Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was dark. Not the darkness you could see through in the middle of the night, the kind which you can see by given enough time. No, this was the dark of a cave. Blinding. Oppressive. The kind which makes your eyes dart, seeking any form of reprieve. The kind that steals your breath and stalls your mind. It was the kind of darkness you linked to fear. It settles in your chest, a suffocating weight, squeezing the air from your lungs. Your mind dims at the edges. Your limbs feel like they are chained to the floor. It’s visceral. You can feel the gloom crawling across your skin, forcing its way into your pores and wrapping around your cells. It’s squeezing the life from you, dimming your light.

You’re dying, alone in the pitch black of night. My fault, your mind whispers as it wills your neurons to fire. My fault.

He could have been here to save you. He could have been here to hold your hand, smooth the hair from your face. You could have seen his face one last time. Seen his smile.

It was agony. An unparalleled torture. One you could not survive.

I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.

He can't hear you. He’s not with you.

You left him standing alone in the middle of the apartment, shell shocked and abandoned. Your need for more, more time, more commitment had obliterated any hope the relationship had.

“Tell me where he is and the pain will stop, little bird.”

A sharp stinging pain flares in your side. The warm flow of your blood the only heat in the small room. You attempt to scream. Not a sound makes it past your lips. Your vocal cords were long past saving. You had screamed yourself past the point of no return hours ago, and now your limbs were numb, the chains cutting off the circulation.

Your only reply is to spit in the general direction of the voice. It laughs maniacally in return, a high pitched sound which sets your hair on edge.

“I do not need your words, little bird,” he says gently, almost friendly.

Your heart sinks into your stomach. Bucky had regaled you with tales of his past and you knew what Hydra would do to you. You had no defence against it. They would know where the base was. They would find him and the rest of The Avengers, and it would be entirely your fault. They would die, or worse, and there was nothing you could do to stop them.

The chains around your arms and legs fall away. The pain of the blood flow returning to the appendages near overwhelming. You’re dragged mercilessly through the building, blessed light stinging your eyes.

It feels like hours before you’re thrown haphazardly into a metal chair and strapped in, a large device is placed over your head. A mouth guard is shoved into your mouth.

You’re surprised by the action. You hadn’t expected any form of protection.

The whirring of the machine throws your mind back into the present, and you’re surprised to find you can still scream.

*****

Earlier that day:
“Help me pack or get out. You’re in the way,” you snap harshly at the figure obscuring the doorway.

His chocolate locks frame his face, oceanic blue eyes scrutinizing you intently. His arms are folded tightly across his chest, his jaw set in a hard determined line. “No,” he replies simply.

Gritting your teeth in frustration, you throw the last of your clothes into your suitcase, zipping it closed hurriedly. “You can’t stop me, Bucky.”

He scoffs, shoving off the doorframe and stalking towards you. He’s furious, his jaw ticking in anger. “You’re going to regret this in the morning.”

The fury which bursts from you makes you nauseous. “Regret?” you scream. “Do you know what I regret?”

Bucky growls, actually fucking growls, like a caged animal coiled to spring at any moment

“A year of my life gone waiting for you to come home! A year worrying you never would! A year pretending I didn't want more!” You turn away from him, suddenly unable to look at him, to watch him digest your words.

“So you leave? Pack and go. No talking it out? You’re a coward, (Y/N)!”

The slap you plant across his face rings throughout the room, your chest heaving with anger.

He grabs the offending hand and pulls you flush to his chest, his eyes challenging. “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll let you leave right now,” he demands.

And that's when you realize how spiteful you are, how petty you can be, because the next words you utter lands you straight in Hydra’s hands and leaves Bucky standing alone in the apartment, watching you leave.

“I don't love you.”

He lets go instantly, an infinite torture flashing in his eyes.

You wish you could take it back. You wish you could rewind the entire day and start over. Instead, you pick up your bag from the bed and walk away, slamming the door behind you when you leave.

You were jumped not two hours later, tortured and beaten, stripped of all that you knew. The serum pumped into you, all viable information taken from your head and then wiped. Every trace of Bucky wiped from memory.

"я готов отвечать." Ready to comply, you mutter dumbly, looking dead ahead.

“Very good, little bird,” your handler replies excitedly, clapping his hands, a jovial little laugh sounds in the room.

“Hail Hydra!” the call sounds.

You raise your arm, your voice sounding with the rest. You had only one mission.

Destroy The Avengers. Bring the asset back. Rid the world of it’s freedom.

Hail Hydra.

Chapter Text

Seven months since you received the news. Seven months since you broke it off with Bucky. You didn't have the heart to make him watch you die. It wasn’t fair to him. He didn’t need to the dead weight of a partner who would die within a year of of diagnoses. He had enough on his plate.

It was his large year in college. His Fine Art degree was within his grasp. The last thing he needed was the burden of looking after you as you succumbed to your disease.

It started with blurred vision, difficulty speaking and swallowing. Intense insomnia and impaired thinking.

Your mother begged you to go to the doctor. After months of nagging you had finally relented and gone to see the campus nurse. It was close enough. She had taken no chances as you shuffled zombie-like into the room. Heavy bags framed your eyes, and you had long since lost the ability to form a coherent sentences.

They admitted you to the hospital immediately.

A multitude of test later, cognitive, reflexive, you felt like a pincushion by the time they finished with you.

Bucky was a mess, alternating between pacing and biting his paint stained nails. The doctor had asked Bucky to leave the room in a polite but firm manner before he pulled up a chair and leveled you with a grave stare.

“I’m afraid it’s bad news,” he said, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The feeling of dread was nearly overwhelming. So acute you felt as though it might swallow you whole. You nodded for him to continue, the silence deafening.

“You have Jakob's Disease.”

You blinked a few times before the doctor realized you had no idea what he’s talking about.

“Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease is rapid mental deterioration. Usually within a few months. As the disease progresses, mental symptoms worsen. Most people lapse into a coma. Heart failure, respiratory failure, pneumonia, or other infections are generally the cause of death.”

Your entire world imploded in an instant. You were in your early twenties. This could not be happening to you. “What are my options?” you rasped, your throat feeling like the Sahara.

“No effective treatment exists. Our focus will be on alleviating pain and other symptoms. I’m sorry.”

