just the case of the mondays, am I right?

You’re bent over the console beside him, creasing the leather seat under your weight. What was supposed to be a nice date night out to a drive in movie quickly turned south, literally, when the two of you realised just now boring the film was. Sharing snacks to handholding to cuddling to kissing to sucking your boyfriend’s heavy cock.

From the corner of your eye, you can see his hand hesitate. The one in your peripheral is gripping the console with white knuckles and leaving indents. You’re sure the other is probably doing similarly to his jeans. Deciding to help him along a little, you place his hand on the back of your head.

Gently, he uncurls it, like you’re soothing him despite being the reason he’s even like this. His fingers brush over your scalp softly before settling onto your nape.

“Fuck-“ he shifts his hips, pushing them into you before forcing himself back. “Gosh, honey.”

Clark’s pants and heavy breathing fill the quiet air of his car. With the rapid puffs, his chest rises and falls like he’s just orbited the Earth. You add to the sounds with the wet contact of your lips on him, taking as much as you can before you switch to licking the tip.

“So pretty.” His large hand travels to your ass, giving it a squeeze before patting it gently. “Didn’t-oh-didn’t wanna watch the movie?”

“Nope.” You grin up at him and if he wasn’t hard before, he definitely would be now. Your head is tilted to the side, pressing soft kisses against his hard dick while smiling up at him. All while you’re bent over the console with your ass in the air and your back arching just right. He almost decides to bend you over the passenger seat and thrust into you from behind under the open door. But it’s too risky. You’re already parked in the middle of a bunch of cars and his windows aren’t tinted. He’ll just have to save that for a road trip to Smallville.

“You’re so yummy, Clark.” You kiss him near the base, your forehead pressing against the unbuckled denim of his jeans. “Love this cock.”

“Yeah?” He says with an embarrassing hitch when your hand finds his balls.

“Yeahhh,” you draw out, moving back up his length again to hover just above the tip. Removing your hand from even lower, your nail teases his tip, barely touching him. “You don’t let me suck you off enough.”

Jeez.

He groans, his head hitting the headrest that rattles the seat. This is why he doesn’t. Because you get all cock-drunk and evil all while he worries about you feeling safe, okay, and loved. The one time he wishes he didn’t have human bone-crushing super strength.

“Why don’t you let me suck your cock more often, Clark?”

He nearly arches into you, your hand stroking him with a feather-light touch. And your voice. The vixen-like pouty tone that you use when you know he’s barely listening. He lets out a moan with furrowed brows.

“Because-“ he hisses through his teeth, trying to be coherent enough to answer you properly. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“I just want to make you feel good.” You don’t stop, doubling down with the kitten licks to his tip.

“Oh.”

“Doesn’t that feel good?”

“Yeah, gosh. So good, baby.” He fights off the tingling sensation traveling up his spine and loosens his grip on your head. He can’t hurt you.

“And you feel sooo good in my mouth. You’re so big.” Your warm breath fans over his length before taking as much of him as you can. As much as he can take before he feels his balls tighten. Until you pull away. “You always want to eat me out.”

Stop talking.

Keep talking, the rational part of him whispers.

“Always want to make me feel good. But I love this,” you emphasise your point by resting the side of your head against his thigh again and slap his leaking pink cock against your cheek. He stares, mesmerised by the precum and saliva sticking to your face. “Love it when your hand is in my hair. When you fuck my face.”

Never mind. Stop talking. Keep talking. Doesn’t matter.

“Love it when I get all messy after getting a taste of you.” Your tongue licks a stripe up the underside of his penis, following the curve. “But…if you don’t enjoy it…”

You start to pull away, sitting up with spit and precum on your face, looking like the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Your lips are shiny and wet. Your eyes are blown out and there’s that look of wild and lost in your eyes that he never gets to see enough of. You’re sitting on your knees and he thanks whatever God on this or any other planet that you went braless in a low-cut tank top.

It takes a second too long for his brain to catch up.

“What? No!” His hand links with yours, even now. “I love it. I love you.”

“I know you love me. But do you love it when I give you head?”

“Yes!”

“Then how come you’re always pulling me off before you come?” You don’t ask with frustration or anger, somehow you’ve even manage to make this question sound sexy. Maybe it’s because your hand is still rubbing his thigh.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And I’d rather have you satisfied and fully enjoying sex with me.”

“I do.” Clark sighs, giving you a look that says ‘it’s a Kryptonian thing’. You give him one that says ‘don’t try me’. He gives in. “Okay, so maybe I always have to think about not hurting you. But I’d rather do that, gosh, even think about hurting you. Even accidentally.”

“Clark.”

“And it’s not to say that I’m not focused on you. It’s hard not to when you-“

“Clark.” You insist again, your voice softening again to that tone you use when you want something from him. “Just fuck my face.”

“I mean it.” You say again at his lack of reaction. Then, before he can even change the subject by suggesting the two of you drive back to his to do this properly, you’re bent over yet again and back to where you were. Sucking his cock with a suction grip.

Here goes nothing.

His hands settle again. This time, with one on your hair, gripping the roots, the other grabbing the flesh of your ass with a lot less apology than earlier. Clark lets himself relax, shifting his hips forward in the cramped seat and spreading his thighs even wider.

You bob up and down.

“That’s it,” he groans, even smiling a little through the feeling. “Always so good at this, baby. Taking this cock so well.”

You moan, the vibrations helping him get back to where he was before. Panting and building him up. He shuts his eyes and drops his head back, focusing on the feeling. The tightness and heat wrapping around whatever length you manage to take. Your free hand fondling his balls that shoots a tingle up his spine. The firm softness beneath his hand as he squeezes and plays with your ass.

“That’s-oh, jeez,” he adds more pressure, the hand on your head sinking you down even further. “Fuck. That’s it, take it honey.”

Your moan is muffled by his length, saliva dripping down to his balls as you deep throat him.

“Ha-“ Clark’s hips meet your mouth in deep thrusts, his body finally letting go. His instincts needing to just get himself deeper into you. To give into to the feeling of you. He moans, his breath hitching and his hips grinding as he gets close.

Closer and closer to the edge as you do your best to take him deep. Your muffled moans. The wet dribble down his length and onto the denim. His frantic breathing and desperate moans. Your warm skin beneath his hand. The pure need in every movement as he finally fucks your face properly. Every shove that has you focusing on your gag reflex and his thickness stretching your lips.

With a heavy groan and a loud broken moan, Clark spills into your mouth while you push yourself up to his tip. He keeps on whining, his hips rocking up as his cock twitches some more. Come spills from your lips and dribbles down your chin, his orgasm slowly ending.

Slowly, his eyes open.

There you are, resting on your elbows with a dazed look on your face. There’s a small smile as you swallow him up and he reaches a hand out to rub your cheek.

“Gosh, that was-“

“Hmm.” You hum and nod, leaning over to nuzzle his still-hard cock.

“More?” He huffs lightly, an incredulous laugh shining up his face. With a loving shake of his head, Clark just rubs his thumb over your lower lip, helping you clean yourself and him up.

“We should probably head home, though.” He sighs, gently pushing your head back with a grip on your chin. Between his index and thumb, you don’t even argue with him. He chuckles when he makes your head dip down into a nod. “Before another person reports us to the staff for inappropriate behaviour.”

Right. Super hearing. You forgot about that.

—

“no! no, no clark, just yours. I only need yours.”

“atta girl,” he chuckles, resuming his pace when he got the answer that he wanted. it took only a few more minutes of him gliding himself in balls deep and watching her wither and cry until he’s turning into a whiny mess himself.

“oh god, oh god baby that’s so good, your pussy was made for this dick,” he whimpers. has to hold out and harshly grip the base of his dick on one pull out so that he doesn’t bust prematurely. she grinds back against him and doesn’t seem to give a shit that he was trying to hold himself back with his hand, pushing her ass forwards so that she could swallow up more of his cock.

“baby I’m gonna cum if you keep going like that,” clark warns with a shaky breath, losing his composure when she still points her ass up and clenches.

“I need it. fuck me harder. I need you to ruin me.”

clark hums through another whimper and gathers himself. wipes some sweat lingering off his forehead and then grabs her hips to hold her in place.

“yeah? you want it hard and fast?”

“fucking yes—“

clark doesn’t even let her finish her thought before he’s slamming in and already making her gasp. he yanks himself out and then quickly slams himself back in, repeatedly angling himself in ways that hit up against all of her favorite spots. a bigger mess starts to gather on his dick, and both of them have turned into a crying, whining mess, matching each other’s moans while he moves with so much ferocity and momentum that the bed creaks and pushes up against the wall.

he can feel it when she cums, twice in quick succession, falling apart on his dick while she screams into her pillow and lazily grinds back. clark isn’t far behind, not at all. a few vicious pumps later and he’s spurting everything he’s held inside, cum dribbling between her pussy lips and already starting to fall out while he whines and tries to catch up with her. she doesn’t move after that. doesn’t speak. her head is still shoved in the pillow, deep breaths that at least tell him she’s still alive, and he taps her shoulder, shakes her gently to check in and see if she’s really okay.

“baby, baby is everything okay? was it too hard? I should’ve gone slower. gosh….”

his eyebrows pinch in when his mind floods with worry, turning her over to find that he just fucked her right to sleep.

when she hums lazily, more than half asleep, letting him know she’s okay without even lifting her eyes, she quickly drifts back to her wonderland and her breathing deepens once again. clark laughs while he gets up to fetch her a towel for the mess still spilling down her legs, wipes her clean with a warm rag. he leans in and kisses her forehead before pulling her in his arms, smug as he realizes he just fucked her so good that she didn’t wait even a beat until she was passing out. it pulls a smirk on his face as he rubs her shoulder, observes her as she sleeps. she didn’t get up for over an hour, only briefly to chug some of the water he left on her side table before passing out yet again. clark sees how relaxed, how loose and drowsy and still more worry-free than she’s ever been after taking his dick all the way to her stomach. it puts pride in his heart to know how he’s capable of giving it to her so good she loses consciousness

. . .

Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.

You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.

Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.

It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.

You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.

With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.

There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservants’ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.

“James,” you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.

He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.

A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“You know—when it’s just me and you, you don’t have to call me James.”

A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.

There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.

The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.

He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. “Long day?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled tiredly.

Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.

A soft exhale left Bucky’s nose. His right hand—flesh and human—came up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdom’s greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.

The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.

Your Bucky.

“Sleepy girl,” he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. “You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?”

A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.

He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“I should let you retreat to your bedchambers,” he spoke quietly. “But I don’t want to let you go. I haven’t seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?”

“Very selfish of you, James.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. “Oh—I apologize, Bucky.” You teased.

Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to him—the prize he’d been seeking all day.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled.

Just as he leaned in to find the salvation he’d been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.

“Ew,” she dragged out childishly. “Is this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservant’s throat?”

Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelena’s direction.

He clicked his tongue. “Unassuming,” he repeated in a grumble.

He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.

“I shall let you rest.” Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. “Goodnight, maiden.”

Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.

“Yelena,” you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, “stop.”

After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.

Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. “Did you have fun with soldier boy out there?”

You gasped softly at her direct question. “N-Nat—!”

“You know, soldier boy didn’t even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,” Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. “It’s as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.”

All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.

“You ladies are unbelievable—”

“Am I the only one who doesn’t find this funny in the slightest?” Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. “If word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knight—no, the Sergeant himself—we’re all ruined!”

You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.

“I wouldn’t call it an affair,” you explained. “We haven’t put a title on…” You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, “…this arrangement.”

Yelena ran a hand down her face. “That’s even worse!”

“Yelena, calm down,” Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. “But as harsh as she's being, she is right.”

You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were right—that being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdom’s knights was nothing but trouble.

Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnes—the very man entrusted to watch over the princess.

“You are in love,” Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. “We can see that. But you have to believe us—we’re only looking out for you.” She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Falling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.”

Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wanted—but it was Wanda’s voice that truly made the realization sting.

Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.

His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.

“You could get us all in trouble.”

“You’re only thinking for yourself.”

But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.

She couldn’t even attend his funeral, and her name couldn’t be left in his will.

It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.

“I know,” you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okay—that this was okay. “And I understand. I won’t let it come between us.”

It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.

You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphne’s dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.

“Is it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?”

There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.

You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didn’t look out of place—maybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.

“The roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,” you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.

She hummed. “The gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?”

“I believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,” you explained politely.

Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. “Whatever for?”

You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princess’s eyes. “His wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.”

“I see,” she sighed softly. “That’s a shame.”

You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princess’s back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.

“All finished—”

“I would like for you to tend the gardens today.”

You blinked at the sudden request. “I… the gardens?”

“You fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,” she said with a guileless smile. “So, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.”

You truly didn’t know what to say.

You had never been ordered to work the grounds before—sure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.

But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldn’t tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.

And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?

“I… yes,” you bowed your head. “It will be done, Your Royal Highness.”

“Wonderful!” Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. “I expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!”

Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.

Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.

You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening gloves—likely Alexei’s—in a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.

But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.

You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Come on,” you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.

With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.

The Queen’s favorite flower.

You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your… toosh.

The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didn’t offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.

He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.

“Don’t tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.”

You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.

“Bucky,” you greeted with a breathless smile. “Don’t tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.”

Bucky’s grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.

“If the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,” you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.

He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.

“No, actually,” he said. “The princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.”

“Oh,” your smile faded slightly. “I see.”

Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.

He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. “Is there something troubling you?”

I don’t want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.

I want you to stay here with me instead.

“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. “It’s a lovely day outside for a promenade—I’m sure it’ll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.

“The promenade won’t last forever,” he promised, his eyes searching yours. “And once you’ve finished tucking the Princess into bed, I’ll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.”

He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.

“Meet me there,” he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. “Behind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.”

Drown out everything else.

You knew exactly what he meant. This wasn’t the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each other’s arms.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.

“Tonight, after the moon hits its peak,” he murmured, quiet and low. “Don’t make me wait for you, sweetheart.”

Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Bucky’s arms again—a thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.

“Tonight,” you repeated with a genuine smile. “I shall be there.”

Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. “Good—”

“Sergeant Barnes!” the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.

Bucky’s body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.

“Your Majesty,” Bucky’s voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.

He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.

The King didn’t even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at you—the dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.

“Sergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,” the King lectured with authority. “Why are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?”

“My apologies, Sire,” Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. “I was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.”

The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didn’t look pleased. “See that you are. In these times, the Princess’s safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.”

The King’s gaze flickered momentarily toward you—a cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furniture—before he turned back to Bucky.

“Move along, Sergeant.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” Bucky said.

He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the King’s attention was turned away, Bucky’s gaze broke rank.

Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Bucky’s heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.

In his eyes, you shouldn’t be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.

But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.

With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.

The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped you—a welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.

At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the trenches.”

Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. “And it looks like you didn’t have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.”

“That’s because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,” John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.

Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. “Hours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.”

Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.

“I’m starving,” you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. “What are you all feasting on?” You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.

Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. “Bob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focaccia—” she lifted a piece of the bread, “apparently, it’s all the rage in the southern kingdoms.”

You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.

“He’s even made a special companion for it,” John called over his shoulder, “a savory onion and fig jam.”

Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.

“Try it,” Wanda encouraged. “It’s much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.”

You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.

“Mmm!” You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. “Bob—this is delicious! If you’ve been cooking like this all this time, how haven’t I had a taste until now?”

“It’s because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,” Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.

Across the kitchen, Bob’s ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. “I’ve been trying something new… so I’m glad you like it.”

“Aw, look at that,” Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. “You’ve got Bob all flustered now.”

John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.

“Careful with that one, Bob,” he warned, pointing his whisk at you. “Getting too close to her will only get the kingdom’s mightiest soldier’s blade pressed against your throat.”

The entire kitchen barked in laughter at John’s comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.

“Hey now,” you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. “Don’t tease the guy. He’s the only one keeping you all fed.”

Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutes—away from the pressure of your chores—you were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.

The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyone’s head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.

“The promenade is over,” Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. “Back upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.”

“I didn’t even finish my loaf!” Yelena’s complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.

Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “The Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go on—I’ll change her sheets so they’re ready for her to lie down.”

You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. “Right. I’m going.”

On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.

You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.

With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.

Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasn’t alone.

Bucky was standing right beside her.

And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.

“My knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.

Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knight’s gaze.

“Please, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,” she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. “Just as I shall call you Bucky.”

You felt your heart drop.

As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.

“Thank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,” Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.

“Of course,” Bucky nodded politely. “With the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.”

“You always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,” she smiled.

“I am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. “Shall I take my leave, then?”

The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. “I told you to call me Daphne.” She looked around with a sigh. “And no need—it seems my maidservant has yet to arrive—”

Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadn’t been eavesdropping the entire time.

“I apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,” you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. “I made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if you’re ready.”

Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“Oh,” Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. “I would like that very much.”

You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didn’t.

So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.

Bucky’s eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.

Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. “You are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn’t reply immediately—not until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. “Sergeant?”

“I… my apologies,” Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. “Your Royal Highness.”

He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasn’t customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.

The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.

“The bath, then?” Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.

“Yes—of course, Your Royal Highness,” you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.

You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.

The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didn’t wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.

“He truly is a marvel, isn’t he?” she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. “The way the villagers part for him—he has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.”

You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.

“He is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,” you managed to say.

“It’s more than duty,” she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. “When we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.”

Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.

You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his job—just as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.

“Do you think he finds me charming?”

Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word “I—” dying on your lips.

“It’s so hard to tell with men like him,” she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. “So stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!”

There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.

Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fall—the silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlier—her slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.

She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.

But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of him—the version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.

So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.

“It is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.”

The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.

The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.

Bucky was right—no guards were posted on this side of the palace.

As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.

While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.

By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.

You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.

Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?

Had he forgotten?

Or worse—was everything Princess Daphne said true?

Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?

An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.

You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.

As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.

But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.

“Bob?” you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. “What are you doing out here?”

Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. “I stayed behind in the kitchen,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “I wanted to perfect the focaccia.” He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.

He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.

“What are you doing out here?” Bob returned the question.

“I’m… um—waiting for someone,” you replied meekly.

Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.

“… For how long?”

“I haven’t been out here long,” you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. “I was just starting to head back, actually.”

Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you weren’t telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.

Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.

“I think this is the best loaf I’ve made,” he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. “Want to share it with me?”

You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early you’d have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.

But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didn’t sound bad at all.

“Just for a moment,” you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.

You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.

“Here,” he said softly, handing you the larger piece. “It’s still warm.”

You took the piece in your hands and bit into it—no jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.

It was delicious, and you didn’t even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.

For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didn’t push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.

You two just sat there, enjoying each other’s company under the stars.

“You’re an incredible cook, Bob,” you said, gazing up at the dark sky. “I wish people outside of the palace could taste this—it’s exquisite.”

Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.

“I told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.” He looked up at the sky with you. “It’s always been my dream.”

You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.

Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businesses—wreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.

But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.

“Well, when you do open up your shop,” you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be the first one in line.”

Bob smiled at you. “What about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?”

“Does anyone actually want to stay at the palace?” you joked, and he chuckled softly.

“No. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own family—” Your smile faded slightly at the thought. “Maybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.”

But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.

Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Bucky—and he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.

He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.

Bob knew it, too. It was why he didn’t press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You forced a smile. “It’s okay.”

Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.

“I know you hear this plenty of times,” he started gently, “but you deserve so much better than—”

“Hey!”

A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.

He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.

He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left hand—the cold metal of his prosthetic—rested firmly over the hilt of his sword.

Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.

“James—”

“What the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?” Bucky seethed. He didn’t even look at you—his icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.

“I—I was just about to head to bed, sir,” Bob stammered, his hands still raised. “I was just finishing up some work in the kitchen and—”

“Bullshit,” Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. “All I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his place—a foolish boy who thinks he’s entitled to roam the grounds after dark. You’re a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.”

You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be rough—it was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didn’t deserve this.

“James, calm down—”

“You will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,” Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.

“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Bob whispered, his voice trembling.

“Then get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,” Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Back to your hole, baker. Now.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Bucky had never spoken to you like that.

Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servant—and that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.

Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.

He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.

“You broke bread with the boy?”

You didn’t dare to speak.

“Answer me,” Bucky commanded.

“I waited for you,” you said instead, your voice trembling.

Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.

“I waited for over an hour,” you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. “I have to rise in merely four hours—you know that. And yet...” Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. “You stood me up.”

Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.

“Not only that—but you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! He’s my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. “I didn’t realize that kid was of such importance to you.”

You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. “Don’t tell me,” you scoffed lightly in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”

He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.

“I am many things,” he said stiffly. “But jealous? I am not.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“And even if I was,” Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. “Is that so wrong?”

Your brows furrowed. “Funny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.”

Bucky’s face became a mask of confusion. “What?”

“About how charming you were,” you said with bitterness. “She said you held her parasol and that you looked at her… differently.”

Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.

“Looking at her differently? That’s unbelievable,” he scoffed. “And you know it is my job to do as I am told.” He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. “And charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?”

He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.

“You’re ridiculous, James,” you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.

“Wait—” he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to stand you up—I swear it.”

He squeezed your arm gently—a silent plea for you to hear him out.

“I was with the General,” he spoke, his voice getting quieter. “The meeting… it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. It’s Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.”

He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. “The Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. It’s getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routes—I… I couldn’t just walk out.”

Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.

“I was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldn’t have even had time to find you to say goodbye.”

Bucky was leaving?

You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.

“But… you’re still here,” you whispered, your eyes searching his.

“I am,” he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. “Rogers and Wilson… they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. They’re out there right now, just so I could be here—with you.”

Bucky’s hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.

“There is never a moment where I’m not thinking of you, and God—the thought of you waiting for me this entire time… I can’t even fathom it,” his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. “I swear to you—I would never leave you alone.”

He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.

“And as for that outburst earlier…” He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.”

Bucky didn’t wait for verbal forgiveness—he took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.

When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.

He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. “A beautiful, beautiful sight.”

You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touch—to crave him.

And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.

He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.

“No,” Bucky cut you off coldly. “Keep it on. I want to tear through it myself.”

You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.

He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.

“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. “God, I’ve missed you so much it hurts.”

“I’ve missed you so much too, Bucky,” you moaned softly. “So much.”

Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t any space left between you.

He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. “You smell so good.” “You’re so soft.” “So pretty.”

Bucky’s hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your ear. “I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”

Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.

Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of him—his cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.

Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.

“Bucky,” you sighed softly against his mouth. “I need you.”

“I know, my dear,” Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. “You don’t know how badly I needed you today.”

His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.

“Missed your legs wrapped tight around me,” he breathed. “Missed you moaning my name.”

Bucky couldn’t wait any longer.

His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cunt—already puffy and begging for him, and he hadn’t even put it in yet.

“She missed me, hasn’t she?” he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. “Bet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldn’t even put up a fight.”

You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.

“Christ,” you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.

Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. “When was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. “I… I don’t know. Nine… ten days ago?”

Bucky hummed. “Haven’t fucked you for a little over a week and you’re already seeking attention from other men, aren’t you?”

Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldn’t help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealous—and that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.

“Gotta claim you again,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. “Gotta remind you who you belong to.”

With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.

“What an eager little thing,” he taunted.

“Bucky,” you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. “Pl-please...”

Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.

He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this moment—but with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.

With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. “Just as I thought—so fucking wet… can just… slide right in.”

You hissed, your hands finding Bucky’s broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you—searingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.

“Mine,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.

To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.

“Ten days,” he breathed against your ear. “Ten fucking days—don’t think I’m gonna last long inside you, baby.”

“Don’t care,” you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “I just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.”

Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.

The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helpless—completely and devastingly stuffed.

“Oh my—Buck, too… too much.”

“Too much?” he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. “But sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. You’ve taken harder.”

“I know,” you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. “It’s just been… ten days—”

“Ten days and you’ve already gotten so tight for me again,” he murmured, his pace increasing. “Means you haven't been fucking anyone else.”

Your face burned as you stammered, “Of course not—”

The words that left your lips made Bucky’s heart soar and his cock pulse.

With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.

Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.

“You look so good like this,” he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. “Sprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.”

Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.

“Seeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,” he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. “Makes me want to do things to make sure you stay.”

You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Bucky’s grip on you tighten.

“I want to breed you,” Bucky confessed shamelessly. “Wanna give you a piece of me—so when I’m out there fighting, or when you’re away from me, you’ll still have me. I want to pump you so full that you’ll always be carrying a part of me.”

You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.

“Need to…” Bucky thrust deep, “pump you full…” He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. “Going to have to make you my girl for good.”

Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.

The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.

“You like that?” Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. “You like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?”

Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.

“Yes!” you cried out. “Yes, Bucky—please! I’m yours… all yours—I want to be full of you!”

“Fuck,” Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.

He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Bucky’s arms wrapped tight around your body—the scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“Bounce on it, baby,” he muttered roughly. “Fuck—bounce on me ‘til I cum.”

Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.

Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. “Just like that.”

“Bucky… I’m—I’m going to—”

“I know, baby,” he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere.

“D-don’t go,” you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.

Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.

Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.

“Good girl,” he praised with a gravelly rasp. “My sweet, precious girl.”

You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.

Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.

“So perfect,” he mumbled.

You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this forever—with Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldn’t want to hear from anyone else.

He told you he wasn’t going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.

“I don’t want you to go,” you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. “Please, just stay with me.”

Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.

He didn’t pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”

He began to press soft kisses all over your face— your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.

The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.

But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.

“Right now, let’s just enjoy the moment,” Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. “Me and you—we’re together now, and that’s all we can ask for, right?”

He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.

“Right,” you whimpered.

“Don’t cry,” Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. “I’m right here, baby. Right here.”

The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.

“When the war is over,” you brought up carefully and quietly. “Do you think we’ll have a chance to be together?”

Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lips—he didn’t have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.

“In a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, I’ll always choose you.”

The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.

You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.

“What’s she smiling about over there?” Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.

“What do you think?” Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.

“She’d usually be complaining about her back by now,” Yelena chimed in. “But she’s just singing to herself like some mentally deranged—”

“I can hear you all, you know,” you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.

“I’m going to dump this outside,” you announced to the rest of the group. “Maybe bask in the sun for a bit—who knows. It’s a pretty day.”

“Okay, but don’t be long,” Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. “We have a lot to do today.”

“I won’t,” you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.

As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.

After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.

He was the kingdom’s strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldn’t help but pray for his safety.

You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.

You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.

Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.

Was this a drill?

The kingdom hadn’t made any announcements for a drill today—unless you had missed it?

As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.

“Sokovian flags on the horizon!”

“Soldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!”

“Alert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!”

Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.

You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.

But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.

That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.

A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.

“Are you trying to get killed?” she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.

Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “How—”

“They’re saying they’ve already made it inside,” Natasha yelled over the noise. “Sokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterday—soldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.”

You felt your blood run cold.

Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdom’s strongest soldier wasn’t there to protect it.

“Where are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bob—”

Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. “They’re already inside—”

The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.

Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. “Clear the room!” one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.

“Down!” Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.

“To the back doors,” you hissed at her, pointing behind her. “Quick!”

She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.

“The grapevines,” you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. “We can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us cover—”

Natasha didn’t let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. “Let’s go, then!”

As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.

“Nat!”

You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.

A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen you—a force strong enough to throw you backward.

You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.

Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.

You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.

A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.

“Get the Princess to safety!” the kingdom’s soldiers shouted over the noise. “Go, Sergeant!”

Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.

Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.

It was Bucky—his armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low — the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.

Ah, there he was.

Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.

Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.

He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.

You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldn’t even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.

But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.

And that was all that mattered.

In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.

His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdom’s ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.

His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.

Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to move—away from the Princess, and toward you.

“Sergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!”

“Barnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!”

“The Princess is exposed! Cover!”

“Barnes!”

Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didn’t look back. He didn’t care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.

All he cared about was you.

Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.

“No, no, no,” it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. “Hey… hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. It’s me—stay with me. Come on, stay with me.”

You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.

His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.

“Bucky…” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.

“I’ve got you,” he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere—you have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.”

He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.

“I can’t—I can’t move my legs,” you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.

“It’s okay,” Bucky cooed, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didn’t know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.

“Just stay awake, okay? Promise me you’ll stay awake.”

“Bucky—”

“We’ll get you somewhere safe—I swear it—”

“Bucky,” you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.

As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.

“I love you,” you whispered suddenly.

Bucky’s stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.

For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tighten—forced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.

“No,” he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. “Don’t say that. Not yet. You don’t get to say goodbye.”

He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.

“You save that,” he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. “You save those words for when we’re back at the gazebo—you save them for when the sun is up and there isn’t a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?”

He looked down at you again, anticipating a response—anything to show that you were still alive—but your breathing was growing labored in his grip.

“I’m not letting you go,” he promised. “You hold on to me, and don’t you dare close those eyes.”

Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.

The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.

Bucky kept his promise—and more.

Even in a world that wasn’t perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.

thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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Bucky had volunteered before Sam could even finish inhaling to make what would've undoubtedly been a joke about your hard head.

"I'll do it."

Three words. Gravel-rough. Final. The kind of tone that made everyone else in the room shift their weight, suddenly finding other places to be.

Now he was sprawled in the chair beside your bed, one boot propped on the rail, and you were trying real hard not to notice how his tactical pants pulled across his thighs. How his metal fingers drummed against his knee. Tap tap tap. Like he was counting seconds. Or fighting something. The rhythm was hypnotic, steady, and you found yourself breathing in time with it without meaning to.

Your skin felt too tight, prickling with awareness every time he shifted. The chair creaked under his weight, old plastic and metal protesting, and each sound sent little sparks down your spine. You could map his presence without looking: the space he took up, the way the air felt heavier on your left side where he sat, the heat that seemed to radiate from him despite the three inches between his knee and your hip.

The curtain around your bed was a joke. Tissue-paper privacy. You could hear everything. Nat two beds over telling Clint he was an idiot, machines beeping their electronic heartbeats, someone's sneakers squeaking against linoleum. Could probably hear you breathing too heavy, too aware of how Bucky kept looking at you sideways, pupils blown dark in the harsh medical lighting.

"Stop staring at the ceiling."

You hadn't realized your eyes were drifting shut until his voice cut through the fog. Low. Commanding in that quiet way he had, like he expected to be obeyed without raising his voice. When you turned your head (mistake, fuck, the room tilted like a ship in rough seas) he was leaning forward, elbows on knees. Close enough you could smell gunpowder clinging to his clothes. Sweat drying on his skin.

Something indefinable that made your thighs press together involuntarily, muscles clenching with a need you'd been ignoring for months.

"Wasn't."

"You're a shit liar."

His flesh hand found your ankle through the blanket, thumb pressing into the hollow below the bone. Just that. Just his thumb on your fucking ankle, and your whole body went electric. Heat bloomed from that single point of contact, spreading up your leg like wildfire, pooling low in your belly where it turned liquid and wanting.

"Talk to me." Not a request. "Need to know that brain's still working."

The authority in his voice made something in your chest flutter and drop. You swallowed, throat clicking dry. Your pulse was everywhere suddenly: throat, wrists, between your legs where you were already getting embarrassingly wet from his thumb on your ankle. Jesus.

"It's working." But your voice came out wrong. Rough. Like you'd been screaming. Or like you wanted to. Your tongue felt thick in your mouth, clumsy with the effort of forming words when all your blood was rushing south.

"Yeah?" His hand slid higher, fingers wrapping around your calf through the thin hospital blanket. The pressure was firm, possessive, his thumb stroking along the muscle in a way that made your breath catch. "Tell me something then. Anything. Mission report. Grocery list." A pause, his grip tightening just a fraction. "Why you've been looking at me like that for months."

The words hit like cold water down your spine, shocking and clarifying all at once. Your stomach dropped, rolled, settled somewhere near your knees. Heat flooded your face, your chest, spreading like wildfire under your skin.

You jackknifed up. Another mistake. The room spun violently, nausea rising fast, and his other hand shot out to steady you. Metal fingers splayed across your ribcage, right below your breast, and you both froze.

The cold of the metal burned through the thin hospital gown, each individual finger plate pressing into your skin like a brand. You could feel the mechanical whir of the joints, barely audible but vibrating against your ribs. Your nipple hardened instantly, visible through the thin fabric, and his eyes tracked the movement.

"Like what?" But you knew. God, you knew. Your voice came out breathy, giving you away.

You had been trying so hard not to be obvious about it. The way you tracked him during briefings, eyes following the movement of his hands as he gestured. How training sessions always ended with you pressed against the mat, his weight holding you down, both of you breathing too hard for it to be about the spar. The way your skin felt too sensitive for hours afterward, phantom pressure of his grip lingering on your wrists.

"You know what." His thumb was moving in circles on your calf. Small. Deliberate. Testing. His metal hand hadn't moved from your ribs. You could feel each segment of the joints, the barely-there warmth where flesh met machine at his shoulder, conducting down through the prosthetic. "Same way I look at you."

Your heart stuttered, actually skipped a beat in your chest. Heat pooled low in your belly, liquid and urgent. Your underwear was definitely wet now, clinging to sensitive skin.

Someone laughed nearby. The spell should've broken. Should've had him pulling back, you making a joke, both of you pretending this wasn't happening. Instead, his hands tightened. Claimed. His flesh hand slid higher, fingers spanning your knee now, and the possession in that grip made your inner walls clench around nothing.

"Bucky..."

"Been driving me fucking insane." The words tumbled out like he'd been holding them back with his teeth. Raw. Unfiltered. "Months of watching you. The way you move. Do you have any idea what you look like after training?" His eyes tracked down your body, pupils dilating as his gaze lingered on the rapid rise and fall of your chest. "Skin all flushed. Breathing hard. That look in your eyes like you could go another round, like you're just getting started. Fuck, I can't..."

He broke off, jaw clenching so hard you could hear his teeth grind. A muscle jumped in his cheek, his control fraying at the edges.

"Don't." It came out before you could stop it, breathless and rushed. Your skin was burning, too tight, too sensitive. Every nerve ending screaming for contact. "Be good, I mean. Don't. You don't have to do that."

His eyes snapped to yours. Dark. Dangerous. The kind of look that preceded very bad decisions.

"You're concussed."

"So?"

"So you're not thinking straight."

"I'm thinking just fine." Your hand found his wrist. The flesh one, the one attached to fingers still making those maddening circles on your skin. His pulse hammered under your fingertips, fast and hard, betraying his calm exterior. "Been thinking about this for months. About you. What you'd feel like. How you'd..."

Your breath hitched as his thumb pressed harder, finding a sensitive spot behind your knee you didn't know existed. The pressure sent electricity shooting up your thigh, making your cunt clench with want.

"Stop." But his hand was sliding higher, past your knee now, fingertips grazing the soft skin of your inner thigh, and his breathing had gone ragged. Harsh. His metal hand flexed against your ribs, a mechanical whir that sounded loud as a gunshot in the quiet. "Someone could see, baby."

"Yeah." You were burning up. Skin too tight. Your cunt was throbbing, clenching, already wet enough that you could feel it starting to soak through your underwear. The thin hospital gown felt like too much and not enough all at once. "They could."

"Fuck."

His metal hand shifted, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the gown, and you couldn't stop the soft noise that escaped. Your nipple hardened instantly, visible through the thin fabric, and his eyes tracked the movement like a predator tracking prey.

"You're gonna kill me." Low. Rough. Barely audible.

"No sleeping, right?" You were playing with fire and you knew it. Could see it in the way his jaw worked, the muscle jumping under stubbled skin. The way his flesh hand had gone still on your thigh, fingers pressed deep enough to leave marks. "Gotta keep me awake somehow."

He didn't respond. Just stared at you with those dark eyes, breathing too controlled, too measured. The silence stretched between you, taut as a wire, until you couldn't stand it anymore.

"Touch me." Desperate. Raw. Your hips lifted slightly off the bed without your permission, seeking. "Please, Bucky. I need... I've needed—"

His hand moved so fast you didn't see it. One second it was on your thigh, the next it was between your legs, cupping you through underwear that was already embarrassingly wet. The heel of his hand ground against your clit and your whole body arched, spine bowing off the mattress.

The pressure was perfect and not enough, too much fabric between you and what you needed. Your mouth fell open on a silent gasp, eyes rolling back as he pressed harder.

"Quiet." His voice had dropped an octave. Dangerous. The tone that meant follow orders or face consequences. "You want this, you stay quiet. Understand?"

The authority in his voice made your cunt clench, empty and aching. You nodded frantically, already trembling. He'd barely touched you and you were coming apart. Months of want crashing down all at once, making you dizzy with need. Or maybe that was the concussion. Hard to tell when his fingers were stroking along the edge of your underwear, teasing. So close to where you needed them.

"Words."

"Yes." Barely a whisper. "I can... I'll be quiet."

"Good girl."

The praise hit you like a physical thing. Warmth spread through your chest even as your cunt clenched, desperate for friction. You bit your lip hard, tasting copper, trying to hold back the whimper building in your throat.

He watched your face with an intensity that made you want to hide and display yourself all at once. His fingers played with the elastic of your underwear, dipping just underneath before retreating. Teasing. Making you wait. Making you want.

"Been thinking about this, you know." Quiet. Almost conversational if not for the rough edge to his voice. "For months. How wet you'd get. What sounds you'd make."

His fingers slipped under the elastic finally, and the first touch of skin on skin made you both shudder. You could feel the calluses on his fingers, rough against sensitive flesh.

"Christ." His fingers slipped under the elastic, and the first touch of skin on skin made you both shudder. "You're—fuck, you're soaked. Fucking dripping for me."

Two fingers pushed inside without warning and your vision whited out. The stretch burned in the best way. Thick fingers, filling you, his metal hand spanning your ribs to keep you steady. You could hear everything: footsteps in the distance, the lewd, wet sound as he withdrew his fingers just to push them back in deeper, the catch in his breath when your inner walls spasmed around him.

Your hand flew to your mouth, muffling the moan that wanted to escape. The tendons in your neck stood out with the effort of staying quiet, staying still, when every instinct screamed to rock down onto his fingers. To chase the pressure building in your belly.

"Look at you." His thumb found your clit, circling with devastating precision. The callus on his thumb caught on the sensitive bundle of nerves just right, making your thighs shake. "Taking it so good, sweetheart. That's it, nice and easy."

His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. Your free hand fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, the cheap fabric tearing under your grip. The pressure was building too fast, coiling tight in your belly like a spring wound too far. Your inner walls fluttered around his fingers, drawing them deeper, trying to keep them inside.

"There she is." Dark satisfaction in his voice. "God fucking damn, I can feel how close you are."

Voices. Getting closer. Multiple people, from the sound of it.

Bucky's fingers stilled inside you but didn't withdraw. You made a wounded noise behind your hand and his metal fingers came up to cover your mouth, cool against your overheated skin.

"Shh." His lips were at your ear, breath hot against your neck. "Not a sound."

The torture of it. His fingers buried inside you, stretching you, filling you, but not moving. Your whole body was wound tight as a bow string, clit throbbing against his thumb. You could hear the conversation clearly now. Nurses discussing shift changes. Normal, mundane, while you were spread open and dripping on Bucky's fingers.

Your cunt clenched involuntarily around him and his breath hitched against your ear.

"Quiet." His lips were at your ear, breath hot against your neck. "They're right there, sweetheart. Right fucking there and you're spread open on my fingers." His thumb pressed against your clit—not moving, just firm, steady pressure that made you see stars. "Can you be quiet for me? Huh? Can you be good?"

A whimper escaped behind his hand. Your whole body was shaking with the effort of staying still, thighs trembling, stomach muscles clenched so tight they ached. You were so close, teetering on the edge, just needing a little more pressure, a little more movement.

"'Atta girl," he breathed, and you clenched harder around his fingers. "Being so fucking sweet for me. Just a little longer."

The voices finally faded. Footsteps retreating down the hall. But Bucky waited. One heartbeat. Two. Your chest was heaving, spots dancing in your vision from holding your breath.

Then his fingers were moving again, hard and fast and deep and obscene and exactly what you needed. His metal hand left your mouth to wrap around your throat. Not squeezing, but claiming. Feeling your pulse hammer against his palm like a trapped bird.

"Come for me."

The command in his voice, the pressure of his fingers, the way his thumb pressed against your clit. It was too much. The orgasm hit like a freight train, sudden and overwhelming, every nerve ending firing at once. You bit down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, body convulsing around his fingers. Your cunt clenched rhythmically, pulling his fingers deeper, and he worked you through every second of it. Drawing it out until you were shaking, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his wrist.

"Beautiful," he rasped, slowly withdrawing his fingers. They were soaked, glistening in the harsh fluorescent light. He brought them to his mouth without hesitation, and the sound he made when he tasted you—low, guttural, hungry—made your exhausted cunt clench with renewed interest.

Jesus Christ. Your thighs pressed together, trying to ease the renewed ache between them. Your whole body felt liquid, boneless, like you might melt into the mattress.

"Bucky." You didn't know what you were asking for. Everything. Anything. Your voice was wrecked, barely a whisper.

"Five more hours."

His eyes tracked over your body, taking in your flushed skin, the way your chest still heaved, the visible wetness on your thighs. The promise in his gaze made you shiver.

The bed dipped suddenly, the narrow mattress protesting as he stood and then climbed onto it, stretching out beside you.

"Scoot over."

"What? There's no room."

"Then we make room."

His arm went around your waist, hauling you back against his chest with easy strength, and suddenly you were surrounded by him. Heat. Solid muscle. The unmistakable press of his cock against your ass, hard and insistent through tactical gear. The length of him, the thickness you could feel even through layers of fabric, made your mouth go dry.

Your breath caught. He was so much bigger than you like this, curved around your body, making you feel small. Protected. Owned. His metal arm banded across your stomach, holding you in place with gentle but unbreakable strength.

"Someone will see," you gasped, repeating his words from earlier.

"Let them."

His flesh hand was already moving under the hospital gown, palm sliding over your stomach, your ribs, cupping your breast like he had every right to it. Your nipple was already hard, sensitive, and when his fingers found it, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, your back arched involuntarily. The sensation shot straight to your cunt, making you clench around nothing.

He didn't say anything. Just held you there, fingers playing with your nipple while his cock pressed insistently against your ass. You could feel him breathing, chest rising and falling against your back, controlled but not quite steady.

You pressed back instinctively and his breath hitched.

"Careful." Warning in his tone. His hand tightened on your breast, just shy of painful. "You're hurt. Not gonna—fuck, sweetheart, don't move like that."

But your hips were already rolling in small circles, grinding back against him. You could feel how big he was through the tactical pants, how hard, and your cunt clenched with want despite the orgasm still making your thighs shake. The friction wasn't enough, too many layers between you, but it was something.

"Can't help it." True. Your body moved without permission, seeking friction, pressure, him. Every roll of your hips made him twitch against you, made his breathing rougher. "Want—"

"I know what you want."

His metal hand slid down, fingers finding you still wet, still swollen. Two fingers pushed inside without warning and you keened, muffling the sound in his shoulder. The angle was different like this, deeper, his palm grinding against your clit with each movement.

"You want my cock." A statement, not question. His voice was wrecked, barely controlled. "Want me to fuck you right here where anyone could see. That right?"

You nodded frantically, beyond words. His fingers were moving steady, deep, curling to hit that spot that made your vision blur at the edges. Your hips rocked between his hand and his cock, chasing pressure from both sides.

"Can't." But his hips were moving now too, grinding against your ass in rhythm with his fingers. The friction, the heat of him even through clothes, was driving you insane. "Not here, baby. Not when I can't..."

His breath caught as you clenched around his fingers, inner walls fluttering, trying to pull him deeper.

"Fuck."

Someone walked past your curtain. Close enough that the fabric rustled. Bucky's fingers didn't stop, if anything moved faster, and you had to turn your face into his shoulder to muffle the keening noise building in your throat.

The wet sounds seemed impossibly loud in the quiet bay. His fingers moving in and out, your slick arousal making everything easier, messier. You could feel it on your thighs, probably soaking through your hospital gown.

"Such a good girl." Quiet. Reverent almost, tinged with awe. "Taking it so sweet for me."

His voice broke as you ground back particularly hard against his cock, the friction making him thrust forward involuntarily. You could feel him throbbing through the pants, could feel the damp spot where he was leaking pre-come.

"Gonna make me come in my fucking pants, doll."

The image of Bucky losing control—coming just from this—made your cunt clench hard around his fingers. He groaned, low and rough, his cock twitching against you. His control was slipping, you could feel it in the way his fingers moved faster, less controlled, more desperate.

His fingers curled, finding that spot inside that made your vision go white at the edges. Your body was shaking, overwhelmed, another orgasm building impossibly fast. Too much. Too sensitive. But his metal arm held you in place, keeping you right where he wanted you.

"One more." Not a request. A wet kiss to your cheek, warm and mocking. "Give me one more."

His thumb pressed hard against your clit, fingers curling insistently, and that was it. You came with a muffled sob, body convulsing in his arms. This orgasm was different. Deeper, rolling through you in waves that seemed to go on forever. You could feel yourself gushing around his fingers, soaking his hand, definitely soaking the sheets. Your vision went white, then black at the edges, everything narrowing to the pleasure coursing through your body.

He worked you through it until you were boneless, whimpering, aftershocks making you twitch with every movement of his fingers. When he finally withdrew them, you could hear how wet they were. Feel the evidence of your orgasm cooling on your thighs, between your legs, probably visible even through the gown.

He brought his fingers to your lips.

"Open."

You did without thinking, tasting yourself on his skin. Salt and need and the metal tang of his prosthetic where it pressed against your chin. His cock jumped against your ass and his breathing went ragged, harsh, like he was barely holding on.

"Jesus Christ." Muttered against your neck, his breath warm. "Four more hours."

Four more hours.

You shivered, cunt aching despite your exhaustion. Your whole body felt wrung out, oversensitive, every nerve ending still firing randomly. But you could already feel the heat building again, slow and insistent.

"Don't think I'll survive," you whispered, honest.

His laugh was dark, full of promise.

"You will." His fingers were already sliding between your legs again, finding you swollen and sensitive and wet, so fucking wet. "Gonna take such good care of you. Gonna keep you awake."

The promise in his voice made you shiver. Four more hours of this. Four more hours of his hands, his mouth, his controlled breathing breaking apart when you pressed against him just right. Four more hours of being held down, held open, taken apart piece by piece while trying to stay quiet.

You were definitely going to die.

But what a way to go.

His fingers slipped inside again, and you whimpered from the oversensitivity. Gentle this time, just barely moving. Just enough to keep you on edge, to keep you present, to keep you from drifting off. The concussion made everything feel distant and immediate at once, like you were floating and drowning simultaneously.

"Stay with me." Quiet command. His lips pressed against your neck, not quite a kiss. "No sleeping."

"Hard to sleep when you're..." You lost the words as his fingers curled, a slow, deliberate movement that made your whole body tighten. Another strangled breath escaped your throat as you squirmed against him, dizzy and hungry.

