FandomFucked

The First Time:           

            Clark was used to the energy of the bullpen, the sound of keyboard keys clicking, phones ringing, murmured curse words when a source fell through, but it was different today. Today it felt frantic and it was loud. Far louder than normal—he could hear multiple heartbeats, faster beats, frantic in their own way, the way that only journalists have when something new, something noteworthy is on the horizon. 

            “Hey, Jimmy,” he says, one hand holding his coffee mug, the travel one that Ma sent him, the image of a Kansas skyline along it, the other looped around the strap of his leather laptop bag, technology and important documents all tucked inside. “What’s going on? Everyone seems to be acting like the biggest story of the century is about to walk in.”

            “New reporter,” he answers, looking up from his computer, from his digital photo editing software. “She’s a transfer from the Gotham Gazette. Their top crime reporter now on Metropolis soil and working for the Daily Planet.”

            “We don’t have a crime department,” Clark says and Jimmy raises his eyebrows once, twice in a strange wiggle move. 

            “We do now,” he replies, gaze drifting over Clark’s shoulder to take in the source of the new sound, the new scent, new heartbeat. New person. “Check it out,” Jimmy whistles, “new girl’s here.” Clark turns around, swallowing hard when he sees you, really wishing he hadn’t listened to Jimmy, that he’d just stayed facing him, taking in the photo of himself as Superman holding a building. He didn’t even know that Jimmy had been there, let alone captured the picture. 

            “Everyone!” Perry calls out, his form beside yours, hands clapping together in a way just loud enough for everyone else, but too loud for Clark. He prefers for people not to do loud claps like that, his super-hearing a bane, a curse more than a gift. “Meet our new reporter, Y/N L/N. She’s our first crime reporter and a transfer from the Gotham Gazette. It means she knows what she’s doing so…give her a warm welcome.” It surprises no one when Perry leaves, but it does surprise them (Clark can hear it; he’s surprised too, honestly) when he shakes your hand, whispering something only Clark can pick up. “Good luck, kid.”

            “Why’d you leave Gotham if you’re a crime reporter?” Lois calls out, her body perched on the edge of her desk, arms crossed, dark hair loose. Clark doesn’t have to see her to know that her eyes are narrowed as she’s watching you as if you’re a story, a potential source. Something to analyze, investigate, decide. 

            “You do realize,” you respond, your eyebrow arching in reply, arms crossing, “that there is such a thing as too much crime, right?” Clark swallows hard again when your pretty (very pretty) eyes scan the room, taking in the bullpen, the entire appearance of the place. You’re dressed in a band shirt tucked into ripped jeans, Doc Martens on your feet and a leather jacket unzipped, a satchel over your shoulder, one that matches his. 

            “You’re a crime reporter,” Jimmy calls out and Clark glances back at him, noticing the way he’s leaning back in his chair, widening his stance, making himself bigger, trying to seem more attractive. His heartrate gives him away—he’s into you. Clark, for some reason, doesn’t like it. 

            (It’s not that he likes you, he can’t. Ma always told him that appearance doesn’t matter, only what’s inside. He’s not crushing on you just because you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen in his entire life. No. Totally not).

            “And a reporter likes a story,” you reply, your expression disdainful as you take in Jimmy. “Gotham has fifteen other crime reporters and everyday we’re writing stories that are clinical, basically no better than police reports. We don’t talk to people; we take the quote-on-quote facts and publish those. I miss the people and Metropolis should have that.”

            “I mean,” Jimmy says again and Clark wishes he would just be quiet, he’s just putting his own foot in his mouth the more he presses, “Metropolis has limited crime so…what are you going to be doing?”

            “Metropolis has very little reported crime. By reported I mean covered by the Daily Planet or any other newspaper outlet. You all seem to have Superman fever and I don’t…so, I’ll be drawing attention to what Superman doesn’t try to get into.” You walk towards the recently cleared desk, the one in front of Clark’s and he swallows hard again. Golly, he’s not going to survive if you’re in front of him every day. He can smell you (not in a creepy way, of course!), a scent of citrus and metal, strange and unique and now he’ll recognize it everywhere. Recognize you anywhere. 

            He never thought that metal could smell so pretty. 

            “H-hi,” he stutters out as he walks to his desk, standing behind it, his name plaque facing out, facing you. He watches as your (impossibly) pretty eyes glance down at his name before flicking back up to him. 

            “Clark Kent,” you say, but the way you say his name makes him think that perhaps you don’t like him. That he’s someone you don’t like. “Superman’s very own PR agent.”

            “Wh-what?” he asks, stuttering, his cheeks flaming, burning. Fevered. “No. N-no, I’m not his…his PR agent…I’m just a reporter.” You roll your eyes, taking your bag off your shoulder, setting it down on the surface of the pressboard top of the desk, a clunk sounding as you pull open the first drawer, dumping a twined package of files into it, slamming it and tossing your bag back over your shoulder. 

            “Uh-huh,” you tell him, the corner of your mouth tugging up into a crooked kind of smile, but not a happy kind. The kind that makes him shrivel inside, something he’s never felt before. “You’re totally just a reporter and that’s why all your interviews with Superman make him out to be the best guy ever.” You begin to walk away, boots making a loud clicking against the polished floor of the bullpen, the kind of floor that is rolled linoleum, sound muffled for the most part against it, yet you seem to have figured out how to get around that, your steps sharp and echoing. 

                         “What’s wrong with Superman?” Lois calls out as you pass her desk. You pause, spinning back around, one hand looped through the belt loops of your jeans, the other holding your bag on your shoulder, a crooked kind of smile, slightly sinister on your face. 

            “I think he’s great,” you tell her, tone flat, deadpan. Clark knows that something else hides beneath the surface. “But I don’t think the damage he causes is worth what he prevents. And no one ever asks him about the damage he causes. That’s all.”

            “You’re the one,” Lois says, her tone rising, growing, pitch rising, “that interviewed Batman, right? Back in Gotham, right and you tore him apart?”

            “That’s me,” you tell her, your expression shifting just a little bit, a bit of sadness shining through, a ghost falling like a shadow across your face. You spin back around, back to the door, the exit and Clark doesn’t want you to go. He likes your loudness, your brashness, the way you’re like no one he’s ever met before (and if he’s being honest, he likes how pretty you are, the kind of pretty that you don’t know about. Like you don’t think you are). 

            “W-where are you going?” he calls out, his voice cracking on the words, squeaking from his nerves and he can feel the red hot flush as it crawls from his chest up his neck, to rest on his cheeks and ears. 

            “What kind of crime reporter would I be if I stayed in a fucking office? I’ll be in on Fridays for edits, but otherwise…” you lift your arms, spreading them wide as you walk backwards out the door. “The story’s out in the real world, PR boy! It ain’t in these office walls.”

            And with a spin, you’re gone, out the door, into a world that is dangerous. Dark. 

            He knows you came from Gotham, he knows you can handle yourself, but you don’t know Metropolis. 

            It couldn’t hurt if Superman happened to do his rounds now and just…checked on you, right?

            No. Of course not. 

            Metropolis is different. It’s not what you’re used to, not the kind of darkness and grime and desperation that lingers in Gotham. It’s brighter, lighter. More full of hope. It’s strange, truthfully, to be in a place that seems light when you know that it can’t just be this hopeful city worshipping a man who damages the city that he saves. 

            You pull your car over, slowing to a stop along the curb, glancing over at your phone where the text from your old friend, Danielle, back in Gotham rests. 

            Danielle: heard they have a gang in the North end. 

            Danielle: old baseball diamond is rumoured to be their hang-out spot.

            You can see the baseball diamond, the chain link fence pulled down by people in places, locks clicked on it in others. A group of people stand in front, cloistered together and exactly what you used to find in Gotham. Enough people that everyone there feels safe enough to give you little bits of information. 

            “Hey!” you call out, stepping out of your Jeep, the Wrangler you worked on, painting it in an ombre of your favourite colours back in Gotham, the shop where you worked during high school.

            “What’s up, ma’am?” one of the boys says, stepping forwards, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched forwards. He’s blocking the rest from view, protecting them. 

            “I’m a reporter,” you say, jogging over to them, bag clutched tight onto your shoulder, “and I got a tip about something around here that…piqued my interest.”

            “And what would that be?” he asks and you narrow your eyes at him, cocking your head, taking in the tattoo on the inside of his wrist, the one that is not a gang mark, not a prison tatt. But a name, lovingly inked onto skin, a reminder. 

            “A gang,” you say and you watch as he stiffens, jaw tightening, his entire body rigid. “Heard they hang around this diamond.”

            “And you think, what? We’re the gang?” he asks, his voice stiff like his posture, deep but the kind of deep that happens when someone lowers their voice. 

            “No,” you say and you can see in the tick of his jaw that he’s surprised. “But I think you know something about them.” His eyes narrow on you, but all you do is arch an eyebrow at him. 

            “We may know something,” he says, “but we don’t talk if nothing’s on the table.”

            “I’m a reporter, not a cop,” you reply, tone wry and he steps forwards, steps closer.

            “Doesn’t mean you can’t offer us something,” he says. 

            “I want to tell the story of the victims. I want to show the other side of the crime, the people affected. I can tell your story,” you tell him and you watch as his lips purse but then he nods, the rest of the people behind him, nodding with him. 

            Until one looks up, taking note of something, something that has her elbowing someone else, until the entire group is looking up. 

            “We gotta go!” one cries. “If he’s here, who knows what’s coming!” You watch as they move, separate paths forged, the boy in front of you hesitating, gaze darting from the thing behind you back to you. 

            “I’ll help,” he tells you, “but not right now. Not if Superman’s here. I don’t want to be around when whatever he’s fighting makes its way here. You have a card?”

            “Uh, yeah,” you tell him, reaching into the pocket of your leather jacket, pulling out the new cards you had made before you left Gotham, ones that say Daily Planet instead of Gotham Gazette. “Here.” He takes it and then he takes off and you turn around, finally seeing the floating figure of Metropolis’ golden boy. 

            “All good?” he calls out, his voice deep and echoing and familiar as it reaches you. In response, you hold up both hands, flipping him off before turning and walking back to your car. 

            “Fuck,” you hiss, kicking at a stray pebble on the sidewalk, the pebble skittering across the ground, twanging off the lamppost. “Fuck!”

            You don’t know if that kid will reach out, you don’t know if this story will come together and all because somefucking hero decided to do…what? Just patrol? Fuck him. 

            At least with Batman, you knew what to expect. This sweet mannered superhero has thrown you for a loop because he’s the only story you can’t quite grasp. 

            What’s his fucking angle?

The Second Time:

            The first thing Clark sees when he steps into the bullpen is you, always you. Whenever you’re in the office, it’s like his gaze is pulled to you, like you’re True North and he’s the pointer of a compass, oriented towards you and only you. 

            Today, he sees you, leaning against Jimmy’s desk, the two of you talking, laughing and why does it feel like something is choking Clark? What’s the explanation for this simmering in his veins, his stomach, that tightness in his throat and the feeling that he wants to rip Jimmy away from you? Jealousy, his brain supplies. 

            You’re jealous of Jimmy Olson. Your own best friend, his brain tells him and honestly, his brain is kind of mean. 

            “Hey, Jimmy,” Clark hears you say, your voice sounding like it’s right beside him with the volume that he’s granted, his super-hearing focused on you and Jimmy alone. “A few days ago, my source got scared away because Superman was there. Do you know why he was? Like does he normally fly around the city?”

            “Oh yeah,” he hears Jimmy say, “Superman does patrols every day. Likes to keep Metropolis safe.”             “I thought he wasn’t concerned with petty crime or drug rings, more like natural disasters and weird Justice League stuff,” you say and Clark hears Jimmy’s shrug more than sees it, can hear the rustle of spare fabric over spaghetti arms. (Gosh, what is he turning into? He’s being negative over his best friend because you might…like him. That’s not…like him. He resolves to not do that again.)

            “Not really,” Jimmy continues, “but Superman is big into protecting those who can’t protect themselves. Maybe…he was, I don’t know, protecting you.”

            “Maybe,” Clark hears you say and then watches as you turn, your gaze landing on him, the intensity in those (unfairly) pretty eyes making his mouth go dry and he swallows on instinct, choking on his own spit. He coughs, the motion and sound both violent, his face in flames, thinking about how you must see him. 

            When he’s done, calmed down, Lois and Jimmy both calling out to ask if he’s okay, he notices that you’re gone. 

            Only the perfume of you lingering in the air, but fading fast.

            “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” you say and the woman nods, sitting down onto the bench beside you, her hands folded onto her lap as she sits down. She looks elegant, reserved, closed off, dark hair pulled back, up into a sleek bun, coat drawn tight, closed. You understand, you know the file, the case. Know what she found. Know what her daughter went through. 

            “I must say,” she says, “that I was surprised that the Daily Planet was interested in the story of my daughter.” She cuts a glance at you, dark eyes shrewd, taking in your appearance. It’s the first time you feel self-conscious, but in your line of work, the business look of the other reporters doesn’t cut it. 

            You need sneakers to run, boots to kick. Clothes that bend in the right way like a second skin and not a blocking covering. 

            “I came from Gotham,” you tell her. “Things are done differently there.” She nods, pleased with your answer, or at the very least not offended. You shift on the bench, drawing one leg up, notebook ready, pen poised. “What happened when you found your daughter? What did you feel?”

            “Do you have children?” she asks you, her attention focused on the horizon, the sky. 

            “No, ma’am,” you say and she turns to look at you, dark eyes lined with tears, the water shimmering in the light of the setting sun. 

            “No, I thought not,” she says. “You’re young, why would you? Well…when you have children, they are everything to you. You would kill for them…you would die for them…you want to…wrap them in bubble wrap and protect them from the world…but I found her…bleeding, crying, leg broken…innocence…ripped from her…” she is crying now, tears sliding down her cheeks, slipping down her neck, a dark spot growing on the collar of her jacket where it’s drawn across her throat. 

            “Did you know then who did it?” She looks at you, her eyes haunted, shadowed, a scene playing out behind them, reflecting in the shine of her tears. 

            “No,” she says, voice thick, choked sounding. “No, that came later. That came in the hospital when the doctor…” she draws in a sharp, shaky breath, “when the doctor said that she had been…branded.” You’ve been writing what she’s saying, pen moving against the page, notes neat, organized, until now. The police report said nothing of this. 

            “Branded?” you ask and she blinks, her attention focusing on a sight over your shoulder, one that makes her gaze dart back to you, nose wrinkling in the slightest show of disdain. 

            “You’ll have a hard time,” she whispers, voice still cracking, “getting people to trust you when you don’t trust them, my dear.”

            “What?” you ask her, panic creeping in. You don’t trust people, have handcuffs in your bag in case you get attacked along with pepper spray, but that’s not something you show. That’s not something you know. “But I haven’t—”

            “You have Superman as a guard dog,” she says and you glance over your shoulder, teeth grinding together at the sight of Metropolis’ hero, sitting at a bench not so far away, attention focused on you. 

            “He’s not my—” She stops you with a single wave of her hand, her body rising from the seat and she turns to go, to leave, answers leaving with her. 

            “Someone afraid of people is not right for my daughter’s story,” she says, her gaze focused on the hero now surrounded by people, wanting to take selfies. “Or crime in general. I’m sorry, Reporter, I have no further comments for you.” She turns and walks away, steps heavy, hands held together, fingers interlaced. 

            “Fuck you, Superman,” you hiss, standing, turning and walking towards your car, far away from the golden boywho seems intent on driving you back to Gotham, to the dark and dreary streets where you learned what it meant to be afraid. “Just fuck you.”

            You hope his super hearing picks that up. 

The Third Time:

            Clark listens to your footsteps, the rhythm that you have, the one that is so you, the steady heel down and then the toes, the way you rock onto the toes of the opposite foot. It’s a steady metronome that he’s learned, but not in a creepy way, just in a…completely and totally entuned to you way. Which is normal. Ethical. Totally moral. Right?

            “Clark,” he hears you say and then he sees your arms, hoodie covered extremities pressing down on the edge of his desk, your scent like a wall to the right of him. 

            “Hi,” he says, turning his head, taking in the look of you, hearing your heart slamming against your ribs in an angry beat. What’s wrong? What happened? Why does he want to hurt whoever made you angry? (That feeling is normal, right? Right?!)

            “Get your fucking…little hero off my back! He’s acting like a fucking guard dog and fucking up my stories,” you hiss and he’s taken aback by the amount of curse words you’ve used. Ma always taught him that they weren’t good to use, never nice, yet…he supposes that Gotham has a different kind of education than Smallville.

            “H-he’s j-just concerned about your…your safety,” Clark stutters and he can feel that hated flush on his neck and his cheeks, that pulsing heat that only you bring out and the stuttering that only you bring out because only you, the sailor-mouthed crime reporter, hold the title of making the Man of Steel nervous. 

            “Tell him,” you say, voice low and deep and dark and utterly even, “that if he doesn’t stop, I’ll cut his fucking dick off with kryptonite. Okay?” You push up, standing again, lips pressed so thin that they look like a line, one line and nothing else. 

            And as you walk away, steps angry, heart still slamming that angry adrenaline-fueled rhythm, he wonders why your anger is so…attractive. 

            Maybe he has a problem.

            “How many homes have you been in?” you ask the boy before, his attention focused on the picnic table, fingers digging into the knot of the woodgrain. 

            “Ten,” he says, his tone flat, deadpan. But the kind of deadpan that holds a wealth of pain inside of it, too much for a boy so young. His social worker sits at the next table, having given her permission for the interview to be conducted. 

            “How old are you?” you ask and he looks up with large grey eyes, shadowed and darkened. 

            “Eleven,” he whispers, his voice hoarse but not in a way from dryness, but a way that comes from screaming, from crying. “But I know a girl who’s nine and has been in twelve homes.”

            “And…what are the homes…like?” you ask, brows drawing together as you watch this frail little boy and the way he hunches in on himself, folding himself smaller, trying to make himself invisible. 

            “Not good,” he whispers. “Although one was. But I didn’t stay long. It was full and they needed beds so they…moved me.” His words hold a wealth of pain and you swallow hard, fighting against that growing lump in your throat as you look up and away from the little boy, taking in the appearance of the park, the trees full of green leaves, of life, the sky blue with white, fluffy clouds. Picturesque. 

            Gotham never was like this. 

            “What…what do you mean by…not good?” you ask, careful with your wording, careful to keep reporter bias from the questions asked. 

            “They lock the food up,” he says, blinking fast, rapid movements, trying to clear the tears. Most likely because he’s learned that tears make you weak and being weak is something that you can’t afford. “And they yell, sometimes they hit me. One place had a man who threw things at us if we left our rooms. We weren’t supposed to leave our rooms there.”

            “Okay…has this been…most of your experience?” you ask, but his attention is drawn by something over your shoulder, his face lighting up with an expression of joy and hope. Hope, the thing you’ve seen on most faces here in Metropolis. Something Gotham never had.

            “Superman!” he cries, jumping up from the table. You swing your legs over the picnic bench, watching as he descends, his cape rippling in the breeze behind him. You sigh, gritting your teeth, knowing the interview is over now. 

            But…at least, the kid gets to meet his hero. 

            “Hi, kid,” Clark says (does he really think people don’t know? His voice is the exact same!). “How are you?”

            “Are you working with the reporter lady to catch the bad guys?!” he asks, his voice alight and joyful. Hopeful. And it’s beautiful but as you walk to the social worker, to shake her hand and depart, all you can think about is how hopeful was a recipe for disaster back home. 

            “Maybe,” you hear Clark say, his voice smoother, steadier as Superman than he ever is as Clark Kent. “But she and I don’t exactly talk.”

            “Oh?” you call out, turning around, eyes narrowing on him. “We don’t? Well…do you know where I can find some kryptonite?”

            You never make idle threats after all.

The Fourth Time:

            You can see the man standing on the corner of the street, cast in shadow only, shifting, hands in pockets. His body language reads nervous, on edge. You received a tip that the drug ring you’ve been doing a piece on is moving into new territory tonight so here you are, camped out in the driver’s seat of your car, snacks in a bag on the passenger seat and camera set up on the window, capturing everything too. 

            Capturing this first deal done in a new area is important, not for the deal itself, but following the dealer back to wherever the headquarters is. That’s what you need. Photographic evidence of the entire operation. 

            And it all begins here. 

            “Come on,” you whisper, watching another figure approach the shadowed man, constantly looking over their shoulder, hood drawn up. “Be the buyer.” You need this. Your pieces have been good, often front page, having pulled together a story even with Superman’s interventions, but this…this feels like what you used to do. 

            The finding loose threads and pulling at them until the story unravels before you. Like now. 

            “Yes, yes, yes,” you hiss, watching as the dealer hands something over to the other figure, money passed back. You turn, preparing to grab your bag, follow the dealer at a safe distance, but just as you turn, clipping your camera to the collar of your jacket, a goddamn figure swoops down from the sky. 

            “Hey, guys,” you hear him say, his voice stupid and dumb and far too attractive for his own good. “This isn’t exactly what you should be doing, right? Now, I’m gonna wait here with you guys until the police arrive, okay?”

            “Fuck!” you hiss, the feeling of a door slamming closed and hitting you in the face echoing through your body, your muscles rigid and frozen, adrenaline pumping, but only succeeding in freezing you more. 

            You watch as Clark turns to your car, flipping you a thumbs-up and all you do in response is mouth Fuck. You and flip him the bird before putting your car in gear and driving off. 

            Fucking farm boys.

The One Time You Called Him Out On It:

            No sooner do you step into the alleyway, catching a glimpse of your newest informant, than do you see him run off. And you know, oh you know, that motherfucking Clark is there, over your shoulder with his Kansas farm boy, protection of damsels attitude. 

            “SUPERMAN!” you yell, turning around, stomping your foot like a toddler having a tantrum because that fits you. That’s how you feel right about now. “GET YOUR FUCKING ASS DOWN HERE! UNLESS YOU WANT ME OUTING YOUR IDENTITY TO EVERYONE IN THIS SQUARE MILE!” You watch as he appears from the side, descending down, his stupid, pretty dimpled smile on display. 

            “Hi,” he says, landing softly on the ground, his feet never even making a sound as he walks towards you which is highly unfair because you walk and it’s a stomp no matter what you do. 

            “Don’t you hi me! You know I can handle myself! I grew up in fucking Gotham for Christ’s sake! And not the good side, either! Danger was my fucking playground! So why do you keep following me? At this point, you’re the crime I should be reporting. It’s called stalking!” He tilts his head, eyes wide, face forlorn like a fucking puppy dog and honestlywhere can you complain about his attractiveness because it is so unfair. 

            “I just don’t want…something happening to you,” he whispers, his hands reaching forwards, taking yours in his and you suck in a breath at the contact, at the electricity that fizzles underneath your skin at his touch. 

            “You can’t control that even if you follow me,” you remind him, nostrils still flared, heart hammering harder and harder in your chest, but less and less from anger. And more and more from the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything. 

            “I can try,” he says, his tone lifting up at the end and you step closer, pulling your joined hands up to the side in a shrug, one you’re pulling him into too. 

            “Why?” you ask him, the corner of your mouth tugging up of its own accord, throat thickening because you’re just so tired of everything always being messed up. 

            “Because I like you,” he says, but it’s not spaced out, rather it’s one sentence, all the words running together and you can feel something crack inside of you, anger giving way to knowing, to the same feeling. Because you would be lying if you said that Clark hadn’t crept up on you, sneaking into your heart with his stuttering and blushing and bashful smiles over the top of his computer and the way he always brings you coffee and it’s exactly right. 

            “Clark,” you whisper, your hands squeezing his as he shifts, your back ending up against the wall of the alleyway, his body bracketing you in. 

            “How did you know?” he whispers and you shake your head, lips curving up into a smile of their own accord as you pull your hands from his, reaching up and cupping his face, thumbs on his cheekbones.

            “You don’t really hide it, Clark,” you whisper. “Every time something bad happens, like a natural disaster, you disappear for a surprisingly long bathroom break and then come back after Superman has zoomed off and saved everyone. Your interviews with him read like someone talking to themself and propping themself up, trying to show only the good which is a human fallacy. You read too close to what you were writing and not the closeness of a friend…and your voice. It doesn’t change when you’re Kent or…this.”

            “Why aren’t you a detective?” he asks you, his hands coming to rest on your waist, warm and bright. 

            “I’ll answer that if you can go change. It’s weird talking to you like this,” you whisper and he blinks once, surprised. “I like Clark. I like you when you’re not…performing.”

            “Two minutes, pretty girl,” he whispers.

            “Okay,” you say and he pulls back, flying off and you bend down, your hands on your knees as you suck in a deep breath, oxygen that doesn’t smell like Clark, like sandalwood and evergreen trees, a scent that is far too good and addictive. 

            “Hey!” someone calls out and you lift your head, taking in the appearance of the scared kid with the switchblade, walking towards you. “Give me your money!”

            “Can’t do that, kiddo,” you call out, pushing to a standing, and sighing once, the gesture almost lazy in a way.

            “Hey, lady! Do I look like I’m joking?!” he asks and you shake your head, reaching into your bag for the handcuffs you keep there, pulling them out and letting them dangle off one finger, the metal catching the light. The boy’s scared eyes widen in surprise and he takes a step back. 

            “Do you want me to pull a citizen’s arrest because I will, I just don’t want to, kid,” you call out and he curses under his breath, taking off in the opposite direction, pebbles and gravel skittering off from the force of his footsteps. 

            “You really don’t need a guard, do you?” you hear Clark call out and you turn back, slipping the handcuffs back into your trusted satchel and shake your head, lips pressing together. 

            “No,” you tell him, your heart skipping a beat at the way he looks now, when he’s not performing, just a simple white button up, tucked into black slacks, glasses askew and curls messy. “What kind of crime reporter would I be if I didn’t have a pair of handcuffs? Or two—one’s fuzzy.” You delight in the way his cheeks and neck and ears flush a deep red. 

            “How can I make it up to you?” he asks as he crosses the alley to you, his hands sliding against your waist as if they belong there, were made to fit there. 

            “You can take me out to dinner,” you whisper and then his lips are on yours and isn’t that surprising—Kansas farm boy made a move first. Doesn’t that go against their ethics?

            You don’t particularly care as his lips slide against yours, hands sliding from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, your one hand on his back, the other twining in his hair. And honestly, the way he uses his tongue, sliding it along yours, stroking yours should be illegal. Its own kind of crime because he’s ruined you for anyone else. 

            “Clark,” you whisper, pulling back, a string of saliva still connecting the two of you to each other, to that kiss that tasted of sugar and coffee and hope. 

            “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks, his blue eyes flaring with desire, hunger. Your resolve is so weakening right now. 

            “We’re gonna have to stop or else we’ll be a crime I have to report,” you whisper and he leans in, trying to kiss you again, his lips chasing yours, but you turn your head, his lips landing on your cheek. 

            “What crime?” he asks, his voice husky in the most delicious way. 

            “Public indecency.” 

Bonus: The One Time He Was the Criminal:

            Clark lifts the lid from off the cookie jar, reaching in and pulling out one of the double chocolate cookies the two of you had spent baking this morning, the world outside dark and rainy and your honeymoon vacation time not yet over even though you were back in Metropolis, settling into your new home. 

            “Clark Kent, thirty-three, was found today, a rainy Tuesday afternoon,” he hears you narrate in the voice you have when you read out articles, “stealing cookies from the cookie jar.”

            “What?” he calls out, turning around, noticing you with your tape recorder (old-fashioned just like him. Golly, he loves you) held aloft, a teasing smirk on your face. 

            “What did he say in his defense. Well, of course, he said ‘wasn’t me’. But this reporter,” you say, your voice lilting up as he shoves the entire cookie into his mouth, chewing as he rounds the kitchen counter, reaching you, stopping just a few feet from you. “But eye witness testimony undisputedly puts him at the scene of the crime as well as the evidence of…” you cough, a laugh squeaking out anyways, “chocolate at the corner of his mouth. This leads to a supposed guilty verdict, but how does he plea?” You hold the recorder out to him, but he shakes his head, removing it from your hand, setting it on the counter, and lifting you up, tossing you over his shoulder, in a way that annoys you because he does it often. 

            It’s just easy for him. 

            “Clark!” you cry, your palm slamming into his back. “Put me down!”

            “Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ sound. “Because my plea is that I haven’t had enough sweets.”

            “What? You just ate a whole cookie, what are yo—oh,” he hears you say, hears the change in your heartrate, smells the change in your body and hurries back to the bedroom, slamming the door closed and laying you on the bed, pressing a chocolate-tinged kiss to your lips.

            “What kind of crime am I committing now?” he whispers, his body above yours, your hands digging into his back. 

            “I mean,” you whisper, voice husky in a way he loves so much, “if you don’t do something now, it will be committing a crime and not one you want to find out.” He laughs as he slides down your body, loving the way you look in his clothes, pulling boxers down, off your body, leaving you bare from the waist below. 

            “Golly,” he whispers before lifting your legs onto his shoulders, pressing kisses against your inner thighs, “I love you.”

            “Clark,” you whisper, shifting, arousal growing, your pussy glistening, “get on with it.” And he does. 

            And always and forever, will you be the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. 

He knew he shouldn’t have done that stupid job. Ollie insisted on it, of course. The idiot swore to him that if he only broke into the lab and got the hostage scientists out, the League would round up the rest. He promised that there wasn’t anything Clark had to be careful about, no dangerous substances or valuable equipment. Even when he pressed on what they were making in that lab, Ollie had dismissed him with a smirk and said, Just do the job, Big Blue, and save the day, okay? And now he knew he should have never listened. God, Ollie could be such a prick sometimes, always keeping something from him. 

It had to be then. When he flew through the glass wall and shattered it. He remembered scooping up the hostages and shielding them behind his body to absorb the bullets raining from the kidnappers; they were in the rafters of the lab. He managed to grab one who hopped down and flung him across a table, and a few vials shattered. Clark watched for a split second as a pink powder plumed into the air, and suddenly the scientists were screaming and running for their lives through the glass. Clark didn’t waste another moment, he simply blew a big puff of air to knock the remaining attackers down around the top of the room, and he swept away, leaving the scene for Ollie’s guys to comb. 

He should’ve known when everyone started running that he’d released something in the air. Only scientists would be afraid of something inside a vial. And now he was suffering the side effects of it. Very, very loudly.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Huh? I didn’t say anything,” the cashier flushed. “Just… waiting for her order.” 

As you stood beside him, arm looped through his and studying the menu at the coffee cart, Clark felt his neck burning. The girl behind the station was not hiding her curious eyes well, and he could’ve just sworn he heard a string of words come out of her mouth that were entirely inappropriate. They rang in his ears clear as day: “God, what a lucky bitch. I can’t believe she gets to fuck this guy, he looks huge.” 

The girl’s mouth didn’t move. He was staring right at her. Yet, he heard the words. There was no doubt someone said them. Clark did a quick scan of the street, but they were the only people on line. The voice was close, so it had to be her. You wouldn’t have reason to say something like that. He scratched the nape of his neck in confusion. 

After a minute of hard decision, you smiled at the cart girl and asked, “Could I get that horchata cold brew? That sounds so good!”

“Absolutely,” she nodded curtly, giving Clark an unusual glance before turning the card reader over for him to swipe. “I’ll get that started for you.”

As the girl shifted to make their drinks, he leaned down and whispered in your ear, “Did you hear what she said?”

“What do you mean?”

“Before you ordered. She said something really, like, vulgar,” Clark winced. 

You chuckled softly, furrowing your brow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you sure? She seems sweet.”

“She does,” Clark pulled away, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s probably nothing.”

When the cart girl handed over his black coffee and your sugary concoction, he gave her a restrained grin. When you tugged his hand back in the direction of the Daily Planet, though, he heard the same voice again, almost as if it was against his neck: “Man, he is just unreal. She better take advantage of all that.”

Clark’s entire body tensed with shock. There was definitely, definitely something in that powder. His hips ached.

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

The next one was even worse, because it was Cat who had the next word. Cat Grant, who was equally impaired by the stick up her ass as she was willing to flirt with every man in her eyeline, was leaning over your desk and checking a story edit. When Clark came by to offer you a refill on your water, she smiled up at him.

“So attentive,” she teased. “I never thought I’d see the day Clark Kent stopped fumbling files and started dating coworkers."

“Hello to you, too, Cat.”

You kissed his wrist as he patted your cheek and handed him your bottle. “I’d like that, actually. Thanks, Clarkie.”

Clark felt mushy for a moment at the name, and as he moved to step toward the water cooler, he heard Cat say, “Clarkie? God, that’s lame. I’d be calling him Daddy or something, at least.”

Clark whirled around quickly and sputtered at the blonde. “What did you just say?”

Both yours and Cat’s heads flicked up, wide eyes peering at him like a couple of spooked meerkats. Cat frowned. “What?”