A whimper had left your throat. You were going to die. There was no way out of it. “How long do I have?”

“A year. Likely less.”

Your world went white, his words ring in your ears. You life would come to a screeching and abrupt halt and there's was nothing you could do about it. So you nodded and smiled.

You moved out of Bucky’s apartment shortly after leaving the hospital. The last words you’d heard him say were, “Is it so wrong that I love you?”

It had broken your heart into a million pieces. You were inconsolable for weeks after, finally coming to the conclusion that subjecting Bucky to months of torture wasn’t what he’d signed up for.

It was painful, and you could feel your heart dying in your chest, feel the way his loss wormed it's way into your life. It was unbearable. The agony of living without his smile was worse than the knowledge that you were going to die. You were a shell without his light.

You had died as soon as you walked out the door and out of his life.

***********

You had no idea who phoned him or how he found out you were in the hospital, but he was here, standing at the foot of your bed, hurt and betrayal flashing across his face.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he demands.

His anger is like a hot poker through your head. It had been so long since you saw him last, so long since you were able to feel anything other than acute loss and fear. His presence had instantly lightened your heart.

“If Natasha hadn’t told me you were in the hospital I would never have known you were sick!”

It was inevitable. You should have known Natasha would run to Bucky as soon as you texted her. Perhaps you wanted Natasha to tell Bucky. It was getting so hard to think straight. You couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't.

“I don’t see how this has anything to do with you, Bucky. We aren't together anymore,” you reply.

He scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Are you ever going to tell me why?”

You attempt a shrug. Moving your limbs had become increasingly hard over the last few months. Hell, you could barely walk now. “We weren’t working anymore,” you say quietly. You can't look him in the eye, he would see right through you.

“That’s complete bullshit!” he explodes, catching the attention from the nurses seated at their station.

“Keep your voice down,” you chastise.

“Fuck sakes, (Y/N)! Would you please be honest with me? For once?”

You lay your head on the pillow. It feels heavy, like lead weights tied to your ponytail. “Please leave,” you whisper.

Bucky slams a palm to the foot of your bed before storming out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

***********

It may have been hours or days before you sent the text. The passage of time meant little to your dying mind. It was nothing but a clock ticking down the hours until the sickness snuffed out your light. It was a simple one. One which conveyed all you felt.

Natasha had shown up somewhere in the course of the day. She was livid about the encounter with Bucky.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded.

You turned your head and sighed. “I’m dying, Nat. He needs to live.”

Nat sighed and climbed onto your bed. She wrapped her arms around you and began to cry.

You don't have the strength to soothe her.

You fell into a coma three days later. Various tubes and machines hooked up to your lifeless body. For once you felt no pain.

Only one person remained at your side.

Your mother had long since said her goodbyes. She couldn't bare to watch you wither away any longer. Nat had joined her. Her tears leaving translucent tracks down her cheeks.

“Hey, baby,” Bucky crooned. His voice breaking halfway through, the tears flowed without shame. Lifting your hand to his lips, he placed a gentle kiss to the back, held it between both of his, and gave a tremulous smile.

“I came to say goodbye.”

Chapter Text

“Can you kiss me, please, my ex is across the bar,” you half shout at Bucky.

His eyes widen comically. “What?” he yells back, a fetching blush rising in his cheeks.

You were a second year college student, celebrating the end of your finals with your close knit group of friends. Wanda, Nat, Sam and Bucky had all coerced you into joining them at the local student bar for a night out.

Your heart had flipped in your chest when Bucky had uttered a soft, “Please, darlin’? It won't be the same without ya.”

You were powerless to refuse Bucky.

His smile could light up the darkest of nights. He drew eyes wherever he went. His features were striking, all hard edges and sharp lines. But it wasn’t just his looks which made your heart leap and butterflies erupt in your stomach.

It was his kind heartedness. His shyness. The way he would blush when you would stutter out a compliment or hug him spontaneously. He would go out of his way to help those who needed it, often working himself to the brink of exhaustion.

You had fallen hard and fast, descending into a tongue tied, blushing mess whenever he would be near you. It was a problem.

So, you had done what you thought you needed to do. Dive head first back into the dating pool. Doing your best to forget your ridiculous crush on Bucky, a man so far out of your league it was nearly embarrassing. Your serial singleness was a point of contention between your girlfriends, and they had done their best to set you up with what felt like every single man on campus.

Which is how you met him. Steve. The Quarterback of the football team.

Blond and blue eyed, rippling muscles pulled taught underneath his tight shirts. He was quick witted and smart, athletic and sweet. But, as you found out shortly after you began dating him in earnest, he was also a serial skirt chaser and made no secret of it. He seemed genuinely surprised when you ended the relationship.

You’d found him tonsil deep in a cheerleader. What the hell did he expect you to do?

“You’re overreacting, (Y/N).” He grins a cheshire cat grin, his lopsided smile sets your nerves ablaze. “We were never exclusive,” he adds, making a grab for your waist, attempting to pull you in close.

You sidestep him, shooting him a vicious glare. The urge to slap his perfect face makes your palm itch. “No we weren’t exclusive, Steven! You could at least have told me that you were seeing other people!”

He sighs in exasperation, flings his hands into the air and turns away from you. “You’ll never find anyone like me, sweetheart, I was it.”

You scoff condescendingly, a wicked grin gracing your face. “Bitch please! My phone battery lasts longer than your relationships.”

He turns to face you, his face set in a smirk. “Jealous, sweetheart? We all know I was the best you ever had.”

You throw your head back and let out a loud laugh. “I would agree if you were capable of lasting more than two thrusts. Half the campus knows you’re a two pump chump, Stevie.”

His face turns bright red before he grits out, “You’re making a scene. Leave!”

You smile in triumph, turning on your heel. “Sure thing, sugar plum. Oh, and Steve?” He grunts and rolls his eyes. “Your mother should have swallowed you.”

The laughter which rang out through the dorm had you warm for days.

Steve was now smirking at you from across the bar while Bucky stood open mouthed in surprise. Caught completely off guard by your request he had yet to respond, and you resort to desperate measures.

“Bucky please!” you plead. “I can’t have Steve thinking he was right. Please do this. I swear I’ll make it up to you!”

