And you both know it.

So instead, you get up.

Walk over.

Slide into his lap like it’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

His hands automatically grip your hips. His breath catches.

And you whisper, “I don’t want to lose you either.”

It’s the softest he’s ever seen you. And he looks at you like he’s memorizing it — like this might be the only time he gets to see you with your guard down.

Then he presses his forehead to yours. You sit there for a long time, just breathing each other in. Not kissing. Not speaking. Just holding.

The line between friends and lovers? It’s already blurred. Hell, it’s obliterated.

You slide your hand up the back of his neck. His breath hitches. Your fingers tangle in his hair.

“I’m not gonna run anymore,” you whisper. “So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear.”

Dean exhales shakily.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him afloat. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. You sink into him like he’s home.

It’s not neat. It’s not soft.

It’s messy.

Years of denial crash in one second— teeth, tongues, groans swallowed into skin. You push him back further against the mattress and climb over him, still straddling his lap, your hands yanking at his shirt like you’ve waited lifetimes to touch him without consequence.

Dean flips you, presses you into the mattress, mouth hot on your neck.

“Should’ve done this the second I met you,” he mutters into your skin, voice wrecked.

“You were too busy pretending I annoyed you.”

“You did annoy me.” He grins against your collarbone. “Still do.”

You moan when his hands slide under your robe. “Shut up and take it off.”

Dean’s hands are on you; rough, urgent. His fingers digging into your waist, your body pressed flush against his. His breath is ragged, hot on your neck. You’re both trembling, not from the cold but from something deeper, more raw.

You gasp as his lips meet yours again, his mouth is hard against yours, like he’s trying to consume you. And you’re not exactly pulling away either.

Your hands are on his chest, pushing his shirt off, nails scraping against his skin, making him groan low and deep in his throat.

“You sure about this?” he growls, his hands sliding up your thighs, his grip firm and possessive. His lips move down your neck, kissing and biting, and you can’t stop the shiver that races through you.

“I’ve been sure since the first time I laid eyes on you, Winchester,” you breathe out, your voice shaky but bold. The words feel like they’ve been building up for months, desperate to spill out.

Dean’s hands slide lower, just shy of where you need him. “Yeah? Then why’d you keep running from me?”

You’re not sure if it’s the heat, the pressure, or the way he looks at you with that fire in his eyes, but you snap, your patience snapping like a rubber band. You rip his belt off, hands shaking but determined.

“Don’t pretend you don’t want this too,” you snap, before kissing him hard again, all teeth and tongue, pushing your body against his, aligning the two of you in one swift motion.

Dean’s breath hitches in his throat, a low growl escaping his lips as he finally lets you have control. His hands are on your hips, guiding you, the pressure between your legs sending an electrifying jolt through your entire body.

The world outside the room disappears. There’s nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing, the slick slide of skin on skin, and the rhythm you’re both setting— raw, frantic, desperate.

His voice breaks as he pulls you closer, his lips pressing against your ear. “God, you feel so good, baby. So fucking good.”

You don’t hold back. The tension, the need, it’s been bubbling beneath the surface, and now, it’s exploding. You move against him, your body finding its rhythm with his, chasing that overwhelming heat, that burn that has nothing to do with the hunt, with monsters. It’s just the two of you now, tangled in sheets, no masks, no pretenses.

Dean groans as you shift, his hands gripping your hips tighter. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Should’ve had you like this from the start.”

You smile, teeth grazing his jawline as you pull back just enough to look him in the eye, your breath uneven. “Took you long enough to catch up.”

“You feel so good,” he mutters between kisses. “Damn, you feel better than I imagined.” His voice is low, strained, the heat in his tone like fire. “Always knew this was gonna happen… didn’t realize it’d be this fucking good.”

Your movements become faster, rougher, and Dean matches you, his hands gripping your hips harder as he takes control of the rhythm. The sounds of skin slapping against skin, the soft, breathy moans you both can’t hold back, fill the room. And you can feel his eyes on you, burning with an intensity that sends a wild thrill straight through your core.

His name is a whisper on your lips as you both fall into it. That final, explosive moment when you can’t tell where you begin and he ends. It’s pure, intense, all-consuming.

And when you both finally collapse into the bed, gasping for air, sweaty and wrecked, there’s no question.

You’re not just two people sharing a night anymore.

You’re tangled up in something deeper.

Something that’s not going to fade in the morning.

After, you’re tangled in the sheets, your head on his chest, his hand lazily tracing patterns across your bare back.

“You’re mine now, huh?” he murmurs, voice all husky and smug and soft.

You hum. “I was starting to think you’d never ask...”

Dean kisses the top of your head. “We’re really doing this?”

You look up at him. “Yeah. We are.”

Dean’s face breaks into a grin, clearly amused, but his eyes flicker with that intense, familiar heat. “You sure you’re ready for all this, sweetheart?” He motions to himself dramatically. “I’m a lot.”

You pause, staring at him, before letting out a mock gasp. “Oh no. Does that mean I’m gonna have to be the one saving you next time?”

Dean laughs, the sound rich and full of life. “Baby, the only thing you’ll be saving is my dignity— if there’s any left after last night.. And maybe if you get lucky a few monsters along the way.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.” You give him a wink, running your fingers through his hair. “Guess I’ll just have to keep you out of trouble, huh?”

Dean leans in, catching your lips in a kiss that’s lighter than before but still packed with that unmistakable Dean Winchester intensity. “You’re my trouble now, sweetheart.”

And for the first time, it feels like everything’s exactly as it should be.

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tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ���₊⟡

[crazyunsexycool]

After that first time I’d make him work for it… maybe start flirting with agents too just to get him all jealous 😈

hello doll face, hear me out:

enemies to lovers w bully!bucky? 👀 since the moment you joined the team, he’s treated you like absolute shit, always looking down, mumbling things under his breath, refusing to train or partner on missions, criticizing your looks, flirting with other girls, etc. rn he’s bucket, sergeant asshole.

but it’s actually bc he’s rlly shitty w feelings and he’s absolutely in love and smitten and he secretly jacks off to the thought of you at night. “I fucking hate you” during the day and “I want her to carry my kids” at night. and it takes either you breaking down and sobbing and not wanting anything to do with him OR finally meeting another guy that treats you right to pull his head out of his ass and change.

ends with fluff? smut? fluff and smut? reader getting her guts rearranged and legs broken by super soldier dick?

18+

Yes mam to all of this. ALL OF THIS. I feel like the fact that I like this so much says a lot about me. 

All the angst and asshole Bucky, SMUTT lots of it (m masturbation, desperate sex, very desperate. Bucky’s pink pouty mouth is a warning) and fluff to make up for him being an absolute dick.  

-

2 years ago 

“Everyone, this is y/n, she’s going to be joining us from now on” Tony proudly paraded you around the compound, introducing you to the team. Everyone had been beyond welcoming, wishing you luck and finding ways to make you comfortable. The last person you had yet to meet was Bucky. 

You quietly padded down the kitchen, still not entirely comfortable to feel like you were at home but you were trying. You made yourself some tea, looking up when you heard the sound of heavy boots thudding down the hall. 

“Oh there you are!” Tony walked in with Bucky, the tall brunette staring down at you with no expression his face. “Bucky this is y/n, she’s our newest Avenger” He stated proudly while you smiled, walking over to them. 

“Hi, I’m-

“Y/n, I heard”  Bucky cocked an eyebrow at Tony, looking you up and down, clearly unimpressed. “You hire just anyone now? Did you find her from the cast of Barney and Friends?” 

“She’s an assassin, I wouldn’t talk shit if I were you” Tony sassed, rolling his eyes as he walked away to answer a phone call. That was the start of your shitty relationship with Bucky Barnes. You didn’t even know what you did wrong. Every time you tried to be civil with him, he brushed you off, mumbling something under his breath. 

He didn’t hold back on criticism. 

He never wanted to train with you even though you had similar backgrounds and fighting styles.

He always had something to say about the way you dressed or the way your hair looked. 

He was clearly a fuck boy, flirting and sweet talking nearly every other agent but you. It’s not like you needed him to flirt but at least some basic respect...

Present

Tony groaned at the latest assignment that was handed to him, he knew it was a tedious one and no one would be ecstatic to volunteer and take it on. The team sat around the conference room staring at the stack of papers, avoiding eye contact with Tony so they wouldn't get picked. It was just a surveillance mission, which meant it would be boring and you knew the location was somewhere cold but it’s not like you had other plans. 

“Um, I could go” You offered while Tony gratefully handed you the large file, his eyes scanning the room to pick a partner to go with you. 

“Barnes, you’re on the mission too” 

“For fucks sake” Bucky mumbled under his breath, his jaw clenching when he looked over at you. 

“There a problem, tin man?”

“Do I have to go with her? You couldn’t just stick me back in cyro” He grumbled, ripping the file from your hands and skimming through it. “Let me just go alone”

“No, you need a second pair of eyes, suck it up and go pack” Tony waved him off, dismissing everyone else while Bucky continued to huff and mumble. You groaned internally, mentally preparing yourself for what would be the most grueling mission of your life. It had been 2 years. 2 fucking years and some how nothing between you and the super solider had changed. If anything, he was even worse now. 

Constant snide comments.

The both of you always arguing. 

He made sure you knew he wasn’t attracted to you AT ALL. 

He never wanted to work with you, let alone be near you. 

He was a fucking asshole. 

A few days after the shitty mission

“Hey gorgeous” Bucky smiled at the new agent that was training near you, the both of them flirting, exchanging lingering touches and smirks. You rolled your eyes, internally retching at the way he helped her stretch, his large hands splayed across her waist, helping her bend over. You could have sworn he looked over to you before holding her even closer to him, biting his lip. It was on days like this, you wished he was ugly. The fact that he was a dick to you was one thing but it pained you even more that you found him attractive and he looked at you as if you should have been in the cast of American Horror Story. 

You turned your music up, trying to focus on your workout, ignoring the glimmer of gold on his arm each time he stood under the lights while pumping weights.  Something about his new dark grey and gold arm made him even more attractive and you were ready to throw yourself off the tower.

The part that you didn’t know was that when Bucky was in his room, alone with all his thoughts, they were filled with you. Sure he had nightmares sometimes but majority of his moans and cries were out of pleasure and not pain. He had zero idea of how to act around you, from the day he saw you, he felt both his heart and his cock throb at the same time. This sweet girl with a skill set to match his, pure beauty on the inside and dangerous on the inside. He wanted to rail you and then get down on one knee and he hadn’t even spoken to you. 

Fuck was wrong with him. 

It got worse the more he had to work with you. You were kind. Gorgeous. Loving. Forgiving. Fuck he wished you weren’t so forgiving. Every time you were on the field, Bucky made sure he was no where near you. God forbid you were placed around the same area, he was sure he’d pull his pants down in the middle of a fight and stroke his cock watching you move. That or he’d start shopping for for rings. Landing his kicks and punches were not the most comfortable when he had a raging hard-on between his legs while wondering what your ring size was. 

He was in love. 

Fuck. 

Love?

Love.

Something about you was different; it was a lot, too much, he had no idea how to deal with what he was feeling so he turned to pushing you away every single time. 

Until he was alone. 

Each night, all his venomous words would switch up to honey in his fantasies, praising you while he stroked his cock. 

“God-baby-s’good, it’s so fuckin good” 

“C’mon spread your legs for your Sergeant baby, lemme see that pretty pussy”

“Gonna fill that tight little cunt up doll, paint those silky walls with my cum, you like that?” 

“Want you to carry my kids baby, get you pregnant with my cum, get these tits all full and leaking with milk”

“Fuck angel, you’d look so pretty full of me, you’d be such a gorgeous mama, so sexy and swollen and round, God, please have my kids baby, pleaseplease-shit-”

“Take daddy’s fat load you fuckin’ little slut, be my babymama, making me cum so hard, OH FUCKK-”

Masturbating wasn’t new to him, he’d been stroking his cock for years but fuck, after he met you? He wasn’t just lying on his back with his right hand anymore. 

No.

He’d find new ways to touch himself, desperate to make it feel like he had you right there with him. Sometimes he had both hands wrapped around his cock, stroking it up and down while his hips thrusted up, legs spread wide, feet planted on the mattress imagining it was you on top of him. 

He’d roll over and rub himself, humping the mattress, wishing he could have you under him. His hips would roll, grinding his leaking cock against the bed, all his clothes thrown off, his body hot just from thinking about you. He would grip onto the sheets until they almost tore, covering his sheets in a hot sticky mess. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough. 

One night, he grabbed his pillow, shoving it between his legs, humping and like a dog in heat, his cock aching for your pussy to take away the desperation between his legs. His balls always felt so heavy, panting as he rocked his hips, squeezing his thighs together, pushing the pillow tight against himself, grinding on it till he came, your name dripping from his lips. 

He almost cried from pleasure, some how working his way up to a second orgasm as he kept rubbing himself, only you could make him cum twice in a row, the whole room smelling of sex as he panted, spurts of cum still dribbling from his sensitive head. 

You were something else, you had no idea what you did to him. 

Tony’s party 

Between the 2 weeks of bullshit you had to deal with from Bucky and the mission and all the other stresses of work, you figured your deserved at least once nice night. You rummaged through your closet, deeming none of your dresses good enough for a Stark party. You weren’t exactly sure what the occasion was but you knew you needed a dress. Some nice heels. Add a little extra to your makeup maybe. You spent the day shopping and the rest of the evening getting ready, doing a quick once over in the mirror before heading down. 

You headed towards the bar, your stomach dropping the second his eyes landed on you, his jaw clenching, the grip on his glass tightening. You decided to ignore him, brushing past him to flag the bartender down. You could feel his glare on you, mentally scolding yourself for not just downing half a bottle in your room before the party. 

“You really didn’t have anything else to wear?” Bucky scoffed, eyeing you up and down, his cock already starting to fucking leak the second his eyes landed on you. You were beautiful, there was no doubt there but tonight was something else and he was sure Tony would have to put him back in a cell. 

That fucking dress had to be new because he definitely didn’t see it before, he would have damn well remembered if he did. Your skin glowed, a soft gold shimmer dancing off your exposed collarbones under the low light of the bar. Your cleavage looked so inviting for him to bury his face in, kiss up your neck while he stuffed his hands up your-

God Damn. 

And the heels. The ones he’d want thrown over his shoulders while he railed-

Fuck.

And the makeup. Pretty dark eyes and those pretty glossy lips; he couldn’t scrub the image of your mascara running down your cheeks, your lip gloss smudged while you choked on his cock, gagging with it all the way down your-

“Excuse me?” You glared up at him, sipping on your drink, letting the ice cold liquid burn down your throat. Bucky smirked, shaking his head, his hands clenched, trying to keep himself from grabbing you. 

“You could’ve picked anything to wear and you decided on that? I know you’re not the smartest avenger but I thought maybe you’d at least know how to dress. You look like something out of a bad 90′s romcom”

You felt your stomach drip further, swallowing the lump that started to form in your throat. You didn’t want to admit to yourself that you’d hoped he’d think you looked good tonight. Maybe for once, he would at keep his mouth shut. Apparently not. 

“Well, it’s not like I dressed up for you anyway Barnes” You hissed, making your way over to the empty hall, hoping to blink away the tears that were threatening to fill your eyes. You gritted your teeth when you heard him follow behind you, his blue eyes boring into you. 

“God I hope not, that would have been a waste of everybody’s time” Bucky snorted, not noticing the way you bit your lip to keep it from trembling. “Turn the lights on when you do your makeup, then at least maybe Walker would hit that” 

You tried to hold it together until his last comment. Bucky shook his head, deciding he had to pull himself away from you, no matter how perfect you looked, no matter how good you smelled, no matter how much he wanted you to be his, no matter how much he wanted to grab you and tell you how much he loved you, he couldn’t do it. His mind was too scrambled to deal with everything he felt for you. He started to walk away back to the party, hoping he could flirt his pain away. “Whatever, where’s Anna-”

You let out a sob, slapping your hand over your mouth to shut yourself up. He stopped dead in his tracks, his heart hammering against his chest as he turned around. Then he noticed the tears streaking down your face. 

Shit. 

“What the fuck is your problem” You choked out, struggling to keep your voice steady. “I don’t get it, what did I do to you?!” 

Bucky felt his heart start to crumble, reaching out to keep you from running away, now he definitely went too far. 

You’d never gotten mad at him before, not like this. 

“No-no don’t fucking touch me” You spat, smacking his hand away, angry tears rolling down your face. “I don’t want your shitty fucking hands anywhere near me” 

“Doll-

“God-don’t-of all fucking things don’t you dare call me that shit” You backed yourself away from him, ending up against the wall of the corridor. Bucky moved closer to you, enough so you wouldn’t be able to run from him, he couldn’t fuck this up any longer. 

“Y/n, please-

“Oh, so you know my name now? You actually knew all this time, you knew it wasn’t dumb ass, or fat ass or stupid or what was that other shit you called me? Incompetent, weak, waste of a teammate!?”

Bucky could feel his insides burn, in his absolute stupid way of hoping to hide his feelings, he ended up making a mess of yours instead. He thought he knew pain before, like whenever you got injured on a mission or whenever he had seen you sick. 

He’d silently check to see if you were okay, walking through the medbay in the middle of the night and keeping the kitchen stocked with your favorite snacks. He thought of all the times he wanted to grab you and cuddle you when you were curled in a ball with cramps, rub his hand over whenever it hurt, make you feel better.   

Those moments were painful but nothing was worse than the way you were crying now, each of your sobs killing a piece of him. 

“You’ve been a fucking asshole from the day I met you and I didn’t do a thing to you so why the fuck do you treat me like shit for no reason?! Just-just go fuck yourself” 

You tried to push you way past him but he grabbed your wrist pulling you back. 

“Baby, baby, wait, listen to me-”

“I told you don’t-don’t fucking call me that” You yanked your hand away from him, both your hands landing on his chest to shove him away but he stayed rooted in place. He grabbed your hands in his, holding them close to where his heart was hammering, squeezing them gently as he leaned over to cage you against the wall “LET GO” 

Bucky shook his head, his mind scrambling to put together what he wanted to say to you, to be honest with you for once over pushing you away again. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just listen okay? I know I don’t deserve it at all, but please? Please, y/n, I know I don’t deserve it but just let me say what I have to say and I promise I’ll let you go” 

You stared at your heels, refusing to meet his eyes. You heard him take a deep breath, for the first time you could near nervousness in his voice, shaky as he spoke. 

“When-when I first saw you, you were the prettiest thing I’d seen in a long time-” 

“That’s how you treat someone you think is pretty?” You scoffed, while he  continued. 

“I know. It was wrong of me. Fuck, everything I did was wrong. I-I don’t know how to control how I feel around you. I thought if you disliked me, it’d make it easier for me to distance myself from you too. Maybe like you less. I thought if you hated me, I wouldn’t see you the same way anymore” Bucky stopped for a moment, emotion swirling in his eyes, trying to find the right words. 

“But it never worked. Fuck, it didn’t work once. You always forgave the way I treated you and you’d look beautiful as hell doing it. I’d flirt with anything that walked by, but I’ve only every had eyes for you. I tried to fight it, never knew what to do with myself over how I felt about you”

You shook your head, a part of your heart wanting to believe him, the other part screaming for you to walk away. The grip he had on your hands had loosened; you could have pushed him off if you wanted to. 