"When I'm what?"

"You know what."

"Want to hear you say it."

But you couldn't. Not with his fingers moving like that, not with his cock pressed against you, not with the way your body was already building toward another orgasm despite being wrung out. Instead you just pressed back against him, letting your body say what your mouth couldn't.

"Four more hours," he said again, and this time it definitely sounded like a promise.

He held you protectively, hand resting on the slowly forming bump of your belly.

“So pretty for me,” he breathed, kissing your neck. “My girl, rounding out for me. My baby…”

You let out a soft, shaky breath, gripping the pillow where your cheek was pressed.

“Clarkie, m’close.”

“I know, honey. I know. So needy when you’re pregnant, huh? I oughta put a baby in you more often.” He smiled against your skin, his pace picking up. “Y’look so pretty like this.”

You whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as you felt your climax fast approaching. You reached behind you, hand tangling in his dark hair. He slid his hand that rested on your tummy down, circling his fingers to get you closer to that edge. It wasn’t long before you were finishing, his name a needy cry on your lips as you squeezed him.

He groaned, panting against your skin. “Oh… sh-mm. I’m… I’m gonna…”

You nodded quickly, and he fell off that edge himself only a second later. He plunged into you as deep as he could go, filling you up with everything he had until it was leaking out and dripping over your leg. He breathed deep, taking a moment to gather himself.

“Gosh, I love not having to worry about protection.”

You laughed, then winced slightly as he pulled out. “Not like we’re concerned about a pregnancy scare, I guess.”

“And you feel even better like this. Every little contraction and pulse and… mm…” he groaned, kissing your lips once. “I get to feel everything. Also, you’re a very gorgeous pregnant lady. Love seeing you get all plump with my baby.”

“You’re a kinky fucker, aren’t you?.”

He chuckled, dimples poking into his cheeks. “Maybe. For you.”

“Uh huh,” you mumble, raising a brow at him playfully. “I’m kinda craving an egg roll.”

He grinned again, immediately getting up to find some clothes.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry! I don’t know what happened, I—” Clark stammered, eyes wide and embarrassed, already grabbing napkins and paper towels as if trying to erase the very moment. His face was a soft shade of red, and you couldn’t help but notice how utterly clumsy and pathetic he looked in that instant, fumbling like a rookie instead of the calm, mild-mannered reporter you’d imagined. You barely made much of it—accidents happen. “It’s fine,” you said, waving him off with a small smile. “Really.”

But that was just the beginning.

Over the next few days, you noticed Clark acting…odd around you, and not in the usual shy, office-cute way. It was like he was walking a tightrope between wanting to get closer and being scared to take even a single step. Sometimes, you’d catch him staring at you from across the room, the faintest crease of worry on his brow, only for him to look away so fast you wondered if you’d imagined it. Once, when you passed by the coffee machine, he offered to get you a cup, but his hands trembled so much you ended up grabbing the pot yourself, smiling awkwardly at his flushed face.

“Clark, you okay?” you asked lightly, amused.

“Yeah! Just… uh, just fine. Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets like that would somehow hide his jitteriness. “I mean, no problem.”

Sometimes he’d stand too close when you worked late on a deadline, hovering just on the edge of your personal space, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Other times, you caught little things: the way his glasses fogged up when you leaned over to look at his computer screen while discussing an issue, or how his voice stumbled when he tried to ask you anything at all. It was subtle, but it was there—and it made you smile.

One afternoon, as you were digging through a stack of papers, Clark shuffled over nervously, holding a crumpled piece of paper. “I, uh, wrote a story. Would you want to—maybe—read it? And tell me what you think? I'm not so sure about it...” His voice was soft, almost hopeful. You looked up, met his uncertain gaze, and felt your heart skip.

“Of course,” you said, reaching out to take the paper. “I’d love to.”

He smiled, that shy, clumsy smile that made the whole office seem quieter somehow. And that’s when you realized: Clark Kent might be the most awkward person on the planet, but he was also the only one who seemed completely and hopelessly human in this whole damn office.

A few days later, you found yourself leaning over the cluttered desk of Jimmy Olsen, the newsroom’s resident charmer and self-proclaimed ladies’ man. You were deep in discussion about a tricky story idea—a feature on Metropolis’s urban development that could either make or break your footing in the Daily Planet. Jimmy, with his easy grin, was trying to convince you that the flashy angle was the way to go, while you argued for something more nuanced and honest.

“Trust me, you want the splash, the drama. People eat that up,” Jimmy said, his voice smooth as he clicked through photos on his screen. “Plus, you know I have a knack for making stories sexy.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled nonetheless. “Sexy isn’t exactly the word I’d use for city planning.”

As you spoke, your attention drifted briefly to the side, catching a movement behind Jimmy. There, just a few feet away, was Clark Kent. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by something else entirely—a crease in his brow that you didn’t remember seeing before, subtle but sharp, like a storm cloud hanging over his features. His eyes flicked rapidly between his computer screen, Jimmy, and you, like a silent witness to the conversation. You almost caught the way his chest puffed out slightly, the faintest sign of tension in the otherwise quiet room.

Before you could ponder it further, Lois Lane, ever sharp and always one step ahead, slid her chair beside you with a sly smile. She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper, “Looks like someone’s a little jealous.”

You blinked, glancing back toward Clark, who had quickly masked whatever emotion was crossing his face with a careful smile. But the faint flush rising in his cheeks gave him away.

“Jealous?” you echoed softly, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Of Jimmy Olsen?”

Lois just shrugged, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, you know, Jimmy’s kind of the office heartthrob. But Clark’s the one who’s all awkward and nervous whenever you’re around.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I think you’re imagining things.”

Before Lois could even answer, Perry White appeared beside you, his usual commanding presence filling the corner of the room. His sharp eyes swept across the desks, quickly surveying the hustle and bustle of reporters typing away, phones ringing, and the occasional shout from the bullpen. He cleared his throat, a sound that immediately drew a little more focus.

“Alright, people,” Perry announced, “I’m making my rounds to see that everyone’s on top of their stories. No slacking today.”

You seized the opportunity, glancing up at him. “Perry, what do you think about the story I was debating with Jimmy? The corruption piece or the human-interest one?”

Perry nodded thoughtfully, about to answer, when you leaned in a bit, dropping your voice. “Actually, there’s an even more interesting lead—something about Superman. Some new developments, maybe worth pursuing.”

His eyes flicked over to Clark’s direction, and a knowing smirk crept across his face. “Well, if you’re chasing Superman stories, it’d be ideal for you to work with Kent. He’s been getting exclusive interviews lately. No one else has that kind of access.”

Clark, who had been quietly typing away at his computer, seemed to catch the mention of his name. He didn’t look up, but you could have sworn his cheeks instantly turned an awfully bright shade of pink—like someone just turned on a spotlight directly on his face. He was clearly trying hard not to look like he was eavesdropping, but the subtle shift in his posture betrayed him.

Perry’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation, sharp and unmistakable: “Kent! You’re working with her on this one. Get your notes together, and no slacking off, got it?”

Clark jerked slightly at the sudden call, fingers hovering awkwardly above his keyboard before he forced himself to look up. His eyes met Perry’s briefly, then shifted toward you. For a moment, the pink flush in his cheeks deepened, betraying the storm of nerves swirling beneath his calm exterior.

“Yes, sir,” Clark managed, voice a little tighter than usual. He quickly averted his gaze, fiddling with the edge of his glasses as if to steady himself.

You smiled, trying to mask your own flutter of excitement. “Looks like we’re partners,” you said, leaning forward. “Guess I’m stuck with your coffee-spilling antics for a while.”

Clark’s lips twitched into what might have been a nervous smile. “I’ll try not to ruin the story this time,” he said softly, though you caught the hint of earnestness in his tone.

As Perry moved on, casting one last sharp glance around the room, Clark stood up, gathering his papers with a sort of determined clumsiness that only made him more endearing.

The very next day, the usual clatter of the newsroom was punctuated by a sharp thud as Perry White slammed a hefty stack of papers down on your desk, his expression all business and barely contained frustration. “Here,” he barked, eyes narrowing over the rims of his glasses. “This is your next big assignment. You two need to get to the bottom of it—fast.”

You flipped open the top sheet and began scanning the headline and notes: “Rising Movement to Place Superman Under Government Control.” The article outlined a growing faction arguing that Superman’s immense power was too dangerous to be left to his own judgment—that the world would be safer if he operated strictly under government orders rather than acting independently. The report highlighted heated debates in political circles, public protests, and the concerns of civil liberties groups.

Your heart skipped a beat as you glanced up to see Clark quietly approaching your desk, curiosity already written on his face. You tapped the papers with your pen. “Perry wants us on this one. They want to control Superman, make him accountable to the government instead of him just… doing whatever he thinks is right.”

Clark’s eyes flicked over the pages, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s… complicated,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s not just about control. It’s about trust. And freedom. If Superman is tied down by bureaucracy, what happens when there’s a threat the government doesn’t recognize? Or worse, a government that abuses that control?”

You nodded thoughtfully. “Exactly. And the public’s divided, too. Some think he’s a hero who can do no wrong; others see him as a threat. We have to find the middle ground, the real story beneath the headlines.”

Clark shifted on his feet, glancing up at you. “We’ll need to talk to experts, politicians, maybe some of those protesters. And maybe, if we’re lucky, someone close to Superman.”

You caught the flicker of something in his eyes—you weren’t really sure of what, nor where you able to pinpoint it, something he wasn’t saying out loud. But you didn’t press. Instead, you smiled. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Both of you settled back into your respective desks, the din of the bustling newsroom slowly fading as reporters finished their stories and started filing out for the day. The clatter of keyboards and ringing phones gave way to a quiet stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle of papers or the hum of the overhead lights. One by one, desks were abandoned until only yours and Clark’s remained illuminated, the soft glow of your lamps casting long shadows across stacks of notes and crumpled drafts.

The hours slipped by unnoticed as you each dug deeper into your leads, following threads through interviews, anonymous tips, and public records. You scoured news archives for any sign of organized opposition, while Clark cross-referenced political statements and campaign funding reports. The story was more tangled than you expected—nothing straightforward or easily pinned down.

Just as the clock hands crept toward midnight, Clark’s voice broke the silence, tentative but urgent. “Hey… come look at this.”

You pushed back from your desk and made your way over to his, where his screen displayed a series of financial reports and internal documents that looked like they’d been buried intentionally. “LexCorp,” Clark said softly, eyes flickering between the screen and you, “is behind the campaign to control Superman. They’re funneling money and influence to politicians and media outlets pushing this agenda.”

Your breath caught. It was the kind of lead that could shake the city—and maybe the world—but Clark’s next words tempered the shock. “Still, the numbers show that only a very small percentage of the population supports this. The majority of the country—people who see Superman as a symbol, a beacon of hope—stand firmly against it.”

You nodded slowly, feeling a mix of relief and unease. “That makes sense. People want to believe in him, in what he stands for. But it’s worrying. A campaign like this—rooted in fear and control—can still breed hatred and division.”

Clark’s gaze met yours, the weight of it hanging between you. “We need to show the truth, not just the noise.”

Without a word, you gathered your papers and notes into a somewhat organized pile, lifted your chair, and walked it over to Clark’s desk, dragging it just close enough so your knees brushed the edge of his. He blinked up at you, surprised but not displeased, and you could almost hear the subtle stutter in his thoughts as he adjusted his glasses quickly—a nervous habit you’d come to recognize.

The second you sat down beside him, Clark shifted in his seat like someone caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing, though all he’d done was sit perfectly still. His hands hovered above the desk uncertainly, fingers curling slightly, as if unsure where to place them. He clearly didn’t want to invade your space, even though it was you who had crossed into his.

“I figured we’d work faster if we pieced this together here,” you said, sorting through your notes as you leaned in to glance at his screen again. “Also, my desk lamp is starting to flicker, and I value my eyesight.”

Clark let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh—but his smile was soft, a little shy. “Yeah, sure. Of course. Makes sense.”

Still, he sat stiffly for a moment, as though his very presence beside you might be too much. His shoulders were drawn slightly inward, and he was clearly trying to take up as little space as humanly possible. You, on the other hand, had spread your pages across the edge of his desk without hesitation, your elbow brushing his now and then as you gestured toward the evidence.

His knee accidentally bumped yours under the desk, and he jerked back like he’d been shocked, muttering a soft, “Sorry—wasn’t trying to—”

You just smiled and shook your head. “Relax, Kent. I’m not going to bite.”

That earned you another small laugh—quieter this time, but more genuine. He seemed to settle slightly after that, his posture loosening bit by bit as the conversation drew back to the story at hand. You discussed the implications of LexCorp’s involvement, the ethical concerns around power and influence, and the danger of letting fear shape public perception.

You worked in silence for a while after that, the occasional exchange of thoughts passing between you and Clark like smooth ripples across still water. Pages shifted, keys clicked softly, and the atmosphere between you warmed—not from proximity alone, but from a shared sense of purpose. The weight of the story wasn’t just journalistic anymore. It felt personal. Important.

Eventually, you leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your tired eyes and speaking aloud what had been forming quietly in your mind. “I think the best move is to break this in two parts. First, a direct response to the growing fear—the rhetoric trying to paint Superman as a threat. We need something that calms the public down, brings back some clarity.” You glanced at Clark, who looked up at you, attentive. “A brief interview with Superman. Something measured. Controlled. Honest. People still trust him—most of them, anyway. If we lead with him, everything else that follows will hit harder.”

Clark nodded slowly, but you could see the flicker in his eyes—the guarded tension that always came with the mention of Superman. He adjusted his glasses, more composed this time. “And after that?”

You turned your chair slightly to face him fully, the pages spread between you like a puzzle finally coming together. “Then we go after LexCorp. Publicly. Thoroughly. We use the second piece to expose how this entire campaign—this whole attempt to regulate Superman like a weapon—is being run by a company with a known history of corruption.”

You tapped your pen against the notes, where you’d highlighted several lawsuits and whistleblower reports. “LexCorp has a decades-long track record of endangering the environment through illegal waste dumping, of committing large-scale corporate fraud, of lobbying its way out of accountability. And now, they want to play puppet master with the one person on this planet powerful enough to stop them from getting worse. They’re selling the idea that regulation means safety, but what they’re really selling is control. Control of him.”

Clark didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the papers for a long moment, his jaw tight, expression unreadable. You let the silence stretch, giving him space to process. Finally, he spoke, voice quiet but firm.

“Superman was never meant to be a weapon,” he said. “That’s not who he is. He’s supposed to be a symbol of peace. If he starts answering to governments—especially ones with corporate strings attached—he stops being that. He becomes something else. Something… dangerous.”

You nodded, grateful that he’d said it out loud. “Exactly. And that’s what we have to make clear to people. This isn’t just about Superman—it’s about what happens when fear is exploited by people who want power.”

The conversation drifted into silence after that—comfortable, if a little heavy. The two of you sat quietly, side by side, eyes scanning the notes and articles sprawled across Clark’s desk like pieces of a conspiracy no one else had dared to connect. Outside the windows, the city hummed in a low, sleepy rhythm; only the soft tapping of the building’s old radiator and the muted street sounds below remained.

You leaned back in your chair, gaze softening as you looked over the scattered sheets between you. It felt like a moment suspended in time—two overworked journalists sitting in a room half-lit by stubborn desk lamps and mutual exhaustion. And something about that stillness made you brave.

“I think,” you began slowly, “we’ve earned at least one conversation tonight that doesn’t revolve around corruption, lawsuits, or Lex Luthor.”

Clark blinked, eyes drifting away from the papers to glance at you, a little startled. He looked so genuinely caught off guard that for a second you thought he might ask who you were talking to.

But after a pause—and a small, sheepish laugh—he adjusted his glasses and nodded. “Right. Yeah. Of course. I just—wasn’t expecting…”

“A human moment? Wow, you really think so little of me?” you offered, half-smiling.

He returned it faintly. “Something like that.”

You shifted slightly in your seat, turning more toward him, your voice easy. “So. What do you do, Clark Kent, when you’re not hunched over this desk pondering your next angle? What exists outside the bylines and bad coffee?”

He looked at you for a long moment, clearly searching for an answer—or maybe just still recovering from the shift in tone. “Well,” he started slowly, “I guess I’m… kind of boring.”

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“I mean it,” he added a little nervous now, like he was trying to prove something to you. “I read a lot. I walk a lot. I like old radio broadcasts—sometimes I help my mom with stuff around the farm when I have time to get back to Kansas. I, uh… I don’t really have hobbies that impress people at parties.” He trailed off and his brows furrowed for a second as if he himself didn’t believe a word he said.

You laughed softly, leaning your elbow on the desk. “Not everything’s about being impressive.”

He looked at you again, glad you had changed the subject, more fully this time. “What about you?”

You tilted your head. “Are we flipping the question back on me already?”

Clark gave a little grin, almost teasing, but there was warmth in his voice when he said, “Well… you started it.”

You leaned back in your chair, stretching slightly, your body cracking in protest after sitting for so long. “Well,” you said, considering his question, “outside of investigating shady billionaires and defending Superman’s honor in print... I like sleeping. A lot. When I can get it. And late-night takeout. And really bad movies.”

Clark’s brows lifted, intrigued. “Bad movies?”

You nodded with a mock-serious expression. “Oh, I’m talking truly bad. I’m talking alien-invasion-budget-of-twenty-dollars bad. Practical effects made of paper plates bad.”

He chuckled, the sound low and surprised. “So, you’re saying if I brought over, say, ‘Attack of the Radioactive Squirrel People,’ you wouldn’t turn me away?”

You narrowed your eyes, playing along. “Only if you bring snacks and don’t ask logical questions during the film. Logic ruins the experience.”

Clark feigned deep thought. “Would I not be able to ask why the squirrels are radioactive?”

You gasped dramatically. “Absolutely not. That’s part of the mystery.”

He laughed again, fuller this time, shoulders relaxing as he leaned a little closer. “You know, I never would’ve pegged you for a bad sci-fi lover.”

“And I never would’ve pegged you for someone who listens to old radio shows,” you shot back with a grin. “You hide it well. You’ve got the whole ‘mild-mannered’ thing down to an art.”

Clark made a face. “It’s not an act, you know.”

You hummed, skeptical. “Mmhm. Sure. You just happen to be the only person in the office who never yells, never swears, and always holds the elevator even if it means missing it entirely.”

“That’s just manners,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed now. “I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

You tilted your head at him. “Weren’t you, though?”

He paused—then gave you a half-smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You both laughed, the tension from earlier fading further with each second. The newsroom was almost completely dark now, lit only by your two lamps and the glow of the city outside. The silence between you felt different this time—not weighted by stress or urgency, but warm, companionable.

“I’m just saying,” you added casually, “if we end up working together more often, you might need to brush up on your bad movie tolerance.”

Clark raised a brow, teasing right back now. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You smirked. “Depends. How do you feel about sequels that make the original look like a masterpiece?”

He mock-shuddered. “Terrified. But intrigued.”

You leaned back again, your eyes catching on the scattered papers across the desk, but your focus had long drifted from newsprint and ink. Clark was still sitting beside you, uncharacteristically relaxed—well, sort of. His shoulders were tense, and he was very obviously trying not to look at you too directly, which only made your curiosity grow stronger.

“You know,” you said, keeping your tone light, your voice laced with just enough teasing to make him look up, “you never answered the question.”

Clark blinked. “What question?”

You rested your elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in your hand. “What you do outside of work. Like—really outside. People. Dating. A girlfriend, maybe?”

His reaction was immediate, if subtle—his hand, which had been draped stiffly on the arm of his chair, flexed so hard his knuckles whitened, and the veins along the back of his hand stood out like cords. His glasses slipped a little down the bridge of his nose from the sudden shift in posture, and he pushed them back up with a quick, nervous tap of his finger.

“What?” he said, far too quickly.

You bit back a smile, watching him carefully now—not just his face, but his whole frame. The way his body filled the chair, broad shoulders and long limbs all seemingly trying to shrink and fold in a little. Like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space he very clearly couldn’t.

Your knee was pressed up against his—had it always been that close? You weren’t sure. But now that you’d noticed, it was impossible not to notice. Especially when his didn’t move. Didn’t twitch or pull away. Just... stayed there, warm and solid against yours.

You tilted your head again, letting your voice drop just a little lower. “It’s a pretty straightforward question, Kent.”

He cleared his throat. “I—uh—I don’t. I mean. No.”

You turned slightly toward him, lips curving into a slow grin. “No girlfriend? That’s surprising.”

“What—Why’s that surprising?” he asked, clearly trying to sound casual, but his voice had gone scratchy, like his throat had decided to betray him.

You let your eyes trail down, briefly, taking in the way his forearms were tensed now too, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing more of those oddly strong hands. The tendons moved with every subtle grip and shift along the chair’s arms, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. His fingers had curled so tightly over the edge now that you were sure he’d leave dents in the wood.

You shrugged, still watching him from the corner of your eye. “I don’t know. You’re kind of charming in that nervous, buttoned-up sort of way. Some people are into that.”

Clark’s brows drew together slightly, his lips parting like he was going to respond—but no sound came out. Just a breath. Just a little, flustered exhale like he couldn’t believe you’d said that out loud, like his brain had stopped functioning at the suggestion that someone might be into him.

His glasses slid further down his nose, and in his fumbling attempt to fix them, he knocked them a little sideways. His hands were big—awkwardly precise—and the way he pushed them back up just made it worse. He cleared his throat again, too quickly this time.

“Well, I—uh, I think that’s… that’s nice of you to say,” he finally managed, voice half-pitched and apologetic, like you were the one who had just walked in on him in a compromising position.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Not cruelly, not loudly. Just a soft, delighted kind of laugh that bubbled up from your chest because God, this man was endearing. Six and a half feet of solid muscle and broad shoulders, and yet here he was—blushing like a schoolboy because you’d complimented him. Barely. Lightly.

Clark looked down, probably trying to hide the growing flush on his neck, which had started to crawl past the collar of his shirt. “I’m not… I mean, it’s not like people are lining up.”

“Oh, come on, Kent,” you said, voice teasing now, elbow brushing his lightly. “Don’t play modest. I’ve seen the way some of the women in this office look at you. Even the new girl from research couldn’t remember her own name when you brought her coffee last week.”

“That was just because I brought the wrong order,” he mumbled quickly.

“Uh-huh. Sure it was,” you said, grinning. “And when she said she’d ‘never tasted anything sweeter’? Totally about the coffee.”

Clark groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as if he could physically rub the embarrassment away.

He finally looked at you again—really looked—and the corner of his mouth twitched upward in spite of himself. His eyes were warm behind the lenses, full of something quiet and boyish and undeniably fond.

“You’re kind of mean,” he said, but there was no heat to it.

“And you’re kind of fun to fluster,” you replied, nudging his knee with yours again—deliberate this time.

He froze for a heartbeat. Just one.

Then he smiled, soft and crooked.

“I’m starting to think you like making me nervous.”

You tilted your head again, letting the silence stretch for a second too long. Then, with a little shrug, you whispered, “Maybe I do.”

Clark swallowed hard, then, with a kind of bravery you hadn’t expected, he let one hand slide gently to rest on the armrest closer to you—as if testing the boundaries, trying to be near without crossing a line he wasn’t ready for.

Your pulse sped up. You wanted to reach out, to close the gap, but something held you back—a delicate balance of respect and something else, something tender and new.