Bucky hesitates for a second before he roughly pulls your face to his. He captures your lips in a frenzied kiss, his tongue invading your mouth. Your hands shoot into his shirt, bunching the material. His hands tangled in your hair, obliterating the hours Nat had put into it. To your horror you moan, causing Bucky’s grip on your hair to tighten.

You stay that way for what feels like hours. Mouths working in tandem with each other, hands wandering, exploring uncharted territory. You forget Steve, and your anger. All that matters is Bucky and how good he feels pressed against you. It was pure bliss, and you never want it to end.

Bucky breaks the kiss, breathing ragged, his eyes hooded and dark. His lips swollen and red from your reverent kisses. Your own mind is drunk on lust, your breath matches his as you stare at him.

“Wow,” he says, his surprise makes your heart drop into your stomach. He pulls away from you like your touch burns him and runs a hand through his already messed up hair.

Oh god, you think. You’ve gone and screwed it up. You were sure you had blown up your friendship.

He would never look at you the same way again.

You look away from him. Your eyes scan the crowd for Steve only to find him gone.

“Yeah, wow,” you reply.

Bucky clear his throat and spots Sam leaning against the pool table chatting up a pretty woman who didn't stand a single chance against his charm. “I'm gonna... uh... see you later?” He doesn't wait for your answer, disappearing quickly, leaving you standing alone and rejected at the bar.

Way to go, (Y/N)!

Chapter Text

You looked ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. You don’t know what prompted your impulsive buy, or why you thought it was a good idea to parade yourself in front of Dean before heading out to the bar, but you needed to do something. Anything to get him to start talking to you again.

It had been dead silent for four days.

Your last hunt had gone sideways, and you had almost died. It was your fault, you knew. You hadn't followed orders and had ended up trapped in a room with four hungry vamps and no way to protect yourself. If it wasn't for a well-placed swing of Dean’s machete, you would have been vampire chow.

He was not pleased.

He hadn’t yelled and cussed you out. Instead, he had looked at you in complete disappointment before stalking off to the Impala, leaving you to clean up a decimated vampire nest.

You had never felt such shame. Your arrogance almost killed you. Chastised, you followed Dean to the car and drove back to the bunker in complete silence.

You hadn't heard his voice since. He would leave a room when you entered. Wouldn't share dinner with you. Hell, he’d pulled out of going to the bar with you and Sammy.

There was no sex either. You missed him. You were beyond horny, and he knew it.

The way he moved on top of you, behind you. You missed how he pinned you to the wall and fucked into you roughly. How he would growl profanity in your ear as he played your body with precision. His hands gripping your flesh so hard they would leave bruises. He would take no quarter, shoving your face into the mattress. His hips moving so slow, you would beg and plead for him to speed up.

The thought has you squeezing your thighs together, your rapidly dampening panties testament to your aching arousal. God, you needed him. So you told Sammy to go on ahead. You would either meet him at the bar, or you wouldn’t.

He threw you a pained look as he left. His brother's sex life too horrible to contemplate.

You give yourself a once over in the mirror. Dressed in a sexy devil costume, complete with pitchfork and horns, sky-high hooker heels adorned your feet. Thigh high red stockings and a short sequined corseted dress covered your butt and framed your luscious curves. Not too ridiculous, you think to yourself. Smiling implike you leave the room and walk through the bunker, your naughty secret making your breath hitch with every step you took.

The ‘Tail’ you had chosen to complete your outfit was not a part of the dress. The thought makes you bite down on your lip. A light flush dusting your cheeks.

You find him in the sitting room.

His legs are splayed wide over the couch. His jeans so tight it made you want to scream. He's only wearing one layer, and your mouth waters at the teasing hint of flesh.

You stand right in front of the television, ignoring your nerves. You lift your skirt up and inch, exposing a little more smooth flesh. The top of your panties are now visible, showing off the growing wet spot.

Dean’s darkened eyes meet yours. He raises a brow before he sweeps his eyes down and up.

“Need somethin’?” he grunts.

The gruffness in his voice makes your walls clench. It was music, pure sin the way he spoke. The deepness and richness of the sound never failed to make your heart skip a beat.

“You know what I need,” you answer, your voice a purr.

He bites down on his lower lip, his green eyes darkening to a near black. “Can you handle what I’m going to do to you?” he asks, removing his feet from the coffee table and leaning forward. “I ain't good when I’m angry, and I'm very fucking angry,” he warns, sweeping his tongue over his bottom lip.

His eyes roaming your body with a hunger which has your inner goddess whooping in triumph. There's a clear challenge in his face. He’s daring you to make a move, daring you to take him up on it.

You smile and turn. Bending at the waist, you hike the skirt of your dress over your backside. With one hand you drag your panties to the side and wiggle your tail.

He’s behind you in an instant, stroking the tail with reverence. He delivers a gentle tug to the plug making you gasp in surprise. Your backside pushes against him, and he chuckles darkly

“Needy aren't we?” he says, pulling on the tail once again.

You let out a wanton moan, your pussy dripping.

He rips the flimsy underwear off of you, running a finger up your slit. “So wet, baby girl. I haven't even started yet."

You nod your head in fervent agreement. The arousal is intense. You can't see through the haze of lust.

“You were disobedient. You didn't follow my orders. You went off on your own and almost got yourself killed. Do you think you deserve pleasure?” he demands, running his thumb around the edge of the plug.

“N-no, sir!” you squeak. You don't see the slap he plants on your rump, but the sweet sting has you moaning and clenching around the plug.

He delivers five sharp smacks in quick succession, smoothing the burn with his hands after every one, kneading the tender flesh in his hands.

You moan with each, your knees threatening to buckle with the pleasure.

“Such a little slut for me, aren't ya, baby?” He presses the tip of his thumb into your wet heat, dipping in and out.

Your mind floods with white light and you swear you’re going to pass out.

He growls and removes his hand. Another stinging slap rings in the room. “Answer me!” he roars.

“Fuck! Yes, Sir!” you whimper.

He roughly spins you around, Pressing your back into the coffee table, he bunches the skirt of your dress around your waist and delivers two swift smacks to your clit.