You could have. 

But you didn’t. 

“Baby I can’t-I don’t even have the words, I’m not good with my feelings and I know that’s not an excuse for the way I’ve been treating you but you have to know-all that shit I said, the way I’ve been acting, it’s because I’m a fucking idiot. I had this beautiful angelic assassin with the sweetest heart placed right in front of me and I pushed her away instead of hugging her the way I wanted to the day I saw her”

You bit your lip, your breath hitching when you felt him cup your face, his warm breath fanning on your face. 

“You really are a fucking idiot” You mumbled, letting him rest his forehead on yours. You leaned into his touch as he softly wiped your tears with his thumb, chasing the warmth of his hand. 

“I’m so so sorry angel. I shouldn’t have let it get this far” His hands moved down to your waist, pulling you close to him, his lips brushing against your cheek. “I should’ve treated you like the precious doll you are” 

“And how’s that” You whispered, digging your nails into your palms, itching to wrap your arms around his shoulders. 

“Like this” He kissed your cheek softly, trailing feather light kisses down to your jaw, continuing down your neck. “And like this” He moved his hand to gently card through your hair, grazing your scalp as he lightly nipped your shoulder. “maybe even like this...” 

You gasped, as he ran his fingers down your back, over your ass, gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you to wrap your legs around his waist. Your hands flew to grasp onto his shoulders, your wide eyes locked with his love and lust filled ones, you could feel his cock through his jeans pressed right against your panties. . 

“M’gonna show you exactly how I should have treated you doll” He whispered by your ear, making his way down to hall to the elevators to take you right to his room. As soon as he opened the door, he kicked it closed, pressing you against the wall, his lips crashing onto yours. You moaned against his mouth, squeezing your thighs at the feeling of his erection pressing against you. 

“My pretty angel” He carried you over to his bed, softly laying you against his pillows, stroking your forehead. “Do you have any idea how desperately in love I am with you?” He said sincerely, his hand slipping down between your legs, caressing the soft flesh of your inner thighs. 

“Show me” You whispered, your breath hitching when he sat back on his heels, stripping his shirt off and throwing it aside. He grabbed you to sit up, pulling your dress off, groaning at how your lacy bra cupped your breasts, your panties clearly damp. 

“I want you bare on my bed baby, want all of you” His hand slipped behind your back, tossing your bra off before gently pushing you down so he could slide your panties off “Perfect” 

You could feel your face heat up at the way his eyes raked up and down your body. You instinctively went to cover yourself, feeling self conscious under his gaze. Bucky’s metal hand held your wrists against the mattress, while the other worked at unbuttoning his pants, pulling it down enough to let his cock spring free. 

“Don’t. Don’t cover yourself, you’re beautiful, you know that baby?” He gave his cock a few tugs, pearls of precum already beading at the tip. “Such a pretty body, wouldn’t even want you in clothes when you’re with me, you’re fuckin’ beautiful just like this sweets” 

He let go of your hand to throw his pants off, crawling back on top of you. His cock was heavy against your thigh while he ran this fingers through your soaked cunt, brushing over your clit. You could feel your pussy clenching and fluttering, too desperate, wanting him inside you and nothing else. 

“Bucky don’t tease, want it” 

“I have to prep you baby-”

“No-just-need this now, please” Your eyes were pleading with him, desperate to feel all of him your emotions all over the place. 

“Are you sure?” He gently parted your legs, slotting himself between them, his hard cock nudging against your throbbing clit. You nodded, lifting your thighs up for him, gasping when you felt the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. He braced himself before slowly sliding his cock in, filling you inch by inch until you could feel him in your belly, the veins in his length throbbing. “Fuck you’re tight baby” Bucky groaned, precum starting to leak again.

“Jamess” Your head was thrown back, panting at how full you felt, your pussy sucking him in deeper as he stilled, letting you get used to the stretch. “Move Bucky, pleasee”

You squeezed around him as he started to move slowly, letting you feel all of him while he pressed his lips against yours. You parted your lips, letting his tongue trace the inside of your mouth, the both of you lost in how connected you were, the roll of his hips making you dizzy. He pulled away for air, blue eyes blown with lust locked with yours. 

“God, you’re so perfect” He felt the same thing again just like the first day he saw you, his heart and cock throbbing at the same time. 

“I’m not-” 

Before you could protest, Bucky shook his head, determined to let you know exactly what you did to him. 

“Do you-do you have any idea how I touch myself because of you?” 

You looked at him with wide eyes, warmth coving your skin as he smirked, speeding up his thrusts. 

“You don’t, huh? You have no idea how often I touch and play with myself because of you. Cumming so hard every night over this pretty angel I can’t have, that I can only dream of. The way you got me so fucked up, I don’t even know what to do with myself” He stopped his movements, sitting back on his heels, grabbing your hips and nearly folding you in half. You cried out as he started to pound you, your belly bulging each time he fucked into you. 

“The fuckin’ hold you have over me? The way you got me God damn humping the bed like a desperate little teenager, that’s how bad it is baby, look, look at what the fuck you do to me” Bucky growled, angling his hips deeper, holding the back of your head to look down at where you were both connected. “You feel how hard my dick is baby? Look at how perfectly I fit in you sweets, s’all for you” 

“FUCK-Oh fuck Bucky!!” Tears streamed down your face as you felt the band in your belly tighten, pressure building higher and higher that you had never felt before. You slapped your hand over your mouth, trying to quieten your screams, only to have Bucky grab it off your mouth.  

“Ah ah, don’t. Don’t you fucking dare, let me hear you” Bucky yanked your hand away, pulling it up above your head and keeping it pinned down “You think you’re moans are loud? fuck baby you should hear how loud I get for you after watching you on the field. Y’know that’d why I cant’ train with you. would fuck you on those mats in a heart beat. You should hear how loud I get when I think about getting you pregnant with my babies”

He wanted you to-

Oh. 

OH. 

“You-you want me to have your babies?” You whimpered, your arms reaching up to pull him down to you. Bucky moaned, letting his body weight fall on you, his pace growing sloppy at the thought of actually getting to knock you up.  “All the fucking time doll, always thinking about fucking you raw, just like this, getting you nice and pregnant” He brought his knee up to fuck you as deep as he could, the muscles in his back all pulled taut. “Y/n, I wanna get you pregnant” 

“Buckyy” Your pussy clenched and dripped around him, his words making it impossible to hold your orgasm off. “Give it to me”

“Fuck, you can’t say shit like that” He panted, his grunts getting deeper as he felt his balls starting to pull towards his body, “You can’t talk like that baby, God don’t say shit like that” 

Bucky couldn’t tell what he wanted more, he couldn’t actually cum in you. 

He couldn’t. 

“Baby, I have to pull out” He knew he had to but your body didn’t want to let go, gripping around his cock. “It feels too good doll, s’not fair baby” Bucky moaned, sloppily grinding you into the mattress, hiding his face into the crook of your neck. His hands were in fists, clawing at the sheets, gripping them while his mind swirled. 

“You have to pull out” You whined, nodding but your pussy pulled him right back in. 

“Gotta pull out, Y/n, can’t fucking-shit-why the hell do you feel so fuckin’ good, m’gonna cum”

“Cum Bucky” You moved your hand to stroke his cheek while he bit down onto your neck, hoping to ground himself. He nearly saw stars when he felt your ankles lock around his waist. 

“Babygirl, you gotta let me pull out” He was sure he was going to start crying, his cock desperate to just blow. 

“Do you want to?” You 

“No” Bucky whined, his cheeks flushed, cock throbbing, “Fuck no, I wanna cum in you so fuckin’ bad, m’already leaking so much, you have no idea, cocks dripping in you”

“Fuck-Please-Bucky-” You couldn’t even formulate words anymore, your orgasm crawling down your spine, warmth filling your body, squirting all over his cock. Bucky started to jack hammer you, unable to hold back anymore, he couldn’t cum in you, there was no way-

“I-have to-have to pull-m’gonna-oh god FUCK I’mgonna-BABY I’m CUMMING FUCKKK, I’m-I’m cumming in you baby, m’sorry, fuck I can’t, I never want to pull out” His pace didn’t falter, continuing to fuck into you through his orgasm. 

“Fuck yesss, oh shit, shitttt-” His eyes rolled back, this was better than any fantasy he had ever had, “It feels good, I don’t give a shit, it feels to fuckin’ good, that’s right baby, milk my cock, keep my babies in that pretty pussy” You clawed at his back, keeping your legs locked around his waist as he started to speed up again, his cock still rock hard. “Y/n-I’m gonna cum again-let me-please fuck, I’m cumming in your pussy again” He roared against your neck, stilled as he filled you once more. 

He whined at the way his cock felt sensitive, cuddling into you while you let your hand comb through his hair, his lips pressing a kiss to your temple. He hissed, pulling out of you and shifting you to lay on his chest. You both panted, too fucked out to speak, falling into a comfortable silence while Bucky moved the sheets to cover you with him. 

“Y/n” He whispered against your hair, tilting your chin up to loo at him. “I’m really am sorry baby. For how I acted. For how I treated you all this time. I truly want you to be mine. And I mean all of it” He held your gaze, not letting you look away. “A family with you, growing old together, making so many memories” 

“I want to believe you” You whispered, biting your lip, wondering if he actually meant everything he said. You’d gone from enemies to wanting to have babies together in the span of an hour. 

“I know” He smiled softly, wrapping his arms around you “I’m going to do everything I can to show you baby, I’m more in love with you than anything else”

“Bucky what if- um, what if after tonight I’m actually-” You felt a little anxious, his warm cum still dripping between your thighs. He chuckled, rolling you over so your back was against his chest, his arm wrapping around your waist, softly stroking your belly. 

“Then in 9 months, we have a little you or me running around, preferable a little angel like you” He smiled, coming down to kiss your nose. 

“Are you sure?” You let yourself melt into his hold, closing your eyes while he snuggled with you, never wanting to let you go again. 

“M’sure. I want it all sweetheart. All with you”

Tags: @glxwingrxse​  @hungryyeyess​  @sebsgirl71479​  @beabutterfly987​  @teambarnes72​  @witchywhore​ @jamesbuckybarneswify​ @slutforsexyseabass​  @chrisdrysdale​ @littlemarvelmenfan​  @buggy14​  @whimsyplaty92​  @sergntbarnes​ @inkedaztec​   @pono-pura-vida​   @moonlightreader649​ @brooklynscherry-z​  @elle14-blog1​ @justsebstan​ @littlelightnings​ @psychomanniac-blog​  @happyt0exist​   @emmabarnes​  @bethyruth​ @matchat3a​  @cjand10​   @getwellsoontana​  @cherryschaos​   @lokisasgardianvampirequeen​  @ashenc-blog​  @buckybarnessimpp​   @potatothots​  @goldylions​  @high-functioning-lokipath​ @morganemorganite-blog​  @kingfleury​   @peaches1958​   @spiderman-stilinski​   @peaceinourtime82​  @gublur​   @wintersmelodie​ @geeky-politics-46​   @lolawassad​  @almosttoopizza​   @a-poor-gryffindork​ @alternativeprincess​   @buckycallsmeaslut​    @kamaria-sweet-writes​  @charmedbysarge​    @xnorthstar3x​  @kryoee7​ @alina02​  @gh0stgurl​    @polishprincess999​ @jessybarnes​ @alltheficsiwant​ @chemtrails-club​  @eralen​   @perdidosbucky-yyo

[crazyunsexycool]

Omg this chapter was freaking good!!!

Im very interested in seeing how her powers develop more if she’s the strongest witch in history!!

Also her hatred for John is my favorite thing ever!

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A trap is set to save John.

Warning: Cannon violence, gun usage, abuse mentioned, trauma, death, guilt, reader gets a little feral at the end, demonic possession, John Winchester

Word Count: 12.9k

Devil's Trap

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)

  “They’ve got Dad,” Dean announces, his phone clutched tightly in his hand—his knuckles white. His jaw is set as he takes the Colt and tucks it into the back of his jeans. 

  “What are you doing, Dean?” Sam asks.

  Dean grabs his duffle bag, the movement quick and harsh. “We gotta go.”

  “Why?” 

 “‘Because the demon knows we’re in Salvation, alright. It knows we got the Colt. It’s got Dad- it’s probably coming for us next.”

  “Good. We’ve still got three bullets left. Let it come,” Sam reasons.

  “That’s a horrible idea,” I interject.

  “We’re not ready, okay?” Dean adds, his voice far harsher than mine. “We don’t know how many of them are out there. Now, we’re no good to anybody dead. We’re leaving now!”

**********

  The Impala speeds down the road, my body jerking as a sharp turn is made. 

  “I’m telling you, Dean, we could have taken him,” Sam says.

  “Right, because three bullets against an army makes total sense,” I remark, rolling my eyes at his insistence.

  “You don’t know that he wouldn’t have shown up himself,” he argues.

  “Why would he?” I counter. “It would be better and smarter to send other demons in to take the bullets than himself and—”

  “And we need a plan,” Dean cuts our arguing off. “Now, they’re probably keeping Dad alive, we just gotta figure out where. They’re gonna wanna trade him for the gun.”

  Sam shakes his head, prompting a “What?” from his brother.

  “Dean, if that were true, why didn’t Meg mention a trade?” His voice breaks as he continues, “Dad, he might be…”

  “Don’t!” Dean barks.

  “If they kill him, then they lose any leverage they currently have,” I point out, fearing I sound more matter-of-fact rather than sympathetic.

  “That’s not a guarantee,” Sam shakes his head. “Look, I don’t want to believe it any more than you. But if he is, all the more reason to kill this damn thing. We still have the Colt. We can still finish the job.”

  “Screw the job, Sam!” He shouts.

  “Dean, I’m just trying to do what he would want. He would want us to keep going.”

  “Quit talking about him like he’s dead already,” Dean grumbles. “Listen to me, everything stops until we get him back, you understand me? Everything.”

  The car falls into a beat of silence, the lack of usual music becoming painfully obvious. “So how do we find him?” Sam gives in.

  “Maybe we go to Lincoln. Start at the warehouse where he was taken,” He suggests.

  “Come on, Dean, you really think these demons are going to leave a trail?” Sam questions.

  Another pause envelopes the quiet car. “You’re right. We need help.”

**********

  “I told you I should’ve waited in the car,” I mumble, my hands raised above my head as a shotgun is pointed directly at my chest by an older bearded man in a baseball cap.

  “Bobby, look, she’s cool. She’s not gonna do anything,” Dean reasons, trying to get his friend to stand down. His concern is sweet, but this situation is, frankly, more annoying than it is scary. If this wasn’t a dear family friend of theirs, I probably would’ve done something already.

  “Heard you were running around with a witch but I thought they were jus’ bein’ bitches,” he remarks, his bluntness amusing despite the predicament. 

  “No, Bobby, this is our friend Y/N. We’ve talked about her before, remember?” Sam tries.

  “Yeah, Dean—” He gets cut off by a sharp look from the man in question. “But you never mentioned she was one of ‘em,” he continues. 

  The words should hurt, and the othering should feel like a stab in the gut, but I suppose I’ve gotten used to the expected reaction. The Winchesters have always been the only hunters I’ve known, it’s always been safer that way. And yet, just knowing them was enough exposure to the reaction I would receive for being what I am. The boys never gave me crap for it, except for that one time when I was around twelve and Dean had called me some horrible things. And maybe I was, or am, a pushover, but I couldn’t, and still can’t, find it in myself to hate him for that. We were kids, and for all I know, it could’ve been from John’s beliefs and everything else that was put onto him. But, John? Him I can despise. Maybe that’s biased and stupid, but he also hated a child. Even now, he still can’t stand me or trust me, even though I’ve done nothing to give him that impression. Then there’s all the stuff he put my boys through, but that’s another story.

  Regardless, I learned. I know how to hide who I am, and in the case I can’t, then I know how to show I’m harmless. “Look, we’re just here for some help. If it makes you feel better, you can get some iron and cuff me up ‘till we leave,” I offer. Yet, the thought makes me feel sick. Bile burning in my throat the same way the metal had dug into my skin—

  “No one is cuffing you,” Dean says sharply, shutting the idea down fast. 

  “But you can get the help you guys want and—”

  “No,” he says firmly, cutting me off before I have the chance to say anything more.

  “Dean…” Sam says with a frown, as if feeling bad for agreeing with me. I know he’s probably not so fond of the idea, but considering the situation, it seems like the better option.

  “No! No one is touching her!” He shouts, his voice powerful against the wooden walls of the house. The words hang in the air as if embedding themselves into the groves of the wood, each figure grasping it within its curl as if holding it close so that it could repeat the words to itself in the dark of night. 

  Bobby stares at him, his expression unreadable. And for some reason, he lowers his gun. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But if you try anythin’, this boy vouchin’ for you won’t be able to protect you.”

  I nod, lowering my arms back to my side, a slight ache lingering in my biceps. “Yes, sir.”

*********

  Dean had insisted on me staying right by his side even though everything had cooled over, and I could have been doing something productive like helping Sam go through the many books that surrounded him. But, no, I stay right by Dean's side. 

  Bobby left the gun in arm's reach on the table we stand over, lying down with the mouth of it facing me. I suppose I can’t blame him for being paranoid, as annoying as it is. He holds up two round silver flasks with crosses on them and hands one to Dean. “Here you go,” he says.

  “What is this–holy water?” Dean asks.

  “That one is,” he answers, holding up the other flask. “This is whiskey.” He takes a swig from the flask and hands it to Dean, who also drinks, his head tilted back a little. My eyes trace the column of his throat. He doesn’t react to the liquor, no grimace or scrunch of the nose. He tilts the flask at me, offering me some, too, but I shake my head.

  He hands the whiskey back. “Bobby, thanks. Thanks for everything. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure we should come.”

  “Nonsense,” he answers, his voice like a permanent grumble. “Your Daddy needs help.”

  “Well, yeah, but last time we saw you, I mean, you did threaten to blast him full of buckshot. Cocked the shotgun and everything,” Dean reveals.

  I wonder what John did to warrant getting a gun pointed at him. Though, something’s amusing about that image: someone finally so sick of his bullshit that they pulled one on him. I’m sure it didn’t take long for John to piss Bobby.

  “Yeah, well, what can I say? John just has that effect on people,” Bobby answers. 

  I laugh before I can stop myself, not yet used to his bluntness. His hard eyes turn to me, his face expressionless. “Sorry…” I mumble, calming it down to a smile, “You’re just…really right.”

  “None of that matters now,” he responds. “All that matters is that you get him back.”

  “Bobby, this book…” Sam says from the other side of the room. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  He walks over to Sam, who is hunched over a very large book, and sits on the corner of the crowded desk. “Key of Solomon? It’s the real deal, alright.”

  “Woah, wait,” I say, taken aback, walking closer to them. “You know the book deals with magical operations and spells, right? So, like, you're essentially using magic…”

  “And?” he grumbles.

  “And…does anyone see the hypocrisy there?” I ask, looking between the three. If there was one thing I learned about hunters, it is that they’ll use things related to or originating in magic, or even just magic itself, but will be the first to target a witch. Doesn’t make much sense.