Before either of you could say anything else, the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the quiet newsroom. The moment shattered like glass.

Clark’s hand jerked back quickly, and he adjusted his glasses with a nervous chuckle. “Looks like we’re not as alone as we thought.”

You laughed softly, the tension easing just a bit. “Guess the newsroom’s ghosts don’t like to miss out.”

He smiled, eyes still warm as he packed away some of the papers between you.

“Tomorrow,” you said quietly, “we’ll finish this. And maybe… talk about other things, too.”

He continued right after that, standing up and stretching. “I’d like that. Maybe you can come over tomorrow to write the piece after work. If you want of course— Unless you have something else to do? ”

"Yes, Clark, I'd like that. I'll give you a call." You sent him a smile, trying to prove to him he had nothing to be nervous about anymore. But something told you that this act wouldn't be easy to drop. The poor guy was a lost cause.

As you gathered your things and headed for the door, you glanced back once more. Clark Kent—the man who was a mystery and a friend, awkward and brave all at once—gave you a small, hopeful smile.

The next day flew by in a whirlwind of stories, calls, and chasing down leads. The newsroom buzzed as usual, but beneath the noise, your thoughts kept drifting back to last night—the quiet moment with Clark, the way his nervous smile had stayed with you.

As the afternoon wore on and people began packing up, you were sorting through your notes when your phone buzzed softly. You glanced down and saw a message from Clark. You looked up and, almost without thinking, spotted him sitting across the room, his glasses slightly crooked as he fiddled nervously with a pen.

The message read: “If you’re still up for it, my place. 7 PM?”

You smiled to yourself and quickly typed back, your fingers flying over the screen: “You know you can talk to me like a normal person, right?”

Almost immediately, he glanced your way, cheeks flushing just a bit, before he sent a quick thumbs-up from across the room.

A little while later, as the last of the reporters packed up and the newsroom began to empty, Clark appeared at your desk with a hesitant smile, glasses slightly askew as usual. He glanced down at his phone, then back up at you.

“Ready to head out?” he asked, voice soft but steady. “It’s not far from here. We can walk—it’s a nice evening.”

You nodded, gathering your bag and slipping on your jacket. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Together, you stepped out into the warm glow of the evening, the city buzzing softly around you. The streets weren’t crowded, just a few pedestrians and the occasional hum of distant traffic. Side by side, you walked—easy, natural—sharing bits of small talk that felt surprisingly comfortable.

Clark occasionally stole glances at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed how the city lights caught the flecks of blue in his eyes, making him look a little less like the nervous, awkward guy at the office and more like someone who belonged here—right here beside you.

You found yourself smiling more than you realized, drawn in by his quiet earnestness, the way his eyes lit up when he described simple pleasures. It was a side of Clark Kent few got to see—behind the glasses, behind the awkwardness—a man who cherished the ordinary moments.

At one point, your knees brushed again, and this time neither of you moved away. Instead, Clark’s smile deepened just a little, shy but genuine.

As the outline of his apartment building came into view, nestled between a bookstore and a cozy café, the streetlamps cast a warm halo over the doorway. Clark pulled out his keys, fumbling slightly, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly at his endearing clumsiness.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said with a grin after taking the elevator and settling before his door, pushing the door open and holding it for you.

Inside, the space was simple and inviting, with shelves lined with books, a few framed photos, and a soft couch that looked perfect for late-night talks or movie marathons.

You both dove into the writing like something had possessed you—pure adrenaline and sharp focus, the kind that only came when the stakes were real and the story mattered. The laptop passed feverishly from one lap to the other, sometimes mid-sentence, sometimes with a flurry of half-laughed instructions and half-bitten curses about formatting or sourcing. You’d never worked this quickly on any project, not even under deadline. But this—this felt different. Urgent. Important.

Clark had thrown off his suit jacket the second you'd settled into his apartment, letting it drape carelessly over the back of the sofa. His tie was askew now, loosened at the neck and clinging faintly to one side like it had given up trying to be proper. His white shirt was rumpled with the kind of lived-in texture that came from the day dragging on and on—and you couldn’t help noticing how the fabric clung in places. His shoulders looked even broader without the layers hiding them, and when he rolled up his sleeves again, the definition in his forearms was downright distracting.

Every now and then one of you would catch a typo or notice something off in the phrasing, and you’d lean in to fix it together. Once, you’d missed a whole line—your fingers hesitating over the keys—and without saying a word, Clark had reached over. His hand engulfed yours easily, warm and solid, his fingers dwarfing yours as he corrected the sentence himself. He didn’t move your hand—he just covered it, guiding it with a quiet, gentle pressure, his touch firm but careful.

You were sitting side by side on the couch, your thighs touching, pressed flush together. It wasn’t a small couch, not by any stretch—but Clark somehow still managed to take up half of it. More than half, if you were being honest. His long legs sprawled slightly, the muscle clearly visible beneath the fabric of his pants, shifting every time he adjusted. You could feel the strength in him, just sitting there, all that quiet power contained and careful and... close. His thigh next to yours was solid heat, twice the size of yours, pressed from knee to hip.

His fingers lay sprawled casually across his own thigh, thick and unhurried, veins prominent against the backs of his hands. You watched them for a second too long, eyes tracing the way they twitched occasionally with thought—how one hand flexed when he leaned forward, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his back, drawing your attention to places you probably shouldn’t be looking.

After a while—maybe the fourth round of proofreading between the two of you—you sat back with a satisfied hum, eyes scanning the final draft on the screen one last time. It was perfect. Crisp, clear, bold. Every line landed. Every quote hit. The tone, the flow, the weight of it—dead-on.

Clark was rereading a paragraph you’d rewritten when you looked at him and grinned. “I think we did it.”

He glanced at you, then back at the screen. “We really did.”

Without even thinking, you held up your hand. “Fist bump.”

He blinked at it like it was a foreign concept, then chuckled and tapped his knuckles lightly against yours. There was something deeply satisfying about it. Not just finishing the piece, but finishing it together. You slumped back into the couch with a dramatic sigh, and Clark followed suit, both of you sinking into the cushions like deflating balloons.

It wasn’t even that late—maybe just past ten. The soft hum of the city drifted in through his windows, and for once, there wasn’t anything left to worry about. The story was done. All that remained was… whatever this was.

And well, you couldn’t let a moment like this go to waste.

You turned your head toward him, voice light. “So… as I was saying yesterday—no girlfriend?”

Clark let out a quiet groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”

“Absolutely not,” you said sweetly. “Especially when I see an opportunity to make a certain someone all red in the face again.”

“I wasn’t red,” he mumbled.

You tilted your head, grinning. “You so were. Somewhere between strawberry and a ripe tomato.”

He let out a quiet huff of a laugh, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “It’s not a crime to be single, you know.”

“No, of course not. But it is curious. Clark Kent, charming, gentle, built like he could bench press a building—and not a single soul to call his own?” You gave a dramatic sigh, leaning back further into the cushions and tilting your head toward him. “It’s practically a scandal.”

His hand came up to cover his face for a second, and you heard him mumble behind his palm, “You’re relentless.”

You nudged your knee against his. “I just think the people deserve to know. The truth is out there.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “You’re making this weird.”

“I’m making it fun,” you corrected. “And I haven’t even started with the follow-up questions.”

Clark gave you a look like he was trying very hard not to smile, but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching—and more importantly, the way his shoulders had hunched up slightly, like he was trying to disappear into the couch. As if that was even remotely possible with how big he was.

“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t—uh—dated before,” he stammered, eyes suddenly fixed very intently on the ceiling. “I’ve just been… focused. On work. And other things.”

“Oh? Other things?” you echoed, eyes gleaming. You leaned a little closer, chin propped on your hand like you were very seriously conducting an interview. “Mysterious. Do these things wear lipstick and heels or—”

“No—God—no! Not like that, I mean—” He fumbled, his voice jumping an octave, ears turning red now. “I meant like… just life things. Family. Writing. Coffee. The weather. Taxes. Normal things.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Taxes.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face with a low groan. “Can we pretend I said literally anything else?”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully. “Clark Kent: tax enthusiast. Definitely the sexiest answer I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t know how to talk to you,” he muttered under his breath, shifting slightly like he wanted to vanish into a fold of the cushion. His shoulders were so wide that when he tried to hunch them, it only made them more obvious—like a mountain trying to duck under a table. His thigh was still pressed to yours, firm and warm, and when he moved slightly, your whole leg moved with him. The man was gravitational.

You tilted your head slowly, letting the silence stretch between you, a teasing glint sparking in your eyes. “You don’t?” you repeated, voice low and rich with mock innocence. “Do I make you nervous, Kent?”

It hit him like a sucker punch. Clark’s mouth parted as if to reply, then faltered. Closed. Opened again. Whatever he wanted to say, his brain wasn’t cooperating. His gaze darted to your face, lingered on your mouth just a second too long, then snapped upward toward the ceiling—like maybe salvation was written somewhere in the paint.

“Nervous isn’t… the word I’d use,” he finally muttered, voice deeper now, rough at the edges. “More like… wound up.”

You blinked.

The shift in the air was immediate—like someone had struck a match and held it between you. The words settled in, thick and full of implication, and you didn’t miss the way Clark immediately stiffened once he heard himself. His body locked up, like the realization hit him two seconds too late.

Your eyes met, and you watched it register behind his glasses—the double meaning, the subtext, the blush already blooming beneath his collar. His pupils dilated just slightly, and for a moment, he genuinely looked like he wanted to rewind time.

You smiled. No, you grinned. Slow and amused, dangerous in the way only a woman who knew exactly the effect she had could be.

“Wound up, huh?”

His ears turned bright red. You didn’t think you’d ever seen that happen to an actual adult man before. It was adorable.

“That’s… that’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. He sat up so fast the cushions shifted, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose. “I meant like—tense. Stressed. Not like that. That's— you're so dirty-minded.”

“Oh, no no no,” you said, turning toward him fully now, the couch creaking just slightly beneath your combined weight. You lifted a brow, voice thick with faux concern. “You already said it. Wound up. It’s okay, you don’t have to backtrack. It’s really bad for the human body to stay that way, y’know?”

He coughed—hard—into his fist, as if his lungs were trying to eject him from the situation entirely.

You inched in a little closer, chin resting in your hand like you were very seriously interviewing him. “When’s the last time you let off a little steam, anyway? That kind of tension? It’s terrible for your health. Builds up. Makes you twitchy. You could explode, in more ways than one.” You joked, clearly enjoying how flustered you were making him

His mouth opened, then immediately snapped shut. Again. His whole frame looked like it was short-circuiting—eyes wide, neck stiff, hands suddenly very still on his lap like he didn’t trust them to move. The tips of his ears were crimson now, and his knee gave a visible twitch where it touched yours.

“I… I don’t know,” he said finally, voice hoarse and absolutely not helping himself. “It’s… it’s been a while.”

You leaned in just a bit more, your voice dripping with playful condescension as you arched an eyebrow. “No one at work, then? No girls sneaking around, taking care of you? Or outside work? Surely someone’s keeping you from turning into a walking ball of tension.”

Clark’s face flushed deeper—if that was even possible—and he shifted awkwardly, trying to make himself smaller in the already cramped space. His broad shoulders hunkered down like he wished he could disappear entirely into the couch cushions. His fingers gripped the edge of the sofa tightly, veins standing out from the strain. His leg twitched where it pressed against yours, betraying how flustered he truly was.

“I—I don’t think that’s really... how it works,” he stammered, eyes flicking away, unable to hold your teasing gaze. His voice cracked just slightly as he added, “I’m not really—uh—good at that sort of thing.”

You softened your tone just a little, letting the teasing linger but adding a hint of genuine curiosity. “Alright,” you said, your eyes locking with his, “setting aside how things are—which, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly thrilling—would you want that? For someone to take care of you? To take real good care of you, Clark?”

His breath hitched, and you caught the sudden catch in his throat. His body tensed for a split second, fingers tightening a bit more on the sofa’s edge. He swallowed hard, eyes darting away for a moment before he met your gaze again—this time softer, more honest.

He hesitated for a moment, then finally looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… I think I’d like that. Someone to—take care of me. To make me feel… wanted. To help me relax. I don’t really know how to ask for it, but… I want it.”

His fingers twitched nervously on the edge of the sofa, and he shifted slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller—almost like he was half-expecting you to laugh it off. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on yours, vulnerable and honest in a way that caught you completely off guard.

“I just… I don’t know how to say it out loud. But I want to be held. To be touched… And—Um, well, yeah.” His voice faltered, thick with something unspoken, as he glanced up briefly, cheeks flushed and breath shallow.

You looked at him softly, your voice gentle but steady. “Would you let me help you with that, Clark? To… take care of you the way you need?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked almost speechless—like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

“I… I—” he stammered, words catching in his throat. “Y-yes. Please.”

As he spoke, his voice low and whispery, you couldn't help but notice a sudden shift in Clark. His broad frame tensed subtly, shoulders stiffening like a wire pulled taut. Your eyes flicked downward, and there it was—an undeniable bulge pressing insistently against the fabric of his pants. It hadn’t been there earlier, not when you first began talking, but now it had made its unmistakable presence known.

The sight hit you with a raw intensity. Was he really this pent up? This desperate, maybe? The way his hands clenched and unclenched on the edge of the couch, the quick, shallow breaths rattling in his chest—it all spoke volumes. His steady composure shattered, replaced by a vulnerability so fierce it almost scorched the air between you.

Clark shifted awkwardly, trying to adjust himself, covering the imprint of his twitching cock, like it would somehow disappear or at least be less obvious. One of his hands wrapped a hand around it, looking to shield himself from your view, trying to not seem like some pervy teenager. His thigh pressed a little harder against yours in the movement, muscles flexing under his pants, taut and commanding. Every subtle twitch, every tiny flex of those long fingers gripping the sofa’s edge, betrayed the storm raging just beneath the surface.

Your gaze flicked to his clenched hand resting just above the unmistakable tent, and without hesitation, you reached out gently, sliding your fingers around his wrist. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened as you slowly pulled his hand away, freeing the evidence of his need from its grip.

“You’re trying to hide this from me now, huh?” you tease, your eyes flickering between the bulge straining against his pants and the glaze settling over his eyes. “Can’t have that.”

Clark’s breath catches, and he swallows hard before meeting your gaze with a shaky, “Um, No, I’m not.”

As you take his hand from his lap, you finally place a hand over his cock. He was radiating heat, and from what you could feel as you rubbed your hand gently up and down the length of him, he was huge and ridiculously girthy.

Clark’s breath hitched sharply, a soft, barely-there noise escaping his lips—half gasp, half moan. His face flushed crimson, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before snapping open, wide and vulnerable. His jaw clenched tightly, as if trying to hold back whatever words or sounds threatened to spill free.

Clark’s breath hitched again, his eyes darting nervously as your hand traced slow, deliberate circles. His voice was shaky, barely above a whisper, thick with a mix of disbelief and desire. “You’re… you’re really mean, you know that? You can’t just—do this to me,” he murmured, cheeks flushed deeper, words stumbling over each other as he struggled to keep control. “It’s… unfair.”

"Can't I? You want me to stop touching you? Because I can do that." You began, looking right into his eyes. Most of the time, the poor thing couldn't keep eye contact; his eyes flickered from your eyes to your hand, or to the ceiling. As you stared him down, the motion of your hand limited itself to his tip, feeling around the wet spot he had begun to make on his pants.

His breath hitched, voice shaky but earnest. “No! please don’t stop… I want this.”

A shaky sigh escaped him as his body tensed under your touch, every muscle stretched tight with anticipation and need. Despite the vulnerability in his eyes, there was something fierce simmering just beneath the surface—an unspoken surrender that made the air between you crackle with electricity.

Your hands stopped stroking him for a second, your fingers wandering around the strap of his belt, shuffling under the fabric of his dress shirt. "Then what do you want? I can't just do whatever I want with you, can I?" You raised a brow teasingly, pushing for an answer.

Clark’s voice trembled as he finally found the courage to speak more directly, eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. One of his hands found the back of your head and cradled it, brushing soft circles against your scalp. “Um— well, you can… You can use me. You can use your hands on me too, if you want,” he murmured, his cheeks flushing deeper as the words slipped out, raw and unguarded.

You smirked, leaning in with a playful glint in your eyes. “That’s very unspecific, Kent. What exactly would that imply?”

Clark’s cheeks flared bright red, his breath catching as he swallowed nervously. “Don’t—come on, you’re really gonna make me ask for it, just like that?”

You chuckled softly, voice low and teasing. “Yup. Tell me what you want, big boy.” One of your fingers curled just below the hem of his pants, making him suddenly shiver from the unexpected contact. His abs and the muscles on his torso jerking suddenly.

The hand resting lightly on your head suddenly stilled. Clark shut his eyes briefly, as if gathering every ounce of courage to say what he felt but barely dared to voice. When he finally tilted his head toward you, his brows knit together and his eyes glistened with a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He looked so raw—so close to breaking—and for a moment, you almost felt sorry for him.

“Please, baby, jus’ touch me,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Can you—God.” He cut himself off abruptly, blinking up at you, clearly torn between shame and need, unsure if he could even say the words that were burning behind his lips. Yet, there you lay, watching him, waiting.

He swallowed hard, voice rough and desperate now. “Jesus… you’re really driving me backwards. Look at what you’ve got me saying…” His breath hitched. “Can you please jerk me off, baby? Put me to good use. Do something. Whatever…”

Your fingers fumbled almost instinctively at the buckle of his belt, heart hammering as you slid his pants down his thighs just below his knees, leaving him in his boxer briefs, feeling the tension release with the sound of the clasp. Calvin Klein— you weren't even surprised, he even looked like the models in the magazines. Without hesitation, you moved over him, settling on his lap, heat radiating from your bodies as you leaned in to capture his mouth with a hungry kiss.

His breath hitched when your legs came into contact with the flesh of his thighs, hands gripping your waist as the space between you vanished.

There was no gentleness here—only the raw need that had been building between you, unleashed in a rush of heat and urgency. His mouth opened beneath yours, inviting, desperate, and you wasted no time slipping your tongue inside to explore, tasting the sweetness of his tounge and the tremble of his lips.

His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, making you drag the heat of your clothed cunt against his leaking cock as if trying to make up for lost time. Your fingers pressed firmly against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath the fabric. You began humping him, and so did he. He whimpered into your mouth every time his tip caught the seam of your jeans, serving him as some sort of satisfaction. His hips rolled hungrily against yours as he kept shamelessly moaning into your mouth, sounding like a desperate man, each whimper more needy. The kiss was possessive and wild, a fierce claiming that left no room for doubt about the fire burning between you.

You broke the kiss suddenly, something which thankfully lent you the view of his soft, plump lips now swollen and red, his cheeks and ears rosy as ever, and his glasses, as always, lying askew on his nose. You latched onto his neck, and he let out a high-pitched noise. He's so cute. As your tongue lapped against the skin of his neck, your hands wandered down to the hem of his boxers and slowly snaked themselves under them. As your hands wandered further, you could feel how soft the skin of his abdomen was, and later, just below, you could also feel he was trimmed, and then, just further down—

Jesus. Christ.

He was fucking huge. Your hand wrapping around the base of his cock basically counted as a miracle; you almost couldn't clasp your hand into a fist around it. He was long, too, your hand wrapped tight around him, and you stroked him once, earning a shiver from him. Even without looking at it, you could feel the ridges of the veins running along the side of his cock as you stroked him. God bless this man, truly.

"Mhmph." He flinched as he clearly had tried to say something, but that was the only thing that came out of his mouth. A pathetic sigh.

Just as your lips left a blooming mark on the side of Clark’s neck—deep, flushed, and unmistakably yours—a flicker of something wicked sparked to life in your mind. You let your tongue trace the edges of the bruise for one last second before your hand, which had been steadily working his cock beneath the waistband of his boxers, suddenly stilled.

He gasped, a breathless whimper catching in his throat at the loss of contact. You slowly withdrew your hand, dragging it out deliberately, your fingers slick with proof of just how far gone he was. He let out a soft, pitiful noise, equal parts frustration and pleading, as if you’d stolen the only thing keeping him grounded.

You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes—wide, glassy, stunned—your own gaze dark and commanding. Then, you lifted your hand, palm up, just beneath his face.

“Spit on my hand, Clark,” you said, low and deliberate, your tone a perfect blend of authority and challenge.

His breath hitched. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to determine whether he’d heard you right. His lips parted, trembling slightly.

“I—wha…?” he stammered, voice thready and wrecked. “You want me to…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” you murmured, voice like velvet and sin.

His Adam’s apple bobbed hard as he swallowed. You could see the war in his head—modesty clashing with the overwhelming desire to please you. Finally, he nodded, barely perceptible, and whispered:

“O-okay.”

Clark’s breath hitched audibly, chest rising with a sharp inhale as you pulled your hand back and held it in front of him. His eyes—already wide and glassy—darted to your fingers, then up to your face. You could see the war inside him, flickering right behind his glasses. Some part of him still wanted to be composed, respectable. The other part, the one unraveling at your words and touch, was clawing its way to the surface.

His jaw tensed like he might say something—but then he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, lips parting just a bit. His breath brushed against your palm. And then—

Spit.

It was small, and hesitant as he let it drip from his mouth to the palm of your hand, but it was there. His cheeks flushed instantly deeper, as if even the action startled him. He didn’t look away, though. No—his gaze held yours, almost defiantly now. There was shame in his expression, yes, but also something else. Want. Trust. Hunger.

You let a smirk tug at your lips. “Good boy,” you murmured, low and warm like velvet. The way he shuddered at just that made your pulse kick up. His fingers were still clenching the fabric of your pants, like he was holding himself back from... something.

With your other hand, you reached down and tugged at the waistband of his boxers, fingers fumbling slightly against the elastic. Finally, you hooked them properly, intent clear in your movements. Clark let out a shaky breath, lifting his hips in a silent invitation, and his own hands moved to help, pushing the fabric down with an urgency that betrayed just how far gone he already was. For a second, the waistband caught his shaft, making it even harder to pull down.

What a sight.

This was probably the first time you'd ever seen a man having a hard time taking off his boxers from how utterly huge he was.

Finally, in an act of desperation, he yanked them down, freeing his cock from under the fabric. It sprang out, slow and steady, oscillating back and forth from the front of your jeans to his belly button. Jesus. His tip was a deep shade of red, leaking with eager drops of precum, coasting hungry down the very slit. He was thick, like oddly girthy. His shaft was very faintly a darker shade of skin than the rest of his body, something tending towards pink or light mauve. Veins, humming with desire, painted the sides of his shaft, making it all the more intimidating. Clearly, you had been staring for too long because his breath hitched, and his whole cock twitched before you, swaying towards him. His eyes darted away for a moment, glancing anywhere but at you—as if the weight of your gaze made him suddenly self-conscious.

He shifted slightly, the vulnerability of the moment pressing on him, and yet there was an undeniable softness in the way he looked back, hesitating but trusting. “You’re… really looking at me, aren't you?” he joked quietly, letting out a soft nervous laugh.

You became aware of the look on your face, and your eyes darted towards him. "Yeah, well, I don't know if you're aware of how big you are, Clark." You let out a breath as your hand, still slick from his spit, slid down to stroke him once and for all. Your hand glided down effortlessly, making wet and sloppy noises under you.