You come with a violent cry. Your back arches off the table, pussy clenching around nothing. Your nipples are hard against your corset, lending delicious friction against the sensitive peaks. Your nails digging into the wood underneath you, your hips buck, thrust into the air as your orgasm dies too soon.

Dean laughs at your frustrated moan. “Did I say you could come?” he asks. He leans over you, wrapping a large hand around your throat. He dips a finger into your clenching hole and watches you. Waiting for you to answer his question.

“Ah-No, sir.”

He releases the grip he has on your throat and removes his finger from your pussy. He undoes the button of his jeans. His zipper follows suit. He looks at you with an air of expectancy, and you pull yourself up only to drop to your knees.

You drag down his pants. Your mouth watering at every inch of skin exposed. His thick veiny cock takes your breath away, pre-cum already beading on his tip.

The prominent vein on the underside of his shaft pulses erratically. It jumps with every flex of his thighs. He takes himself in hand and rubs his tip across your lips before he smacks it against each cheek.

“Please?” you ask, pleading.

It’s not enough. Dean is never enough. He’s hot and heady, all primal animal when he needs you. He gives you no mercy, and you revel in it. Every smack. Every denied orgasm. It would never be enough.

“Suck,” he commands, pulling his cock up to indicate where he wants your mouth.

You waste no time in sucking one of his balls into your mouth, lavishing it in attention. He moans loudly above you, and you move to the second one.

His hand's cards in your hair, pulling the strands into a makeshift ponytail. He yanks at the ends, your scalp smarting with the pressure.

You let him go with a pop. With a firm grip, you replace his hand with yours. Licking a long strip from the base to the tip, you place tiny kitten licks to his tip before opening your mouth and engulfing him, your tongue massaging him with practiced skill.

You couldn't count the number of times Dean had you on your knees. It was your favorite place to be. Worshipping his throbbing cock. Swallowing all he had to offer.

He pushes you down onto him roughly, and you relax your throat, breathing through your nose as he begins to fuck your mouth in earnest.

You hollow your cheeks increasing the suction, swallowing rhythmically around him.

He throws his head back, his eyes squeezed shut. His jaw clenches with the effort of not ramming himself down your throat. His thighs shake as he takes gives in to the impulse.

You can't take him all the way down, so you wrap your fingers around his base and jerk him off in time with your bobs.

”My little cock slut,” he growls, increasing the movement of his hips. ”Touch yourself. I wanna see you fuck yourself with your fingers,” he demands.

Spit dribbles down your chin. Your eyes water. Your makeup is long past the point of saving. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, but you can't find it in yourself to care. Your mouth is stuffed full of Dean Winchester, and you’re knuckle deep in your own pussy.

You couldn’t be happier.

Dean starts to swear as you begin to moan. Your hips grinding into your hand, your palm hitting your clit in the most delicious way.

"Look at you getting yourself off with a mouthful of dick. So dirty." He gives three more rough thrusts into your mouth before he rips you back by the hair.

You suck in lungfuls of air. Tears streaming down your face. Your hand still working between your legs.

“Stand up. Turn around. Hands on the table”

You stand on shaky legs, teetering in your sky-high heels and turn around. You bend over, your tail swishing behind you.

Dean undoes the laces of your corset deliberately slowly. His fingers skim against the flesh of your back sending delightful shivers down your spine. He finally unlaces the last string and yanks the dress downwards, freeing your breasts from the tight fabric. He reaches around you and takes one of your ample breasts in his hand. He pinches and rolls your nipple between his fingers.

A jolt of electricity shoots straight to your core. Pleasure and pain mingle into a steady ache in your core, and you swear you're going to combust if he keeps this up.

“I’m gonna ruin you, baby girl,” he whispers in your ear, his body draped over yours. He straightens and lines himself up, plunging into your gushing pussy without pause.

You come immediately, clenching hard around him. It doesn't stop. The pleasure is so intense you can't even scream. It’s blinding and near painful, but oh, so good.

Dean wraps a hand around your throat and pulls your back flush against his chest. The new angle drives you to the brink of insanity. “You feel so good, baby,” he says, his right hand rubbing frantically on your clit. “You look so good with my cock inside you. You take me so well,” he moans. The pressure on your throat increases and he lets out a tirade of filthy moans as you grip him vice-like “Fuck. that’s it, baby. Milk my cock.”

You can tell by the way his breathing increases and his hips loose rhythm that he’s close. Your near unconsciousness. The pleasure too intense.

“Please sir!” you scream “I want your come! Please!”

He drives into you deep, a loud “Jesus fucking Christ!” leaves his lips as he spills himself inside you. He thrusts once, twice, almost squeezing the life out of you in the process.

You’re moaning out of control, past the point of being able to speak. Your body jerks with pulses of electricity. Muscles twitching as he stills behind you.

He runs a soothing hand down your spine, struggling to catch his breath. His eyes are glazed as he attempts to bring you both back to reality.

He quickly and painlessly removes the plug from your butt. “We’re keeping this,” he murmurs, dipping a finger into in the gaping hole, drawing a tired groan from you. "Next time," he says as he places a loving kiss to the nape of your neck. A light brush of lips on skin.

You can't help but blush at his teasing.

“If that’s how you’re going to apologize after every fight, sweetheart, we’re going to be fighting more often,” he quips. He hasn't removed himself from you, just holds you in his arms, his hands lovingly stroking every inch of skin he can reach.

You bark out a laugh, grinning from ear to ear. “I am sorry, De. I was cocky. Should’ve listened to you,” you slur, exhaustion settling into your limbs.

He pulls out of you, pulls up his pants, and turns you around. Ignoring the come dripping down your thighs as he picks you up. “We’re good, sweetheart,” he says as he carries you to your shared bedroom.

You snuggle into his chest, letting out a content purr as you do. “Thank you. I love you,” you murmur.

Dean chuckles and places a kiss on your forehead. “You’re keeping the outfit though, right?”

Chapter Text

You stride toward Sam, grab the hem of his dark grey shirt and tug it gently to gain his attention. His hazel eyes meet yours, you stare him straight in the eye and say, “Hierdie voel soos troumateriaal!”

His face goes blank. He doesn’t speak your language. Any attempts to teach him is met with hilarity.