  It’s quiet for one, two…three beats as if the thought had somehow never occurred to them. “She’s got a point,” Dean speaks up, breaking the silence.

  “So then these, uh, protective circles. ‘They really work?” Sam asks.

  “Hell, yeah. You get a demon in–they’re trapped. Powerless. It’s like a Satanic roach motel,” Bobby answers, earning a chuckle from Sam.

  “Man knows his stuff,” Dean says proudly, coming over to us.

  “I’ll tell you somethin’ else, too. This is some serious crap you boys stepped in,” he warns.

  “Oh, yeah? How’s that?” Sam asks with a hint of disbelief in his voice.

  “Normal year, I hear of, say, three demonic possessions. Maybe four, tops. This year, I hear of twenty-seven so far. ‘You get what I’m saying? More and more demons are walking among us—a lot more.”

  A chill runs down my spine, the atmosphere seeming to change with the warning, and something else. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I turn to look at the window behind me. 

  “Do you know why?” Sam asks, his face grimmer than before.

  “No, but I know it’s something big. The storm’s coming, and you boys, your Daddy—you are smack in the middle of it.”

  Suddenly, the dog outside starts barking, the sound powerful and jolting. “Rumsfeld,” Bobby grumbles, walking over to the window. The barking turns into whining. He mumbles something to himself as he looks out the window. My eyes go to the front door. “Something’s wrong,” he announces. 

  “She’s here,” I breathe.

  The door bursts open. Meg saunters in, an unamused expression on her face. “No more crap, okay?”

  Dean lunges at her, unscrewed flask in his hand. But Meg hits him, sending him into a stack of books. “I want the Colt,” she demands, “The real Colt. Right now.”

  “Sorry,” I say, moving directly into her line of sight as Sam stands in front of Bobby. “I can’t give you the Colt, but I can give you a round two.” I take a few steps back, and she follows. “And I’ll play fair this time.”

  A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “Where is it?” 

  “We don’t have it on us. We buried it,” Sam answers. 

  “Didn’t I say ‘no more crap’? I swear–after everything I heard about you Winchesters, I got to tell you, I’m a little underwhelmed,” she says, taking a step forward for each one I take back. “First, Johnny tries to pawn off a fake gun, and then he leaves the real gun with you three chuckleheads. Lackluster, men. I mean, did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”

  “Actually, we were counting on it,” Dean answers, looming behind her. She turns to look at him, and he meets her eyes before looking up at the ceiling, where a large protective circle has been made. “Gotcha.”

********

  She’s tied to a chair in the middle of the floor, right at the center of the circle above. Her wrists are tied to the arms, and her ankles are tied to the legs of the chair. “You know, if you wanted to tie me up, all you had to do was ask,” she muses with a teasing smile.

  “You’re kind of freaky,” I remark, staring at her from the outskirts of the circle.

  “You’re one to talk,” she retorts quickly. “Gettin’ inside people's heads– making them do whatever you want.”

  “To be fair, I didn’t make you do anything, I just showed you something,” I correct, taking a step closer to her. “How was that, by the way?” 

  It’s cruel, and I know it is with a sick twisting in my gut. But the words are already said, and there’s no taking them back. I didn’t think before speaking. I rarely do.

  Her smile widens like a cat's, and her eyes drag up and down me. “I like you,” she says.

  “That’s a shame because I’m not too fond of you,” I quip, stepping out of the circle. That was probably more talking to her than I should’ve done.

  Bobby steps back into the room, carrying a large container of salt. “I salted the doors and windows. If there are any demons out there–they ain’t getting in.” And with that confirmation, Dean stands up, his unbuttoned blue shirt rolled up to his elbows.

 He circles her like a predator circles its prey before stopping in front of her. “Where’s our father, Meg?” he asks, his voice eerily calm.

  “You didn’t ask very nice,” she purrs.

  “Where’s our father, bitch?”

  “Jeez. ‘You kiss your mother with that mouth? Oh wait, I forgot, you don’t,” she teases. Everything a joke to her.

  He lunges at her, hands on the arms of the chair to steady her. “You think this is a fucking game?” he yells, and I think it’s the loudest I’ve ever heard him. “Where is he?! What did you do to him?”

  “He died screaming. I killed him myself,” she answers, smiling.

  He stands straight, something akin to hatred washes over his face, and then a loud smack echoes in the room, her face forced to the side from the sheer force of his hand, his hand lingering in the air. I step closer against the wall, arms crossing against my stomach.

  “That’s kind of a turn-on—you hitting a girl,” she muses as if it didn’t hurt, and maybe it didn’t when she is what she is. 

  “You’re no girl,” he corrects. 

  Then, Bobby stands, moving into the next room ever with a nod of his head, beckoning us away from what is being done. “Dean,” he calls, making sure he follows too.

  “You okay?” Sam asks his brother.

  “She’s lying. He’s not dead,” he answers, expertly avoiding the question. He’s still calm about it, but you can hear the fuming just below it.

  “Dean, you got to be careful with her. Don’t hurt her,” Bobby warns.

  “Why?”

  “Because she really is a girl, that’s why,” he explains.

  “What are you talking about?” Sam asks.

  “She’s possessed. That’s a human possessed by a demon,” he answers. “Can’t you tell?”

  “Are you trying to tell me there’s an innocent girl trapped somewhere in there?” Dean asks. Bobby just nods as if the words are too much to handle.

  “Fuck,” I curse at the same time Dean declares that it’s good news.

  “No,” I say, something burning behind my eyes, “It’s not. She fell from that building, and it should’ve killed her, but it didn’t, and if we–” 

  “She’ll die,” Sam finishes for me.

  I nod. It’s my fault. God, it’s all my fault. I’m the reason she fell, and the reason an innocent girl will die. She’s going to die. The blood has been on my hands since that night the shadows came, and I can’t wash it off.

  “Come on, get your book,” Dean tells me, his mind made up despite it all.

  “Dean, no, that’s a death sentence,” I argue, my hands beginning to shake. She’ll be dying by my hands a second time.

  “She’s an innocent girl,” Bobby adds.

  “And we’re gonna put her out of her misery,” Dean declares.

  “I don’t think you—”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I understand just fine,” he cuts me off, his words sharp and harsh, his accent coming through a little heavier. It's a different side of him, one I haven’t seen before. As I look at him, I know I should be wary of this side of him, an almost barbaric side that’s willing to do anything. Maybe I should be scared of him, yet I can’t be. “You can heal her, can't you?” he adds.

   I can’t. I can’t fix things. I try to, and it just doesn’t work; I’m just not good enough. I am not good at fixing things. I could not fix and heal Dean when he was sick and dying, nor could I do anything when those kids were sick and dying—I may as well be powerless. I’m far better at ruining things than I am fixing them, and I wish it weren’t that way, and I try to do good, I try not to ruin things, but they break beneath my hands anyway, and I don’t know how to stop it, I just—

  “Can’t you?” he repeats himself, a little harsher this time.

  I shake my head, but I say, “I…I guess so.”

  “Get your book,” he says again.

  It appears in my hands in less than a second, and I follow him into the room, the pages flipping by themselves to the right one.

  “Are you gonna read me a story?” she teases.

  “Something like that,” Dean answers. “Hit it.”

  “Regna terrae, cantate deo, psallite domino…,” I start, the Latin rolling smoothly off my tongue— my second language.

  “An exorcism? Are you serious?” she questions Dean.

  “Oh, we’re going for it, baby— head spinning, projectile vomiting, the whole nine yards,” he answers, referencing The Exorcism even at a time like this. 

  “...tribuite virtutem deo,” I continue, speaking power into God. She flinches, sucking in a sharp breath. Dean looks at me, and I stop. This was torturing her into a confession before ripping her away.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” she spits, her eyes locked on me. Then, her gaze turns to Dean, “I’m gonna rip the bones from your body.”

  “No, you’re gonna burn in hell,” he corrects. “Unless you tell us where our Dad is.”

  But Meg just smiles at him, no amount of pain seemingly enough to pull the truth from her lips. “Well, at least you’ll get a nice tan,” he says, knowing it is not yet enough. He looks at me then, green eyes boring into me.

  I know my role. I know my fate: the blood I am born to bear. I look down at my spellbook, which is just a little too foreign in my hands. I read, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” she shakes violently, “omnis satanica potestas, omnis incuriso infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, onmis congregatio et secta diabolica....”

  The chair rattles beneath her lashing movements, and finally, she gasps in pain. I stop.

  “He begged for his life with tears in his eyes. He begged to see his sons one last time. That’s when I slit his throat.”

  “Ergo…” I continue. Therefore.

  Dean leans down to her, hands bracing either side of the chair's arms. “For your sake, I hope you’re lying,” he says. “‘Cause if it’s true, I swear to God, I will march into hell myself and I will slaughter each and every one of you evil sons of bitches, so help me God!”

  “Perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae.” A breeze blows through the room, shifting the curtains and loose papers. “Hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei. Contremisce et effuge. Invocato a nobis sancto et terribile nomine. Quem inferi tremunt…”

  She sucks in a sharp breath. “Where is he?” Dean tries again.

  “You just won’t take ‘dead’ for an answer, will you?” she answers through gritted teeth.

  “Where is he?!” he yells.

  “Dead!”

  “No, he’s not! He’s not dead! He can’t be!”

  “Ab insidis diaboli, libera nos, domine. Ut ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias, libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.” The chair slides around the circle. “Ut inimicos sanctae ecclesiae humiliare digneris, to rogamus audi....”

  “He will be!” she yells. I stopped again.

  “Wait! What?!”

  “He’s not dead. But he will be after what we do to him,” she elaborates. 

  “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Dean asks.

  “You don’t,” she smiles.

  “Y/N!”

  But before I can read the words spew from her. “A building! Okay? A building in Jefferson City,” she answers.

  “Missouri? Where, where? An address!” he demands, circling her.

  “I don’t know,” she says firmly.

  “And the demon, the one we’re looking for…where is it?” Sam asks.

  “I don’t know! I swear! That’s everything. That’s all I know,” she pleads.

  “Finish it,” Dean demands.

  “What? I told you the truth!”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You son of a bitch, you promised,” she spits.

  “I lied!” he yells, turning towards her.

  I suck in a deep breath, looking at the next verse.

  “Wait!” Sam says, pulling Dean towards me, creating a mini huddle. “Maybe we can still use her. Find out where the demon is,” he suggests quietly. 

  “She doesn’t know,” Dean answers.

  “She lied,” he points out.

  “Sam, there’s an innocent girl trapped somewhere in there. We’ve got to help her,” he reasons.

  “To what degree is this really helping?” I point out. “She’ll die. This whole thing was stupid. I can just use a scrying spell.”

  “We can’t leave her like this,” Dean says. I look at Meg then, weak and tied to the chair. If the demon is gone, then she’ll be free. Her life was ripped away from her with this possession, and it could be given back; she’d have freedom…But free at what cost? I do not know. Morality is a very fine line; I should know, I walk it each day with my very existence, and I fear what may happen if I toe too far out of line. 

  I wet my lips and glance down at my book, the decision is already made. “Dominicos sanctae ecclesiae, terogamus audi nos, terribilis deus do sanctuario suo deus israhel. Ipse tribuite virtutem et fortitudinem plebi suae, benedictus deus, gloria patri....”

  She throws her head back, mouth opening in a blood-curdling scream. A black cloud shoots from her mouth as if being pulled from her stomach; it spreads out in the constraints of the circle before vanishing as if it never existed. Her body slumped forward, blood dripping from her mouth. I step forward before I can think about it. I drop to my knees beside her, my spell book slipping out of my hand to be discarded to the side. I reach my hand up carefully, as if dealing with a wounded animal. My fingers brush her jaw and cheek, carefully lifting her heavy head an inch or two. I duck my head a little to try and better examine her face. I can feel their eyes on me and, most importantly, hers. 

  Blood is dribbling down her chin, but she’s still breathing. It’s ragged and uneven, but it’s there. She’s practically a miracle that I cannot begin to fathom. I don’t waste another second because seconds could be all she has. Soft purple light emits from my palms, seeping into her pale skin. “Please don’t just stand there,” I say, not looking back or breaking focus from her. My plea seemed to snap them out of whatever trance they were in. “Call 911. Get some water and blankets,” Dean orders one of them.

 I can feel how overwhelmed her body is, working overtime as it struggles to keep her alive. So much is hurt in her body that it feels like drowning. She sucks in a sharp yet weak breath, her shoulders shuttering. I move my power forward, trying to focus solely on her. She trembles beneath my touch. I bring the jagged edges of bones together, guiding the power to connect them like puzzle pieces, filling the gaps and breaks with pure energy until the zigzagging breaks themselves disappear as if they were never there in the first place. Sam and Dean surround us, working around me to untie her. “Thank you,” she whispers. 

  “Shh, shh,” Sam hushes. “Just take it easy, alright?”

  “Come on. Let’s get her down,” Dean directs. I slip my hand down to hers, shuffling around to give them room while actively healing her. They lift her easily from the chair, a crunching noise filling the air. I feel the breaks, the further ruining of her body like it’s an echo of my own, her blood-curdling scream pressing itself into the grooves of my brain. 

  I kneel beside her the second she’s lowered to the floor. The energy spread throughout her body, separate tendrils moving through shattered ribs and torn muscle like fingers brushing over the cracks of the pavement. It finds the breaks and tries to mend them, trying to spread out as much as it can to mend as much as possible at once. I urge myself to hurry, to heal more, but there's so much. It’s not just one broken bone or one issue; it's the entirety of her. It's more bones than I can count or heal quickly enough when her entire body is under duress—

  “It’s been a year,” she croaks, her voice strained.

  “What?” Sam asks the very same question going on in my very busy mind. 

  “It’s been a year,” she elaborates.

  I can feel the labour she’s putting on her lungs and her heart with the simple action of speaking. I follow the shot of pain, chasing after it and wrapping myself around it, mellowing out the festering beast as if I were petting an agitated dog. I soothe it back, pulling the wave back from the shoreline until the waves calm down enough. 

  “Shh, just take it easy,” Sam directs, holding her other hand.

  “I’ve been awake for some of it. I couldn’t move my own body,” she explains. “The things I did– it’s a nightmare.” 

  “Was it telling us the truth about our Dad?” Dean asks.

  “Dean,” Sam warns firmly, and I’m glad he did. 

  The air feels instantly thicker, like a blanket trying to snuff out a fire. It’s almost suffocating but not as much as it is to feel sharp tangs prick at my palms and run down my spine, a sharpness I know is from her. 

  “We need to know,” Dean responds. 

   “Yes. But it wants…” She says. I can feel her weaken, like everything suddenly felt miles away. “…you to know…that…”

  “Shh, it’s okay, don’t,” I cut her off, losing focus for a second. “Don’t talk, you’re hurting yourself.”

  But she shakes her head I feel this pull from her like she’s getting further away. 

  “They want you to come for him,” she finishes, her face paler and the bags beneath her eyes darker. I’m losing her. She’s fading, and I can feel it. I send some power forward, chasing after this disappearing force that’s nothing more than a feeling. 

  “If Dad’s still alive, none of that matters,” Dean answers. 

  I can’t grasp her. I can’t hold on, it’s more than just the shaking of my hands or the ache in my head—I just can’t hold her. It’s like her body has long made this decision, and I can’t get it to change its mind. I knew this would happen, that I’m not good enough at this to keep her here. She’s dying, and I can’t change that. Yet, I can’t give up. It’s hopeless, yet I can’t bring myself to tear my hands away because what if something changes? What if I’m capable of more? So, I push more energy forward, ignoring the sharp pain that throbs in my head. 

  Footsteps come forth, and a navy blanket is laid upon the girl by aged hands. A water cup is put into Dean's hands, the droplets of condensation running down the sides. He holds her head up gently, her neck extending to gulp down the water like it’s the paradise she’s been searching for. 

  “Where is the demon we’re looking for?” Sam asked, tucking the blanket more tightly around her. 

  “Not there. Other ones. Awful ones,” she answers, her voice quieter. She’s getting further away. I try to put more energy forth, my hands shaking more, my head aching, a knot forming in my stomach, and warmth trickling down my nose. I’m doing all I know to keep her on this plane. 

  “Where are they keeping our Dad?” Dean pushes.

  They don’t seem to understand this delicate process, this moving away that she’s doing. They don’t understand how they aren’t helping, and I cannot break focus to tell them to stop. I can’t waste these precious moments, but God, I wish they’d just stop. 

  “By the river. Sunrise,” she says faintly. Her heart is beating too slowly, her lungs failing to keep up. 

  “Sunrise,” Dean echoes. “What does that mean?”

  She slips further like the tide going out.

  “What does that mean?” he repeats. 

  Her eyes close, her heart thumping one last beat before it stops. I feel her body shut down, like lights going out. Pure energy searching in a void. “She’s gone,” I whisper, my hands falling from her and into my lap as I stare at her lifeless body. 

  A numbing static fills my ears. The ache in my head, the shaking of my hands, and the blood dripping down my lip are the only proof that I had tried and failed. 

  It’s funny. I can destroy without thinking, without even breaking a sweat. But the moment I try to heal, to reverse my own doing, I can’t. 

  The room is silent. What more could be said? What more could be done? She’s dead, and the eyes that watch her corpse are the very same ones to blame. How are you supposed to move on from that?

  I stare at my hands resting on my lap, searching for an answer that has to be written in the lines on my palms, some sort of explanation as to what went wrong. How could I always be bad when all I try to be is good? It doesn’t make sense. There has to be some sort of explanation in my DNA, something tangible, so that I could know how to fix it. 

  “You better hurry up and beat it before the paramedics get here,” Bobby says. I don’t understand how they move on, how the guilt doesn’t try to eat them whole the second it takes its place. 

  “Come on,” Dean says softly, a gentle hand brushing my shoulder. When had he moved over here?

  I look up, my head inclined far back to make up for the distance of my kneeling and slumped position. “What?” I ask as if I can’t quite hear him. I can hear how weak my voice sounds, like a breath of a whisper rather than a conviction. His eyes soften, and it’s such a drastic change from his previous stern and demanding appearance. He crouches down, coming to my level, his eyes tracing me. His hands find my face, cradling my cheeks, his fingers slipping into my hair.

  I feel sick, my heart feels like a void, and I don’t think it’s from using my powers. I don’t deserve this softness, this kindness, especially when her corpse is just a couple of inches in front of me. But that doesn't stop him. He pulls one hand away, tugging down the blue sleeve of his button-down. He runs his covered hand beneath my nose and carefully over my lips like he didn’t care that my blood would stain the cuff of his sleeve. “We gotta go, sweetheart,” he repeats.

  I feel myself tremble in his hold, beneath his gaze. I wish I could collapse into him.

  I feel like a kicked puppy looking up at him with misty eyes. I feel pathetic because I keep failing those around me. I wish it were different, I wish I were different. But maybe I am just a kicked puppy looking for someone to take away these feelings.

 His hands slip from my face, dragging down my neck and over my shoulders. He squeezes lightly, encouraging me to stand with him, and I do. I stand even though I feel like I’m in some sick trance, like the world is shifting on its axis, and I can’t see straight. He picks up my spell book, pressing it into my hands. I clutch it to my chest, holding onto it like it’s a lifeline because I cannot hold onto him even though it feels like I must. 