Clark blinked, clearly caught off guard by your words. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shifted uneasily, sucking in a breath and puffing his chest the second your hands started working on him. “I—uh, dont give it much thought…” he murmured, voice soft and a bit breathless. “You really think so? It’s not like I’ve been hiding it on purpose.”

That made you scoff, but your hand kept working at the same pace. You wanted to put your mouth on him so bad, but considering how he was reacting now, he'd probably implode from just having your tounge on him. But then again, wasn't that the whole point? So then you decided to do so. You got off his lap, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock, working him oh so sweetly, and as soon as your knees found the carpet, you brought your tounge to his tip, swirling the slick around it.

Clark flinched suddenly, muscles tensing like coiled springs beneath his shirt. You had begun to stroke his cock faster, your mouth taking him deeper into your mouth, you kept one hand at his base helping yourself with what you couldn't take fully. The flesh of his thighs tightened and strained, every movement charged with raw energy. His head fell back against the cushion of the couch, eyes closing briefly as a low, guttural sound escaped from deep within him.

Without hesitation, his hand shot up to your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Despite the strength behind the motion, his touch was soft and soothing, cradling you at the base of your skull and tracing slow, comforting circles along your neck.

You arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as your hand continued its slow, deliberate motion. “That feel good?” you teased, voice dripping with mischief. Your grip tightened just slightly, testing his reaction, fingers sliding with purpose along his shaft.

Clark’s breath hitched again, eyes fluttering open to meet yours—wide, vulnerable, and shimmering with a mix of surprise and something deeper. His voice came out husky, uneven, betraying how much your touch affected him. “Y-yeah… Fuck,” he cursed. He cursed?

That was the first time you had ever heard Clark Kent curse, really curse.

That only ignited you. Your mouth and hands began to work at new speeds. You kept yourself coordinated, sometimes pulling away to spit on the very tip, or to pull away for a second to look at him from under your lashes. The poor man was done for; you could tell he was close by the way he had begun to hold onto the back of your head tighter, pushing you down onto his cock.

Clark’s breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as his eyes darkened with something raw and unguarded. The usual calm that defined him seemed to melt away, replaced by a flicker of desperate yearning that made his entire body tense and shiver.

His gaze locked onto yours, glazed and unfocused for a moment—as if the world had narrowed down to nothing but the heat of your touch and the magnetic pull between you. His lips parted slightly, breath hitching as if he struggled to find the right words, but none came.

Then, something completely and utterly unexpected happened: he spoke—without being coaxed, prompted, or begged. His voice, low and certain, cut through the air like it had always belonged there. He furrowed his brows, lips pulling into the faintest pout as he locked eyes with you, unblinking. And then, like some quiet ritual had reached its climax, he reached up and slid his glasses off, tossing them onto the table behind you with a casual flick of his wrist.

In an instant, he changed. Not in a subtle way—not in a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of way. It was seismic. Gone was the quiet, anxious boy who shrank into himself. He rolled back his shoulders like he’d just remembered he had them. His knees spread wider, his posture now dripping with a kind of authority that hadn’t been there a minute ago. It wasn’t just confidence—it was control. Power. Presence.

He looked like a completely different person—no, he was a different person. And you were choking on that realization as much as you were on him.

What the actual fuck just happened?

"Yeah? Y'taking me so good, you know that? Jesus— your mouth's so warm, baby." Then the hand on your hair pulled your hair into a makeshift ponytail. He was close, you could tell. His hips bucked involuntarily, making you take him completely, and for a few seconds, he held you there, nose nestled against the trimmed hairs of his pelvis.

"Taking care of me so nicely. Just like— just like that." He tilted his head to get a good look at you. "Atta girl," that sent shivers down your spine, only fueling you further. Your head bobbed with your newfound speed, only making him groan louder.

He began once again, "I’ve been trying to be good. Trying not to think of you like this— always so nice to me. But you've made it so hard— God." You moaned around him, and that's when you began to feel his cock twitch around your lips, so you sped up. "Hell, you made it so hard. Tried not cummin' in my pants like a teenager every time you walked with one of those tight little pencil skirts."

"Tried not to think of you like this. Never touched myself—God, never, not once. I felt so bad thinking of you this way after you had been nothin' but nice to me. Such a sweet angel. Nothin' but a good little girl to me." You smiled as you bobbed your head faster, helping yourself with your hands every now and then. He really was such a kind, pure-spirited person (putting away the fact that his cock was shoved down your throat). Even if you had begun to guess how he felt about you the first few weeks, it was still sweet hearing him say it. Spit had begun to pool around the corners of your mouth, making the noises coming from your lips even filthier. They were wet and sticky, echoing around the room, sometimes interrupted by a sudden pop when your mouth slipped away from his cock.

"Oh, baby, you're drooling everywhere." He brought a single knuckle to your lips and cheeks and began brushing off spit. "M'gonna cum in your mouth, honey, can I?" His finger then caressed your cheek as his breaths began to grow rapid and unsteady. You nodded with a small hum.

His hand stayed pressed against your head, still holding your hair into a ponytail. Even now, knee deep in such filth, he was still such a gentleman. But then, his grip shifted—tightened. A low, instinctive reaction. His eyes, darkened and wide, dropped down to meet yours. The soft blue was now nearly eclipsed by pupils so dilated they looked black in the dim light. His chest rose sharply with each breath, muscles tight under his shirt, as if his body couldn't quite decide between tensing up or melting down completely. And just when you thought he might say something—anything—he tilted his head back again with a low, stuttering whimper, shoulders twitching like he’d lost the strength to hold back.

"M'gonna— God, taking me so well, such a messy girl. Fuck me, fuck me, fuckme, fuckme, fuck-" His words died out on his throat, and his throat closed up. Your mouth continued to lap at him up and down, forcing him into your throat and bobbing your head to meet the snapping of his hips. Suddenly, with one last thrust, he moaned, and you felt the warm sensation of cum trickling down your throat. He held you there by the back of your head, pressed flush against the skin of his pelvis. His hips stuttered and his muscles flexed as he let out a string of incoherent words.

As he continued to paint your throat, he tried to excuse himself and be the gentleman that he is once again. He sounded like he was about try cry, and for a second you were sure he was when you saw a tiny speckle of light catching a tear on his cheek. "I'm not usually like this—Oh!" You tried not to cough or choke, but eitherway the sounds of your throat closing up on him were nothing but quiet. "M'sorry, I'm so sorry, baby. So good to me, making me feel so good..."

Finally, he let go of the grip on your hair, and you swallowed everything he gave you. You pulled away from his cock with a small pop as a string of saliva followed your lips. He looked so genuinely fucked out, his breaths came in uneven rhythms, your cheeks were flushed red, some tears had gathered right around the corner of his eyes, and most definitely in yours too.

You sat beside him, curling a hand around his shoulders, gently combing through his damp hair as he softly opened his eyes. His lashes fluttered like he was waking from some fever dream, and for a moment, he just stared—like he wasn’t sure you were real. Then he blinked a few times, the last of the tears clinging to the corners of his eyes, and let out the softest, shakiest breath.

"Hi," you whispered, your thumb brushing a stray lock from his forehead. God, what a ridiculously gorgeous man—even flushed and undone, or maybe especially then.

"Hi, right back at you," he managed, voice breathless and rough-edged. He giggled—just a short, embarrassed sound, like he couldn’t believe himself. His hand found your thigh, grounding himself.

You leaned in, your forehead brushing his temple, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “You know…” you murmured, voice all soft and teasing, “You’ve still got to get that Superman interview.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t blush like he usually did when you got close. Instead, he turned his head slightly, just enough that his mouth nearly brushed yours, eyes shining with something sharp and knowing.

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve got the right person for that.”

The way he said it—low, smug, a little amused—sent a flicker down your spine. There was a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there before. Not the bashful gleam of Clark Kent fumbling with his words. No. This was something else entirely. A secret he was daring you to notice.

Clark’s eyes darkened with playful mischief after that as he suddenly shifted, moving with surprising speed to pin you gently against the corner of the couch. His broad frame hovered over you, breath warm against your skin.

A slow grin spread across his face. “But I think,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “It’s your turn now. Pa always said a gentleman knows how to return a favor.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, that mischievous smile still playing on his lips. Then, with a soft chuckle, he leaned in just slightly, the space between you charged with unspoken promises.

And just like that, the moment hung suspended—waiting, electric—before the world around you slipped away, leaving only the two of you in that quiet, perfect pause.

-

You threw back shot after shot until they started tasting like water. The burn tickled your throat, putting a lazy smile on your usual pouty lips.

This smile only brightens when you see him. Standing more than a foot taller than you, glasses sitting just a little crooked, and more buttons undone to his white dress shirt than you remembered, he makes his way over with that trademark awkwardly eager demeanor.

“Clark!” You throw your arms over his shoulders, leaning against him for support as his hands gently grab at your hips to steady you. They were so big yet somehow so polite, only provoking you.

“Hey,” he beams down at you through a faint blush, “all good?” He cocks his head with concern, one hand hesitantly reaching to brush stray hair from your face, the other still lingering on your hip.

Had you been sober, you would’ve felt the way his fingers twitched against you like they wanted to move, to touch more. Like he’s been wanting to all night, hell, since he first met you.

He didn’t trust himself around you, but he also just couldn’t stay away. He tries to keep both his mind and eyes from wandering. But you make it (him) so hard, he could almost swear you do it on purpose sometimes.

Your work outfits consisted of shirts cut too low, skirts too high, and a bottom lip pulled between your teeth in concentration. God, you looked like the hot tutor in a bad porno. You even acted the part, the way you treated him like your favorite student.

Either he’s a pervert or you’re a tease. Maybe both.

He was pulled from his thoughts as you take his hand, tugging him toward the floor. With no time to process, he follows you like a lost puppy.

The music gets louder, the bass harsher, the colored lights flashier, and the crowd sweatier. Still, he could only focus on you.

Your hands raising above your head, your eyes fluttering shut, your hair bouncing with your body, and your hips swaying to the music. Pure bliss.

All he can do is stand there with overbearing admiration and attraction. He thinks you're the prettiest girl he's ever seen. And seeing you like this... it'll be seared in his memory forever, to say the least. He couldn't even try to imagine anything better.

That is until you turn around, back flush to his chest and ass pressed up against him just right. He lets out a shaky breath into your ear, his hands instinctively sliding around your waist. The intention was to still you, but he doesn't.

He can't. Not when it feels this good.

Instead, he allows himself to revel in the way you fit so perfectly in his hands. Just for a minute, a long one.

"Come on," he finally declares, strained, "let's get you home."

It takes less than a block of you struggling in your heels for Clark to decide to carry you the rest of the way. Faster and more practical, that’s all.

His big arms hold you with ease while you absentmindedly trace his jawline. The feeling of your nails on his skin sends shivers down his spine.

You walked, well, he walked in comfortable silence as you were too busy working him up with simple innocent touches and he, in turn, worked on his breathing.

Finally up the stairs and through his apartment, Clark sets you down on his bed, so gently as if he were afraid you and the moment would shatter.

You’re a delicacy.

He had pictured you in his bed a countless amount of times, dreamed of it even. Which made leaving you alone to lay in it even harder.

He would sleep on the couch, take you home in the morning, then see you at work and continue to wallow in his internal suffering.

“Stay,” you call out, voice so soft and sweet he thinks he imagined it.

“What?”

“Stay with me.”

It’s not a command, but he obeys.

There he lies in his coffin, face paler than ever, trying to make his big body small enough to fit within the imaginary walls.

You immediately close the space between the two of you, resting your head on his chest and tangling your legs with his.

You really are going to be the death of him.

Suddenly, his senses are swamped. He can feel the heat radiating from between your legs, burning him up. His body moves before his mind can stop it, hand slowly inching up your thigh. He doesn't miss the way you open your legs so willingly, only spurring him on more.

Oh my god, you're wet. That's it.

Something inside him breaks. He flips over, trapping you underneath him.

“Please, let me- can I…?” His head frustratedly drops to the crook of your neck. He huffs, as if breathing you in is the only thing grounding him.

“Use your words, Clark,” you coax, fingers threading into his hair and tugging his head back to make him look at you.

He whines.

“Can I touch you?” His fingers are practically trembling at the hem of your panties, desperate to just tear them off.

All it takes is a nod from you and that’s exactly what he does. Way past the point of self control, he throws the ripped fabric to the floor along with your dress and eases two fingers inside.

The stretch makes your mouth fall open in a broken moan. He catches your parted lips in a kiss and lets out a grunt of his own.

It’s messy.

Tongue and teeth and pent up feelings.

He works his way down, leaving a trail from your chest to your lower stomach. Then he stops, looking up at you, eyes wide and pupils blown.

This is your last chance. To stop him, to say you don’t want this, to get up and leave.

Instead, you buck your hips up. A silent plea.

You could almost swear he lets out a quiet ‘thank you’ before attaching himself to your cunt. Always with the farm boy manners.

He laps at your folds like a thirsty dog, fingers still pumping in and out of you. You writhe under him but he’s quick to hold you down, needing to keep you like this.

“Oh, fuck,” you manage out between moans, “feels so good, baby, doing so good for me.”

He can’t help but whimper in response, sending vibrations straight to your core. Looking down at him only makes matters worse. Stray curls framing his face, glasses fogged up, and hips wildly grinding into the bed.

Your head falls to the pillow harshly, face contorted in pleasure as your back arches up.

“Clark," you warn, "I’m gonna-” but he already knows, sucking on your clit while his fingers split you in half.

You cum. Hard.

On your thighs. His fingers. His face.

And he’s not done, licking up the mess you made. He doesn’t waste a drop. “Tastes like heaven,” he mumbles mostly to himself and you just watch in awe.

“Come here,” you coo, voice dripping like honey, “now, let me take care of you.”

He practically teleports to his rightful spot next to you, buzzing with anticipation. His jaw goes slack as you crawl into his lap, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one. You slide it off his broad shoulders to find his chest heaving dramatically like he’d just run a marathon.

Your eyes drift back to his face which is tilted up, already looking at you. He doesn’t dare move a muscle, not until you say so. Poor thing can’t even see clearly through those clouded lenses, so you wipe them clear for him.

“Take them off,” he pleads, “wanna see you.”

You get rid of them and it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. He cups your face in his hands, as if in disbelief that you’re real and really here.

He whispers your name like a prayer and your lips are back on his like that. Moaning into each others mouths and dry humping like horny teenagers.

Your hand slides down his flexing abs, dipping just under the waistbands to both his pants and boxers. He takes the hint, lifting you up with one arm and tugging the last of his clothes down with the other.

His cock comes springing up and he is fucking big. Far bigger than the biggest you’ve ever had. Like not sure if it would even fit big.

You quite literally stop and stare.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, voice ironically small and faint. Did he do something wrong? Did he misread the moment? Did he mess it all up?

“Nothing’s wrong,” you’re quick to reassure him, “you’re perfect.” He turns red.

You run your thumb over his sensitive, leaking tip, collecting the pre and bringing it to your tongue.

“Oh, gosh.”

He’s never been this turned on in his life.

In need of friction, he tries fucking up into your thighs. It’s so sad, you almost feel sorry for him. He sees the look on your face and it only gets him hotter. You would definitely be making a mental note of that.

You put him out of his misery, lining it up with your entrance and sinking down. He chokes out something between and cry and growl. Like he’s the one being torn into.

You claw at his chest, gasping in pain and pleasure. You have to stop when you reach the base, adjusting to his ungodly size.

And that’s when he sees it. He shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, opening them again to the same sight. He isn’t hallucinating.

Following his eyeline, you find a distinctly huge print in your stomach. “Oh my god, Clark.”

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” His gaze flickers between your face and the bulge as he caresses it with so much care you’d think it’s a baby. His expression is so innocent, you just smile and shake your head.

“I’m gonna move now, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jesus.

The room fills with sounds of skin slapping and wet squelching with each bounce. Accompanied by filth from the two of you, of course.

“Been wanting this, wanting you.”

“I know, baby. All yours now.”

“Shittt,” he curses, maybe for the first time ever, as far as you were concerned, “say it again.”

You lean into his ear, lips grazing it as you whisper, “I’m yours, Clark.”

He bites down on your shoulder as an attempt to muffle the pathetic noise that escapes his throat. With that and the way he’s twitching inside of you, you can tell he’s getting there.

“You’re close?”

“Uh huh…” he pants out, “inside? Can I do it inside? Please?”

You couldn’t say no to him. And it’s not like you wanted to anyway.

“Go ahead baby, fill me up.”

He comes like it hurts, chanting your name as he releases into you. It’s hot and there’s a lot of it.

You’re right behind him, coming for the second time tonight. Your walls clench around him, squeezing and milking him absolutely dry. Collapsing into each other, he uses the remainder of strength to hold you tight just in case someone tries to steal you.

You’re barely awake as he carries you to the bathroom, going through all the motions of cleaning you up. Slipping you into his favorite old t shirt and tucking you in. You plant one last lax kiss on his cheek before rolling over and knocking out. He smiles himself to sleep.

-

You slept better than you ever had, lashes fluttering open to soft rays casting into the room.

Clark's room.

"Hey," his voice is just as gentle and comforting as the sun.

"Hey," you feel giddy and almost a little shy. Not used to this overwhelming sense of belonging.

"How're you feeling? Last night…” you can already hear the self doubt in his tone, the preconceived rejection he’s prepared himself for, “you were drunk…”

“Clark,” you cut him off, taking his hands in yours, “I knew exactly what I was doing. And I’d do it again.” And again and again and again.

His face lightens immediately.

“You mean it?”

You prove it with a kiss. And it’s different this time. It’s not urgent or sex driven. But loving. Taking your time since you’ve got a lot more now.

────⚝────

clark’s eyes roll into the back of his head.

fuckfuckfuck you’re so warm.

you’re so hot.

little whimpers leave your throat as your nails dig into his bare shoulders, body shaking with the effort of having yourself go up and down on clark’s impossibly large kryptonian cock and not entirely collapse.

“claaaaarrrkkk,” you groan again, but this time, your cheeks are flushed and your bottom lip is trembling.

“y- y’like?” clark manages to grin.

slap!

you hiss, head thrown back as you fuck yourself on clark’s dick—oh, you’re obsessed with the pleasure he brings. he’s reaching so far into you, areas you didn’t know your pussy hid.

“do- don’t—” your moans heighten in pitch when clark takes it upon himself to thrust up into you—well, maybe pistoning would be the right term. "haaah..."

“i’m sorry, baby, i’m so sorry—” the words fall from clark’s lips like a chant, pupils blown from how entranced he is from how good you’re taking him. “o- oh, golly, you- you’re so– tight—”

your hands go around his neck.

clark’s eyes widen.

your fingers squeeze.

curses fall from his lips (he didn’t mean to, he reallyreallyreally didn’t mean to—). his dick twitches, his eyes shutting when he feels the overwhelming heat in his stomach about to burst.

“i’m—” he wheezes, hands going from your hips to your waist to force you up and downandupanddownandup— “gonna cum, needa cum, baby, please, plleeeaase—”

“nooo,” you whine, but manage to unscramble your brain quick enough to be more firm. your brows furrow, but even now your eyes look like they’re somewhere else—a distant land called big dick city.

“d– don’tcha fuckin’—” your tongue slips out to swipe at your bottom lip from how out of it clark looks, too. seems none of you are coming back to reality anytime soon. “dare.” your hands loosen around his throat.

nonononono.

“pl– ngh, pleasee—!” clark sobs. fuck, if he tries to keep it in any longer, his cock’s gonna fucking explode—

“no,” you shakily reply, your mouth falling open when he finally, finally hits that perfect spot.

clark can’t really see through the haze of his tears, but he heard you gasp—and, well, shit. if he can’t cum, he might as well help you cum.

so, he does the only natural thing.

grips tight at your waist, and pushes upwards while bouncing you up and down on his dick.

you scream.

it’s more moans that choke into cries more than actual coherent words, but clark doesn’t mind. he’s focused on fucking up into you, making sure to get that spot over and over and over until all he can hear is the way you’re crying out his name—oh. it’s really easy for you to go stupid, he remembers.

“i- i know,” clark says, encouraging lightly even as his cock hurts from how bad he’s holding his load back. he’s been wanting to cum inside your womb since, like, ages ago (...minutes ago. he may be being dramatic) but he’ll make sure you cum. because you don’t want him feeling that sweet release—and he’ll obey.

“i- i–” he grits his teeth with effort, simultaneously trying to make you cum while desperately trying not to bust himself. “need’cha t– to cum, baby.”

“yeeeeesss,” you hiss, body practically limp. “o- oh, fuck, fffuuckk, i- i’m ggggonna—”

clark smiles.

his dick hurts from how hard it is, but he smiles.

“good girl, baby,” clark dreamily replies, his hand trailing down to hurriedly rub circles into that little bundle of nerves. your eyes roll back as your lips part, and then—

and then your pussy flutters, squirting an entire fountain’s worth. you twitch in his hold.

this is all clark kent’s fault.

bucky's a jealous person. he always has been.

he doesn't like to share, nor does he pretend otherwise. not his kitchen, not his recipes, not his workers, and certainly not you.

he doesnt like it when you're working the front of house, all bright smiles and flirty little laughs, coaxing tips and compliments from men who don't deserve your attention, and it doesn't help that you're walking around in that tiny little skirt and buttering up the customers, it also doesn't help that you're so good at it.

bucky knows it's a part of your job, knows that you do it to survive— but do you really need to be doing all of that? he's sure that if you lean any closer to the guy at table seven, he'll be able to see the lining of your panties, and at this point, he's not even sure if you're wearing any.

the kitchen behind him is organised chaos— pots and pans clattering against the stoves, utensils scratching against ceramic, and shoe soles padding around the linoleum floor.

but bucky doesn't hear any of it. his eyes are locked on you through the serving hatch, where you're leaning over a little too close to the asshole at table seven, your smile soft and sweet as you pour him another glass of whiskey and giggle at something he says.

bucky hates it. you might as well be sitting on his lap and hand feeding his steak to him. hell, you might as well pull down his fancy suit pants and just start fucking him in the middle of the restaurant with everyone watching.

"you're staring."

bucky's jaw clenches as he glances sideways. steve stands next to him at the grill, sliding a seared salmon onto a plate, eyebrow arched like he's just caught bucky with his hand in the cookie jar.

"i'm not." bucky snaps back a little too fast, eyes darting back down to the pan in his grasp. his knuckles are bone white from how tight he's gripping the handle.

steve smirks as he places the seared salmon onto the counter with practiced ease, "y'know, you could just tell her. it won't hurt. you're already staring at her like you've claimed her."

as well as being jealous, bucky's awfully proud. chateau barnes is a renowned high-end restaurant in new york. as the head chef of his own restaurant, he almost has to be. he prides himself on order, control, and precision in the kitchen— every knife sharpened, every pan and pot in its place, and every dish leaving the kitchen exactly as he had envisioned it.

and because of that, bucky would never admit that he loses all control of his mind the second you step out onto the floor. he'd rather die than admit it to steve, who seems to notice everything anyways.

"i don't know what you're talking about." bucky grumbles, basting the steak in butter, eyes fixed firmly on the pan as if it's the only thing that matters.

steve cocks a brow, "you know what i'm talking about."

bucky doesn't respond. he doesnt want to give steve the satisfaction of knowing he was right, and this steak was currently more important than whatever bullshit his sous chef was about to spew.

steve stops what he's doing just to taunt bucky, his voice low enough that only he can hear. "the fact that you wanna bend her over the counter and take her right there in front of—"

"finish that fucking sentence and you're on dish duty for the next month." bucky cuts him off, eyes snapping towards steve. the glare alone would have made an apprentice shit their pants, but it only makes steve grin wider.