Afrikaans was not a language for the faint of heart. It's a hard, guttural language full of rolling “R”s and hard “G”’s.

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to translate.

Instead, you decide to have a little fun with him. “Is jy n Universiteit? Want jy’s anibrand!” The last line makes you burst into a fit of laughter.

Sam is not impressed. “Are you going to explain? Or am I going to have to google?”

You snigger evilly. “Sam, you couldn’t spell one word even if you tried.”

You throw him a wink before striding to the kitchen. It was your night to cook and you had decided you were going to go authentic. Boere Kos, hearty and warm, meant to put meat on your bones. The rice had been boiling merrily for fifteen minutes. Roast potatoes were currently in the frying pan. Cauliflower smothered in a cheese sauce was browning in the oven accompanied by sprouts, again covered in cheese sauce. Sweet pumpkin and carrots, and a creamy mash to finish off the meal.

Dessert consisted of of Melk tert and Jan Ellis pudding. Three sherry glasses stood next to the plates. The one bottle of Old Brown Sherry you’d managed to smuggle in was ready and waiting to be drunk.

You were raised to take care of your family. Feed them well, tend to their needs, and in return you would be cared for. Afrikaner families are a tight knit unit. Nothing is more important. The Volk is everything. Manners and Respect were a close second.

To this day you struggled to call Dean by his name. He was ten years older than you, and the need to refer to him as “Oom” would flare up in every conversation you had. You doubted he would be very impressed you had the overwhelming urge to call him Uncle every time he opened his mouth.

Your mother would be horrified if she knew you were using his given name. It would have earned you a smack to the back of the head in five seconds flat.

Your upbringing confused them. Conditioned to smile at everyone who made eye contact. Made for open veldt and the rolling plains of Africa, bred for hard work for the good of the family. Family and Country. The Afrikaner way.

They were not prepared for what they called ‘the fire’.

You took none of their bullshit. Calling them out on their self loathing and complete disregard for their own lives. The notion that a South African was meek was laughable. You were prone to blow up, regardless of culture. Strong and opinionated. There was no way you would keep your mouth shut.

It’s what the men affectionately referred to as the “pantoffel regering”. It was a joke between them. Sitting around a campfire, beer in hand, they would lovingly complain about the unfairness of their wives but would revel in the fierceness they possessed.

Happy wife, Happy life.

Sam chooses to waltz into the kitchen as you take the pressure cooker off the stove. He inhales, smacks his lips appreciatively, and rubs his stomach. “Man that smells good.”

You wink saucily. “Ek sal jou so vol wors prop jy sal soos 'n slaghuis venster lyk.”

Sam huffs in annoyance. “What am I going to do with you?” he groans.

You laugh loudly before smiling sadly at him. “If you don’t know what to do with me after all this time, Sam, then there’s no hope left.”

Sam looks momentarily startled before he plasters a grin on his face and hurriedly exits the kitchen.

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

After dinner, some more dirty flirting, and much grumbling about overeating, you bid them a goodnight.

Sam eyes you with interest as you head to your room. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet throughout dinner. It was slightly worrying. Sam wasn't one to chatter aimlessly, but he always made sure to keep the conversation flowing.

His silence was unnerving.

A knock at your door pulls you from your thoughts, and you call out a distracted, “Come in.”

Sam strides in, deathly quiet. He places his phone on the table and presses playback.

You pale. All your dirty suggestions read aloud in english. Every word perfectly translated. Every innuendo laid bare.

“Sammy, I’m so sorry!” you squeak.

He moves forward, eyeing you up and down. “Let’s get started, shall we?” he replies huskily.

Your heart soars. You match his naughty grin before flinging yourself at him. “Oh, Sam. I love it when you talk foreign!”

Chapter Text

He was it: strong and capable, sensitive and smart. He was everything you wanted. Everything you needed. Everything you craved. But you were you: invisible and unwanted.

Men never came up to you in a bar. No one ever asked you for your number or smiled in your direction.

You weren’t beautiful, at least, not in your eyes. You were what people call plus sized. What the fatphobics called disgusting and unhealthy. You could see the disdain in people's eyes when they looked at you. Feel their judgment as their eyes traveled from the toes of your boots to the hair on your head. Mocking sneers and hurtful laughter followed you wherever you went.

At least that’s how you perceived it. It’s how you saw yourself, a big lumbering mess unworthy of love and affection. You weren’t skinny, thus you were not attractive. It was logical.

Sam was different. Tall and muscular, thick corded muscles dancing beneath the layers he wore. Eyes which sparkled when he smiled, and oh, his smile. The mere action of a tiny grin could bring you to your knees on your strongest day.

You were in deep.

He must’ve known. He must have seen how your eyes followed him during a hunt. How you would take extra care to make sure he was alright.

Dean sure had. He would tease you constantly about your little “crush”. The elder Winchester was relentless in his comments. Often reducing you to a blubbering mess. He meant nothing by it. It was his nature to tease. He had taken on the role of brother after they found you, cowering in the back of a dank cellar, where you had suffered at the hands of a Djinn. One who fed off fear.

It took the combined efforts of Castiel and the brothers to bring you back to yourself, but, it was too late to go back to your old life. You had, insisted, or rather begged, for them to teach you all they knew. They had reluctantly agreed to take you on, And you had fought beside them ever since.

You weren’t the best nor the brightest, but you liked to think you brought something to the foursome. Even if it was just your cooking skills.

“What’s cookin’, good lookin?’” Dean shouts over the noise in the bar.

Your eyes, however, were glued to Sam who was charming a pretty brunette. Your heart gave a painful lurch with every smile he graced her with, with every touch she gave him. You were near to tears at this point.

Dean follows your line of sight and sighs sadly. “I think you need another drink.” he yells.

“No!” you yell back, shaking your head. “Take me home!”

Dean nods without a thought, grabs you by the upper arm and steers you through the gyrating crowd. He stops at the bar exit and inclines his head in Sam’s direction while handing you the keys to the car.

You nod once, push the door open, and make a break for it. The safety of the shiny black Impala calls to you.

Logically you knew you had no claim over him. He was a free agent, and the betrayal you felt was misplaced. He wasn't yours. He didn’t see you that way. It was about time you came to grips with it. It was time to move on.