  I’m aware of the eyes watching what should feel like a private moment. I’m not afraid to be vulnerable in front of others, but Dean is. Yet here he is— soft with me in front of the very people he feels he has to be strong for— and it only makes me love him more.

  “Here, take this,” Bobby says, ripping me from this moment in the same way his eyes move from us. He hands the Key of Solomon to Sam without a second thought. “You might need it,” he adds.

  “Thanks…for everything,” Dean says, his softness just barely remaining. “Be careful, alright?” 

  His hand finds my shoulder, guiding me to the front door as if he knew I wouldn’t be able to do it myself—he’s right. 

  “You just go find your Dad,” Bobby replies, brushing off the thanks. “And when you do, you bring him around, would you? I won’t even try to shoot him this time.”

  We walk out the door, out of that wooden home and away from a person we could not save, all in hopes of saving another. 

  I’m scared. The fight we’re walking into is more like a war; it’s bound to have casualties. I’m worried I’ll be as powerless as I feel now. I won’t be able to help, and I’ll lose the two boys I care for most.

  The ride to Missouri was long, but what else is new? Most of our rides were long, they were bound to be when we travel all around America. But they don’t always feel long; you’re with friends, there’s music playing, and you get to see the treeline blur into vast fields—essentially, you know you’re moving. It’s a road trip that I know is a little messed up, yet I can’t help but enjoy it just a little because I’m with people I can’t not see being in my life.

  I can’t say the same for this trip.

  South Dakota to Missouri. 

  I can’t get her corpse out of my head.

  I can hear the crunch of bones in the crunching of leaves rolled under the wheels of the car. Or, when I closed my eyes to nap (which Dean insisted I do), I could feel the way her soul slipped through my fingers, the loss like trying to grasp onto a stream of water as if it were rope. 

  Luckily, we've arrived in Missouri. It doesn’t make me feel better. I’m leaning against the Impala, watching a train move by in a mass of red color; we’re parked by some train track for a reason that I didn’t pay attention to. I can feel the breeze the passing train creates, tickling my skin. I know I’m alive and she isn’t. 

  I can feel Dean's eyes on me, long glimpses stolen between loading guns from the trunk into a duffle bag. He’s been checking up on me often since we left Bobby. He’s trying to help. He did succeed in getting me to drink copious amounts of water, but water couldn’t wash away the guilt carved into my bones.

  I have so much guilt that I don’t know what to do with it. Hunting comes with losses, I know that. We lose people by figuring it out too slowly, or messing up in one way or another; we deal with that guilt because we have to. You learn to move on. I’ve never been very good at moving on. And with her, there’s no one to blame here. I solely caused this. 

  It’s like suddenly everyone who accused me of doing bad things just because I was a witch or believed I was bound to do something wicked, was right. I killed her. Death is normal, yes, it’s a natural part of life, but what is unnatural is the taking of another’s life—the exact thing I did. I’m bound to hurt the people around me because I cannot control myself. 

  I run my hands over my face, trying to clear my mind and fix myself. I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing I can do. I wish I could fix this part of me, I wish I knew how. I want to crumble to the floor and lash out like a child, but I can’t. I have to control my emotions, especially now when I’ve already messed up badly. If I lose control of my emotions, then I’ll just hurt more things. But it feels impossible to ease myself when it feels like a little monster is in my gut, eating me from the inside out. 

  I’ve already tried a couple of things. I went for a short walk, and I changed my shirt into something lighter, thinking that it would, in turn, make me feel lighter. It didn’t really work. Once more, I don’t know how the boys do it; how they are able to compartmentalize these feelings. I guess they have their own little things they do. Sam is reading the book Bobby gave him, resting it against the hood of the car, and Dean’s loading up weapons.

  I wonder if it’s eating at them too, if they too have little monsters in their guts. 

  “You’ve been quiet,” Sam comments, his voice directed away from me, towards his brother.

  “Just getting ready,” Dean shrugs it off. 

  “He’s gonna be fine, Dean,” Sam answers, figuring him out.

  Unsurprisingly, Dean doesn’t respond. I should’ve picked up on his quietness, I’m usually good at reading him, but I guess this time I was stupidly caught up in myself to realize his own feelings. 

  The car shifts a little, easing as the weight of a man and his very large book is removed. Sam moves to the trunk. Intrigued, I follow his movements, watching as he uncaps a thick white marker and begins to write something. 

  “Dude, what are you drawing on my car?” Dean exclaims, watching in horror as his brother graffiti’s his Baby. I move towards them, peeking from the side to see Sam drawing a circle with a star inside of it on the inside of the trunk lid. “That’s a Devil’s Trap,” I identify.

  “Demons can’t get through it or inside it,” Sam adds. 

  “So?” Dean spits, baffled. I’m kind of surprised he hasn’t tackled Sam. 

  Sam shifts to the corner of the trunk, drawing another little symbol there. “It basically turns the trunk into a lockbox,” he explains. 

  “So?” Dean repeats. 

  “So, we have a place to hide the Colt while we go get Dad,” Sam answers. 

 “What are you talking about? We’re bringing the Colt with us,” Dean counters. 

  “We can’t, Dean. We’ve only got three bullets left. We can’t just use them on any demon, we’ve got to use them on the demon,” Sam reasons.

  “When did you suddenly change your mind?” I comment. “‘Just a couple hours ago, you were willing to face an army with guns ablazing.”

  He gives me a look like he knows I’m right and yet wishes that I hadn’t remembered that detail. “It’s different now,” he says, and I decide not to push him on his stubborn response. 

 “Well, we have to save Dad, Sam, okay? We’re taking the Colt. We’re gonna need all the help we can get,” Dean argues. 

  “Dean, you know how pissed Dad would be if we used all the bullets? Dean, he wouldn’t want us to bring the gun,” he points out. 

“I don’t care, Sam. I don’t care what Dad wants, okay? And since when do you care what Dad wants?”

“We want to kill this demon. You used to want that, too. Hell, I mean you’re the one who came and got me at school!” Sam yells. Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re the one who dragged me back into this, Dean. I’m just trying to finish it!”

  “Well, you and Dad are a lot more alike than I thought, you know that? You both can’t wait to sacrifice yourself for this thing,” Dean accuses, his words as sharp as a knife as it glides through the air. “But you know what? I’m gonna be the one to bury you. You’re selfish, you know that? You don’t care about anything but revenge.”

  “That’s not true, Dean. I want Dad back,” Sam responds, earning another scoff. 

  “Alright, come on guys, arguing isn’t going to help anyone here, let alone your Dad,” I try to mediate even though I know it’s futile, they’ll keep going back and forth. I should take my own advice. I need to put aside my guilt and fear because it won’t help anyone.

  “They are expecting us to bring this gun,” Sam continues, completely ignoring me. “They get the gun, they kill us all. That Colt is our only leverage, and you know it, Dean. We can not bring that gun. We can’t.”

  “Fine,” Dean answers firmly, giving in rather easily. 

  “I’m serious, Dean,” Sam says.

  “I said fine, Sam,” he repeats. He makes a show out of taking the Colt out from his jacket's inner pocket, holding it up before putting it in the trunk. 

********

  A metal fence separates the sidewalk from a park with a river flowing through it, the wind coming off the small stream adding the slightest chill to the hot day. A bird chirps loudly from a hanging branch, stealing my attention away from looking for what Meg could have meant for us to find in Jefferson City. Regardless of our search, my eyes stay on it for as long as I can as we pass by it. 

  “Hey, hey,” Dean says abruptly, moving my attention away from the chunky bird and onto him. He stops beneath the very branch the bird sits on, and as if the bird is pleased with that fact, it makes a little jump. “Think I know what Meg meant by Sunrise,” he reveals. I follow his eyesight to an apartment building, a sign perched outside of it reading “Sunrise Apartments.”

  “Very on the nose,” I remark, mostly to myself. 

  “Son of a bitch,” Dean curses. “That’s pretty smart. I mean, if these demons can possess people, they can possess almost anybody inside.”

  “So we won’t know who it is,” I add. There are certainly way over 50 apartments in the building, each one containing any number of people. 

  “Yeah, and anybody could attack us,” Sam adds.

  “And so we can’t kill them— a building full of human shields,” Dean builds onto the seemingly never-ending predicament. “This fucking sucks.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sam mumbles. “Alright, so, how the hell are we going to get in?”

  “Make an anonymous call with a descriptive enough threat to make them leave?” I suggest, shrugging.

  “Or.. we could just pull the fire alarm…” Dean offers, giving me a strange look for my suggestion. “Get out all the civilians.” 

  “Okay, but the city responds in, what, seven minutes?” Sam points out, trying to figure out how big our window would be.

  “Seven minutes exactly,” Dean confirms.

  “Isn’t that, like, a crime?” I ask, though I’m not sure if pulling a fire alarm under false pretenses is a crime.

  “When has committing a crime ever been an issue for us?” Dean points out.

  “Touché,” I respond.

  “Did you think what you suggested wasn’t a crime?” Sam adds.

  I look at him with pursed lips, answering, “Double Touché.”

**************

  The plan had worked perfectly: Sam pulled the fire alarm, the firefighters showed up almost exactly seven minutes later, and Dean distracted a fireman with a ridiculous story while I used a tap of my finger, with some magic, to unlock a compartment on the firetruck.

  Now we walk down one of the halls in full fireman gear. We wear large helmets that cover our entire face, a breathing apparatus strapped to our backs as well as a small water tank and hose, and, of course, the classic jumpsuit. In truth, the uniform was far bigger and a lot heavier than I thought. There weren’t a whole lot of size options in that compartment, considering they were supposed to be used as a “just in case” for the firemen. The jumpsuit I got stuck with was intended for someone two times my height and weight, but considering all that’s at stake, it doesn't matter. 

  Dean is using his EMF reader to check the doors we pass, looking for any sign of the Demons.

  “I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up,” he remarks. 

  I remember that. I remember him admitting it when he was just a little too drunk that time we celebrated his 21st birthday a little late. It was one of the few times I felt comfortable drinking, despite it being technically illegal for me to do so at 19. But it was with him so I felt safe—almost invincible even.

  He drove to my college, we spent the day together eating greasy food and watching a western film he liked. Then at night, he drove us to this clearing where you could see the stars perfectly. We laid down a blanket in the grass and shared a case of beer (he definitely had more than I did, though). It tasted disgusting, but he had this easy, almost sloppy, smile on his lips, and he looked so lovely and himself that it was more than worth it—he’s always been worth it.   

  When the drinks wore down, and everything was all mellow and slow-like, he admitted this little fact, his words not slurred but bitter. I don’t hear the same bitterness now, as if he had accepted his fate or had long given up on this dream. I hope he hasn’t. He’d make a good firefighter, he’s good at saving people, and he’s certainly fit enough, skilled enough, and hot enough—you know, the whole stereotype that firefighters are hot. 

  “You never told me that,” Sam reveals.

  Unfortunately, I’m not surprised that he hasn't told his brother. I’m not sure if he would’ve told me if it hadn’t been for a drunken conversation. I’m not sure if he remembers telling me. 

  I hope he gets his dream or something similar to it. I really want him to get out of the hunting life at some point, even though it’s probably unfathomable to him. But I want him to understand that his life is more than this, I want him to be happy, I want him to live for himself rather than following the wants or orders of—

  The EMF beeps loudly, the noise pinging against the walls. A look is shared, and just to double check he leans it closer to the door, the beeping becoming frantic. He shuts it off quickly. He knocks at the door, loudly stating, “This is the fire department. We need you to evacuate.” He holds up a hand, directing us to be quiet as well as ready. 

  I hold my breath, listening closely for movement and the sound of a door unlocking. The door knob turns and the boys barrel through first, a woman stumbles back from the force of the door her eyes pitch black. Quickly, I grab the hose attached to the water canister on my back, spraying the man with holy water. Sam joins me in spraying; smoke, and the sound of sizzling fills the air, burning the couple. Dean lunges forward, punching the man square in the face and shoving him back into an open closet filled with coats. He slams the door shut before looking back at us and yelling, “Come on!”

  We are out of water, and on order, we stop spraying the water. The Demon lady is cowering in pain. Sam grabs the woman’s wrist, timing it with his brother to shove her in the closet too. Dean leans against the closet door, holding it closed.

  “Told you it would work!” I say, referring to the holy water tanks. “We should get Super Soakers next.”

  The door thumps behind him, nearly throwing him forward as the door lurches. “Hurry up,” he says through gritted teeth, trying to prevent them from escaping. 

  “Oh, right,” I mumble, creating a salt canister in my hand, light purple energy sparking around it as it forms. Quickly, I move towards him, pouring a line of salt around the door, making sure there are no gaps in the white lines. The pounding suddenly stops, and the Demons go dormant inside. 

  Moving in near synchronization, we take off the firemen's gear, the heavy equipment, and the yellow jumpsuits. I hop out of the mess of clothes, nearly tripping on the helmet as I bound towards the closed door on the far wall. I put my hand on the doorknob, taking a quick look over my shoulder to make sure the boys were close behind and ready for whatever lurked behind the door. 

  But before I can turn the doorknob, firm hands grab hold of my waist, moving me to the side. The cold metal of his ring brushes against a sliver of skin exposed between my shirt and my pants as his hand drags off of me. My breath hitches, unable to stop myself when I am taken by surprise. It goes unnoticed as he slowly opens the door. 

 John is lying, unconscious, wrists tied to the metal frame of a bed in the center of the room. His face is bruised, a nasty yellowish-green blob splayed beneath his left eye.

  “Dad?” Dean exhales, rushing over to the bed. He leans down, his ear hovering over his father's face. “He’s still breathing,” he reveals. Sam exhales beside me as if he were holding his breath while awaiting the news. He steps further into the room, standing on the opposite side of the bed.

  Dean shakes his father, “Dad, wake up. Dad!” He shouts, fear laced deep in his voice. Yet, there’s no response from the unconscious man. He pulls out a knife from his waistband, the blade inches from the rope. 

  “Wait. Wait,” Sam cuts in. 

  “What?” Dean asks, eyes wide.

  “He could be possessed for all we know,” Sam points out.

  “What, are you nuts?” Dean exclaims.

  “No, that’s a good idea,” I nod. “Especially because they still want the Colt.”

  Sam takes a flask out of his pocket, twists the little cap, and sprinkles it on John. But, there’s no effect.

  “At least we checked,” I comment, shrugging. Better safe than sorry.

  Suddenly, John groans, his head turning back and forth, straining to each side. “Sam? Why are you splashing water on me?” He grumbles, his eyes peeking open.

  “Dad, are you okay?” Dean rushes out.

  “They’ve been drugging me,” he reveals, his voice strained. That’s…weird? Why would they drug him? I would think they’d be powerful enough to have other means to keep him from escaping. But, I guess, why wouldn’t they drug him? 

  “Where’s the Colt?” He asks, his priorities skewed. 

  “Don’t worry, Dad, it’s safe,’’ Sam replies.

  Dean lifts his knife again, cutting the ropes with one great slice.

  “Good boys. Good boys,” John mumbles. 

  They carefully help him to his feet, an arm around either boy's shoulder. I lead the way out of the bedroom, making sure there’s a clear path for them. Then the front door suddenly bursts open, and a man with short hair and a fireman with an axe move forward, both with black eyes. I turn around swiftly, “Go back. Go back,” I urge, a certain nervousness rising in my heart. I spin back toward the demons, throw my hands up, and send a surge of energy forward. They soar backward, crashing into the hallway wall. I look over my shoulder at the boys on the bedroom threshold.

  The two demons rise again and charge forward. I move into the bedroom the second the Winchesters are in, quickly closing and locking the door behind me. Suddenly, an axe barrels through the door, fragments of wood exploding outwards as a strike is made at the door.

  “Calm yourself, Johnny,” I remark, running my hands down the air to create a forcefield directly in front of the door. 

  “Sweetheart, let’s go!” Dean calls. I turn around swiftly. He’s on the fire escape, Sam and John nowhere in sight, though I figure they’re further down, the white curtain blowing from the open window. I nod, moving to him. 

  We move down the fire escape, one quick step after the other. On the safety of the sidewalk, Sam leads the way while Dean lugs John forward. Suddenly, Sam is tackled to the ground, a man with spiky dark hair on top of him. He lands punch after punch, fists soaring down with a fierceness that could only come from a madman or, in this case, a demon.

  I run over before any more damage can be done. I grab onto his forearm before he can land another punch. I push energy forward, sending a blast that sends him flying into a parked mail truck, the windshield spider-webbing. He slides off the car like nothing happened, his head tilting a quarter inch, his eyes as dark as night. It becomes a staring match or a standoff. I, nervously, look over to the side where Dean is leaning his father against the wall. I look back at the demon, and with a mere blink, I soar backwards, crashing into the door of a parked car. Pain erupts up and down my spine, my mouth left agape with the pain. 

  He saunters back over to Sam, straddling him as he lands mindless punch after punch, something crunching. I drag myself up off the ground, the pain vanishing with ease. The demon lifts his fist for another strike, but before it can land, I throw out my hand, shooting him off Sam with an invisible force. He flies backward, crashing into a lamp post, the glass above shatters, and the metal bends backward as if it were a glowstick. 

  He rolls onto his feet, head tilted down and upper lip lifted in a snarl as if he were going to charge forward. I yank him into the air with a flick of my wrist, then hurl him down onto the street, the asphalt caves beneath him–a shallow circle around him. I keep him pinned down with tendrils of energy, pressing him hard into the earth as if it is holding him itself. I saunter over, eyes on him as I speak, “Regna terrae, cantate deo, psallite domino. Tribuite virtutem deo.”

  He thrashes, teeth bared like a mad dog.   

  “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” I continue.

  Suddenly he launches forward, somehow escaping the binds of energy, he tackles me. He lands a swift punch that makes my head turn and my eyes water as a tingly sensation ignites on my skin. I shove him off, using enough force to send him a couple feet away. I roll onto my stomach, lifting myself to my hands and knees. This is just getting annoying now. 

  But, he doesn’t go after me again. He doesn’t face me, he doesn’t lunge, he doesn’t raise his hands to fight or throw something, instead he rushes towards Sam who is leaning against the brick wall with John and Dean. His back is to us, unsuspecting of the danger that lurks behind him. I launch to my feet, my hand outstretched to whip energy forward that could pull the demon back but his hands are already on Sam, one on his shoulder and the other on his chin ready to snap his neck.

  I stop the line of energy before it can touch him, worried that the pull back would cause the damage. The demon takes steps back, dragging Sam with him, away from Dean and John. He whips around to face me, to show me that I couldn’t do anything here without potentially hurting Sam. He’s smiling wickedly, eyes dark enough to see one’s own reflection in them. 

  His hand tightens on Sam’s chin, fingers pressing into his skin. Then, a single shot pierces the air, a hole cut right through the center of his forehead. Its hold goes slack, its body seizing as great strikes of electricity seem to go through it—lighting it up. It slumps to the floor, revealing Dean standing some distance behind with the Colt in his outstretched hand.

  An abandoned cabin located deep in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a vast amount of trees sounds like the beginning of a horror movie, which wouldn’t be that far off from the current reality. Each entrance to the house, both windows and the front door, are lined with salt and various sigils meant to keep spirits and demons out.  

