Summary: With Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes at the helm, squad 51 is the top firehouse in Brooklyn. They risk their lives on a daily basis, running toward the danger instead of away from it, doing everything in their power to ensure the safety of the public. During one particularly treacherous call, Bucky literally pulls you from the flames and saves your life. Wanting to thank the men and women of squad 51 – and put a face to the voice you hear in your dreams – you bake up some goodies, and find yourself falling for the grey-eyed fireman. Word Count: 1,497 Warnings for the series: Language, talk of blood and injury, angst, fluff, explicit sexual content, possibly more to come. Author’s Note: GIF found on Google Images without a source.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
Brooklyn was a beautiful city at any time of the day, but it was exceptional after the sun went down. The lack of natural light gave the city a feeling of goth and grit as the shadows extended until everything in their path was consumed, leaving nothing but the dark.
Most people were creeped out by it, said that the hairs on the back of their neck and arms stood, that goosebumps dotted their skin, that they felt as if someone were following close behind. But for Bucky, it was his favorite time of the day. Without all the hustle and bustle of traffic and hordes of people, Bucky could think clearly. Well, clearer than at any other time of the day.
Tonight, however, there was only one thing on Bucky’s mind; pulling as many people as he could out of the flames that were currently threatening to consume a ten-level apartment building.
“Fire department,” he hollered. “Call out!”
Steve was behind him, groaning at the oppressive heat that was coming at them from all sides. “Fire department, call out if you can hear us.”
“Christ, I can barely see anything with all this smoke,” Bucky ground out. Sweat was dripping down from his hairline and it was starting to itch, mainly on his face. He stomped down the urge to rip off his mask and swipe it away.
“One of the many hazards of a fire,” Steve said dryly.
Bucky pushed open a door, jumping back when flames leapt at him. “Fire department,” he called out roughly as he entered the apartment. Everything was consumed by the flames; mementoes of whoever lived there, items that could never be replaced.
“Barnes, Rogers, you find anyone?” Chief Fury demanded to know.
Steve pressed the button on the radio on his shoulder. “Negative.”
“Then hurry it up,” he ordered his men. “I don’t want you in there when it comes down.”
Bucky was grinding his teeth as he continued to clear the rooms. “Then get the hoses in here.”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Sam said, his voice tight.
“What’s the hold up?” Steve asked as he checked his oxygen level.
Before Sam could answer, Bucky was holding up his fist. “Fire department, call out.”
“Help me, please,” someone cried from across the hall.
“We got someone, Chief,” Bucky said before bolting out of the apartment and busting down the door across the hall.
The flames weren’t as bad in the unit, but both men knew it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. They needed to find whoever it was, and fast. Both men went to call out, to find out exactly where they needed to go, when the voice called out again.
“I… I’m back here, in the bed… bedroom.”
Bucky entered the room first, eyes scanning, trying to see through the thick smoke. “Where are you?”
A hand shot out from the other side of the bed, shaking almost as much as its owners vice. “Here. Please, help.”
“We’ve got you,” Steve said when he dropped to his knees.
“Are you hurt?” Bucky wanted to know as he crouched down next to the man on the floor.
Shaking his head, he pointed to his tipped over wheelchair. “I’m a paraplegic, can’t walk. I… I knocked it over when I was getting out of bed,” his voice cracked as tears clouded his vision.
The building was groaning and shifting, the wooden beams splintering as the flames ate away at them, and if the loud crash in the apartment next door was any indication, Bucky and Steve didn’t have much time. Without another word, Steve moved the man into a sitting position and secured his arms around his chest. Bucky grabbed the man’s legs before the firemen stood and carried him out of the apartment, down five levels of stairs – which wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, and onto the sidewalk.
Clint and Nat rushed over, their medkits on top of a gurney they were pulling between them.
“What do we got?” Clint demanded to know.
Steve had just ripped off his hat and mask. “Paraplegic male with smoke inhalation. Possibly some secondary injuries from falling.”
Nat placed an oxygen mask over the man’s nose and mouth as Clint took his pulse. “What about you guys? You were in there for a while.”
“We’re fine, Nat,” Bucky gruffed, swiping a hand over his face. “Just take care of him.”
Rolling her eyes, Nat turned her attention back to the coughing man on the gurney. Clint didn’t like what he was hearing in the stethoscope.
Clint snapped his fingers to get Nat’s attention. “You hear me, Red?”
“What?!” she hissed at her boyfriend.
“We gotta get him to med,” was what he said instead of telling her not to talk to him like that. Not that she’d listen. Stubborn woman.
“So, let’s go,” Nat grumbled as she glared at Bucky, who was shoving his facemask back into place.
When Bucky moved to step around him, Fury shook his head and clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re not going back in. The fire is getting too big.”
“There are still people in there,” Bucky argued. “We can still save them.”
Jarvis, the squad’s Lieutenant, was in complete agreement with the chief. “The south side is completely taken over, kid. We’re pulling everyone out.”
It was Steve’s turn to disagree. “We’ll check out the north side. It’s not as bad over there.”
Sam and Pietro exited the building, the hose turned off, water dripping out of the end. Behind them were Scott Lang, Hope Van Dyne, Peter Quill, and Tony Stark, all of them sweating behind their masks, none of them carrying any tenants out of the apartment building.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Fury bit out as Bucky stalked toward the truck.
“I’m switching out my oxygen,” was his clipped answer. “And then, I’m going back in.”
Jarvis stepped in front of Bucky, a determined look in his eyes. “No, kid. You’re not.”
“Get out of the way, Vis,” Bucky growled.
Steve’s hand was on Bucky’s shoulder. “Come on, Buck. Don’t do this.”
Bucky shrugged out of his friend’s grip. “There are people in there, Stevie.”
“I know that, Buck,” he insisted soberly. “But if Vis is telling us it’s not safe…”
The men and women of station 51 believed that Jarvis was psychic on some level. Nothing crazy like predicting what the next Powerball numbers were going to be, or the exact time of someone’s death, but if he said not to go into a burning building, then you didn’t go.
“Fine,” Bucky said through his teeth. “What do we do next?”
Fury gave a sigh as he took in the shape of his weary crew. “Do everything in our power to make sure the fire doesn’t spread.”
Sitting on a stool at Wanda’s bar, a place each member of the squad owned a share in, Bucky was nursing a beer. Steve was next to him, a beer in his hands as well, staring nowhere in particular.
Wanda, with a rag over her shoulder and her hair pulled back into a braid, approached the duo with a timid smile. “Rough day?” she inquired softly.
“Always is,” Bucky sighed.
“It was a complete loss,” Steve continued since Bucky wasn’t divulging anymore information.
Wanda gave a groan of sorrow. “I’m sorry, boys. Next round’s on me, okay?” She pulled out two bottles of beer, uncapped them, and set them in front of the two friends. “And if you decide you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Her brother, Pietro, was at the other end of the bar, a small brown-paper-wrapped box in his hands. She gave a small shriek before launching herself across the bar and hugging him tight.
“Ah, shit,” Bucky ground out. “It’s her birthday. I didn’t get her anything.”
“Sure ya did,” Steve said as he bumped Bucky’s shoulder with his. “We all pitched in a few bucks a couple weeks back, ‘member?”
Rubbing a hand over his face, Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right.”
The two drank in silence, well, as much silence as one could expect while inside a semi-busy bar. Wanda’s was the place where Brooklyn’s finest firefighters, EMT’s, doctors, nurses, and police officer’s hung out to unwind from their day. It was where they had their first dates, and their second, maybe even their third. They brought their families when they were visiting, bragging about owning a part of a fine establishment. There were Superbowl parties, gatherings after funerals and promotions, birthday and anniversary parties; anything and everything in between.
Their jobs went beyond comradery, it was a family. And as everyone knows, you can love your family, but you don’t have to like them, or get along with them most of the time.
Just as Scott and Hope approached the bar, Bucky pushed away, drained his beer, and strode out without so much as a goodbye to Steve.
Summary: Steve came home from the war to a wife that could not deal with the emotionally, mentally, and physically changed man before her. Dealing with it the only way he knew how, Steve buried himself in his work. After saving hundreds of lives in one heroic act, Steve finds himself put on bodyguard duty. Also known as a glorified babysitter. It wasn’t easy being the daughter of insanely rich and successful businessman, Phil Coulson. After multiple death threats, your overbearing, worries-too-much father decides you need a bodyguard. Word Count: 4,816 Warnings: Language, angst, blood, violence, explicit sexual content, major character death, possibly more to come. Author’s Note: GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
Before you knew it, a week flew by and, whether either of you liked it or not, the two of you fell into a steady rhythm.
Every morning he would knock on your door before entering. It was his second day on the job that he learned to knock when he stormed in and found you standing there, naked as the day you were born, screaming at him to, “Get the fuck out!”
Now, you couldn’t really be mad at him; it wasn’t his fault. How was he supposed to know that you loved walked around naked after showering? It wasn’t something that you shouted from the rooftops.
Steve would greet you with a tight smile and a cup of your favorite coffee before ushering you down the hall, into the elevator, through the kitchen of the hotel, and straight to the car. He wouldn’t say anything during the ride to your office or to one of the many interviews, even during slower traffic.
He would make sure your office – and bathroom and every other meeting room you would be using – was cleared before allowing you entry, then he would position himself at the same spot, stand the same way, and watch everyone with the same intensity, no matter if they were homeless or some kind soul that was delivering their donation by hand. The man was frustratingly always on duty, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Wanda, Pietro’s sister and your assistant, commented on it every day. “Doesn’t the man ever smile?”
“I think his face would crack if he did that,” you chuckled.
She continued to stare at Steve. “He’d be sexier if he smiled.”
“Wanda,” you playfully gasped.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she teased back, thickening her accent, standing straight as a board.
You narrowed your eyes and pointed a finger at her. “Don’t you start.”
Before waltzing out of your office, Wanda stuck out her tongue.
Late nights were a common occurrence for you. There was hardly a time where you didn’t leave before ten, only to pour yourself a healthy serving of whiskey to warm your insides as you buried yourself in more work once Steve annoyingly cleared the rooms and left with a mumbling of, “Goodnight, ma’am.”
More often than not, you would fall asleep, files spread out on the comforter, laptop open and running. And then, the process would repeat itself the following morning.
It was early afternoon, and you were going over the list of questions about to be asked during the live interview when your temporary assistant, Natalia, came in. There had been a family emergency back in Sokovia, both Wanda and Pietro flew out the night before. You told them there was no hurry to come back, that they could take all the time they needed, their jobs would be there for them upon their return.
The red head crossed the room as her eyes roamed over Steve’s hulking frame. “The coffee shop was packed,” was her explanation for being late.
“It’s fine,” you assured her even though irritation and lack of caffeine was making you irritable and short-tempered.
Without looking up from the papers, you reached out for the coffee, but Nat was still ogling Steve, therefore not paying attention to how close the two of you were. She slammed into you and the coffee erupted between your bodies, completely drenching the champagne colored shirt you were wearing.
“What the fuck?” you hollered.
Nat clapped a hand over her mouth as a laugh burst out of her. “I’m so sorry, Miss Coulson.”
“I’m due on set in five minutes,” you ground out angrily. “And I don’t have another shirt.”
Steve stepped away from the wall. “Give her your blouse, Miss Romanov.”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffed in disbelief. “It’ll never fit her. Can’t we dry it out?”
You weren’t sure if she meant it the way it sounded or not, but you glared at her nonetheless. “What do you expect me to do? I need something, Natalia. There’s not enough time to borrow one from wardrobe, they’re on the other end of the building.”
With a heavy sigh, Steve pulled out the comm from his ear and jacket at the same time that he shrugged out of the jacket. He loosened his dark tie, all while you and Natalia looked at him; you with a question in your eyes, and Natalia with sheer amusement and lust.
“Fresh on this morning, ma’am,” Steve said calmly.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groaned. It wasn’t that you were unappreciative of the gesture, you just weren’t sure about the fit.
Steve was tugging the shirt from his pants and undoing the buttons. “My shirts are altered to fit over my ballistic vest so the chest-to-waist ratio should be compatible.”
With a tight smile, you took the proffered shirt and set it on the couch. You glared at Nat, the woman responsible for the whole thing. “You, fuck off and organize Rogers a new shirt.”
After rolling her eyes, she stormed off with a huff and slammed the door behind her.
“You’ll have to tuck it under your jacket, ma’am,” Steve said, putting on his suit jacket over the ballistic-vest-and-white-cotton-covered chest.
“Thank you,” you huffed in relief. When Steve didn’t move to turn around, you cleared your throat. “Some privacy, please?”
With a shake of his head, he spun on his heel, giving you what little privacy he could. “Yeah, of course.”
You quickly put on Steve’s shirt and found yourself smiling at the heat it still held, the way it smelled like him; spiced leather and fresh soap. After tucking it into your pants, you gave the all clear for Steve to turn around and pulled on the jacket you had been wearing.
“Good timing, ma’am. One minute to set.”
Maria Hill, the replacement driver for Pietro, drove the town car through the downtown traffic with ease. She didn’t try and make small talk, which made Steve feel better. No conversation meant he could focus on a safe ride back to the motel, it meant that he definitely was not thinking about the way Y/N’s silk shirt clung to her breasts and the brief flash of her flesh he saw in his peripheral as he turned around.
Nope. Definitely not. Because thinking about that – soft skin and curves – meant he was distracted, and distracted meant he wasn’t doing his job.
“I’ll have the shirt laundered tonight,” she said, rescuing Steve from his own mind.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he gruffed, unconsciously shifting in his seat.
She must have noticed it, because she asked, “Are you alright, Rogers?”
He smiled tightly as he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Because, if you’re not, you can talk to me abou-”
A series of bullets slammed into the driver’s side window, denting the bullet-resistant glass, pulling a surprised scream from Y/N. The car swerved slightly at the impact of the bullets. Maria sped up, trying to get to a safe spot.