If only your heart would take the hint and let you.

You slide into the backseat of the Impala, your head landing heavily against the headrest. All you wanted was your bed, a hot cup of tea, and a quiet place to cry. Your heart was broken, your self-esteem was swirling mournfully in the toilet. You were ashamed of who you were. Ashamed of what you’d let yourself become. Ashamed you had fallen for a man who could, by merits of his looks alone, have anyone he wanted.

It was a mess. A total and complete mess.

You squeeze your eyes shut, praying to anyone who would listen that Dean would get his butt out of the bar and take you home. You were suffocating. You needed out. Now.

To your surprise, Sam opens the rear left door and slides in next to you, pulling the door shut behind him with a loud thunk.

His knees bunch uncomfortably between the driver seat and his own. The smell of cheap whiskey and cigarettes clings to his clothing. His hair in disarray from running his fingers through it.

“Where’s your friend?” you ask. Trying for nonchalance, it instead comes out squeaky, forcing you to fight the blush rising in your cheeks.

Sam turns his head toward you, his eyebrow raised in question. “She went home, to her fiance,” he counters. Curling his fingers into his worn jeans, he breathes out a heavy breath when you don’t reply.

“Are you ever going to say it?” he asks softly. “I know. I’ve known from the start. You’re not very subtle, (Y/N),” he adds.

It's at this point you know that you’re going to die. The mortification was a tangible thing, so potent in its poison you felt like you were going to throw up. He was waiting for an answer, one you were not ready to give him, but it was the point of no return. It would be impossible to get over the rejection.

At best he would avoid you. At worst he would tell you to leave.

Your family would be taken from you. All that you had would be gone. You were going to have a panic attack.

“No?” he says. “Fine. I’ll go first.”

Your eyes snap to his, the question clearly written on your face.

“I’ve loved you from the first hunt. Your kindness and intellect, your laugh and smile,” he says quietly, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Soft and inviting. You’re a demon on a hunt, fierce and unforgiving. I haven't felt this way since Jess. I had thought my chance for happiness died with her. But you...” he trails off. His hand moves to stroke your cheek. Gentle and loving.

“I’m in awe of you,” he murmurs and moves in for a kiss.

Soft lips meet chaffed ones. Your blood turns to liquid fire as he cups your face. His scent fills your nose and you can’t help but wonder if you’re in a dream.

You respond enthusiastically, your hand tangling in his hair to pull him closer. His hands move to your waist, trying to bring you closer. It’s cramped and uncomfortable, but you’ve never felt lighter nor more free.

He loved you. He accepted you. He wanted you.

Dean breaks the moment by tapping on the glass. “No sex in the car!” he yells, opening the driver's seat door and sitting down. “You can keep it in your pants long enough to get to the bunker.”

You pull away from Sam, slightly drunk on the taste of him, and smile shyly. “I love you, too,” you whisper, placing a quick peck to his cheek.

“Ah, hell! I ain't getting any sleep am I?” Dean complains.

You giggle as Sam throws a cocky smirk in his brother's direction. He shrugs and pulls you closer, dropping a kiss to the crown of your head. “Not anytime soon, jerk,” he replies with a wink.

“Bitch,” Dean mutters.

The engine roars to life, and Dean pulls out of the parking lot.

Your heart soars. With a little help from your friends, and the love of a good man, you knew you could learn to love yourself. It would take time and patience, but you knew you could get there.

Chapter Text

Your friendship with Bucky had deteriorated at an alarming rate. Missed lunch dates and study sessions. Ignored phone calls and text messages. You didn’t see him in lectures anymore.

Natasha would take him notes at the end of every shared class, and it made you sick knowing you were the cause of his absence.

He was your best friend, and you kicked yourself on a daily basis.

You had screwed up big time, and you were starting to lose all hope of reconciliation.

“Go talk to him. Your moping is giving me feelings,” Natasha snaps after a particularly hard sulking session.

You blush crimson, her sharp words settling heavily in your stomach. “He doesn't want to see me, Nat. I screwed the pooch.”

Nat barks out a laugh before pulling you into a side hug. “маленький цветок,” little flower, she responds fondly, “You will never know until you try. Men are stupid. They need things spelled out for them,” she says. Smiling widely, she gives you a saucy wink before slinking out of your shared dorm.

She was right, of course. Things would never be as they were, of that you were certain, but, you could at least attempt to clear the air.

You didn’t want to lose his friendship. You missed him terribly and would tell any number of lies to persuade him your feelings were purely platonic. It would hurt like a bitch, but having no Bucky hurt more. Unrequited love was something you could deal with. It would fade given enough time.

Losing a friendship over silly feelings? It was too horrible to contemplate.

You stand from your messy bed, dusting the cheeto residue off your old hoodie, and attempt to tame the rats nest on your head. It had been a long week. You looked like someone had run you over with a bright orange steamroller and then let bird's nest in your hair. Heavy bags framed your eyes, the evidence of many a sleepless night binge watching trash reality T.V.

There was no saving it. You looked like death and no amount of fussing would remedy it.

You square your shoulders and slip on your banana slippers. Your shoes were inexplicably missing, buried under a week's worth of washing and take out containers. You had no idea how Natasha managed to put up with you.

Deciding that she was, indeed, a saint, you walk confidently to the front door. Your hand hovers over the doorknob for longer than you would like.

Big girl panties, (Y/N). Big girl panties.

Turning the doorknob, you fling the door wide, and let out an undignified squeak as the startled figure of one Bucky Barnes jumps backward, nearly falling onto his shapely behind in shock. You stare dumbly at each other for what feels like an eternity.

Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, a clear act of defiance. You begin to sweat profusely. The distinct aroma of cheeto fills the air. You’re acutely aware of the clear state of hobo you’re in.

Oh god. Oh god. You were a frumpy trash pile, dipped in cheeto dust and regret.

“Uh... Hi?” he ventures.

You giggle nervously, and fiddle with the edge of your hoodie, trying to make yourself as small as possible. The blush you’re sporting could light up New York after dark.

“Hi,” you reply.

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. His eyes looking anywhere but at your face. “Can I come in? To talk?” he manages to get out.

You step mutely away from the door.

Bucky stops in the middle of the room, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His hands are thrust into the pockets of his worn jeans.