“What you just said,” he pointed at her accusingly. “That– you can’t say stuff like that! We’re at work!”

Cat snickered and quirked an eyebrow. “I think you need to get your ears checked. I didn’t say anything, Kent."

He huffed in exasperation at you, but you were no help. You seemed completely confused by his behavior. Confused and so cute, all tucked into your dress and waiting for your stupid water refill. Clark grumbled, “Forget it,” and walked away. 

As he stood idly at the water station and watched the bottle fill, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering towards what other names you might call him if prompted. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

It only got more ridiculous as the day dragged on. Almost everybody at work had something entirely insane to say about you and him together– or rather, think. None of them were speaking at all, he discovered. He was hearing their thoughts. That was the only explanation. That powder gave him the ability to read people’s minds, and he was horrified. People were so much more perverted than he imagined. 

When you stopped for groceries on the way home to work, the cashier– some teenage boy with a nice zit right on his nose– thought, “Man, I bet he puts her through the mattress.”

The girl who lived two apartments over was getting her mail out of the lockboxes in the lobby when they came through the front door. After a brief and courteous hello from you both, she thought, “I wonder what position they do it in most… he seems like a doggy guy.”

And then again, when they were walking up the stairs, she followed them up, and Clark heard, “I’d do anything to see them fuck. It’s probably so hot.”

By the time Clark got into the apartment, he was sweating and embarrassingly hard. He’d been fighting it off all day, but after hearing so many ideas and seeing so many mental images of you and him doing nefarious deeds, he couldn’t keep up. He was still half-human, after all, and desperately in love with you, and not to mention incredibly weak. Only so many people can be indirectly told how fuckable their girlfriend is before they collapse under the weight. 

He got to work putting the groceries away, hands eager and somewhat trembling as he ushered you out of the kitchen. You smiled suspiciously, hanging your coat by the door, and you leaned in the archway. “What’s gotten into you today?”

“What do you mean?” he muttered shortly, stocking the fridge. He hadn’t even taken his coat off. It was… disguising him. 

You studied his jerky movements in the low light. Clark never acted like this, so clumsy and jumpy. He could be awkward here and there, but he’d left behind the bumbling act a while ago. Something had to be bothering him, you were sure of it. You crossed your arms. “You’ve been acting off all day. Accusing people of saying things they never said, blushing, stammering… what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he lied, pushing a few cereal boxes into the cabinet over the counter. “I’m fine.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“I’m not hiding anything, really! I mean it!”

Clark knew it wouldn’t be long before you found out. He was an awful faker. He stared at you, shifting his weight between his feet, fussing with the buttons on his jacket. He could feel your smirk burning into him like a brand. 

You thought to yourself, You don’t want to tell me? Fine. I guess I’ll shower alone then. “Okay. Just don’t forget to put the eggs on the top shelf. I’m gonna go wash up.”

Clark nearly whimpered at your conflicting tones. You wouldn’t press him, you never did, but now he knew that you were sassing him behind those eyes, thinking of punishments, judging his actions. The erection in his pants was painful enough to make him see stars. He shoved the eggs in the fridge carelessly before following you. You didn’t make it halfway down the hall before he was grabbing you up and pressing a hungry kiss to your lips. 

“Mmf!” You squeaked, startled by his sudden ferocity. “Clark– hey!”

“I breathed something in,” he panted, hands tugging at your blouse, slightly tearing the seams. 

“What?” You wriggled, trying to stop him from ripping the shirt clean off. His pupils were so large you couldn’t even see the blue in his eyes, and his cheeks were so dark they could’ve been purple. “Clark, easy!”

Clark whined pathetically and buried his face in your neck, licking at the skin. Something terrible was overcoming him. All those thoughts, all the time spent alone inside his head today with you, it was making him insane. He worried that the powder was influencing his hormones. He didn’t want to hurt you. And then again, he was worked up after eight incredibly jarring hours. Maybe any man would lose his mind. 

“The other night," he groaned, tasting the salt of your skin and nearly blacking out. “That lab rescue– mm– with Ollie. Breathed something in, some powder… can hear people’s thoughts.”

It was hard to listen when he latched onto the weak spot behind your ear, but your concern still radiated. “Wait, you what? Why didn’t you say anything?” Fucking idiot, you thought. 

“Don’t call me an idiot,” Clark smiled against your neck. 

Your heart dropped like it weighed a ton. “You heard that?”

“Mhm.”

“...Woah,”

“Yeah, woah,” Clark laughed, but then he scooped you up by the thighs. The throbbing of his cock against your leg was quite apparent now, and your lashes fluttered through an onset of desire. “All day, been hearing things… people think about us…”

As he barged into the bedroom and tossed you down, you yelped and erupted in laughter. Clark crawled over you as you inquired, “Like what?”

“People are disgusting,” he offered, yanking your body free of that shirt-and-pants prison. You frowned as he tore the clothes, but he’d buy you more, he always did. “They see us together and think about what we do. When we’re alone.”

You gasped as he reattached himself, teeth sinking into the meat of your chest. Your fingers sunk into his hair. “Like about us sleeping together?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, helping you unbutton his shirt. “Perverts.”

“I think you’re the pervert,” you grinned, dragging him up to get another look at that wild face. “You listened.”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t be so horny if it bothered you,” you squinted playfully. “You liked it. What did they say?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Clark laughed incredulously.

“Why not? Come on!”

“Because it’s– it’s wrong! You shouldn’t hear what people think about you! Besides, what they– you’re– no,” he stuttered, flushing darker than should be possible, even for a Kryptonian.

Your smile widened. “They must have thought some dirty things about me if you’re so embarrassed."

Clark hid in your shoulder, grinding helplessly against your thigh. 

“About you?”

Clark’s hips stuttered.

“Oh, baby,” you giggled, “you are so hopeless.”

Clark studied the stars behind his eyelids as he rutted against your leg, whimpering like a dog. “I just really need you… I think I might explode, I don’t know if this is a side effect or what, but just– please.”

You scratched at the base of his neck and tilted your head. Then, because you were cruel and decided he deserved it for being so withholding, you thought very clearly: Show me what they thought. Fuck me like they imagined. 

Clark’s head shot up, and you cackled at the pretty expression of surprise. It was all fun and games until he tossed you onto your stomach. 

“Woah– oof!”

You only began questioning the state of your own emotions when you noticed that one of your sketchbooks was nearly full, yet didn’t contain a single drawing of anyone else from the crew.

There were still the usual everyday sketches of Law scattered throughout its pages, of course, but now they were joined by an ever-growing collection dedicated almost entirely to his tattoos.

Heat spread across your cheeks at the mere thought of wanting a better look at them. Up close. Close enough to faithfully capture every intricate line, even the ones hidden beneath his clothes.

Somewhere along the way, you’d forgotten that those pages had originally begun as anatomy studies.

Now they were filled with careful observations of the muscles in his arms and chest, how each tattoo stretched and shifted ever so slightly as he moved.

You had even asked him not to move once while trying to capture a particular angle.

“Hold still.”

Law didn’t so much as glance up from the medical journal in his hands.

“…Why?”

“Your forearm tattoo curves weirdly when you rotate your wrist.”

Too absorbed in his reading to question it, he simply extended his arm toward you without another word, letting you do… whatever it was you were doing.

It wasn’t until nearly ten minutes later that he realized you’d been staring at him the entire time.

Your mind drifted back to all the afternoons spent watching him from the opposite side of the office, your heart racing as you quietly melted at the sight of him getting irritated over paperwork that refused to add up.

Without realizing it, you had filled pages with sketches of his furrowed brows, his slightly pursed lips, the faint puff of his cheeks whenever he grew annoyed, somehow ending up with eleven different versions of that expression alone.

Then there were the shadows his eyelashes cast across his cheeks.

The subtle curve of his lips whenever a smile escaped him.

His eyes.

His eyes in every imaginable expression: irritation, concentration, curiosity, happiness.

Oh God.

I’m in love with our grumpy captain.

The doctor of the Heart Pirates found himself increasingly confused by your recent behavior.

He would never admit it aloud, but he was worried.

For the past several days, although you still spent your usual hours working beside him in the office, you had begun avoiding him whenever you could.

You still sorted mountains of paperwork as diligently as ever, only now you always wore your headphones, leaving little room for conversation. Whenever he asked you something, you’d slip one earbud out just long enough to answer before immediately putting it back in. Sometimes you didn’t even hear him the first time.

He never commented on it.

Everyone had days when silence was preferable to the noise of other people.

God knew he had more of those than anyone.

Still, your company had always been one of the few he genuinely enjoyed, and he couldn’t shake the quiet hope that perhaps tomorrow you’d be a little more willing to talk to him again.

It felt strange in other ways too.

Whenever he found enough free time to join the crew for an evening card game, you were no longer sitting beside him as his partner.

Instead of exchanging knowing smiles and whispering advice over your next move, you now found yourself across the table beside Shachi, laughing every time he stubbornly ignored your suggestions and confidently played exactly the wrong card.

A faint pang of jealousy, one he would sooner die than acknowledge, settled somewhere deep inside his chest as he caught himself glancing in your direction throughout the evening.

Across the table, Bepo seemed equally distracted, nervously darting his gaze between the two of you while absentmindedly throwing random cards onto the pile.

Law had always claimed he enjoyed card games.

The truth was, his favorite part had never been the cards.

It had simply been sitting beside you.

Faced with the alternative, he couldn’t help but admit to himself that he would’ve rather skipped the game altogether.

The following afternoon, after excusing yourself from the office for half an hour to go listen to Penguin’s newest collection of music he’d picked up on the last island, the submarine’s brooding captain remained behind to finish his paperwork.

Or rather…

He sat with his pen hovering uselessly above the page, wondering whether he’d done something over the past few days to upset you.

Perhaps he’d been too cold.

Perhaps you’d finally grown tired of trying to get through to him and decided the more entertaining members of the crew were simply better company.

Regret quietly settled over him. He should’ve asked you to go somewhere together on the next island. Just the two of you.

Now charismatic Penguin had probably charmed you with his music collection…

…and who knew when you’d come back to him…

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by an unusually cheerful polar bear entering the office with a steaming cup of green tea.

“Captain, where’s Y/N?”

“What does that have to do with me?” Law answered with mild irritation. “She can spend her time however she wants.”

After a brief pause, he muttered,

“As long as she gets back soon enough to finish this documentation, she can spend time with whoever she wants for as long as she wants.”

Bepo pretended not to hear the second half.

Still smiling to himself, he set the cup beside Law, who acknowledged it with a quiet nod of thanks.

“Hmm… Y/N really is a wonderful artist, isn’t she?”

Silence.

“As you know… she draws everyone on the crew.”

“Hm.”

“You have the most pages, though.”

“…What?”

“Not fair,” Bepo chuckled as he walked out of the office. “You’re one lucky guy.”

He left behind one thoroughly bewildered captain.

Later that day, the two of you were updating the submarine’s library. Law stood atop a ladder placing the newly acquired books onto the shelves while you handed them up one by one, carefully recording each addition.

Every so often your fingers brushed against his.

Each fleeting touch sent an unwelcome current racing through both of you, one you silently agreed to ignore. You’d pretend to examine the bookshelves with great interest while embarrassment painted your cheeks, and the tips of his ears.

This angle is really not helping my increasingly ridiculous crush, you thought, looking up at your captain from almost directly below.

From there, the sharp line of his nose seemed even more striking, and you found yourself watching the slow rise and fall of his long eyelashes.

Ridiculous.

Ridiculous.

The word echoed through your mind later as well while the two of you worked in companionable silence, cataloguing documents together.

It echoed again as your pencil unconsciously recreated those same thick eyelashes arching above serious golden eyes.

Then the tattooed heart with the smiling Jolly Roger emblazoned across his chest.

You jolted when you heard your captain calling your name, snapping your sketchbook shut almost instantly.

“Could you take these books back to the office?” he asked. “We’ll go through them properly tomorrow. Keep two or three with you and leave the rest on my desk. Then head to dinner. I’ll join you once I’m finished here.”

Still distracted, you nodded, gathering the towering stack of books into your arms.

The pile was so high you had to steady it with your chin to stop it from collapsing like a house of cards, a sight that made an unexpected wave of fondness wash over Law.

In your haste, however, you failed to notice that your sketchbook, buried beneath the stack, had slipped free and remained behind on the table as you left the library.

Once he’d finished highlighting the necessary information and sorting tomorrow’s paperwork into neat piles, Law finally prepared to head for the dining hall.

That’s when he noticed something lying on the table where you’d been sitting.

Of course.

You’d forgotten something.

He walked over and picked up the light-colored sketchbook, intending to return it the next time he saw you.

Still…

Curiosity quietly tugged at him.

Just one look.

He opened it.

A drawing of himself.

He turned the page.

Another one.

He flipped to the middle at random.

Him again.

Another page.

A detailed anatomical study of muscles.

He flipped toward the back.

A meticulous rendering of his hands.

…What the hell?

He stood there staring at the sketchbook in complete silence, so stunned that his thoughts seemed to short-circuit altogether.

More than embarrassed, he was simply… astonished.

Not because someone had documented him in such painstaking detail.

But because you had.

And not because he was the captain.

Simply because he was him.

After everyone had finished dinner, full and ready to retreat for the night before another day awaited them, Law quietly asked you to stay behind.

“I think you forgot this,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

If the earth had opened beneath your feet and swallowed you into its deepest depths, straight to the bottom of the Grand Line, you wouldn’t have protested.

You felt like you were dying.

Before you could snatch the sketchbook from his hands, he deliberately opened it to one of the more detailed portraits, the kind that made it painfully obvious you’d spent hours bringing it to life.

“You spent that much time on this?”

“…Maybe.”

Silence settled between you, and for the life of you, you couldn’t decipher what was passing behind those amber eyes.

“You got the eyes wrong.”

That…

That was not what you’d expected him to say.

“What?”

“They aren’t always that harsh. Or that distant.” His gaze lingered on the drawing for another moment. “They’re softer. Especially depending on who’s standing in front of me.”

He tried to sound casual, though the warmth creeping into his cheeks betrayed him far more effectively than his voice ever could. It was, whether he intended it or not, a confession.

“You’ll have to take another look from up close,” he continued, gently placing the sketchbook back into your hands. “You can fix it tomorrow, when we visit the next island.”

With that, he turned toward the door, wished you goodnight with the smallest of smiles, and left.

Your heart threatened to leap straight out of your chest and join the rest of his collection.

Not that you would’ve minded.

And that…

That was how it all began.

By the time the two of you were together, the quiet blooming of your relationship could be traced through your sketches alone.

Little by little, they transformed into increasingly intimate moments, the sort only someone who shared another person’s quietest hours would ever have the chance to witness.

Law lying in bed, still wearing his glasses as he read.

Law fast asleep with his head thrown back, mouth slightly open, snoring without the slightest hint of dignity.

Law first thing in the morning, hair hopelessly disheveled, not quite awake yet.

A cup of coffee slowly growing cold beside him.

Law laughing so hard he doubled over.

His head resting in your lap while insisting he was only “resting his eyes.”

Whenever his gaze happened to fall upon one of those sketches, an unfamiliar feeling quietly settled inside him.

He had expected studies.

Those had never embarrassed him. To your pencil, he’d simply been another subject worthy of observation. A body was a body, and as a doctor, he understood the fascination that came with studying the way muscles shifted beneath skin or bones dictated movement. Those were the kinds of drawings an artist made when captivated by form.

But these…

These were something else.

They reached far beyond anatomy, and that singular way you saw him unsettled him in a manner he couldn’t begin to explain.

This wasn’t merely what he looked like.

It was what you had chosen to see.

Not the captain.

Not the Surgeon of Death.

Not the man whose name people spoke in hushed voices.

Your gifted hands had filled page after page with the version of him that existed only in the quiet spaces between responsibilities, in fleeting moments rarely witnessed by anyone else.

As though those ordinary, forgettable fragments of his life possessed a beauty he had never once thought to assign them. As though simply existing beside him had been enough to make them worth remembering.

Much like every moment he spent beside you had become filled with countless little memories he knew he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

He hadn’t even realized you had been watching during those moments of quiet contentment. He’d always assumed those tiny glimpses, the rare instances when he allowed himself to truly relax, belonged to him alone. They were the sort of moments no one else would notice, let alone consider meaningful.

And yet…

There they were.

Preserved with the same tenderness another person might reserve for sunsets or constellations.

His breath caught.

The feeling blooming inside his chest was unlike anything he had ever known, something impossibly gentle brushing against his heart, as though wings had suddenly begun to unfurl from it, eager to lift it free and carry it out into the open air.

As your relationship settled into something comfortably familiar, Law gradually became the most frequent subject of your artwork, much to the dismay of certain rather jealous members of the crew, who weren’t above voicing their complaints every now and then.

“There has to be something of me in here somewhere,” Penguin muttered as he flipped through your sketchbook. “Captain… no, Law… Captain again… Captain… Ca… AAAH!”

He yelped, dropping the sketchbook in sheer panic.

It never reached the floor.

An already irritated Law caught it with one hand before it could even come close.

“Be careful.”

“I CAN’T BE CALM WHEN I JUST ACCIDENTALLY SAW TWELVE DRAWINGS OF YOUR ABS, CAPTAIN!” Penguin cried, his face turning scarlet.

He immediately yanked the brim of his hat down over his eyes as though it might erase the memory.

“I can’t believe you never drew the time I absolutely demolished that guy!” he continued dramatically. “It was legendary! A once-in-a-lifetime moment! But no! Apparently all you ever feel like immortalizing are this Surgeon of Death’s hands and ridiculously thick eyelashes.”

He stared at Law in theatrical disbelief.

“…Who knows what else I would’ve found if I’d kept turning the pages.”

Now it was your turn to blush.

“Penguin, no… I’ll draw you soon, it’s not like there’s any—”

“That’s none of your concern,” Law interrupted flatly, still holding the sketchbook securely against his chest.

“She can sketch whatever she wants.”

His golden eyes shifted toward Penguin.

“And if you’re ever that careless with her artwork again…”

A brief pause.

“…we’ll have a conversation in my office.”

Penguin visibly paled.

“…You know what? I suddenly feel very well represented already.”

Even your anatomy studies had grown more detailed.

More intimate.

By then, you could shamelessly ask him to stay perfectly still for ten minutes so you could capture the angle of the tattoo stretching across his chest. The easiest position usually involved you reclining halfway against his lap so that his torso angled ever so slightly toward you, allowing every contour of his chest, abdomen, and arms to reveal itself beneath shifting light. Every muscle found its place upon the page, every subtle ridge and hollow observed with painstaking care.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m not moving.”

“…Your breathing counts.”

He sighed.

“That also counts.”

You frowned at the page, erasing another line.

“Something’s wrong…”

Law leaned forward just enough to glance at your sketch.

“You’ve pulled the pectoralis major too far toward the sternum.”

You looked up at him.

“…Do you enjoy ruining my confidence?”

“No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I enjoy preventing anatomical inaccuracies.”

“…That’s somehow worse.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Your tattoo work is flawless,” he said, his eyes returning to the page. “It’s just the muscle beneath it.”

“…You couldn’t have started with that?”

“You would’ve stopped listening.”

Sometimes you drew him while he was occupied with something else, and other times, simply because those quiet moments together filled you with such contentment, you found yourself sketching those beloved muscles and bones entirely from memory.

One evening, the two of you sat close together as Law leafed through a medical textbook while you frowned at a sketch of his back, trying to make sense of the broad planes shifting beneath his skin.

So absorbed were you in your work that you never noticed him leaning over your shoulder.

“The trapezius overlaps the latissimus dorsi more than that.”

You looked at him blankly.

“…Do you ever say upper back like a normal person?”

“No.”

Having long since accepted that you would never possess his encyclopedic knowledge of osteology and myology, you had resigned yourself to spending the rest of your life with one impossibly adorable, hopelessly pedantic doctor who insisted on correcting you every chance he got.

“You’re looking at the tendon, not the muscle.”

“Law.”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to need you to use words normal people actually know.”

He sighed, as though you had just asked the impossible.

“…The stringy bit.”

Laughter burst from you before you could stop it.

“See? You can do it.”

“That’s the flexor digitorum profundus,” he informed you knowingly.

“…Mhm.”

“You have no idea what I just said.”

“Not a clue.”

“You’re pretending to understand,” he accused, already preparing an impromptu lecture.

“I love listening to you talk.”

He froze and blinked twice.

The tips of his ears bloomed a brilliant shade of pink as something entirely incoherent escaped beneath his breath, quiet enough that you couldn’t make out the words, though they still managed to tickle something warm inside your chest.

“You sound cute when you get all professor-like.”

Watching your normally composed, reserved boyfriend become so hopelessly flustered filled you with entirely unreasonable satisfaction.

I could get used to endless medical lectures if teasing him always earns me this reaction.

After months of constant reminders about proper anatomical terminology and what felt like several medical lectures every month, though you would never admit just how much you’d secretly enjoyed them, you gradually found yourself using words that had once sounded like an entirely foreign language.

There was something undeniably attractive about having such an absurdly brilliant and beautiful boyfriend all to yourself.

The first time Law had enthusiastically begun explaining the intricacies of the human neck and casually mentioned the sternocleidomastoid, your instinctive response had been to blink at him and mutter, “Bless you.”

Now, whenever he gently corrected your drawings with the same term, you simply nodded.

“I know, I know.”

Without even looking up, you adjusted the line.

“It attaches to the mastoid process, and mine’s too straight.”

Law slowly looked up from his book.

“…I’m proud of you.”

You stared.

“…Was that a compliment?”

“I’ve given you several.”

“You’ve given me homework.”

You teased him, fully aware that countless more assignments would follow, each one secretly becoming your favorite. Every now and then he’d even reinforce those lessons in practice, tracing surprisingly gentle kisses along your neck as he pointed out precisely where each muscle and delicate bone lay beneath your skin.

You had barely blocked in the basic shapes before a familiar voice drifted over your shoulder.

“You’ve exaggerated the deltoid.”

Law had been quietly watching you work for quite some time, long enough that, for once, you had begun to believe he’d found nothing to correct.

Alas…

It had simply been too good to be true.

Without even turning around, you let out an exaggerated sigh.

“There he is.”

“What?”

“My insufferable anatomist. I was wondering how long you’d last before correcting me.”

“I lasted twelve minutes.”

“That’s a personal record.”

A quiet hum escaped him.

Almost a laugh.

“I was trying to let you finish.”

“You failed.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering beneath his breath.

“I’m only trying to help.”

You smiled despite his incurable inability to leave your drawings alone.

“I know.”

Your voice softened.

“You always do.”

Something shifted behind his eyes.

“I know how seriously you take your work.”

His voice had grown quieter now.

“I want your references to be as accurate as they deserve.”

He hesitated before adding,

“…I’ll survive even if that means you’ll keep calling me insufferable.”

He leaned forward just enough to study the page more closely, one finger hovering above the paper without touching it. He knew better than to smudge charcoal.

“The contour’s right,” he said after a moment. “It’s just the insertion that’s slightly off.”

A brief silence followed.

“…The shading’s beautiful, though.”

You blinked.

“You noticed the shading?”

“I notice everything.”

There was an almost bashful quality to his voice now.

“I’ve known you long enough to learn a thing or two myself.”

He cleared his throat.

“…Though you should still fix the deltoid. It’s exaggerated.”

“No. I made you look stronger.”

“I don’t need artistic charity.”

“No?”

“No.”

You erased the line with theatrical reluctance, grumbling under your breath.

“It looked good.”

“It looked inaccurate.”

“It looked handsome.”

The faintest blush dusted the tips of his ears.

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

More often than not, Law would catch himself watching your hand move across the page, your pencil gliding with practiced confidence as it gathered fragments of him into graceful lines.

The feeling it stirred inside him remained wonderfully unfamiliar, equal parts strange and intimately warm. Somehow, in your drawings, he always appeared calmer than he’d imagined himself to be, softer around the edges, and with time he came to realize that the version of himself reflected through your eyes was the one he preferred above all others. It was the man he wished to be when you looked at him.

And perhaps that was why he found himself hoping you would never stop observing him with those endlessly hopeful eyes that seemed to hold love in every blink.

With all of that in mind, it wasn’t long before Law noticed something else.

In every drawing of the crew, whether they were gathered around the dinner table, celebrating at a festival, pelting one another with snowballs, or simply spending a quiet evening together in the lounge, one person was always missing.

You.

Not just from that sketchbook, but from every sketchbook he’d ever seen.

At most, a hand would occasionally appear, or perhaps a glimpse of your legs stretched across his lap in one of the quieter sketches of the two of you together, but you were never there as part of the crew.

He didn’t ask you about it immediately.

Instead, he continued to watch in silence, patiently waiting until the right moment presented itself.

It came while you were sketching Shachi’s birthday celebration.

Everyone was there.

Penguin and the birthday boy laughing as they clapped each other on the back.

Ikkaku and Jean Bart raising their glasses in a toast.

Bepo sprawled comfortably across the couch beside what had to be his fourth slice of cake, absentmindedly rubbing his contentedly full stomach.

The captain of the Heart Pirates sat at the far end of the sofa, wearing the faintest smile as he spoke with someone outside the frame.

The only indication of that unseen person was a pair of legs draped lazily across his lap.

“Why aren’t you ever in these?”

The question escaped him before he could stop himself.

You blinked, lowering your eyes to the drawing once again.

“What?”

“You draw every member of the crew.”

“…Yeah?”

“Except yourself.”

Your expression turned genuinely puzzled, tinged with a hint of embarrassment.

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never wondered why?”

“I guess… it just feels… strange.”

You hesitated, searching for the words.

“I can see all of you. I know your faces, the way you move, the energy each of you carries. But I don’t know how I’d even draw myself. It feels awkward.”

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips.

“And I’d probably ruin the whole picture.”

“Hm.”

Law understood that feeling better than most.

The quiet estrangement of looking at yourself and finding a stranger where you ought to have felt at home. He had spent years treating his own body as little more than a vessel for a mind that never quite seemed to belong inside it, as though the two merely happened to coexist rather than truly belong to one another.

So he carried your confession with him long after the conversation had ended, already wondering how he might one day convince you to see yourself with the same tenderness you so effortlessly gave everyone else.

It had been the end of one of those wonderfully uneventful days, the kind that settled over the submarine just before setting sail from another island the following morning.

The two of you had spent the evening tucked away in your room, reading, dozing, and quietly enjoying one another’s company.

Your head rested comfortably in his lap, your eyes closed in contentment as the long, deft fingers of one hand lazily combed through your hair, gently scratching your scalp. With the other, he absentmindedly flipped through the latest pages of your sketchbook.

More than once, his eyes lingered over the confident strokes of your pencil, quietly admiring the remarkable skill behind them. It filled him with a strange sense of pride to know that the same hands capable of holding their own in brutal pirate battles could also create something so delicate, so patient, so impossibly beautiful.

Then his breathing caught.

He had reached another sketch of himself.

He was lying curled against you, his head resting on your shoulder, lips slightly parted in deep, peaceful sleep while the brim of his hat had slipped low enough to shade his eyes.

Of you, only fragments remained.

The curve of a shoulder.

A curtain of hair cascading over it.

The soft folds of your sweater.

He noticed immediately that the drawing hadn’t been finished. The shading remained incomplete, certain details lacked the refinement so characteristic of your work.

Had you been fully awake, you probably never would’ve let him see something unfinished.

But that wasn’t what held his attention.

Near the bottom of the page, written in your careful handwriting so small it might easily have gone unnoticed, were three simple words.

My favorite view.

It was almost unbelievable that three ordinary words could settle so deeply beneath his ribs, finding a place he had long believed incapable of holding this kind of warmth.

As though, without ever searching for it, he had stumbled upon the final dream his soul had been quietly waiting for all along.

It wasn’t the sketch itself that moved him.

It was the realization that someone had looked upon one of his most unguarded, most ordinary moments and found it worthy of preserving.

Worthy of calling beautiful.

Worthy of returning to again and again.

For as long as he could remember, Law had believed love always demanded something in return. That it had to be earned, repaid, or would inevitably be lost.

And yet, within every careful line you had drawn and every shadow you had patiently built, there had been nothing except a quiet admiration for the man he was when he wasn’t trying to be anything more than himself.

For the first time in his life, it occurred to him that perhaps it truly was possible to be loved not for what you chose to show the world, nor in spite of everything you carried within you…

…but simply for who you were.

Perhaps…

Perhaps this was happiness.

Not the loud, fleeting kind he’d always assumed belonged to somebody else, but the quiet sort that slipped beneath your skin unnoticed until, before you realized it, all you wanted was for the moment to linger a little longer.

He didn’t know how to put any of it into words.

Instead, his fingertips drifted slowly across the paper, careful enough that one might have thought he feared smudging the graphite with a single careless touch. He traced those lines for longer than he needed to before gently closing the sketchbook.

Then he drew you closer.

Burying his face in your hair as though it were the safest place in the world, he pressed countless quiet kisses against your forehead and the crown of your head, holding you with a tenderness that said everything he could not.

Basking beneath the golden light of the setting sun in a meadow on the newest island you’d docked at, you and Law had quietly slipped away from the rest of the crew, content to spend the afternoon wrapped up in one another.

Reclining in the grass, you watched clouds drift lazily overhead, you pointing out the shapes they formed while your ever-skeptical boyfriend dismissed each one with an amused scoff, the two of you talking about nothing in particular.

After a while, Law reached into the backpack he’d thoughtfully brought along for your little excursion away from the submarine and pulled something out.

It was the sketchbook you’d been searching for days, the one you’d eventually given up on finding and replaced with a new one before you had the chance to finish it.

“Where did you find it?” you asked, eyes widening as you instinctively reached for it.

Instead of handing it over, Law shifted a little closer, gently guiding you back until you were sitting comfortably between his legs. Then he opened the sketchbook to its final pages.

There, spread across a single sheet, was someone who looked remarkably like you.

You were lying on your stomach atop the bed, surrounded by towering piles of books. The books themselves had been drawn with stiff, ruler-straight lines, yet each one had been filled with painstaking, almost childlike details, right down to your favorite titles and editions. You rested against the fluffy white blanket he’d done his earnest best to capture, your hair spilling loosely around you in delightfully unruly strands, your smile warm and just a little crooked, every tooth nearly the same size. He had even attempted shading, and truthfully, it wasn’t bad at all.

Ever the meticulous man, the Captain of the Heart Pirates had even placed his familiar spotted hat beside you at the corner of the bed.

You stared at the page, speechless, as warmth stung unexpectedly behind your eyes.

“…There was one person missing,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “I may not be very good at this, but…”

He never got to finish.

You threw your arms around him so suddenly that you nearly knocked him onto his back.

He let out a quiet, startled, “Mm…”

“It’s beautiful! Thank you so much,” you said, your voice thick with emotion as you peppered his cheeks and the corner of his lips with grateful kisses, leaving him blushing a deep shade of red. “You’re actually not bad at this. We might have to become colleagues.”

A quiet laugh escaped through his nose.

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed.

“It’s perfect.”

“It objectively isn’t.”

“It is.”

“The perspective’s wrong.”

“I don’t care.”

“My line weight is inconsistent.”

“I don’t care.”

“The left eye…”

You kissed him again, effectively silencing yet another critique before it had the chance to escape.

You couldn’t help imagining him, a man who had never been blessed with an artist’s hand, sitting down with nothing more than a pencil anyway, enduring every crooked line and every failed attempt simply because, somewhere along the way, he’d decided you deserved to be seen. To be remembered. To see yourself through his eyes.

No one had ever loved you so deliberately.

And in that moment, you silently promised yourself that you would never let that happiness slip away from your heart.

It was well past midnight by the time you began teaching him how to draw hands.

You gently turned his wrist.

“Loosen your grip on the pencil.”

“Like this?”

“A little.”

You nudged his fingers into place.

“You’re holding it like you’re about to perform surgery.”

“…Old habits.”

As everyone aboard the Polar Tang already knew, drawing hands had long since become second nature to you. While you carefully sketched Law’s hand, he concentrated on drawing yours.

On the same sheet of paper rested two intertwined hands.

One was long and slender, tattooed from wrist to fingers, its elegant bones subtly visible beneath the skin as the thumb traced a gentle caress across the other.

The second was smaller, the fingers a little stiff, the nail beds broader than he had initially managed to capture. Fortunately, under your patient guidance, it changed shape minute by minute until it became something that felt perfect to the two of you, even if any self-proclaimed art critic, whose opinion neither of you had asked for in the first place, would’ve called it an awkward collision of two entirely different styles.

The finished page found its place in a frame on your bedside table before the two of you drifted off to sleep, laughter still lingering softly between you in the darkness.