“Down,” Steve shouted at Y/N as he scanned the passing scenery. “Go, Miss Hill. Hurry.”
“I’m trying,” Maria ground out.
The next set of bullets shattered the glass completely, and killed Maria instantly as they pierced through her head and neck. Y/N – slouched down in the seat – was screaming and covered in blood while only the left side of Steve’s face was colored with crimson.
There was a moment where it felt as if time slowed down. Steve felt like he was back on the battlefield, the sound of heavy fire bringing a surge of memories he wasn’t prepared for. The air in his lungs felt thick, tangible, like water, smothering him from the inside. Screams from the backseat bled through slowly until it was all he heard, snapping him back to reality.
Steve gripped the wheel as the car veered out of control and urged it toward a parked car. “Ma’am! Stay down,” he hollered over the spray of bullets against the side of the car. “The bullets can pierce the windows but they can’t get through the armored metal.”
Y/N threw off her seatbelt and hunkered down onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably and a yelp or a scream bursting out of her as more bullets hit the steel at her back.
Steve’s knees were on the floor and he was bent over the seat as he spoke into the comm. “Control, Sierra Zulu 7-9. Status Zero, Prospect Ave. I repeat, Control, Sierra Zulu 7-9. Status Zero, Prospect Ave. Lavender is under heavy fire.”
“Sierra Zulu 7-9, control, received. All call signs proceed to Prospect Avenue asap,” the sound of Rhodey’s voice in his ear was calm, a stark contrast to the chaos happening outside.
“We’ve lost Maria,” Steve added grimly. “We’re sitting tight, waiting for backup.”
Rhody came back with, “Wilco.”
More bullets slammed into the metal and Y/N whimpered as her blood-smeared hands gripped the leather cushion, her nails digging in.
“It’s okay, ma’am,” Steve assured her, hands covering hers, one eye peering at her through the small gap between the seat and the car. “It’s okay. The bullets can’t get through the armor plating. It’s okay.”
She was shivering and panting, probably going into shock. At the rate things were going, Steve wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
“Control, 7-9 Sierra Zulu,” he ground out.
It was Rhodey again. “Go ahead, 7-9.”
“We need armed support and air ops to the scene as operational priority,” Steve told the man on the other end, wincing as more bullets hit the car.
“Task force commander is deploying to the scene,” Rhodey informed him. “Area being cordoned off and unarmed held back. armored reconnaissance vehicles en route, ETA two minutes.”
Steve gave Y/N’s hand a squeeze. “Two minutes, ma’am. We sit tight. You’re going to be fine.”
More bullets, louder than before, pulling more screams from Y/N. She was wincing and jumping, the white around her eyes becoming more visible.
“You’re doing really well, ma’am,” he told her calmly. “You’re doing great.”
Jesus Christ. Does he have a gatling gun up there? As soon as that thought entered his mind, more bullets sprayed against the car, rocking it with a creak, Y/N screamed again, her voice shattering with the intensity of it.
“It’s okay, ma’am. It’s okay.” Steve licked his chapped lips as he desperately looked around.
He reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror in the hopes that he could see where the heavy fire was coming from. When he couldn’t see anything but the road behind him, he grunted in irritation. The only way he could really see anything was from outside the vehicle.
Goddamn it.
Y/N let out a keening sound as he climbed over Maria and opened the door. “No, please no.”
“It’s okay, ma’am,” Steve called out over the gunfire. “It’s all right.”
He dropped down to the pavement and pulled Maria’s lifeless body out of the car, leaving it sprawled on the sidewalk. Before he closed the door, he peered into Y/N’s panic-filled eyes. “Stay down, ma’am.”
Gunfire erupted once again as he closed the door, and Y/N let out an ear-piercing scream that covered Steve in goosebumps. He crept along the side of the car and dug out his cellphone. By the trunk, he turned on the front-facing camera and held it up, snapping a picture as more bullets slammed into the car.
His hands shook as he zoomed in on the picture, moving it around until he found what he was looking for; a burst of color around the muzzle. The shooter was on the roof of an apartment building to the south.
With the phone in his pocket and a shuddering breath pulled in, Steve called out to Rhodey. “Control, Sierra Zulu 7-9.”
“Go ahead, 7-9.”
“Shooter is located on the roof of Pascoe House, one thousand feet south of current location. Single shooter only,” was Steve’s updated information.
“Received, 7-9,” was all Rhodey said.
Steve grunted in disapproval. “Where are those armored vehicles?”
“ETA two minutes.”
“You already said two minutes,” Steve growled, frustration fueling the anger in his belly.
He opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat, Y/N’s surprised yelp greeting him. “Ma’am, I need to get you to safety.”
She was gripping the seat in front of her, keening and shaking, wide eyes flicking around wildly.
“Ma’am, this is what I do, trust me.” Steve shifted the car into reverse and adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see where he was going.
“4-7, 7-9, back-to-back on two,” he bellowed into the com.
“Go ahead, 7-9.”
“We’re sitting ducks here. Lavender on the move,” was the last thing Steve said to Rhodey. “Here we go ma’am.” He pushed on the gas and sent the car speeding backwards, narrowly avoiding the parked cars.
“Stay down, ma’am.” Bullets sprayed against the car and rear window, shattering it, sending glass on the seat and into Y/N’s hair.
“You’re doing great, ma’am.” Despite the screaming and shaking, she was doing really well. Steve had seen men and women in the war react far worse than Y/N was at the moment.
He kept driving the car, eyes pinned to the rearview mirror. Y/N started sobbing and trying to curl in on herself when bullets pounded into the roof. “The roof armour will protect us, ma’am.”
“Soon, he won’t have a line of sight,” he mumbled to himself. Bullets hit the hood and headlights as Steve turned the wheel. He shifted into drive and pulled into the parking garage.
At that moment, three unmarked squads and an ambulance pulled up. “We’re safe now, ma’am. Hold tight. Don’t move, ma’am. You’ll be fine.”
Steve jumped out of the car and she screamed in protest, her hands shooting out to grab him. “Take care of Lavender,” he instructed Sam Wilson, one of the other members of the team.
“Cap,” Sam said with a nod, handing Steve an AR-15.
Steve strode into the apartment building as he pulled out his badge and tucked it into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “Armed police!” he announced himself. “Get down, stay down! Remain calm. I need access to the roof.”
People hit the floor with surprised shouts at the sight of Steve jogging toward them, weapon raised, finger ready to squeeze the trigger at a moment’s notice. “Stay down! Remain calm. Officers will be arriving.”
“This way,” One of the security guards instructed as he approached Steve and showed him to the elevators, riding with him to the highest floor.
When the two men emerged, Steve ordered that the security guard show him to the roof.
The older man pointed to a door before opening it. “Though there, and up.”
Steve took the stairs three at a time, gun raised, eyes scanning every inch of the path he was taking. He slowed down when the space before him opened up. There was a platform made out of metal grating above his head, construction equipment scattered throughout the open area, and six steps that lead to the roof.
Heavy footsteps hit the steel above him and his heart jumped into his throat. Pulling in a deep breath, Steve trained his gun on the assailant and tracked him as he walked. As soon as a set of work boots cleared the last step, Steve called out, “Armed police!”
The man hung his head, hiding his face. He set the large black gun case onto the floor and shook his head.
“It’s over,” Steve said in a huff. “It’s over.”
Steve’s stomach dropped when the assailant muttered, “For me.”
Shit, no. Not him.
Bucky raised his head and stared hard at his friend. “Not for you. You can finish the job.”
“Job?” Steve choked out. “What job?”
“Somebody’s got to stop Coulson. And the only way to do that is through Y/N.”
Steve was shaking his head. “That doesn’t make sense, Buck.”
“I’m fucked,” Bucky scoffed as he pulled out a pistol from behind his back.
“No, Bucky. Don’t,” Steve said thickly.
Bucky pulled back the hammer and pressed the barrel under his jawline. “Someone’s got to stop Coulson. Get it done, Stevie.”
“Don’t!” Steve shouted, but it was too late. Bucky pulled the trigger and dropped to the ground.
The sight of Bucky’s lifeless body lying in a growing pool of his own blood made Steve’s stomach roll and pitch. He bent at the waist, gun at his side, dangling from his fingers, and pulled in shuddering breaths until the nausea and tears passed.
Gritting his teeth and squaring his shoulders, he stood and spoke into the comm. “Area secure.”
You were sitting on the loveseat, hunched over, elbows on your legs, a glass of whiskey in your hands. Every inch of you was cold and shaking.
“You’re in shock,” an EMT had told you as a blanket was draped around your shoulders, pity flooding his eyes.
They wanted to take you to the hospital, but you argued with them until it felt as if you were going to pass out. The only reason you were back at the hotel was because your father had rushed over, swept you into his arms, and had you in the backseat of his car.
Steve came out of the apartment building almost an hour later, ducked into the car, and instructed the driver to go, not saying a word the entire ride back. Even standing there, in your hotel room, he remained standing, his expression stoic and cool.
Once inside your room, the first thing you did was run into the bathroom and rip off your clothes. You threw them into the trash and turned on the shower as hot as it would go. You stood under the stream of water, scrubbing yourself almost raw, refusing to look down as crimson water swirled around your feet.
After changing into a pair of sweats and t-shirt, you poured yourself a drink and sat down on the loveseat. The silence was almost deafening, throbbing in your ears until you couldn’t take it.
“Why were the police held back?” you blurted out.
Steve cleared his throat before answering. “It wasn’t safe for unarmed officers to go in.”
“No, I don’t mean them,” you groaned heavily. “The armored vehicles.”
“We were under attack, ma’am. You, me, members of the public,” he tried explaining further.
You shot off the couch after downing the rest of your drink. With shaking hands, you refilled it, tears threatening to fall. “Maria was blown apart.” The glass slipped from your grip and hit one of the other glasses, making you jump.
Steve was at your side, close enough that the lapels of his jacket brushed against you as he straightened the glasses. “Ma’am, are all right?”
You clenched your jaw painfully. “Just answer the question, please, Steve.”
“I can’t imagine for a moment the armored response vehicles were being held back without good reason,” was his soft reply. “First priority is preservation of life.”
“I was being shot at,” you sputtered, wiping angrily at the tears on your face. “We were being shot at.”
Steve’s hand drifted over yours, a breadth away from actual contact. “Ma’am, why don’t you sit down and let me take care of this?”
You looked at him through your lashes as your fingers flexed, skimming the underside of his. The breath caught in your throat at the way he was looking at you; pupils expanding, flicking over your features, settling on your lips. You leaned into him and pulled in a deep breath through your nose. God, he smelled amazing.
“I’m not the Queen, Steve,” you exhaled, the air thickening in the small space between you. “You’re allowed to touch me.”
Steve’s eyes flashed as he watched you tentatively raise your face, brushing your nose along his jaw and chin, your hand turning over in his, nails catching on the callouses. A shudder ran through and settled deep in your gut at the mere thought of his rough touch on your skin.
You half-expected him to pull away, to storm out the door and demand to be removed from duty. So, when he let out a stuttering breath as your lips smeared across his, you seized the moment and, using one of his lapels for leverage, kissed him, hard, tongue probing between his lips.
With a moan trapped in the back of his throat, Steve wrapped an arm around your waist and hauled you off the floor. You curled your legs around him, squeezing him with your thighs as Steve pressed you to the wall, his feet spread for leverage. He dominated the kiss and your senses, practically smothering you with his hulking frame.
You shoved off his jacket and went to work on the straps of his ballistics vest as he bit and licked down your neck and jaw, pulling away just long enough to rip the vest over his head, followed by the cotton undershirt. His skin was hot under your touch, muscles twitching and rolling with every move he made. You raked your nails through his hair, tugging on the short strands, squeezing the back of his neck and shoulders.
Christ, the man’s shoulder-to-waist ratio was driving you insane.
Steve was kissing you feverishly, shoving his hands under your shirt and dragging his calloused fingers along your skin before cupping your breasts, his thumbs sweeping over your nipples, the flesh tightening at his touch. Your back curved off the wall, a whine bubbling against his tongue. He ripped off your shirt, his pupils all but exploding at the sight of you half-naked and whining for his touch.
With a hand secured at the small of your back, Steve resumed kissing you and carried you into the bedroom. He laid you on the bed, his hips rolling, his fingers digging bruises into your sides and breasts as he kissed and bit and licked his way down your body, tugging off the sweatpants you were wearing.
“Legs open,” he instructed darkly, hands on your knees.
You obliged, even going so far as to reach down and hook your hands behind your knees, spreading yourself wide open, presenting yourself like an all-Steve-could-eat buffet. A fresh wave of lust surged through at the sight of his cock growing and twitching behind the slacks he was wearing.
Steve ran his nose along your inner thigh and made a lewd, yet appreciative sound when he buried his nose in your short curls and breathed you in. His calloused touch was like sandpaper, opening you up, pressing into you, tongue and teeth working on your clit.
With your feet on his shoulders, you grabbed your breasts, squeezing them, tugging on the nipples, moaning heavily at the zing of pain it added to the immense pleasure that was building. He had two fingers inside of you, three knuckles deep, curling and twisting them, seeking out the spots that were most sensitive, the ones the would send you reeling.
You came with a strangled gasp of his name, thighs shaking, pressing against his head. He didn’t try and stop you, rather it seemed to spurn him on. He worked harder, stroking you faster, rougher, as if you were the very thing that could satisfy his craving.
Steve sat back, fingers deep in your pussy, and wiped your cum from his face, a salacious smirk tugging at his lips. With one hand, he worked open his pants, stepping out of them after they slid down his legs. You could do nothing but lay there, panting, watching as he pushed down his boxer briefs, gripping his cock with fingers that were dripping with your slick.
The air caught in your lungs at the sight of him; long, thick, and pre-cum weeping from the tip as he languidly stroked himself, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. You pushed up to your elbow, opened the drawer on the nightstand, and snagged a condom, ripping it open before handing it to Steve. You would have offered to put it on for him, but your legs felt like jelly and you didn’t trust them to support you.