"tough crowd." the blonde mumbles. he shrugs as if its the most normal thing in the world, then goes back to slicing into a perfectly roasted duck breast.

there's an annoyed quirk in bucky's eyebrow as he goes back to plating the dish. putting steak down, drizzling the sauce, adding garnish, every detail done with deliberate and precise movements— anything to keep his hands and mind busy. anything to keep steve from seeing how close he'd come to hitting an exposed nerve.

bucky doesnt look up. he knows that if he does, he'll see that rich asshole at table seven still trying his luck, and he'll see you entertaining him like he's paying you a million dollars to do so. both of you would piss him off, and right now, he needs his head in the pan. the butter's foaming and the steak is searing, and focus is the only thing that keeps him from calling a smoke break.

so he keeps his eyes down. baste, tilt, baste again. control. order. discipline. that's what he's good at.

but it's you out there, and that alone stirs up an itch under his skin that he can't ignore. its an almost unbearable urge that picks at him— the urge to just look up. because if its you, then he wants to see. he needs to.

and when he finally gives in— when his eyes drag up from the dish he's preparing to you— you're already prancing towards the kitchen, weaving through the tables with that little sway in your hips, balancing a half-eaten dish in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

it scratches the itch, but now he has to deal with you.

you slide the dish onto the window sill with a small clink, gingerly leaning into the cut-out just enough to make your presence known. you tilt your head when bucky glances up at you, a half-grin tugging at your lips like you're ready for whatever bite he's about to throw at you.

"table seven said his steak is over cooked, james." you say, nudging the dish towards him, "he also said the sauce is too peppery."

bucky keeps his focus on his work, but it's impossible to ignore your presence. he slides the freshly prepared steak onto the window sill with a quick flick of his wrist, but you're staring at him like you can see the control he's trying so hard to cling to. he reaches over to grab another ticket, but he can smell whatever sweet perfume you'd dusted yourself with drifting through the window. it's torture.

bucky's not sure whether he wants you to leave him alone or if he wants you to lean over the window a little more just so he can sneak a glance down your collar.

but he doesn't spare you a second glance. "it wasn't."

you suck your teeth in mock thought, eyes narrowing in on where the steak was ripped open by a knife, "well, he asked for medium-rare, and i'm pretty sure i wrote down medium-rare, so it must've been a performance issue on your end, boss."

"yeah?" his blue eyes snap towards you. his voice is controlled, but you can hear the tension coiling in his throat. "you should probably check that notepad again, doll. the ticket said medium-rare, so i gave him medium-rare."

"that's funny..." you drawl, "because he's still complaining."

bucky's jaw tightens. his grip around the knife tightens like a vice. "why don't you just stick your tits in his face a little more? maybe then he'll stop complaining about the fuckin' steak and start tippin' you like he means it."

his voice is low and rough, and laced with venom that he doesn't bother to hide. he's jealous, and he knows that. his voice cuts sharper than the knife in his hand, but it does nothing to hinder your attitude.

"y'know, he looks a little bit like you." you lean your head on the palm of your hand, your lips tugging into a grin that teeters on the edge of mockery. "a little more clean-shaven... has manners... smells good too. says he's the ceo of a record company or something fancy like that."

god, if you weren't so gorgeous— if you hadn't made every word sound like pure honey— bucky mightve told you to turn around and continue taking orders like the good little waitress you are. his thoughts die in his head the second a particular one hits him— you're being a brat.

"you shove your tits close enough to get a whiff of him?" he spits, eyes ever-so-slightly glancing down at the midriff you have exposed. "you enjoy being a tease?"

you follow his line of sight and roll your eyes, almost instinctively leaner lower, "so what if i do? theyre my tits.”

bucky looks back down to the scallops he's preparing, his lip turnt, "not anymore with the way you're parading them around."

he hears you suck in the tiniest gasp— just audible enough that it makes him huff out a breath of amusement.

you're not necessarily offended by him calling you a tease. you're more offended by the fact that he thinks you're 'parading them around' like some bimbo. you'd argue that you're just doing your job— keeping the customers happy, looking hot while doing it, and making some tips in the process.

you open your mouth to say something, to rip into him without saying something that seriously jeopardises your job— because he is your boss after all— but before you can say anything, steve stops you.

"could you guys stop flirting? its dinner rush."

his voice catches your attention. you shift your weight as you lean over the pass, your elbows resting against the cold metal as you grin at steve. he's cute— everybody knows it— and you've always liked how easy it was to talk to him.

"what, feeling left out, rogers?" you tease with a dramatic pout, reveling in the way steve's ears tint the lightest shade of pink.

"a little." he plays into your teasing, brows raised, "but the tickets are piling up and i'm not likin' how that guy at table five is looking at us."

"oh, those guys?" you turn on your heel, eyes flashing to a large table of around six guys. the man at the head of the table sits like he owns the restaurant, his gaze locked straight on you. "yeah, i'm pretty sure theyre apart of the mob."

steve blinks, "the mob?"

"the mob." you emphasise with a dramatic nod, "they're drinking us dry of our entire whiskey reserve."

"i'll order in another lot tonight. the next lot should hopefully last us a couple more months.” steve nods, already scribbling down a note on the corner of a ticket. he taps the pencil against the pass and shoves the ticket into his pocket like it's already been handled.

then steve's eyes flick up to you, who's standing there with a tired smile. he— very obviously— looks you up and down, slow enough that bucky catches every damn second of it, then he meets you with a grin that's just shy of smug.

"looking good, sugar."

the pet name runs off of steve's tongue like it belongs there, entirely too sweet for a restaurant running on blood, sweat, and tears.

the knife in bucky's hand stills, the blade pressing unnecessarily hard into the scallop underneath. his eyes flick up to look at whatever weird little flirting match you and steve have going on just inches away from him, and he's glaring like he's seconds away from snapping the cutting board in half.

if steve wasn't his best friend, he probably would've stabbed him— no, wait— he'd still stab him anyways.

bucky turns his attention to you to see your reaction. and sure enough, you're standing there, practically twirling a strand of hair around your finger, acting like you've just been complimented by the hottest guy in the world. your lips curl into a grin that you try (and fail) to stifle. but because steve's your friend, you roll your eyes like it's no big deal— like you're too used to his charm for it to get under your skin.

"thanks, stevie. you’re not so bad yourself." you grin, sing-songing as you pull away from the pass, "anyways, i've gotta go. fancy guy at table seven was just about to tell me about rising stars and pop music or... something like that."

and then you're turning away. you toss a small wink over your shoulder as you saunter away— but then you adjust your skirt, just subtly enough to be casual, but bucky can't help the sharp intake of his breath. the curve of your ass presses up against the thin fabric, the faint lining of your panties traced just beneath it, teasing him with more than he has any right to see.

bucky's jaw locks. heat crawls down his spine and coils deep within his gut, dragging low until it settles in his cock. he feels the shift in his pants, and the sudden tightness makes his breath hitch.

focus, bucky, focus. control and order. that's what you're good at.

he forces his gaze down, anything to get over it, but his body aches with the phantom burn of you. the imagine of your body swaying as you walk away is burnt into the skin behind his eyelids, and it's a sight he can't just run from with the repetitive motions of his knife. every slice and every stab only presses it deeper.

he blinks and you're still there. he sees the curve of your ass and the way you tug your skirt lower like it might cover something. the arch of your back as you stretch just slightly, and the press of your tits against the weak buttons of your blouse like they're begging to be let loose. and the worst part— the part that makes his cock twitch in his pants— is that bucky isn't even sure if you're doing this on purpose or if you're just that effortlessly fucking tempting.

"it did look like you just sent out leather, man." steve's voice cuts in like nails on a chalkboard, "you... distracted?"

buck's knife lifts from the board as he slides the scallops on to the plate, "sugar?" he grinds out, not looking up.

steve can already tell. he doesn't need bucky to say a single word. the way his jaw tenses, the way his grip flexes around the handle of the knife, the way he slides the scallops around like he couldn't care less, and the way his eyes subtly dart towards the floor where you're entertaining table seven again.

bucky barnes is jealous, and it's the most entertaining thing steve has seen all night. he wants to laugh, and he almost does, but he holds it in.

"what, you jealous?" steve teases with a shit-eating smirk.

"you can't flirt with the staff." bucky's words are deadpan, like he's been repeating the phrase over and over in his own mind— like he's repeating it again moee for himself than for steve.

"i understand." steve nods, but then he pauses just long enough to be smug about it. "we can't flirt with them, but we sure can eye-fuck them from across the restaurant—“

the cutting board suddenly screeches against the metal counter as bucky pushes it back. steve's still smirking as bucky rips at the knot around his waist, tearing his apron off and tossing it haphazardly over his shoulder with an annoyed huff.

"i'm goin' for a smoke." he grunts, not even sparing steve a glance before he pushes past the other kitchen staff.

the back door slams shut behind him, and steve feels it's only in his best interest as his best friend to follow. someone's gotta make sure bucky doesn't burn down the alleyway with his temper.

the back of the restaurant is quiet. the clanking of pots and pants and shouts of orders fade behind thick brick, leaving only an echo of the chaos inside. the moon is bright and high up in the sky, casting pale white light onto the alley.

bucky leans against the wall, his hand shielding the flame of his lighter from the wind. the cigarette glows, the smoke curling upwards. he takes a long drag of it, letting the smoke fills his lungs.

the cool air does little to ease the burn in his skin— if anything, it makes it worse. every muscle in his body feels like they've been pulled taut, as if the mere memory of you has set fire to his body.

as he exhales, a small white cat slinks out from around a dumpster, moving like a pale shadow in the dark, her delicate paws padding against the concrete as she wanders closer. she's a familiar face that makes bucky sigh.

bucky calls her alpine, a sweet reminder of a trip he once took a few years ago— a quiet winter in the mountains, snow blanketing the world in a stillness he rarely ever witnesses in his line of work. in a way, alpine was his calm in the blinding chaos.

she brushes against his leg, her tail curling, and for a moment, the tension bucky feels in his chest eases, replaced by the memory of calm he almost never allows himself.

steve tucks his hands into his pockets as he leans against the wall beside bucky. he watches his friend for a moment, analysing how his jaw tenses and how his head tilts away like making eye contact with steve would cause every thought in his brain to fall from his mouth.

"you really letting her get to you that much, huh?" steve says, his voice low. he's not teasing anymore— just simply asking.

bucky doesn't say anything. his shoulders are tense as he takes another long drag of his cigarette like it’ll help.

"c'mon—" steve nudges him, "let me hear it."

bucky exhales a long stream of smoke, finally meeting steve's eyes, jaw tight and eyes low, "she just... she gets under my skin. every word, every look, every little movement. i can't—“ he pauses for a second, “i can't stop thinking about her, even when i try not to. i know it's stupid, but—"

he drags in another breath as if he's finally accepting what he feels, "i just... can't look away. i dont want to even if it's killing me inside seeing her kissing up to the customers."

"i mean—" the cigarette trembles in his hand, and a more annoyed expression replaces the forlorn one. "she said he smelt good, steve. can you fuckin' believe that? its like she's trying to get on my nerves."

steve huffs out a laugh, "i mean.. you dont exactly smell like roses and daises, buck. you've got more of a... cooking oil scent—"

"and she said he's clean shaven. what does that even mean?" he runs a tired hand against his jaw, feeling the stubble rub against his fingers, "i shave, don't i?"

the way bucky complains is similar to that of a teenage boy whining about the girl he likes not liking him back. it's boyish. it would be endearing if it wasnt wrapped up in frustration— like he might actually punch through a wall because of it.

"you care way too much about what she thinks for someone who insists they don't give a shit." steve points out, a sincere smile tugging at his lips as he shrugs. "just... ask her out, man."

bucky doesn't answer right away. whether it's because he's not sure how to reply or because he knows steve's right, he doesn't know.

beside him, alpine perks up from where she's curled up next to his feet, ears twisting at full attention towards a noise in the distance. bucky glances down at her— this small, stubborn creature who doesn't leave no matter how many times he shoos her away— and sighs, an uneven trail of smoke trailing through the air.

"i can't." he finally mutters, grinding the cigarette against the brick until the embers die. "what if she's seeing someone? a woman like her would probably have a line of guys out the door."

steve cocks an eyebrow like he has the solution to all of bucky's problems. "last i heard, she's not seeing anybody. hasn't been for a while."

that piques bucky's attention. "where'd you hear that?"

"from mikaela." steve replies like it's obvious.

the name doesn't ring a bell. it's not even in the drawer of names that bucky half-remembers. the cluelessness on his face has steve barking out an amused laugh.

"you don't know mikaela?" he says pushing off of the wall and crossing his arms against his chest, "waitress with the brown hair and blonde highlights? c'mon, buck, you're telling me you don't know mikaela?"

bucky sucks his teeth, shaking his head like the mere idea of knowing waitresses other than you was laughable, "i don't pay attention to front of house.”

"that's a damn lie. you pay plenty of attention to front of house— just not to mikaela or any of the others. you don't know mikaela, but you sure as hell know the one with the tiny skirt and fuck-me-eyes."

bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated. "watch it, steve." he warns, but it doesn't land as harsh as he wants it to, because it's true— he does know you. he knows you more than he should. more than he wants to admit.

his job was easier before you were hired— before you started running around the restaurant like you owned it, before you had befriended steve or any of the other chefs, before you had stuck your fingers in every single crevice of his fucking brain.

sometimes he wishes he could go back in time to tell steve not to hire the applicant with a dozen waitressing jobs under her belt and references who did nothing but praise you. but other times, he wishes he was the one who had interviewed you just so he could have weaselled his way into your life from the start, claiming some part of you before anyone else had the chance.

bucky flicks the dead cigarette and stamps it out until it's a grey mess of ash on the ground. his shoulders loosen a fraction as he steps forwards, ready to push his problems away and slip back into the kitchen.

"okay. smoke break's over." steve claps a hand against bucky's back, gently ushering him back into the door. "sam can't run the kitchen by himself."

bucky huffs out a small laugh, low and dry, "he probably thinks he can run it better than both of us."

steve nods, "and some days, i think that might be true."

bucky just rolls his eyes as steve playfully pushes him towards the hum of the restaurant. the doors swing shut behind them, leaving the alleyway and alpine behind, quiet again.

hours pass. the restaurant is empty now, the dinner rush long over.

in the kitchen, pans and knives are freshly washed and stacked and the hum of the kitchen is softer, almost intimate. the harsh fluorescent light overhead has been switched off and replaced by a single lamp that casts an orange light over the counters, which smell of citrus scented cleaner.

in the main room, the lights are dimmed and there's a faint aroma of charcoal and expensive cologne in the air. the energy from hours ago still buzzes throughout the restaurant like an echo. a few glasses are left drying on the bar and there's a few chairs stacked haphazardly on top of each other, but otherwise, the building feels quiet.

it's just you and bucky. it's been only you two for the past hour.

steve had left earlier with a tired wave and a reminder to lock up, but not without shooting bucky a knowing look as he stepped out of the door. bucky ignored it at the time— brushed it off with the same scowl he always gave steve when he thought he was being clever— but now that the restaurant was almost silent, it settles a little heavier in his chest.

bucky's sweeping the wooden floor of the main room. sweeping. he never sweeps. not when there's busboys or waitresses or literally anyone else around to do it. he didn't know what possessed him, and neither did you.

when he had asked if you had needed help cleaning, you had looked at him like he'd just asked if the sky was blue— baffled, a little amused, and even a little suspicious. james buchanan barnes offering to help with front of house duties? it's unheard of.

now that it's just the two of you, he can't seem to sit still. he sweeps and sweeps, pulling dust from crevices that probably haven't been touched since they first bought the restaurant.

he glances at you.

you're leaning on the bar, a pen in your hand and your head in the other. you're staring down at a notepad containing god knows what. orders? inventory? you're honestly probably just scribbling nonsense just to look busy— and if you are, it's working.

a particularly harsh drag of plastic against the wood gains your attention. your eyes move upwards before your head does, catching the broom mid-sweep in bucky's hands. he's tense. you can see it in the way his shoulders are squared and that familiar scowl on his face as he drags the bristles against the ground.

"you keep that up and i'm gonna start thinking you have a secret love for housekeeping, james." you joke, watching in amusement.

bucky falters for a moment, eyes flicking up to you before he cocks a brow and continues his assault against the floor, "just figured the place could use it."

"uh-huh." you nod suspiciously, pen poised but not writing. "what's with the sudden kindness? what'd you do?"

"nothin'." bucky's quick to respond, "pretty little thing like you shouldn't be running around the restaurant this late. might get yourself hurt."

you'd be flattered if this wasn't totally out of character for him, and also because it's bucky. he's calling you a pretty little thing? who flayed james barnes and crawled into his skin?

"pretty little thing?" your lips twitch, trying not to grin at the absurdity of it. you raise your brows, "okay, who'd you kill?"

"what, i can't compliment you? you sure seem to like it when customers do it." he snaps, broom held a little too tight in his grip.

you pause and raise a brow, "excuse me?"

bucky stops. he isn't sweeping anymore. the broom stands neglected in his hand, his new focus being you. the way you're staring at him makes his skin burn.

"don't act like you don't know what i'm talkin' about." he rolls his eyes, lip almost turned into a snarl, "all those fancy assholes throwing compliments at you, and you eat it up. but me? god forbid i say a word."

you scoff as you stand up a bit straighter, arms crossing against your chest as a defence, "so it's a crime to like being complimented?"

"it's not a crime." bucky retorts, "but you goin' around sticking your tits in their faces and practically sitting on their laps? it should be considered criminal. and it's all you can do, isn't it?"

you narrow your eyes, "that's rich, coming from a man who stares at them every chance he gets."

"sweetheart, it's hard not to." he fires back, watching as you shake your head in bewilderment.

"so, what are you saying?" you challenge, eyes glaring daggers into bucky. "that you think i'm an attention-seeking slut who parades herself around for everyone to see?"

you know this is destructive. bucky's your boss, the one who can put you out of a job with two words, but part of you can't stop— can't stop pushing, can't stop poking and prodding, needing to hear him either admit it or deny it. you don't really care which one it is at this point— you just want to hear it from his mouth instead of reading it in his eyes.

he lets out an annoyed sigh, "don't put words in my mouth—"

"oh, come on, james. we both know you think it." you take a step forwards, the space between you two shrinking until the air is electric. "just admit it and we can get this over with."

your voice is quiet, but so full of venom. you don't need to be loud— you're so close to bucky that it felt like if you even thought too loud, he would hear it.

your stomach twists as you step even closer. you're practically chest-to-chest with bucky, your chin tilted upwards just enough to meet his stare head on. his jaw clenches as he stands his ground, like he's testing how far you're willing to go, and you both know that neither of you will stand down.

his shadow swallows you whole. you feel like you've been caught inside of it. there's nowhere to step and nowhere to breathe that isn't him— his heat, his stare, his scent, his unrelenting presence pressing down on you.

he looks down at you, his eyes half-lidded and twitching as you near him, "you've got a mouth on you, don't you, sugar tits?"

the nickname wrings out a dry laugh from your mouth. he's mocking you, taunting you, poking at some sore spot just to see you flinch— and god, it works.

"what, want me to put my mouth to better use?"

you don't mean to sound flirty— you really don't— but with him this close, his scent practically wraps around you like a ribbon, warm smoke and faint cologne threaded through something else that was unmistakably him. his presence swallows up the space between you, heat curling up your neck until you feel it burrowing underneath your skin.

"is that an offer, doll?"

"in your dreams, barnes."

he's practically in your face, and suddenly every word you say is full of a weight you don't recognise. it's suffocating.

and then— just subtly— you watch as his eyes slowly rake down from your eyes towards your lips, lingering for too long. tracing the curve, memorising the way they part when he leans in a little closer. his breath fans over your face, and you feel your resolve completely dissolve.

you let out a little hitched breath, sharp and caught in your throat, and it's just enough to break whatever restraint he's been holding on to. bucky's eyes darken, and then he's on you before you can even think twice, closing the space between you and pressing his lips to yours.

it's not gentle. it's claiming, leaving no room for regret or argument, and the world narrows to the heat of your mouth against his and the press of your body against his chest.

he indulges in your taste— almost intoxicating— drinking you like you're an oasis in the middle of a desert. every press of his lips draws a ragged breath from your mouth, and the tension and anger you'd been holding onto melts into something raw.

bucky rakes a warm hand up your back, the other sneaking around your waist, pressing you closer as if he can't get enough of the feeling of you in his hands. his fingers trace the curve of your spine, sliding beneath the fabric of your too-tight shirt.

you break free from his lips just enough to whine, a shaky hand running against his jaw, almost pushing him away. "james—"

every move he makes is deliberate, and there's an air of want in the way his lips trails down your jaw and how he buries his face into your neck, pressing wet, open-mouth kisses along the tender skin.

"if you want me to stop—" he murmurs against your skin, each word soaked in something tender that betrays the intensity of his touch, "jus' say it and i'll stop."

this is wrong. bucky is your boss. every rational thought in your body is telling you that this shouldn't be happening, screaming at you to just pull away, to push him off of you before this goes too far.

but then he nips at the skin on your collarbone, his tongue swiping lightly over the tender spot, and something in you flips. every rational thought you had is drowned out by the heat pooling low in your stomach.

your silence is the invitation he needs. his eyes flick up to yours, searching for even the faintest signs of hesitation, but finds none.

he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss again. your bodies press against each other, moving together almost instinctively, and he guides you towards a nearby table. without breaking the kiss, you let yourself sink into the edge, the tablecloth cold against your skin as bucky hovers just above, his hands bracketing your face.

your legs wrap around his waist, and you feel the hard outline of his cock straining against his jeans— a delicious yet torturous reminder of how urgent this has become— and it only makes you press against him even harder.

bucky's hands trail down to yours hips, fingertips digging into your sides as he pulls you tighter against him. you grind against him, the friction sending sparks throught your bodies. a whimper leaves you as your hands bunch the fabric of his shirt, tangling the cotton as you pull yourself impossibly closer. bucky pulls away from the kiss, memorising the way you push your hips into his and how you respond to his touch.

you look so pretty and desperate trying to grind against his cock, and he groans at the sight.

"fuck—" he rasps, "you don't know what you do to me."

you whisper, "then show me."

bucky's lips find yours again, harder this time as his hands fall to your thighs. you lean back as his fingers glide under the fabric of your tight skirt, sliding it up until it bunches around your hips, and the sight that greets him is enough to make his mouth run dry.

you're wearing the cutest pair of black lace panties he's ever seen, and the sight alone almost undoes him completely— delicate and teasing, like they were made specifically to drive him insane.

"is this all for me?" the question drips with smugness as his thumb presses against the band of your panties, watching as it cuts into your thigh.

"don't flatter yourself, james." you huff, flustered but defiant, your body betraying you with a small jerk of your hips, "you're not that special."

"not that special?" he raises a brow, eyes focused on the way you lean into his touch, "sweetheart, we both know none of those men were ever gonna get to fuck you. not the suits... not the smooth talkers... not a single one of 'em. if it weren't for me, you wouldn't be sitting here, dripping through this pretty fabric."

you bite down on your bottom lip, because he's right. you would have never given any of these rich guys the light of day. all they were good for was their money and their attention— nothing that made you feel utterly exposed and electric like bucky did with a single word.

he presses the pad of his thumb against your folds, pressing down right over the spot you need him most, feeling you soak through the lace. you gasp at the pressure, back arching just slightly, the soft sound that leaves your mouth almost pathetic.