Your eyes scanned your computer screen one last time, reading through your article before finally sending it. They lingered over every word, every comma, every period, making sure everything was perfect. It was a habit of yours—to review everything over and over until you finally felt at ease. Deep down, though, you knew it was already fine. It was just your nerves playing tricks on you.

You let out a soft sigh and lifted your head, stretching your neck, which had begun to ache from spending so long hunched over your keyboard.

And that was when you met his eyes.

Those blue eyes that had been watching you for the last thirty minutes.

No, that wasn't true.

Maybe an hour.

But if you were being honest with yourself, you'd been feeling them on you for weeks now, always at the most unexpected moments.

Clark had this habit of silently watching you, as though he were trying to solve a puzzle that only he could see.

The moment your eyes met, he immediately looked away and turned back to his own monitor, pretending he was deeply focused on something important.

You almost laughed.

It was such an awkward reaction.

Such a Clark reaction.

If anyone else had seen him from the outside, he probably would've looked like some kind of stalker.

But you knew better.

He was just your boyfriend, completely lost in his own thoughts, imagining something or reflecting on something you could never quite understand.

So you smiled to yourself and returned to your work, although your mind was no longer fully focused on the words in front of you.

Clark had always been like this.

Strange.

But never in a bad or unsettling way.

It was more as if he saw the world through a different lens—one that only he could look through.

Sometimes the simplest things seemed like profound mysteries to him.

Other times, the things that felt impossibly complicated to you were solved by him with astonishing ease.

Understanding him had taken time.

A lot of time.

Patience.

Carefully observing all of his little habits.

But maybe he understood you far better than you understood him.

Because he never complained about your silence or your bad days.

He was simply there, with those blue eyes and his quiet way of loving you.

Despite everything, loving him had never been difficult.

You had been together for eight months now, and your relationship was serious.

You knew his parents, and he knew yours.

You went to parties together, shared an apartment, and your belongings had become so intertwined that you could barely tell what belonged to whom anymore.

Your colorful scarves rested beside his neatly pressed ties.

Your work blouses hung next to his perfectly ironed dress shirts.

You even had matching mugs—the ones he'd excitedly bought from a little shop downtown—and every morning you used them to drink coffee together.

Yet despite all that closeness, Clark sometimes seemed unable to say the things that truly mattered.

Expressing himself with words wasn't easy for him.

Instead, he'd start with those long, lingering looks, as if he expected you to read his mind.

As if he believed you had powers just like his.

Then he'd smile, and you'd convince yourself you had imagined it.

But then another glance would come.

And another.

And the doubt would quietly settle back into your mind.

As your fingers absentmindedly continued typing, you started wondering what could possibly be going through his head.

Was he thinking about breaking up?

No.

That was impossible.

You remembered the keychain he'd given you.

The one that read "Best Boyfriend Ever" in shiny letters with a little plastic heart attached to it.

At first, you'd thought it was ridiculously cheesy and far too flashy.

But Clark had chosen it with such genuine excitement that you hadn't had the heart to refuse.

He carried the matching one.

It said "My Favorite Girlfriend."

And every single time you pulled out your keys, his eyes lit up like a little kid's.

So you carried it proudly, even if your coworkers occasionally teased you about it.

If he'd given you something that meaningful, there was no way he was planning to end your relationship.

Maybe it was jealousy.

But no.

Clark wasn't a particularly jealous person.

Sure, there were those moments when he'd gently place a hand on your waist whenever someone stood a little too close to you.

Or when he'd tilt his head with that unmistakable expression that clearly said,

"I don't like this."

But he always handled it better than you did.

Once you got home, he'd simply ask whether you'd felt uncomfortable.

No scenes.

No accusations.

No arguments.

He was surprisingly calm about things like that.

Sometimes it honestly amazed you.

Maybe he wanted to go on a trip?

But he hadn't mentioned anything, and the two of you always planned those things weeks ahead of time.

No.

That wasn't it either.

One possibility after another disappeared, and you still couldn't figure out the answer.

When work finally ended, he did exactly what he always did.

Without saying a word, he picked up your purse and slung it over his shoulder.

Then he grabbed your coat—the one you'd brought that morning because it had been cold—but now, with the warmth of the evening settling in, you no longer needed it.

Clark carried it neatly folded over one arm, with that effortless way he had of taking care of you without ever making a fuss about it.

The two of you walked toward the exit together, and you slipped your hand into his free one, feeling the warmth of his fingers intertwine with yours.

There was no need to talk.

Sometimes the silence between you was far more comforting than any conversation.

On the way home, you stopped at the little crêpe stand the two of you loved so much.

You ordered your favorite—the Hawaiian one, with ham and pineapple.

Clark ordered his usual.

Chocolate and strawberries.

You ate while walking, stealing bites from each other's crêpes and laughing when whipped cream ended up smeared across his cheek.

By the time you reached your apartment, the sun had already disappeared below the horizon, and the cool evening breeze drifted through the open windows.

Clark placed the bags on the table and, without saying a word, picked up the dishes the two of you had taken to work so he could wash them.

He shrugged off his suit jacket in one smooth motion and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his forearms as he turned on the faucet.

Everything happened in silence.

Just another routine the two of you knew by heart.

Meanwhile, you placed his briefcase beside the couch and set your purse in its usual spot.

You gathered the coffee mugs you'd both left on your little desks that morning and carried them into the kitchen.

After that, you began organizing your shared workspace.

You knew you'd be assigned another article tomorrow, and you'd probably end up working late again.

And Clark simply couldn't work if everything was messy.

It was one of his many little quirks.

You didn't mind clutter.

Sometimes you even claimed it helped you think.

But Clark needed everything to be exactly where it belonged.

So you placed his pen holder on the right side of his desk, perfectly aligned with his mouse.

Then you set his notebook—the one he only ever used at home—on the left side, carefully lining up its cover with the edge of the desk.

You even sorted through the loose papers left over from previous days.

Then you turned to your own desk, arranging things a little more casually, because you didn't care if your pencils crossed over each other or your sticky notes poked out in every direction.

Clark was still washing the dishes, water running steadily as his hands moved with the same calm rhythm he seemed to have for everything.

You knew he'd probably gathered every single dirty plate, mug, fork, and spoon lying around the apartment, because that was just how meticulous he was.

He never left anything unfinished.

No matter how small it seemed.

You walked into the kitchen and started putting away the leftovers he'd carefully stored in different containers, each one tightly sealed and labeled with what was inside.

He was so organized that sometimes it made you laugh.

But it also gave you a strange sense of comfort.

As you closed the refrigerator door, you felt his gaze settle on you once again.

That gentle but unwavering weight of his eyes.

The silent reminder that something important was on his mind.

Without turning to look at him, because you knew you would get nervous if you did, you asked quietly, "Will you tell me someday?"

Your tone was calm, as though you didn't really care about the answer.

But deep down, you knew you did.

Clark paused for a second, his hands still submerged in the soapy water, and lifted his head to look at you.

"What will I say, sweetheart?" he asked, and there was that small smile in his voice that always appeared whenever he felt he'd been caught.

You finally turned toward him and saw him smiling in that sheepish way you knew so well, as though he'd just been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.

"Exactly. I don't know what you'll say, but you'll say something," you replied with a teasing smile.

He let out a quiet laugh as he continued scrubbing the dishes, moving the sponge in slow circles.

The water continued to run, its sound filling the kitchen, but the silence between you was comfortable, like an old blanket.

"It might scare you," he finally said, his voice softer now, almost shy.

That made you stop what you were doing and move to stand beside him, resting your hip against the edge of the counter so you could look at him better.

He kept washing the dishes, but every few seconds his eyes drifted back to you.

"Scare me?" you asked, not quite understanding what he meant.

You frowned for a moment, thinking of all the things that could possibly frighten you, but none of them seemed to fit him.

"I'd be scared if it were a proposal like... I don't know... doing it on the balcony. Now that would completely ruin Clark Kent's image," you joked with a light laugh.

He immediately blushed, a soft pink spreading from the base of his neck all the way to his cheeks.

That only made you laugh harder.

It was so incredibly easy to make him shy just by mentioning something even slightly inappropriate.

"No... that would be vulgar," he replied seriously.

But there was so much affection shining in his eyes that you couldn't help smiling even more.

"What is it?" you asked, softening your voice so he'd know you genuinely wanted to hear him.

Clark set the plate he'd been washing aside and wiped his hands on his pants, a habit he always had whenever he needed to think carefully before speaking.

"I... hypothetically..." he began.

The words came out with difficulty, as though he were trying to assemble a complicated puzzle inside his head.

"I think everything is going really well and... I don't know... I just..."

He tried to finish the sentence, but the words slipped away from him like water through his fingers.

"Hypothetically," you repeated, raising an eyebrow with curiosity.

He smiled, relieved that you'd given him an easy opening.

"If everything keeps going well... hypothetically, we could get married," you said, finishing the thought he couldn't bring himself to say.

He looked at you with such a huge smile that it seemed like even his teeth were glowing.

"And keep living together," you added, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Because to you, it was.

You had already spent eight months sharing every corner of your lives together, and the thought of that continuing forever didn't feel strange.

It felt beautiful.

"If... hypothetically... that happened..." he asked, his voice more serious now, as though he truly needed to know your answer, "would you want to live in Metropolis?"

You shrugged because, honestly, you'd never really thought about it.

The city had its charm, with all its lights and constant energy.

But sometimes it felt overwhelming too.

"I don't know. Maybe... or we could move to Smallville," you suggested without giving it much thought.

The name had simply slipped from your lips almost on instinct.

But Clark froze completely.

He quickly turned off the faucet, shook the excess water from his hands, grabbed a towel, and dried them in a hurry.

Then he reached into the back pocket of his pants for his phone.

You watched him, completely confused.

"Exactly. Hypothetically speaking," he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he unlocked the screen.

"If we moved to Smallville... hypothetically... there's a piece of land for sale there, and the price per square meter is really cheap. Look, here's the listing."

He showed you the pictures on his phone.

Two large lots.

Surrounded by trees.

Plenty of open space.

You nodded as you looked at them, and he kept talking, his voice overflowing with excitement he could barely contain.

"And hypothetically, if you wanted a house exactly the way you like it, we could build it from scratch. I've already looked at blueprints. I have, like, ten different house designs saved in my favorites folder."

He swiped to another picture, showing you the property from a different angle.

"And hypothetically, it's actually inside town. It's only a few blocks from downtown, but it's close to the market too, so it isn't isolated or anything."

He kept swiping.

"And it's close to the schools too. Hypothetically, when our kids start going, they could just take the bus."

Clark switched to another picture.

It showed Smallville High School, its brick walls surrounded by tall trees.

"And I think that school has the best curriculum. Hypothetically, if our kids ever got bored of farm life, they offer dance classes, soccer, art, cooking... even knitting. I asked, and the classes are inexpensive. They also have after-school activities."

He paused for only half a second before adding,

"Hypothetically, of course."

He kept scrolling through pictures on his phone without stopping, while you watched him with an ever-growing smile.

"Hypothetically, the house could have a big backyard where the kids could play. Maybe even a vegetable garden, because you like plants, right? I've already watched tutorials on how to build urban gardens... hypothetically speaking."

He smiled to himself before continuing.

"And the library—I didn't forget about the library. Hypothetically, it'd have a huge window overlooking the fields because you once told me you loved reading with natural sunlight. I even have bookshelves saved from the internet that would be perfect... hypothetically."

He finally stopped for a breath.

You could barely keep yourself from laughing at the overwhelming number of hypotheticallys he'd managed to fit into a single conversation.

"Oh! And hypothetically there's also a hardware store nearby in case we ever need to fix something. There's a park with swings only two blocks away, the grocery store is a five-minute walk, and the church..."

He smiled sheepishly.

"Well... Smallville's church is small, but it's beautiful. Hypothetically... if we ever wanted to get married there."

Then he quickly corrected himself.

"But I know you said you wanted to get married in Metropolis, so we can leave that exactly as it is."

"Hypothetically."

Finally, he stopped.

He realized he'd been talking nonstop for quite a while.

His cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

He hurriedly locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket, as though doing so could somehow erase everything he'd just said.

"Of course... all of that was purely hypothetical," he said with a nervous smile, scratching the back of his neck.

You looked at him.

Not with fear.

But with a mixture of surprise and tenderness so overwhelming that it made your legs feel weak.

You had imagined so many things about your future together, but you had never imagined that he had already planned it with so many details... and with so many "hypotheticallys" that fooled absolutely no one.

The future itself didn't scare you.

What scared you was being with someone who didn't picture you in theirs.

But Clark did.

And he'd thought about it in so much detail that it made your heart tremble with quiet excitement.

Getting married? You had always joked about it, casually throwing comments into the air whenever you watched weddings on TV or when one of your friends got engaged. But Clark truly wanted a life with you. He even thought about the children you might have someday, the school they would attend, the classes they would take, the vegetable garden you could plant together. It was so much, and it felt so real, that for a moment you didn't know what to say.

"Isn't... maybe... it a little too soon?" he said, trying to sound calmer, but his voice betrayed how nervous he was. The excitement from a few moments ago faded slightly, and he lowered his gaze to the floor. "I... well... they're... land listings, that's all," he added, as though that explained everything, and a smile formed on your lips before you could stop it.

"Do you really want to marry me?" you asked, and your own voice came out a little shyer than you had expected.

He looked back up at you and smiled with that smile of his—the one that always made you feel like everything was going to be okay.

"Of course. I can't imagine anyone else being my wife. And if we have children, I've been thinking that about a year beforehand we should start buying baby accessories," he said, pulling out his phone once again to show you something. "I've been reading about different cribs, strollers, and baby clothes, but of course, I thought about the wedding first. You said you wanted it at the church in Metropolis, so I made a budget, and I have it right here..."

He swiped across the screen and showed you a spreadsheet filled with numbers, with categories like "flowers," "catering," "music," and even "wedding dress (options)."

You opened your mouth but couldn't say a single word.

He immediately realized he'd given himself away again.

"Hypothetically, of course," he said quickly.

That made you burst into laughter.

You couldn't hold it in anymore.

The laughter came from the deepest part of you, mixed with a tenderness that completely filled your chest.

You threw yourself into his arms and kissed him, feeling his hands wrap around your waist as he pulled you against his chest.

The kiss was sweet and warm, and when you finally pulled away, he looked at you without letting go, his blue eyes shining as though he had just found the greatest treasure in the world.

You smiled, feeling your heart beating much faster than usual.

"So... are you going to propose to me?" you asked, absentmindedly playing with the collar of his shirt.

"It's a surprise," he replied, letting out a nervous little laugh. "I'll show you the budget, but the proposal will happen when you least expect it. Hopefully soon, though, because I want to reserve the date and buy the land before someone else does." Then he quickly added, as though it somehow made it less obvious, "Hypothetically, of course."

You laughed and wrapped your arms tightly around him, feeling his warmth and hearing his heartbeat against your own. But then an idea crossed your mind to keep teasing him, because you knew that if you didn't embarrass him just a little more, you were going to burst out laughing.

You loosened the hug and looked him straight in the eyes, wearing the mischievous smile he already knew all too well.

"Well, Clark," you said, placing a hand dramatically over your chest, "have you also planned what flowers we'll have at the wedding and what song will play during our first dance? Because you've already thought about it, haven't you?" You let out a little giggle that filled the entire kitchen.

Clark opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it again, and such a deep blush spread up his neck that it looked as though he had stepped into the sun. He froze for a moment, and you instantly knew you had hit the mark.

"Well..." he admitted in a quiet murmur, clearing his throat as he pulled you a little closer against him. "Let's just say I have. But it's not just a game, you know. It's the future I want with you. Truly. No jokes, no dancing around it."

His eyes softened, and that shy smile you loved so much appeared on his face.

"And yes, I've already picked the song for our first dance. But that's a secret I'm keeping until our wedding day."

You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over, and he joined in, blushing but smiling just as brightly.

"Oh, Clark!" you said between laughs, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

You paused before adding with a teasing grin,

"Hypothetically, of course."

He laughed with you, pulling you into another hug and pressing a kiss to the top of your head while the night carried on outside, filled with stars that seemed to shine just a little brighter for the two of you.

Long and grueling. That was the easiest way to describe the day your team had. Being woken up before sunrise, now ending it with the sunset. Starting the day off with getting covered head to toe in goo from a giant alien snail, immediately being called to stop an in progress bank robbery, being thwarted by another supervillain of the week ending with having to call Superman for backup, then once you finally thought you could breathe, a giant creature ascended from the ocean. It was a day’s work to keep citizens safe.

You all walked into the Hall of Justice with your shoulders low. Leather outfits squeaking uncomfortably. Mr. Terrific walked ahead of you. Kendra to your side. Guy was bullying past the group at a hasty speed. All of your shoes tracked mud onto the porcelain floors. One of the tiny robots Mr. Terrific had invented was already following behind you and cleaning the floors.

You looked up at the mural painted high on the wall. Sighing. You really did not feel like a hero today.

“Guess it could’ve gone worse,” you said as you tried to force a smile at your other teammates. It caused Mr. Terrific to stop in his tracks entirely. Turning on his heel to stare at you blankly. Kendra froze at your side as well.

“Worse? You seriously think the day could have gone any worse?”

“It sucked,” Kendra flopped onto the couch. Getting the fabric soaked and dirty in the process.

“Oh— come on, Kendra—“ he tried to shew her off the furniture, sounding more annoyed than anything else.

“Yeah, you’re right,” your hand cupped the back of your neck.

“Maybe if you all had listened to me, it would have been fine,” Guy finally piped up. Looking over his shoulder at you all. Which of course caught all of your attention. The three of you stared at him. Mr. Terrific put his hands on his hip and readjusted his stance, Kendra folded her arms over her chest as she rolled her eyes, and you rose a questioning brow.

“Listened… to you?” Mr. Terrific pointed with each word.

“If we listened to you, we would all be rocking atrocious haircuts and different shades of green,” Kendra chuckled.

Guy’s eyes narrowed, “First of all, I’m the Green Lantern. Why would I ever want my color associated with the likes of you? Second, I’m the only one who could ever rock this haircut. And I know all of you know that.”

None of you responded. Other than Kendra hiding her laugh behind her fist. Smiling widely and eyeballing you. Catching her funny face from your peripheral, which in turn caused you to smile too.

Guy’s eyes looked between you too. Scowling at you in particular. He grunted and stomped his foot. Retreating down the hallway with an aggressive slamming of his door.

“Jesus. He’s in a piss poor mood,” Kendra said looking over to you with wide eyes.

And he was.

Pent-up frustrations overtaking him after the absolutely horrendous day you all had. News coverage was at an all time high while all of you looked your worst. Covered in slime and dirt and grime, and now all of you were soaking wet. His hair had been ruined before anyone could ever get a good picture of him.

He kicked off his shoes as he shedded layers of clothing. Heading straight for the shower. Muscles tight and teeth grinding. Steam was filling the room with how hot the water was running. His hands gripped the edge of the countertop, staring himself down in the mirror. Image of himself blurring as the mirror fogged up. His knuckles were white from how hard he held onto the countertop. Calling out to his a.i. to instruct it to begin playing his ‘relaxing afternoon playlist’ before hopping into the shower.

The water burned against his skin. Dipping his head under the water to get some of the debris off his scalp. He sighed hard as he reached for the far too expensive shampoo he used. Trying to maintain the silky, smooth look of his hair. It was his best feature, atleast in his mind.

The day was all he could think about. How no matter his efforts, it kept going wrong. He needed a distraction. Anything to get mind off of it. But the more he thought, the more he kept coming back to today. He grinded his teeth together as he rested his head on the tile wall. Eyes falling closed. Begging to think of anything that was not today. A TV show? An earworm of a song? What he would have for dinner? SOMETHING.

Your smile.

His eyes flew open. Labored breaths rolled through him as he blinked. Muscles in his lower stomach tightening at the thought. He cleared his throat despite not speaking. Deciding to lather himself in soap now.

He knew it was wrong. Not that it had ever stopped him before.

He scrubbed down his body with the neon green loofa. Musky scent filling the shower as his soap began to bubble along his skin. Washing the rest of the day prior off him. Rubbing down his torso until he met the area above his pubic bone.

Your hands wrapped around him from behind. Helping bathe him, teasing your manicured fingertips along every ridge of valley of skin. Now gliding down to his growing groin.

His cock jumped as he began to clean himself. Huffing and trying to get it over with before he stimulated himself too much. Using every last drop of soap he could. Beginning to rinse himself off. He was rubbing his hands down his body in an attempt to make the soap dissipate faster, only agitating the liquid more. He looked down to his feet.

On your knees in front of him. Nude. Hair growing wet with each passing moment. His cock nestled between your lips. Bobbing your head up and down.

“Goddammit,” Guy exhaled hard. Resting his arm on the wall before him. Staring at his perched up dick. Standing proud, filled with his need for you. It was obscenely hot in the shower now. Causing him to not be able to catch his breath. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

Quickly, he shut off the water. Reaching for one of his embroidered towels with the Lantern Corps logo on it. Drying himself head to toe, seemingly skipping over his still hard dick. Stepping out into the steam filled bathroom. He ran a hand through his wet locks. Looking over to the countertop where all the things to fix his hair were. Hair dryer, gel, straightener, all those sorts. Knowing he needed to make himself look presentable, but there was a more pressing matter at hand.

His still damp feet smacked against the polished floor. Hurriedly walking into his bedroom. Looking at the clothes he had sat out on the chair. Shaking his head as he looked over to his bed. Nightstand directly beside it.

And he knew what he was going to do.

In the meantime, you were in your own room. Showering yourself. Just trying to forget about the absolute terrible day you and your team had. You kept telling yourself there was always tomorrow. Which was not as comforting as you hoped. With tomorrow came news headlines and social media campaigns about you. As if you did not dedicate everything to saving people. You somehow still ended up being the headline of another distasteful article.

Especially knowing Guy was also frustrated with you. It had your mind running rampant. Guy was your closest friend on the team. You were like one big family, but still. He had nestled his place in your heart, even if you would never admit it. Yes, he was one of the most annoying people you knew. But deep down you found it charming. Not that you’d ever let him know that.

You threw on a t-shirt and some sleep shorts. Softly opening the door to your bedroom so that you could check if the coast was clear. No sign of Kendra or Michael. The last thing you wanted was to hear what they had to say about you sneaking into Guy’s room.

Barely putting any weight down, you tip-toed down the hall. Holding your breath. Hands balled into fists at your sides. Doing anything you could to stay as quiet as a mouse.

His door was locked. You stood before it. Hardly allowing the air to roll through your nostrils.

You knocked softly. Not wanting your teammates to hear what you were doing. Looking down the hall to the common room where they all stayed now. Barely able to swallow. You finally peeped out, “Guy?”

Silence.

You knocked again. Trying to peer through the fogged glass. You knew he was in there. It irritated you that he was ignoring you. Pressing your ear against the glass door, you could hear some soft ambient sounds. Definitely playing from the speaker beside his bed. The sound proof doors really made it difficult to make out any details.

Today had been a busy for all of you. But the way Guy’s eyes had locked onto you after Kendra’s snickering made your stomach flip. Yes, you had gone left when he told you to go right. But it’s not like you had blatantly ignored his orders or anything. So you were confused on why it was you he was mad at.

And you had to find out.

It’s not like you didn’t know the code. You had enough, you were going to let yourself in. Nails tapping against the keypad before the door breathed alive. Opening with a hiss. You could not help but smile in victory. Practically bouncing as you rounded the corner into his room.

Completely frozen in your steps by the sight greeting you.

His legs were spread wide. Every inch of skin bare. One large hand wrapped around his cock, the other holding a picture of some kind. His eyes were laser focused on the thin card-stock. Pumping his length over and over, grunting lowly. Eyebrows pinched tight together, lips parted. Face flushed a bright red. His hair was still wet from his shower. Loose locks sticking unkempt across his forehead.

You could feel the way your groin fluttered. Stomach knotting itself together. Unable to believe you were seeing this. Body moving on its own into his room.

The door hissed behind you. Closing on command now that you entered. How had he still not noticed? Was he really that oblivious? Or that focused on fucking himself?

Slick was forming between your legs. He looked so hot. Soft stomach rippling with each aggressive tug on his length. Deep exhales rolled off his tongue. Mumbling something to himself that you could not make out. You could not keep watching him like some creep in the closet. You need to get his attention, despite how embarrassing it would be.

“Guy?” you sheepishly called out to him.

His entire body seized. Wide eyes looking over at you. His entire body sprung upward. Accidentally dropping the photo in his hand as he fumbled to cover himself up. “Y-Y/N—“

You followed the page as it flowed to the floor. Eyes narrowing on it as it laid flat only a few steps before you. Your eyebrows jumped up your face. Cheeks flooding with heat immediately. You knelt down to grab it.

It was you.

A picture of you. In casual clothing. Smiling with your head tilted to the side. An oceanfront behind you. Your hair a little messier than normal from the day you had spent at the beach. He had taken it when you all had traveled to get intel on another supervillain’s plan. Someone that Aquaman usually handled, but he was off with the Justice League on a big mission.

He snatched the picture from you. Hiding it between his body and the pillow he had pressed against his front. A humorous way to hide his nudity from you. You looked up to his face to see his eyebrows furrowed and arched. Baring his teeth in anger, gold tooth reflecting the glow of his lamp.

“Ever heard of knocking?!” he aggressively pointed at you.

“I knocked more than once,” you defended yourself.

“Yeah? Well I don’t recall telling you to come in,” he growled.

“I don’t recall telling you that you could jerk off to a picture of me either,” you cocked your head to the side.

His face bled red. Stammering as he shook his head ‘no’. Blinking rapidly as he tried to form an excuse. Maybe he could just convince you it was not you. Call you conceded for thinking he would even do something like that.

Then you bit your lip. Barely, but you still did it. Trying to hide a smile that crept across your face. It made his cock jump. You were flirting. Not entirely revolted by the revelation you had unveiled. Your pupils were dilated. Body leaning close to his like you wanted to be near.

Was he losing his mind? Of course, he was used to having this kind of effect on women. He just never expected you to fall for his charms. Typically, you were put off by his cocky attitude. Egocentric personality making you roll your eyes and sigh. Especially when he was not even trying to be charming. You had literally caught him red handed. Dick out and vulnerable. Yet you still stayed.

Guy had been interested in you for some time now. After you had once drug his bartered and bruised body to the medbay, you stayed with him all night to make sure he was okay. You had fallen asleep with your body rested against the bar of the hospital bed. Your hand dangling over his torso as you softly snored. It was the first time he felt himself growing fond of you. His brash exterior softening for a moment as he reached up to take your hand in his. Your hand squeezing his without you making it. But of course he made sure he was up and gone before you woke up. Making fun of you for being worried about him.

It kept blossoming the more he got to know you. Neither of you seeing eye-to-eye when you first joined the Justice Gang. Often questioning Guy’s leadership and disagreeing with his tactics. And sometimes he thought you were being too kind. Too soft and squishy for all these monsters. Wanting to save them and protect them rather than kill them. He called you pathetic once, which made tears well up in your eyes. Which made his chest tighten. Before he could apologize, you stormed off to your room. Never had he felt so… ashamed. He had made plenty of women cry, but something about how dewy your eyes were… how your lip quivered… how your hands balled up at your sides— it made him feel bad. So he went out and got you an apology gift. A bag with some things he had seen you buy before, including the takeout order you got after a bad week. Knocking on your door and leaving it before you could see who it was from. Noticing the little green bow he had left on it.

And it had all been manifesting the last few months. Sitting deep in his abdomen. After the trip to the oceanfront lair, the two of you had spent the evening at the beach. Guy’s feet planted firmly in the sand while you hopped waves and got soaked. Having to go to a tacky-surf-shop to buy some off shoulder shirt with a giant sunset and the name of the beach on it. Ending with you walking the boardwalk together.

Which was when the, now infamous, picture was taken.

“Are you laughing?” his voice cracked as he raised a brow, irritation clear on his tone.

Your hand came up to cover your mouth. Shaking your head and trying to tame the giggle that was going to erupt from you. Shoulders bouncing and eyes squinting upward. Nose scrunching as you tried to focus on his angry mug.

Great. Now you are mocking him. The moment he starts to question if maybe you were interested in him. For fuck’s sake, of course you were making fun. You had just caught him cranking it to a picture of you. A FUCKING PICTURE. OF YOU.

He sighed and repositioned his leg, a soft stomp of his foot making your eyes shoot up to his. His jaw flexed as he motioned towards the door, “For the love of God, leave me with some of my dignity.”

You held your hands out in defense. Smile cracked across your face as your cheeks heated up. Shaking your head, “It’s cute.”

Guy’s heart dropped down to his ankles. Throat tightening immediately at your choice of word. No one had ever called him that without undermining him. Annoying. Loud. Boisterous. Not—

“Cute?!”

You nodded. Grinning widely. Watching as he was taken so far aback by that word. Almost like he was offended.

“I’m the goddamn Green Lantern.”

You took a step between his words.

“I’m not ‘cute’. I’m-I’m strong and intimidating! A protector of this realm, the Corps chose me!”

He was too busy talking to notice how the distance between you was practically non existent. Your hand came up, flattening against his chest. His heart was ramming into his chest. Running like a horse in a race. His words faded away as he turned to look at you. Eyes softening and lips parted in a question that he could not force. His grip on the pillow tightened, giving him something to stabilize himself with.

You reached between him and pillow, causing his eyes to fly shut. A soft whimper escaping him before he could realize. You pulled the photo back out, holding it beside your face. Tilting your head to question him with a smirk. “Is this one your favorite?”

Guy’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. Swiftly knitting together when he realized what you asked. Blinking at the speed of light. Mouthing words he could not speak before nodding his head. Taking a deep breath to prepare for your judgement.

“I like the one you took after better,” you smiled, reaching into your pocket and pulling out your phone. Clicking the button to make your screen illuminate. A picture with the exact same background as the printed one. But in this one you both were standing there. A selfie. Your arms wrapped around his neck from the side, his own pointer and thumb framing his chin as he pushed out his lips. Expression always stern for the camera.

You pulled your lip between your teeth. Tossing your phone into the chair in his room. Stepping closer, so close the pillow was touching your stomach. Flattening both palms against his chest, guiding him back slowly. Wide eyes stared at you. Unable to talk. Entirely confused.

“Wouldn’t the real thing be better?”

Guy smiled. Releasing a breath he had not realized he was holding. The backs of his legs met his mattress. Taking a seat and looking up at you. Hands still holding the pillow against his groin. Even though his cock was straining against the soft, satin pillow case. He could not recall a time he had been nervous with a woman. But you were having that effect on him.

You grinned as you pulled your shirt over your head. Revealing your bare chest. Not having put on a bra after you shower, just wanting to let your skin breathe. You removed your sleep shorts, leaving you in a cotton pair of panties. Standing with your hands on your hips before him.

Guy’s breath caught. Raking down your figure, especially caught up on your breasts.

“Your turn,” you gestured at him.

“I— I’m not wearing anything..?”

You pointed to the pillow, cocking a brow and nodding toward the side. He realized what you meant. Looking down at the sage green pillow. Fingers digging into the plush material. Swallowing the lump in his throat before throwing the pillow to the side. Giving you the full view of him in all his glory.

He was avoiding eye contact with you. His face and chest flushed. Trying to seem brooding. Folding his arms over his chest and sitting up straight. Locked jaw. Eyes focused on something unimportant in the room. Waiting for you to make fun of him. To laugh. To do something.

Then you took a step. Catching his attention. Barely stepping before he began spreading his legs for your stand between them. Welcoming you like it was where you belonged. Your thighs were nestled against his.

Guy sat up, extending his arms around you. Palms resting against your lower back right above your ass. Fingers splayed against the width of it. His neck strained so he could look at your face. Looking right past your chest to meet your eyes. It made your insides churn with how sweet he looked. Puppy dog eyes questioning without a word.

One leg at a time, you straddled his lap. Knees nestling against the soft fabric sheets of his bed. Guy pushed himself backward more so that you could take a better seat on his lap. Sitting your ass back on his thighs. His cock was perched between your bodies. Swollen and angry red at the tip. Neatly trimmed, red pubic hair decorated its base and his balls. It was thick. Beading pre-cum along the slit.

His hands ghosted up and down your sides. You rested your hands on his shoulders. Looking at his face. Reading every wrinkle and worry line. How sparkly his blue irises were right now even if they were being eclipsed by black pupils.

You leaned forward. Lips nestling right beside his ear, “You fuck your fist to my picture a lot?”

A chill ran down his spine. How warm your breath was against his neck. The way your breasts barely touched his skin. How your legs gripped him tightly. It was all so invigorating.

“And what if I do?”

You pulled back to look him in the eyes. Cheeks beaming and eyes narrow. Your hands gliding up his shoulders to frame his jaw. His neck tightened at your touch. Not used to someone being gentle with him. Usually just a pump and leave type.