After rolling the condom down his impressive length, Steve settled himself between your legs, the underside of his cock rubbing deliciously against your pussy as he kissed you. As the kiss grew heated, he reached down and gripped himself, pulling his hips back just far enough that on the next roll, he would be inside of you.
You felt every ridge, every pulsing vein; it was like velvet stretched taut over rock solid muscle, dragging gloriously against your walls, and it was breathtaking. Finally, he was buried to the root and watching you with dark eyes as your body struggled to accept him. Large hands grabbed your hips and rolled them, pulling a drawn-out moan from deep within you. You would have loved to take your time, to feel every-fucking-thing, but Steve had a different plan.
You scraped your nails down his back, marking him, making him hiss and arch. You’d had sex before, been fucked so many different ways you’d lost count, but never had you been fucked so goddamn good that you had forgotten what day of the week it was. And then Steve’s thick cock was dragging in and out of you, stretching your walls, that delicious burn taking your breath away, and making your eyes cross.
It was all grunts and groans, words of encouragement and praise that got lost amidst the wet slap of skin on skin. It was getting to be too much, you felt like you couldn’t breathe, but in a fucking good way; it only drew the coil tighter.
He pounded into you relentlessly, his balls slapping your ass echoing the incessant squeaking of bedsprings, the headboard thump-thumping against the wall, and the way you were saying his name, telling him to fuck you, “harder and faster,” that you were just about there, you just needed…
Steve slid a hand between your sweat-slicked bodies and rubbed your clit with his calloused thumb. The blunt edge of his nail scraped over the throbbing bundle of nerves, instantly snapping the coil painfully, but in a never-want-it-to-end kind of way. You came with a shattered cry, your vision and hearing completely taken over by everything having to do with Steve and his cock and your pussy clamping onto him so tight that he snarled.
It was sinful, the way he swore and ground out your name. The pulse and twitch of his cock as he somehow buried himself deeper just as he came sent an aftershock through you that made your already overstimulated pussy constrict again. Steve stilled for a moment, grunting as if he’d been hit in the gut, his hips jerking once, twice, three times until he blew out a bone-shuddering breath and dropped his forehead to your shoulder.
You were so lost in euphoria that you didn’t feel Steve push off of you and the bed. When the fog began to life, you felt a warm cloth between your legs. You sighed blissfully and reached down for his hand, but just as your nails skimmed his fingers, he pulled away.
“Get some rest, ma’am. You’ve had a long day,” Steve gruffed. He bent down and grabbed his clothes before exiting the room, undoubtedly gathering his shirt, vest, and jacket.
You heard him get dressed as you shoved off the bed, snagging your robe from the chair as you hurried out of the room. “Steve, you don’t have to go.”
He ran a hand through his tousled hair, making it look presentable to anyone else. “Yes, I do, ma’am.”
Steve was right, you knew that. If he didn’t emerge from your room at some point, rumors would start swirling that there was something more going on than a professional relationship. Yeah, okay, Steve had just fucked your brains out, but it wasn’t like you weren’t a grown ass woman that could make up her own mind and fuck who she wanted.
You gave a curt nod and moved to the table where your previously-poured glass of whiskey sat. While you drained it, Steve opened the door and left, closing the door quietly behind him. You heard him tell the agents outside that you were finally resting and shouldn’t be disturbed.
The whiskey was still warming your chest and belly when you went into your room, standing by the door that connected your rooms. You tracked Steve’s heavy footsteps as he entered his hotel room, walked into the bedroom, and sat on the bed. You could hear him sigh and mumble something unintelligible, probably as he ran a hand over his face.
You were about to turn away when his gruff voice stopped you cold. “Sharon, I… I need to talk to you.”
Summary: Steve came home from the war to a wife that could not deal with the emotionally, mentally, and physically changed man before her. Dealing with it the only way he knew how, Steve buried himself in his work. After saving hundreds of lives in one heroic act, Steve finds himself put on bodyguard duty. Also known as a glorified babysitter. It wasn’t easy being the daughter of insanely rich and successful businessman, Phil Coulson. After multiple death threats, your overbearing, worries-too-much father decides you need a bodyguard. Word Count: 2,443 Warnings: Language, angst, blood, violence, explicit sexual content, possibly more to come. Author’s Note: A huge shout out to @captain-rogers-beard and @climbthatmooselikeatree Without them I would crash and burn in a spectacular fashion. Thank you, my lovelies. GIF Credit [X][X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
With his jaw clenched painfully tight and his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, Steve hovered outside of the room where a group of men were discussing their emotional and physical trauma of fighting in the war. His dear friend and brother-in-arms, Bucky, was currently standing, telling the story of how he lost his arm, of the most traumatizing day of Steve’s life.
“It was July and hot as balls,” Bucky said with this weird chuckle-groan mixture. “Steve and I were on patrol, not really lookin’ for nothin’, just makin’ sure everythin’ was cool, ya know?”
“I’m tellin’ ya, Buck, somethin’s goin’ on with Sharon,” Steve insisted.
Bucky was shaking his head, hand on the barrel of his gun squeezing. “Nah, man. She just misses ya, is all.”
“She barely said ten words to me on the call earlier.”
“Every time you leave for another tour is hard on her, brother,” Bucky explained. “And if we know anything about Sharon, it’s that she internalizes all her shit.”
Steve nodded, his bottom lip clamped between his teeth. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
“A’course I’m right,” Bucky grinned, turning around to walk backwards. “When have I ever been wrong?”
Something rolled down the dirty and narrow alley. It hit Bucky in the back of the boot, bounced off the wall, and rolled back between his feet all before the two men realized what it was. With a shout, Steve launched himself forward and grabbed Bucky’s arm, yanking his best friend away from the grenade in the hopes that minimal harm would come to either one of them.
They were no more than five feet away when the grenade exploded. The narrow alleyway increased the pressure behind the blast, and it catapulted the men through the air. Steve landed on his back, white bursts of light exploding behind his eyes and pain making his tailbone pulse.
He did a quick self-evaluation and found that, despite the slight hearing loss, he had all of his limbs and was fully capable of getting off the ground. Well, he was dizzy and the ground shifted under his feet, but he could stand. Bucky, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. He was lying on the ground, back arched, blood pouring out of a wound on the left side of his body, and a migraine-inducing scream tearing out of him.
“Son of a bitch,” Steve ground out, his vision snapping into focus as another wave of adrenaline surged through him. He dropped to his knees next to Bucky, ripped off his own belt, and fastened it to whatever was left of Bucky’s shoulder before he even registered why there was so much blood.
Bucky was still screaming in agony, his eyes screwed shut, tears smearing through the ash on his face, and it was drawing a crowd. Steve, shaking and fearing that every single person that approached was out to kill them, went on the defense. He drew the pistol on his hip since he had no idea where his other weapon was, and started aiming it at anyone that moved.
“This is Cap,” Steve grunted, eyes wide, pupils tight, talking into the comm on his shoulder. “Sarge has been hit. We need an emergency evac. Now!”
Bucky’s eyes met Steve’s and it made Steve step back into the shadows of the hallway. “If it weren’t for Steve, I wouldn’t have made it out alive. I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is, don’t be afraid to lean on other people. Sometimes you can’t do everything yourself.”
Without wanting to hear anything more, Steve left and walked to the nearest bar. He hadn’t been there more than half an hour when Bucky dropped into the seat next to him and ordered a beer.
“Been a long time, brother,” Bucky said solemnly, tapping his beer bottle against Steve’s.
Steve made a grunt of agreement, fingers toying with the wet label on the bottle. “Didn’t think you still went.”
“It helps, man. I mean, it doesn’t make me forget everythin’ that happened, but…” Bucky’s voice trailed off as he flexed the hand of his prosthetic arm. “Fuck, I don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to this thing.”
Looking out of the corner of his eye, Steve gave the metal arm a once over. “Where’d you get that one?”
“Stark Industries, believe it or not,” Bucky answered with a chuckle.
“The same Stark Industries that made the weapons we used in Afghanistan?” Steve snorted in disbelief.
Bucky turned in his seat, spreading his fingers and wiggling them back and forth. “The one and the same. Tony was taken hostage a couple years ago, I guess, and had a gigantic change of heart; started dedicating his time and research into helping veterans.”
“I’m happy for you, man,” Steve assured his friend, a tight smile on his lips.
“So, what’re you up to lately?” Bucky asked curiously.
Steve took a long pull of beer before answering. “I’m actually on the force.”
“I knew it,” Bucky laughed. “Could tell right away. What do they got you doin’?”
“I’m uh, normally I work homicides,” Steve answered after several beats.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Normally? What does that mean?” Without looking at the bartender, he gave a signal for another round.
“It’s complicated,” Steve murmured, eyes downcast, a hand scratching the back of his neck.
“Either you’re working homicides or not, Steve,” Bucky deadpanned. “Ain’t nothin’ complicated ‘bout that.”
The bottle that was set in front of Steve was half-drained in three swallows. “I got reassigned; I’m a bodyguard.”
Bucky laughed loud, the sound bursting out of him like a punch. His long hair fell out from behind his ears and covered his reddening face as he bent over.
“What’s so fuckin’ funny ‘bout it?” Steve ground out, anger simmering in his gut.
“You ain’t a cop, you’re a fuckin’ babysitter,” he managed to say, tears of laughter streaming down his face.
Steve gripped the bottle tight in his hand to keep from punching his friend in the face. “Least I got a job.”
Bucky sobered at that comment. “You didn’t get your fuckin’ arm blown off, brother. You got no idea how hard it is to get a job in this fuckin’ country when you only got one arm.”
“I was there, Bucky,” Steve shot back. “Through all the surgeries and physical therapy, no one else showed up but me.”
“Then where you been, huh?” Bucky wanted to know. “‘Cause I know that being a ‘cop’ doesn’t take up all of your time.”
Steve ground his teeth before taking another drink. “I had another tour, which you knew about. Plus, I’ve been dealing with my own bullshit.”
“So hanging out with me, your brother, is bullshit?!” Bucky growled, rage swirling in his grey-blue eyes. “Fuck you, Rogers.”
Not willing to sit there and take Bucky’s anger any longer, Steve shoved himself out of the chair. “Goodbye, Buck.” He slapped a twenty dollar bill onto the bar.
“Whoever you’re protectin’ should be warned about your temper,” Bucky called out.
“Coulson already knows,” Steve shouted over his shoulder before pulling the door closed.
Once outside, Steve gulped at the cool air as he stormed away from the bar. It wasn’t their first fight, and it wouldn’t be their last. The two of them fought more often than they got along, it truly felt as if they were brothers instead of best friends. That didn’t mean Bucky’s words didn’t sting or didn’t ring with truth.
Steve was used to the comments from other members of the team, but they were people he hardly knew. But Bucky was different, he was his best friend, his chosen brother, and to hear him utter those same words hurt him in a way that he hadn’t felt since Sharon kicked him out of the house last year with no explanation.
He was almost to the hotel when he got a call. It was Pepper, and she needed to see him right away. Fifteen minutes later, he got out of the cab and strode into the police department. The door to Pepper’s office was open and she wasn’t alone. Special Agent Edwin Jarvis was standing at the edge of her desk, muttering something Steve couldn’t quite hear.
“Steve,” Pepper greeted him with a fake smile. “Thank you for coming in.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice, did I, ma’am?” he asked tiredly.
Jarvis turned to eye up the officer. “Steve Rogers, heard a lot about you.”
“Agent,” Steve said gruffly. “Pardon the bluntness, but what the hell are you doing in Brooklyn?”
“Rogers,” Pepper hissed, shoving out of her seat.
Jarvis gave a huffing laugh. “It’s alright, Chief Potts. I’m the one that came here unannounced, asking for your help.”
“My help?” Steve scoffed. “What could the FBI possibly need my help with, sir?”
Before answering your question, Pepper moved across the room to shut the door. “It’s Miss Coulson, we need you to… pay close attention to her daily activities.”
“Ma’am, I already do,” he said flatly.
“More than that, Steve,” Jarvis informed him. “As you’re probably aware, her father has a bit of a reputation.”
Steve nodded in agreement. “The rumors surrounding his wealth are a bit concerning.”
“Truth be told, Phil Coulson came to our attention almost fifteen years ago,” Jarvis revealed candidly. “And in that amount of time we have not been able to make anything stick to the man. Nobody will testify and it’s making everyone in the office a bit perturbed.”
“What does Phil’s wrongdoings, whatever they may be, have to do with Y/N? Just because he’s her father -”
“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Jarvis bit out. “The bureau hasn’t been able to get near Coulson’s inner circle before now.”
Realizing exactly what Jarvis meant, Steve shook his head. “No. I won’t.”
Pepper cleared her throat, sat on the edge of her desk, and crossed her arms. “You don’t have a choice, Rogers. Either you help out the bureau, or you’re pulled from the job and put on desk duty for the next six months.”
“You can’t be serious,” Steve scoffed, his eyes drilling into Pepper’s.
“Have you ever known me to joke around?” Pepper shot back. “You’re doing this, Steve, whether you approve of it or not.”
Jarvis pulled out a phone from his pocket and handed it to Steve. “This is the only phone you’re to contact me on when you have something, and only when you have something of import. Now, since Y/N keeps her phone on her at all times and you can’t be watching over her while she’s sleeping, you’re to use this.”
Pepper extracted a briefcase from behind her desk and opened it, revealing a recording device and a set of headphones. “With your room attached to hers, it gives you the perfect access.”
“I’m not breaking into her room, ma’am,” Steve protested loudly. “And I sure as hell ain’t eavesdropping.”
Jarvis took a step closer to Steve when Pepper opened her mouth to reprimand her subordinate. “Miss Coulson is either involved with her father, or she’s been spared and has absolutely no idea what’s going on. Either way, she is the only way we can get to her father.”