  Chalk dust sticks to my hands as I draw another protection sigil on the wooden wall, Sam pouring the final salt line on the nearby windowsill. His face is a mess of bruises; his eye swollen, a cut on his lip and cheek, he wouldn’t let me heal him. He said it was the least of our worries and he was probably right about that too. We’re essentially protecting ourselves from impending doom, from ravenous beasts with one track minds. Does that make them easier or harder to beat? I don’t know. 

  The wooden floorboards creak beneath the weight of familiar footsteps. “How is he?” Sam asks without needing to see who it is. 

  “He just needed a little rest, that’s all,” Dean answers. “How are you?”

  “I’ll survive,” Sam replies easily, turning to his brother. “Hey, you don’t think we were followed here, do you?” 

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, we couldn’t have found a more out-of-the-way place to hole up,” Dean responds. 

  “Even if they did follow us, they won’t be able to get through this,” I add, gesturing to the various sigils drawn on the walls. It sort of looked like a toddler got access to markers and decided to doodle on the walls. I suppose that’s not too far off for someone who’s not familiar with sigils. 

  “Yeah…” Sam answers, merely acknowledging my response rather than absorbing it as if something else is on his mind. “Hey, uh…Dean, you, um……you saved my life back there.”

  “So, I guess you’re glad I brought the gun, huh?” Dean muses.

  Sam scuffs, a smile pulling at his lips. “Man, I’m trying to thank you here.”

  “You’re welcome,” Dean says a little more seriously. 

  Sam walks across the room, and I add another mark to the wall; a ‘Y’ with a line sticking up from its middle. 

“Hey, Sam?” Dean breaks the silence.

  “Yeah?”

  “You know that guy I shot? There was a person in there,” he states. The room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker with underlying guilt.  

  “You didn’t have a choice, Dean,” Sam answers firmly. 

 “Yeah, I know, that’s not what bothers me,” he responds. 

  “Then what does?” Sam asks.

  “Killing that guy, killing Meg. I didn’t hesitate, I didn’t even flinch. For you or Y/N or Dad, the things I’m willing to do or kill, it’s just, uh…it scares me sometimes.”

  I look over my shoulder at him. The information settled into the air and into the cracks of the cabin, holding onto truth as if to use it against him one day—at least that’s what his face reads of, like he knows how it sounds and he’s terrified to see our reaction. Maybe I’m entirely biased or blinded by love, or both, but yet again I do not fear this side of him—whatever side you want to call it. In fairness this feeling of his makes perfect sense, he was raised a soldier so now his priorities and reactions are that of a soldier. John got his wish. 

  I wish I knew what to say. I wish I knew how to ease that worry in his eyes. And the last thing I want is for him to believe that we’d ever be terrified of him, well maybe I should just speak for myself and say that I don’t think I could ever be terrified of him. He’s Dean. He’s my Dean that I’ve known almost my entire life. Terrified is the last possible thing he could make me feel. And yet I struggle to articulate this, to make the words form or flow in a way that could ease the furrow in his brow. I want to ease him in the way he eases me. How does he do it so easily?

  Does stating he doesn’t make me afraid really change anything when he’s afraid of himself? Do we say it’s normal to feel protective over the people you care about when that’s not exactly what he’s describing? What do you say? Is there anything that we can say? 

  “It shouldn’t,” John says, breaking the silence as he enters the room. “You did good.”

  “You’re not mad?” Dean asks, the raw astonishment in his voice enough to make me despise John all over again.

  “For what?” John responds.

  “Using a bullet.”

  “Mad? I’m proud of you,” John proclaims. “You know, Sam and I, we can get pretty obsessed. But you—you watch out for this family. You always have.”

  I can’t mask the shock on my face. Did my ears deceive me? Never in all my days did I ever think I’d see John actually express some sort of love of appreciation for his kids. Maybe John was turning over a new leaf—admittedly a very late leaf but a new leaf nonetheless. 

  “Thanks,” Dean exhales. 

  Then, suddenly, the lights begin to flicker as if slowly blinking. 

  “It found us. It’s here,” John announces. 

  “The demon?” Sam asks.

  “Sam, lines of salt in front of every window, every door,” John orders. 

  “I already did it,” he answers.

  “Well, check it, okay?” John insists. 

  “Okay,” he gives in, exiting the room.

  “Y/N, go with him,” John adds.

  “Oh, okay, sure,” I answer, leaving the piece of chalk on the floor before following out the same way Sam went. I go the opposite direction as him, swiftly checking each room to make sure each salt line is unbroken and each sigil on the wall is complete.

  Once more, nothing was going to enter this house, so In less than a minute I’m walking back to the main room catching the last bits of a conversation.

  “What the hell’s gotten into you?” John accuses.

  I hasten my steps, swinging around the corner as Dean responds, “I could ask you the same thing. Stay back.”

  The colt is aimed at John’s chest, a hard look in Dean's eyes. 

  “What’d he do now?” I ask, entering the room carefully. 

  “Dean? What the hell’s going on?” Sam exclaims, four feet behind me. 

  “Your brother’s lost his mind,” John answers.

  “Yeah, dude, you’re one to talk,” I remark. There’s likely only a few things that would ever get me to side with John and yet frankly I can’t name a single one.

  “He’s not Dad,” Dean reveals, the air seeming to thicken. 

  “What?” Sam asks.

  “I think he’s possessed. I think he’s been possessed since we rescued him,” he explains, his jaw wobbling a little bit. 

  Frick.

  “Don’t listen to him,” John adds quickly.

  “Uh uh,” I shake my head. “You don’t get to do that, ‘take a couple steps back.” He rolls his eyes but makes a show of taking a single step back. Regardless, I'm not impressed or convinced. I move a little closer. 

  “Dean, how do you know?” Sam asks, not so readily convinced as I am. 

  Dean swallows roughly, his Adam's apple bobbing harshly, his eyes rimmed with a sort of glossiness that comes from impending tears. “He’s…he’s different.”

  “You know, we don’t have time for this,” John bites. “Sam, you wanna kill this demon, you’ve gotta trust me.” 

  Sam looks back and forth between his father and brother. Dean glances at him, but doesn’t say anything more to convince him. 

  “Sam?” John tries.

  He looks back and forth again. He shakes his head, muttering, “No. No,” as he moves to Dean's side.

  John stares at them in silence, glares at me for half a beat and then returns back to his sons. “Fine. You’re all so sure, go ahead. Kill me,” he orders. He looks down.

  The gun is pointed at him. The trigger isn’t pulled, of course it isn’t. I figure whatever is possessing him likely knew that was to happen which puts us in a difficult situation. 

  “I thought so,” he remarks. He looks back up slowly, his irises yellow. Sam lunges forward but in a sweep of a hand the three of us are thrown against the wall, an invisible force pinning us there, the Colt tumbling to the floor. Again it feels like the weight of a house is being pressed upon my limbs. 

  John picks the Colt up. “What a pain in the ass this thing’s been,” he remarks.

  “It’s you, isn’t it? We’ve been looking for you for a long time,” Sam spits. 

  “Well, you found me,” he muses.

  I push on the invisible binds, trying to detach myself from the wall. He’s got us spread out enough so that we could all see each other and him which likely means he’s going to kill us here and make one watch as he takes out the other. 

  “But the holy water?” Sam questions.

  “You think something like that works on something like me?” He counters. 

  Suddenly, a wooden chair goes flying, crashing into him. He stumbles forward, the wood breaking against his back.

  “No, but apparently a chair does,” I laugh; turns out being pinned to a wall doesn’t mean I can’t use my powers.

  A smirk pulls on the corner of his lips. He slowly walks towards me, “The guard dog does bite,” he remarks. 

  “‘Want me to show you how hard I can bite?” I ask.

  “Gladly,” he answers, holding his arms out wide.

  I push against the hold again, my arm shaking as I manage to pull it off the wall, pushing back against the crushing weight. But, again like a rubber band my arm sticks back to the wall.

  “Oh, that’s right, you can’t,” he teases. “The most powerful Witch in history and yet you can’t do anything more than some party tricks.”

  My eyebrows furrow, I’m not the most powerful anything, let alone witch—I’m mediocre at best. He steps closer, grabbing ahold of my chin. I try to twist out of it but he holds firm. “Wasted potential,” he states, looking me in the eyes. 

  He’s probably right about that. There’s so many things I’m capable of but I’m too afraid to try. I’m afraid one wrong move or spell would sour my name more than it already is. I don’t want trouble. I’ve never wanted trouble. 

  “Evil bastard,” I spit.

  He steps away, shrugging. “Well, this is fun.” He walks over to the window beside Dean. “I could’ve killed you a hundred times today, but this…” He sighs, “This is worth the wait.”

  It’s Dean’s turn to struggle against the invisible force. John looks over at him. “Your Dad—he’s in here with me. Trapped inside his own meat suit. He says “hi,” by the way. He’s gonna taste the iron in your blood.”

  “Let him go, or I swear to God—“ Dena threatens.

  “What? What are you and God gonna do?” He mocks. “You see, as far as I’m concerned, this is justice.” He goes over to Dean. “You know that little exorcism of yours? That was my daughter.”

  “Who, Meg?” Dean asks.

  He nods. “The one in the alley? That was my boy. You understand.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean remarks.

  “What? You’re the only one that can have a family? You destroyed my children. How would you feel if I killed your family?” A slow smile creeps onto his face. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. I did. Still, two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Dean spits, trying to lunge at him despite the restraints. 

  “I wanna know why. Why’d you do it?” Sam asks. 

  He turns to Sam. “You mean why did I kill Mommy and pretty little Jess?”

  “Yeah.”

  He turns back to Dean, “You know, I never told you this, but Sam was going to ask her to marry him.” He backs up toward Sam. “Been shopping for rings and everything.” 

  Oh God. He had a whole life set up for himself, that interview he was supposed to go to, a girlfriend he planned on marrying. God. As if we needed anymore reason to want to kill this bastard. 

  He turns to Sam. “You want to know why?” he mocks. “Because they got in the way.”

  “In the way of what?” Sam pushes, jaw clenched.

  “My plans for you, Sammy. You…and all the children like you,” he reveals.

  “Listen, you mind just getting this over with, huh? Cause I really can’t stand the monologuing,” Dean cuts in, a bored ring to his voice. 

  He saunters back over to him. “Funny, but that’s all sort of your M.O., isn’t it? Masks all that nasty pain, masks the truth.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don’t need you. Not like you need them. Sam – he’s clearly John’s favorite. Even when they fight, it’s more concern than he’s ever shown you.” 

  The air crackles. 

  “I bet you’re real proud of your kids, too, huh?” Dean muses. “Oh wait, I forgot. I wasted ‘em.” 

  John steps back, his head down in defeat. Then he looks back up and suddenly Dean is yelling, the sound curling around me, blood soaking his shirt. 

  Something snaps in me then. I rip forward, the invisible weight nothing more than a blanket. I vanish and appear beside him, landing a punch that throws him across the room and into the far wall. Deans screams stop, whatever pain he was causing him vanishes but they remain pinned in place. 

  “There she is!” John practically cheers, picking himself up with ease. The Colt launched out of his hand.

  “You want to fight someone, I’m right here piss eyes!” I shout. My powers thump in my veins like fire igniting down my hands; if he’s going to hurt anyone, let it be me. 

  He laughs. A short singular little laugh.

  “You want to hear something funny?” I ask, stepping closer, my body shaking with an anger I cannot control. “I was the last thing your kids saw before they died.” I take another step closer, “I fucking tortured them! I messed with her mind until she couldn’t take it anymore. I threw that guy around like he was a fucking ragdoll, ‘wrapped him around a pole like he was a damn car!”

  Now, don’t get it twisted, I’m not proud of the things I’ve done—I can barely stand myself but for some reason I just kept talking.

There’s an invisible force thrown at me, trying to pin me to the wall again, but I don’t budge.   

“Where was all this bite when Daddy was beating you?” He mocks, using a mere look to send me flying back. Old images flash in my mind, a simple reminder enough to bring them forth. The force put onto me is stronger than before, something harder to tear through.

  He walks over to me, a force wrapping around my throat tightly. I choke on the lack of air, my eyes watering at the restriction. 

  “Stop!” Dean shouts, fighting against the force that pins him there. His shout ends in coughing, blood I hadn’t seen before pouring from his mouth. 

  “Shut up!” He barks, barely looking over at Dean. “You’re still the scared little girl that begged Daddy to stop.”

  His hold on my throat gets tighter, black dots swimming in my vision. The house creaks. The lights flicker rapidly. The floorboards rip open, great big roots bursting through them. They latch onto his legs, yanking him back and send him skittering across the floor.

  The lights stop flickering. A single light burns brighter and brighter, igniting the room in a sharp bang of white before the bulb bursts. I break through his force again, crumbling to the floor as I suck in breath after breath—my throat and chest burning. 

  “I should gut you the same way I did dear Jess and Mom!” The yellow eyed demon roars. The roots return to the earth, creeping away from the fight. 

  I suck in one last deep breath before pushing myself to my feet. 

  “You have to shoot him!” Sam yells. 

  I know I do. I can’t fight him forever. He’s powerful. There’s only so much more back and forth that can happen. 

  I reach out for the gun with one hand the other directed on him. I push him to his knees, purple tendrils keeping him in place.

  The Colt slides across the floor to my feet. I pick it up, the metal cold in my hands. I aim at his chest. He stops fighting the restraints. 

  “You kill me, you kill John. Those two will never forgive you. You’ll always be a monster to them.”

  “I know,” I croak. I cock the gun, the click ringing in my ears. I press the trigger, aiming at his thigh. Dean and Sam fall to the floor, the demons hold gone. The demon crumbles the rest of the way to the floor, the tendrils letting him go.   

  “Oh God, you’ve lost a lot of blood. He’s lost a lot of blood! Y/N!” Sam shouts, panic weaven in his voice. 

  Dean. 

  Immediately I spin around, avoiding the hole in the floor and wood chips as I rush towards them. Dean lies on the floor with too much blood soaking his shirt and dribbling from his mouth. I fall to my knees beside him, pressing the gun into Sam’s hand without a second thought. Dean repeating the order of “Go check on him,” to his brother. 

  Sam gets up reluctantly, taking the gun with him. 

  I don’t know where to touch him. I can’t tell where he’s hurt, just that he’s bleeding. He’s turned his head to look at me and I can’t read the expression in his eyes. I carefully touch his cheek, my other hand high on his chest to avoid possibly hurting him more. His head leans more into my hand. 

  “It’s okay. I got you,” I say, my hands lighting up with a soft glow that makes his lips part. I focus on him. I try to find what’s wrong. I try to figure out what that demon did over the sound of John yelling.

  “Sammy! It’s still alive. It’s inside me, I can feel it. Sammy! It’s still alive. It’s inside me, I can feel it. You shoot me. You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, son!,” he shouts. 

  I, internally, search through Dean’s body, light guiding the way to internal bleeding. 

  “Do it now!” John orders. 

  Dean’s head whips the other way, leaving my hand to face his father and brother. “Sam, don’t you do it. Don’t you do it.” 

  Light wraps around damaged blood vessels, knitting them back together. Dean sucks in a sharp breath of air.

  “You’ve gotta hurry! I can’t hold onto it much longer! You shoot me, son! Shoot me! Son, I’m begging you! We can end this here and now! Sammy!” John pleads.

  “Sam, no,” Dean says weakly.

  “You do this! Sammy!! Sam.....”

  Black smoke shoots from his mouth, seeping into the floor. 

********

  “Sam! Drive faster!” I demand from the back seat of the Impala, hands still on Dean who’s slumped against the left hand door. 

  “Hold on, alright. The hospital's only ten minutes away,” Sam answers. 

  I repaired as many blood vessels as I could but I could not do anything about the blood he had lost. And he lost a lot. 

  “You fought good,” he mumbled to me, eyes lidded and face pale, when we first got into the car.

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” I answered quietly. I wouldn't consider it good at all. Psychotic? Probably. But not good. 

  “I’m surprised at you, Sammy. Why didn’t you kill it?” John asks from the passenger seat, gasping in pain every now and then. “I thought we saw eye-to-eye on this. Killing this demon comes first – before me, before everything.”

  Sam looks in the rear view mirror, looking at his brother. “No, sir. Not before everything. Look, we’ve still got the Colt. We still have one bullet left. We just have to start over, alright? I mean, we already found the demon…”

  Something hits the Impala hard. Everything goes black. 

(Next Chapter)

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld , @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor , @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain

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Aww I loved this for them!!!

Foundations (#8)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky). Smut.

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 7.4.k.

note: And we have reached the end. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and accompanying me through the story.

Previous chapter

Her mouth went dry.

His body was a masterpiece of muscle and scar tissue, broad shoulders tapering down to a defined waist, and taut skin covering a sculpted chest. The light caught on the hard lines of his abdomen, and the faint trail of hair leading below the waistband of his sweats.

But it was the contrast that stole her breath.

The way flesh met metal at his shoulder, how his arm caught the light of the room, gleaming with every slight movement. The way his muscles flexed and tensed as he rolled his neck, adjusting to the loss of fabric. He was solid, real, and beautiful in a way that was both raw and devastating.

And he was looking at her like he could see every thought running wild through her head. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

“I take you like what you see?” he asked, a disarming half-smile tugging at his lips.

She didn’t answer right away. Didn’t need to. Her parted lips, the slow, deliberate drag of her gaze over his body, he saw it all.

But inside, something in him diminished the way she was looking at him.

He wasn’t the cocky bastard who knew the effect he had on a dame, who could throw a wink and have a girl melting in his hands.

He was… this. The patchwork of scars, the jagged edges of skin fused back together, the gleaming vibranium where flesh used to be. Someone once told him he had body dysmorphia or something like that. He didn’t know. Didn’t care. As a man of his time, he only believed in what he could see, and the image the mirror returned to him every day wasn't exactly the one of a charmer.

But, right now, she was looking at him like he was something worth wanting. Patchwork or not, she had chosen him.

He crawled up her on the bed and her nightdress bunched up around her thighs as his hands roamed, rough and warm against her skin. He groaned softly, gripping the fabric, trailing upward with deliberate slowness.

“You got no idea how long I’ve been wanting this,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger.

She swallowed hard, as he pushed the nightdress higher. His fingers brushed along her sides, tracing her waist before sliding up, skimming just beneath the fabric.

He gave her a look, one last moment for her to stop him. She didn’t.

Instead, she lifted her hips, arching her back to help him pull it off completely. The gown slipped over her head and onto the floor, forgotten.

Bucky bit his lip slightly at the sight of her naked body, waiting beneath him in just a pair of panties.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, settling his hands on her thighs.

The cool air of the room pebbled her nipples, drawing his piercing gaze like a magnet. She could feel the heat of his stare, almost tangible and her thighs trembled slightly under his large, calloused hands as they kneaded the soft flesh. She parted them instinctively, inviting him closer, silently begging for more. The damp patch on her underwear darkened as the slick flooded her pussy.

He leaned down, ghosting his lips along the column of her throat, feeling her pulse jump beneath his mouth. One hand slid up her side to cup her breast, thumbing the stiff peak of her nipple. “Look at you, he growled appreciatively, so fucking beautiful like this. All spread out for me.”