"look at you. you've been saving this for me, haven't you?" he cocks his head, eyes half-lidded as he watches you squirm. "walking around in this skimpy little skirt and that tiny shirt— practically beggin' me to tear them off of you."

"awfully cocky for a man who hasn't made me moan yet." you murmur, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers hook around the lacy fabric on your hips,

bucky scoffs, the way your hips lift for him to drag your panties down your hips betraying your words. "you keep talkin' like that and i'll make sure the whole block hears you."

the lace slips down the expanse of your legs, each second growing more and more agonising with every painful stop bucky makes. when it finally slips from your foot, bucky stuffs it into his pocket. the lace sticks out like a sore thumb— a trophy.

he looks down at your cunt, a low, guttural groan escaping him, and it's almost enough to make you cum right then and there. his eyes flick back up to yours before his lips crash back into yours, the kiss far hungrier and desperate than before.

your hands thread into his hair as the world narrows in on the taste of his tongue and the feeling of his hand sliding from your knee down to your inner thigh. every glide and subtle press of his fingers ignites a fire you can't control.

bucky catches your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging it until it burns red. you huff when he pulls just a little too hard, but to make up for it, he runs a finger through your folds, your argumentative grumbles turning into airy gasps before he's pressing his lips against yours again, swallowing any last shred of resistance you have left.

his thumb finds your clit, brushing lightly at first, sending heat throughout your body. your breath hitches and bucky's quick to press harder, drawing figure eights onto the bundle of nerves.

his touch is both punishment and reward, a bitter reminder of how he has you unraveling under his touch. every whimper, every shiver, and every gasp seems to feed him, as if your reactions are what's keeping him alive.

you pull away from the kiss to breathe. you can feel the press of a finger against your entrance, and before you can fully grasp what's about to happen, bucky pushes two fingers into you.

your head tilts back before you can stop it, a broken moan slipping from your throat— unrestrained and humiliating. you can feel bucky shifting against your skin and you already know what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth.

"what did you say about not making you moan?" he murmurs into the skin just below your ears, smugness dripping off of every syllable.

heat rises up your neck, but you refuse to give him the full satisfaction of watching you submit to him.

"just..." you breathe, your nails digging into the tablecloth as he pumps his fingers into you, "sh-shut up and keep going.”

he hums, "gladly."

bucky's fingers drag in and out of you, curling against your walls with devastating precision. his fingertips brush against all of your sweet spots like he knows exactly where to touch to make you fall apart.

he can tell you're close by the way your eyebrows knit together in concentration and the way you fuck yourself back onto his fingers. he reaches down with his other hand and adds a delicious pressure against your clit, watching as your arms buckle and almost collapse back onto the table.

"c'mon, cum for me." bucky urges, "cum on my fingers, baby."

and you do, your legs quivering as a wave of heat flashes over your entire body. bucky doesn't stop— he continues his assault on your clit and he drives his fingers into your cunt until you're clenching around him, whimpering protests.

he pulls his fingers out and you instantly clench around nothing. your eyes track him as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out to taste you. he groans around his fingers, the sound low and almost animalistic as he leans in to kiss you.

you can taste yourself on his lips, your legs wrapping around his waist, pressing him closer to you.

"that feel good?" bucky asks, his lips glistening with your slick.

you huff out a small laugh, "what do you think?"

he rolls his eyes and dips his face into the crook of your neck, his stubble scratchy as he presses kisses to your skin. you lull your head back, lips parting with a shaky sigh, but then your eyes land on the large glass doors of the restaurant— completely see-through and mercilessly reflective.

all rational thought comes crawling back to you, but your next words are already in bucky's mouth, his hands crawling up to slide into your hair.

"shit, jame—" his kiss steals your breath, "james, we can't—" his tongue grazes yours and you whimper, "we can't—" another kiss, rougher this time. "we can't do it in here. people'll—" he swallows the protest whole, "people will see."

it's almost like he enjoys watching you struggle.

"what, afraid table seven'll walk past and see you sitting here all pretty and spread out on his table?" his words come out muffled as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"it's bad for our image, james. if someone walks by—" you grumble into his mouth, but he cuts you off by simply pulling away.

there's a flicker of arrogance in his eyes as he tilts his head like your reasoning doesn't make sense. "i was just knuckles deep inside of you, sweetheart. you're really worried about our image right now?"

"i'm serious." you push at his chest, but it's light-hearted at most. your nails curl into his shirt like you don't want him to stop, "what if steve comes back and—"

bucky just dives back into your neck like it's a five star restaurant, teeth grazing the skin on your collarbone before his tongue swipes over it.

"rogers has a date tonight." bucky pulls back and swipes a thumb against his teeth marks, "he's not comin' back anytime soon."

you glare at him when his eyes flick up to yours, dead serious. "i'm not having sex with you in the middle of the restaurant, barnes."

he rolls his eyes. "okay, okay, fine. whatever the princess wants, the princess gets." he exhales against your throat, the joke falling upon deaf ears when he grabs you by your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the table.

you tense when he wraps a thick arm around your back and his other arm snakes under your thigh, hoisting you upwards. you wrap your legs around his waist and giggle.

he walks you towards the kitchen with ease, eyes closed and face still stuffed in the warmth of your neck. you're almost amazed, but then you remember that he knows this place like the back of his hand and he could probably do this blindfolded.

bucky pushes the door open with one hand and it slams behind you as he presses his lips to yours, swallowing the startled gasp that leaves you. the faint hum of the fridge and the overhead led lights fill the kitchen, but you're far too preoccupied to notice.

he sets you down onto the cold, hard counter, his palms pressed firmly into your thighs and you hiss at the contact. youre pressed flush against his chest, every breath you take tangling with his, like he can't even stand an inch of distance between you. his stubble scrapes along your jaw as his mouth trails to your cheek, and then down your throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

"on the counter?" you furrow your brows, the cold metal searing into the burning skin on your thighs and ass.

he hums, sucking a delicate bruise onto your neck, "on the counter."

"this is such a health and safety violation, james—"

"bucky." he interrupts, voice stripped of teasing or smugness and replaced by something softer— something more sincere. "call me bucky."

you blink at him for a moment. part of you wants to tease him, but another part of you just wants to press sweet little kisses across his face and melt into his arms. you let out a breathy laugh.

“nicknames, huh?” you grin, “okay, i can do that... bucky."

the single word hangs between you, and you swear bucky moans a little bit before he's on you again, lips wet and swollen. every inch of him presses against you, the weight of his body pinning you into the counter.

you can feel his cock straining within the confines of his jeans, pressing insistently against your inner thigh. your hand trails from his neck down to the outline of him, the pressure of your palm dragging out a low, shaky inhale.

"fuck..." bucky mumbles, pressing a kiss to your jugular to hide the sharp intake of air that escapes him. his fingers dig deeper into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer.

you can feel him pulsate under your palm, and the way he presses into your hand makes you bite your lip. "do you want me to—"

he shakes his head, "don't worry about me." he murmurs, his hand sliding down and finding the heat that awaits him. "just lean back. wanna taste you."

you swallow and obey. it's almost pathetic how quick bucky can make you listen to him— one moment you're talking back, and the next, he has you spread out like a whore. every thought of self respect and decorum escapes you the moment he lays a single hand on you.

and then bucky's kneeling in front of you like a sinner at an altar, worshipping you like you're the only source of forgiveness in this sorry world. he's looking up at you with half-lidded eyes as he gently spreads your legs open, his lips parting as he leans closer, letting the heat of his mouth hover just above your cunt.

your breath hitches when his tongue presses flat against you, licking a slow line from your opening to your clit. bucky takes your hand threading through his hair as a good sign and presses his face into you a bit more, nose digging into your heat just right.

compared to his hands— rough and calloused, gripping your hips so tight that you're sure they'd leave bruises— his tongue was soft, poking and prodding at your cunt like he's trying to figure out what makes you feel good and how to make more of those pretty little moans fall from your mouth.

"bucky—" you moan when you feel his tongue breaching your hole, the muscle fucking into you, "oh, god."

bucky hums, the vibrations shooting shockwaves of pleasure throughout your entire nervous system. you rut into his face, but his hands slide up to hold your hips down, and he only pulls off to breath before diving back in.

you're close, and bucky can tell. the sounds are obscene— wet and sloppy— his tongue sliding over your heat and your moans and whimpers mixing together like an orchestra.

when you finally cum, your legs are clamping around bucky's head, your head thrown back against the wall as you grind yourself onto his face. you don't even care if he's breathing— the muffled moans that leak from his mouth tell you he's enjoying it.

when you finally let him go, he pops off of your cunt with a small hum, looking completely pussy-drunk. he presses his cheek against your thigh, a curious finger pressing against your folds.

"fuck, that was good." you blurt out, still fucked out of your mind.

before you know it, bucky's rising to his feet and unbuckling his belt. you start undoing the buttons on your shirt, the action tedious and repetitive when all you want is his dick inside of you. you're left in your bra— black and lacy to match your panties— and bucky's eyes never leave your chest, even when he fumbles with the loops of his belt.

before long, bucky pulls himself out of his boxers. the first thing you notice is how flushed the tip is after being pressed against denim all night. he's also long and thick, and far bigger than anything you've ever taken before. you're almost scared.

he hums, a teasing smile on his face. "thanks, sugar."

even through your hazy state of mind, you still know what he's talking about— and you're going to kill him. steve called you sugar once, and now bucky's running around throwing the word at you like he's taunting you.

you can't believe he's literally about to be inside of you and you're still letting him torment you. you're lucky he's making you feel good, because if he wasn't, you'd probably say some half-assed insult just to spite him. even in the middle of pressing into you, he can't get steve out of his head.

he presses his tip against your entrance, and you have to hold yourself back from rocking onto his dick. bucky tilts his head, almost amused at your desperateness before something else cuts through his thoughts.

"you sure you want this?" he asks, his voice low, giving you one last chance to back out.

you nod quickly, your hands planting themselves onto his shoulders, "i do. i want this."

"mh-hm." he presses a kiss to your forehead with a smile, all rational thought getting thrown out of the window as he teases, "alright, sugar."

you roll your eyes. "oh, bite me, buck." you grit out halfway through a gasp.

and maybe he takes you too literally, because he does— he quickly undoes your bra and he bites you, hard and wet right into the flesh of your breast. your breath hitches as you drag a needy hand up his neck and into his hair, tugging at the root.

he groans into your flesh as he quickly pushes in and bottoms out. it’s quick and overwhelming, stealing the air from your lungs. you gasp, the sudden breach both burns and soothes all at once, your nails clawing at his shoulders just to get a grip.

but it leaves bucky feeling like something is missing, feeling like he needs more of you— like being buried in you isn’t enough— so he tries.

he tugs your bra off of you and tosses it somewhere on the ground, his hands desperate and greedy as his thumbs graze your nipples before leaning down and taking one into his mouth, tongue flicking and sucking like he’s a man starved. it’s so messy yet so good that you’re almost confused.

"what are you—"

you're cut off when bucky jerks. your hips are already flush, but bucky tries as hard as he can to push into you ever further, the tip of his dick practically digging into your cervix. you tremble in his arms as he pops off of your tit, a string of saliva connecting you.

"god, you taste like pure sugar." he groans, “and you're so tight. you been waiting for me? waiting for me to fuck your pretty little cunt?"

you nod, because what else can you really do? he’s grinding against you like his life depends on it, and the force of it has you turning into jelly in his arms. the drag of his cock inside of you has your back arching into his chest.

his hands are pressing into your hips so hard that you’re sure it’s going to bruise. his forehead is resting against yours, and it feels less like sex and more like he’s trying to claim every single part of you at once.

and then he finally pulls his hips back, his dick sliding out of you slow enough to make your walls clench around nothing before he hammers himself back into you with a force that rattles the counters. he swallows your cry in a desperate kiss before he repeats it again, and again, and again before he lays you down.

the counter makes contact with your bare back, goosebumps shooting throughout your entire body, but it’s nothing compared to how bucky’s driving his cock into you like you belong to him. your hands are reaching for something— anything— before you grab a hold of a rickety spice shelf above you, the metal groaning under the tension. one of the containers threatens to fall with a particularly hard thrust, but you don’t pay it any attention.

you’re sure bucky’s gonna be upset with you later, but you can’t really bring yourself to care when he’s fucking you like he’s determined to ruin you.

the kitchen echoes with you moaning bucky’s name and his groans, the loud wet plapping of his dick driving into you almost drowning you both out. bucky’s touch is electric, his hands sliding up your sides to pinch at your nipples with a shit-eating smile.

"you think that asshole at table seven could fuck you this good?" he grits out as he watched you writhe under his hands, "you think he could have you moaning his name like this?"

"ugh— no. fuck, no— only you." you groan, "only you, bucky."

the sound of his name on your tongue has him doubling over. "fuck. that's right." he groans into your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of your earlobe.

your grip on the shelf tightens until your knuckles whiten and the rattling of the jars and containers gets drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. heat coils low in your stomach, and your mouth falls open but no sound comes out— just desperate, broken breaths that tell him exactly how close you are.

bucky feels it— the way your walls flutter and clench around him— and his hand snakes down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with ease, pressing down and rubbing tight circles that make your whole body jerk.

“c’mon, sweetheart, give it to me.” he rasps, and you can feel him coming undone inside of you, “give it to me— wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.“

and you do— the coil of heat in your stomach snaps and your head tips back, hitting the cool metal of the counter. a loud, strangled cry leaves your lips when every muscle in your body goes numb, then shatters into waves of molten pleasure with a final thrust.

he lets out a small laugh when he feels you clench around him, coming on his cock. he twitches in you, nails digging into your waist as he drives himself into you, “fuuuuck—“

“cum in me, buck— please.” you whimper, starting to feel overstimulated. your hands reach up to tug at his hair, pulling him towards you, “need it— need you.”

his hips stutter at your plea, your voice breaking whatever restraint he had that was holding him back. a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he buries his face into your neck, his thrusts turning ragged and messy, almost desperate to fill you.

bucky spills into you, cum hot and thick against your cervix, coating your insides like an artist does to a canvas. you pull him to your mouth, swallowing his groans. he feels drunk on the way you’re clenching around him, his thrusts faltering as you ride out your orgasms.

when he finally stills, forehead pressed against yours, he wraps his arms around you, holding you as if you might slip away. and then his voice comes out, soft and unguarded— sweet.

“you’ll be the death of me, sweetheart.”

you let out an uneven laugh, still shaky from your climax. you press a warm kiss to the edge of his hairline just long enough for him to feel it.

“what a way to go, huh?”

the first thing buckys notices when he steps into the restaurant the next day is that it smells of coffee— and it never smells of coffee. the aroma is strong and oddly comforting, wrapping around him as he takes a deep breath.

the first thing he notices is you. you’re already moving between tables, apron tied around your waist and a small trolley full of cutlery standing idly beside you. the sunlight streaming through the windows catches your skin just right, and bucky can’t help the subtle smile that tugs at his lips.

and then you look up at him, all polite and composed, none of your usual snarkiness coating your voice.

“morning.” you say with a small smile, voice overwhelmingly casual, but there’s a softness in it that has bucky’s chest tightening.

“mornin’.” he replies, eyes flicking to a tray of paper coffee cups that sits idly on the bar counter, “you felt nice enough to buy us coffee?”

you shrug like you’re hiding a secret, “i was in a good mood this morning.”

and just like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, you go back to setting up the tables— placing cutlery and plates in their places, smoothing out the table cloths, and straightening up the chairs.

there’s a moment where bucky pauses to study you, his mind racing with the memory of you spread out and arching your back on the table you’re currently setting up, before he clears his throat and moves towards the kitchen.

from the pass, bucky can see steve, already knee-deep in prep work, chopping vegetables with precision. steve glances up at bucky as the kitchen door swings open, eyes already scanning his friend like he’s reading the aftermath of last night before he turns back to his cutting board.

bucky can sense something’s wrong before he even steps through the door. he tucks his bag under the counter and pulls his apron off of the hook, the strap settling into the back of his neck as he fastens it around his waist, preparing himself for whatever smirk and comment steve’s already lining up.

“have fun last night?” steve asks without looking up.

"hmm?" bucky's brow twitches as he opens the fridge and pulls out a tray of prepped ingredients. he tries to look indifferent, but he’s sure the way he tenses his jaw betrays him. “sure.”

he didn't tell steve he was doing anything last night. he just assumed steve would think he went home and sat on his sofa, cooked up some mac and cheese and nursed a beer or three— not that he had fucked you right where he was preparing vegetables.

steve nods like he’s interested, but then his knife pauses. he places it down carefully before he turns to bucky with an inquisitive eye, and bucky doesn’t miss the way steve stares for a moment too long.

“when i opened up this morning, old man pat came by and complained about a noise.” he mentions, his voice even and calm. “said it sounded like a cat screaming and meowing all night long.”

“weird.” bucky mutters under his breath. the memory of you coming undone on his cock plays in his mind on a loop, and you were definitely pretty loud. “probably alpine trying to catch rats near the dumpsters again.”

“yeah, probably.” steve narrows his eyes for a moment before he claps his hands and points to the door with his thumbs, “i’m gonna head over to the grocer to pick up some stuff. you mind watching the stock for me?”

“yeah, sure.”

steve undoes his apron and pulls it over his neck, hanging it back onto the hook. he dusts his hands off and pulls open the kitchen door, but pauses in the doorway.

“oh, and buck?” he calls.

bucky hums as he glances at steve.

“the next time you fuck the waitress in the middle of the restaurant, make sure the cameras are off.“

every muscles in bucky’s body tenses. heat crawls up his neck fast and hot, his eyes instinctively finding you— maybe to see if you heard that steve knows, or maybe to just calm himself down in this moment of immense horror— but you’re there, folding napkins with practiced motions and pursed lips, completely unaware that steve knows your dirty little secret.

bucky blinks, still frozen. he feels like he’s a kid caught with his arm elbow-deep in the forbidden cookie jar.

“and hey—“ steve casually adds as he pulls his jacket over his shoulders, “while you’re at it, next time, invite me.”

Of all the people to freeze to death alongside, it just had to be Bucky Barnes. 

You’re shivering so hard, you feel like you could come apart if your arms weren’t wrapped around your torso, holding you together. The storm of the century roars outside. It's getting harder and harder to remain optimistic that Bucky can fix the generator, that you’ll be defrosting anytime soon.

You tap your foot impatiently against the dirt floor of the basement while Bucky fusses with the generator battery. The tension winds tighter in his shoulders with every passing second, with every tap of your foot.

Eventually, he tosses the battery to the side with a heavy sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s dead. won’t charge.”

“I thought you said you could fix it,” you snap, trying to keep your teeth from chattering. These New-Avengers-branded winter tactical suits that R&D pushed on the two of you are far more fashion than function, and you’re starting to lose feeling in your toes.

“Can’t fix a battery that won’t charge,” Bucky grumbles as he gets to his feet. “It needs a replacement, which we don’t have.”

You groan, rubbing your temple with a gloved hand. “This is just perfect, Barnes."

And then the bickering starts, as usual. It’s the same old song and dance routine that happens every time the two of you are forced onto a mission together.

“Oh, so this is my fault. How was I supposed to know?”

“You said this safehouse was fully equipped!”

“I got bad intel,” he growls, more frustrated by the second. “Can you cut me some slack?”

You clutch your arms tighter around your body, trying to preserve what little warmth you have. “I’m freezing my ass off because of your bad intel. How long are we gonna have to wait this out?”

Bucky glances down at his comms display. “Val said extraction is at dawn. Earliest they can get here.”

“Great,” you huff, stomping up the stairs and out of the basement. “Eight more hours in a freezing cabin with you. It must be my birthday or something.”

Wishful thinking, to hope he wouldn’t follow you, that he’d give you space to be angry. You hear his footsteps behind you, hear him mumble something about ‘dramatics’ under your breath, and you resist the urge to throw something at him.

“Dramatics?” you whirl around, indignant. He's not shivering one bit. It makes you want to punch him.

“Not all of us have super serum to stave off frostbite. I'll be lucky if I make it to morning with all my toes.”

Bucky frowns at this, brows furrowing, but you’ve decided not to care about what he thinks anymore. You're too cold for that. You unfurl the ancient sleeping bag you procured from a storage closet and lay down on the dingy hardwood floor.

“I’m going to bed,” you declare as you cocoon yourself. “If I freeze to death in my sleep, it’s on you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and sits against the wall, dejected. “Fuck’s sake.”

Your teeth are chattering so loud, Bucky's surprised that it doesn’t give away the safehouse’s location to every hostile in a five mile radius.

He had peeled off his snowsuit and laid down almost an hour ago to sleep, but he’s still staring at the ceiling, listening to your shallow, shivering breath. Annoyance and fatigue mixes with a hint of guilt — because you’re right. It was his bad intel that brought the two of you here, and now you’ll be borderline hypothermic for another six hours at least.

Bucky can’t in good conscience allow this to go on. He sits up in his sleeping bag and runs a tired hand through his hair. “Okay, that’s enough. Get over here.”

“What?” you mumble, raising your head.

“I can’t sleep with all the shivering and teeth chattering going on over there.” He pulls open his sleeping bag and gestures for you to approach. “You’ll be warmer if we share.”

Despite the lack of color in your face, you still manage to give him a withering look. “N-no way.”

Bucky sighs. “Will you stop being so damn stubborn, for once?”

“Why do you c-care?” you shoot back.

“I can’t sit here and pretend to sleep while you’re suffering like this.” Something happens to his voice, an involuntary softening, and he clears his throat quietly to banish it. “Just come here.”

Your eyes flick from his face, to the sleeping bag, to his broad chest — he’s just wearing a t-shirt and he’s still not shivering. He's the closest thing to a functioning radiator in this run-down shack. 

You decide that you’ve spent worse nights in worse ways.

Disentangling yourself from your sleeping bag, you shuffle across the room and slip into his, trying to look dignified as you wriggle into position.

“If you tell anyone about this, I will kill you dead,” you warn.

“Agreed,” he replies. “We never speak of this.”

You nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a hand at the zipper of your snow jacket, pulling it downwards. “What the hell are you doing?” you nearly yelp.

Bucky tries not to roll his eyes at your reaction and eases the jacket off your shoulders, leaving you in your thermal top and tac suit pants. “You wanna get warm or not?”

Before you have time to protest, he throws the sleeping bag over you and pulls you until your back is flush against his chest. Warmth envelops you immediately, pulling a shudder from your freezing body.

“Christ, you’re like a furnace,” you mutter, burrowing closer to him before your brain can think better of it.

“Just relax,” he rumbles, his real arm circling around you as your shivers begin to slow. “I’ve got you.”

It’s far too intimate of a moment for the kind of relationship you have with each other — all bark and occasional bite. But your body doesn’t care about that. It just cares that you can finally feel your fingers again. You would never admit it to yourself, but it was sort of nice, being held by him. Because of the warmth, of course. Not because of the familiar scent of cedar and gun oil, or the steady and sure sound of his breath, or the way you can feel every twitch of the muscles in his arm.

He’s just warm, that’s all.

After a moment of quiet, during which you realize the quiet is due to your teeth no longer clattering against one another, you sigh and whisper, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbles. 

Not fucking likely.