When Steve didn’t say anything further, Jarvis continued. “To stress the point of how badly we require your assistance, along with Chief Potts’ previous warning, not only will you be put on six months desk duty should you continue to refuse in the investigation, you will be charged with obstruction, and serve the maximum time at Quantico. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” Steve bit out, slamming the briefcase shut and ripping it off the table. “Ma’am.”
Steve stormed out of the office and yanked the door closed behind him. With pain erupting in his jaw and temples, and murder in his eyes, he left the station and hailed a cab back to the motel.
“Dad, I’m telling you that everything is fine,” you sighed into the phone.
“You haven’t gotten any threats?” Phil asked, his voice gruff from drinking whiskey and not getting much sleep.
You pushed a hand through your hair. “No, I haven’t.”
“Good. That’s good, sweetheart,” he breathed.
“Things have actually been pretty low key the last couple of days.”
“Thanks to Steve,” Phil chuckled.
You hummed unamusedly. “Sure, if that’s how you want to look at it.
“Look, I know you don’t like having a bodyguard,” he started, pushing up from his seat, no doubt getting himself another drink. “But I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”
A smile tugged at your lips. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“I know I don’t, but I still need to know that you’re okay,” he admitted. “Look, I’ve got a meeting to go to.”
“So late?” you wanted to know. “It’s almost midnight.”
Phil gave an annoyed huff. Not at you, you hoped. “Money never sleeps, sweetheart. Love you.”
“Love you, dad.” You plugged your phone into the charger and dropped to your bed, chuckling at the way you bounced up and down.
It had been a really long day full of meetings, face-to-face interviews, and getting the shelter ready to open. The last thing you had wanted to talk about was Steve, let alone with your father. You loved that man to pieces, always had, always would, but there had always been something about him you didn’t trust.
What was wrong with you, not trusting your own father? You knew that he would lay down his life to protect you, to save your life; that was what a father did, after all. And yet, you couldn’t help but feel that if something debilitating were to happen – mainly the loss of Phil’s empire, everything he had worked so hard to accomplish – he wouldn’t hesitate to retaliate, in the worst way possible.
Jesus. Your mind was racing a million miles a second and your thoughts were a jumbled mess; nothing was making sense at that moment. With a resigned huff, you pushed off the bed and quickly drank a double serving of whiskey, hissing at the trail it burned down your throat and chest.
You stripped out of your clothes and turned off all the lights before slipping between the sheets. It didn’t take long to drift off, thanks mostly to the whiskey combined with the exhaustion eating at you. The last thing you thought of was Steve, and you had absolutely no idea why. Well, that wasn’t necessarily true, but you didn’t really have time to focus on that because everything went dark as you fell asleep.
Summary: Steve came home from the war to a wife that could not deal with the emotionally, mentally, and physically changed man before her. Dealing with it the only way he knew how, Steve buried himself in his work. After saving hundreds of lives in one heroic act, Steve finds himself put on bodyguard duty. Also known as a glorified babysitter. It wasn’t easy being the daughter of insanely rich and successful businessman, Phil Coulson. After multiple death threats, your overbearing, worries-too-much father decides you need a bodyguard. Word Count: 2,591 Warnings: Language, angst, blood, violence, explicit sexual content, possibly more to come. Author’s Note: GIF found on Google Images without a source.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
From the moment Steve laid eyes on Y/N he knew she was going to be difficult. His prior judgements based on her rebellious years appeared to be accurate, given the arguments she put up about being assigned a bodyguard.
Trust me, doll. I don’t want to be here either.
Even in the car, she was as stubborn as a mule. Steve was doing his job by telling Pietro to take a different route, and the woman damn near bit his head off.
“Pietro has been my driver for the last five years. He knows where he’s going. Stay on the normal route, Pietro.” Her eyes were blazing at him in the rearview mirror.
Steve shook his head and repeated his previous instruction. “There’s a forty-five minute delay up ahead, ma’am.”
“You’re not my driver, Steve.”
He could hear the rage in her voice, simmering, ready to bubble over. “No, ma’am, I am not your driver. I’m your bodyguard, and anyone that is in your father’s employ, will do as I deem fit, as per your father’s instructions… ma’am. Take Park.”
Thankfully, she held her tongue and ceased her arguments, though she continued to glare daggers at him in the mirror. If that was any indication of how every interaction was going to be, Steve was in for a rough ride. He had served his country several times over, almost given his life more times than he could count. Surely he could handle one woman.
Once Y/N’s office was clear and she buried her nose in work, Steve found the perfect spot to see everything and everyone; right next to the reception desk. He kept his back to the wall, hands clasped behind his back – easier to grab his service weapon should the need arise, and a judgemental watch on anyone that entered or exited the room.
The only time he left his post was when Y/N emerged from her office. The bathroom was cleared before she could enter, as was her office upon her return. Y/N was not happy about it, tapping her heeled foot, arms crossed, huffs of irritation blowing out of her, but it was Steve’s job to keep her alive, even if it meant pissing her off.
It was almost eleven by the time you called it a night. You still had a ton of work to get done, but your eyelids were heavy and there was a knot in your neck that prevented you from looking at your computer. You grabbed your bag and shoved some files into it, knowing that you’d be looking at them in bed, your legs drawn up, the files resting against your thighs, and a pen dangling from your fingers.
After wrapping the scarf around your neck and sliding into your coat, you shouldered your bag and headed out of the office. Steve was there to hold the door open for you.
“Are you not locking the door, ma’am?” he asked.
“No, I usually leave it unlocked,” you said without further explanation. You moved to brush past him, but thanks to his much longer legs, he was in front of you in no time, leading the way to the elevator.
Steve punched the button to call for the elevator and stood by your side, waiting for the doors to open. Despite having stood outside your office all day and following you everywhere, Steve didn’t look tired. In fact, he looked ready to face whatever came, even if it meant going toe-to-toe with someone. The thought alone made you chuckle, because you had a feeling that if anyone were to pick a fight with Steve, they’d be on the losing end.
“Somethin’ funny, ma’am?” he asked as the doors opened.
You cleared the laughter from your throat before answering. “Just imagining you in a fight.”
Steve let out a huff of amusement as he pressed the button for the parking garage. “Against who?”
The lack of professionality from Steve shocked you, not enough to deter you from the conversation. “Anyone, really.”
“Why is that, ma’am?”
“You look like you can hold your own,” you admitted.
Steve looked at you from the corner of his eyes. “And then some,” he assured you.
The rest of the short ride down to the garage was silent, filled only at the end when the doors opened. Steve went out first, hand on the butt of the gun on his hip, eyes scanning the large area, alert, wary of the surroundings.
When a car abruptly started and pulled out from a parking spot, the tires squealing against the tar, Steve was standing tall in front of you, an arm looped back to hold you firmly against him, his gun unholstered at his side. The adrenaline that was coursing through you quickly fizzled out when you realized the approaching vehicle was being driven by Pietro.
“Jesus,” you grunted, prying Steve’s hand from your back. “It’s Pietro. You know, my driver.”
“How do you know that?” Steve inquired, tone low and dark.
Despite using every ounce of strength you had, Steve’s hand didn’t budge. “He’s the only one I know that plays that goddamn music. Now, lemme go!”
Steve gave a command as the vehicle slowed and the music was turned off. “Put the vehicle in park and exit with your hands above your head.”
Pietro cut the engine and kicked the door open, his shaking hands emerging from the vehicle first. “Is me, Rogers,” he announced, his accented-voice wavering with fear as he stood.
“Told you,” you seethed as you pushed Steve’s hand away, and you were only able to do so because his grip loosened.
“I apologize, Pietro, ma’am,” Steve said after clearing his throat. “I didn’t recognize the vehicle.”
Pietro rushed around the car to open the back door for you. “Is okay. It happens.”
“No, it does not just happen,” you bit out, glaring at Steve before dropping into the car.
Steve took his seat directly in front of you as Pietro ran around the car once again, dropping into his seat behind the wheel.
“To the hotel, Pietro,” Steve ordered calmly.
“Yes, sir.”
With narrowed eyes, you continued to glare at the back of Steve’s head. God, you wanted to smack him. Yeah, okay, you had sort of come to terms with the fact that you had a bodyguard, but that didn’t mean he could just pull a gun on whomever he felt like because he didn’t recognize the damn car.
“Did you say somethin’, ma’am?” Steve wanted to know.
“What? No!” you snapped. Wait, had you actually said something, or was Steve fucking around?
Steve turned his head to look at you from the corner of his eye. “Really? I swear I heard you say something.” That same borderline-playful tone was adding a soft lilt to his voice he had in the elevator.
“I said I didn’t, Steve,” you huffed, pulling the phone from your bag.
“Whatever you say, ma’am.”
It was a quick journey from the office to the hotel, one that was filled with uncomfortable silence and the sounds of you typing out messages on your cell. Pietro had tried making conversation with Steve, but his questions went unanswered as Steve kept a watchful eye on the passing scenery on the way to The William Vale.
Due to the late hour, there were only a handful of people in the lobby, and those people worked at the hotel, even the elevator ride up to the twentieth floor was relatively quiet. Steve stood there like he was a fucking statue, not a single part of him moving, well, besides the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed.
Nope. Stop that right now. You shouldn’t be admiring the Adonis towering over you. With your jaw clenched, you forced yourself to look away, snapping your eyes front and center, glaring at your distorted reflection in the metal doors that were about to open.
Two men in suits identical to Steve’s greeted you with a nod, calling Steve, “Cap’n,” as he walked by. They didn’t follow as that was their post, but their eyes were glued on you until you turned the corner, an update spoken into their comms. More men were standing guard outside your room, one on either side of the door, and another next to the door that you assumed led to Steve’s room.
Steve entered your room first, his steps heavy and determined. The man on your right held out his arm, blocking your access, and shook his head.
“This is ridiculous,” you mumbled. Your feet and back ached, and you had a nagging headache behind your eyes. You wanted nothing more than to take off your shoes and clothes, have a drink, and drop into bed. But you couldn’t do that because of your father.
“Fuck it.” Without waiting for the all clear from Steve, you forced your way into the room and dropped your bag onto the couch.
Steve emerged from the bedroom with a scowl on his brow. “What do you think you’re doin’, ma’am?”
“What’s it look like?” you sassed as you removed the shoes on your feet.
If looks could kill, was the first thought that popped into your mind when you caught the way he was glaring at you.
“I haven’t cleared it yet, ma’am,” Steve said coolly, his jaw clenching in a hypnotizing manner.
“I don’t care,” you stated simply as you crossed the room and filled a glass with some whiskey. It wasn’t normally your drink of choice, but it got the job done in a pinch. “Besides, who’s really going to be hiding in my bedroom?”
Steve crossed the room in three purposeful strides and towered over you. “It is my job to keep you alive, ma’am. Now, you don’t have to like that I’m here, but you do need to stop givin’ me shite and respect what I do. No more marchin’ into an uncleared room because your feet ache. You stay back, you stay alive. Got that, ma’am?” he gruffed, accent unbelievably thick, voice gritty, eyes ice-blue.
The glass in your hand was shaking and your throat was thick with something that definitely had nothing to do with the arousal coursing through you. Absolutely nothing. “I understand, Steve.”
“Good,” he said with a curt nod, and then he was in the bathroom and kitchenette, making sure there were no hidden devices that could harm you or anyone hiding in the cupboards and shower.
“Would you like a drink?” you asked, not waiting for an answer before pouring the amber liquid into a clean glass.
Steve was shaking his head. “No, thank you, ma’am.”
“You don’t drink?” you scoffed in disbelief.
“I didn’t say that, ma’am. I do not want one right now,” he clarified. “Will there be anythin’ else, ma’am?”
You quickly drank the whiskey that had been poured for him as you turned around. “I suppose not,” you answered. “It is pretty late.”
“That it is, ma’am.” Steve bade you goodnight before leaving the room.
“Night, Mr. Rogers,” you chuckled, pleasantly buzzed and filling up your glass once more before heading to your bedroom. “Mr. Rogers, that’s funny.”
After stripping out of your clothes, bra and panties were next, you noticed that there was a door in the corner, next to your bed. Curious, you strolled over and ran your hand along the expensive and gleaming wood.
“Won’t you be… my neighbor,” you hummed under your breath.
You pressed an ear to the door and caught your bottom lip between your teeth as you strained to hear something, anything. Curiosity had always been one word used to describe you in the past, and much to your father’s chagrin, it was a trait you never outgrew. At this present moment in time, you had no clue what you were expecting to hear. So, when nothing out of the ordinary grabbed your attention, you pushed away from the door and finished ridding your body of clothing, quickly drank the whiskey, and dropped into bed.
Once the door was closed, Steve let out the air he hadn’t realized his lungs had been holding captive. His shoulders and neck ached in a way that had him missing the massages Sharon used to give him. She might have been petite, but she could work out the deepest of knots without breaking a sweat.
God, he missed her.
He removed the comm in his ear before unthreading it from the lining of the jacket – straight down his back and into the left side of his chest where a small mic was fastened to the lapel. Next, he grabbed the small battery pack that was attached to his hip, dropped them onto the table, and plugged in the charger.
With his suit jacket off and draped over the chair, he quickly unbuttoned the white shirt and set it atop the jacket. The four wide velcro straps of the mandatory bulletproof vest were separated loudly before he pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the end of the bed a moment later.
The slim phone was in his hand before he registered what he was doing. No missed calls, no unread text messages, and no new emails. Steve blew out a heavy breath, his thumb hovering over the phone icon in the bottom right corner.
He wanted… needed to talk to Sharon. She had always been able to quiet the constant hum of activity inside of his brain, the activity that had grown worse since his honorable discharge from the army. But the minute he got home, he knew something was off. Only Sharon wouldn’t talk to him. She didn’t even want to see him. In fact, she had divorce papers drawn up the following morning and all but begged Steve to sign. Not that he signed them, fuck that. He wouldn’t give her the fucking satisfaction.