His other hand dipped between her thighs, grazing over the damp lace covering her sex. He could feel the heat, and smell her arousal. It made his cock throb insistently against the confines of his sweatpants.

Bucky nipped at her earlobe, fanning his hot breath across her skin as he whispered huskily, “Tell me what you want, doll.”

She could feel herself growing slicker by the second, the damp lace clinging obscenely to her folds. She finally found her voice. "Please, Bucky," she whimpered, "I want your hands on me. Y-your mouth. I want you inside me." Emboldened by desire, she reached out to palm his cock, straining against his pants. She could feel him, so big and hard already, and it made her clench with anticipation. She bit her lip and rubbed intently his neglected tent.

He hissed, and his hips jerked involuntarily into her hand. He cursed and grabbed her wrist, stopping her movements with a firm grip. “Not yet. Wanna taste you, sweetheart, I'm fucking drunk with the scent of that sweet pussy of yours” His Brooklyn accent rolled out, thick with desire. “Spend all my mission’s nights remembering it, recalling how close I was to dip my fingers inside your underwear on that fucking couch and then pull ‘em off and suck them dry.”  

She felt the heat invade her face. It was the first time she had heard him talk dirty like that… and she liked it. A lot. So she nodded, shyly.

He groaned, releasing her wrist only to grab her hips with both hands, yanking her to the edge of the bed. He kneeled between her thighs, and hooked his fingers in her soaked panties, dragging them down her legs, and carelessly tossing them aside. Then, he pushed her thighs further apart to expose her to his hungry gaze. “Spread wider for me, doll. Wanna see all of you. Wanna see what’s mine.” His accent thickened again with arousal as he spread her further.

Without more preamble he leaned in, dragging the flat of his tongue through her slick folds in one slow, savoring lick. She moaned, tangling her fingers in his hair. “Shh don’t wanna wake up Thomas, don’t ya?” Bucky growled against her thigh before diving back in, sealing his lips around her clit and suckling hard.

She bit her hand, muffling her reaction as Bucky's tongue worked on her sensitive flesh. Her thighs quaked on either side of his head as he fucked her with his tongue to then suckle on her swollen bundle of nerves again. “Oh god, Bucky!” she gasped out in a harsh whisper, grinding herself shamelessly against his face. “Don't stop!” Her nails raked down his scalp, urging him on. She could feel herself hurtling towards the edge embarrassingly fast, a result of weeks of pent-up tension and dirty fantasies starring this very scenario.

He growled against her slick heat, and the vibrations sent shockwaves of pleasure through her pussy. He doubled his efforts, delving his tongue deep to lap at her inner walls before flicking rapidly over her clit. His hands gripped her ass, spreading her wider, holding her open for his oral assault.

“That's it darlin’, let go for me”, he urged, muffled and rough.  “Wanna taste that sweet cream.” He sealed his lips around her clit once more, sucking hard as he thrust two fingers knuckle-deep inside her. Curling them just right, he found the spot inside her that made her mewl, as he flicked his tongue rapidly over her sensitive bud.

Bucky could feel her trembling, hear the desperate little sounds she tried to stifle. He knew she was close, teetering on the brink.

Her entire body tensed, and her back arched off the bed as her orgasm crashed over her body. She had to shove a pillow over her face to muffle her cries of ecstasy, bucking her hips against Bucky's mouth as he relentlessly worked her through it. Her inner muscles clenched rhythmically around his plunging fingers, trying to draw him deeper and she was acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched, the rasp of his stubble against her inner thighs, the firm grip of his hand on her ass, the heat of his breath on her oversensitive flesh, his fingers still inside her.

With a final kiss to her mound, he withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels, drinking in the debauched sight of her sprawled out on the sheets. The evidence of her release glistened on her thighs. “You're fucking gorgeous like this,” Bucky rasped. He brought his coated fingers to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean as his heated gaze locked with hers. “Delicious too.”

She watched through hooded eyes as he cleaned her slick from his fingers, and the erotic sight sent a fresh gush of heat through her body.

When he was done, he moved to straddle her hips. The thick ridge of his erection nestled against her stomach as he loomed over her. His large hands cupped the undersides of her breasts, lifting them slightly as if presenting them to him. He swiped his thumbs over the stiff nipples, teasing them into even tighter buds. He rolled and pinched the sensitive flesh, alternating between light caresses and firmer squeezes, gauging her reactions. 

“Like this, doll?” he rumbled as he leaned down and latched his mouth on one aching nipple, alternating between deep pulls and feather-light flicks of his tongue.

Her hands fly to his hair, pulling him closer as she shamelessly rubbed herself against his throbbing cock. “So, so much. But- I want you inside, Bucky.” her whisper was breathy and desperate.

He groaned against her breast, and his hips rocked reflexively into her touch. He let go of her nipple, dragging his lips up to her jaw, then her cheek, nuzzling her as he tried to calm himself against her bare, needy pussy. The friction of her soft body against his aching cock was maddening.

“Wanna take care of you,” he murmured, nearly pleading. “It’s been so long, doll. It’s pathetic, I-” His throat closed, and shame curled in his gut.

He couldn’t look at her.

He wanted this -oh, how he wanted this- but deep down, he was worried at the thought that he was about to fall apart in her arms like some desperate, touch-starved boy. Because that’s what he was, wasn’t he? It had been so fucking long since he’d had anything close to this willingly, and he knew himself. Knew his body. He wasn’t going to last.

His fingers pressed on her breasts, and he exhaled shakily. “I know I’m not gonna last once I’m inside you.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, thick with something raw.

She cradled his stubbled face, brushing her thumbs over the tension on his cheekbones. Gently, insistently, she tilted his head up, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Look at me.”

He hesitated but obeyed.

Her expression was soft, so damn understanding it made something in his chest ache. No judgment, no pity.

“There’s nothing pathetic here,” she murmured, tracing slow, soothing circles with her thumbs. “You’ve been through so much, carried so many burdens alone, Bucky. But you don’t have to do that with me. I don’t give a damn if you come just now.”

He let out a slow, shuddering breath, pressing his forehead to hers. “You sure about this, doll?”

She smiled, tilting her hips up, teasing him with just the slightest roll against his clothed length. “What do you think?”

That was all he needed.

He pulled back, rising from the bed in one fluid motion, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, and shoving them down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and aching. He didn’t bother with theatrics, just kicked the fabric aside with one foot, letting it land somewhere near the desk. His focus was entirely on her, sprawled out before him, waiting and wanting.

For a second, he just stood there, looking at her, with his chest rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths. Then, unable to resist any longer, he crawled back onto the bed, settling between her thighs.

She reached for him, sliding her hands over the planes of his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the flex of muscle beneath. Her fingertips traced the lines of his scars, and when her hands reached his shoulders, she pulled him down, guiding him to hover over her. Their faces were mere inches apart, breaths mingling in the charged space between them.

"I want you," she whispered, "Don't hold back, Bucky. Please."

A ragged groan tore from his throat as he sank into her, inch by inch, the tight, wet heat of her stealing the air from his lungs. His hands gripped the sheets on either side of her head, trembling with restraint as he fought to go slow, to savor the moment.

“Jesus,” he choked out, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. His breath was hot against her skin, ragged as he tried to calm himself. “You feel- fuck.”

Her hands were everywhere, gripping his shoulders, sliding down his back, her nails pressing into his skin as she adjusted to the stretch of his size. She tilted her hips, urging him deeper, and he felt himself unraveling, the restraint slipping like sand through his fingers.

Bucky lifted his head, finding her gaze, pupils blown wide, lips parted as she let out a soft, breathy moan. That sound alone nearly did him in.

"You okay?" he rasped, voice rough with effort.

She nodded, biting her lip, then whispered, "Move, Bucky."

His hips rolled forward, slow at first, savoring every inch of her warmth, and the way her body yielded to him so perfectly. A shudder wracked through his body as he pulled back, only to thrust in again, deeper this time.

Her breath hitched, fingers gripping his back, nails digging in just enough to make him groan. The feeling, the tight drag of her pussy around him, the way she clenched with every movement, it was too good, too much.

"Fuck, doll," he rasped. She let out a soft whimper, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.

He tried to pace himself, tried to hold back, but she met him thrust for thrust, and it was intoxicating, overwhelming.

Her lips brushed against his, her breath hot as she whispered, “More.”

“Fuck, darlin’” He groaned, gripping her thighs and yanking her flush against him, and a sharp gasp left her lips as he drove into her with a force that had her back arching off the mattress. His hands dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he set a relentless pace, each thrust deep and demanding than before.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his voice was rough, almost ragged. "You feel too good- too fuckin’ good, doll."

Her nails raked down his back, desperate to hold onto something as he wrecked her, her body bowing under each hard snap of his hips. She gasped, trying to say his name, but the force of his movements kept stealing her breath.

"You wanted this," he growled, pressing her thighs further apart, angling deeper until she cried out behind clamped hands. "Begged for it, now take it."

Her head fell back against the pillow, and he was beyond gone. His mouth found her throat, grazing sensitive skin with his teeth before latching on, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere: gripping, kneading, holding her under her ass, tilting her hips to take him even deeper as he lost himself in her.

Her barely concealed moans were a sweet symphony. Every gasp, every shudder, every little whimper sent him spiraling further, deeper into the abyss of need he’d been drowning in for so long.

His pace stuttered for a moment, and he knew he didn’t have much time left before his touch-starved body succumbed to the pleasure.

“Sweetheart, gonna come. Can't- fuck, can't hold it.” His voice was ragged, almost desperate. He changed the angle of his thrusts, grinding against her clit with each snap of his hips, as his thumb rubbed tight circles around it while he drove into her harder, deeper. He could feel his balls tightening, and the base of his shaft starting to pulse with impending release.

“Don’t hold back,” she whispered, needy. “Give it to me, Bucky.”

“Please, please, please, wanna feel you squeeze my cock when I fill you up.” The filthy words fell from his lips like a prayer, punctuated by the slap of skin on skin and the creak of the bed frame.

“You don’t have to- oh! Oh fuck!” His fingers pinched her clit and combined with the relentless drag of his cock against that perfect spot inside her, he pushed her right to another orgasm.

Bucky threw his head back with a guttural moan as her spasming heat pushed him irremediably over the edge. His hips stuttered, losing rhythm as he emptied himself inside her with a few more erratic thrusts.

He stayed close, bracketing her with his arms, unwilling to lose the warmth of her body against his. His chest heaved against hers, and his heart hammered so loud he swore she could hear it.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, caught in the haze of pleasure. Then, with a soft hum, Bucky pressed a slow, tender kiss to her temple.

She was wrecked, her body felt boneless against his, and he could feel the faint tremors in her limbs as she tried to catch her breath.

Guilt curled in his chest, even as the satisfaction warmed his bones. He had been so desperate, so fucking unhinged. Carefully, he shifted onto his back, dragging her with him, tucking her against his chest. His vibranium arm slid beneath her, curling protectively around her waist, while his other hand found its way to her hair stroking it absently.

She let out a contented sigh, melting into his embrace, dragging her leg over his hip, and tracing idly patterns over the ridges of his pectorals with her fingers. "I'm sure you have listened to this a thousand times, but you are so damn handsome." she said, kissing his chest, just on a bullet scar.

"I used to hear it, yeah, a lifetime ago," he murmured, a little uncomfortable. "Now I'm- this is the first time after-"

"Oh, I have no problem reminding you every day," she interrupted softly, pressing another kiss in the scarred tissue that joined with the prosthesis, like she was trying to erase the past with tenderness alone.

Bucky let out a shaky breath. "Fuck. Don’t say those kinds of things."

"Why?" she murmured against his skin, her breath warm. "It’s the truth."

It was a truth he had spent years rejecting, drowning in guilt and self-loathing. He couldn't reconcile the idea that someone like her -bright, warm, whole- could want someone like him. Letting aside the arm, the scars, the patchwork of a body that didn’t feel like his own, there was all that neurological shit, the PTSD, the weight of a past he would never fully escape.

But… as he’d admitted to himself days before, he was a selfish bastard.

And he was done relegating himself to the shadows.

So he did the only thing that made sense, he rolled her beneath him again, caging her in with his body, and captured her lips in a kiss that left no room for doubt.

----

Bucky was leaning against the counter, with his fingers curled around a steaming mug of coffee, while she stood by the stove, mindlessly stirring a pan of eggs. He had already offered to cook, but she had swatted him away with a teasing “You did enough last night.” That had earned her a low chuckle and a smirk, but now, as he watched her move around his kitchen, it hit him just how much had changed in less than twenty-four hours.

Thomas was still asleep, blissfully unaware of that shift between them. And maybe that was for the best. They had talked about it before bed, about whether to sit him down and explain everything or let things unfold naturally. They had landed somewhere in the middle. No grand announcements, no life-altering conversations just yet. Just small changes. Small moments.

Like now.

She moved to pour herself some coffee, and when she reached for the sugar, his hand shot out, effortlessly taking the jar from the shelf above her head, leaning against her body, and passing it to her without a word. A small, natural thing. Familiar.

She looked at him for a second, a small smile playing at her lips, before murmuring, “Thanks, babe.”

His fingers twitched against his mug. That was new.

His eyes flicked to her, trying to picture if she had said it absentmindedly or if she was testing the waters. But she just went back to stirring her coffee, as if she had always called him that, as if it wasn’t unraveling something tight in his chest.

Bucky exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “You tryna kill me first thing in the morning?”

She grinned. “Just seeing how it feels.”

It felt good. Dangerous, maybe. But good.

Before he could say anything, a sleepy shuffle sounded from the hallway, followed by a groggy voice. “Mornin’.”

Thomas padded into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes,. His hair was a complete mess, sticking up in every direction. He yawned, clambering onto a chair at the table, blinking at the plate of food already waiting for him.

Bucky reached over and ruffled his son’s hair. “You slept late, bud.”

Thomas blinked up at her. Then, as if remembering something, he perked up. “You’re stayed over again?”

She hesitated, but Bucky answered before she had to. “Yeah.”

Thomas seemed to consider that for a second before shrugging and reaching for his toast. “Cool.”

She and Bucky exchanged a glance. Small changes. Small steps.

----

There was something different about Bucky.

Steve had known him for a long time, long enough to recognize that the man wasn’t the same as he had been just a month ago. Not that Bucky had ever been miserable -okay, maybe he had-, but it was a soft kind of miserable, the kind he carried in his shoulders and the downward cast of his eyes.

That weight? It had lifted. Not entirely, but enough.

Enough that he didn’t immediately say no when Sam suggested grabbing a beer. Enough that he had started showing up to training sessions without needing to be dragged in. Enough that when Clint had shoved a dumb little bobblehead figurine in his face last week, instead of an unimpressed glare, Bucky had smirked and said, "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen."

Which, by Bucky standards, was practically a compliment.

But the real kicker?

The thing that had set off every alarm bell in Steve’s head?

Bucky had called Natasha’s keychain cute.

So, yeah. It was time for an intervention.

This was why Steve, Sam, Clint, and Natasha were currently loitering in the gym, watching Bucky put a reinforced training dummy through hell. They were subtle about it, standing just far enough apart to seem casual, arms crossed or hands on hips, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Sam was the first to break the silence. “So, Tinman. You seem... cheerful lately.”

Bucky didn’t pause his assault on the dummy, but Steve caught the way his jaw clenched just slightly.

“I seem normal,” Bucky corrected, landing a sharp jab. “Which apparently is a crime now.”

Clint snorted. “Nah, normal would be you scowling while beating the hell out of that thing. But you? You’re smiling these days, man. It’s weird. It’s unnatural.”

Bucky finally stopped, exhaling sharply as he wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood. You ever consider that?”

Steve exchanged glances with the others before looking back at Bucky. “And what, exactly, put you in such a good mood?”

Bucky almost got away with brushing them off. Almost.

But then Natasha smirked, tilting her head just so, and said, “Yeah, Barnes. What’s got you all domesticated lately?”

Bucky huffed, reaching for his water bottle and taking a long sip, dragging out the pause like it would somehow make them drop the subject. It didn’t.

Steve stood firm, with his arms crossed, wearing that all-knowing, annoying-as-hell look he always got when Bucky was trying to bullshit his way out of something. Sam had a smirk that screamed I’m about to make this worse for you, and Clint was practically vibrating with the need to say something inappropriate. Natasha, meanwhile, just looked amused.

“Come on, Buck,” Sam drawled, tilting his head. “What’s got you walking around like you just discovered life’s not a raging dumpster fire?”

“Maybe I just don’t hate people as much as I used to,” Bucky shot back, tossing his empty bottle toward the bin. It bounced off the rim. He scowled.

Clint snorted. “Yeah, no. Something’s up. Spill.”

“Nothing’s up,” Bucky said, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. “I’ve just-” He hesitated, just for a second, but it was enough.

Sam’s smirk widened. “You’ve just what, Buck?”

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’m seeing someone.”

There was a brief pause. Then Clint and Sam turned to each other, grinning like idiots.

“Naughty nanny,” they said in unison.

Bucky’s expression darkened instantly. He dropped the towel and turned toward them with a sharp look. “Don’t call her that.”

His voice wasn’t raised, but there was something in the way he said it, that made both of them shut it. Even Clint, who usually had no sense of self-preservation, put his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright. Relax, man,” Sam said quickly, clearly realizing they’d struck a nerve.

Steve cleared his throat and stepped in, changing the subject with a smirk. “Her, huh?” He nudged Bucky’s shoulder. “Who would have thought, right? You owe me, punk.”

Bucky groaned. “Shut it, Steve. You almost ruined everything.”

Steve scoffed, shaking his head. “There wasn’t anything to ruin before I set you two up, jerk.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath and ran a hand through his hair.

Natasha, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke, eyes glinting with amusement. “I’m gonna need some details.”

----

That so-called intervention quickly spiraled into something else entirely, and he couldn't even pinpoint the exact moment he'd walked into their damn trap. One second, he was deflecting, the next, he was somehow agreeing to a casual get-together at the Tower so they could meet her.

And vice versa.

It had to be while Thomas was at kindergarten, Clint had insisted, because, well, she was his naughty nanny.

“I told you not to call her that!” Bucky had snapped, throwing a half-hearted punch at Clint’s shoulder.

----

That afternoon, when he got home, the irritation from their relentless teasing melted away as soon as he stepped through the door.

She and Thomas were at the coffee table, surrounded by a mess of paper scraps, glue sticks, and colorful cutouts. She was laughing softly as Thomas showed off a questionable-looking collage, waving a star-shaped paper cutter in the air like it was some great artistic tool.

Bucky leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, watching them for a moment. He finally broke the silence, eyeing the scattered paper cutters warily. “Should I be worried about all the sharp objects?”

She arched a brow, unimpressed. “You are the least qualified person in this house to comment on sharp objects.”

Before he could fire back, Thomas shoved a moon-shaped cutter into her hands. “Sweetheart, do more of these!”

Bucky blinked, zeroing his gaze on the kid. “Where did that come from?”

She winced, giving him an apologetic grimace.

“She bought it for me,” Thomas explained, waving the cutter.

“No, kiddo… why did you call her that?” Bucky corrected, feeling a sudden need to sit down. “You can’t just-”

“But you call her that all the time,” Thomas interrupted, as if Bucky were the one saying something ridiculous.