“Well, if that’s the case, maybe next time you should just call me and ask for some more… personalized pictures,” you fluttered your lashes. Beginning to close the gap between your faces.

Suddenly, Guy’s hand was tangling in your hair. Pulling you by the back of your skull so that he could capture your lips in a deep kiss. A little sloppy, but it still made your body tingle. His tongue pried into your mouth. Lapping the taste of you like it was his last meal. Desperate and needy. Exactly how you imagined he would be.

His hand was palming your bare breast. Massaging the mound between thick fingers, a soft groan vibrated against your lips. His lips began to trail down the side of your face to your throat. Kissing and licking a path to your pulse. Articulated lips worked against your flesh, teeth grazing it softly. Every inch of your body was on fire.

Your hand rubbed down his torso. Nails scratching against his skin softly. Palm flattening at the base of his swollen cock. Fingers splaying around it. It made his throat tighten. Swallowing harder than he meant to. Resting his forehead against your shoulder so he could look down where your hand teased around him. Lip quivering where you could not see.

Slowly, you wrapped your hand around his member. Fingers squeezing him at the base. Swiping your thumb upward to collect the small bead of pre-cum at the tip. It sent a jolt through his body.

Guy pulled back to look at you. Eyes glossy and lips parted. His brow pinched and jaw tight. You knew it was killing him. And he hated to be teased. But it was just so much fun to have such a strong hold on him.

Lips captured yours again. Attempting to roll his hips into your touch before you loosened your grip. He growled in disapproval at the loss of contact, “Come on, sweetheart…”

You smiled against his mouth. Sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, giving it a soft tug to tease him. His lips chasing yours as you stiffened your posture. Doeing his eyes up at you, his hands flattened against your thighs. Running them along your bare skin until they found the fabric of your panties. Fingertips teased around the edges, hooking one underneath. Ghosting over your slit slowly. Trying to feel your want for him.

Both your hands pushed at his chest. Causing him to fall flat on his back. Muscular back meeting the soft sheets of his bed. His eyes upturned in a question, a hint of irritation on his lip.

“Quit being greedy,” you smirked, hand resuming its previous position.

“I’m not—“

You squinted your eyes at him, loosening your grip. His hands flew up in defense, shaking his head.

“Okay, okay,” Guy sighed. Tucking his arms behind his head, staring up at you. Deciding he would have to be fine simply watching the show. Because you were beautiful, after all. It was an honor to have you atop him. Especially to have you touching him in this way. How he has dreamed about for months.

A smirk overtook his face. Wiggling beneath you to show how comfortable he was. His gold tooth shining again. He gestured towards you with his hand, “Precede.”

God, he is such an ass.

You rolled your eyes. Twisting your wrist a few times to get the feel of him. He watched where your hand met his body. Eyebrows contorting and eyes wide. Breathing heavily as he tried to keep his composure.

Sensually, you leaned down. Lips barely a few inches above his tip. Collecting spit between your lips, a thick line coated his raw cock. It made his eyes roll back in his head. Rolling his hips at the cool sensation when the soft current of his fan brushed along it.

“Fuck,” Guy grunted, “Give him a kiss, Y/N.”

You scowled playfully at him. Meeting his cocky grin. Eyebrows bouncing up his forehead as he nodded towards his aching cock. Dark blue eyes looking into yours. Teasing you.

You quickened your hand. Pumping him fast. Twisting your wrist and squeezing the head. Finally able to shut him up to some degree. His head was thrown back. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat with each low groan that rolled through him. Curses mixing in with what sounded like your name.

The smile on your face was unmatched. Watching how the muscles in his abdomen tightened when you would hit a spot he liked. Working his erection over and over. He felt good in your hand. A little heavy against your palm. It made your mouth water and your thighs rub together. Craving some kind of friction, but far more focused on getting him off.

He was panting. Fucking up into your grasp. He was a moaning, babbling mess. Knowing he was approaching his end. His fantasies had came true. Your hands all over him. Beautiful eyes ravishing his body.

“I-I’m gonna—“

“I know,” you pressed your thumb over his slit, “What’s in it for me?”

Guy’s eyes widened. Confusion written clear on his face. Baring teeth for a moment as he sighed. He was so damn close, and now you want something? It made his heart skip. He was enamored by you, but his ego begged to differ. He scooted in response.

Your movements stopped entirely. Your free hand stabilizing you against the mattress as you hovered over him. Leaning so that you were nose to nose. Hooded eyes stared into his. Head tilting to the side waiting for his answer.

“What do you want?” Guy spoke through his teeth.

You pouted your lip at him. Not approving of the way he was speaking to you. Kissing up his jaw until your mouth was below his ear. Grabbing his earlobe between your teeth and rolling it. One of his hands flew to your back. Digging stern fingertips into your bare skin and moaning softly.

“Hmm. I don’t know, what can you give me?” you teased. Kissing the soft spot below his ear as you waited for his response. His pulse was thumping against his ears. Mind hazy unable to pinpoint a single thought other than you on him. How your breasts grazed against his chest right now. How the tips of your fingers barely touched his cock. The sweet smell of your body wash. It was all so overwhelming.

“Anything. Fuck, I’ll make whatever you want with the ring. Just please touch me,” Guy whined trying to hide it behind anger.

“Eh, not sure about it,” you swiped your thumb across the bundle of nerves below his tip. Punching the air out of his lungs. His eyes squinted shut and lips parted.

You laid back, pressing your weight into his body. His hard cock pinned between your bodies. Head bumping against your stomach. You rested an elbow on his chest, leaning your hand into your palm. Waiting for a response. Teasing him by grinding against his member. Torturous, even to yourself.

“I’ll eat you out,” he blurted, almost asking.

That caught your attention. Cocking a brow at him with a smirk. Knowing Guy was absolutely not the type to go down on someone. Preferring having someone else on him, or simply fucking. Never the type to please someone else. Even though he did brag about all the women he had sex with. It was more about them on him. Always a bragger. Most likely a pump and dump guy.

You slid your clothed core across his aching member. Slickness already soaking through the fabric, giving him a new feeling. His hands flew up to grab at your hips. Trying to force you to continue like this. Grinding on your wet slit. Bucking upward and moaning, “I’ll have you— fuck— screaming my name by the end of it. Swear to God, your legs will be shaking and you won’t be able to catch your breath. Just let me cum.”

Raising back up, you pinched his chin between your fingers. Staring heavily into his blown pupils. Sweat glistened along his body. Lips swollen from where he had been biting them. Looking utterly handsome.

“Didn’t think you knew how to use your mouth for anything good,” you smirked.

Guy returned your expression, eyes darting between your lips and eyes. Too close to argue. Taking the flirtatious insult with grace. This was what made him like you. You took no shit. You liked to run your mouth, just like him. And, for fucks sake, no one ever had gotten him this needy and desperate. You had this kind of effect on him. And he was enthralled.

He captured your lips in his. Hands planted firmly on your hips, guiding you up and down his length. Cock bumping into your clothed clit over and over. It made you throw your head back and ride him. He sloppily kissed along your collar and top of your breasts. Wishing he was deep inside you. But settling for this instead.

“ ‘m close,” he muttered against your skin.

You nodded. Breath caught in your throat. One of your hands reached for your panties, shifting them to the side so that you could slide your bare pussy on him. The sound was lewd. Music to your ears.

“Fuck, Y/N, yes,” Guy moaned into your throat. Kissing your skin over and over, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Your bare core had him feeling dizzy. In love with that slick feeling. Wishing he could dip even just the head into you. Anything just to see how you fit. He would bet you were perfect for him. Crafted by some cosmic being just to hug his dick.

Guy’s fingers dug aggressively in your skin. Grunted and moaning as his hips jerked. Balls tightening. Cum shot up his stomach. Sticking between your bodies. Painting his pale skin in hot white. Some of it meeting the fabric of your bundled panties. Your name rolled off his tongue over and over. Hot breath fanning across your throat as he panted against you.

You cupped his face tenderly. Smiling at him in what would have to be the softest moment either of you had ever had. Planting a kiss to the tip of his nose, you wrapped your arms around him. His own splaying along your spine as he nestled his face between your shoulder and neck. Gently rubbing up and down your back as you both savored this moment.

Slowly, his hand tangled in your hair. Arching your head to the side so he had better access to that tender spot. Lips planting open mouthed kisses against your throat. You breathed out a soft moan when his teeth nipped at your flesh. You giggled, “Easy. Kendra and Michael might catch on.”

He smiled against your skin, “I don’t care.”

His other hand roamed down your body. Finding its place on your clit, circling it. You rutted forward, a moan catching in your throat. Swiftly, he guided you onto your back. Standing at the edge of the bed. Scanning your beautifully displayed body. He pulled you down to the edge by your ankle. Arching your legs over his shoulders. He began to kiss down your calf. Slow. Almost teasing. Easing his way to be on his knees before you.

Face barely inches away from your center. Chills danced down your arms and legs. Excitement stirred around your belly. It had been some time since you had been with anyone. It was almost like the first time all over again.

Guy kissed right above your clit. Licking a stripe up your core. It made you moan loudly. Louder than you meant. He latched onto your clit. Sucking on the sensitive bud. Making the knot in your belly tighten. Before you realize, he was pressing his middle finger into you. Cold texture of his ring taking you by surprise. Your hips rolled against his face.

“Guy,” you whined as your back arched off the bed.

You could feel his wicked grin against your core. Not ceasing his movements. Lapping and sucking over and over. Kissing your clit occasionally. His finger pumped in and out. Curling to brush the soft, spongy spot inside you. Which, he learned, made you scream even louder.

Guy wanted to learn everything about you. Every little detail of your body. What made you whine. What made you moan. What makes you cum with a scream of his name. All of it.

He could feel the way your walls tightened for a moment, knowing he was getting you close. Time to put on the charms. “Best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Guy admitted with a strained voice.

It made you whimper. One of your heels dug into his back. It would be any minute now.

“No punk will ever make you feel this good. This is mine now, you hear me? Fucking mine,” Guy growled, delving back to suck your clit. Swirling his tongue in tight circles.

You can unraveled on his tongue. Hips arching and back lifting off the bed. Your entire body quivered. Nerve endings igniting as your walls convulsed over and over again. Sucking his finger further into your hole. It made Guy smile widely. Corner of his mouth curving and eyes widening. Swearing he had never seen a woman as beautiful as you.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Guy cooed.

You rode through the waves of your orgasm. Body falling limp against his mattress. Sweat pricking along every inch of your body. Heart ramming against your ribcage. Panting and looking at him through hooded eyes.

Guy rose to his feet. Dipping his weight into the mattress, slumping down beside you. Pulling you into his side. You flattened a hand on his chest. Nestling against his shoulder. Both of you breathing heavily. Simply basking in a post orgasm glow. A little sticky, it would probably be best if you both showered.

“It was good, right?” cockiness clear on his tone.

As badly as you wanted to mock him and scoff, it really was good. So you just smiled and hid your face from him. Muffled giggles rippling across his skin. It caused him to smile.