A beer was in his hand, opened, and half gone before he realized that he had called Sharon.
“What do you want, Steve?” came her irritated voice. “It’s almost one in the morning.”
“Just wanted to hear your voice,” Steve admitted, hating how true it was.
Sharon gave a harsh sounding sigh. “You gotta stop doing this. It’s over.”
“No, it ain’t. You don’t get to kick me out and tell me our marriage is done because you don’t want to deal with the bad,” he ridiculed. “For better or worse, remember?”
“You’ve been drinking.” God, she sounded so disappointed.
Steve rolled his eyes and tossed the can in the trash. “One beer, Sharon. After the day I’ve had, I think one beer is okay.”
“But it’s never one beer with you, Stevie,” Sharon sighed, no doubt pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Don’t call me that,” he ground out. “You lost all rights to call me that when you kicked me out of my own home.”
There was a beat of silence, of Sharon pulling in a deep breath through her nose. “I’m hanging up. Goodnight.”
“No, don’t do -” the call dropped and Steve launched his cell phone across the room. It landed on the bed and bounced twice before falling to the floor.
Despite the fact that he wanted to let loose a scream of frustration and punch something, Steve was also aware of his surroundings. A hotel room that was directly next to Y/N and a handful of men patrolling the halls was not the place to do as he wished. Instead, he pulled out another beer and drained it.
Summary: After breaking her heart two years ago, Steve gives Y/N a visit. Word Count: 1,041 Warnings: Language, slight angst, fluff Author’s Note: Inspiration for this fic and GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
Steve ran a hand through his hair as he paced back and forth in the parking lot, muttering to himself, trying to talk himself out of the hair-brained idea that had wormed its way into his brain.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he chastised himself. “She’s gettin’ married, you mook.”
Stupid. This whole thing was stupid. He needed to get back into the car and get out of town. Fast. Before anyone saw him. If only his feet would listen to him. Instead, they carried him back and forth, back and forth, repeating the process until Steve thought he was going to go crazy.
“What are you doin’?” Steve ground out, furious at himself for more than one reason.
The main reason he wanted to kick his own ass was breaking up with Y/N, the woman he loved more than anything in the entire world, and why? Because he wanted to keep her safe. Dating Captain America wasn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world. Hell, it painted a huge target on his back, and those of the ones he cared about the most.
He told himself – and Bucky – that he was doing it for her, that she would get hurt many times over if they were to stay together.
“Bunch’a fuckin’ bullshit,” Bucky hollered. “Ya love her, man. And you’d have to be blind to see that she doesn’t love ya back.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Steve lied, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Not that it would do him any good.
Bucky rolled his eyes so hard he was seeing stars. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”
“You ain’t wrong there.”
Stupid. God, he was so fucking stupid.
He broke her heart into pieces, her words exactly. He could still remember the way her voice cracked, the way her shoulders shook, the absolute anguish swimming in her eyes. She was absolutely broken and all he wanted to do was wrap her in his arms and tell her everything would be alright, that he would never break her heart, that he was a goddamn fool. But, it was too late, the words had been said, the damage had been done, and she had ran out of the room, tears streaming down her face.
Y/N left the Avengers that night, never to be seen from again. Or so Steve had thought.
Two years later, there was an engagement announcement in the paper. She was getting married to a man, a decent one, one that would treat her like a queen, just as she deserved.
So, why did it feel like someone stabbed Steve in the heart with a butcher knife, and why did he have the urge to punch Y/N’s fiance in the face? He was the one who ended things, it had been his choice, nobody else’s, his.
Steve blew out a heavy breath through his nose and squared his shoulders when the tell-tale sounds of the bridal march filtered through the air. The knot in his stomach travelled up into his throat. He couldn’t do it, break up the wedding of the woman he still loved. But, he could to the adult thing and attend the wedding, therefore showing his support for the happy couple.
He hurried across the parking lot and through the lush field just as Y/N got to the altar. Jesus, she looked amazing in the simple chiffon and lace dress, her hair curled and pulled back into a loose style, small white flowers decorated throughout. Before he could grab a seat in the back, she turned and spotted him, the wide smile she had been wearing slipping from her face. Steve gave a tight-lipped smile and took a seat, his nerves skyrocketing. He could do this, sit there and watch her get married to a man that wasn’t him.
“Dearly beloved,” the priest started. “We are gathered here to witness…”
The groom took Y/N’s hands in his and beamed at her as the priest went on, talking about the couple and how much they loved one another. All eyes – Steve’s included – remained glued to the about-to-be-happy newlyweds. However, Y/N’s kept darting to Steve, and everytime they did, Steve’s heart stuttered in his chest.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. He shouldn’t have come, she was clearly uncomfortable with him there. Stupid. When her eyes left his, Steve stood and made to make a quick getaway, but a voice made him stop dead in his tracks.
“I can’t do this,” Y/N lamented.
Steve turned around, shock coursing through him, as Y/N pulled her hands from the groom’s as if he had burned her.
“What are you talking about?” he asked her with a strained chuckle.
She licked her lips nervously and looked between the two men. “I’m sorry, Jeremy. I can’t marry you.”
“You can’t be serious,” Jeremy muttered. “Love, everyone is watching. Let’s talk about this after the ceremony.”
Everyone in the crowd was murmuring under their breath, the tone of scandal heavy on their tongues, eyes roving over Steve before flying back up to the altar. He swore he heard several, “That’s Captain America,” and, “What’s he doing here?” scattered throughout, but all he was focused on was Y/N.
Y/N leaned in and gave Jeremy a kiss on the cheek. “I don’t want to marry you,” she clarified, her voice definitive and strong. And then, she was running down the aisle, her dress in her hands so she didn’t trip, all but sliding to a stop in front of Steve.
Steve gave a huff out of his nose before doing the one thing he’d been dreaming of for the last two years, he kissed her fiercely, curling a hand on the back of her neck. When they parted, she peered up at him through her lashes, her lips perfectly swollen, her cheeks tinted pink.
“Are you sure?” he breathed, heart hammering in his chest.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Y/N confirmed, her hand resting over his heart. “It’s you, Steve. It’s always been you.”
Steve grabbed her hand and gave her a wink before the two of them took off, running to the car as if their lives depended on it.
Summary: While out for a walk, the weather turns on you, making you worry that you won’t make it back to Clint. Word Count: 2,955 [sorry, not sorry] Warnings: Language, hypothermia, explicit sexual content Author’s Note: For
@captain-rogers-beardFall Into Marvel Challenge. My prompt was: Renting a Cabin. GIF found on Google Images without a source. And trust me, I checked the watermark, went through five of their url changes, and then when I did find them, I looked through their Jeremy Renner tags for over an hour.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
You didn’t know what had possessed you to go for a walk. Alone. In the middle of winter. On property that you had no knowledge of. But there you were, miles from the cabin, trudging through three inches of snow as fat and heavy flakes fell from the sky. It felt like you were trapped in a snow globe, flakes swirling around your head, obstructing your vision, nothing as far as the eye could see.
When you left the cabin you and your friend, Clint were sharing – more on that later – the ground had been bone dry. There wasn’t even snow on the radar. In fact, the weatherman had announced that the week would be, “Unseasonably warm, topping off at a balmy forty-five, maybe even seeing fifty in some areas.” Which, for northern Minnesota, was damn near a heatwave in early December, so you hadn’t thought twice about wearing a cotton t-shirt, hooded sweatshirt, jeans, thick socks, and a pair of hiking boots for your walk.
The sun had been high in the sky as you went on your way, cellphone in your back pocket, canvas jacket wrapped around your waist, and your hair pulled into a high knot. Being completely surrounded by nature, it didn’t take long for everything that had to do with being an Avenger disappeared from your mind. Well, not everything.
Ever since joining the Avengers two years ago, Clint had taken you under his wing, all pun intended. Like him – along with Tony and Rhodey, you weren’t enhanced in any way. You could die at any given moment, whether you were severely injured on a mission or taken a nasty fall. There was no serum running through your veins, you hadn’t enlisted in a spy agency that played around with your biology, you hadn’t been exposed to an insane amount of radiation, and you sure as hell weren’t a god. For all intents and purposes, you were human.
The two of you clicked straight away, forming a bond that was like any other than you’d experienced before. He was more than a friend, than a best friend. Clint Barton was like finding a part of yourself you hadn’t known was missing. Sort of like a soulmate without anything romantic. Though, if you were being honest, you wouldn’t mind exploring that aspect. But the last thing you wanted to do was ruin anything by doing something stupid such as kissing him or admitting that you harbored certain feelings for the man.
So, why were you and he sharing a secluded cabin in the middle of nowhere? It had originally been Tony’s idea, taking an overdue vacation from the real world for a full week. The entire team was set to head out the other day. Bags were packed and out of office notifications had been sent, but then Fury got wind of a possible catastrophic event that might be taking place in Tokyo.
You had already been feeling under the weather, so naturally, Fury didn’t want you to go. Tony suggested you take the time to rest and use one of the cabins.
“It’s already paid for, Y/N,” he informed you.
“But I’ll be all alone,” you unintentionally whined.
Clint stepped forward. “I can hang back. I mean, if that’s alright with Fury.”
Fury answered with a nod of his head and a sigh. “That’s fine, Barton. We’ve got more than enough fire power already.”
Not exactly what you had in mind, but who were you to say no to spending a week with Clint.
It had been three days of doing absolutely nothing – lounging around on the couch, reading those books you hadn’t had time for, playing cards with Clint – and you had been having a great time. That was until after lunch when Clint had emerged from the bathroom with only a towel around his waist, his damp hair sticking up in every direction, and water dripping down his chest and stomach. The sight had made your heart stutter and your mouth go dry. Half an hour later you were outside, going for a much needed walk.
A sudden chill ripped you from your thoughts. The sun had completely disappeared behind layers of gray clouds. Shit. How long had you been walking and when the hell had it started snowing? With your teeth chattering, you pushed the flakes from your hair, pulled up the hood of your sweatshirt, and quickly put on the jacket. After fishing the phone from your pocket, you saw that you had been gone for almost three hours, which meant it would take you that long to get back to the cabin. Double shit.
Turning around, you started trudging back, taking notice of how much snow had fallen while you hadn’t been paying attention. There was at least three inches of the white stuff, and the flakes falling around you were big and heavy. You shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket and quickened your pace. The cool air stung your face and made your lungs ache. The wind you were walking into burned your eyes and pushed the snow into the hood and down the back of your neck.
You had the phone out again and went to call Clint, but the complete lack of bars made you groan. Knowing Clint, he was probably worried about the amount of time you’d been gone. Add in the heavy snowfall and you could imagine him wearing through the floor with the amount of pacing he’d be doing.
Despite not having a signal, you tried calling him anyway. As expected, the call didn’t go through. Instead of ringing, a borderline ear piercing set of tones went off, making you wince. Gritting your teeth, you shoved the phone into your pocket and kept walking briskly, mentally berating yourself for losing track of time, and hissing, “Goddamn you, Mother Nature.”
Two hours later, your entire body was shaking, your clothes were soaked, your exposed skin was burning, and you couldn’t feel your toes. To make matters worse, you hadn’t seen a previously exposed root and tripped over it, landing in water that stole your breath.
“Fuck,” you rasped, your teeth chattering loudly.
You pushed up and out of the water, continuing down the path, barely able to walk and see. Exhaustion washed over you like a blanket, tempting you, beckoning you to give up and lie down, to fall asleep, rest for a little while. Holding onto the hope that the cabin wasn’t too much farther, you kept going.
After what felt like eternity, the warm glow of the outside lights of the cabin greeted you. You let out a grateful sob and, with legs that felt like lead, you hurried toward the building. Just as your hand was about to close around the knob, the door flung open, revealing a very worried Clint.
“Fucking hell, Y/N,” he exhaled. He gripped your arm and hauled you inside, kicking the door closed behind him. “I’ve been calling for hours.”
“No signal,” you stammered, chin quaking, teeth chattering loudly.
Clint pulled you over to the fire and instructed you to take off your clothes while he threw several more logs onto the flames. He rushed out of the room, muttering under his breath as your numb fingers struggled with completing the normally simple task. By the time Clint came back, blankets and pillows in his arms and a towel in his hand, you had only managed to remove your jacket. He made quick work of making a nest out of the blankets in front of the fire before standing in front of you.
“Here, let me,” he offered gently, his hands already on the hem of the drenched sweatshirt.
If you could have nodded, you would have, but all you could do was – barely – stand there, every inch of you in freezing agony as Clint removed one item of clothing at a time. He worked as quick as he could, worry swirling in his eyes, creases surrounding his mouth as he smiled gently.
When it came time to remove your bra and panties, Clint turned around, allowing you some sort of privacy. Once the items were on the floor, you grabbed the towel from his grip and wrapped it around yourself.
“Go lie down,” he instructed, reaching behind his head to pull off his shirt. “When you’re comfortable, take off the towel.”
“What are you doing?” you wondered as you dropped to the heated blankets with little grace.
Clint pushed down his pants and stepped out of them, padding over in only his boxer briefs. “You’ve got hypothermia,” he informed you. “You need skin-to-skin contact.”
“Are… are you kidding?” After making sure you were completely covered, you pulled out the towel and set it in front of the fire.
“Definitely not,” was his clipped answer. He dropped down next to you and slid between the blankets, holding his arm out once his head was on the pillow.
You moved to roll over, to press your back against his chest, but Clint shook his head. “Chest-to-chest,” he explained.
With your heart pummeling your chests, you stared at him hard for several moments before moving, only doing so when he murmured, “Come on, Y/N. You’re literally freezing.”
After pulling in a deep and shuddering breath, you closed your eyes and pressed your naked and icy body against him. His body went rigid and he couldn’t bite back the, “Holy shit,” that burst out of him.
“Sorry,” you gasped, the warmth of his skin feeling like heaven against yours.