Damn.

Bucky opened his mouth, then hesitated. “Because… it’s a name only adults use with each other.”

Thomas squinted. “You never call that to Uncle Steve or Uncle Clint.”

“Because Uncle Steve- because he-” Bucky scrambled, searching for an out.

Thomas just stared, waiting.

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Because he ain’t my sweetheart, that’s why.”

“Why?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, already regretting this conversation. “Because Uncle Steve and Uncle Clint are my friends.”

Thomas frowned. “But Daddy! She’s your friend too! Not just Uncle Steve and Uncle-”

“Alright, alright,” he cut in, hands raised in surrender. “She’s just... another kind of friend.”

Thomas tilted his head, considering. “Better than best friend?”

Bucky’s throat went dry. It was time to man up and find out if this was going to be fine, or if his heart was about to get wrecked.

He shifted his weight, glancing briefly at her before looking back at Thomas. “Kiddo, what would you say if I told you she’s my girlfriend?”

Thomas barely blinked before shrugging. “Oh, I know that.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. He and she exchanged a look, hers somewhere between amusement and curiosity, and his caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to panic.

“How- why do you know?” Bucky finally asked, trying not to sound as floored as he felt. His brain attempted to reboot from the emotional haymaker he’d just been dealt. Beside him, she bit back a laugh, clearly failing, her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide with amusement.

Thomas, completely unbothered, went on in that matter-of-fact tone only small children and truth-tellers dared to wield.

“Because you touch her,” he said, waving a glue-covered hand like it was obvious. “Like, a lot. And you don’t touch other people, Daddy.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s... fair.”

“And you smile a lot to her,” Thomas added, glancing up from the glittery moon he was carefully pasting to the paper. “And the other day, Flora told me her mommy saw you kissing in the street.”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Damn Flora,” he muttered. Then, remembering himself, “-not Flora, just-” her mommy. Damn Flora’s mommy.”

She stifled a snort beside him.

Thomas wasn’t done. “Also, I saw you too.”

Bucky’s heart stopped. “W–where?” he asked, hearing his voice going thin with panic. What had he seen? God, one of those ‘quick moments’ in the kitchen when he thought Thomas was in the bathroom too long-

“At the building’s entrance,” Thomas said, not even looking up. “I always see you through the window. You kiss when she leaves.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, slumping his shoulders in relief. Thank God. He covered it with a gruff cough and tried not to look like he just dodged a missile.

“That’s... alright,” he said, eyes flicking to her with a sheepish smile.

“See?” Thomas said proudly, like he’d just solved a puzzle. “I already knew she was your girlfriend.”

“Yeah, buddy. She is,” he stated gently. “And… and what do you think about it?”

Thomas didn’t even look up from his crooked glittery sun. “It’s cool,” the boy said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because I like her a lot.”

Bucky’s heart gave a relieved little thud. But then-

“And if you get married…” Thomas’s voice dropped, hesitant now, uncertain. His small eyes flicked sideways, landing shyly on her. “She’s going to be my mom.”

Silence fell for a moment, thick.

Bucky’s throat worked, but no words came out. That hit deeper than anything had in a long time.

Thomas didn’t talk much about his mom, and hadn’t asked many questions since they'd started building this life together. Bucky had told him the basics. That she was in heaven. That she’d loved him very much. What else could he have said?

But this -this little wish- was something else. It carved a sharp line through his chest. Thomas needed more than a father who kept his ghosts locked in the back of his mind. He needed comfort. Nurturing. Things Bucky gave the best he could, but… the truth was, he didn’t know if it had ever been enough. Not all the way.

And it wasn’t fair to her either. Their relationship was still new, still tender. Too early for this kind of pressure, this kind of longing to be dropped at her feet.

She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around the little boy, pulling him gently into her chest. She kissed the top of his head and held him there, just letting him be safe, for a moment, in the circle of her arms.

Bucky watched it happen with a tight ache in his chest. The sight of his son cradled against the woman he cared for, with her eyes closed as she held him, was almost too much.

He looked away, blinking hard. Then cleared his throat.

“You want to order pizza tonight, buddy?” he asked, his voice a little rough but stable. “We can eat, the three of us.”

Thomas looked up from her embrace, and his face lit up instantly. “Yeah!”

Then, with all the gravity of a very important host, he turned to her. “If you want to stay longer.”

She smiled, and her heart caught a little at how hopeful he sounded. “I’d love to.”

Thomas nodded like that settled the matter, then went right back to picking glitter out of his glue-covered fingers.

----

Eventually, with all the shapes cut and only the final collage touches left, Bucky slid a look her way and tilted his head toward the kitchen. She caught the silent invitation and followed, wiping her hands on a napkin.

Once they were out of earshot, he leaned close. “Hey, I- uh. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, really… but maybe I’ve been ambushed into accepting a meet-up with the guys.”

Her brow lifted. “With Steve and the others?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They kind of want to meet the person who apparently made me less-” He winced slightly, then pushed on, flicking his eyes to hers. “The person who makes me happy.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. His cheeks flushed pink under the kitchen light, and she felt her stomach flutter at how soft he looked at that moment. Tall, scarred, hardened Bucky Barnes, suddenly unsure.

Her voice was gentle. “Did they really ambush you?”

“It was brutal, they attacked me as a pack,” he said dryly.

She chuckled and touched his hand lightly. “Then I guess I better make a good impression.”

“You will,” he said, already certain.

----

So here they were, the two of them stepping into the compound on a Friday just past noon, walking straight into what had been dubbed a casual lunch.

A casual lunch with the fucking Avengers.

She tried not to fidget, though her nerves had her fingers twitching against the strap of her bag. Sure, she had met Sam and Clint briefly at the kindergarten event, and Steve when he came to pick up Thomas when Bucky couldn’t, and during that very questionable not-a-set-up hiring. But this? This was different.

These were her boyfriend’s friends. His team. People who’d gone to war together, and who’d known him through all the complicated layers he tried so hard to keep from the world. Super soldiers. Ex-spies. God-tier chaos agents.

What if they thought she was boring? What if they thought she didn’t belong? What if-

"For fuck’s sake, man, stop eating all the damn chips! I already refilled that thing twice!" someone shouted, clearly audible even from down the hallway.

"Hey! Gimme that!" came Clint’s unmistakable squawk in response.

Bucky just pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled through it, like this was a common occurrence. It probably was. He kept his other hand pressed against the small of her back as they walked toward the chaos masquerading as lunch.

As they reached the sleek, modern-furnished dining area, the chatter died down, and suddenly, every set of eyes in the room was on her.

Oh, God.

She swallowed. “Um… h-hi.”

----

She had to admit… this was not how she imagined them to be.

On TV, in interviews, and even in all those articles dissecting their every move, they always appeared so composed. Imposing. Untouchable. Like living legends.

But in reality?

They were a family. A very dysfunctional, loud, and chaotic one.

Sam and Clint had somehow turned lunch into a competition over who could make the worst hamburger, with Steve acting as the referee. Natasha, who she had expected to be distant -intimidating, even- was currently stealing fries from everyone’s plates with an expression so impassive that no one dared to call her out.

And then there was Bucky. Sitting next to her, subtly keeping her close, idly tracing circles against her thigh with his fingers beneath the table. Like he could sense every flicker of tension in her muscles.

“So-” Natasha drawled, in a far too casual to be innocent tone, as she perched against the edge of the table, plucking another fry from Clint’s plate with surgical precision. “We have a very vague idea, but how exactly did you two meet?”

She tilted her head, smirking, while Clint sighed dramatically and gave up on defending his lunch.

“Well, I was… Thomas’ teacher,” she said, smiling a little as she glanced at Bucky. “So, we met at the kindergarten.”

“He asked me for a dress shirt, you know?” Steve piped up suddenly, muffled behind a huge bite of his burger. “For your first interview?” He added quickly, ducking just in time to avoid the death glare Bucky shot him.

“Aww, Buck,” Sam teased, grinning like the damn Cheshire Cat. “You got it bad from day one.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t- I thought I had to dress formally for a teacher-parent meeting. It’s not my fault things changed that much.”

“Well,” she cut in with a soft laugh, “if it makes you feel better, you looked so handsome that day. I felt completely underdressed and had to remind myself to be professional and not just… keep staring at you.”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard. “…R-really?”

She nodded, biting back a more obvious smile. “Yeah.”

Before anyone else could tease him into a full-on blush, Natasha steered the conversation expertly. “Anyway,” she said, casually kicking her feet against the table. “We do know that Captain Rogers here set you up for the nanny job. But when did you actually start dating? How did he propose?”

The table went silent for half a beat. Even Steve lowered his burger again, turning his curious eyes toward the couple.

Bucky exhaled and dragged a hand down his face, already bracing himself for the incoming storm of teasing. “Um… I kind of didn’t,” he admitted, flicking his eyes toward her with a helpless shrug.

She turned to the group with a small smile. “I did.”

“What?” Sam leaned forward with a loud laugh. “You asked him?”

She tilted her head, lips twitching like she was holding back laughter. “Yeah. I did,” she confirmed, stealing a sip from her drink.

Sam let out a bark of laughter, slapping the table

Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. “Can we not-”

“I mean, come on,” Clint cut in. “How does that even happen?”

She hummed, feigning deep thought. “Well… there was an elevator involved. Then a couch. Then the kitchen counter.”

A collective groan erupted around the table.

“Jesus Christ, Barnes,” Natasha muttered, shaking her head.

Sam clutched his chest dramatically. “Not the counter, people eat there!”

“You’ve all done worse things in here,” Bucky muttered darkly.

“Yeah, but we weren’t all repressed as hell before it happened,” Clint shot back.

Steve, watching the scene unfold with barely restrained amusement, leaned forward. “So let me get this straight,” he said, directing the question at her. “After finally getting him to make a move, you were the one who asked him out?”

She grinned. “Yeah.”

Bucky just grumbled something under his breath, but his hand still found hers under the table, curling his fingers around hers.

----

They slipped out of the common room once everyone was distracted arguing over dessert. Steve insisting on pie, Clint on ice cream, and Sam advocating for both. Bucky led her down a quieter hallway, with their fingers still loosely linked. He stopped at a small balcony overlooking the city skyline. Needed a breather?” she asked, leaning on the railing.

“Yeah.” He exhaled through his nose, bracing his hands beside hers. “They’re a lot.”

“They are.” She smiled gently. “But they love you, and they are happy for you. That much is clear.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared ahead, with his jaw tight like he was wrestling with the words.

Then, slowly, like the words weighed more than he could carry, Bucky spoke, “I never thought I’d ever have this.” He looked at her, raw and exposed. “Someone who could still want me, knowing… everything.”

His throat closed. Even now, saying it out loud felt impossible, like naming the damage might make her reconsider.

She turned toward him, reaching up to gently brush a strand of hair off his forehead. “You’re a good man, Bucky. Attentive. Caring. A great dad. And let’s not forget the ‘handsome as hell’ part. Who wouldn’t want you?”

He huffed a low laugh, dropping his gaze. “I still think you’re crazy for choosing me.”

“Well, I am crazy,” she replied with a teasing smile. “Crazy about you.”

Then she kissed his cheek, soft and warm and a little smug. “Look at that. You’ve got me saying cheesy stuff I’d normally cringe at if I heard it from someone else.”

That earned her one of his rare, softer grins, the kind that still felt new like he hadn’t quite gotten used to letting it happen. He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, gliding his hands to her waist, pulling her close.

She curled her fingers into the hem of his shirt.

“I don’t know how I lived before you.” He murmured.

“Grumpy and brooding,” she teased gently.

“Still am,” he smirked.

She shrugged. “Yeah, but now you’re my grumpy and brooding.”

He laughed under his breath, then pulled her close, chest to chest, snugging his arms around her like he was afraid she’d slip away if he didn’t hold on.

They stayed like that for a moment, breathing the same air, with her hands gently rubbing up and down his back. He closed his eyes.

It crept up on him, memories he usually kept buried under steel and silence. Cold tiles beneath his spine. Straps digging into his flesh. The weight of decades that had stolen everything soft from him.

He didn’t mean to tighten his grip, but he did, holding her just a little closer, basking in the warmth of her body, and the beat of her heart. She just pressed a kiss to his jaw and wrapped her arms tighter around his shoulders.

He let out a shaky breath, brushing his lips against hers, not with hunger this time, but with reverence. A silent thank-you for everything she was giving him just by staying.

He didn’t pull back, just stayed there with their foreheads touching. The moment stretched, soft, and he wished he could press himself into it and stay there forever.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “Sometimes I just get… hit with stuff.”

She didn’t ask what kind of stuff. She didn’t need to.

His fingers skimmed the curve of her back, needing to feel her warmth under his hands. He wasn’t in a lab anymore, or some holding cell with his mind half-shattered and a muzzle over his mouth. He was here. With her.

She gave a small hum, tracing lazy shapes across the back of his neck, patiently. No pressure to speak. No need to explain.

He cleared his throat softly, feeling the weight in his chest lifting enough to let a breath out. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s see if those vultures decided on dessert.”

She chuckled against his shoulder, sliding her hand into his as they turned back to go inside. Then she grinned, bumping her hip gently into his. “I don’t know… I might skip dessert.”

He raised a brow, side-eyeing her with mock suspicion. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.” She tiptoed just enough to brush her lips near his ear, teasing. “I already know what I want later.”

Bucky choked on a breath, and his steps faltered just for a second. She was already walking ahead, with her hand still nestled in his. The picture of innocence.

He caught up, with a soft laugh and a look that promised payback.

Taglist: @lazyneonrabbitt @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @sebastians-love @vicmc624 @lucylovexx @ethereal-witch24 @wannabakewithsomebody @unicornqueen05 @ddrewcameron @danzer8705 @mcira @technicallytinyheart @put-trash-here @chinggay85-blog @dumblani @chuiisi @calwitch @civilbucky @neyr100 @tanyaherondale @theflowerswillbloom @stars4birdie @soberbabes @greatmistakes @littlesuniee @casey1-2007 @escapefromrealitylol @thriving-n-jiving @vxllys @hi172826 @imaginexred @stormy-stardust @rattyfishrock @yes-ilovetowrite @seraphinapix @missclarissaa @exhaustedfangirl @crazyunsexycool @capswife @pandaxnienke

Dividers by: /@strangergraphics

[crazyunsexycool]

My Little Love

100% Sugar and Lottie having a mommy daughter date!

[crazyunsexycool]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: John realizes where the demon will strike next so they head there to stop the next killing.

Warnings: Cannon violence

Word Count: 4.6k

Salvation

(Masterlist, Previous chapter, Outfit Board)

  The room is filled with John’s research. The walls are covered with post-its, pictures, newspaper articles, weather charts, and hieroglyphics all about the yellow-eyed demon. There are papers strewn across the desk with the Colt and shelves of hefty books lining the walls. “You know to anyone else this would look like a psychotic break,” I think aloud, examining the wall of information. “Well—”

  “Whatever stupid comment you’re going to make, don’t,” John cuts me off. I make a face he cannot see, mocking him.

  “This is it,” he continues. “This is everything I know. Look, our whole lives we’ve been searching for this demon right? Not a trace, just…nothing. Until about a year ago. For the first time, I picked up a trail.”

  “And that’s when you took off,” Dean concludes. He hasn’t stopped pacing since we got here.

  “Yeah, that’s right. The demon must have come out of hiding, or hibernation.”

  “Alright so what’s this trail you found?” he asks.

  “It starts in Arizona, then New Jersey, California. Houses burned down to the ground,” he explains. “It's going after families, just like it went after us.”   “Families with infants?” Sam asks, leaning against a counter.   “Yeah. The night of the kid's six-month birthday.”   “I was six months old that night?”   “Exactly six months,” John echoes.   “So basically, this demon is going after these kids for some reason. The same way it came for me? So Mom's death...Jessica. It's all because of me?”   “We don't know that Sam,” Dean defends.   “Oh really? Cause I'd say we're pretty damn sure Dean,” he bites back.   “For the last time, what happened to them was not your fault,” Dean says, his voice lined with frustration.   “Right. It's not my fault but it's my problem,” he shouts.   “No, it's not your problem it's our problem!”

  “Okay. That's enough,” John commands, standing abruptly. Immediately they stop, backing down as they take breaths. 

  Sam breaks the momentary silence. “So why's he doing it? What does he want?” It’s an almost impossible question especially when one will never be good enough, it doesn’t bring people back nor make you understand. The most it can give is a direction on how to stop it if that. “The answer can range from chaos junky to wanting an army,” I answer.

  “I wish I had more answers, I do,” John adds. “I’ve always been one step behind it. Look, I’ve never gotten there in time to save…” He looks down with a frown on his face.   “Alright, so how do we find it..before it hits again?” Dean asks.   “There are signs. It took me a while to see the pattern but it's there in the days before these fires; signs crop up in an area. Cattle deaths, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms. And then I went back and checked...and…”   “These things happened in Lawrence,” Dean finished.

  John nods, “A week before your mother died. And in Palo Alto...before Jessica. And these signs, they're starting again.”   “Where?” Sam asks   “Salvation, Iowa.”

********

  The roads seem endless as we head to Iowa; land stretching for miles. John's black truck leads the way through countless hours and misty roads until he suddenly pulls off onto the shoulder. Call it a learned habit or whatever else; either way we exit the Impala with haste, meeting a distressed John outside his vehicle. “God damn it!” he curses, kicking the dirt by his tires.

  “What is it?” Dean asks.

  “Son of a bitch!” he curses again instead of answering.

  “What is it?!” he tries again.

  “I just got a call from Caleb,” he explains.

  “Is he okay?” Dean asks, worry on his face.

  “He’s fine. Jim Murphy’s dead.”

  “Who’s Jim?” I ask. I know the Winchesters have many connections, yet it still surprises me how many they do have, especially when my father had little to none. I think he only had John by the time he married Mom, and that was really only an ‘I owe you.’ Turns out no one wants to keep in touch or be friends with the guy who married a Witch. “He’s a Pastor that would look after us sometimes,” Dean explains. It comes back to me a little: Sam mentioned calling Pastor Jim for information on their father months ago, and Dean telling me memories long ago in the faint autumn sun.

  “How?” Sam asks.

  “His throat was slashed. He bled out,” John answers. “Caleb said they found traces of sulfur at Jim's place.”

  “A demon,” Dean concludes. His father nods. “The Demon?”

  “I don't know. ‘Could be he just got careless, he slipped up. Maybe the demon knows we're getting close.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something he would do though,” I chime in. “Why suddenly change the pattern even if he does think you’re getting close?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do we do?” Dean asks.   “Now we act like every second counts. There are two hospitals and a health center in this county. We split up, cover more ground. I want records. I want a list of every infant that's going to be six months old in the next week,” John orders.   “Dad that could be dozens of kids. How do we know which one's the right one?” Sam points out.   “We check ‘em all that's how. ‘You got any better ideas?”   “No sir.”  John nods, satisfied with that response. He turns to his truck and stops, his head hanging low. The last few days might be the most I’ve seen him upset. “Dad?” Dean says softly.   “Yeah. It's Jim. You know, I can't....” His face hardens, ridding his voice and face of sadness. “This ends now. I'm ending it. I don't care what it takes.”