He leaned over and pressed a kiss into your head.

~~~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! I fell in love with this request as soon as I read it. There are probably close to ten other Guy Gardner requests in my inbox right now, so plan on seeing more of those soon. I’m excited to add a new DC character to my masterlist, seeing as it hasn’t been updated since Birds of Prey. As always, Comments and Reblogs are greatly appreciated. My inbox is always open. I love you guys!! //

{tags}

Your inhibitions had dissipated hours ago. By now, all that remained was a floating feeling that carried you in conversation. The desire for body heat brought on by being adorned in nothing but a swimsuit as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. While the other guests, miraculously avoided drunkness; either by the metahuman blood pumping through their veins or sheer heavy weight willpower alone. They had evaded the descent into drunkeness, where you were at the very bottom of the hole—currently in the sweet spot between sharing every thought on your mind and overwhelming nausea.

You had been chatting to Ted about some doomed-to-fail endeavour with Booster until he excused himself to talk logistics with the same blonde. Really, what you should have done was find Dinah or Diana, or even a long lounge chair to pass out on, but in your inebriated state, you followed the first thing, or rather person, that your eyes landed on.

You treaded over rather ungracefully to where John and Guy were lost in conversation. Guy had been splayed out on one of the many couches— arms stretched across the back and legs manspreading wide like an open invitation to be touched— and you flopped down right beside him, your hair tickling his open arms as you did.

"Had enough t'drink yet, honey?" Guy asked, swapping his beer to the other hand so he could rest his open arm comfortably around you. "Don’t worry. Ol’ Guy will take care of you. Can't believe that rust bucket didn't cut you off."

"Mmmm no," you hummed, smushing your face against Guy's shoulder. "M'not even drunk."

Your lips pursed from where your cheeks laid squished against his skin.

Guy would never admit it— far too adamant about his nonexistent romantic prowess— but he felt his freckled cheeks inflame from your touch. As much as he 'flirted' with every member of the team, he had always had his eye on you. You were kind, funny and relatively untouched by a godlike ego that could easily take any full-time League member into its clutches. For all that you made fun of Guy or became just as exasperated as anyone else, you had always recognised his loyalty and goodness that laid beneath his brash mannerisms.

He admired you. Truly. And watching you cozy up to him so comfortably, your cold fingers splaying out against the expanse of his chest absentmindedly, he couldn't help but feel like both of you were exactly where you belonged. It made his stomach sink.

"You sure?" John asked you with a smile.

"Mhm," you assured him, nodding as you unconsciously curled into Guy's side. "I could have, like, seven more drinks."

Guy laughed, taking another swig from his beer.

"Sure about that, babe?"

Normally you would have grimaced and told him off for that. But the jovial tone of conversation and the way Guy had so easily accepted responsibility for you in your admittedly drunk state, left you feeling too warmed and cared for to mind.

"Positive."

With the buzz of alcohol quickly taking control, you nuzzled your face into the crook of Guy's neck and closed your eyes.

As your breathing slowed, Guy's quickened— shocked still for a moment from the feeling of your lips brushing his neck. You were in his arms, touching him as if you had a right to and Guy knew then that he wouldn't be able to go back to the way things were. Whether you remembered it or not when the alcohol finally left your system, drunk actions were sober thoughts, and you had now been officially solidified as Guy Gardner's girl.

As this fact registered in Guy's brain, he relaxed into your touch. In the morning he would have to worry about the logistics of it all— proving to you that he deserved to call you his, for instance— but right now, he allowed himself to focus on your warmth and affection as you breathing evened and your eyes fluttered shut.

"Go ahead and sleep, honey." Guy said wrapping his arm around your frame. "I'll take you t'bed. Don't gotta worry your pretty little head about it."

Unbeknownst to you, two of your teammates watched on from afar in a healthy mixture of amusement and disgust.

“Do you think she’s going to regret this in the morning?” Ted asked.

Dinah snorted.

“Oh one hundred percent.” Dinah assured him. “If she remembers it, anyway.”

And maybe you did wake up to a photo of you passed out, wrapped around Guy Gardner like a koala. But when you zoomed in and saw his proud, cooked smile? You couldn't find it in yourself to care.

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

BRUCE WAYNE

“So,” you said, making your way down to where a familiar brunette sat on the beach. “Does Matches Malone drink?”

The party continued to thrum on behind you. The farther you got, the more the sound of splashing and your teammates' chanted dares faded, replaced instead with the soothing waves of the ocean as the sun hung low in the sky. Framed by the sunset, Bruce squinted as he looked up at you.

He smiled softly.

“He can be convinced."

You took your place by Bruce's side in the sand, offering him your second mojito.

"I think I like Matches," you said with a smile. "He's a lot more fun than this other guy I know."

As Bruce accepted the spare glass from your hands, his fingers brushed yours.

With anyone else, it would have been an accident. But you knew him both on and off the field and recognised that 'accident' and 'Bruce Wayne' rarely belonged in the same sentence. With him, everything was purposeful… calculated. The fact that the two of you had even been sitting on this beach was likely a result of his own, careful planning to get you alone.

Rather than say anything, though— a part of you always too intimidated by Batman even when the cowl was off— you watched as he took a sip from the glass. His adam's apple, coated in a sheen of sweat from the day's events, bobbed as he swallowed and against all reason, you found yourself lost in the sight. That was, until, the uncomfortable heat of Bruce's gaze caught you staring.

"Sorry," you coughed out, turning back to stare at the ocean.

Bruce's eyes, however, didn't leave your form.

"Don't apologize," he said. "You're allowed to look."

Whatever air of casualty that you had attempted to display, dissipated as you went still as stone.

Bruce Wayne always knew how to surprise you. Sure, the relationship that the two of you had always bordered on flirtatious and other members had gone as far to comment on Batman's suspiciously indulgent nature when it came to you, but Bruce had yet to ever cross the boundary so boldly. To some extent, you assumed you had imagined the longing stares and rare laughs shared because he had never given you more.

But now, there was no doubt. Bruce made decisions, not accidental inferences. He decided that you were allowed to look; and you knew him well enough to understand what that really meant: he was allowing himself to be yours.

A part of you felt ridiculous at the way you unconsciously batted your eyelashes as you smiled up at him, but who could blame you? The big, bad Batman, called 'spooky' by some of the same men who made intergalactic threats shake in their boots, was flirting with you.

Taking a page from his own playfulness, you feigned nonchalance.

"Thanks, Matches," you said. "But my heart belongs to someone else."

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

"Yeah?" He asked.

The last glimmers of sunlight were reflected in his eyes as he stared down at you.

"Yeah."

Bruce nodded, a smirk grazing his lips as he stared back at the ocean.

"He's a lucky man, then."

You took only a moment to consider your response.

"Bruce?" You asked.

"Yes?"

You realised then that during the time you had spoken, your bodies had gravitated towards each other. As he turned his attention back towards you, away from the sea, his nose brushed against your own.

You cleared your throat, feeling his warm breath against your lips.

"Just kiss me."

A part of you had expected him to reach over like a man starved, but you should have known Bruce better than that. The hand that had been supporting his weight, trailed up your arm— leaving goosebumps in its wake— until he reached your cheek. His thumb laid against your chin, teasing the edges of your lip before he tilted your face upwards and met your mouth with his.

Bruce Wayne smelt like cologne more expensive than your car and kissed like a man who didn't worship at an altar, but at the feet of the woman he loved. For all his tenderness, Bruce was quick to deepen the kiss, slipping his free hand around you until his palm rested against your back, pulling you towards him. The movement made you gasp and he swallowed the breath eagerly.

It was moments until your hands had found the way to his hair, tugging at its ends as Bruce's tongue massaged yours in a way that was heinous for a man who looked, and frankly was, so good. It was only mere seconds later, that his hands had gravitated from your waist to your thighs, pulling you into his lap.

At the same time, across the beach and desperate for a moment to catch his breath, Clark stumbled onto the sand. Unfortunately for Clark, that breath was not caught when instead of a rejuvenating conversation with his friend, he was met with the sight of Bruce palming your breast beneath your shirt as you left sucked on the tender skin of his neck.

Red in the face and covering his eyes like a repentant child, Clark turned back towards the pool party, but not without shooting his friend a hesitant thumbs up.

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

CLARK KENT

"Really, Clark," you assured him. "I can carry my own stuff. It's no big deal."

Despite the fact that you were both guests on the island, Clark had been nothing but a thoughtful host.

The moment that your jet landed, Clark had been waiting on the tarmac to greet you. He held the keys to a borrowed SUV in his hands and had pulled your luggage from the cargo hold before you even had a chance to ask for help. Even the drive to the house had honestly been too short for your liking. The windows had been rolled down— only after Clark had asked, of course— and what had seemed to be a playlist of your favourite songs were ringing out over the radio.

Not to mention that there were moments you turned to look at Clark, only to be met with his soft, blue eyes already on yours. You couldn't help but smile, then, at the blush that coated his cheeks as he bashfully turned his attention back to the road.

Now at the house you'd both be staying at the next few days, Clark had yet again took it upon himself to carry your luggage: an ever dutiful knight in a linen button-down.

"Don't be silly!" Clark argued, "I'm happy to help."

And with the bright smile he flashed you, you had a difficult time denying him.

Later that afternoon as the backyard— if you could even call four acres of land that— came alive with the arrival of more guests, the party was officially in full swing. The chlorinated water of the pool thrashed with the playfulness of its inhabitants and the thrum of the speakers reverberated through the tiled floors surrounding it. In the corner just beyond the patio of the house, Clark stood at the grill, using his laser vision to cook burgers to perfection.

"And to think we were wasting your powers on saving cities," you joked.

Clark smiled at the sound of your voice; although when he turned to meet your eyes, he froze.

Between now and the last time he saw you, you had changed into your swimsuit— a one piece that managed to accentuate all your best features while leaving just enough to the imagination. You had been friends, you had always been friends, but he rarely saw you out of uniform. To lay his eyes on you dressed so casually felt like a gift. Like you had crossed the borders of formality into familiarity in a way that made his cheeks burn.

"Are you going into the pool?" He asked.

With a spare glance at the pool, you shrugged.

"I don't know," you said. "I was thinking some place quieter."

Clark let out a strangled cough.

"Quieter. I like quieter." He agreed before waving down a nearby member to take control of the grill. "Lead the way."

The hot tub had been tucked away from the noise party. Ever the gentleman, Clark was the first to step inside, but was quick to hold out his hand for yours to steady your own descent into the water.

He stripped himself of his shirt, folding it neatly against the railing like a boy-raised-right, but it grew more and more difficult to focus on his manners as he turned around. People often commented that Superman was the most muscular man in the world, and although that may have been true to a certain extent, they had failed to realize how soft their man of steel really was. You couldn't help but admire the view— the small bit of tummy over his swimshorts, a stretch of curly hair over his chest, the way his arms flexed to make them look even larger than when he had held up an entire building.

You were oggling. And as much as Clark would never admit it, ever the polite man his mother raised him to be, he knew. He could hear the way your heart rate accelerated as your eyes raked over him, and honestly? He loved it.

"I like the quiet," Clark said, sliding onto the tub's bench beside you. "It reminds me of home."

"Only you could be on a billionaire's private island and be thinking of Smallville," you joked. "I'd love to see it someday."

"Ma would love that."

He hadn't considered the implication of what he said until the words had already tumbled from his lips.

"Why's that?" You asked.

Clark weighed his options. He could fib. He could tell you that his mother was just happy to host or a fan of his team members. However, as he looked back at you— at the way that you stared up at him with nothing but fondness and a warmth that seeped into the limited space between you— he decided that he didn't have to. You would accept Clark as he is.

"Well, she asks about you a lot," he replied. "She uh… she thinks you're my girlfriend."

If he thought your heart rate was fast before, it now rivaled a speedster's.

"Why?"

Clark considered the pep talk he had received from a particular playboy earlier in the day, and despite all alarms warning him that it was too forward… unwanted… he stretched his arm along the length of the hot tub's rim to brush your hand.

"Because I talk about you a lot," he said. You felt your heart skip a beat, knowing the strongest man on earth spent his phone calls with his mother talking about you of all things. "About how smart you are… and funny. How you're brave and kind… and beautiful."

Clark shyly stared off to where his hand met yours.

"You think I'm beautiful?"

Clark nodded. "You are beautiful."

You weren't sure if it was because of Clark's own bashful demeanor or because he had just confessed in his own way how he felt about you, but a surge of confidence ran through you. You slipped your hand out from underneath his and squeezed it fully. Your free hand that had until this moment been gripping your thigh to ground you, reached out to hold his stubbled cheek.

His blue eyes, pupils blown, met yours and you smiled.

"Why don't we get out of here and have our first date?" You asked.

You watched as Clark's brain slowly registered what you had just said. A slew of mismatched syllables flew out of his mouth as he stumbled over his words. Once he composed himself with a cough, the cheesiest smile you had ever seen spread across his cheeks.

"I thought you'd never ask."

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

warnings: angst, smut, profanity, pet names (only sweetheart & baby), mutual pining of sorts, enemies to lovers (kinda), jealous!Bucky, possessive!Bucky, one bed trope, teasing, masturbation (male & female), brief thigh riding, dry humping, nausea/vomiting (not graphically described and not a major part of the story, apologies to my emetophobic girlies), oral sex (female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, MINORS DNI, 18+.

word count: 43.2k

a/n: Thanks again to @littlemiss-yeehaw for reading all of my shit and listening to my unhinged ramblings when I write, and for her amazing artwork. Thanks to @flowersforbucky for also reading my shit and for taking the time to tell me that it isn't as shitty as I think. Without them, this fic would be unreachable in the depths of my laptop's trash bin. Pics included in the title image for this fic are not representative of reader, location, etc.

            Insufferable. Is that really the right word? Can someone be insufferable when all they do is mope around in silence, giving you looks of disdain? Maybe insufferable is a word better suited to describe someone who says more than five words at a time. And yet, you still feel that Bucky Barnes is insufferable.

            Raindrops patter rhythmically against the roof of the car, making the all-too-quiet stakeout a little more bearable. You shift in the passenger seat, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment as you press your head against the leather headrest behind you. You’ve been sitting here for two hours. That’s two hours of listening to nothing more than the sound of your own breathing, Bucky’s occasional annoyed sighs, and the shitty audio feed of the abandoned storefront just up the street. You’re contemplating giving in and taking a nap when you hear the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires somewhere outside of your parked car, and your eyes shoot open. You catch a glimpse of the flashing yellow lights of a security vehicle in the rearview mirror and Bucky groans, quickly powering down the surveillance equipment and dropping it down to the floor at his feet.

            “Just what we needed.” Bucky says sarcastically, with frustration edging his tone as the security guard pulls in closer and closer. He’s about twenty meters behind the car now, moving slowly. You’re sure he’s taking down the make and model of the car, the license plate, and noting the fact that it’s currently turned off. It looks suspicious as hell, you have no doubt. Your mind is moving a million miles a minute as you start shrugging your jacket off of your shoulders and mussing up your hair. “What are you doing?” Bucky asks, raising a brow in your direction.

            “Getting us out of this.” You mumble, glancing back in the rearview mirror one last time. You see the security vehicle coming to a stop a few meters behind, so you move a little quicker. You’re climbing over the center console in a flash, placing your knees on either side of Bucky’s hips as you come to straddle his lap. You hover over him, with your ass pressing against the steering wheel so hard that it’s a wonder you aren’t honking the horn. “Move your seat back.” You whisper harshly, gripping his shoulders with both hands as you stare down at him. Bucky swallows hard and narrows his eyes at you as if he wants to throw you right back into your own seat, but he reaches down with his vibranium hand and starts sliding the driver’s seat backward.

            Bucky can’t stand you. As you lower yourself down to sit on his lap, he keeps his hands stiff, with one resting along the driver’s side door and the other resting over the center console. His hands curl into fists when you lean in and press your lips against his neck. It’s soft and hesitant at first, as if you’re not really sure that it’s an acceptable thing to do. Bucky’s chin tilts upward and to the side instinctively, giving you more access and a clear go-ahead that has your second kiss coming in a little more desperate and firm against the column of his throat. Bucky tenses beneath you but the barely audible groan that slips past his lips has you wondering if he hates this as much as he’s trying to portray. You glance over his shoulder and see the security guard approaching the car now, his eyes scanning the rear windshield as he speaks lowly into a handheld radio.

            “Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t put your hands on me and make this believable…” Your threatening tone has a roguish smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s mouth, but he refuses to let it take full form. His hands move quickly now, grabbing onto your hips and tugging them downward. He realizes as he basically grinds your clothed center over the semi-hard front of his jeans that he probably shouldn’t have done that. When you feel his partial erection pressing against you, you falter for a moment, your lips stilling against his neck and your breath hitching in your throat. “And here I thought you couldn’t stand me.” You whisper against his skin.

            “I can’t.” He responds dryly, sliding his hands up the sides of your waist and letting his fingers splay out over your ribs.

            “Are you sure about that?” You ask teasingly, swirling your hips in a circle as you press down on his lap. He grunts and lets his right hand glide up your back, moving higher and higher until it’s tangled in the hair at the crown of your head.

            “Pretty damn sure.” Bucky rasps as he uses his hold on your hair to tug your head back. He takes the opportunity he’s given himself to attach his lips to your neck, sucking a nice little red mark right below your ear before smoothing over it with his tongue. The whimper that leaves your lips at the feel of his tongue against your skin is enough to turn his semi-hard cock into a raging hard-on. The bright ray of a flashlight shining through the driver’s window catches your attention, and you feign surprise as the security guard taps on the window with his knuckles one, two, three times. Bucky’s letting go of your waist and hair and pushing the door open as a sly chuckle climbs up his throat.

            “I told her we shouldn’t do this here.” Bucky says smugly, shaking his head as you place your hands on his chest and lean back, glaring down at him. “I can’t keep her off of me.”

            “Could you uh, dismount? Ma’am?” The officer requests. You turn your head and take in the short, balding man. Blush colors his cheeks a deep shade of red and you wonder if this is the most action he’s seen all year. Moving off of Bucky’s lap, you come to stand just outside of the car, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool night air hits you. You regret taking your jacket off earlier.

            “I’m so sorry.” You say ashamedly, hoping you look as faux-embarrassed as you’ve made your voice sound. The man offers you a shy smile, his eyes wrinkling around the corners as Bucky climbs out of the car next. You smirk at the way Bucky tugs his jeans down and adjusts himself, trying his best to disguise the tent beneath the fabric. He glances in your direction, his eyes briefly flitting down to where your arms are crossed over your chest, before shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it to you. You’re still for a moment, until you realize that it would probably look questionable if you refused the kind gesture in front of the security guard, so you drape the jacket over shoulders and wrap it around your upper body. Your little act was so believable that Bucky only has to spend about one minute chatting back and forth with the security guard before he lets you both off with a warning. He didn’t even ask to see your IDs. Bucky’s pretty good at bullshitting, you’ll give him that.

            Infuriating. As Bucky stands beneath the steady stream of hot water, letting it soak his hair and drip over the curves of his shoulders, it’s the only word on his mind. You’re fucking infuriating. How he continues to end up on missions with you is beyond him. He never thought he would miss the days of having Sam as his partner, but god, he misses them. He might even take Walker on as a partner if it means getting the hell away from you. Actually, he’d rather put up with you than with Walker. But anyone else? He’d happily work with anyone else out in the field.

             Bucky’s just beginning to rinse the shampoo out of his hair when the sound of his bedroom door flying open registers in his mind. He freezes, both hands hovering at the sides of his head as you angrily rush through his room. The bathroom door is thrown open next, and he feels a whoosh of cold air floating over the top of his glass shower door.

            “A hickey?” Your voice is laced with malice. The fiery rage inside of you is stoked by the sound of Bucky laughing behind the fogged-up glass. “Are you sixteen?”

            “You made a pretty little sound when I gave it to you.” He points out, continuing to work the shampoo into his brown locks.

            “I was playing the part.” You argue. You take a moment to glance around his bathroom, noting the way it looks exactly like yours except it’s devoid of any personality. He has dark gray rugs on the floor, a matching dark gray towel hanging over the shower door, and even a dark gray toothbrush sitting in a little white cup beside the sink. Is he allergic to every other color?

            “The security guard couldn’t hear anything inside the car, you don’t have to lie to me. You liked it.” Bucky says coolly. He rinses the suds out of his hair and even with his eyes closed, he’s sure you’re standing there with your arms crossed. It’s your signature pose in his presence.

            “I have shit to do tomorrow, Barnes. Now I have to worry about covering this up.” You complain. You snatch his towel off of the shower door and use it to wipe at the fogged-up mirror over the sink. You’re studying the sizable red mark below your ear in the reflection when Bucky turns off the running water.

            “You have three seconds to put my towel back before I walk out of here without it.” His voice is low and threatening now. You roll your eyes before tossing the towel back up and over the shower door, he grabs it immediately. When he steps out a moment later, he has the towel wrapped firmly around his waist. As he steps into the view of the mirror, your eyes roam over his wet, toned body in the reflection. Your gaze follows a few drops of water as they drip from his hair and trail down the side of his neck. You stand still in front of the mirror, unmoving as Bucky meets your gaze and narrows his eyes, taking a few steps forward to close the space between you. He comes to a stop with his bare chest nearly brushing against your clothed back, and then he moves his hands to grip the edge of the countertop on either side of your hips. Leaning forward the tiniest bit, his lips graze the shell of your ear and every single muscle in your body tenses up. “Why cover it? You don’t want people to know that you like being marked up?”

            “I can’t stand you.” You spit coldly, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him in the reflection. Bucky chuckles lowly before letting go of the edge of the countertop and turning away from you, leaving you alone in his steamy bathroom.

            “I can’t stand you either.” He calls back to you.

            When you stomp through his bedroom a moment later, he watches out of the corner of his eye as you disappear out into the hall and let his door fall shut behind you. He knows that on some level, you’re both liars. There are so many things that you can’t stand about each other, and yet, there’s an undeniable force that seems to keep you both coming back. You could simply stay away from each other when you’re in the tower. You live across the hall from each other but the place is so damn big that you could easily avoid each other anytime you’re not working together in the field. He’s sure that somewhere beneath the haze of false hatred and tension, you can feel that incessant pull just as much as he can. That’s why he can’t stand you. That’s precisely the reason why he finds you so infuriating. Because you act like you can’t feel it.

            The Howling Commandos files have taken up nearly every waking second of your time for the past three days. You’ve read every word, combed through every grainy black and white picture, and taken enough notes to fill nearly twenty pages of the little notebook that currently sits open in front of you. And yet, you haven’t been able to formulate a solid plan. That’s why the conference room is packed full of people with varying skillsets and thought processes. Fury sits at the head of the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he twirls a black pen in his right. Sam sits to his left, staring down at the same files you’ve studied for hours. Beside him is Sharon, who looks equal parts bored and entirely over the situation at hand. Knowing the things that she’s been up to lately, she probably has more important places to be right now. A few people are littered around the room, leaning against walls and quietly conversing with each other as they try to come up with the best course of action to solve the present issue. You’re seated at the far end of the table, opposite of Fury, tracing the lines of your left palm with your right thumb.

            Bucky stands near the door, with his back pressed against the smooth wall and his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t labeled a mandatory meeting. Hell, even with it being labeled mandatory, he considered skipping it. He doesn’t particularly enjoy watching everyone read up on his past life, even if it was the era that he considers his glory days. Being a part of the Howling Commandos was one of the few good things he ever did, but letting himself think about that time only leads him down a darker path. He thinks about how each Howling Commandos mission that he was a part of brought him closer and closer to getting captured, to losing his arm, to losing himself. Shaking his head, Bucky pushes away from the wall and stands straight, he wonders if anyone will notice him slipping out the door.

            “I don’t like time travel.” Fury says evenly, keeping his eyes on the pen in his hand as he twirls it around just above the surface of the conference room table. Bucky freezes, his eyes narrowing as he looks to Fury. Everyone in the room halts, all eyes moving in the same direction to follow the commanding voice. “I don’t like time travel at all. It’s risky and it tends to fuck things up in the long run.” Fury takes a moment to cast his eyes around the room, taking in each and every person present. After making the first round, he turns his head to the right and focuses on Bucky. “Unfortunately, I think this situation calls for something risky.”

            Goosebumps spread over the surface of your skin and you tense in your seat. You follow Fury’s gaze and your eyes land on Bucky, who stands tall beside the door. His arms hang still at his sides, and for once, his vibranium arm isn’t hidden behind a long shirt sleeve or leather jacket. The black and gold glints in the fluorescent lighting of the room, drawing attention like a bright red flower draws bees.

            “The intel that we need from a currently non-existent HYDRA base doesn’t exist. The Howling Commandos weren’t tasked with collecting evidence or documenting what they found at each base.” Fury continues. Bucky swallows hard but maintains eye contact. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “So, we send someone back in time to get what we need.”

            As tension rises in the room and the air begins to feel like its crackling with anticipation, Fury lays out the only two potential plans he can think of. The first plan is automatically a no, because of how risky it is to send a full team back in time. The first plan would’ve been to send someone back in time to infiltrate a specific HYDRA base moments before the Howling Commandos take it out, so the intel can be gathered and brought back to the present. But the second plan is the one that has discussion raging around the conference room.

            “Steve wouldn’t trust someone he’s just met, we’d need to get through to Peggy first, then she can sway him and the rest of the Howling Commandos.” Sharon argues, leaning forward and clasping her hands together over the table. Your eyes flit over to her as her blonde hair falls over one shoulder and obscures the side of her face. She’s right, 1940s Steve Rogers wouldn’t even come close to trusting a new person in the midst of a war, let alone one who’s so obviously from the wrong time period. You see Sam laughing to himself further down the table and you’re sure he’s remembering the story Steve used to tell of his past self attempting to kick his present self’s ass during his time travel stint.

            “Peggy wouldn’t be wholly trusting either.” Fury points out, barely looking up from the surface of the table before him. “We need to get Peggy and at least one of the Howling Commandos on our side for this to work. The rest will follow.”

            “What if we go at this from a slightly different angle?” Torres asks. He stands a few feet behind your seat, leaning against the wall as his thumbs rapid-fire away at the phone in clutched in his hands. Everyone turns their attention to him and he finally looks up, blinking once before clicking the phone off and sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans.

            “We’re listening.” Fury says, his interest clearly piqued.

            “We pick someone that Peggy could relate to, someone she would like, maybe become fast friends with.” He starts slowly, letting his gaze roam over each person in the room as he speaks. His eyes stop when he reaches Bucky, and you don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that Bucky’s staring right back at him. “And that same person needs to be someone Bucky would like, someone he’d be drawn to. Steve would trust Bucky’s judgement, and at least by choosing to make Bucky the center of this, we have the advantage of having him right here.”

            It’s silent for a beat as the idea is mulled over. You turn around and look back to Fury, watching as his face shifts from a blank, almost bored expression to a thoughtful one. He nods slowly before tucking the pen he’s been twirling around into the pocket of his jacket.

            “Sergeant Barnes…” Fury’s eyes shift to his right, landing on the stiff super soldier who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now. “Does that sound like a feasible plan?” It feels as though everyone is collectively holding in a breath as Bucky remains silent. You can tell he’s thinking, you can almost see the gears turning behind his blue eyes as he zeroes in on Fury. A small nod from him is all it takes to get the conversation churning around the room again. He's in.

            “I can be in and out and have this whole thing finished within just a few seconds of passing time here, I need maybe two days in the past.” Sharon says calmly, leaning back in her seat as she tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind one ear. You really don’t even know why the discussion is still ongoing at this point. Out of everyone left in the conference room, the majority is most definitely in favor of sending Sharon back in time for the mission. It’s not like there were many other options. You didn’t exactly volunteer yourself and as of right now, you and Sharon are the only women on the team. Sure, Fury could’ve shopped around the agency a bit and found a few other suitable agents to screen for the task at hand, but Sharon seems pretty set on handling it herself.

            “Okay, say you gain Peggy’s trust easily. What about Bucky? What’s your plan for getting him on your side?” Sam asks with a raised brow. The room grows quiet and all eyes land on Sharon as she filters through the possible methods she could use. Your eyes flit over to where Bucky is still leaning against the wall by the door, looking slightly less disinterested in the conversation than he was earlier. He’s studying Sharon with an unreadable expression painted on his face. Instinctively, your hand lifts up to the healing hickey that’s hidden beneath a layer of concealer and foundation right below your ear. For the briefest moment, he turns his head and tracks your movement, his eyes roaming down to the tips of your fingers as they brush over the skin of your neck. You drop your hand in an instant and his blue eyes meet yours. You can feel the arrogance radiating off of him and you roll your eyes before looking back to Sharon. You swear you hear Bucky chuckle under his breath, but when you glance around the room, no one else seems to have heard a thing.

            “I just put on a pretty outfit and dance with him. It can’t be that hard to woo a soldier in his bachelor phase.” Sharon laughs out. A few softer laughs ring out around the table, but Torres’s next question quiets everyone.

            “Bucky, what kind of girl would you have asked to dance back in the forties?”

            You think it must be Bucky’s lack of an immediate response that sucks the air out of the room. It’s so quiet you can hear the sound of your own heart beating in your ears, even though it’s beating at a normal rate and rhythm. You steal a look at Bucky once again, who’s face is cast downward at the floor. He seems to find his shoes overly interesting all of a sudden. Everyone’s staring at him.

            Bucky’s mind is churning, running through all of the girls he ever shared a moment with back in his golden days. He has a type in more ways than one. It’s not just a physical type. He’s always been drawn to women with certain personality traits, women with certain ways of carrying themselves, certain ways they flirt. One wouldn’t think he was picky with the number of girls he found himself in the company of back in the day, but he damn sure was. And he still is. That’s why his heart beats a little harder, vibrating against his ribcage as he lets out a deep breath and finally looks up. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but he focuses in on the one person that he’s sure his younger self will trust. Bucky’s staring right at you.

            “It needs to be you.” He says firmly, fixing his gaze on your face as the color drains from it. If the air hadn’t been sucked out of the room when Torres first asked a question, it sure as hell would’ve been now. Your breath is hitched in your throat and the skin over your hidden hickey suddenly feels like it’s on fire. No, scratch that. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. Color returns to your cheeks as quickly as it first disappeared, and suddenly, you’re flushed pink.

            “Me?” The word leaves your lips as an unintended whisper, but you can’t be bothered to clear your throat and try again. You know he heard you. He nods slightly, looking quite sure of himself, but his expression is still unreadable and it’s driving you mad.

            “Her?” Sharon questions, narrowing her eyes at you and pursing her lips. She’s looking at you in disbelief, but not because it’s questionable that you’d be someone’s type. She’s looking at you like that because she knows, like everyone knows, that you and Bucky are at each other’s throats more often than not. Why would that be any different with a younger version of himself? The last thing the team needs is you getting sent back in time to argue with yet another version of Bucky Barnes.

            “Her.” Bucky shrugs, shooting Sharon a look that easily shuts her up. She leans back in her seat once more and crosses her arms over her chest, indicating that she doesn’t like where this is going.

            “Are you sure?” Sam asks with a raised brow, his eyes flitting between you and Bucky. Bucky pushes himself away from the wall and turns to face the door that leads out into the hall. As his flesh hand wraps around the door handle, he finds himself biting down on the inside of his cheek. He’s sure that his younger self will be drawn to you, that he’ll trust you, yeah. Is he sure that this is a good idea? Hell no.

            “It’s her.” Bucky confirms. Then, he walks out of the conference room as if he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb in the middle of the goddamn gunmetal table. What the hell does he mean it’s you?

            Your silence is unsettling. Bucky thought you might come storming into the gym during his evening workout, ready to give him a violently worded piece of your mind after he left the conference room earlier, but you never did. Then, while a mix of sweat and suds spilled down the drain of his shower, he listened intently for the sound of his bedroom door flying open, but it never came. He sits on the side of his bed in the dim light of a lamp, thumbing through the little red notebook that once belonged to Steve. He isn’t digesting its contents. Really, he isn’t even skimming over the words that are written in pencil before him. He’s zoned out as he strains his ears to listen for you across the hall. He knows you’re in your room. It’s late, just a bit past midnight now, and you’re always tucked away in there by ten. But you’re not asleep, that’s for damn certain. He can hear the occasional sound of your footsteps against the soft rug you have spread over your bedroom floor. Every few minutes, he hears an uncharacteristic scuffling sound, following by a thud. What the hell are you doing over there?

            He waits a moment longer before his curiosity and impatience get the best of him, and then he’s tossing the notebook onto his bed and taking long strides toward the hall. If you won’t come to him to argue about today’s conference room situation, about what’s now lingering on the horizon, then he’ll go to you. Arguing about it will be far better than sitting around while you do whatever the hell sort of noisy thing it is you’re doing over there right now, Bucky thinks.

            In retrospect, he should’ve knocked. By the time he’s throwing your unlocked door open and taking the first step into your room, he’s already sporting a half-hard cock beneath the all-too-thin fabric of his sweats and boxers. The dog tags hanging against his bare chest give away the increased rate of his breaths as his eyes skate over you. You’re on your hands and knees in the center of the room, with your cheeks flushed pink and your oversized t-shirt making it look like you’re not wearing anything else. As you stare up at Bucky, both of you frozen in place, you’re acutely aware of the compromising position he’s found you in. You sit back on your knees quickly, dropping the last few stray rings into the small jewelry tray in your left hand.

            “What the hell, Bucky?” You look up at him with a mix of confusion and annoyance in your eyes as the rings clink against the ceramic tray. Bucky swallows hard as he stares down at you, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing in the middle of the floor. His gaze lands on one single golden ring glinting in the low light of your room and your eyes follow his.

            “You missed one.” He says lowly. You reach out and pick it up with your thumb and index finger before setting it on the small tray along with the rest. “What are you doing?”

            “Rearranging.” You respond dryly. You stand carefully, making sure not to dump all of your rings out a second time, before crossing the room and setting the tray on your recently moved vanity. Bucky’s only been in your room once or twice before, but he notices the changes immediately. You’ve moved your vanity from the right side of the room to the left. The chair you used to have sitting near the window now sits in a corner near the bed. A few other small pieces of furniture are strewn about haphazardly, as if you haven’t quite decided where you want them yet.

            “At midnight?” Bucky raises a brow, catching your eyes as you turn to face him once more.

            “What are you doing in my room, Bucky?” In his peripheral vision, he sees the slight reflection of light in one last piece of jewelry on the floor. It’s just a foot in front of him, so he steps further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he bends down and scoops the rose gold ring up in his palm.

            “You haven’t said anything since the team meeting earlier today.” He points out. He studies the small ring in his hand, realizing for the first time just how much smaller your hands are than his. You don’t make a move to take it from him, so he continues fiddling with it as he stands in the middle of your room.

            “You walked out.” You remind him. You turn your back to him and begin straightening up a few things on your vanity. It’s weird to have him in your room like this. Your skin feels warm while the air in the room feels cold. Your oversized t-shirt feels too small while his presence feels much too large.

            “I didn’t have anything else to say.” Bucky takes a few more steps forward and turns, bending at the knees to sit on the foot of your nicely made bed. You watch him in the reflection of your vanity mirror, wondering why the hell he seems so comfortable in your room.

            “And I should? What do you want me to say?”

            “Anything.” His single-word response makes the air in the room feel even icier, and suddenly, you’re wishing you’d put on sweats tonight. A deep breath rattles in your chest before you turn around to face him.

            “It’s not me.” You say evenly. You cross your arms over your chest and focus on his face as he stares back at you. He’s still fiddling with the ring, running the pad of his thumb back and forth over it mindlessly.

            “It’s you.” He sighs. He almost seems tired with the conversation, which is frustrating considering he’s the one who came in here and started it.

            “It’s not, and having me deal with two of you is a recipe for disaster. I can barely handle one Bucky Barnes in this century. Sharon’s the better choice.”

            “It’s not Sharon.”

            “Bucky—”

            “It’s you. I don’t know what you need me to say or do to convince you, but it’s you. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can start making a plan and preparing for the mission.”

            His words swirl around in your head, bouncing off of the walls of your mind like it’s a fucking pinball machine. It’s not you. You’re pretty damn sure that what 1940s Bucky Barnes needs is anything but you. Maybe Bucky’s so far removed from his younger self that he just doesn’t realize how wrong you are for this mission. He’s gotten too used to working with you in the field lately and he doesn’t want to figure things out in the field with a new partner. Whatever his reasoning is, you need him to figure his shit out before you’re sent back in time to fuck up the op.

            “You can’t convince me.” You reply stubbornly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Sharon is right for this mission and everyone sees that but you.” When he glances up at you this time, his eyes settle on the light pink mark beneath your ear. His mark.

            “You’re my type.” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and he’s gripping the ring tightly in his flesh fist.

            “What?”

            “I’m not saying it again.” He decides, pushing himself up to stand. You’re frozen in stunned silence, your eyes wide. You’re sure you’re about to watch him walk out the door after dropping his second bomb of the day, but he turns to face you. He’s moving forward before you have a chance to do or say a damn thing. Bucky doesn’t stop until your arms are dropping down to your sides and his hands are resting on your hips. He walks you backward one, two steps, until your ass hits the edge of the vanity and a gasp parts your lips.

“There was this bar in London, the Whip and Fiddle. I went there with Steve and the guys a few times.” Bucky starts. His tone is low and gravelly and his lips are so close to yours that they nearly touch with every word he speaks. He’s looking down into your eyes with an intense look, a look that keeps you firmly in place, along with his hold on your hips and his muscular frame pressed partially against your front. A shiver runs down your spine, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Bucky’s right hand glides upward, following the curve of your body until his fingertips are ghosting over the side of your neck. He presses his thumb against your healing hickey lightly, feeling you tense against him at the touch. “If younger me saw you walk into that bar, even with all of the noise and the low lights, he’d fucking swoon. It would all be over. The chasing girls around, only ever learning first names and hometowns, the bachelor shit. It would be over. He’d follow you anywhere.”

“Bucky—”

            “It’s you. Not Sharon, not anyone else damn it, it’s you.” His vibranium hand tightens over your hip and his right hand slides further back behind your head. His fingers tangle in your hair but it’s a gentle, careful act. You tilt your head up and take in his serious expression. His brows are furrowed and his gaze heats your face as he stares down at you. He isn’t fucking with you. He isn’t trying to get in your head or manipulate you into being a part of this mission. He means every word of what he’s saying right now and it scares the shit out of you. You move quick, drawing your arms up between the two of you and pressing your palms flat against his bare chest. You shove him back hard, forcing him to take one big step away from you. He doesn’t look surprised at all, and his expression never shifts, the seriousness never leaves his face.

            “You can’t stand me.” You remind him, though the words feel empty as you say them. You’re questioning the notion, as if he hasn’t said those words himself a hundred times before.

            “I can’t.” He agrees, nodding slowly. You take a deep, shaky breath in and let it out through your teeth. “But for some reason, it’s still you.”