Clint wrapped his arms around you and held you close, pulling in short and rapid breaths as his body heat seeped into you. The fire at your back snapped and crackled, drying your hair and adding more heat than you could have handled if you hadn’t spent three hours in the snow wearing only a hoodie, jacket, and jeans.
You weren’t sure how long the two of you laid there, your cheek on his chest, one of his hands on the back of your head, his blunt nails dragging along your scalp, your legs intertwined, but you found yourself wishing you never had to leave.
His lips smeared across your forehead and his heart stuttered against your cheek when he admitted, “I was so damn worried.”
Guilt surged through you at that. “I’m sorry,” you moaned. “I lost track of time.”
“Hey, it’s alright,” Clint assured you, his lips still against your forehead. “You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”
You wrapped an arm around him and tried pushing yourself even closer, pulling in a deep breath that was all Clint; spice and the subtle hint of leather, but most of all, he smelled like the outdoors on a sunny day. With a sigh you hadn’t meant to exhale, you turned your face into his neck and smelled him some more.
“Y/N,” Clint hummed, the pulse in his neck throbbing against your nose, his fingers tightening against your back and in your hair. “What’re you doing?”
“Getting warm,” was your breathy answer. “Should I stop?”
You weren’t sure where your courage was coming from. Maybe it was the fact you could have died without letting Clint know how you felt, or maybe it was because he was so thick and solid, and he felt so goddamn good pressed against you. Either way, lust was slithering down your spine and settling heatedly between your legs.
A low and heavy moan spilled out from Clint as you drug your fingers up his side and chest, to the back of his neck where your nails met his scalp. He hadn’t answered your question, not verbally, at least. However, you could feel just how much he didn’t want you to stop.
With your hand on the back of his neck, you met his lust-filled gaze. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Do you want to stop?” Clint shot back, your chin between his thumb and forefinger.
You pulled your leg from his and draped it over his hip, flexing your thigh under his hand. “Absolutely not,” you admitted after years of keeping your crush a secret.
“Thank God,” he huffed before kissing you fiercely, and goddamn, did it take your breath away.
Without breaking the kiss, Clint rolled you to your back and settled between your legs. He kissed you senseless, until you couldn’t breathe, until your back was arching, desperately wanting him to touch you. He left a trail of dark marks down the side of your neck before biting into the plump flesh of your breasts.
You let out a gasp that turned into a moan as his hot mouth covered your areola, as he used his tongue and teeth to harden your nipple, his hand cradling and massaging your other breast. Clint chuckled low in the back of his throat when your hips rolled, desperate for some friction when he licked his way to your other breast, tugging on the nipple with his teeth before rolling it around with his tongue.
The stubble that dusted his chin and cheeks burned your skin, and you wanted to feel more of it, so you grabbed the back of his head and began urging him down your body. Clint happily obliged, pulling in a deep breath as he buried his nose into your hip. You moaned almost embarrassingly loud as he drug his fingers through your wet folds, pressing one digit, and then another, into your slick channel.
He swirled his tongue around your clit, pulled it between his teeth, and sucked hard as he pumped his fingers, crooking them just right so they brushed over the spot that would send you reeling. And he succeeded. Fucking you with his fingers and tongue, you came apart at the seams, crying out his name and writhing on the blankets.
Sitting back, Clint wiped your slick from his chin and mouth with the back of one hand while stroking himself with the other, spreading your cum on his cock. You grabbed his shoulders as he crawled up your body, and kissed him fiercely, moaning at the taste of yourself on his tongue.
Clint covered your body with his, settling his thick weight between your thighs. Your legs curved around his waist as he touched you, seemingly everywhere and nowhere at the same time. His greedy touch was rough, like he wanted all of you, all to himself. Finally, he pushed into you, pulling a throaty gasp from you at the stretch of skin and tissue around his thick cock. Clint’s teeth sank into his bottom lip and came dangerously close to splitting the skin as he watched himself sink into you.
When he was buried to the root, he blew out a ragged breath and praised your body with his hands, his lips, his words. “Fuck,Y/N,” he rasped. “Feels like you were made for me.”
You could only nod, your eyes tearing up as he tipped his hips forward a little bit, as white-hot euphoria surged through you. He did it again, obviously enjoying the reaction he got when he dragged his cock against your sweet spot.
“Harder, Clint,” you breathed, fingers digging into the small of his back. “I ain’t gonna break.” You pulsed around him, a sinful moan filling the small space between you.
Clint slid a hand under your arching back, callouses scraping over your skin, blunt nails catching on your shoulder blades before his fingers gripped your shoulder. “Your wish is my command,” he growled before driving into you, pushing the air from your lungs in the form of an appreciative grunt.
His head dropped against your shoulder when you rolled your hips, and again when your body rose to meet his. It was as if your body was an instrument, and he knew all the ways to play you, to make you sing his favorite song, building you up to the bridge, to the shattering point.
You came with a strangled cry, thighs shaking, head pushed into the pillow, liquid fire bubbling beneath your skin. Clint followed three deep thrusts later, teeth digging into your shoulder, shoulders bowed, hot air blasting out his nose, sweat dripping from his forehead.
With your body still thrumming and aftershocks rolling through you, Clint rolled to his back. The pair of you laid there, hearts hammering, gasping for air. You rolled to your side, perched on your elbow, and watched Clint; the way his lips pursed and relaxed with each breath, how the crackling fire shone of his sweat-slicked skin, how the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth seemed more pronounced.
“You know, if you wanted to get me into bed, all you had to do was ask,” Clint teased you, peering at you from the corner of his eye, his breathing ragged.
“You make it sound so easy,” you murmured, not trusting your voice.
Clint rolled to his side, mirroring you, and tucked some hair behind your ear. “Darlin’, I’ve wanted this, you and me, for a long time.”
“Wh- what?”
“Since the first time I saw you, actually,” he clarified.
The corners of your lips pulled into a lazy smile. “Me, too. I was just too scared that if I said anything, I’d ruin the friendship, and that was the last thing I wanted to go.”
“Same here. God, what a pair we are, huh?” Clint leaned in and kissed you sweetly.
When you slanted your mouth over his and deepened the kiss, your hand curled around the back of his neck, he let out a groan of surprise.
“We’ve got lots of time to make up for,” you informed him. “Besides, I could sure use some more warming up.”
Summary: After the Android Revolution, you were one of the few that chose to remain in service. You were still considered alive and free to make your own choices, but you couldn’t leave your charge; a sick elderly woman that doted on you as if you were a member of her family. After a break-in, Connor is the first responder and helps track down the person – or android – responsible for the crime. Remaining on the police force with Hank as his partner had been a no-brainer. He wanted to make sure that both parties – humans and androids – would be held accountable for their actions. When responding to a call one night, he met Y/N, a caring and sassy android that he never saw coming. He was still learning to deal with his emotions, but no one – not even Hank – could have prepared him for the overwhelming swelling in his chest and this need to see her again. Word Count: 2,527 Warnings: Angst, fluff, language. Possibly more to come. Author’s Note: I absolutely adore this game and Connor. Title inspired by Robots in Love. I will be using my Everything tags for this series. If you do not want to be tagged, I’ll remove you. If you are interested in learning more about the game, feel free to check out the Wiki page.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
“Vincent Cruz,” Hank sighed as he pulled up the attempted robber’s file. “Looks like he’s made quite the name for himself around Detroit.”
Connor was seated at his desk, scanning over the very same file on his computer. “He’s been going around town and dismantling androids.”
“And selling their parts on the black market,” Hank groaned. “We got ourselves a fuckin’ winner.”
Connor’s LED flashed yellow. “I’m not sure I understand, Lieutenant,” he admitted, clearly confused.
“It’s called sarcasm,” Hank scoffed with a smirk. “You’ll get there one of these days, buddy.”
“Sarcasm,” Connor muttered, the LED on his right temple flickering from yellow to its original cerulean shade. “The use of irony to mock or convey contempt. I think I understand, now. You strongly dislike Vincent’s actions, therefore you are ridiculing them with a positive phrase.”
“I ain’t ever gonna get use to that,” Hank snorted. “But, yeah. That’s it exactly.”
Connor smiled at the praise coming from his partner.
Hank wasn’t exactly easy to deal with; he was a gruff and jaded man. Having lost a child at the hands of an android whose job it was to save lives would do that to a person. Up until last year, Hank drank himself senseless every day. Once, to the point where he passed out on the kitchen floor, a revolver loaded with one bullet lying next to his hand.
“A game of Russian Roulette,” he had told Connor after the android roused him.
Connor might have been a state-of-the-art android equipped with biocomponents and technology that had not yet been released to the public, but the one thing he failed to understand was why someone would want to kill themselves. He understood why androids did it; the overwhelming amount of human emotion that flooded their biocomponents overloaded their circuits. It was simply too much to handle.
When placed in extremely stressful situations, androids would go into self-destruct mode where they would do anything and everything within their power to make whatever was happening stop. The last one he had witnessed had been particularly brutal.
An android was being abused daily by the human that owned him; Carlos Ortiz. Carlos would beat the android with a bat and, during the last six weeks of his life, burned him with cigarettes. And then, one day, the HK400 model had had enough, and ‘woke up’ during a beating. In the act of defending himself, the HK400 grabbed a kitchen knife and fought off his attacker before stabbing him twenty-eight times.
In order to retrieve a confession and gain an understanding as to why, Connor pressured the victim until his stress level rose to an optimal level. When that level was reached, the deviant android couldn’t hold back any longer and told Connor everything that happened leading up to the attack that took the life of Carlos Ortiz. Turned out the android was scared and angry and tired of the degradation.
It happened as Connor was leaving the interrogation room; the HK400 started slamming his forehead into the steel table he was handcuffed to. Three officers burst into the room; Chris – a patrolman, Hank, and Gavin – another detective that hated androids. The three of them did all they could think of to stop the self-destruction, but they failed. The android collapsed in a growing pool of his own blood, sparks flickering in his open wounds, the smell of burning biocomponents filling the small room.
Hank later asked him why Connor didn’t try and intervene, but Connor didn’t have an answer. While it wasn’t the first time he had seen an android self-destruct, it just so happened that Connor was in the midst of ‘waking up’ during that time. He had simply been too shocked to move.
Understanding humans was completely different. Where androids were constructed of circuits and electricity and plastic, humans were constructed by flesh and muscles and blood, driven by something that could not be replicated, no matter how hard scientists tried; a soul. They didn’t recharge or have replaceable parts as androids did, and that baffled Connor. They were a soft and fragile species, one that, scientifically speaking, should not have survived billions of years of evolution.
“Hey,” Hank barked, yanking Connor from his own thoughts. “Did you hear what I said?”
Connor blinked rapidly before answering. “You want to see if we can get a warrant to search Cruz’s last known address.”
“How the hell do you do that?” Hank genuinely wanted to know.
“I record everything I see and hear, even though you are convinced I am not listening,” Connor explained flatly. “Which judge do you think we should contact?”
After thinking on it for a moment, Hank made up his mind. “McAvoy. He’s got a soft spot for androids.”
Connor’s fingers flew over the keyboard as he filed the electronic request for a search warrant. “All done.”
“Now, we wait.”
Grace had quickly fallen asleep after finishing her chamomile tea, her previously-frayed nerves had eased at the detective’s determination to find the culprit and bring him to justice. No matter the pledges, you couldn’t sit still.
You travelled every inch of the house and made sure every door and window was locked, giving them a test tug for added assurance. After repeating the precautionary steps twenty times, you went into the bathroom to clean up. There was dried blood in your hair, darkening the strands to a deep blue. Red and blue were smeared on your face and neck, mixing to a shade of purple that would have been pretty if it had not been a combination of human and android blood.
Stripped out of your stained clothes, you stepped into the shower and made quick work of ridding yourself of the physical reminder of the attack. For the past ten years, you worked diligently to keep a clean and safe home for Grace, and the fact that some human, a complete and total stranger, entered the home completely undetected had shaken you more than you had let on.
Once clean and wearing a new set of clothes, you discarded the stained ones, knowing that the blood would never be completely gone. Even if it happened by some miracle, the memory of it would keep you from wearing them again.
The wound on your head was superficial and would heal soon enough on its own. Despite that knowledge, it bothered you. You had experienced a wide array of emotions since you broke free of your android programming. However, pain was not one of them. The slice into your human-looking skin was throbbing, making you wince whenever you turned your head or when the creases formed in your forehead.
Grace had said something in passing about getting it looked at, that, “You might need stitches.”
You hadn’t paid the comment much attention, but now that the pain level had risen, it was all you could think about. It was too late to go into town, and with Grace sleeping, you were the only one to do anything about it. There was just one problem with that. There was a tightening in your chest whenever you thought about piercing your skin with a needle, followed by tugging the two pieces together with a piece of string.
Either you would have to wait until morning, or figure out some other way to tend to the wound. The only thing you could think of was another android, an android that had been in your home several hours ago.
Connor and Hank’s contact information was provided to both you and Grace before the detectives went on their way. Without a second thought, you were calling Connor, the LED light on your temple shining yellow as the call connected.
Once inside the residence, Hank and Connor were greeted by a drooling St. Bernard; Sumo, Hank’s dog.
“Such a good guard dog,” Hank teased while bending over to pet Sumo. With a final pat to Sumo’s head, he strolled into the kitchen and pulled a beer from the fridge.
Connor bent down to run his fingers through the dog’s brown and white fur, chuckling when Sumo’s tongue shot out and covered one side of his face in slime. “I think he’s grown quite fond of me,” Connor noted as he stood tall and readjusted his tie.
“Yeah, well, he ain’t the brightest bulb,” Hank teased.
Connor sat down on the couch next to Hank, who had just turned on a game of hockey. “How long do you think it will take McAvoy to sign for the warrant?”
“Shouldn’t be too long,” Hank answered, an excited lilt to his voice as the home team got a goal. “You want a beer?”
“Thank you, but no,” Connor declined the offer.