“How are you?” you blurt.

Bucky snorts, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Small talk, huh?”

You groan out loud. “I’m so sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward. It was just... Steve is a right prick, and you were closest...” you trail off lamely, desperately wanting the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

“I was closest,” he echoes dully. “So if it was Sam or Pietro standing next to you, you would have done the same thing?” he probes.

“Well... no, but,”

Bucky interrupts, “And you definitely would have moaned? Plastered yourself against them? Run your hands through their hair?” he interrogates further. “And it definitely would have felt like your body was on fire. The only thing keeping you from falling was your hands on me?”

“Oh, Jesus,” you whisper.

Bucky was standing in front of you, his eyes dark as he stared into yours. His imposing frame impossibly close to you. “Don’t play games, baby girl. We both know what that kiss was.”

“I... I uh...” you stutter, his proximity short circuits your frazzled mind further.

Bucky smirks and captures your lips in a fierce kiss. His hands gripping your waist. He pulls you tightly to him, your chest plastered to his.

You’d never seen this side of him, and God was it turning you on.

His touch ignites your entire body. A smoldering spark burst into life. Stars flicker against your eyelids as Bucky moans into the kiss. His grip tightening to be nearly painful.

Your brain moves to autopilot. Your inner Vixen whooping in glorious delight.

He was yours. Finally, he was yours.

Your hands finally catch up with your mind, and you rise to your tiptoes, flinging your arms around his neck. Matching his reverent kiss with equal enthusiasm, it seems to last an eternity, a hundred lifetimes before he pulls away.

Breathing out a shaky breath, he opens up his eyes and stares at you for a long moment, seemingly contemplating a matter of great importance. He inhales and frowns before a small smile twitches on his lips.

“You taste like Cheetos.”

Chapter Text

He’d been watching you the entire time you were in the gym. His eyes glued to your glutes as you did your fifteenth squat. His plush pink bottom lip was caught between his teeth, bitten a deep red. A steady flush worked its way up his neck as he leaned against the wall. His tight white t-shirt pulled taut over his muscular torso. His usually vibrant baby blues were blown wide as he stared. It made you hot all over. He never did anything about it. He would watch until your workout was completed then leave without saying a word.

Later in the evening he would climb into your bed and whisper filthy things in your ears as he made you moan for him. Words you never thought would leave Captain America’s mouth.

You wished he would bend you over the weight bench, fuck you raw until you were begging him for release, but Steve liked his games. It left you aching and wanting. There was something in the way he watched you move. Something in the way his jeans did nothing to hide his thick arousal. The way he would flush as you went through your training programme. Always across the room. Never coming close enough to touch you. No matter how much he gave you, it was never enough.

It was time to beat him at his own game.

Foregoing your usual baggy sweatpants and T-shirt, you’d opted for tight black workout shorts which framed the curve of your ass perfectly. A black low cut sports bra, which, in your opinion, left nothing to the imagination. You made sure to exaggerate every movement, pushing your butt out with every squat.

The smirk on your face was getting harder to hide the more flustered Steve became. You had the feeling that today was the day he would finally break you on the gym floor. The thought alone was enough make your body tingle with anticipation.

You straighten from the squat, place the weights back in their proper place, and stretch your arms over your head. You arch your back, moaning as your muscles pull.

Steve is behind you in an instant. His warm hands on your waist. His breath fanning over the back of your neck. “You’re teasin’,” he says into your ear. His gaze follows a droplet of sweat which runs the curve of your breast, disappearing into the material of your bra.

“You’ve been watching me workout every day for months, Cap. It’s getting a bit old. Reckoned I’d give you a push in the right direction,” you purr, grinding your butt into his growing erection.

He presses his hips into yours and bites down your earlobe. His fingertips digging into your waist. Your skin blooms with a red hue underneath his ministrations. He leaves open mouth kisses down your neck, likely tasting the saltiness of your sweat. “Old, huh?” he chuckles. His hands travel down the waist of your shorts where he snaps the elastic.

The sweet sharp sting which follows has you closing your eyes. Your head lolls back onto Steve’s shoulder.

“You’re beautiful when you’re all sweaty, darlin’. All wet and out of breath. It makes a man wanna do things to ya.” He bites down on an exposed shoulder.

You shiver in anticipation. Your slack hands move behind you grabbing his bubble butt and pushing him harder into you. Steve hands travel slowly over the exposed skin of your abdomen. A feather-light touch, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Your nipples harden, poking through the fabric of your sports bra.

He cups your breast, teasing your nipples in between his thumb and forefinger, and gives them a harsh tug.

It sends a jolt of lust straight to your core.

“I need ya outta these clothes, darlin’,” he says gruffly. “I want ya naked and whimpering while I fuck the brat right outta ya.” He tears the fabric of your bra down the front. Your shorts follow suit. The material lies in tatters around you, leaving you only in tiny Captain America panties.

Steve stares at the material for a moment before his face lights up with a smile.

You grin saucily, throwing him a wink in the full-length gym mirror. “If I’m gonna be coming, Cap, I’m gonna be coming on your face.”

“I think you might just be the perfect woman, babydoll,” Steve murmurs against your skin. He lets go of you briefly to shrug his shirt over his head. He walks around you and sinks to his knees, and drags your panties down your thighs. “I want you to watch. Eyes on the mirror. Don’t come until I tell ya to.”

You nod mutely and spread your legs, fixing your eyes on the mirror. Steve places a kiss on both hips before kissing his way down your mound. He bites down lightly on the skin, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

He flicks his tongue over your clit. Enough to give you pleasure. Not enough to satisfy the growing heat between your legs. He teases and nips. His hands massage the flesh of your ass in rhythmic circles.

Your legs are shaking and he’s barely begun. Your hand flies to his neatly trimmed blond hair to steady yourself, resisting the urge to shove his face into you. You tug harshly at the locks, and he gives you a warning smack on the back of your thigh.

“Behave,” he growls.

“If you would actually do something, Cap, I might behave.”

His face flashes with irritation. Within seconds he’s buried between your thighs, two fingers plunging into your clenching hole. Your clit is sucked sharply between his lips.

“Fuck!” you yelp.