  I tug on the bottom of my blouse, adjusting how it sits on my chest before walking through the door Dean holds open. He’d been quiet the entire way to the hospital, even when we dropped off Sam at the medical center, I worry it might be about Pastor Jim’s death or the weight of the whole yellow-eyed situation but I’m not sure.

  We walk over to the receptionist's desk, a pretty brunette sitting behind it. He doesn’t make a face or remark about her looks which is even more concerning. “Hi. Is there anything I can do for you?” she asks, shining a perfect smile. 

  “Hello,” I smile back, feeling a burning gaze on me. “I’m Agent Spears and this is my partner, Agent Taylor,” I pull out my ID from my pocket, showing proof of my lie. I look at Dean, his eyes shooting up to my face from wherever they were, his eyebrows raised and eyes a little wide. My eyebrows furrow and my nose scrunches a little with my confusion. He looks at my ID and then at the woman in front of us. “Right,” he mumbles, fumbling with the pocket of his suit jacket for his ID. He pulls it out, flipping it open quickly with a boyish smile. “We…” I look back at the woman. “We were hoping to look at some files…”

********

  Our file reading had been cut short when we received a worrying call from Sam informing us of his vision. It hadn’t taken us long to get to the motel room to regroup and talk; Sam sitting with his head in his hands at the table while his father sat on the end of one of the queen beds. Dean sits on the edge of the other bed, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to his elbows; we didn’t have time to change into normal clothes when we essentially rushed over here. And I stand a little awkwardly by Dean, arms crossed against my chest after hearing everything Sam has to say. 

  “A vision,” John repeats flatly.

  “Yes. I saw the demon burning a woman on the ceiling,” Sam explains through gritted teeth, messaging his temples.

  “And you think this is going to happen to this woman you met because…”

  “Because these things happen exactly the way I see them,” Sam finishes.

  “It’s almost like he already explained that,” I remark, earning a sharp glare from John. But, it’s not my fault he’s not getting with the program.

  “It started out as nightmares. Then it started happening while he was awake,” Dean elaborates, rising from the bed and crossing to the counter behind his brother to get more coffee.   Sam winces. “Yeah. It's like the closer I get to anything to do with the demon the stronger the visions get.”

  “Alright. When were you going to tell me about this?” John asks, his words directed at his eldest son. Both boys pause, looking at their father.

  “We didn’t know what it meant,” Dean answers.   “Alright, something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me,” John replies firmly.

  The coffee pot and mug slam back onto the counter, discarded as Dean strides towards his father. “Call you? Are you kidding me? Dad, I called you from Lawrence alright? Sam called you when I was dying. I mean, getting you on the phone? I got a better chance of winning the lottery.”   “You're right. Although I'm not too crazy about this new tone of yours, you're right. I'm sorry.”

  “I’m sure you can watch your own tone Johnny Boy,” I interject, an unamused smile on my face. I’ll give it to him, I never thought I’d hear him say he was wrong ever let alone multiple times in the last couple of days. But, I’m also not fond of his accusatory tone as if this was the boy's fault.   “Look guys, visions or no visions, ‘fact is, we know the demon is coming tonight,” Sam cuts in. “And this family's gonna go through the same hell we went through.”   “No, they're not. No one is, ever again,” John reaffirms. Then, the ringing of a phone cuts through the atmosphere. “Hello?” Sam answers.

  “Who is this?”

…

 “Meg,” he states. The name is like a knife being plunged into my gut. It is a reminder of the cruelty I put her through, how it was my fault she died as she did. The boys tried to convince me that it wasn’t my fault but they were wrong. Her death may not have been on purpose but it was certainly my fault. And now she’s back. That night is a reminder of what I am and all that I’m capable of. No matter how much I try to hold back and no matter how good I am I can never get rid of what is in my blood.

  “Last time I saw you you fell out of a window,” Sam answers. Again there is no blame put on anyone, it’s framed as an accident or something that happened and yet it does not feel that way to me. “...Just your feelings? That was a seven-story drop.” She should be dead and yet she isn’t. Maybe this should feel like a second chance or rid me of some guilt, but it doesn’t. Sam looks over to his Dad before he answers whatever question he was asked. “My Dad. I don't know where my Dad is.”

  He hesitates and then the phone is put into his father's hands. “This is John…I'm here”   There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “Caleb? You listen to me. He's got nothing to do with anything. You let him go.”

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s torturing this man. 

  “…I don't know what you're talking about,” He answers steadily. “…Caleb. Caleb!... I'm gonna kill you, you know that?” The boys step closer to him. “Okay…I said okay, I'll bring you the colt.”

  My eyes widen.   “It's gonna take me about a day's drive to get there…That's impossible. I can't get there in time and I can't just carry a gun on the plane.” There’s a silence and a grim look on his face before John hands back Sam’s phone. He runs a hand down his face as he paces, explaining that Meg demanded he bring the Colt to a warehouse in Lincoln alone otherwise everyone they’ve ever known, every hunter friend, every loved one will die.   “So you think Meg is a demon?” Sam questions.   “Either that, or she's possessed by one. It doesn't really matter,” John replies.

  “‘How else could she have…um… survived,” I mumble.   “What do we do?” Dean asks.   “I’m going to Lincoln,” John declares.

  “What?” Dean exclaims.   “It doesn't look like we have a choice. If I don't go, a lot of people die, our friends die.”   “Dad, the demon is coming tonight. For Monica and her family. That gun is all we got, you can't just hand it over,” Sam points out.   “Who said anything about handing it over? Look, besides us and a coupla of vampires no ones really seen the gun, no one knows what it looks like.”   “So what, you're just going to pick up a ringer at a pawn shop?” Dean asks.   “Antique store,” John clarifies.   “Cause that’s so different,” I remark. I mean, it is but in this instance, there might as well not be a difference. 

  “You're going to hand Meg a fake gun and hope she doesn't notice?” Dean interjects.   “Look, as long as it's close, she shouldn't be able to tell the difference,” he reasons.   “Yeah but for how long? What happens when she figures it out?” Dean points out, his voice firm.

  “I just...I just need to buy a few hours, that's all.”

  “I know you’re supposed to go alone but I can go with you and offer assistance from afar,” I offer.

  “No,” he says firmly. “You need to be with the boys.” I never thought I’d hear him say those words but with the way he directs them at me so sharply I know what he means. I can offer a level of protection against the yellow-eyed demon that wouldn’t be there otherwise.

  “You want us to stay here, and kill this demon by ourselves?” Sam asks, figuring out what his father meant as well.   “No Sam. I want to stop losing people we love. I want you to go to school, I want Dean to have a home. I want...I want Mary alive. It's just...I just want this to be over.”

********

  I can’t stop my leg from bouncing as we sit in the Impala, watching the house where the demon will strike next. The boys are better at hiding their nervousness, which may only be good in this instance, but I’m unsure. 

  John was long gone by now. His truck was packed with a fake gun and an arsenal of weapons. The real gun sitting between Sam and Dean in the front seat with only four bullets. Promises of “don’t die” and “finish this fight” were shared before he left. 

  Maybe I shouldn’t be nervous or maybe that’s a stupid remark. There’s a whole powerful and methodical demon to take down and a handful of people to protect in the process. I can’t mess up and I certainly can’t falter. I won’t. This is also why, for once, I chose simple clothing, opting for an all-black outfit that would be easy to move in. This had to go right.

  And no offense to the boys but I’ve been tuning out most of their conversations. I don’t need “what ifs” I just need focus, my ears tuned to the radio playing music quietly and my eyes trained on the house, waiting for the telltale signs.

  “You doin’ okay back there, sweetheart? You’re awfully quiet.”

  My eyes immediately follow the voice; so much for tuning them out. “I’m always quiet,” I defend.

  He smirks, somehow able to even at a time like this, “That’s not true.”

  “Hey,” I frown.

  “Didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he adds. “‘You nervous?” It’s a question, yet the way he looks at me through the rearview mirror makes me feel like he already knows the answer and is just asking out of courtesy. 

  “‘Course I am,” I answer. “And I know you guys are too…Which is fine! Nervous is good…probably.”

  “Well, don’t worry that pretty head of yours, we’ll be just fine. I’ll protect you,” he declares, winking. He’s all smug in the way he says it and the way he smiles. Yet, I’m sure he’s just trying to get me to smile. And it works. I smile, scuffing and shaking my head even though I know for a fact that he wasn’t joking about protecting me. “There she is,” he drawls, eyes dipping down. My nervousness does ease, which should be stupid when all he did was talk to me. Maybe that’s pathetic and maybe I don’t care if it is. 

  “Dean...ah...I wanna thank you,” Sam says, joining in on whatever this is.   “For what?” He responds, eyes breaking from the rearview mirror to look at his brother.   “For everything. You've always had my back you know? Even when I couldn't count on anyone I could always count on you. And uh...I don't know I just wanted to let you know, just in case.”   “Whoa whoa whoa, are you kidding me?”   “What?”   “Don't say just in case something happens to you. I don't wanna hear that fucking speech man. Nobody's dying tonight. Not us, not that family, nobody. Except for that demon. That evil son of a bitch ain't getting any older than tonight, you understand me?” Any softness Dean had moments ago seemed gone now. The light not-joking-joke was serious and ever so evident. This is a serious situation and I almost feel guilty for feeling a moment of ease, especially when the real fear of death lingers over all of us. Things can go wrong here really quickly; the Demon might not die tonight. The only thing I can promise and ensure, above all else, is that my boys aren’t dying.

********

  “Dad’s not answering,” Dean announces, his phone held to his ear. 

  “Maybe Meg was late,” Sam suggests. “Maybe cell reception’s bad.” 

  Of course, he may be right, there's always the possibility; yet it feels like nothing more than an attempt to be positive, to see things optimistically. 

  “Yeah, well—”

  “Wait. Listen,” Sam cuts Dean off. He rolls the dial on the radio, the breaking static getting louder.

  “The lights are flickering,” I add, eyes trained on the house. My heart hammers in my chest at the knowledge of what lurks ahead.

  “It’s coming,” Sam concludes.

  Nothing more needs to be said and no more evidence needs to be presented for us to haul it out of the car. I beeline it to the front door, my hand on the handle and the lock undone before my body is fully near it. The boys take the lead, taking careful steps down the hallway. Then, a man lunges forward swinging a bat into a lamp. It shatters to the floor with a resounding clash.

  “Get out of my house!” He yells, positioning himself to swing again. He has poor aim, a goatee, and a green sweater over a button-down, which doesn’t make for the most intimidating combination. 

  Dean surges forward, grappling with the man and the bat while Sam pleads for him to calm down. He fights against Dean who easily takes control, swinging him against the wall with a thud, the bat pressed across his throat. “Be quiet and listen to me,” Dean orders sharply. “Be quiet and listen. We are trying to help you.”

  God, that was kind of hot—Wait. Priorities, I remind myself. “Come on, Sam,” I nod, moving to the stairs. Dean can take care of himself and we had other things to worry about.

  “Charlie? Is everything okay?” A woman's voice cuts in just as I put one foot on the bottom step.

  “Monica get the baby!” Charlie yells frantically. 

  “Don’t go in the nursery!” The Winchesters yell at the same time. 

  I rush up the stairs, taking two at a time, throwing back another, “Sam!” In an attempt to urge him along. I hear a faint threat from Charlie and some light commotion as I move down the long corridor, seeing a flash of white rush into a room at the far end. I push my legs forward, breaking into a run. I skid into the bedroom, catching only the syllables of a sentence before I throw myself in front of the dark-haired woman clad in a white nightgown. Immediately, I launch a burst of energy toward the dark figure sending it back into the wall. I don’t have the gun, all I can do is keep it busy. 

  “Get out of here!” I yell, looking back only briefly. But, suddenly I’m flung sideways, my shoulder hitting the wall hard before I fall to the floor, picture frames rattling above me. “Go!” I order, pain erupting in my shoulder and down my arm as I pick myself up.

  “But my–”

  Yellow eyes shine as it raises its hand.

  “I’ll get your baby, just go!” 

  I intercept it again, throwing another blast that doesn’t seem to do anything more than halt and irritate it. Monica leaves the room. The baby erupts into tears, the commotion certainly startling it. The Demon tries to move me again with a flick of a wrist but I brace myself, using my powers to hold me in place as I lift my own hands and attempt to move it away from the crib. But, it barely shifts. And yet it feels like I’m fighting against gravity, a heavy invisible force trying to force me back as if weights were tied to my limbs. Even so, I push more of my powers forward, harsher and faster yet it still doesn’t budge even if it feels like a house was being thrown on top of me. 

  Then, Sam bursts through the doorway, freezing as he takes in the Demon. It seems to react to him, turning to him slightly. The Colt is raised and the shot rings in the air. The baby’s wailing becomes just as piercing as the gun. The Demon disappears into smoke, the bullet landing in the wall behind it, marking the wall. 

  I nearly collapse as the invisible weight is lifted off of me, my bones feel like jello–almost as if they too were giving up on me. I slump forward slightly, pulling myself toward the crib.

  “Where the hell did it go!” Sam yells.

  I ignore him, focusing on getting the kid out first. Before my hands even touch the wooden sides I can feel what is to come, the fire licking at my hands before there's one at all. I don’t know whether it's some sort of intuition or what Missouri had shown me all those months ago, either way, I quickly and carefully scoop up the crying baby, the crib exploding into flames as I step back and shield the child from it. The windows explode, flames crawling outwards—feeding on the oxygen.

  The moment I step into the hallway strong arms encircle me. He’s behind me, urging me forward with a hand on my middle back as we race out of the house, smoke filling the place rapidly. Sam and Monica aren’t that far in front of us, I guess she only left the room before and not the house itself.

  My lungs greedily take in clean air as we make it outside. The baby is taken from my arms and into the rightful one of her mothers. Charlie puts his arm around his wife’s, eyes scanning both his girls. “Thank you,” Monica says with tear-filled eyes. 

  I’m glad everyone was safe and yet I feel almost defeated, like there was more that could’ve been done. And I’m sure that same thought is going through the boy's heads too. All that we can do is watch as the house is consumed in flames, harsh oranges and reds licking at what is meant to be a place of safety. But, there in the burning nursery, through shattered windows, is a mocking dark silhouette that can only be one being.

  “It’s still in there!” Sam yells, starting for the front door.

  Dean grabs him quickly, holding him back, “Sam. Sam, no.”

  “Dean let me go, it’s still in there,” he argues, struggling against his hold.

  “No. It’s burning to the ground, it’s suicide.”

  “I don’t care,” Sam yells.

  “I do!’

  And just like that, something changes. I can’t explain what it is exactly, but it’s heavy and it’s real. Once more, all we can do is watch as the flames rise again, the Demon disappearing. 

********

  Dean paces the motel room, his phone to his ear as it rings for the umpteenth time. “Come on Dad, answer your phone damn it,” he grumbles. Given the last year his disappearance doesn’t seem out of character but because he was on this whole mission his lack of contact is worrisome. He hangs up with a huff, “Somethings wrong.”

  “Okay,” I sigh from my chair, “We’ll find him…again.” Whatever is wrong we can fix, or at the very least handle it better than the yellow-eyed demon (hopefully.) 

  Dean nods silently, stress and frustration clear in his features. Then, his attention goes to Sam who instead of answering stares at the wall with his classic bitchface. Dean tilts his head down, trying to get his brother's attention. “‘You hear me? Somethings wrong.”

  “If you had just let me go in there, I coulda ended all this.”

  “Sam, the only thing you would have ended was your life,” Dean counters.

  “You don’t know that,” Sam answers firmly.

  “The building was going down you wouldn’t be able to see let alone breathe long enough to even get to it or do anything,” I add.

  He shakes his head, “‘Doesn’t matter.”

  Dean walks towards where Sam sits on the end of one of the beds. “So what, you’re just willing to sacrifice yourself, is that it?”

  He stands up abruptly, towering over his brother. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re damn right I am.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen, not as long as I’m around.”

  “What the hell are you talking about Dean? We’ve been searching for this demon our whole lives. It’s the only thing we’ve ever cared about.”

  “Sam, I wanna waste it. I do. Okay? But it’s not worth dying over.”

  “What?”

  “I mean it. If hunting this demon means getting yourself killed then I hope we never find the damn thing,” he doubles down.   “That thing killed Jess. That thing killed Mom,” Sam argues.   “You said it yourself once, that no matter what we do, they're gone, and they're never coming back.”

  Sam snaps. He grabs Dean by the collar of his shirt and shoves him hard against the wall. I stand quickly, ready to intervene but Dean throws me a quick look that tells me to not. 

  “Don't you say that, not you!” Sam yells, his voice breaking a little. “Not after all this don’t you say that.”   Despite the anger thrown at him Dean answers with soft, quiet words, “Sam look. The three of us...that's all we have...and it's all I have. Sometimes I feel like I'm barely holding it together man...and without you…or Y/N, or Dad…”

  “Dad,” Sam slumps, letting go and turning away. He runs a hand down his face as he walks across the room. “He should have called by now. Try him again.”   Dean presses a couple of buttons, then raises his phone to his ear. It’s quiet for two beats before his face contorts in anger. “Where is he?” He spits.

                                     ......TO BE CONTINUED......

(Next Chapter)

Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain

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I don’t think there’s anything missing at all. I love that fic. I don’t know about you but sometimes I’ll write or rewrite something until it’s what I wanted so I was just curious. But I love all of the fics I’ve read from you and if people haven’t they’re missing out!!

🪻Em my Darling I absolutely love your work! You’re just so amazing at capturing just the right emotions!

I think we both know that my absolute favorite fic is… Is this how it ends? Considering I reread it all the time!! And my favorite scene is when that unwanted visitor shows up and just ruins everything and obviously the ending! Do you have a favorite scene from that fic? Or is there something you would have liked to add but didn’t fit or something you would have changed? (Nothing needs changing in my opinion it’s a perfect fic 😍)

Val, way to make a girl blush 🥰 thank you for your sweet words 🩷

Reread it?? Ahh that’s the highest compliment 🥹

I mean I feel like I can’t really go past the ending, when Steve essentially begs reader to tell him how she truly feels, idk I just think it’s such a sweet moment, he needs her to confirm that she reciprocates his intense feelings and then he’s just all over her!

There really isn’t anything I wanted to add - I don’t think there’s any context missing (feel free to let me know if there is!). It’s definitely one of my older fics I look back on with so much fondness, I feel like I haven’t written for Stevie in ages and this makes me miss him. I’ll definitely need to revisit him soon!

[crazyunsexycool]

sam wilson deserves better

[crazyunsexycool]

I'm sick, so I don't draw much.

[crazyunsexycool]

The Falcon and The Winter Soldier (2021)

Captain America: Brave New World (2025)

[crazyunsexycool]

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

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

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

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

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

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

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

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

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

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

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

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

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

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

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

[crazyunsexycool]

He’s so whipped!! 😂😂😂

am i cooked, chat? (04)

➳ bucky barnes x f!reader ➳ you found a new favorite no-face streamer, much to your bestfriend's (who is hopelessly inlove with you btw)  dismay. oh but the fact that the no-face streamer is also him is not relevant. am i cooked, chat? - masterlist a/n: started drafting it. had a breakdown. bon apetit.