Sumo chose that moment to wedge himself between the android and human, sighing heavily when Connor was the only one that moved to the side. The canine covered Connor’s legs with his body, half-turning and begging with wide eyes for the android to scratch his stomach. Connor chuckled and quickly obliged.
“I don’t think Sumo is the only one that enjoys that,” commented Hank.
“You’re right, Lieutenant,” Connor quickly agreed. “I do find that interacting with Sumo makes me happy.”
There were a few moments where the only sounds to be heard were from the television and the panting of Sumo. That quickly changed when Connor received an unexpected call.
“Hi Connor,” Y/N greeted him. “I apologize for contacting you at such a late hour.”
“Y/N, it is not a bother,” he assured her. “Is everything alright?”
She let out a soft sigh before answering. “Yes and no. Would you mind coming over? I need your help with something.”
“I can be there in ten minutes,” he confirmed, already pushing Sumo off his lap.
“Thank you,” she said before disconnecting the call.
“You need some company?” asked Hank, his voice heavy with laughter.
Connor shook his head. “Y/N just needs some help. I won’t be long.”
Without waiting for Hank to tease him further, Connor called a taxi and went outside to wait for it.
True to his word, Connor was at the house inside of ten minutes. His eyes scanned the entryway as you opened the door for him, searching for some sign that something was amiss.
“Thank you for coming,” you mumbled, a fresh wave of pain radiating heat down the side of your face.
He must have seen you wince, because the next thing you knew, his hand was holding your chin and he was peering at your wound. “It hurts.”
“Of course it hurts,” you couldn’t help but snap. “I… I’m sorry, Connor. I didn’t mean to… Do you think you could help stitch it up?”
Connor released your chin and started walking towards the kitchen. “I assume you have a needle and thread.”
“I do,” you confirmed as you followed him, having to hurry as his legs were longer.
“What about a cooling pack?” His jacket was off and he was rolling up the sleeves of his white button-up shirt just past his elbows.
Shaking your head, you pulled your hair into a ponytail. “I have them on order.”
“That’s not a problem,” Connor said with a smile. “We can do without.”
You were seated on a stool, watching as he washed his hands before quickly threading the needle. He stood to the left of center in front of you, so that he could look at the wound headon. But before he did anything, he turned on the cooling feature of his android skin and pressed his fingers to your sensitive skin.
“Shit,” you hissed, not expecting the stab of pain.
Connor peered down at you and apologized. “I am sorry. I did not know it would hurt.”
“It’s okay,” you grit out through your teeth. “How much longer?”
“Until you can’t feel anything,” was his direct answer. “Hank says that ice numbs the skin, that it helps when someone is in pain. I assumed it work instantly.”
You huffed in amusement. “Well, he’s not wrong. It’s starting to work.”
“Good,” Connor beamed, clearly proud of himself. He stood there for another minute until you could no longer feel his touch. “Okay, I’m going to start.”
You held your breath as Connor leaned in and punctured the broken skin with a barely audible pop. It made tears well in your eyes, but not because it hurt anymore. You blamed the wave of emotion on the eventful evening. Fighting off an intruder hadn’t been on your agenda for the night.
“All done, Y/N,” Connor announced quickly after starting, taking you by surprise.
“Oh,” you sighed in relief. “I thought it would have taken longer.”
He disposed of the needle before washing his hands once more. “The cut wasn’t deep, nor was it very big. I only put in three stitches.”
Unable to stop yourself, you reached up to touch the area. Connor’s hand shot out and stopped you from achieving your goal.
“I wouldn’t. It might get infected if your hands are not clean.” His brown eyes drilled into yours before he released your hand.
“I knew that,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
Connor’s sleeves were unrolled and he pulled on his jacket. “I apologize for my tone.”
You went to tell him that it was alright, but you never got the chance because he was answering a call.
“Hank?”
The gruff detective’s voice filtered through the air around you. “McAvoy signed the warrant. Meet me at Cruz’s.” Hank didn’t wait for a confirmation before disconnecting the call.
“Was there anything else you needed help with, Y/N?”
“No. Thank you for coming over.” Without thinking about what you were doing, you pressed your lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss before heading out of the room, down the hall, and to the front door. You had seen Grace bid people farewell in that way hundreds of hundreds of times.
There was a shade of pink coloring Connor’s cheeks as he came into your view. “You’re welcome.” He bent down and kissed your cheek in the same manner. He smiled gently as he stood, watching you closely as you opened the door. “If you require further assistance, don’t hesitate to call.”
“I will. Be safe,” you advised him as he walked down the sidewalk to wait for his taxi.
Connor looked at you over his shoulder. “I always am, Y/N.”
You waited until Connor climbed into the taxi before turning off the outside lights. The lock was engaged and the alarm system was turned back on a moment later.
For the first time since the break-in, you started to feel drowsy, so you headed upstairs. You peeked into Grace’s room to make sure she was still asleep, that if she were awake there was nothing she needed. Thankfully, she was still asleep. You quietly closed the door and headed across the hall to your room where you climbed into bed, resting on the opposite side of where the wound on your head was. It was mere seconds before your eyes fluttered shut and you gave into the exhaustion without a fight.
Summary: As a senior in college, you kept your nose clean and never partied. You were at the top of your class, set to graduate with honors summa cum laude; unlike Clint Barton. In an effort to get a passing grade and graduate, he asked for your help. What could possibly go wrong? Word Count: 907 Warnings: Language, fluff, possible smut, heavy angst [I’m sorry] Author’s Note: I shouldn’t be this excited about how much angst there is. Something is wrong with me. GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
As soon as Clint walked into the classroom, Fury pulled Clint into his office.
“I’m not in trouble, am I?” Clint wondered, his nerves still frayed from the day before when he kissed Y/N.
“No, nothing like that,” Fury answered, rubbing at the skin around his eye patch. “It’s actually about Y/N.”
Panic swelled in Clint’s chest, making it hard to breathe. “What’s happened?”
Professor Fury gave a heaving sigh before saying, “There’s no easy way to say it, so I’ll just say it. Y/N is in the hospital.”
A man that Clint recognized from the pictures in Y/N’s apartment was standing outside of a hospital room, hand raking over his face. It was Y/N’s father and he looked exhausted, worried, petrified.
“Mr. Coulson,” Clint murmured, hoping not to scare him. “My name’s Clint, I’m in class with Y/N.”
“Call me Phil,” he said, his hand held out. “Y/N’s talked about you.”
After shaking Y/N’s father’s hand, Clint shoved his into the pockets of his jacket. “Good things, I hope,” he quasi-joked.
“Mostly,” Phil chuckled. “But that’s neither here nor there.”
Unable to help himself, Clint looked over Phil’s shoulder to find Y/N lying in a bed. From what he could tell, her eyes were closed and she was hooked up to multiple monitors, pumps, and an IV drip.
“Oh, my God,” he gasped, a hand coming to his mouth. “Is she okay?”
Phil let out a huff through his nose and shook his head. “Is she okay?” he deadpanned, his eyebrow arched. “No, she’s not okay. She hasn’t been okay for years.”
Despite the emotion clogging his throat, Clint asked, “What do you mean?”
“Oh, shit. She hasn’t told you She has cancer, Clint. Leukemia,” Phil explained gently.
Clint felt as if his heart dropped into his stomach, and his stomach plummeted through the floor at his feet. He swayed back and forth, his mind swirling, his chest tight, too tight, his lungs unwilling to work. The walls were slowly creeping in and, God, it was so hot all of a sudden.
“Ca- cancer?” he managed to sputter, a hand raking through his hair.
Phil grabbed Clint’s elbow to steady the younger man. “Let’s go outside.”
While the cooler air helped Clint catch his breath, it did little to ease the mounting pressure in his chest. “Ho- how long does she have?”
“Honestly? We don’t know,” Phil answered with a shrug. “Could be tomorrow or next year. Y/N was diagnosed when she was thirteen and, at first, she responded well to the aggressive chemo treatments. The doctors gave her a seventy percent chance of going into remission.”
“Then what happened?”
Phil sat down at the picnic table, elbows on the edge, and a hand scraping over his face. “She went into remission, believe it or not. She went back for countless follow-up appointments and testing, and it was starting to look really good.”
Clint sat down across from Y/N’s dad and waited until Phil was ready to continue.
“The cancer came back freshman year of college, and it was manageable, at first. But then, late into her sophomore year, she stopped responding to treatment.”
“Wait, she… she stopped responding to treatment? Wha- what does that mean?” Clint desperately needed to know.
Phil rested his hand over Clint’s shaking ones. “It means the cancer is spreading a little more every day.”
“Her migraines,” Clint sighed heavily as he fully understood the gravity of the situation.
“They started as soon as the cancer started spreading to her brain.” Phil sniffled loudly as tears spilled down his cheeks.
Clint blew out a stuttering breath as tears stung his eyes. “Oh, my God,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s the reason for the promise.”
“What promise?” Phil wanted to know.
“When she agreed to help tutor me, she made me promise not to fall in love with her. I blew it off, thinking it was just a joke,” he explained.
Phil watched Clint carefully, gauging every microexpression that flashed across his face, reading his body language, and listening closely to the weight of his words. “You’re in love with her.”
“I… I think so, yeah,” Clint stammered, the corner of his lips pulling up in a lazy smile. “I didn’t mean to, it just… it all happened so fast.”
“Does she know how you feel?”
Clint was shaking his head. “No, I haven’t been able to.”
“Why don’t you go in and see her,” Phil offered.
“I thought she was sleeping.”
“She’s been sleeping for almost twelve hours,” Phil admitted with a sigh. “She’s bound to wake up soon.”
The butterflies that took up residence in Clint’s chest every time he saw Y/N came flooding back. “You don’t mind?”
“Truth be told, I could use some coffee.”
Clint shuffled into Y/N’s room and took his time making his way over to her bed, and when he was finally by her side, the sight of her about drove him to his knees. Her skin was ashen, her hair was greasy and stringy, pulled into a thin braid that was placed over her shoulder, and the circles under her eyes were almost black, making her closed eyes appear to be sunken deep into her skull.
He dropped into the chair that Phil had no doubt been sitting in, carefully took hold of her hand, and waited until she woke.
Summary: Steve came home from the war to a wife that could not deal with the emotionally, mentally, and physically changed man before her. Dealing with it the only way he knew how, Steve buried himself in his work. After saving hundreds of lives in one heroic act, Steve finds himself put on bodyguard duty. Also known as a glorified babysitter. It wasn’t easy being the daughter of insanely rich and successful businessman, Phil Coulson. After multiple death threats, your overbearing, worries-too-much father decides you need a bodyguard. Word Count: 1,577 Warnings: Language, angst, blood, violence, explicit sexual content, possibly more to come. Author’s Note:
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
“God, dad,” you grumbled. “Why can’t you just listen to me? I don’t need a damn babysitter! I’m a grown ass woman. I can take care of myself.”
Phil was sitting behind his desk and shaking his head. “You seem to forget the amount of death threats that have been sent to you, Y/N.” The pinched expression on his face meant he was done arguing with you about it.
“They’re empty threats. Nothing more,” you said when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Phil instructed as he stood, fastening the buttons on his suit jacket.
“I apologize for interrupting, sir,” the new arrival apologized gruffly, closing the door behind him.
Your father was wearing his business only smile as he stood in front of the man whose name you didn’t yet know. “No apologies necessary. You must be Steve Rogers.”
“Yes, sir,” Steve responded, shaking Phil’s hand.
Phil started chuckling. “I like you already.”
Steve gave a tight-lipped smile in return, unease rolling off of him in waves.
“Steve, this is my daughter, Y/N,” your father said, motioning toward you as you approached the duo.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Steve greeted you flatly, a soft Irish lilt to his voice, his azure eyes sharp and attentive as they roamed over you in a purely professional matter.
You rolled your eyes in annoyance. “Call me by my first name,” you instructed coolly.
“Sorry, ma’am. I can’t do that,” Steve insisted, the previously mentioned accent gaining momentum.
“Don’t tell the man how to do his job,” Phil chastised.
“I’m not telling him how to do his job, I just don’t like -”
Phil cut a glare at you that made the words die on the tip of your tongue. “I assume you’ve been brought up to date, Steve?”
“Yes, sir,” Steve confirmed, eyes lingering on you for a moment before landing on those of Phil. “There are a few questions I have, if that’s alright.”
“Absolutely. Fire away, as it were,” Phil chuckled at his own joke, one that made you roll your eyes again.
Steve cleared his throat at the flare of awkwardness in the room, emanating from Y/N. “I assume all other members of security have been thoroughly vetted?”
“They have,” Phil confirmed. He strolled over to a standing filing cabinet, unlocked the top drawer, and opened it, pulling out three very thick folders, which he then handed to Steve. “Please feel free to look them over. If you have any concerns, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
After accepting the files and tucking them under his arm, Steve didn’t wait to ask his next question. “Based on the nature of the threats, I assume ‘round the clock service will be required. Where will I be staying?”
“Twenty-four hours a day, that is correct,” Phil confirmed.
“Dad, you can’t be serious,” you groaned, arms crossed under your chest.
Phil went on as if he hadn’t heard you. “I have rented an entire floor of The William Vale.”
“For how long, sir?”
“As long as necessary, Steve,” Phile answered. “Now, if there is nothing else…”
Steve shook his head as Phil’s voice drifted off. “No, sir.”
You should have known better than to try and break into the conversation. “I have someth-”
“That’s good to hear.” Phil shook Steve’s hand once more before showing him to the door. “I’ve got a full day of meetings ahead of me. I expect a full report on how the first day went.”
“Yes, sir,” Steve agreed, his eyes quickly finding you. “Are you coming, ma’am?”
Gritting your teeth, you grabbed your bag and stormed over to your father. “Have a good day,” you said before brushing a kiss to his cheek. You might have been unbelievably pissed off at him, but the man was still your father.
You were sitting in the backseat of the luxury vehicle, trying to focus on the task at hand; composing a speech to give at an upcoming fundraiser, but your mind was focused on the man in the passenger seat directly in front of you.