            You stand still, with the edge of the vanity still digging into your ass and your chest heaving as Bucky turns his back to you and heads for the foot of your bed. You watch through narrowed eyes as he leans over and scoops up the ring he left sitting there. He straightens up and looks down at the small shiny object held precariously between his thumb and forefinger.

            “Do you know how to dance?” The question rolls off of his tongue so casually that for a moment, you wonder if anything that just happened really happened. Did he not have you pushed up against the vanity only seconds ago? Was he not touching you and leaning in close like you meant something to him after months of acting like you’re nothing more than his shit-giving coworker?

            “What?” You nearly choke on the word. Your throat is so dry after seemingly forgetting to swallow at all in his presence.

            “Do you know how to dance?” He repeats, craning his neck to the side to look at you.

            “What the hell does—”

            “He’s going to ask you to dance, and you’ll have to say yes.” Bucky says matter-of-factly. You find it a little odd that he refers to his younger self as if he’s someone else, but you don’t comment on it. “I can teach you.”

            “Fine.” Bucky freezes at your quick and unexpected caving. He raises an eyebrow at you, still fiddling with the ring between his fingers. “Help me move my dresser.” Your eyes dart over to the large piece of furniture across the room and Bucky’s gaze follows. He looks at it for a second as the realization dawns that you’re really asking for manual labor in exchange for agreeing to go back in time for this mission. The fact that you’re going to do it, that you’re going to be the one who does this with him, leaves an unfamiliar calmness settling inside of him and he lets out a deep breath.

            The sounds of furniture scuffling around the room and soft thuds carry on for the next half hour as Bucky uses the serum in his veins to set your room up just how you want it. When everything is finished and you seem satisfied, he walks over to your vanity and drops the last ring into the ceramic tray. Your eyes rake over his bare back, taking in the way there isn’t even the slightest sheen of sweat present on his smooth skin. You should’ve asked him to move your furniture two hours ago when you first started doing it yourself. If you’d known it was so damn easy for him, you might’ve even said please.

            “You should probably lock your door at night.” Bucky says as he heads toward it. He wraps his hand around the door handle and you watch as the muscles of his flesh arm ripple slightly.

            “Why? Are you going to keep barging in?”

            “You’ve done that a lot more than I have.” He points out, tugging the door open to reveal the darkened hallway beyond.

            “So, start locking yours then.” You retort. He can hear you rolling your eyes. A small smile plays on his lips as he steps out into the hall and runs a hand through his messy hair, keeping his back to you.

            “My door’s always open for you, sweetheart.”

            “Fuck you, Barnes.” You say coldly, just as the door clicks shut between the two of you.

            You can’t stand him.

            Sam doesn’t let things go easily. Sure, if he was really pushing Bucky’s buttons, he might back off a bit, but he hasn’t gone too far yet. Yet.

            “I just want to know how you can go from barely getting along with the woman to demanding that she’s the one for your little forties self.” Sam says through a smirk. He falls into step next to Bucky as the two of them jog through the heavily wooded trails behind the tower.

            “If you’re going to keep talking about this, you can finish the run alone.” Bucky threatens, shooting Sam a deathly sideways glare.

            “I’ve been telling you for months that there was something between the two of you, and you shot it down every time. I don’t get to gloat now?”

            “There’s nothing to gloat about. There isn’t anything between us besides this mission. You’re reading too far into shit, Sam.”

            “That super soldier serum didn’t teach you how to be a convincing liar, huh?”

            “I’ll see you back at the tower.” Bucky says flatly, immediately picking up his pace to an ungodly speed and leaving Sam behind in literal dust.

            Bucky’s ears are filled with the sounds of his feet pounding against the dry dirt path below and his own steady, even breaths as he speeds along the trail. The mission is the only thing between you, he tells himself. There isn’t anything else. As much as he wants there to be, as much as he feels something there, you fight against the tension like it suffocates you. You fight against it tooth and nail, pushing Bucky away every time you think he might be getting a little closer to you. Is it just him? If it was someone else running dangerous ops with you, saving your ass regularly, and sitting through stake-outs with you late at night, would you push them away just as hard? Or is it just because that guy is Bucky?

            Thunder rumbles in the distance, tearing Bucky away from his troubling train of thought momentarily. He glances up through the crowded tree branches and catches sight of the gray sky above. He can smell rain in the air, so he picks up the pace a little more, intent on beating it.

            He can still feel the curve of your hip against his vibranium hand and the way every muscle in your body tensed up when he pressed his thumb against the mark on your neck last night. Fuck. Bucky feels beads of sweat forming around his hairline, and it’s not from the hellish pace he’s bent on keeping. His mind falls even further back to that last stakeout. The memory of you moving over the center console of the car and seating yourself on his lap so effortlessly plays out in front of him like a movie. He doesn’t even realize how fast he’s running until the tower comes into view a whole lot sooner than he expected it to. With sweat dripping down the back of his neck, he tugs his shirt off and scans his palm at the back entrance to the gym.

            He can feel the weight of your body settling over him, feel your thighs pressing against either of his hips as you straddle his lap. Bucky bites down on his bottom lip as he tugs the door open and glances over his shoulder for any sign of Sam. He lets the door fall closed behind him when he realizes that he’s probably still a couple of miles back in the woods. Lifting the t-shirt that’s hanging from his right hand, Bucky uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Fuck you. Fuck you for acting like you’re oblivious to whatever the hell has been brewing between the two of you for months now. It’s right in front of your face and yet you act like you can’t see a damn thing, like you don’t feel a damn thing. Fuck you for giving Bucky just enough of you to fantasize about but not enough to feel satisfied. He heads straight for the locker room, shoving the door open hard as he uses one hand to untie the drawstring of his shorts.

            He won’t let himself do what he needs to do. He comes to stand in front of the mirror, placing his hands on the edge of the sink as he drops his head and sucks in a deep breath. He won’t do it. Bucky lifts his head a bit, looking his reflection in the eye for a moment before flicking the faucet on and splashing a handful of cold water against his flushed face.

            Fuck. He’s going to do it. He’s rushing for one of the showers within the next second, turning the hot water on just before he shoves his shorts and boxers down. He steps out of them, already mentally chastising himself for what he’s about to do.

            He’s only been in the shower for a minute when heat begins to spread down his spine, sending a warmth over the surface of his skin and pushing him to lean forward. He rests his forehead against the cold tile wall of the shower, telling himself that this is pathetic. His flesh hand works quickly, moving back and forth while staying wrapped tightly around the shaft of his cock. A shaky breath snakes past his lips as his eyes flutter closed and his hips piston forward once, twice, three times. He fucks his hand roughly, letting out a low groan when the pad of his thumb brushes against the sensitive spot on the underside of the head of his cock. He hates that this is what he’s resorted to. Never once has he left himself do this with you on his mind. It feels shameful, even offensive. You’d kick his ass if you ever found out, he’s fucking sure of that. Still, he continues on, working himself up until he’s teetering on the edge of bliss. It’s the memory of you on his lap in that damn care, letting him tug on your hair and tilt your head back so he could suck on your neck, that almost finishes him. His movements grow sloppy and his breaths come out a little more ragged. He replays the sweet little sound you made when he left that hickey on your skin, when he left his mark on you.

            “Shit.” Bucky groans, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter and stroking his cock a little harder. A shudder races through him and he bangs his vibranium fist against the shower wall just as his climax hits. He opens his eyes and watches as ropes of cum paint the tiles. The steamy shower water washes it all away and carries it down the drain within seconds. What a waste.

            You’ve been lying on your stomach in bed ever since you woke up, watching every video you can find that depicts anything remotely close to dancing in the forties. It’s stressing you the hell out. How long do you have to learn this shit? Does Bucky even remember how to do this? You can’t picture him doing something so…lighthearted.

            You roll over onto your back, tossing your phone to the opposite side of the bed before pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes and letting out a frustrated groan. Why the hell did you agree to this? Oh, right. The memory of last night starts playing in your mind on a loop. Bucky barged into your room like he had every right to. He sat on your bed. He pushed you up against the vanity and…and did absolutely nothing. So, why does your heart race merely at the memory? If it was nothing, why did it feel like something? You let out a louder groan and run your hands through your messy hair, tugging at it a little and feeling the slight stretch of your scalp. You’re thinking about pulling the covers over your face and going back to sleep for the rest of the rainy morning, but your train of thought shifts over to the contents of the communal fridge in the kitchen down the hall.

            Bucky’s chosen to avoid you today. If what he did in the shower half an hour ago is any indication of the dangerous territory that he’s put himself in, he knows he needs to pump the brakes now. So, he stands in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the countertop as he sips on a glass of orange juice in near-silence. The sounds of rolling thunder and heavy rain are all he can hear as he tries to ignore the guilt eating away at him. He really fucked his hand simply at the memory of being close to you last night. He’s in way too fucking deep and he needs to get a grip before this mission really starts. Maybe he should’ve just let it be Sharon. She probably could’ve pulled it off. Younger Bucky wasn’t really all that picky if he’d had a few drinks, and Sharon could’ve easily been coached to put on a personality that Bucky would’ve been drawn to. But no, he had to make sure it was you. God, he’s kicking himself for it all now.

            He stiffens when he hears your door open down the hall, fighting against the urge to make a dash for the elevator just to avoid you. He glances at the time displayed over the stovetop. It’s still too early to get ready and rush off for his therapy session, but maybe if he drives really slowly Dr. Raynor won’t have to question why he’s there an hour and a half ahead of time. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh as your footsteps patter down the hall in the distance. He’s being dramatic. He knows that. He had a moment of weakness in the shower this morning and it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts carry him that far and he sure as hell shouldn’t have been in your room doing and saying the things he did and said last night.

            When you appear in the main living area, you’re still wearing that damn oversized t-shirt and distinct lack of pants that you were last night, and Bucky stifles a frustrated groan. His eyes roam over your body so quickly that you don’t even notice the look as you enter the kitchen and give him a small nod. You tug the fridge open and rummage around for a few seconds as your mind races. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, you can feel warmth creeping into your cheeks, coloring them pink. You hate this. Why the hell did he decide to flip a switch this week? You were fine barely getting along, just giving each other shit in the field and then coming home after missions and going your separate ways for the most part. Why did he have to say all of that shit about it being you that his younger self would want?

            Your appetite dissipates more and more with each passing second, until suddenly you’re shutting the fridge and taking a step back. You see Bucky out of the corner of your eye, sipping on an almost empty glass of orange juice as he studies you.

            “You’re manipulative.” You say lowly, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him. He raises a brow at you and takes another sip from his glass, but says nothing in response. “What you did last night wasn’t fair.”

            “Moving your furniture around?” He questions, keeping that one brow raised. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s being facetious and it pisses you off. Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as you look him over. He’s clearly fresh out of the shower with messy, damp hair. He’s dressed in dark gray sweats and a navy blue t-shirt that hugs the muscles of his upper body a little too snugly for your liking.

            You could just respond to his question with a verbal answer, you know that. You could just open your mouth and remind him about what it was that he did last night that you’re referring to as being unfair and manipulative. But your feet carry you forward. You move slowly, giving him a multitude of opportunities to step around you and leave the kitchen unscathed. Bucky remains planted there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the glass in his hand. When you’re only a foot away from him, you reach out with your right hand and take hold of the glass. He watches you carefully, with his head slightly cocked to the side as your grip tightens and his loosens. When he lets you fully take the glass from his hand, you lift it to your lips and swallow the last sip of orange juice. Bucky’s cock twitches beneath the fabric of his sweats as he watches your lips retreat from the exact spot that his once pressed against the glass. He bites down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to dissuade the hardening of his already tired cock.

            “Do you really think I’m talking about you moving my furniture around?” You ask in a whisper, taking one more step forward until your chest is nearly brushing against his. You reach past him with your right arm and set the glass on the countertop behind him, holding your breath as your bottom lip comes within a centimeter of his chin. You keep your head tilted up, watching his eyes as the distance between you diminishes. “I couldn’t possibly be talking about you pushing me up against the vanity and putting your hands on me, right?” His eyes flutter closed and you smirk, feeling satisfied with the effect that you’re clearly having on him. You let both of your hands rest against the edge of the countertop on either side of him and suddenly you’re close enough that when you stop tilting your head upward, the tip of your nose is threatening to brush against the column of his throat.

            “Did that do something for you?” His words come out slightly raspy and it sends an unfamiliar warmth surging low in your stomach. You pull your head back a couple of inches and look up at him through your lashes, tilting your head to the side.

            “Not a damn thing.” You lie. He chuckles darkly and lets out a breath that fans across your face. A smug smile takes over his features and you feel your confidence wavering.

            “Right.” He says absently, as his flesh hand begins to move. You can feel your heart rate doubling as you anticipate his touch, and it infuriates you. Since when does he get this kind of physiological reaction from your body? As his fingertips make light contact with the side of your neck, you inhale sharply and let your eyes fall closed. You want so badly to remain stoic, to look as unbothered as ever as his fingers ghost over the now mostly invisible hickey that he left days ago, but you fail.

            Bucky knows that when he presses his thumb against that spot, just like he did last night, your body will tense up. Even with the alarm bells going off inside his head, with that little voice inside of him screaming for him to run, to do anything but the stupid thing he’s about to do, he can’t help himself. His wraps his vibranium around your waist and presses his cool metal palm against the small of your back before tugging you forward. The moment your chest collides with his, he pushes the pad of his thumb against that spot beneath your ear and revels in the feeling of your body tensing against his. Fuck. He’s in deep, but he wishes he was in so much deeper.

            “Not a damn thing, hm?” He teases, looking down at you as your eyes flutter open.

            “I really can’t stand you.” You retort, but you make no move to get out of his hold. You’re sure that he can feel the dangerously high rate that your heart’s beating at, but still, you stay there against him.

            “I know.” He smirks. He lets his thumb trail down the side of your neck until it reaches your collarbone, and then he moves it right back up to the spot where he first marked you. “But you agreed to be a part of the mission anyway, so you’re stuck with me for now.”

            “I still think it’s a bad idea.” You point out. You’re coming to your senses now, realizing just how compromising of a position you’re both in right now and how beyond stupid and careless this is. What are you thinking? You pull your hands up between your two bodies and place your palms against the soft blue fabric of his shirt, getting ready to push yourself away from him. He knows what you’re about to do so he tightens his vibranium arm around your waist and slides his flesh hand back to tangle in your hair.

            “I didn’t convince you last night?” He asks roughly, narrowing his eyes at you as if he’s slightly annoyed. You shake your head and push lightly against his chest, not putting any real effort behind your movement. He holds you impossibly tighter against his chest before dipping his head down toward your neck.

            “Bucky.” You breathe his name out softly, with no other words coming to your mind.

He’s feral. He’s fucking feral. He’s fighting with every ounce of restraint that he possesses to keep from leaving five more marks on the skin of your neck, just to replace the one that’s now faded from there. It’s as if he didn’t fuck his hand to completion less than an hour ago, because his cock sure seems to have forgotten. He bites down on his bottom lip before nudging the tip of his nose against the column of your throat. God, he wants to fucking taste you.

“You know where to find me if you need more convincing.” He says lowly, nipping at your neck one single time before releasing you from his grip and pushing past you. He needs to get the fuck out of here.

            You spend the rest of Saturday morning in bed, just like you’d planned, though you didn’t get much sleep. You laid there under the covers, lazily scrolling through your phone, until you heard Bucky’s door opening, closing, and then locking right before he headed for the elevator down the hall. With him out of the tower, you finally felt like you could breathe. So, that’s what you did. You laid in bed and breathed. You took a nice, deep breath in as you rolled over onto your back and let your hand snake down beneath the waistband of your panties. You let a long breath out as you ran your fingertips through the wetness that had gathered along your folds. Then, you drew a shaky breath in as you circled your middle and ring fingers over your clit, using your own arousal as lube. You don’t feel good about what you did to yourself the moment Bucky was out of earshot. You don’t feel good about pretending that your hand was really his. You really don’t feel good about his name being on the tip of your tongue as an orgasm shook you to your core. But you feel good about the fact that you didn’t actually say his name out loud. That’s something, right?

            As you put the final finishing touches on your makeup look for the night, you force yourself to push Bucky Barnes far out of reach of your mind. You know that you’ll have to deal with him enough come Monday, when there’s another team meeting about the mission, but for now, you tell yourself that he’s off limits. He’s off limits and you get to spend the night thinking about anyone and anything else. Maybe that’s exactly what you should do. Think about anyone else.

            The bar that Sharon chose for tonight is dimly lit and overly full of patrons. You feel like you touch a minimum of three people every time you try to take a step in any direction, so you settle into a cramped booth with your drink and good company, hoping you can get away with sitting there for at least the next hour while the crowd thins out.

            “You could’ve picked a busier place.” Maria remarks sarcastically, shooting Sharon an annoyed look as they both slide into their seats across from you. You take a long sip of your drink before setting it down on the wooden surface of the table and double-checking that nothing was swiped from your clutch on your way through the bustling bar.

            “You need to get used to being around normal people, Maria.” Sharon wiggles her eyebrows. “No gods or mutants or super soldiers, just good old fashioned normal men.”

            “I came here under the impression that this was going to be a girls night.” Maria says as she lifts her drink up to her lips. A mischievous look takes over Sharon’s face and her eyes glimmer as she looks between you both.

            “A girls night where all the girls go home with a plus one.”

            “Oh, fuck off, Sharon.” Maria scoffs, shoving her shoulder playfully. Sharon snorts and casts her gaze around the crowded bar, seemingly browsing the vast menu of eligible men. As you follow her line of sight, you notice that there are significantly more men than women here. Including the three of you, you count maybe a total of ten women versus at least fifty men.

            “Sharon…” You start, narrowing your eyes as you face her.

            “Maybe I chose a bar that’s currently having their weekly guys night.” Knowing that both you and Maria are ready to start in on her, Sharon raises a hand and closes her eyes. “But I did it with a good heart. You both need to get laid.”

            As much as you want to kick her from underneath the table, you know she’s right. You shake your head as you take another long sip from your drink, and wonder just how many of these you might need before you agree to go home with one of the strangers in this bar.

            “I don’t think I’m the one that needs to get laid tonight.” Maria says quietly, casting a pointed look in your direction. Your eyes widen at her insinuation.

            “Why are you looking at me when you say that?”

            “You’re about to spend a whole lot of time with not one, but two Bucky Barnes.” She responds. Sharon nods eagerly, suddenly leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table as she joins Sharon in staring you down.

            “You need to fuck someone and clear your system before this mission takes off. Make sure you’re going into it with an empty tank, you know?” You’re sure that Sharon’s mostly joking, but there’s still an air of seriousness to her words.

            “You both think that I’d be tempted by him?” You raise an eyebrow at both of the women before you. They share an indecipherable look between themselves before all eyes are back on you.

            “Aren’t we all?”

            Bucky doesn’t usually pick whiskey. Nowadays he’s more of a beer kind of guy. Especially when he wants to drink a lot and reminisce about the times when he could get drunk. The feel of a cold glass bottle in his hand and the lip of it pressing against his mouth with each sip reminds him of a time when just a few of those would do him in. But tonight, he’s drinking Four Roses.

            As he swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, he scans the packed bar. The crowd is thick, with men heavily outnumbering and swarming the few women that are milling about.

            “I didn’t take you three for the guy’s night type.” Maria’s familiar voice sounds from behind Bucky’s left shoulder. He turns in unison with Sam and Torres. When their backs are to the bar, they all come face to face with Maria Hill. Bucky gives her a subtle up-and-down look, feeling a bit odd seeing her in an outfit that doesn’t resemble anything tactical for once.

            “I wouldn’t have taken you for the guy’s night type either.” Sam laughs out before taking a sip of his beer.

            “Trust me, I’m not.” Maria responds with a slight grimace, casting a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of where she came from. Bucky follows her gaze and spots a few booths off to a side wall, but it’s too dim for him to tell which one she might be looking to. He focuses back on her as she pushes between him and Sam to get to the bar. She orders three different drinks in quick succession, but only the last one catches Bucky’s attention. It’s your drink. “Is that you guys that I feel staring or is it the rest of the sleazy men in this place?” Maria asks jokingly, looking over her shoulder again. Sam and Torres both laugh, but Bucky’s barely paying any attention. He’s scanning the room again, studying each face with a watchful eye as he searches for you. “They’re in the third booth against the far left wall.” Maria says reluctantly, when she catches the look in Bucky’s eye. She may find him attractive as hell, like everyone else does, but she knows he’s essentially off the market. He may hide it well with the constant bickering and brooding façade, but he’s so fucking into you. Maria knows it as well as anybody else. Well, anybody but you. Sometimes she wonders if Bucky himself even knows it.

            Bucky shoots Maria a sideways look and she shakes her head.

            “They won’t be happy that you guys are crashing girls’ night.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, just as the bartender starts working on her drinks.

            “Oh, come on. They’ll be thrilled.” Sam jokes, immediately heading off in the direction of the booth Maria described. Torres stays with her, but Bucky follows Sam closely. He should be running in the opposite direction. He knows it’d be in his best interest to down the rest of his whiskey and run right out the door. And yet, his feet carry him forward like his entire goal since this morning hasn’t been to avoid you.

            You were having a half-decent night before you laid eyes on Bucky Barnes. When he comes into view, wearing one of his signature leather jackets and dark gloves, your heart skips a beat. You’re sure it’s skipping a beat out of protest rather than anything more meaningful, but still, it skips a damn beat. You don’t even hear Sam’s initial greeting, or the immediate banter that he and Sharon get into the moment he’s within earshot of the table. In fact, every single sound in the bar seems muffled all of a sudden. He’s staring at you. Bucky’s looking right into your eyes as he hovers near the end of the table, with his expression as bored and unreadable as ever.

            The intense eye contact is only broken when Maria and Torres appear, and she uses her shoulder to nudge Bucky out of the way so she can set the three drinks down. As soon as she slides the small glass in front of you, the din of the bar is loud again and you’re itching for a higher blood-alcohol level. You down the fresh drink in one long gulp, ignoring the burning in your throat as all eyes fall on you.

            “I think I need something a little stronger.” You say flatly, after clearing your throat and setting your empty glass down on the table. Sharon raises an eyebrow at you but within a second, she re-engages with Sam. Maria and Torres are quick to take your side of the booth the moment you rise to your feet, and Sam slides in next to Sharon. As you saunter off toward the bar, you can hear the sound of Bucky dragging a chair over to the edge of the table to give himself somewhere to sit.

            Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you as you make your way to the bar. You’re wearing a little black dress that hugs your curves and accentuates every part of you that he’s been trying not to think about all goddamn day. The heels you chose are surely killing your feet with every step you take, but god, they keep drawing his gaze down your legs and then the dress drags him right back up again. The front of Bucky’s jeans have started to feel a bit too tight and his mind is reeling. He wants to pour his glass of whiskey into his eyes. It may be the only way he can stop fucking staring at you.

            Though you feel Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, you refuse to look back. He can stare all he wants, but you’ve decided not to give a shit. He messed with your head last night and manipulated you into being a part of next week’s mission. Then, he messed with your head again this morning, telling you to come find him if you need anymore convincing. What the hell did he mean by that? You swallow hard as you reach the bar, reaching out and grabbing onto the edge of it to steady yourself. You’re two drinks in now and starting to feel a little buzzed, but you sure as hell won’t be stopping if the guys are sticking around. You order something significantly stronger than your last two drinks and then start fiddling with a stray lock of hair that’s hanging over your shoulder as you try to look unapproachable. This place feels like a testosterone festival and although Bucky’s stare was the only one you felt at first, you’re acutely aware of quite a few more pairs of eyes on you now.

            Bucky’s aware as well, so fucking aware. He watches with veiled frustration as you become the center of attention over at the bar. He can tell you don’t even want the attention simply by your body language, but that doesn’t stop men from ogling shamelessly. He knows you can handle yourself, so he bites down on his bottom lip and tries to return his attention to the table, choosing to pick his battles wisely. He tunes into a semi-heated conversation about who’s worse at holding their liquor amongst everyone at the table, but every now and then, his gaze flits back over to you.

            Two minutes go by before Sam notices the tension seemingly rolling off of Bucky’s broad shoulders. The brooding super soldier sits stiffly in the wooden chair at the end of the table, gripping his whiskey glass so tightly in one gloved hand that Sam’s surprised it hasn’t shattered under the pressure. When he follows Bucky’s gaze across the room, he finds the source of all of that angsty tension. There you are, looking undeniably gorgeous in that little black dress of yours with a fresh drink in hand as some tall, charismatic guy tries his best to win you over. Sam chuckles under his breath and watches for a moment, noting the way the guy continues getting closer to you every time you lean away from him. He sees the fake smile painted on your face and the way you keep nodding your head in the direction of the table as you speak in short sentences, probably letting the guy know that you have a group waiting for you.

            “Go get your girl, Bucky.” Sam finally says, lifting his half-empty beer bottle in your direction. “Haven’t you two been a fake couple at least a hundred times by now? Pretend to be her man and get her out of that.” Bucky winces at the idea. Conversation at the table dies down as everyone starts shifting to get a look at you.

            “What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks dryly, taking a long sip of his whiskey as he analyzes Sam’s expression over the rim of the glass. “She can get out of that herself if she wants to.”

            “Yeah, or you could make it easy for her.” Sam points out. Bucky turns his head to look at you again and he doesn’t like what he sees. The man takes one step closer to you, nearly closing the gap between your bodies entirely. He makes it seem as though he was pushed into you, which you seem to buy given how crowded the bar area still is. You let out a stiff but polite laugh, and then the man rests his right hand on your hip as he leans down and whispers something in your ear. That’s enough, Bucky decides. He downs the last of his whiskey before standing up and setting the empty glass on the edge of the table. He’s moving toward the bar before he has a moment to tell himself to stop. In an instant, his gloves are being tugged off one at a time and shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.

            Bucky could just shove the guy away from you. He could throw a punch and start a good old-fashioned bar fight, maybe get himself kicked out into the street along the way. He could even waltz up and call you some sweet little pet name, because maybe, just maybe, the guy would be respectful enough to ditch the moment he thinks you’re spoken for.

            But as Bucky’s flesh hand tangles in the hair at the crown of your head and he tugs you back harshly, every other possible way to handle the situation is trampled under his feet. His movements are rough but calculated as he separates you from the guy and places his own body between you. Your lips part and you nearly spill your drink as Bucky uses his hold on your hair to tilt your head up so you’re looking right into his blue eyes.

            “Bucky, what—” The. Fuck.

            With his right hand still fisting your hair and his left moving to wrap around your waist, he pulls you flush against his chest and leans in. You don’t realize it, but even in your shocked state, you lean in to meet him. He tilts his head to the side and sucks your bottom lip in between his teeth instantly, barely even kissing you before he’s biting down on it hard enough to draw a gasp from you. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue between your parted lips and taste you. Fuck. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t mean to put his tongue in your mouth, but now that it’s there? Fuck, he’s ruined. Bucky kisses you so intensely, so fucking passionately that for a moment, you’re convinced it’s real. It isn’t until his grip on your hip falters and he has to pull back to take a breath that you realize why he did it, that you realize it most definitely wasn’t real. You’re fighting to catch your breath as he lets you go and glances over his shoulder, making sure the guy is gone. When he looks back at you, you’re pressing your fingertips to your lips lightly, while clutching your drink in your other hand. Your eyes are wide and your hair messy from his touch. His eyes skate over your face, taking in the way your cheeks and nose are rosy and your pupils are dilated as you stare at him. Bucky runs a hand through his own hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Wait, is he…flustered?

            “Stop looking at me like that.” He says lowly. As much as you want to give him hell for that stupid stunt, your brain only seems to be able to focus on one thing.

            “You taste like honey.” Your voice comes out soft but raspy, and your fingertips still ghost over your lips as you speak. Bucky looks taken aback by your response, and he stills for a moment as he looks down at you, his eyes narrowing.

            “You taste like strawberries.” His gaze darts down to your lips, but then quickly back up to your eyes. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’ve found yourself in, you brush past Bucky, making a break for the table.

            Bucky needs a fucking minute. With your scent swirling around him and the ghost of your mouth on his, he needs a minute to adjust the raging hard-on he’s sporting and gather himself. What the fuck did he do that for? He’s gritting his teeth as he turns on his heel and heads for the bathrooms off to the side of the bar. When he steps foot in the men’s room, he scans the floor of each stall quickly, making sure he’s completely alone before locking the door to the entire bathroom and moving to stand in front of the large mirror displayed across the wall of sinks. Strawberries. Bucky stares down at the ceramic sink in front of him as his hands move to grip onto the edge of it. He fights the urge to break it into a million little pieces as he licks his lips, picking up a hint of your taste. Lifting his head and catching his own gaze in his reflection, he bites down on his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. The twinge of pain is enough to snap him out of whatever the hell kind of haze he’s in, and he flicks the sink on with his flesh hand. After washing his hands, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face before drying up with a few paper towels. He doesn’t leave the bathroom without adjusting his cock, tucking the head of it beneath the waistband of his boxers and pants to ensure his unchecked arousal won’t be noticed by anyone.

            With lively conversation passing back and forth across the table, no one seems to notice the thick tension brewing between you and Bucky. You haven’t glanced at him once since he came back from the men’s room looking utterly unbothered by the display of public deception that he’d put on just moments earlier.

            Bucky steals looks at you throughout the evening as you go through three of your usual drinks and two shots of vodka with Maria and Sharon. He notices that you smile a lot more when you have some alcohol in your system. You also look at him a hell of a lot less, and he hates that. He can’t seem to go more than a minute or two without searching you out, while you don’t even seem to notice that he’s still in the bar. He watches with a knotted stomach as two other guys attempt to move in on you when you’re up at the bar with the girls, but the knot unties itself when he sees you quickly turn them both down. Why hadn’t you done that with the first guy earlier tonight? A weird sensation bubbles up in his chest as he wonders if maybe you’d actually been attracted to the man you were talking to before Bucky stormed over and stuck his tongue in your mouth. Did you only turn the last two men down because you were worried that Bucky would try to kiss you again?

            As much as you would’ve liked to avoid looking at Bucky all night, your plan is thwarted when Sharon ends up a little past tipsy and Maria decides to Uber back to her apartment early. Not wanting to wrangle a semi-drunk Sharon in an Uber by yourself, you accept Sam’s offer for a ride. With Sam driving and Torres immediately sliding into the passenger seat, you push Sharon into the backseat on the passenger’s side and shut her door. You watch with a small smile playing on your lips as she promptly leans against the door and closes her eyes. You’re sure she’ll be asleep before Sam ever pulls up to her apartment complex.

            You cross around the backside of the car to find Bucky standing, holding the other back door open for you. You glance inside, noting the small middle seat and shake your head.

            “I’m not sitting in the middle.” You say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. A small shiver wracks through your body as the chilly night air blows over your exposed skin. Bucky’s shrugging his jacket off before he even realizes it. When he holds it out to you, you look at it warily, but another cold breeze wafts by and you reach out and grab it. Draping it over your shoulders, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m still not sitting in the middle.”

            “Yes, you are.” He responds roughly, resting his left forearm on top of the open door as his right hand moves to rest on his hip.

            “No, I’m not.” You’re aware of the fact that you sound like two children arguing over something so trivial, but still, you maintain your stance. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek before stepping back and pushing the door shut. You hear Sam shout something out of confusion, probably wondering what the hell you two are doing out there in the cold delaying the ride home, but you both ignore him.

            “You kissed me back.” He says in a low, raspy voice, making sure no one in the car could possibly make out his words. Your eyes widen and you pull his leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way his scent is rolling off of it and surrounding you.

            “You put your tongue in my mouth.” You respond stiffly, glancing over your shoulder at the car.

            “I’d do it again if it would shut you up and make you get in the car.”

            “Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse.” You say, letting out a fake laugh. Bucky rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your accusation.

            “You really think I’d look for an excuse to do that again?” Bucky asks, taking a step toward you and reaching past your body for the door handle. When he’s close enough to you that his lips are nearly grazing against the shell of your ear, your eyes flutter closed. “I think we both know I wouldn’t need one.”

            Bucky tugs the door open just as you open your eyes and look into his.

            “Get in the damn car.” He says authoritatively, holding the door open as you glare at him. You want to dig in your heels and stand on the curb until the sun rises in the morning, but with how cold you are and how late it is, you know you’re fighting a losing battle. You give Bucky a look that could kill as you slide into the middle seat and let out a frustrated sigh. You use his jacket to cover your legs and maintain what little body heat you have left. When Bucky slides in after you and pulls the door shut, Sam’s driving off before either of you have buckled your seatbelts. Bucky fastens his own before noticing that you’re not making a move to buckle yours, so he takes matters into his own hands. He leans over you and grasps the seatbelt in his flesh hand as he brings his lips close to your ear again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Always so fucking stubborn.”

            With every little curve and bump in the road, Bucky’s leg brushes against yours and you tense up each time. You’re always quick to pull your leg away and back toward the middle of the floorboard, until you start to notice that he never pulls his away. You stare out of the windshield ahead as Sam weaves through the city, heading toward Sharon’s downtown apartment. When you turn your head and glance over at her, she’s sound asleep with her mouth wide open as her head rests against the door beside her. Another bump jostles the car and Bucky’s leg collides with yours, but instead of pulling away this time, you stay still. As the heat of his leg permeates the thick fabric of his jeans and warms your bare knee, you find yourself relaxing a little. It really is way too cold to be wearing such a tiny dress.

            Bucky’s gaze is fixed outside of his window, but he can feel you letting your head fall back to rest against the headrest behind. He tries not to move too much, sensing that you’re somewhat thankful for his body heat warming your leg and side. It’s cold as shit tonight and you picked what has to be the thinnest dress in your wardrobe. If he didn’t love it on you so much, he’d have told you that you were fucking stupid for risking hypothermia by wearing it.

            You let your eyes fall closed as goosebumps prickle across the skin of your arms and you lean back against the headrest. Sharon’s apartment is just another ten minutes away, and then the tower will be an extra thirty on top of that. If you clear your head and pretend like the man beside you is merely a stranger in a shared Uber, and not someone whose tongue was in your mouth only an hour ago, you might be able to get a little sleep before you’re home. But Bucky’s leather jacket sits heavy over your thighs, and his intoxicating scent swirls around the backseat, begging to be inhaled. He’s not a stranger. He’s a fucking coworker who left a hickey on your neck and what feels like a black hole in your gut after offering up some kind of half-baked confession of attraction a couple of days ago. Younger me would fucking swoon. Who the hell says something like that to a girl who thought she was the last person he’d ever be into? Does he get off on looks of confusion and bewilderment?

            The car tires screech against asphalt as Sam slams on the brakes and the car struggles to meet his demand. You’re lurching forward in an instant, the seatbelt pulling coarsely across your chest as it locks and holds you in your seat. But it isn’t the sudden unexpected stop that has everything moving in slow motion. It’s Bucky’s hand gripping your mid-thigh tightly over the fabric of his leather jacket. As your back thumps against the seat and your eyes dart out toward the windshield ahead, you see that Sam narrowly avoided running a red light with a traffic camera posted on the street corner. He mumbles something about refusing to get another citation, but your ears are ringing as you cast your gaze downward. Bucky’s hand is still right there, his knuckles nearly turning white with how hard his fingers are digging into your leg. For a moment, a fleeting moment, you let yourself think about how nice his touch feels. You can feel the warmth of his palm even through the leather jacket covering your legs and the chill in your body begins to dissipate. In reality, he’s only been holding onto your thigh for two seconds, but it feels like it’s been two minutes. You let out a shaky breath as the stoplight turns green and Sam starts driving past it. Bucky’s grip loosens and he starts to withdraw his hand, but something within you stops him. You’re reaching out and grabbing his hand in yours, tugging it back to your thigh and resting it atop the leather jacket again. Neither one of you turns to look at the other. You both stare straight ahead, silently letting the moment play out.

            It feels as though a fire’s been ignited deep in Bucky’s chest. As you move your hand away from his, he has to turn his head and look out the window to keep from looking down at where he’s touching you. If he gets a glimpse of where his hand is at right now, he won’t be able to scrub the image from his mind no matter how hard he tries. And his hand is only on your damn thigh. He takes even breaths through his nose as he watches the city lights dance around outside. He estimates that Sharon’s apartment complex is less than ten minutes away. What happens after those ten minutes? Will you push his hand away and pretend like the moment never happened?

            Each passing minute feels longer and longer as Bucky’s hand remains heavy on your thigh. Two minutes go by before he starts alternating between squeezing your leg and letting his hand rest loosely atop the jacket across your lap. When you reach the third minute, your cheeks are flushed pink and sparks are igniting throughout your body at the slightest touch. There aren’t many thoughts floating around in your head now, which is probably why it’s so easy for you to slide your hand over his and quietly guide it beneath the fabric of the jacket. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull his hand away or fight your movement, and when you feel the warmth of his palm pressing against the bare skin of your thigh, you withdraw your own hand and cover his with the jacket carefully. Bucky’s clenching his teeth as he grips your leg and scrapes his trimmed, blunt nails along the inside of your thigh. He feels you shudder against his touch, but then you seem to press into him a little closer and he can’t fucking breathe. The backseat of this car is suddenly feeling too damn small for either of you, and he wants nothing more than to drag you out at the next red light and find the nearest alley with a brick wall he can back you into.

            She’s just cold. Bucky keeps reminding himself that that’s why you’re letting him do this, that that’s why you’re encouraging him to touch you this way. But are you really that cold? Your skin feels almost overheated beneath his hand. He grips your leg again and then starts drawing lazy circles with his fingertips along your inner thigh. He never once tries to move his hand any higher or lower than the exact spot that you placed it in. You’re having a hard time figuring out if that excites you or disappoints you, especially when all you can do is focus on keeping your breathing unnoticeable and eyeing the three other people in the car to make sure no one is the wiser.

            The tension in the backseat of the car is so thick that you could cut it with a knife by the time Sam’s pulling into a parking spot in front of Sharon’s building. Bucky’s fingertips dig into the skin of your thigh one last time before he drags his hand out from underneath the jacket and back to his own lap. You start to unbuckle so you can help Sharon out of the car and up to her apartment, but Sam shakes his head at you in the rearview mirror and pushes his own door open quickly.