When you finally fall asleep, it’s bliss. The insulation of the sleeping bag keeps you wrapped in Bucky’s warmth, sending you drifting off into peaceful sleep.

You think you’re dreaming at first, when something stirs you awake. Breath, hot against the back of your neck. A quiet, rumbling groan from behind you. A strong arm draped loose around you, and the slow grind of something hard against your backside.

You’re barely awake, registering sensation before context, so you mindlessly press back into it, a sigh breaching your lips. It's only when you feel the scratch of stubble against your shoulder, inhale the familiar scent of him that you realize where you are, and who you’re with.

You freeze, eyes snapping wide open.

For a moment, you’re still not entirely sure if you’re dreaming, because this is a highly unlikely turn of events. Is Bucky Barnes, of all people, making a move on you? 

He shifts again, another lazy grind of his hard cock against the curve of your ass, and he mumbles something soft and incoherent. Your brain does the math instantly.

He’s dreaming.

“Barnes.” Your voice is weak as you speak up to — to what, exactly? Wake him, stop him? With each uncoordinated, needy press of his hips against you, you’re less and less sure that you want him to. The sound of his dreamy pleasure in your ear, the warm press of his body against yours… they’re affecting you more than you’d like to admit. You can feel a growing damp patch between your legs that no squeeze of your thighs is going to relieve anytime soon.

The rules of consent here are shaky at best. You should stop this. You really should stop this.

Bucky murmurs something against the back of your neck, that underneath the rumble of sleepy desire, sounds suspiciously like your name. It sends your brain reeling, torn between shoving him awake and pulling him against you until there’s no space left between your body and his.

His arm tightens around your waist, his cock pressing insistently against you even in sleep. Something close to a whimper resonates in his throat, and the sound of it travels straight between your legs.

“Barnes,” you gasp, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of the room.

Suddenly, he stops moving, awareness seizing him. The two of you grow very still, the sound of breath the only thing breaking the silence. 

“Fuck. Sorry. I'm… I was dreaming.” His voice shakes a little, laden with guilt and shame. His arm retreats from its hold around you, his hand finding your waist, trying to ease himself away from you. “Christ, I’m sorry, I’ll—“

When you speak, it surprises even you.

“Don’t stop.”

You can almost picture the stunned look of surprise on Bucky's face as he freezes in place once again. “Wh-what?”

Well, you’ve already said it. There's no pretending that you didn’t. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I said don’t stop,” you repeat emphatically, pressing your hips back against him for good measure.

Bucky hisses, his grip on your waist tightening, discouraging you from moving again, but also not pushing you away. “Fuck, don’t do that.”

“Why not?” you ask, breathless.

“I — it’s been a while, and I— jesus.” He groans like a man being tortured when you grind back against him again. “Don't tease me, doll.”

“Who says I'm teasing?” 

You cover your hand with his and drag it forward, upward, until it sneaks beneath the hem of your thermal shirt and rests against the warm skin of your upper abdomen. His fingers graze against the underside of your breast, and you arch back against him, seeking the feel of his cock between your layers of clothing. 

A soft, needy sound slips out of you, and in an instant, Bucky's composure unravels completely, like he’d been waiting for permission.

His arm flexes, pulling you tight against him, and he ruts desperately against you. “God, please.”

That ‘please’ absolutely ruins you. You can hear the anguish, the need laced through it. The super soldier, the assassin of legend, so starved for touch that he’s reduced to a begging, whimpering thing just from the feeling of your body against his. You press your thighs together uselessly, soaked at the thought.

“Please what?” you reply. Okay, now you might be teasing him. But it’s only because you want him to ask, so you can give it to him.

“I— I don't know. I need…” His thrusts against you increase in rhythm, and his hand closes the distance to palm at your breasts, almost mindless in his urgency. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I just need this,” he murmurs against your neck. “Need you.”

Your body hums with pleasure and possibility, and you grind back encouragingly when he rolls your nipple between his fingers. 

“Yeah? You wanna get off like this?” you ask as gently as you can manage under the circumstances. “Or do you want more?”

Bucky gasps sharply against your shoulder, like he hadn’t even considered that a possibility, still rutting restlessly against you. 

“More. Please.” His hand grasps your hip, gathering a fistful of the fabric of your tactical pants. A plea just as ardent as the one that he spoke aloud. 

Quick and decisive, you unbutton your pants, shoving them down your thighs along with your underwear, kicking them away. His large, rough hands knead the newly exposed flesh and he groans again, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Come on, baby,” you murmur, reaching back to weave your fingers into his hair. “Show me how bad you need it.”

Baby. That's new. Before you have time to parse your own words, Bucky frantically shoves his own clothes out of the way, freeing himself. You feel the warmth of his cock against your asscheek, the smear of his arousal against your skin. Lifting your leg and draping it over his thigh, you open yourself to him, your chest heaving with anticipation. He slides his cock through the wetness between your legs, barely choking back a moan.

You tug at his hair softly, a silent encouragement, and he sinks into you in one urgent thrust.

You inhale sharply at the stretch, at the sensation of being filled so completely. The instant Bucky is inside you, he’s completely gone — panting, gripping your hips like a lifeline, grinding against your cervix like he’s trying to crawl inside of you and live there.

“God, you feel… you feel so good,” he mutters helplessly.

Your hand finds his again, guiding it between your legs. “Touch me,” you whisper, a shuddering gasp leaving your lips when his fingers brush against your clit and circle there. “Yeah, like that, fuck.”

Bucky begins to thrust from behind you, and his fingers find the perfect pressure against the bundle of nerves. Your body responds by clenching around him, a breathy moan escaping you.

He whimpers again, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. “Sweetheart, if you do keep doing that, I'm not gonna last.”

“Then hurry up and make me come, Barnes," you reply, deliberately squeezing him again.

Something halfway between a chuckle and a moan pushes out of his lungs, and Bucky begins to move in earnest, thrusting deep and desperate into you.

You wish you could see his face, but you hear plenty, because Bucky Barnes is surprisingly vocal in bed. You would have thought him to be stoic and silent, but every thrust is accompanied by a grunt, a moan, a gasp, sometimes even a whine. It turns you on even more, to hear so clearly what you’re doing to him.

Another unfortunate consequence of being in this position is that you can’t kiss him. You surprise yourself by wanting to, wishing to feel those delicious moans buzzing against your lips, to hear what sound he might make when your tongue flicks into his mouth. 

Still, you can’t really complain in this position, not when the drag of his cock lights you up so deliciously, hitting your g-spot on every stroke. It doesn't take long for you to wind you up, not when he sounds like that, right in your ear.

“C-close,” he chokes out, his pace turning fevered and uncoordinated. 

“Me too,” you pant in reply. 

“Sweetheart, please,” he begs, his voice strained like it costs him to ask, “please, don’t make me stop. You feel so good, I wanna come inside you so bad—”

The request, and the desperation in it, pushes you over the edge. As your body seizes with pleasure, you thread your fingers into his hair again, tugging sharply.

“Yes, Bucky, yes.”

If your words weren’t enough permission, your cunt clamps tightly around him, and all the willpower in the world couldn’t make Bucky pull out now. He comes inside you with a strangled cry, his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade. He shudders and thrusts shallowly as your muscles draw every last spasm and twitch and drop of cum from his cock until it’s completely spent, until both of your cries of pleasure taper off to shallow breaths of recovery.

Once again, neither of you move for a good, long moment. Bucky is the first to shift, pulling out of you reluctantly with a labored sigh. 

“That was…” He trails off, because he doesn’t quite have the words yet.

You roll over in his arms, and the blissed out expression in his face says it all for him. “Yeah, you agree. “That was.”

He looks at you, utterly bewildered. An unexpected wave of something close to tenderness washes over you, and you find yourself pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. “You okay?”

Bucky looks just as surprised at the gesture as you feel to be doing it. “Yeah, I just… I thought you couldn’t stand me.”

You smile, in spite of yourself. “To be fair, that’s true. Some of the time,” you concede. “Other times, you’re not so bad.”

Bucky's eyes flicker down to your mouth, and he inches towards you until his nose nudges against yours. “And now?”

“Now…” you pry your arm out of the sleeping bag to check your watch. “We have two hours until extraction.”

Eager to get a taste of what you were missing when he was at your back, you brush your lips across his teasingly. “You wanna make ‘em count?”

He wastes no time, pulling you flush against him and slotting his mouth over yours. You moan appreciatively into the kiss, and you can already feel the first twitches of renewed interest from where his cock is pressed to your thigh.

His lips drag across your jaw, the column of your throat, and he growls, “We are definitely not telling anyone about this.”

“What, you don’t want me to tell the team about how you beg when I touch you?” you whisper in his ear, your hand sliding down to wrap around his now half-hard cock. 

“Fuck, you’re evil,” he whimpers, already wrecked again under your hand.

God bless super soldiers and their short refractory periods, you think to yourself.

“Say ‘please’ again,” you tell him, your teeth grazing the shell of his ear.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate for a second, complying immediately. “Please.”

It’s music to your ears.

You reward him with an agonizingly slow stroke along the length of him, and whisper experimentally, “Good boy.”

To your delight, he hardens completely at the sound of your praise, nearly choking on a groan as he presses his forehead to yours.

Your grin is absolutely wicked. “Oh, that is interesting.”

“Doll…” he protests, ears turning red, his expression so hopelessly turned on that it almost makes you laugh.

“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmur, lazily stroking him again. “I won’t tell anyone about that, either.”

Now, fresh from your shower, skin still warm and dewy, you slipped into them—nothing on but a towel draped over your hair, drying off the ends. The hard click of the heel echoed sharply as you stepped across the hardwood floor of your walk-in, then paused to study your reflection in the full-length mirror.

The shoes made your legs look longer. Firmer. Every shift of your weight made your muscles flex just right—like danger incarnate wrapped in nothing but bare skin and sleek edges. You turned slightly, admiring the clean line of your thigh from the back, the curve of your ass lifted just right by the height of the heels.

You took a few steps—slow and experimental—toward the mirror. Click. Click. A small smile played on your lips. Powerful. That’s how they made you feel.

You didn’t realize you weren’t alone.

Bucky had been standing just past the doorway—towel slung low around his hips, hair damp, chest still glistening from the aborted mission to shower. But now he was behind you, watching silently.

In the mirror, you saw him—towering behind you like some kind of storm barely held back. His jaw was tight. His cock already twitching beneath the towel.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked.

You startled slightly, catching his reflection. “Buck?”

“I—” he dragged a hand down his face. “Don’t move.”

You arched a brow, amused. “Why?”

“Because I can’t stop staring. You—fuck, sweetheart…” His eyes raked your reflection, wide and hungry. “You look like a fucking vision. I can’t—your legs. Tight. Flexed. Those fucking heels…”

You shifted again, subtle, letting the pose change slightly. “It’s just heels.”

“You’re naked in heels,” he rasped, stepping forward like gravity reeled him in. “Clicking around like it’s nothing. And you didn’t even know I was here. That’s fucking criminal.”

He stopped just behind you—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his towel brushing your skin. You met his gaze in the mirror as he stared over your shoulder, utterly entranced.

“I was testing them out.”

“Yeah?” His voice dipped again. “I’m testing my fucking limits.”

Still, he didn’t touch. His breath ghosted across your neck as he whispered, “You look like you could slit throats and make a man thank you for it.”

You chuckled, soft and sultry. “That’s a compliment?”

“Sweetheart, that’s a confession.”

Then his hands finally found your hips. He pressed himself to your back, hard and hot, his cock fully erect beneath the thin towel. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You ever see yourself like this?” he murmured. “Legs flexed. Shoulders bare. Looking at me in the mirror like that?”

“I see you too,” you whispered, shifting your weight just slightly so your heel lifted. “And I see what this is doing to you.”

Bucky groaned, the sound dark and low in his throat. His grip tightened, and then—slowly—he turned you in his hands. Gently, reverently. Until you were facing him.

His eyes were glazed, jaw tight, towel strained over how badly he wanted you.

Then, with one hand, he reached down and curled his fingers behind your knee.

“Lift it,” he said, voice a raw rasp.

You obeyed, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance as you raised your leg.

He caught it easily—guided your stiletto up onto his thigh, right against the heat of him.

And just like that… you understood.

You shifted your angle slightly, just enough to let the sharp point of your heel drag slowly across the inside of his thigh. He gasped.

You did it again. Slower this time. Closer.

He bit his bottom lip, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“Think I just found a new kink,” he groaned. “You, wearing those heels. Me just… watching you use ‘em like this.”

“You’d let me tease you like this?” you asked, voice teasing, hungry. “Keep you hard with just my heels and no hands?”

His hips jerked forward instinctively.

“You’d do that to me?”

You smiled, head tilting slightly. “I’d make you beg, Bucky. Tell you how pretty you look, all desperate. Maybe even let you rut up against my foot a little. But only if you ask nicely.”

“Fuck.” His voice cracked. “You could ruin me.”

You stepped in closer, both hands pressing gently to his chest now.

“Then let me.”

And with one slow, confident push, you backed him until his shoulders met the cool surface of the mirror behind him—still watching, still reflected.

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath, letting his towel fall.

And you dropped to your knees.

You were just getting started.

—

You looked up at him, cock flushed and twitching in front of you, chest rising and falling like he was holding on by a thread.

“Say please,” you murmured, fingers gliding up his thigh as you leaned in.

Bucky moaned—low and wrecked—his head falling back to thump softly against the mirror.

“Please. Just—baby, please.”

You didn’t give him what he wanted. Not yet.

Instead, you reached down and pressed your heel between his thighs again—light, teasing, right to that sensitive spot that made him jolt.

“The gala might have to wait.”

His breath stuttered hard, hands twitching at his sides. His hips rolled instinctively toward you, seeking contact—anything—but you just leaned back slightly, keeping your eyes on his.

“God,” he whispered, voice frayed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled sweetly and slid your palm up his length in a slow stroke—then let go completely.

“Not until I’m done with you.”

“You’re so hard,” you whispered. “And I’ve barely done anything to you.”

You watched him—so big, so ready to fall apart for you—and felt a flicker of nerves beneath the thrill. You weren’t used to this. Not like this. But the way he looked at you?

Like you hung the moon.

You straightened your shoulders slightly. Let the confidence follow your voice.

Instead, you slowly stepped back, out of his hold. The sharp click of your stilettos on the hardwood made him visibly flinch, like even the sound of them had power over him now.

“Down,” you said softly, letting the word hang in the air like smoke.

You weren’t sure what you expected. But the way he froze—chest rising, mouth parted—told you everything.

He wanted this. Wanted you like this.

His brows drew together—hesitant, breathless.

“Kneel for me, James.”

You didn’t say it again.

You didn’t need to.

He sank slowly, towel loosening around his hips as he dropped to his knees in front of you. You stood tall above him, completely bare but for the heels and the towel draped across your damp hair. One step forward, and he was level with your thighs—your heat, your scent—everything.

“Look at you,” you murmured, tilting his chin up with your fingers. “Big, dangerous super soldier, and yet you’re right here. On your knees. Just ‘cause I told you to.”

His eyes were wide, lips parted. You watched his cock twitch again, hard and leaking against his stomach.

You shifted your weight, lifting one leg slowly and placing the pointed tip of your heel right between his thighs. Just beneath his balls.

“God—” he gasped, hands twitching on his thighs, unsure where to place them. “You’re gonna fucking destroy me.”

You didn’t answer.

You dragged the heel up lightly—slow, deliberate—over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. His breath hitched. The sharp press made the muscles in his thighs jump, like his body couldn’t decide if it wanted more or to pull away.

“You like this?” you whispered, eyes locked on his.

He whimpered. Whimpered.

You did it again—just a graze, the tip of your heel trailing up to the crease of his hip before you slid it back down. His cock twitched again, leaking now, desperate.

“Your cock’s such a slut for me,” you said, voice dipped low and cruel-sweet.

You didn’t even know you had that tone in you. But the way he whimpered—his thighs trembling, breath stalling—it did something to you.

He squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving. “Please—”

“Aw, baby,” you cooed, tilting your heel just enough to press into the tender flesh inside his thigh. “Didn’t know you liked being teased like this. Thought you were the one who liked calling the shots.”

His throat bobbed, lips trembling with restraint. “I didn’t know I’d like you like this.”

Your smile was pure wicked delight. “Poor thing.”

You grazed the heel up again—closer this time, letting the tip ghost along the underside of his cock. Just a whisper of contact.

His whole body jerked. A cracked, broken moan slipped from his lips.

“Needy little thing,” you muttered, stepping closer, letting your calf brush his shoulder. “You wanna come already, don’t you?”

He nodded—frantic, wrecked.

You stood tall behind him, watching the muscles of his back flex as he breathed hard, towel barely hanging on. He was beautiful like this. Obedient. Thighs tense. Cock flushed, twitching, untouched.

But your confidence flickered—just for a moment. Your power felt so sharp, so new.

Your voice softened. “Bucky…”

He turned slightly to glance at you over his shoulder. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, heel tapping lightly against the floor behind him.

You didn’t mean to sound unsure, but it slipped out anyway.

“What… what do I do next? If I wanted to really ruin you?”

His eyes nearly rolled back at that. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You say shit like that and I’m close already.”

That response? That gave you permission to keep going.

You stepped in front of him again, brow furrowed, lips parted with the weight of wanting. “Tell me.”

Bucky’s breath hitched. He sat back on his heels, looking up at you like worship. “Start slow. Use your hands. Don’t let me finish.”

You blinked. “That’s mean.”

He smiled weakly. “Exactly.”

You knelt—carefully, heels still on—sitting with your thighs spread just enough for him to see how wet you were already. His gaze dropped instantly, groaning again.

“You want me to just… touch you?” you asked, hand reaching out toward his flushed, aching cock.

“Please,” he whispered, desperate. “Just not enough. Just enough to make me lose my fucking mind.”

You wrapped your fingers around him gently—slow, reverent. His hips bucked, and he hissed through his teeth.

“God,” you whispered. “You’re so hard…”

You stroked him slowly, deliberately, eyes wide and focused on the way he twitched in your grip. His cock pulsed with every pass of your hand, leaking at the tip. He moaned low, broken, head falling back.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmured, voice growing steadier as you watched him unravel. “On your knees, begging.”

“Don’t stop,” he groaned.

But you slowed. Thumb grazing under the head, teasing the slit. He cried out softly, hips jerking again.

“Sweetheart, please—don’t play fair. Ruin me.”

You leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly up the underside of his cock—one long, deliberate stroke, just to taste him.

Bucky choked on a moan. “Fuck, fuck, do that again—”

You licked again, kittenish and slow, then placed a kiss to the flushed head. He whimpered.

Then stopped.

“Wait—baby—” His voice cracked. “Don’t… don’t let me come. Not yet. Please—keep me there. Just right there.”

You pulled back instantly, lips slick, eyes wide. “Like… this?”

You stroked him again, faster now—then stopped just as he started to pant.

He looked wrecked. Eyes glassy. Lips swollen from biting them. Chest heaving.

“Yes. Just like that,” he gasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Think I like seeing you like this,” you murmured, brushing your heel against his thigh again. “Whimpering. Barely holding on.”

His cock jerked helplessly. “I can’t—baby, I can’t take it—”

You leaned in, whispering at his ear, stroking him again just to the edge. “No coming, Bucky. Not until I say.”

He nodded helplessly. “Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

Your breath hitched. You felt that.

He was shaking now. Begging under his breath. You watched every muscle in his body tense and tremble—every pulse of his cock in your hand.

And still, you denied him.

“You wanna come so bad,” you whispered. “But I’m not done watching you beg.”

He looked up at you—face flushed, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded.

“Please,” he breathed. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything.”

You stroked him once more—firm and slow—then let go completely.

His hips twitched. A full-body jolt. His breath hitched on a raw, cracked moan.

You tilted your head. “You’re leaking again.”

He looked down, eyes wide with humiliation—because yeah, he was. The flushed head of his cock was glistening, dripping onto his own thigh like his body couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“I haven’t even touched you in a minute,” you whispered, awe curling around your voice. “You’re just leaking for me.”

His chest heaved. “I—I can’t help it—”

“Oh, I know you can’t.” You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “Look at you. All this from me in heels and a few soft strokes? That’s all it took to get you like this?”

He whimpered. Fucking whimpered. Shoulders hunched like the shame turned him on even more.

“I didn’t know you could get this pathetic,” you whispered, trailing a fingertip up the underside of his cock—barely touching. “But I like it.”

He gasped.

You watched in real time as another thick bead of precum dripped down his length—unprompted, untouched. His thighs were trembling now, muscles strained from trying to hold back the orgasm clawing its way up his spine.

“I feel like I’m gonna come,” he groaned, broken and frantic.

You leaned back, watching every desperate twitch. “You’re not allowed.”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, I know—but baby, please—”

His whole body was shaking. Cock flushed, painfully red at the tip. He was grinding the air just barely, involuntarily chasing friction he knew he wasn’t allowed to have.

Then you saw it—another thick drip of precum pulsing from him. His voice was wrecked now, barely intelligible.

“I’m gonna—fuck, I’m leaking—I can’t stop—baby, I can’t—”

His head dropped forward, resting between your thighs as he moaned—low and hoarse. He was panting like a man being edged at gunpoint—back arched, cock jerking helplessly, tip leaving wet trails across his own abdomen.

You didn’t let him come.

You just held his face, gently, fingertips brushing his stubble as he trembled between your legs.

“You’re so good for me,” you whispered. “Look at you. You haven’t even come, and you’re already falling apart.”

His hands clutched at your thighs like a lifeline.

“Say it,” you murmured, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

He looked up at you, red-faced, eyes glossy.

“I’m yours,” he breathed. “Fuck—I’m yours. Ruin me however you want.”

You smiled.

You didn’t expect to love this—holding him like this, guiding his pleasure like it belonged to you.

But you did.

“Good.”

Your thumb brushed along his jaw as he panted, face still buried against your thigh, cock pulsing and flushed, still leaking.

“Hey,” you whispered softly, voice different now—lower, steady. “You’ve been so good.”

Bucky whimpered.

You tipped his face up gently. “You wanna come, baby?”

His eyes fluttered open—wet and desperate, like he didn’t believe you yet.

“Yeah?” you asked again, more tender now. “You want me to let you?”

His lips parted. “Please. Please, sweetheart—I need it. I need to come so bad, it hurts.”

You kissed his forehead.

“Then do it,” you whispered. “Come for me.”

He didn’t even need to touch himself.

Just your voice—just that permission—was enough.

He groaned, head falling forward again as his hips jerked once, then twice, and—

“Fuck—fuck—I’m coming—”

Thick pulses of hot cum spilled across his belly, each wave shaking his thighs. His whole body shuddered from it, like the dam had snapped wide open and he couldn’t stop if he tried. You held his jaw, watched him fall apart so sweetly—muttering your name under his breath like it was the only thing he remembered how to say.

And when it was over—when the last twitch left his muscles and he sagged against you, boneless, breathing hard—you whispered,

“You okay?”

His breath hitched with something like a laugh. He leaned his head against your chest, still catching up.

“I think I just found religion.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “You liked that.”

“I loved that,” he whispered, still dazed. “Didn’t know I needed it—being owned like that. You… making me hold back, making me ask for it?”

He looked up at you, cheeks flushed and glowing, a little awestruck.

“Felt like I gave you everything,” he said. “And you took care of it.”

You kissed him again, softer this time. “I did.”