When you heard you were getting a bodyguard, you had expected someone middle-aged, soft around the middle, maybe even losing his hair, anyone other than Steve Rogers. He had a head full of dirty blond hair, eyes that could probably drill through cement if he stared hard enough at it, a jaw that flexed in a hypnotizing manner. The man’s shoulders were wide enough that he had to twist before walking through an open door, and you were sure you could hear the seams of his jacket and shirt screaming for help whenever he moved.
Nope, you couldn’t do that; notice the rough beauty of your new bodyguard. Besides, you hated having him around. You didn’t need him, you could go about your days and nights without having someone there at all times. Fucking babysitter.
His eyes met yours in the rearview mirror. “Ma’am, is everything alright?”
Shit, you hadn’t realized you were staring. “Everything’s fine, Steve. I’m just anxious to get to the office.”
Your office was across town, almost as far away from Coulson Industries as you could get without crossing the river. It was a non-profit that catered to the homeless. It wasn’t a shelter, though you had plans for the ground to break on one the following spring, but the center was a safe place, a place they could take a hot shower, get a haircut, find some clean clothes, toiletries, personal items that normal people wouldn’t think to donate, wash whatever items of clothing they wanted to keep. While it wasn’t considered a shelter, there was a room in the back full of beds and cribs. Overnight stays were legally frowned upon, but naps and times of rest were not. You knew you were toeing a line, but you didn’t care. These people and their families were suffering. If no one was going to help them, you would do everything in your power to step up.
Steve nodded before giving your driver instructions. “Take Park.”
“No,” you immediately disagreed. “Pietro has been my driver for the last five years. He knows where he’s going. Stay on the normal route, Pietro.”
“Yes, Y/N,” Pietro acknowledged.
Steve shook his head and repeated his previous instruction. “There’s a forty-five minute delay up ahead, ma’am.”
“You’re not my driver, Steve,” you ground out, rage simmering just below the surface.
He glared at you in the rearview mirror. “No, ma’am, I am not your driver,” he agreed, his accent thicker than before. “I’m your bodyguard, and anyone that is in your father’s employ, will do as I deem fit, as per your father’s instructions… ma’am. Take Park.”
Pietro flipped on the signal and quickly changed lanes, taking the route as directed. He had both hands on the wheel as he pulled off the main road.
Stormy eyes drilled into yours as if daring you to say another word. When you didn’t, he turned his attention to the passing scenery, watching for any kind of danger. Although, you didn’t understand how he could possibly see anything, what with Pietro cruising at a swift seventy miles per hour.
Thirty minutes later, Steve was escorting you through the building, insisting that he go through every door first and do a sweep of the room before allowing you to enter. By the time you got to your office, you didn’t really care if there was some kind of threat behind the door. You just wanted to get in and sit down behind your desk and get some goddamn work done!
Steve had just emerged from the bathroom when you stormed in. “I didn’t give you the all clear, ma’am,” he said tiredly.
You huffed in irritation as you hung up your jacket and scarf. “Believe it or not, I have a deadline to meet today. The time wasted on clearing each and every room I pass through -”
“Is time that you’re not dead,” Steve growled. “Ma’am.”
“Look, you’ve got a job to do, I get it. But, you need to understand that I also have a job to do,” you informed him flatly. You pulled out the notebook and files from your bag with one hand, and flipped on your laptop with the other, your eyes already taking in a plethora of information.
Steve stood there, hands clasped behind his back, his jaw flexing. “I’ll be outside if you need me, ma’am.” His accent was heavier than before, and it made you wonder just how angry he would have to be to slip into full Irish.
After he left your office, Steve found a spot in the center of the large room, and stood there, his back to the wall, his eyes taking in everything that was happening around him, including you inside of your office, clearly visible through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. You fought down the urge to draw the blinds, to hide from his prying eyes. You had never once drawn them before, having told the employees, volunteers, and those seeking help that you were available at all times, no matter what.
However, with Steve standing guard and his piercing gaze taking in every inch of everything you were doing, following you whenever you left your office, no matter where you were going, it started to make the back of your neck crawl.
God, this whole thing was going to take some getting used to.
Summary: As a senior in college, you kept your nose clean and never partied. You were at the top of your class, set to graduate with honors summa cum laude; unlike Clint Barton. In an effort to get a passing grade and graduate, he asked for your help. What could possibly go wrong? Word Count: 2,023 Warnings: Language, fluff, possible smut, heavy angst [I’m sorry] Author’s Note: I shouldn’t be this excited about how much angst there is. Something is wrong with me. GIF found on Google Images with no source.
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
Y/N didn’t show up to class a week later. Or the next day, for that matter. Given the extent of her migraine on the previous Sunday, Clint wasn’t too worried by the time Monday was over. But, going into Tuesday, he started to grow concerned. To the point that he felt compelled to stop by her place, make sure she was okay.
He didn’t, though. Not because he changed his mind, but because Bucky was being an asshole. And when Bucky was an asshole, Clint was grumpy. He didn’t want to see Y/N and pick a fight over something stupid.
“You don’t get it, man,” Clint sighed. “She dropped to her knees.”
“It was just a headache,” Bucky said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Besides, you’ve been blowing us off a lot.”
It was Clint’s turn to roll his eyes. “Twice, Buck. Hardly constitutes a lot. Besides, if I don’t do this, study with Y/N, I’m going to fail.”
“Failing isn’t going to ruin your life,” his friend huffed.
“But hanging out with Y/N will?” he scoffed.
“Wait, since when are you hanging out with her?” Bucky demanded to know.
Clint groaned angrily. “Oh, my God, Buck. Studying, hanging out, it’s the same thing.”
“It’s really not,” Bucky argued. “We’re your friends, not Y/N. She’s just someone that took pity on you, man.”
“I’m not doing this with you,” Clint advised Bucky before storming out of their shared apartment.
When he walked into Fury’s classroom on Wednesday, the sight of Y/N sitting in the front row made his heart stutter in relief. He dropped down into the seat next to her with a smile.
“I was ready to send in a search party,” he partially joked. If Y/N hadn’t shown up in class today, he would have gone up to Fury after class and see if he knew anything. If Fury didn’t, then Clint would have gone to Y/N’s apartment.
She gave Clint a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I wasn’t feeling well,” she explained.
“Yeah,” he murmured in a concerned tone. “I can see that.”
Y/N groaned as her eyes fluttered shut, the dark circles more prominent than before. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to help you tonight, Clint. I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t explain the way his stomach dropped in disappointment. “I can come over, if that would help. Maybe cook up another amazing dinner,” he offered with a wink.
“Yeah?” Y/N breathed. “That would help tremendously.”
“Only if you’re feeling up to it.” Clint didn’t want to push her into doing more than she was actually able to do, and right then, she looked as if a good wind would knock her over.
“Tell you what,” she rasped. “Plan on coming over at four. If I’m not feeling up to it, I’ll shoot off a text.”
Clint was nodding his head in agreement. “Sounds like a plan.”
After class, you made your way home as quickly as you could. It was entirely too bright outside, there were too many people, and it felt as if there were a jackhammer inside your head. By the time you got inside, the rush of blood in your ears is so loud, it was deafening.
Your purse and bookbag hit the floor before you stumbled around as a nasty case of vertigo slammed into you. Using your hands, you maneuvered through the room, down the hall, and into the bathroom where your medication was. Even though the prescription said to take one or two pills, you normally took one. Not this time. You greedily swallowed two of the painkillers, gasping for air once you drank the water.
With your eyes screwed shut, you crossed the hall, hands held out in front of you. Once inside your room, you stripped out of the clothes you were wearing, turned on the fan, and made sure the blinds were pulled before dropping onto your bed.
It took almost a half hour before the raging inferno inside your head started to dwindle, and another fifteen minutes before you could get comfortable enough to fall asleep. And when you did finally drift off, you had strange dreams about Clint.
By the time quarter to four rolled around, Clint had probably checked his phone fifteen hundred times. He couldn’t explain the butterflies that were swarming in his stomach and chest at the mere thought that she would call and cancel. He wanted to see her, and it wasn’t because of the tutoring. He was actually looking forward to seeing her, like, really looking forward to it.
Unable to wait any longer, Clint left the apartment and hurried to Y/N’s place. He got there a few minutes after four, completely out of breath thanks to sprinting the entire way, and started knocking.
“Come on, Y/N,” he muttered under his breath.
When she didn’t answer the door, he tried the knob, but it was locked. He gave another round of knocks, louder than before, fear clogging his throat. He was absolutely convinced that something was wrong, that she had passed out and maybe hit her head, or worse. After knocking once more, the door was ripped open, revealing a disheveled Y/N.
“What?” she hissed, her eyes barely open, wearing only a tank top and a pair of underwear.
Clint gulped loudly and quickly diverted his gaze. “It’s uh, it’s four.”
“And?” Y/N sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Guilt rushed through him, quickly dousing the worry that had previously consumed him. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I did… I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s just… you said that -”
Y/N’s eyes snapped open. “Oh shit,” she rasped. “Clint, I… I’m sorry. I fell asleep after I got home. Please, come in.”
“Are you sure?” He was working really hard at not staring at every inch of Y/N’s exposed skin.
She must have realized her lack of clothing, because a blush colored her neck and face. Without a word, she disappeared into the darkness of her apartment and slammed the bedroom door.
He was tentative to step inside, only doing so when Sam, a fellow classmate, emerged from his apartment down the hall. They exchanged a nod before Clint stepped inside and closed the door. He waited there, hands in his pockets, his head shaking back and forth as he waited.
“Stupid,” he chastised himself. “Shouldn’t have come.”
“You say something?” she asked as she emerged from her bedroom, clothed, her hair pulled back into a braid.
Jesus. Even with the minimal lighting Clint found he couldn’t stop staring at her. “I just uh, I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s fine, Clint,” she assured him, her eyes screwing shut.
“You don’t look fine,” he noted softly, stepping closer.
Y/N pulled in a deep breath and opened her eyes. “I’m tired. Migraines really take it out of me,” she explained flatly, as if she had been saying it her entire life.
Clint wanted to believe her, but deep down, he wasn’t sure that he could. There was too much pain behind her eyes, her voice would crack just the slightest, she would wince when she thought he wasn’t looking.
It was weird, he may have seen her every day for the last four years, and she had started tutoring him a couple weeks ago, but he didn’t really know her. Yet, he wanted to help her, to make whatever pain she was feeling disappear, never to be heard from again. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and tell her it would be okay, that no matter what, he would be there for her, to protect her from whatever life may throw her way.
She looked at him strangely as he raised his hand, tucking some hair behind her ear. “Clint?”
He hummed, his moss-and-honey eyes flicking over her face before settling on her lips. He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving her mouth, his heart racing, pummeling his chest. He brushed his nose against hers then he gently kissed her.
Y/N stood there, surprise radiating off of her, her hand on his chest. Time stood still, building and building until it snapped when she melted into him, her fingers drifting to the back of his neck, curling in the short strands of hair. She let out a small gasp as his mouth slanted over hers, their tongues tangling together, his hand falling to the small of her back, the other twisting in her freshly-braided hair.
Clint’s entire body was thrumming and he was pretty sure he could spend the rest of his life holding her, kissing her, loving her. And he thought that maybe she felt the same way, until both of her hands were on his chest and she shoved him away.
“What the -”
“You need to leave,” Y/N demanded breathily, her lips perfectly swollen and dark pink, her chest heaving.
Confusion twisted painfully in his chest and gut. “What are you… I don’t understand.”
She was shaking her head and there were tears in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have done that, Clint.”
“I wanted to,” he admitted, daring to step toward her.
“Clint,” she sighed, her voice cracking. “You promised.”
He scraped a hand over his face as his mind swam through the endorphin-induced fog. “Ye- yeah, I know. I… I just -”
“Out,” Y/N directed him, her finger pointed to the door. “I want you to leave.”
“You’re serious,” Clint scoffed. “What about tutoring me?”
She was holding the door open now, staring hard at him. “Find yourself someone else.”
“There is no one else that can help me.” Yeah, he knew how pitiful it sounded, but it was the truth. He was going to fail Fury’s class if Y/N refused to help him.
Way to fuck it up, Clint.
“Talk to Fury. He’ll find you someone else,” she rasped, her eyes downcast.
Clint stood in front of her, desperately wanting to take her hand in his, to wipe away the tears that were streaming down her face. “Please, Y/N,” he begged.
She stood there, her knuckles turning white, unmoving, unwilling to meet his gaze. The only thing she did was open the door wider and waited for him to leave. She shook her head and sniffled, murmuring something he couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in his ears.
Rejection swirled through him, making him feel as if he were going to explode. “Fine,” he bit out a moment before storming out. He was swiping angrily at the hot tears that rolled down his cheeks when the door slammed closed.
Responding to the kiss had been a bad idea, but you hadn’t been able to help yourself. Before you could register what you had done, it was too late; your body was molded to his and you were kissing him as if your life depended on it. Good thing you got your bearings before things went too far.
After kicking Clint out and slamming the door, you leaned against it and tried to catch your breath, tried to calm down the anxiety bubbling in your chest, but your heart was racing entirely too fast. You screwed your eyes shut and fumbled for the phone in your pocket.
“Breathe,” you tried reminding yourself, but your lungs refused to listen.
It had been a while since you’d had a full blown panic attack, and this one came at you like a freight train, barrelling down on you. You dropped to your knees and worked with shaking hands to unlock your phone. You could call Clint, he couldn’t have gotten too far, but you knew how bad of an idea that was. Instead you dialed your next door neighbor.
Sam answered the phone after the second ring. “Hey, sweetheart.”
You gasped his name and fell to your back, a hand over your chest. “I ca- ca- can’t bre- breathe.”
“Shit. I’m on my way.”
The last thing you heard was the pounding of his feet as he exited his apartment and rushed down the hall.
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