            “We’re not going to make you walk her all the way up there when you’re in heels.” Sam tsks, signaling for Torres to hop out as well. “We’ll take her up and get her settled, just stay in the car.”

            “Are you sure? I could do it, she can probably walk fine, she’s just sleepy.” You say softly, glancing over at Sharon as she begins to stir. She shoots you a sideways smile and starts unbuckling her seatbelt with sloppy movements.

            “Don’t say that, let them carry me.” Sharon jokes, slurring nearly every single word she speaks. You laugh lightly before pushing a bit of her blonde hair away from her face and leaning over her to open the door on her side.

            “Fine, but don’t give them too much trouble.” You concede, watching as Torres takes both of her hands and helps her out of the car. You find your heart racing as she straightens herself up and takes just enough steps forward for Torres to shut the door again, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark car. You let out a shaky breath as you watch Sam, Torres, and Sharon all move further and further away from the car. You don’t move a muscle. You stay seated right there in the middle of the backseat, painfully aware of how your left side is still brushing against Bucky’s right side.

            Bucky’s sitting stiffly in his seat, wondering if you can hear how hard his heart is thumping against his ribcage right now. His eyes flit downward to where his leather jacket has shifted off of your lap a bit and the skin of the thigh that he was just toying with is now exposed. Gritting his teeth, he reaches over slowly and pinches the edge of the jacket with his fingertips before dragging it back up to cover your lap entirely. Your head moves quickly, tilting downward to watch what he’s doing. You swallow thickly as thoughts start swirling around in your head. It’s a mixture of sane, rational thoughts about thanking him for the jacket and dirty, irrational thoughts about putting his hand back where it was before the car stopped here. Even as your mind is formulating a coherent sentence to spit out, you know you should sit here quietly and act like nothing happened. You know so much better than to speak when tensions are running this high, and yet…

            “I did kiss you back.” The words roll off of your tongue so quietly that you fear Bucky might not even have heard them. But when he stops staring out his window and drops his gaze down to where his hands rest in his lap, you know he heard you.

            “You did.” He says just as quietly, shifting in his seat a bit. You let out a soft sigh and glance over at the empty seat beside you. You know it’ll look a bit odd to Sam and Torres when they get back to the car and see you still sitting in the middle of the backseat. You’re thinking about sliding over and buckling yourself in when movement catches your eye. Bucky’s flesh hand reaches over slowly, and his fingertips take hold of the edge of his jacket just like they did a moment ago, but instead of making sure the fabric covers your thighs, his moves it further down your legs this time. Your breath hitches in your throat as he pushes it down just an inch, revealing the hem of your short dress and the tiniest bit of skin across the tops of your thighs. Goosebumps prickle across your skin, but it has little to do with the fact that you’re still a bit cold. “I put my tongue in your mouth.” He rasps. You’re frozen in place as he starts tracing the hem of your dress with the tip of his index finger. His words hang in the air, swirling around with the thick tension like a heavy fog early in the morning. Bucky leans in as you stare down at his hand. He leans in until his forehead is nearly touching the side of your face and his lips are ghosting around the shell of your ear. “Would I need an excuse to do it again?”

            As your eyes flutter closed and you suck in a deep breath, Bucky can only think of one thing. He can only think about how fucking perfect it felt to have you kissing him back, to push his tongue past your lips and really taste you for the first time. Of all the times he’s kissed you for undercover missions, it was never like that. He never dared to let his tongue get involved, not until tonight. Now he fears he might be ruined.

            You’re thinking about the same damn thing. You’re thinking about how he tasted like honey and citrus and vanilla all jumbled together. You’re replaying the feeling of him fisting his hand in your hair and pulling you toward him in a way that should’ve done nothing other than piss you off.

            Neither of you realizes that you’re both glancing toward the apartment building entrance at the same time, both checking to see if Sam and Torres are anywhere nearby. Are you really about to do this? You finally turn your head to face Bucky, and find him already staring at you intensely. His blue eyes reflect the tiniest bit of light from a street lamp in the distance, and you swear you can see something akin to flames dancing around in his gaze. He stares back at you for one, two, three seconds before the tension hanging in the air between you both shatters. In a flash, you’re shoving the leather jacket onto the floor and moving toward Bucky just as he’s grabbing you by the waist and tugging you toward him. Your lips meet before your bodies do and you’re kissing him so desperately that you almost feel a bit of shame. You’re acting like a horny teenager having her first bit of alone time with a guy on prom night, but as your dress hikes even higher up your hips and Bucky settles you not over his lap, but over his right thigh, every trace of shame disappears. You’re straddling the toned muscles of his thigh as he curls his fingertips against your scalp and takes a handful of your hair in his fist.

            “You like when I do this, don’t you?” He asks lowly, nipping at your jawline as he pulls on your hair just enough to tilt your head back. A soft whimper escapes you and you grind down on his thigh, feeling just the right amount of friction as the fabric of your panties meets his jeans. He falters for a second and looks down, his grip on your hair loosening as you grind against his leg again. “Fuck, don’t do that.” He growls, squeezing your hip with his vibranium hand to make sure you’ll be still.

            “But it feels so fucking good.” You whisper, fighting against his vibranium hand and dragging your clothed cunt against his thigh again. A guttural sound crawls up his throat and he pulls you in for a kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips instantly. There’s that honey taste again. He doesn’t try to stop you this time when you grind down, so you keep doing it over and over again for a few seconds, giving your clit exactly enough friction to elicit a sense of pleasure. If his side of the backseat was bigger, you’d settle yourself over his lap and grind on the bulge that you know is hiding behind the zipper of his jeans, but you’ll take what you can get.

            “Is that enough for you?” Bucky asks roughly, the second he pulls away from your lips and glances down at where you’re grinding on his thigh once again.

            “They’ll be back any minute.” You whisper. You place your hands on his shoulders as you crane your neck to glance back at the apartment building again, ensuring Sam and Torres are still out of sight.

            “Say it isn’t enough.”

            “Bucky—” Both of his hands move down your back and he cups your bare ass beneath the fabric of your dress, squeezing hard enough to leave red fingerprints in your skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck before dragging the tip of his tongue up toward your ear and biting down on your earlobe softly. “It isn’t enough.” You moan out as your back arches and your chest presses against his. Bucky lets out a groan before reaching down with one hand and unbuckling his seatbelt. The thin strap moves between your two bodies quickly before clicking against the door, and then Bucky’s wrapping one arm around your lower back and moving to lay you down in the backseat. He hovers over you as your legs spread a bit to accommodate him, and then he sinks down on top of you. There’s something about feeling the full weight of a man over you that makes it hard to think rationally. That’s why when you feel the outline of his hard cock press against your damp panties, your back arches and his name leaves your lips in such a desperate, sultry moan. That’s why you let him grind and rut against you relentlessly for at least thirty seconds, listening to the sounds of his grunts and heavy breaths as he buries his face in your neck and moves his hips rhythmically. That’s why you let yourself get so dangerously close to an orgasm that you’re circling your own hips against his. It’s because you’re not thinking rationally, not one tiny bit.

            You don’t hear it, but Bucky does. He hears the distant click as the door to Sharon’s apartment building swings open. He knows he only has a few seconds left before Sam and Torres will be close enough to see the car, so he presses his hips into you one last time, making sure you feel the entirety of his hard length against your clothed cunt before he looks down into your eyes and memorizes the look of pleasure on your face. He kisses you one last time, savoring the taste of your lips and letting his tongue dance with yours for one fleeting moment. Then, he’s pulling himself away from you and grabbing your hands to pull you back into a sitting position beside him. You’re in a daze as he leans down and scoops his leather jacket up off of the floor. The sound of Sam and Torres’ voices ring out in the distance and you move yourself to the seat Sharon had previously occupied, quickly smoothing out your dress and hair before buckling yourself in. Bucky holds the jacket out to you just as Sam and Torres are nearing the car, and you take it, draping it over your lap carefully.

            Sam and Torres’ incessant small talk is the only sound to be heard as the car carries you all back to the compound. You’re keeping your legs tightly crossed and your hands folded neatly in your lap as you stare out your window and try to avoid thinking about what just happened. Adrenaline is still surging through your veins, almost cancelling out the alcohol in your system. On top of that, the sexual frustration that you feel from having not finished what you and Bucky so recklessly started in the backseat is giving you a bit of an attitude. You chew on the inside of your cheek as the damp panties trapped between your thighs begin to feel uncomfortable and the gravity of what you just did, what you would’ve done if Sam and Torres hadn’t showed up when they did, begins to set in.  You’re compromising not just the upcoming mission, but your entire working relationship with a damn good partner. And for what? Not even an orgasm. He didn’t even give you that. You have no doubt that he would have if you’d had the time for it. Hell, you were pretty damn close to one with him grinding against you like that and those sounds he was making. Your mind starts to float back into dangerous territory and you bite the inside of your cheek a little harder, nearly drawing blood. You shudder at the sensation of pain, but continue staring out the window, wishing Sam would drive just a little bit faster.

            He could cum right now. Bucky could actually cum in his jeans right now, and it’s been a solid ten minutes since he even looked in your direction. His cock is still painfully hard and fighting against the front of his jeans, threatening to pop the zipper if he doesn’t free it soon. He glances around Sam’s headrest to see that he’s already doing five over the speed limit. Still, it’s not fast enough. Not when you just did what you did, and you’re sitting only a foot away with Bucky’s scent all over you. Actually, that’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it all is the fact that you left wet spots on his thigh and over the crotch of his jeans, both of which hold the scent of your arousal. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting the seatbelt over his lap so it won’t restrict his cock any more than it needs to. He catches you turning your head in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare look back at you. Screwing his eyes shut, he pinches the bridge of his nose with his flesh index finger and thumb as he presses his head back against the headrest. He can survive the last twenty minutes left in this car ride, but as soon as the car pulls up to the tower, he’s getting the fuck out of here.

            Sam, ever the courteous and thoughtful designated driver, let you, Bucky, and Torres all out of the car right at the front entrance to the tower before heading off to park the car in the underground garage. Bucky almost decided to stay in the car and take the ride down to the garage with Sam, just to keep from being stuck in the elevator with you. However, it turns out that Torres is pretty damn good at icing over the fiery tension in a small space. Bucky is leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring at the leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders as you stand a few feet in front of him. You’re so close to the metal doors that if you stuck your tongue out, you’d probably be licking them. Torres stands oblivious off to one side, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly as the elevator carries the three of you closer and closer to the main living quarters.

            “Have you two gotten started on the dancing lessons yet?” He asks casually, without looking up from his phone. You say nothing. You stay still, staring at the metal in front of your face as the elevator continues on. Bucky clears his throat lightly and you hear him shift somewhere behind you.

            “Tomorrow.” Bucky replies stiffly, offering no more than that single word. You turn your head the tiniest bit to see Torres nod, still looking down at the device in his hands.

            “Saving it for the last minute?” He jokes. Your eyes dart upward and you see that you’re only a few floors away from the living quarters. “Fury wants you guys back in the past within the next two days.” You swallow hard at the reminder as an uneasy feeling settles in your gut.

            “There isn’t going to be much to teach.” Bucky’s tone is flat, but still somewhat polite. You see Torres nod in your peripheral vision, and then the elevator is dinging and it’s slowing to a stop. You’re hurrying out the second the doors begin sliding open. You hear Torres’ phone ring and he mumbles something about taking the call down in the conference room, but you’re already halfway through the main living area. Your heels click against the hard floor as you make your way toward the dark hall, refusing to look back at the super soldier who can only be a few yards behind you.

            “You don’t have to walk so damn fast.” Bucky mutters, watching you storm ahead. You’re still about ten feet from your door when you slow down and turn on your heel. Now you’re standing there looking at him as he continues walking toward his own door at a normal pace. You stand there and stare at the man you didn’t want to look at for another second tonight. He’s nothing but danger and bad decisions and you’re learning not to trust yourself around him anywhere but in the field.

            “My feet hurt.” You say matter-of-factly, narrowing your eyes at him. You watch as he comes within a couple of feet of you and turns left to face his door that’s right across from yours. “I want to take off these heels and this dress and shower and just…” Your voice trails off and you catch Bucky looking over his shoulder at you with a raised brow. “And just sleep this off.” You finish, making it clear that you’re talking about whatever it is that’s between you right now. He turns to face you right as you’re turning your back to him and reaching for your own door handle.

            “Sleep it off, huh?” He scoffs, noting that you’re still keeping his leather jacket draped over your shoulders. “Whatever this is, it’ll just be gone in the morning?” You keep your hand on the downturned door handle but you pause, not yet pushing the door open fully. You shrug your shoulders and Bucky watches as his jacket moves up and down once around your frame. “Kinda hard to forget what happened tonight if you wake up and see my leather jacket beside your bed in the morning.”  You snort out an amused laugh before casting a glare at Bucky over your shoulder.

            “Maybe you should take your jacket back then.” You respond calmly. As you’re facing your door, letting your head turn forward once again, you hear Bucky shuffling behind you slowly. A chill spreads beneath the surface of your skin as he grows closer and closer, until his body heat is enveloping you and his proximity has your hand faltering on the door handle. When he comes to a stop right behind you, so close that one deep breath from you would have your back pressing against his chest, he braces himself against your doorframe. Both of his arms are outstretched, his hands grasping the doorframe on either side of you as he leans in close to your ear, just as he’s done so many times tonight.

            “But it looks so damn good on you.”  He coos, taking a chance to inhale your sweet scent after he speaks. His breath tickles the side of your face as the wetness in your panties suddenly feels a little less uncomfortable and a little more exciting. You’d like to say your body is beyond your control when you draw in a deep breath and let go of the door handle. When you let your palms glide over the surface of your door and arch your back just enough to push your ass against the front of Bucky’s jeans. You’re met with the same hard-on he was rubbing all over your clothed cunt in the car just a little while ago and warmth pools low in your stomach. Bucky’s hips lean in, pressing himself against your ass a little harder as his flesh knuckles turn white and his vibranium hand whirs with exertion against the doorframe. He gives you a chance to open the door and disappear for the rest of the night, but when you circle your hips back against him a second time, his hands quickly move down to your hips and he pushes your front into the door firmly. He crowds in behind you, dragging his lips over the skin of your neck as you tilt your head to the side. He makes sure your bodies never part as he kisses down the column of your throat and bites down lightly on your collarbone. You grind your ass into him one more time and his control starts slipping.

            “Keep that up and I’ll fuck you against this goddamn door.” Bucky rasps against your neck, tightening his hold on your hips to keep you from grinding anymore. You wriggle in his grasp, but he only curls his fingers against your dress even more, before dragging his lips back up toward your ear. “You’ll wake up tomorrow wondering why the fuck you can’t walk.”

            “I’d blame the heels.” You whisper, surprising yourself at the fact that you’re going along with this. But everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing makes it hard for you to think straight. Bucky lets out a surprisingly gentle, genuine laugh before letting go of your hips and tugging his jacket off of your shoulders. He steps back suddenly, leaving you a bit cold and wanting for his touch. You turn around to watch as he walks over to his own door and pushes it open. “That’s it? You just walk away after that?”

            “You can’t stand me, remember?” He replies. You can hear his smirk showing through his tone. “Should be easy for you to sleep it off.”

            With that last line, Bucky’s shutting his door and you’re left in the dark hallway alone. You have half a mind to kick his door in and ruin your pretty heels, but the other half of you knows he’s doing the right thing. What did you really want him to do? If you’d invited him in and spent the night with him, you have no doubt that your professional life would’ve gone to shit before the end of the week. If he’d invited you in, or even worse, fucked you against right there in the hall like he’d said, the outcome would’ve been the same. You can’t mix work and play. You know that all too well. But why is it turning out to be so damn fun to blur the lines with him?           

            You take your time peeling off your dress and heels, soaking in a long, hot shower, and then getting ready for bed. By the time you’re flicking off the bathroom lights and pulling back the plush covers on your bed, it’s already a bit past one in the morning and the aching between your legs hasn’t ceased. You refuse to indulge your fantasies after having already made yourself orgasm once within the last twenty-four hours at the mere thought of the man across the hall. Twice would be too much, way too much when you’re actively trying to tell yourself that you need to start keeping things strictly professional with him. You choose to lie in bed and scroll through your phone for a bit, but still, Bucky remains at the forefront of your mind.

            Bucky vows not to touch his cock in the shower ever again. Tonight was the last time. As he towels himself dry and avoids looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he’s surprised at the fact that he doesn’t feel so much shame this time. He has a feeling you might’ve even been flattered by just how much cum ended up being washed down the drain after he thought of nothing but you as he stroked himself. Okay, maybe that’s wishful thinking. But seriously, with the things you did to him…with him tonight, he knows that you wouldn’t have kicked his ass for what he had to do in the shower. He has a feeling you might’ve even been tempted to do something like that for yourself after you parted ways.

            One text. That’s all you need to send to give yourself a little peace of mind and maybe set things back on the right track with Bucky. It’s why you’re staring at the typed out message on your phone screen and your thumb is hovering over the send button. It’s late. Maybe too late to be sending him a text. But you feel like you have to do it. You’ll clear things up now and tomorrow everything will go back to normal, or as normal as things can be before a mission like this. When you hit send, let out a deep breath and let your head fall back on your pillow a bit dramatically.

            When Bucky’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, he’s rolling over and grasping it in one hand almost instantly. Holding it over his face and quickly dimming the brightness of his lock screen, he sees your name at the top of the notification and he narrows his eyes. How many times have you texted him since you’ve started working together? Once? Maybe twice? His heart thumps a little harder than it previously had been as he unlocks his phone and reads your message. You don’t need any more convincing? His tongue darts out and wets his lips as he sends his overly simple response through.

            Two question marks. That’s all you see as you stare at his text. Heaving a sigh, you type out a slightly longer message, making sure you’re abundantly clear. You need to make sure that he knows he doesn’t have to keep going with whatever act this is that he’s been putting on the last couple of days. If he’s only been fucking around with you to convince you that you’re the one his 40s self would approach in a bar, he doesn’t have to keep doing it. You’re thoroughly convinced. It’s only a few seconds after you’ve sent your message that you see the little gray typing bubbles pop up on his end of the message window.

            You watch those three little dots with bated breath as your thumbs hover over your phone screen. When his final text comes through, your heart rate nearly doubles and warmth rushes up to color your cheeks a soft shade of pink.

            Shit. You exhale noisily, before clicking your phone off and setting it on your nightstand. Your mind starts rushing back to all of the missions you’ve worked together, all of the times you bantered back and forth or argued and yet, every mission was carried out seamlessly. Was the tension between you two something that you’ve been misreading up until now? Had you been mistaking it for the type of tension felt between two people who don’t really get along, when all of this time it was that kind of thick, suffocating tension that you only find between two people who are oblivious as to how right for each other they really are?

            You wrap yourself up in your bedsheets and let the darkness of your room envelope you. No fucking way. You do not have feelings for James Bucky Barnes. And even more than that, he most definitely does not have feelings for you. There’s simply no way.

            When you finally drift off to sleep, what happened in the car on the way back from the bar replays in your dreams on a loop, growing slightly filthier with each rerun. You wake up three hours in with a pillow wedged between your legs and your hips instinctively grinding down into it in search of friction. You wake up a second time just before sunrise and you almost can’t take the ache between your legs.

            If you really couldn’t stand him, if this was really nothing, you would’ve been able to sleep it off. And that scares the shit out of you.

            Glimmers of early morning sunlight peek through your curtains, casting your room in a hazy yellow glow. Stretching out your legs beneath the covers, you rub the sleep from your eyes and blink a few times. Your gaze settles on the white ceiling above and you notice a slight twinge of pain behind your eyes as a headache begins to set in.

            The night before replays in your mind, almost like a highlight reel, as you push the covers back and move to sit up on the side of your bed. You see yourself being pulled away from that stranger in the bar, being pulled to Bucky’s chest as he kissed you like you belonged to him and no one else. You squeeze your eyes shut and massage your temples with the middle and index fingers of your right hand. You see Bucky’s hand on your thigh in the car, and then him lying you down in the back seat before crawling on top of you and…fuck.

            Tonight had nothing to do with convincing you. His last text to you from just a few hours ago is displayed across a billboard in the forefront of your mind. You rush through pulling on an outfit for the gym, settling on a lazy hairstyle and light makeup to hide the dark circles under your eyes from the poor sleep you got last night. It might be Sunday and you might not have much to do today, but you know good and well that sitting here in your room is only going to send you straight into a spiral of thoughts you don’t need to be dwelling on right now.

            You listen carefully through your door, straining to detect any sounds that might let you know someone else is up and about this early. When you’re sure the coast is clear, you make a dash for the elevator and ride it all the way down to the gym.

            Sam’s sitting in the conference room with Fury and a very hungover Sharon just a little past eight. He’d probably be laughing if she didn’t look so miserable. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes are aging her by about five years. He can tell her head must be throbbing by the way she keeps squinting at the bright lights overhead and glancing over at the light switch across the room. Maybe he should’ve made an effort to end the fun a little earlier last night, but in his defense, none of you really made an effort to do that. Besides, he had no idea Fury would want to see them first thing on a Sunday morning.

            “We’ll be sending you in tomorrow to bring Peggy Carter up to speed and establish a safehouse for the mission.” Fury explains slowly, eyeing Sharon as he speaks. She nods along, keeping her hands folded in her lap beneath the table. “You’ll have one day to get it done.”

            “It won’t be a problem.” Sharon affirms confidently, letting her eyes shift between Fury and Sam. “One day is plenty of time. What stipulations do you have for the safehouse?”

            “As long as they have a place to sleep and a door to lock at night, I don’t care. Whatever Peggy can help you find is going to have to do. They’ll only be there for two nights.” Fury responds. His phone chimes and he quickly stands up from the table, pushing his chair in gently. He casts Sam and sideways glance as he heads for the door.

            “Maybe don’t take her out drinking tonight.” Fury advises, letting out a half-hearted laugh as he reaches for the door handle. “And let me know how those dance lessons go later. If those two can’t get along long enough to make it through one song, I have half a mind to scrap the whole damn mission.”

            “They got along pretty well last night.” Sam snorts, remembering the way Bucky kissed you in the bar. Sure, he was the one that encouraged him to do it, but Sam knows for damn certain that it was anything but fake. He wonders for a moment just how complicated this mission might end up being with the two of you being thrust into the past without backup readily available. You’ve always worked well on missions before, but this is so different. This is the kind of mission that’ll make or break a partnership, and he’s very much aware that your partnership is somewhere on a tightrope between being rock solid and completely falling apart at the seams. If he had to place a bet, he’d say neither of you come back from this one the same as when you went in. Something’s going to change.

            It doesn’t feel real. As you stand on a platform that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, wearing a quantum suit in the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen, you feel a bit like an imposter. It should be Sharon in your position right now. You know she was just in this same spot yesterday, heading back in time to establish a safehouse and make the first contact with Peggy Carter, but still. Who the hell decided that you’re qualified not only to run ops in this century, but to send you back to the last one to run an op as well?

            “Hey.” Bucky says quietly, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turn your head to the right and take in the sight of him as he takes the few steps up onto the platform. He moves to stand directly in front of you, taking in the apprehension written all over your face. You tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear and let out a shaky breath as you meet his gaze. “Just another mission.” He assures you, keeping his voice low so only you can hear it. You nod, but you’re sorely unconvinced. This is not just another mission. You know it and he knows it.

            “It should’ve been Sharon.” You mumble, averting your gaze and choosing to watch Bruce, Scott, and Torres as they work seamlessly behind a table of screens and electronic devices. Bucky shakes his head and narrows his eyes at you, but you refuse to look at him again.

            “Okay, let me hit a few main points before we do this.” Bruce says suddenly, clapping his oversized, green hands together as he approaches the edge of the platform. “You have one roundtrip each, please make every effort to come back from this together. You can come back earlier if you have to but for the love of all things scientific, don’t come back later than planned. What feels like five minutes to you might be fifteen years here.”

            “Bucky, you’ll keep your watch on at all times in the past. Take that thing off and lose it and you’re stuck in the forties, which I get might not be all that unappealing to a man who’s over a hundred years old, but still…keep it on.” Scott says pointedly. You glance down at your own time-space GPS device. While Bucky’s does resemble a normal wrist watch, yours was made to look more like an inconspicuous necklace so you could continue wearing it in the forties and still be dressed for the time period. “Don’t let anyone take that off of you.” Scott directs his warning at you. You nod curtly, reaching up and running your fingers along the dainty device lightly.

            “Try not to go changing the past.” Bruce takes over again, but he’s backing away from the platform now and moving back toward the table of screens and devices. “Stick to the mission. Get in with the Howling Commandos, get what you need from the HYDRA base, and then get the hell out of there on time. Are we all on the same page?” Both you and Bucky nod in unison, and you finally face forward to meet his piercing stare.

            “It could only be you.” Bucky whispers across the short distance between the two of you. Warmth floods your chest and you barely hear the sound of Bruce beginning to count backwards from twenty.

            “I told you I didn’t need any more convincing.” You remind him, matching his low volume. “I’m here, I’m doing this. I just think Sharon would’ve been the smarter choice.” Bucky shakes his head at you almost disappointingly as Bruce reaches the ten second mark. You see something flash in Bucky’s eyes, something passionate and intense as you ready yourself to activate the helmet and face mask on your suit. When Bruce calls out eight seconds left, Bucky rushes forward, taking two steps before grasping the sides of your face firmly in his hands.

            His lips are soft and gentle when they meet yours, but in less than a second he’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance to. It sucks the air right out of your lungs and sets a fluttering sensation off deep in your stomach, but then he’s pulling away and stepping back. You activate your helmets and face masks at the same time, right as Bruce is nearing the end of his count.

            “Three, two, one…”

            With a flash of light and an unusual feeling that the gravity beneath your feet has just increased by a hundred-fold, you’re being dragged through time and space, hurtling toward a period of time that you’re sure you don’t belong in.

             Rain pours down heavily on the roof of the car as Peggy drums her fingertips along the top of the steering wheel. She glances down at the coordinates scrawled on a small scrap of paper for the fifth time, even though she knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. She can’t help but feel a little on edge. The street light perched above her car gives off just enough light for her to lean over in front of the rearview mirror and reapply her red lipstick one last time. It’s a bit of a nervous habit really, because it’s not like she has much reason for her makeup to look perfect with the role she’s about to play. A glorified cab driver. That’s what she is tonight. A flash of light in the distance catches her attention, and it isn’t lightning. She turns the key in the ignition and watches as her headlights suddenly illuminate the alley ahead.

            She isn’t quite sure what she expected the two of you to look like. She should’ve assumed that Sergeant Barnes would age well, but the fact that he’s barely aged has her raising a brow as she studies him from a distance. She notes the fact that he seems taller and much more muscular than the Sergeant Barnes she’s come to know through Steve and the Howling Commandos.

            “Welcome to London.” Bucky mutters under his breath, as he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the bright headlights ahead. He squints slightly and catches sight of Peggy’s characteristic red lip and brown curls through the windshield of a dark Morris eight. You cut your eyes to the side and take in the sight of him, with his hair already soaked through and rainwater dripping down the side of his face. Before you have a chance to say anything back, he’s moving to stand behind you and placing a hand against the middle of your back, lightly guiding you toward the car.

            The rain sends a chill racing from your head to your toes as Bucky reaches past you, tugs the front passenger door open and ushers you into the seat. He leans down before closing the door, letting his scent invade your space as he looks past you to Peggy.

            “Peggy Carter.” He says with a soft smile, looking at her as if he’s seeing an old friend after so long apart. You’re stuck staring at him. You’ve never seen this look on his face before and it lets you see him in a slightly different light.

            “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy’s British accent is almost musical in a way. You finally turn your head and get a good look at her. She looks perfectly put together and polished with her bright red lipstick, styled hair, and navy blue pantsuit. “If you’d like to hop in and allow your partner here to close her door, we just might make it to your safehouse before you’re both thoroughly soaked.” A laugh slips past Bucky’s lips, but he listens to her and steps away from the door, closing it for you gently. Once he’s settled in the backseat, Peggy shoots a sideways smile in your direction before putting the car into reverse. “Does he always listen that well?”

            “Not at all.” You respond honestly.

            Peggy guides the car backwards out of the alley and onto the very sleepy, rainy streets of London. It’s an odd feeling to be in such a major city but see so little traffic or nightlife. You’re taking everything in with widened eyes, noting all of the little differences between the forties and the time period that you come from. Bucky’s soaking it in as well, but instead of exciting him, it relaxes him. He sinks into the backseat and lets out a deep breath, watching as the old buildings and signs roll past his window. He almost feels at home here.

            The drive to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city doesn’t take anywhere near as long as it would’ve taken in the modern world. When Peggy turns into the long driveway of one of Howard Stark’s many homes, you’re starting to feel the effects of time travel. Your head feels a little fuzzy and you have a sensation almost similar to that of motion sickness. Peggy says something about the house being a bit small for two people, mentioning it being one of Stark’s occasional residences for when he travels alone.

            “Everything you need will be inside. Clothes, food, a few choice weapons for the mission at hand. Please let me know if I missed anything, but I think I was rather thorough.” Peggy says cordially as she leads the way up the paved driveway toward the front door. You take a few steps away from the car but stop short, scrunching your eyes shut as a heavy wave of nausea hits. Bucky’s behind you in an instant, letting his palm press against your lower back as he stands at your side and leans over to look at your face.

            “What’s going on?” He asks in a hushed tone with concern lacing his words.

            “I’m good, it’s just the time travel thing.” Bruce made you both read an obscene amount of research on the potential physiological effects of time travel, but assured you that you probably wouldn’t experience any of them. Yet, here you are, experiencing a bout of time sickness before you’ve even made it into the safehouse. Bucky scrutinizes your expression, searching your eyes for any sign that you’re downplaying whatever’s going on with you. You wave a dismissive hand at him as rain begins to come down a little heavier.

            “Are you two coming?” Peggy asks from the door up ahead, looking at you both with a raised brow. Bucky turns his head for a second to glance at her, but quickly looks back at you as his hand falls away from your back. He watches you carefully as you put on an unbothered expression and take a couple of steps forward. Shit. The nausea increases ten-fold and suddenly you’re rushing over to the edge of the driveway and leaning over with your hands on the knees of your quantum suit, losing the contents of your stomach all in one go. Bucky’s beside you within a second, gathering your hair up in both of his hands and holding it back behind your shoulders.

            “Don’t say it.” Bucky warns as you turn your head to look up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

            “It should’ve been Sharon.” You groan, straightening up and tugging your hair away from his grasp. He shakes his head at you and you can already see an argument gearing up in his head, so you brush past him, feeling significantly better now that you’re completely empty.

            Peggy can’t seem to stop herself from reading into the way you and Bucky interact. When she met Sharon just yesterday, it was made abundantly clear that you and Sergeant Barnes are partners but don’t always play nice with each other. From what she’s seeing now, Bucky wants nothing more than to play nice with you. She has to wonder if the bickering and constant tension that Sharon talked about is a façade, a thick wool blanket over what’s really at the core of your partnership.

            You feel fine just long enough to run your fingertips over the green and cream floral wallpaper that covers the kitchen walls and admire the pristine white oven that anyone’s great grandmother would love. But the moment you turn your attention to the living area just a few steps outside of the kitchen, a fresh wave of nausea begins taking up residence in the pit of your stomach and you breathe in deeply through your nose. Bucky watches you apprehensively from the foyer, waiting to see what you’ll do. He can tell you feel miserable. He can tell you want to get a good look at the safehouse and settle yourself in, but you’re looking a little green and fatigued as you move toward a large dark green couch in the living room.

            You sink into the couch and let your head fall back against the cushion behind you. As you reach up and wrap your fingers around your necklace, your quantum suit deactivates and you’re left in leggings and a black pull-over. Bucky glances around the house, noting the short hallway that leads to the master bedroom and what looks to be French doors leading to a study off to one side. He takes a few steps forward until he’s moving around the couch, and then seats himself in a dainty looking floral-patterned lounge chair that’s angled toward you across from a coffee table.

            “Is this really just a time travel thing?” Bucky finally speaks. Your eyes flutter open and you take in the sight of him in that lounge chair. If you didn’t feel so shitty you might laugh at how out of place he looks in such a pretty little chair.

            “What else would it be?” You ask. Bucky watches closely as you run your fingers through your damp hair and stare right back at him. He narrows his eyes at you and cocks his head to the side and you immediately know what he’s thinking. What is it with men always thinking that a woman is pregnant if she pukes? You just fucking time traveled and he still feels the need to rule it out?

            “I’m not pregnant.” You sigh, letting your eyes fall closed again as you kick your shoes off and draw your knees up toward your chest. “I can’t be.”

            “Can’t be?”

            “I haven’t done the thing that you need to do in order to be pregnant in a long time.” Bucky finds relief in your words. He didn’t really think you were pregnant, but he sure as hell likes knowing that you haven’t slept with anyone recently. He leans back in his chair and lets his gaze float around the comfortable space. The homey kitchen makes him think of his mom. The wooden floor boards make him think of how carefully he’d have to tiptoe around his childhood home to keep from letting his parents know that he was awake past his bedtime. The slight chill in the air guides his eyes over to the fireplace that spreads across one wall of the living room. If it gets any colder he’ll have to start a fire.

            “I kissed you.” He says evenly, turning his head back to you. You open your eyes and give him a hard stare, trying to read his indecipherable expression as his blue eyes zero in on your face.

            “Yeah, you keep doing that.” Your nausea worsens and you draw your knees up even tighter against your chest before dropping your head down to rest on them. Bucky pushes himself out of his chair and heads for the kitchen. You listen as he opens and closes a few drawers, rummaging around for something. A few seconds later you hear the kitchen sink running and then it cuts off. Bucky stands there, wringing out a wet cloth as he purses his lips.

            “You haven’t stopped me.” He points out. He turns on his heel and carries the wet cloth in your direction. When you feel his weight sink into the couch cushion beside you, you lift your head from your knees and find yourself face to face with him. He lifts the wet cloth to the side of your neck and dabs at it gently, watching as your eyes close and you take a deep breath in.

            “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Sarcasm drips from every word. Bucky slides the cloth to the back of your neck and holds it there for a moment.

            “He’s going to try to kiss you tomorrow.” Bucky seems almost annoyed with his own statement and you steal a sideways glance at him as he moves the wet cloth to your forehead. He seems to almost resent the way his younger self behaved.

            “He moves that fast?” Bucky nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he contemplates how much to tell you.

            “You’ll meet and he’ll ask you to dance. You’ll dance and he’ll ask if you want to leave the bar. He’ll take you out into the city, try to show you a good time.” Bucky slides the wet cloth down the side of your face until it’s right below your chin. You look into his eyes, watching as his gaze darts down to your lips for the most fleeting moment. “He moves fast.”

            “I can handle it.” You assure him, but your words come out a lot quieter than you intended. Bucky pulls his hand and the cloth away from your chin and dabs your neck with it again.

            “I know.”

            “Then why does it seem like you’re worried?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders as he focuses in on the skin of your neck. He’s staring at the spot he once marked with his own lips, dragging the cool cloth over it slowly.

            “I don’t like the thought of him touching you.”

            “Bucky…” Your stomach churns violently and you’re rushing off of the couch at lightning speed. Your feet carry you down the hall, into the master bedroom, and into the bathroom quickly. You’re lucky you make it in time to drop to your knees in front of the toilet before the last remnants inside of you start to come out. You hear Bucky step into the bathroom only a second later and he’s tugging your hair back just like he did in the driveway earlier. “Don’t say shit like that.” You groan, grasping the wet cloth that Bucky’s holding out beside your head. You wipe at your lips and reach up to flush the toilet as you stay in place, not trusting that your gut is finished betraying you.

            “Like what?”

            “You shouldn’t care if someone else touches me. We’re partners. We can’t keep blurring the lines like this.” You explain. Bucky’s hands stay firmly in your hair as he waits to see if you’ll get sick a third time.

            “The lines have been blurred for a long time.”

            “Doesn’t mean we should keep blurring them.” You assert. Though you don’t peer over your shoulder to look at Bucky, you can sense the look of frustration that’s written all over his face. He lets out a weighted sigh before moving away from you and reaching over to turn on the shower. As the sound of running water fills the room, you gauge the heaviness in your stomach and decide that you definitely feel better. You remember Bruce’s little pamphlets saying that the first hour after moving through timelines is when you experience the most side effects, and you’re nearing the forty-five-minute mark now. You lean away from the toilet and drop the lid down before pushing yourself up to stand. Though you feel a tiny bit wobbly on your feet, the nausea is mostly gone and the steam from the shower is making you feel a little less chilly.

            “I’ll go grab you some clothes.” Bucky says quietly as he brushes past you and heads back into the bedroom. You take the free moment to search the contents of the bathroom drawers until you find a new toothbrush and some toothpaste. Bucky comes back in when you’re brushing your teeth in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I get the feeling you aren’t going to wear these.” He says with a smirk, dropping a deep red set of folded pajamas beside the sink. You give him a wary side-eye, tucking the toothbrush into the side of your cheek before reaching for the pile of fabric. As soon as you unfold the top, you realize it’s a long sleeve button down shirt with matching pants. It looks like the kind of pajamas you see families wear on Christmas day in lifestyle magazines. Shaking your head, you fold the top and set it back on the countertop. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe as you bend over the sink and spit out a mouthful of water and toothpaste.

            “That’s all there is?” You rinse off the toothbrush and set it along the side of the sink before reaching down and gripping the bottom of your shirt. You already have it pulled over your head by the time you realize what you’re doing. Bucky stands frozen in the doorway, staring at you with narrowed eyes as you drop the shirt to the floor at your feet. He tilts his head to the side, never letting his eyes stray from your face even as you stand before him in a bra.