He throws one leg over his shoulder. His free hand shoving you firmly into his face. He leans backward, bringing you to your knees, straddling his head. He removes his plunging fingers from you, so you can grind down in earnest.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as you ride his face for all your worth.

He aids you in moving your hips as your thighs begin to shake with the pleasure. His moaning helps aid you toward orgasm. His talented mouth creating sweet poetry.

You know you’re drenching him. Your arousal dripping into his welcoming mouth.

Steve takes it all. He loves nothing more than being in between your legs, making you scream his name until you’re hoarse and depleted. He owned your body. Was the master of your soul, and he knew it.

You held the same power over him. It was an intense relationship. One borne of fierce attraction and mutual respect.

“Steve,” you moan. Your hips lock, your thighs clenching his head into a vice grip. “I’m gonna come,” you slur.

Steve gives one hard suck to your clit before he pushes you back by the belly, stopping your oncoming orgasm in its tracks. His breathing is ragged. His face glistening in the flourescent light of the deserted gym. There was nothing better than seeing Steve with a face full of pussy, dripping in your arousal. He gives you a lopsided grin, licks his lips, and closes his eyes as your taste hits your tongue. “You’re the sweetest thing on earth, baby,” he says. “On your belly. Face the mirror.”

You furrow your brow, confused at his instructions. “You don’t want me to-” you begin, but he shook his head.

“It's all about you today, darlin’. I can have your pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock another time.”

You smile warmly at him. Affection and lust mingle. You climb off of him shakily and lie flat on your stomach, opening your legs a fraction.

Steve unbuttons and unzips his jeans. Shrugging them to just below his ass. He runs his thumb from your hole to your asshole, dipping his finger in briefly before he positions himself behind you, careful to keep his weight from squishing you.

His thick cock head nudges at your opening. He pushes in slowly. Carefully. Mindful of his length and girth. He was not a small man, and it’s an agonizingly slow process. The intense stretch it creates has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. His grip on your ass tightens as he strains not to sheath himself in you with one thrust. It feels like an eternity before his hips are flush with your butt. He stills, giving you a moment to adjust before he pulls out slowly and lazily rolls his hip back into yours.

There's no rush. No frenzy. He takes his time, making sure you feel every bit of him. He hits every spot. The pleasure is overwhelming in its intensity. The sweet friction of the gym mat underneath you lends another layer of pleasure. He moves with a practiced elegance above you. His soft grunts and your moans filling the quiet room. There's no slapping of flesh. Just a sensual, erotic build. He drops to his elbows, and bites down on your shoulder, soothing the sting with a flick of his tongue. “You feel so good, baby,” he moans. “You fit me so well. Such a tight little cunt. I could bury myself inside you and never come out.”

“Steven,” you gasp.

It was a sight to behold. The mirror affording you a unique view of Captain America. He was sweating with the effort of restraining himself. His face flushed with exertion. His hips moving languidly behind you. His muscles bulging as he kept the brunt of his weight off of you. His eyes admiring. Loving. Heady. Clouded with lust and love alike. He nudges your left leg wider. Plunging deeper. You swear you can feel him hit your cervix. The slight pain mixes with the pleasure. His movements never falter. Never speed up. It’s a slow torturous build. One you could feel for the rest of your life. It was a simmering burn. A tidal wave which threatened to drown you.

You tighten around him, struggling to keep your eyes on the image in the mirror. He’s pushing you further. Closer to the edge. You know he’s close too. His neck muscles are straining. His grunts turning into loud moans. He pulls you up by the waist, giving him more access. He tugs you back by the hair; his self-control snapping as his orgasm approaches.

The speed of his thrusts intensify. Your back is arched unnaturally. Your neck curved as he takes his pleasure from you. He plunges himself deep. Roughly. Savagely. Near bruising with the force. The new angle drives him firmly into your G-spot. Pulses of electricity shoot through your veins.

Your entire body thrums with it. Your nostrils flare. Your mouth falls slack in a silent scream as your fucked into mindlessness by America’s Golden boy.

Filth spills from his mouth. “I’m gonna fill you so good, baby, my cums gonna be dripping out of that pretty pussy for hours,” he says, his hips nearly a blur. “Maybe I’ll make ya clean my cock, darlin’, make you taste yourself on me. What a gorgeous sight that would be.”

Your brain short circuits. Your body tightens as the coil in your stomach snaps, and you scream.

“Fuck yeah, baby,” he growls. He lets go of your hair and shoves your face down, determined to make you come again. He swats your butt and plunges a thumb into your asshole.

“Oh, God, Steve. Please!”

His hips slow, coming to a near stop. “Please what?” he taunts.

“More!” you sob. “Please! More!”

He grins and begins to thrust again. His hips and thumb work in tandem to bring you to another earth shattering orgasm.

You can do nothing but whimper as Steve plows into you, relentless in his pursuit. It feels like hours, months, years that he moves in and out of you.

You’ve long since lost the ability to speak or move. Nothing matters more than this moment. The feeling of him inside you. The delicious burn. The mind-numbing friction. The beauty, the pleasure, the pain. You’re on the brink of madness. You plunge head first over the cliff, your vision whiting out.

Steve follows suit. The warmth of his come painting your insides has you moaning pornographically.

Steve curses above you. His movements jerky and sloppy. He gives a couple more thrusts before he stills inside you.

Breathing harshly, you lay boneless beneath him. Your body spent.

“Ah, hell fucking no!” a disgusted voice comes from the gym door.

Your eyes fly to the mirror. A horrified and decidedly green Sam has an arm thrown over his eyes. A pale Bucky behind him.

“In the gym, Cap? Are you for real?” Bucky yells, shutting his eyes tightly. “That’s a part of ya I didn't wanna see pal.”

“Oh, God,” you murmur mortified.

Steve smirks at you. “You already said that, doll face.”

“Man shut the hell up! We’re gonna have to burn the entire gym. Only fire can cleanse this,” Sam says as he marches out the door, dragging Bucky behind him.

Steve sighs. “That’s not going away anytime soon.”

You laugh. “Nope!” you reply, popping the ‘P’.

Steve groans and you smirk saucily at him.

“Round two, Cap?”

“Now we’re talking!” he growls as he flips you over, sealing your lips together.