            “How is this not blurring the lines?” He questions, jutting his chin out at you. You narrow your eyes back at him and cross your arms over your chest, matching his stance. There’s a palpable heat in the air, and it’s not just from the steamy shower. As you and Bucky stand there staring each other down, each of you refusing to break first, tensions soar and you find yourself itching to push him out of the bathroom and shut the door. He can see the idea forming in your head so he speaks up before you actually have a chance to go through with it. “There was a floor-length nightgown if you’d rather wear that.” He says with another signature smirk. You shake your head firmly.

            “Were t-shirts not a thing in the forties?”

            “You’re going to wear a t-shirt when there’s only one bed?” Bucky asks, raising a brow. A genuine laugh erupts from your chest as you uncross your arms and run your fingers through your damp hair.

            “The bed’s all yours, Bucky.” You say, raising your hands up in a gesture that makes it clear you don’t want the bed for yourself. “I’m taking the couch.” Bucky scoffs as he reaches over for the folded pajamas beside the sink. As he steps out of the bathroom, he gives you a look you can’t quite read. It’s something between longing and frustration and it makes your cheeks feel warm. He pulls the door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the steamy bathroom. As you strip your clothes off and step under the stream of water, so many things are stuck in your head. The way Bucky rushed over and held your hair back not only the first time you puked, but the second time as well. He cares. You know he cares. He cares and it scares the shit out of you. The way he pressed a wet cloth to your neck and sat with you on the couch, even if he was using the moment to warn you about his younger self and reveal a little hint of how he feels about you. I don’t like the thought of him touching you. Bucky’s confession may not have surprised you, but it wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. What did he think was going to happen when he insisted you be a part of this mission? He could’ve let Sharon handle it and he never would’ve had to deal with the jealousy or possessiveness or whatever it is that’s coursing through him right now. But no, it had to be you. It could only be you. As you scrub a sweet-smelling soap into your skin, your mind wanders back to that moment on the platform earlier today. He kissed you. He kissed you in front of some of your coworkers without a care in the world. The lines are so fucking blurred that you wonder if he even knows where they are anymore, or if he cares. You look down as soapy suds circle around the drain near your feet. Do you know where they are? Do you care?

            Bucky rummages around in the bedroom until he finds a plain white t-shirt that he’s sure Peggy meant to be for him. It looks like it’ll probably be a bit oversized on you, so he tosses it onto the bed and stands still for a moment, listening to the sound of the shower running through the wall. He knows you feel the same thing he feels. Every time he’s kissed you, he’s reminded that you feel it. Do you try to deny it because you don’t want to feel it? Sometimes he just wants to grab you and ask what it is that keeps you from being real with him.

            Bucky shakes his head, trying his best to clear all thoughts of you from his mind, before tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it on the bed. He leaves his tactical pants on as he moves through the house, searching for an extra pillow and blanket. He sure as hell isn’t going to let you take the couch, especially not a couch made eighty years before the couches you’re used to sitting on. You’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff neck and aching back. He’ll take the couch and leave you the bed.

            It’s just a few minutes later that you’re stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in a towel as you pad across the bedroom floor quietly. You glance around but see no sign of Bucky. Eyeing the crisp white t-shirt on the bed, you can tell he left it for you. You run your fingers over it while clutching the towel around your chest with one hand.

            “Is that what you wanted?” Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly as he speaks from the bedroom doorway behind you. Clutching the towel a little tighter, you turn to face him with the white shirt fisted in one hand. Your eyes roam over the expanse of his bare chest, coasting down to the ripples of his abs and the v-line that so prominently drags your gaze even further down to the front of his tactical pants. He smirks at the way you’re ogling him, but he doesn’t mention it. When you finally tear your eyes away from him, the dresser beside the doorway catches your eye. You move closer to it and rummage around in one of the top drawers until you find a pair of simple black panties. Bucky’s eyes follow your movements carefully. He leans against the doorframe just like he did in the bathroom earlier, keeping his gaze trained on your face as you lean over and guide the panties up your legs beneath the towel. You’re just careful enough to make sure not to flash Bucky, but you wonder if his eyes would even stray from your face if you flashed him.

            “It’s fine.” You say, referring to the t-shirt. “Are you gonna shower?” You ask, trying to keep your gaze from drifting down his torso again. You turn away from the dresser and head back for the foot of the bed, dropping the shirt onto the mattress before peeling the towel away from your body.

            Bucky stiffens in the doorway as you let your towel fall to your feet. He’s never seen you this way. As you stand there with your back exposed, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties, he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid. Who’s blurring the lines now? He wants to point out your hypocrisy, to make it blatantly obvious, but he stays quiet as you tug the t-shirt over your head and slide your arms through the short sleeves.

            “Did you want to keep staring or were you going to shower?” Your voice rings out playfully as you cut your eyes at Bucky over your shoulder. He tamps down a groan at the way you look at him through your lashes, but then he’s moving toward the bathroom door.

            “If I find you on the couch when I get out, I’m moving you myself.” He threatens, not daring to steal another look at you as he nears the bathroom.

            “I already called it.” You shrug, bending over to scoop your damp towel off the floor.       

            “Take the bed, unless you want me joining you on that damn couch and blurring the lines even more.”

            As you settle into the bed, letting go of your signature stubborn nature for the time being, Bucky’s all you can think about. It’s not the fact that he looked undeniably attractive standing there in the doorway without a shirt on. It’s not the fact that he insisted you take the bed and leave him with the surely uncomfortable couch. It’s every little thing he’s said and done in between that has your heart racing and your mind reeling. What if, just this once, you let yourself explore the tension? What if instead of waiting for the tension to snap like a twig, instead of waiting for him to lay you down in the backseat of someone else’s car in the heat of the moment, you took the initiative and tried to figure out what the hell this is between the two of you? He was right when he said that the lines have been blurred for a long time. Maybe instead of trying to tiptoe around and avoid blurring them, you should just shift them. Shift the lines and see if things end up crashing down in flames. If everything goes horribly, it’s not like you had anything to lose. But if things go well? A shiver runs down your spine and you tuck yourself in underneath the covers of the oversized bed. You sink into the pillow behind your head and let your eyes fall closed as you imagine a moment where your field partner becomes something more. You imagine a moment where all the stolen kisses and touches lately stop being so stolen, and instead are given and taken freely. You imagine what it might feel like to stop running and fighting against this thing that you feel so strongly. Warmth spreads through your body and you relax against the mattress.

            When Bucky steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later and catches sight of you curled up in bed with your eyes closed and the covers pulled up to your shoulders, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. He really thought you’d try to tough it out and sleep on the couch. He stands in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, fiddling with the dog tags around his neck and wondering if he should look for some pajamas of his own instead of crashing on the couch in just a pair of black boxers. When he glances over at you again and sees the peaceful look on your face, he can’t bring himself to go digging through the dresser or closet and risk waking you. Though it’s chilly in the house, he could make it through the night just fine by starting a fire in the living room fireplace and using the spare blanket he set out on the couch while you showered. As he starts moving forward, his dog tags clink against his bare chest and the wooden floor creaks under his feet on the second step. He stills and holds his breath, not even moving to look over his shoulder and see if he’s woken you with those little sounds. After waiting a second, takes another cautious step forward and the floor creaks a little louder. Fuck it. He makes it to the door quickly, with only a few more creaks of wood beneath his feet, but as he exits the doorway into the hall, he hears you stir behind him.

            “Bucky?” Your soft sleepy voice stops him in his tracks. He exhales deeply, feeling a bit guilty about waking you but loving the way you sound when you’ve just woken up. He turns around in the doorway and faces you. You’re propped up on one elbow, squinting at him through the dark room.

            “If I knew the floors were so loud I would’ve just slept in the shower.” He says halfheartedly, speaking quietly to match the sleepy mood of the house.

            “I wasn’t really asleep.” You whisper back. Your eyes follow the curve of his vibranium arm down until you’re studying the black and gold fingertips that hang at his side. Bucky raises a brow at you.

            “You were asleep.” He murmurs, cocking his head to the right. He glances over at the empty side of the bed, noting how little space you take up even when you have your legs stretched out.

            “I was just thinking.”

            “About what?” Bucky wonders aloud. He takes a step forward and leans against the doorframe like he’s done multiple times tonight. He crosses his arms over his chest as you let your head fall away from your hand and lay back on your pillow again. You stare up at the ceiling as nervousness begins to swell up in your chest. You bite down on your bottom lip and screw your eyes shut, holding your breath for a second before deciding to speak again.

            “Blurring the lines.” As you lay there in the dark, refusing to prop yourself back up to look at Bucky, your heart starts beating wildly against your ribcage. He’s silent for a second too long and it has you regretting opening your mouth. When you hear the wood floor creak, you force yourself to open your eyes. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you see Bucky moving toward the bed slowly. His dog tags swing with each step, clanging against his chest a couple of times before he reaches your side of the bed. You watch with bated breath as he nudges your legs through the covers. Getting the hint, you sit up and pull your legs in closer, drawing your knees to your chest. Bucky sits down on the side of the bed but keeps his face cast downward at the floor.

            “That night you tried to sleep it off…” His voice trails off as he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks down at his hands as he presses his palms together. “Did it work?” You swallow hard but don’t hesitate to shake your head. You know he catches the act in his peripheral vision, so you don’t say a word. Bucky nods slowly, studying his hands as if he’s memorizing every detail of them. Your eyes drift to his shoulders as he takes steady, even breaths. They rise and fall rhythmically as moonlight from the window across the room filters in through the curtains and highlights them.

            Bucky wants to say more, to ask you more. He can tell that you’re open to talking right now, probably more open than you’ve ever been before, but he has this sinking feeling that you’ll say something that’ll break him. He doesn’t know if he can handle hearing you say out loud just how one-sided you think this thing between you really is. Even though he’s sure it’s not actually one-sided, hearing you say that it is might really break him. He won’t give you the chance to do that yet. He wants to hold out hope a little longer. So, Bucky rises from the side of the bed and exhales deeply. When he turns to head for the door again, intent on settling into that stiff green couch in the living room for the night, every sensory receptor in his body fires at once at the feeling of your hand reaching out and grasping his flesh one. He drops his gaze quickly and sees exactly what he feels: your palm sliding against his and your fingers intertwining with his softly. His throat feels dry and every thought leaves his mind as you tighten your grasp and tug on his hand slightly.

            “Lay with me.” You whisper. Your tone is so meek that he can tell exactly what’s going through your mind right now. You’re afraid he’ll say no. You’re afraid that he’ll reject you and continue on to sleep on the couch, leaving you here alone, feeling vulnerable and stunted. The tone of your whisper puts the tiniest crack in his hard exterior.

            Bucky’s silent as you drop his hand and scoot closer to the middle of the bed, pulling back the covers for him. He moves slow as he settles into the warm spot you’d been occupying, inhaling your sweet scent as he pulls the covers over his body and rolls onto his side to face you. You’re just a few inches away, lying on your folded arm since he moved the second pillow to the couch earlier. He could get up and go grab the pillow. He’d only be gone for a few seconds. But he fears the moment he leaves your sight, you’ll change your mind about having him here and he’ll have ruined everything. That’s why he tugs the pillow out from under his head and moves it toward you, watching with a softened gaze as you accept it and slide it beneath your own head.

            You’re falling asleep right in front of his eyes a few minutes later, when suddenly your eyes flutter open and you reach out for him beneath the covers. Your warm palm lands on his side, skating around to his back before you pull him toward you. He moves in carefully, apprehensively, until his chest is nearly pressed against yours. He watches as you drag the pillow until it’s in the shared space between you and both of your heads fall to rest on it evenly. With Bucky’s body heat keeping you warm and the light patter of rain on the bedroom window lulling you to sleep, your eyes are closed only a few minutes later and Bucky finds himself missing the heat of your stare until he too drifts off into an unusually peaceful slumber.

            You awake in a tangle of limbs with lightning flashing through the curtains and illuminating the room with a ghostly glow.  Everything looks a little scarier in an antique house at three in the morning. Thunder rumbles loudly just above the house, shaking the roof and rattling the glass window. As you fully come to your senses, you figure out just where your limbs are in relation to Bucky’s and your heart rate picks up quickly. He’s asleep directly in front of you, with his face looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it. But his legs and arms…

            A shaky breath flows out through your nose as you close your eyes and try not to move. Bucky has one thigh wedged snugly between yours and an arm thrown lazily over your waist. You can tell that your t-shirt has ridden up above your hips and ass, with his forearm resting against the hem of it on your waist. Blurred lines. So fucking blurred.

            You close your eyes tightly as a loud crack of thunder reverberates through the house. Bucky’s instantly awoken as the thunder rolls and you tense up against him. He focuses on your face, on your tightly closed eyes and the way you’re holding your breath. He moves the arm that’s draped over your waist slowly until his hand is ghosting over your hip. His fingertips just barely graze the hem of your t-shirt as thunder sounds again. You look into his eyes right as you move your left hand to clamp down over his, forcing his palm to press flat against your hip and his fingers to curl against your skin. As you stare into each other’s eyes and the storm rages on just outside, the tension rising between you feels just like it did in the car outside of Sharon’s apartment that night.

            “I don’t want to keep blurring the lines.” Bucky rasps as he squeezes your hip once. Your eyes trail down to his lips as he speaks only inches from your face. He leans in slowly until he’s so close that one little shift of your head would have you kissing him. He lets the tip of his nose brush against yours gently before moving down and pressing his lips to your jawline. He leaves kisses in a row all the way back to your ear, moving at a torturously slow pace until he’s nipping at your neck in that way that always drives you crazy.

            “Then what do you want?” You ask breathlessly. Bucky pushes the knee that’s trapped between your legs upward until he’s applying the tiniest bit of pressure against your clothed cunt. A soft moan escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs around his and focus on the feel of skin against skin.

            “I want to cross them.” He whispers against your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access as his tongue swirls against the column of your throat. “I want to lay you down on the line and just…” Bucky tugs the neck of your shirt to the side and bites down on your collarbone lightly. “Fuck you on it.”

            “Bucky…” His name is a whimper that floats from your lips and fills the space around you both. Moving his hand back down to your hip, Bucky curls his fingertips into it and pulls you down, making your grind against the firm muscle of his thigh. This time a sultry moan slips out and your back arches slightly, causing your chest to press against his.

            “How am I supposed to keep my hands off of you when you say my name like that?” Wetness pools between your thighs and begins to dampen the fabric of your panties as he pushes his thigh upward again, at the same time that he pulls your hip down and applies pressure to your clit just right. You know you should have better sense than to lay here and let him do unspeakable things to you. You should remind him that you’re partners, that you’d be risking things professionally if you let things go on this way. You should remind him that you’re technically on a mission right now, but his name just falls from your lips again. You’re actively emptying your mind of any thought that would have you push him away when he attaches his lips to your neck again and pulls you in against his chest. You try to push his shoulders and force him onto his back so you can move on top of him, but he fights against you, rolling on top of you instead. He pins your arms down on either side of your head and lets his nose brush against yours a second time. He lowers his hips down slowly as your legs spread on their own accord, giving him the space to press his clothed erection against your wet panties.

            “How do we keep ending up like this?” You whisper against his lips, staring up into his blue eyes as your question hangs in the air. Bucky presses his lips to yours in a short, shallow kiss. “I keep telling myself this can’t happen and we keep ending up here.”

            “Let me have you.” He begs, dropping his forehead to yours. You look at him through your lashes as your breath hitches in your throat. “Let me have you just this once.”

            “Just this once? That’s all you’re asking for?” The words come out airy and light as you struggle to take in a full breath. Bucky grinds against you, circling his hips slowly while he keeps your arms pinned to the mattress.

            “I’d ask you for a lifetime if I didn’t think it would scare the shit out of you.” Goosebumps prickle across your skin and you bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

            “We can’t fuck.” You say decidedly. The surety of your voice surprises you, with how malleable you feel having Bucky grind against you like this. You fear that if he really asked you for something specific, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. He circles his hips into yours impossibly harder and shakes his head above you.

            “I wasn’t asking if I could fuck you.” Bucky takes in the confused look on your face and he can’t help but to lean in and kiss you. He envisions what he really wants to do to you. He pictures the way he wants to push your legs apart and eat you out like your pussy is his last meal. Then he kisses you like that’s exactly what he’s doing. His tongue delves into your mouth relentlessly, leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls back. He lets go of your forearms and pushes the covers away from his back as he shimmies down. He kisses your neck, then your chest through the t-shirt. He leaves soft, gentle kisses all the way down until he’s settling himself between your legs and pressing his lips against the waistband of your panties. You look down at him through your lashes, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his face closer to where you need it. “I was asking if I could taste you.”

            “You say you want to lay me down on the metaphorical line and fuck me, and then you get between my legs and ask if you can just taste me?”

            “I’m not fucking you until I know I can do it without you running off and pretending like it meant nothing to you.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss right over your clothed clit. The warmth of his tongue seeps through the fabric, sending a jolt of pleasure dancing up your spine and a knot tightening low in your stomach. “When I fuck you, you’re not going to get all in your head about how you shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re not going to have regrets and feel like we ruined everything we had.” Bucky hooks a finger in your panties and gently pulls them to the side, but he never looks down. He maintains eye contact as he starts pressing the pad of his thumb against your now exposed clit. Him finding your clit instantly without even looking, without having your anatomy perfectly memorized, almost ruins you. “When I fuck you, you’re going to realize that you were just delaying the inevitable.”

            “You keep saying when.” You point out between heavy pants. You can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair any longer, not when he’s toying with your clit this way and looking at you so intensely. You reach down with both hands, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging on it lightly.

            “Inevitable, sweetheart. Tell me what that word means.” He finally lets his eyes angle downward and settle on your wet cunt. You watch as his pupils dilate and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips as he admires you from just a couple of inches away. He starts circling your clit with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to have your back arching off of the bed and your fingers curling in his brown hair. Bucky inches closer to your pussy and you feel his tongue press against your entrance firmly, before he’s dragging it upwards and using it to replace his thumb. He pulls back abruptly, leaving you whining out in frustration. “If something’s inevitable, it’s certain. It’s unavoidable, it was bound to happen.” His warm breath fans over your pussy as he speaks in a low voice. Bucky sucks on your clit roughly before pulling back again. “When I fuck you, when the inevitable happens, you won’t be able to pretend like there’s nothing between us anymore.”

            You’re torn between wanting to argue with him and wanting to clamp your thighs around his head and grind against his tongue. Bucky smirks up at you and you tug on his hair a little harder out of spite.

            “It’s already happening, isn’t it?” He asks just before flattening his tongue against your clit and letting your circle your hips against him. Your eyes flutter closed as that knot in your stomach tightens more and more. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”

            “Fuck you.” You moan out the insult, but it’s useless as he slides down and pushes his tongue inside of you. His thumb takes over stimulating your clit once again as he starts eating you out like he’s dreamt of doing it since he’s known you. His tongue works you up higher and higher, closer and closer to the edge of the cliff as a sweat breaks out across your forehead and you struggle to keep your ass on the bed.

            “You’re getting close.” He groans against you. You whimper as he drags his thumb away from your clit and switches to rubbing it with his middle and ring fingers. He moves slow now, sliding those fingertips away from your clit and toward your entrance.

            “Bucky…” You say his name in warning. You know what he’s about to do. He plunges both fingers into you, stopping when they’re halfway in and your back is arched inches off of the bed. Your fingertips scrape against his scalp as you hold in a moan that would’ve been damn near pornographic if you’d let it out. Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh before dragging his fingers out and then pushing them back in all the way. As he holds them inside of you knuckle-deep, you cry out loudly. It’s been so long since you’ve let anyone do something like this to you and he isn’t giving you much time to adjust, but god, it feels so fucking good.

            “Breathe, baby.” He says as he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. He starts fucking you with his fingers slowly, almost gently. In and out they go, first just halfway each time, but then he starts thrusting them deeper and going a little faster with it. “I would’ve gone a little easier on you if you hadn’t held in that pretty little sound.”

            “Just…fuck, Bucky.” You moan, hooking your legs over his shoulders as a loud crack of thunder sends the window rattling again. “I’m close.”

            “Trust me, I know.” He groans, pressing a sloppier kiss to the inside of your thigh as he curls his fingers inside of you. You cry out again, but this time your hands leave his hair and go to grip the sheets on either side of your head. “Are you going to imagine you’re cumming on my cock when this orgasm hits?”

            “No.” You say defiantly, shaking your head as he curls his fingers again. He laughs darkly, clearly calling your bluff.

            “You know you squeeze the hell out of my fingers when you lie?”

            “I do not.”

            “That’s it, baby.” Bucky coos. He positions himself to attach his lips to your clit as he continues his ministrations with his hand. “Keep tightening around my fingers until you fucking cum.”

            Some part of you wants to keep defying him. You want to be stubborn and refuse to give him this piece of you, refuse to give him one of your orgasms. It feels like if you let go and give it to him, you’re going to tumble right over the edge of a cliff and into the unknown. But why does it feel so damn good as you stand on the edge of that cliff? When you stop resisting and let your orgasm wash over you, when Bucky watches as your face contorts with bliss and your knuckles turn white against the bed sheets, he’s just as far gone as you are. You’re cumming around his fingers while he laps at your clit, and he’s cumming in his boxers without even having realized just how close he was to doing it.

            There’s an odd feeling brewing in his chest as he puts your panties back in place and collapses beside you in bed. He can’t quite figure out what it is. When you catch your breath and look over at him, taking in the sight of Bucky Barnes with your arousal painted over his lips and chin, you feel your heart skip a beat. Bucky looks back at you, but he only gets a second to see your dilated pupils and flushed cheeks before you’re leaning in and swiping your tongue across his bottom lip.

            As your lips move against his in a gentle, familiar way, his lungs burn and his heart is pounding in his ears. Because he knows what this is. He knows what that unusual feeling in his chest really is. Love. He’s in love with the girl who lives to ignore her feelings.

            You’re in too deep. You can’t even try to reason with yourself. As you lie in a tangle of sheets, listening to the mixed water sounds of Bucky showering and rain falling lightly just outside the bedroom window, you feel utterly fucked. And not just because Bucky fucked you with his mouth last night. You let out a frustrated groan before rolling onto your back and fisting your hands in your messy hair. You can’t tell yourself to be professional because you’re so far past professional now that it’d be insulting to you both if you tried to revert. You can’t tell yourself to stop crossing lines with him because you know just how good it feels every time you do it. Bucky was onto something last night when he asked you if it was getting harder for you to pretend that there’s nothing between the two of you.

            Your eyes float over to the partially closed bathroom door and you watch for a moment as steam floats through the space between it and the doorframe. Is it steam from the hot shower or is it just radiating off of the man that said your pussy gets tighter when you lie? Blush creeps into your cheeks at the memory of him saying such a filthy thing while his fingers were inside of you.

            Bucky tenses up in the shower when he hears the bathroom door creak open the tiniest bit. When your bare feet lightly tap along the cold floor and he hears them stop in front of the sink, a small smile plays on his lips.

            “You’re not coming in?” Bucky’s smirk is evident in his tone and you’re biting on the inside of your cheek as you reach for your toothbrush.

            “You remember me saying we can’t fuck, right?” You ask, though even as you say it, it feels like a weak statement.

            “Do you remember me saying it’s inevitable?” He retorts playfully. You should tell him to fuck off, but you only find yourself tempted to actually join him in the shower. As you spread a bit of toothpaste along the bristles of your toothbrush, you shake your head to yourself.

            “I’m brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”

            “That’s fine.” Bucky replies nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed by your slight rejection. He spends the next ten minutes lathering and rinsing for the second time in less than twelve hours. He isn’t normally someone who takes a shower both in the morning and at night, but after he came in his boxers last night, he fell asleep next to you and didn’t take the time to clean himself up. He woke up feeling like he’d had a wet dream.

            Peggy sits on the foot of the bed, waiting patiently as you try on a third dress.

            “Are you alright in there?” Peggy calls out politely, uncrossing her legs and readying to rise from the bed if need be. You laugh softly from inside the walk-in closet before pulling the door open and revealing the deep blue dress she picked for you to try a few minutes ago. It has cap sleeves, a high neckline, and an A-line style skirt.  “I think that one looks wonderful on you, don’t you like it?” She asks, pushing herself up and coming to stand in front of you. She catches the pinched look on your face before you’ve even formulated a response. You didn’t quite like the first two dresses either, and at this point there are only a handful left to try. She has to wonder if maybe it’s the dissonance between forties-style dresses and modern dresses that’s throwing you off. “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy calls for him loudly.

            Bucky’s rising from the couch and heading down the hall as soon as he’s been invited into the bedroom. He was kicked out pretty much the moment he finished up his morning shower, with Peggy showing up and saying she just had to get started on your look for tonight. He was a bit skeptical about how much time it’d really take, but after hearing you try on three dresses and dislike every single one, he sees why she came so early.

            “What do we need him for?” Confusion is written all over your face as you smooth down the blue dress and raise a brow at Peggy.

            “He’s the one that needs to like the dress, isn’t he?” She questions, motioning for Bucky to come in. He takes a few steps into the room and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as his eyes coast over the dress. It’s pretty, it’s definitely very forties-esque, but it’s not you. It’s not you and it’s definitely not for him. “Help her pick a dress for tonight.” Bucky stares at her for a long moment before she starts moving toward the door. She pats his shoulder as she passes him, leaning in to whisper in his ear just as you’re disappearing back into the closet. “She needs you for this.”

            You feel Bucky’s presence in the closet without having to turn around and look at him. He stops just a few inches behind you, looking over your shoulder at the row of dresses that you have to choose from.

            “It’s a little different than your closet back home.” He says softly, watching as your fingertips dance across the fabric of each hanging dress.

            “You haven’t seen my closet back home.” You point out, tugging on the side of a dark navy dress. As soon as you see the front of it, you let it go. Your fingers continue on, looking for another dark fabric.

            “If you’re looking for something like that little black dress you wore last weekend, you won’t find it in here.” Bucky replies. Thinking about that little black dress sends your mind back to the night in the bar, when Bucky kissed you in front of everyone. Then your mind wanders to what happened in the car after, and you have to shake the thought of it from your head. Your fingers brush along a bright red dress and you don’t even consider checking it out. Bucky steps up close behind you, so close that you feel his body heat permeating your skin through the blue dress you’re wearing. He reaches around you with his right arm and grasps the edge of the only black fabric amongst all of the dresses hanging there.

            “Peggy said something colorful would be best.” You murmur as he removes the dress from the hanging rack and holds it out in front of you both.

            “He won’t be paying much attention to the dress.” Bucky assures you. He leans in close to your ear before whispering his next words. “And you look good in black.”  A chill runs through you but you reach out and grasp the hanger quickly before turning around and pressing a hand against Bucky’s chest.

            “Let me change.” You push against his chest gently and he takes a few steps backward until he’s out of the closet. As he moves across the room to sit on the foot of the bed where Peggy previously was, he hears the sound of your blue dress unzipping but not the sound of the closet door closing. He takes a cautious look as he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. There you are, slipping out of that deep blue fabric while giving Bucky an almost clear view of you in forties-style black lingerie. His cock is awake instantly and is hardening within the already sort of tight-fitting sweats he took from Stark’s dresser earlier this morning. Bucky leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees as he drops his line of sight to the floor.

            You walk out only a moment later in the dress he chose. It’s all black, with off the shoulder sleeves and a fairly low-cut neckline. It hugs your body tightly. It’s quite similar to the shape of the red dress that Peggy wore when he first saw her in the Whip and Fiddle.

            “Don’t look at me like that.” You say lightly, watching as Bucky’s eyes glide up and down your figure multiple times. He clears his throat and sits up straight before motioning with his flesh hand for you to come closer. You move forward until you’re a couple of feet in front of him, but then your eyes drop to his lap and you see his erection pressed against his sweats. Confidence rolls off of you in waves as you stop thinking and take a few more steps toward him. You don’t stop until you’re standing between his legs and he’s looking up at you. You let your hands rest on his shoulders as his move to ghost along the outsides of your thighs.

            “Don’t go too far with him tonight.” Bucky’s tone is almost pleading as he searches your eyes, but his expression is unreadable.

            “How far is too far?” You swallow thickly after asking your question. Bucky curls his fingers into your hips and draws in a deep breath.

            “I don’t know.” He admits, but he does know. He knows that he doesn’t even want you to let this younger version of himself dance with you. He doesn’t want to let him lean in and whisper in your ear, he doesn’t want him to even get the chance to consider kissing you.

            “You told me he moves fast, and we need him and Steve to be on board for this mission tomorrow. I can’t reject him.” You explain quietly, glancing over your shoulder to make sure Peggy’s still in the living room. When you turn your head forward again and look down at Bucky, he’s leaning in closer to you. You watch with your breath hitched in your throat as he lets the tip of his nose brush against your dress, just below your breasts. He moves slow, dragging his nose upward and letting his lips follow in their wake until he’s halfway up your chest. Your hands slide up the sides of his neck and tangle in his hair, tugging him back to look at you again.

            “Why did you ask me to lay with you last night?” Bucky finally asks the question that’s been on his mind since he woke up this morning. You exhale slowly, absentmindedly massaging your fingers into his scalp while his thumbs rub circles against the front of your hips. He watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to come up with a safe answer.

            “I wanted to know what it would feel like…to stop pretending.” You whisper.

            “How did it feel?” His eyes stray from your face, taking in the swell of your breasts over the low neckline of the dress. Filthy memories of last night flood your brain and you clench your thighs together slightly. It wasn’t slightly enough, because Bucky catches on instantly and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. While you’re remembering the feel of his kisses against your inner thigh and his tongue on your clit, he’s remembering the sweet taste of your cunt and the pretty sounds you made just for him.

            “Good.” Your whisper is even quieter now, and your nerves are rising knowing Peggy’s just down the hall in the living room.

            “Just good?” Bucky fishes for more. He tests the waters, letting his hands slide down your thighs, closer to the hem of the dress. You don’t move away, you don’t swat at his hands or tell him to stop.

            “Just good, Bucky.” You answer. But as his fingers hook beneath the hem of your dress and he starts guiding it higher and higher up your legs, you know your resolve and will to pretend is crumbling.

            “I think you’re lying.” He says calmly, staring up at you with those blue eyes as the hem of the dress nears the middle of your thighs. You squeeze his shoulders as he lets his flesh thumb graze the lace edge of your panties, close to where your thigh meets your center.

            “Peggy’s here.” You whisper the reminder, but make no effort to break away from him. In fact, you find yourself leaning into his touch. Bucky’s quick as he slips one finger into your panties and drags it along the length of your folds, gathering the slick arousal that’s started collecting between them.

            “Shh, I just want to see if you’re lying to me.” Bucky hushes you just as his gaze is dropping to your lower body and he’s nudging your feet apart with his right foot. You don’t stop him. You don’t do anything but close your eyes and dig your fingertips into his shoulders as he dips a finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open and you inhale sharply as he curls it against your walls. “How did it feel last night? To stop pretending for a little while?” He gazes up at you with what you think is a look of lust, but he knows is all fucking love. “Just good?”

            “Bucky…fuck.” He pulls his finger out before plunging it in deeper than before, and then he curls it again.

            “That’s not an answer.”

            “It felt good…it felt, shit, Bucky.” He starts thrusting his finger in and out of you at a medium pace as you try to piece together your answer. “It felt right.” He slows to a stop as you say that last word. Though you’re tight as fuck, just like you were last night, he doesn’t feel that characteristic clenching when you give your answer. You’re telling the truth. Maybe that’s a stupid way to interrogate you, but his theory is proving true so far. He pulls his finger out of you and brings it to his lips, sucking it into his mouth and savoring your taste. You look down just as he's pulling it away from his lips and tugging your dress back into place.

            “Black heels.” He says lightly, patting the side of your thigh as you step away from him. He rises in front of you and moves a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same finger that was just inside you. “The third ones from the closet door.”

            Bucky’s waltzing out of the room, tucking his hard-on into the waistband of his sweats as you’re left standing there dazed. Dazed and beyond aroused. Part of you wants to grab him by the back of his shirt and drag him back into the room, telling him to finish what he started. The other part of you knows better than to give him the satisfaction. So, you grab that pair of black heels from the closet and keep your mouth shut.

            You feel uncharacteristically nervous for what should just be another mission on your long list of undercover ops. Maybe it’s because you have one version of Bucky Barnes listening through the in-ear monitor you’re sporting, while you’re moments away from meeting another version of the same man. Or maybe it’s because you’re trying to walk the very fine line between hating Bucky Barnes and loving him. Whatever it is, you’re nervous and it’s showing.

            Peggy walks close to your side, leading the way down the busy street in her red dress and matching heels. You can hear the watch on her left wrist ticking away as you approach the Whip and Fiddle.

            “You seem worried.” Peggy voices her observation softly as she slows her pace a bit and casts you a sideways glance. You let out a stiff laugh before pushing a curl over your shoulder. She did your hair and makeup in a way that has you feeling like something fresh out of a forties fashion catalog. “Is it the mission itself or the man involved?” You swallow thickly, knowing Bucky can hear the entire conversation through your in-ear monitor. You could reach up and turn it off, have a quick girls chat with Peggy while leaving Bucky in the dark. But you’re sure Peggy would instantly realize that you’re on comms and you don’t know how she’d feel about not being let in on it sooner.

            “I’m fine, just not used to life in the forties I guess.” You respond curtly.

            “Well, that wasn’t very convincing.” She huffs. When she slows to a stop beside you, you know it’s futile to keep walking toward the bar, so you stop and turn to face her. “He looks at you like he would’ve given you the world and his last name in any timeline.”

            “Peggy—”

            “Now you have to spend an evening flirting with a younger version of him when you don’t even know how you feel about your version of him. You don’t have to lie to me just because he’s listening in, he knows that you’re conflicted.” Your eyes widen as she lets you in on exactly how perceptive she is. You hear Bucky clear his throat through your ear piece and pink begins to color your cheeks, you’re sure it’s even showing through the blush Peggy applied for you earlier.

            “I’ll be fine.” You assure her, though the words don’t come out sounding quite as convincing as you’d hoped.

            “I’m sure you will be. Sergeant Barnes will show you an exceptionally great time tonight, but it won’t make your problem any easier to figure out.”

            “My problem?”

            “You’re in love with your partner and you don’t know how to handle it.”

            “You just met us last night and you’ve already decided that?” You ask incredulously, crossing your arms over your chest as Peggy glances over at the door to the Whip and Fiddle. You see a few soldiers spilling out of the place with varying degrees of unstable gaits and boisterous laughs. You don’t recognize any of them as Steve or Bucky, so you turn your attention back to her.

            “It doesn’t matter when I met you, I look at you and I see me.” That’s how Peggy sees your situation so clearly. She’s in the same one. She’s in love with Steve Rogers and she doesn’t know what to do about it. She doesn’t know how to handle it yet. You let out a deep sigh and let your arms fall to your sides. Bucky’s staying quiet on the other end of comms, so quiet that you can’t even hear him breathe. “I want to ask you how things end for me in the future…how things end for us, but I won’t.” You know that she’s referring to herself and Steve and your heart breaks a little for her. “Don’t let fear get in the way of the rest of your life. You could live a wonderful life with a man that feels what he feels for you, but you can lose it all by being too afraid to give him a chance.”

            Your black heels are frozen to the sidewalk as Peggy’s words echo in your mind. When she turns and starts heading for the entrance to the bar, you stay still and quiet.

            “They end up together.” Bucky’s voice plays in your ear so quietly that you think you’ve made it up for a moment.

            “How do you know?” You finally ask, speaking under your breath as you start moving in Peggy’s direction slowly. Bucky lets out a long sigh, like he’s dwelling on a memory.

            “It’s the only reason Steve would’ve stayed behind like he did.” Bucky listens to the slow, steady clicking of your heels against the pavement as he grows closer and closer to losing you to his younger self. He wants to say so much more. He wants to point out that you didn’t deny it when Peggy said you were in love with him. He wants to ask if you’re really afraid, if she was right about that. But it’s not the time. It’ll probably never be the time.

            He leans back into the couch as he listens to the distant din of the Whip and Fiddle. The in-ear monitor won’t pick up much background noise, but he hears the sound of a bell chiming as the door opens for you and the sound of way too many soldiers clamoring around the space that you’re in. His eyes scrunch closed and his vibranium arm whirs as he curls his hand into a fist.

            “Captain.” Peggy’s accent carries the title with an air of class as she approaches a man seated at the bar. You recognize the back of his head instantly. Steve Rogers. He turns around quickly, coming to stand only two feet in front of Peggy as his eyes quickly, and quite respectably, roam over her figure.  The room slows and everything starts sounding muffled when the man seated next to Steve turns around and his eyes meet yours. Bucky. You stare at each other for a few long seconds, neither of you saying anything.

            “Agent Carter.” Steve addresses her, breaking you out of your trance. You look over at the tall super soldier with his perfectly styled blonde hair and dress uniform, noting the way his eyes never leave Peggy.

            “Howard has some equipment for you to try.” Peggy’s mouth is speaking business, but her eyes are saying something else entirely as they lock onto Steve’s and refuse to stray. You can feel Bucky’s eyes studying you intensely over Peggy’s shoulder as you avoid his gaze and watch the exchange that’s happening in front of you instead. “Maybe after tomorrow’s mission?”

            “Sounds good.” Steve keeps his replies short, but every word is thick with tension. Peggy leans back a bit and glances across the bar, noting a particularly lively table of men. They lean into each other as they sing along to a tune someone’s banging out on a beat up piano in the corner of the bar.               

            “I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” She says facetiously.

            “You don’t like music?” Bucky asks, tilting his head to the side and cocking a brow at her. Her gaze remains fixed on Steve as Bucky steps to the side to get a better look at you.

            “I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”

            “And you?” Bucky directs his question at you now, nodding his head in your direction as Peggy steps to the side and gives you space to join the conversation. “Do you dance?”

            “With the right partner.” You reply softly, trying hard not to get lost in his blue eyes. Though he’s younger and so much more naïve, you see the Bucky you know all over the man in front of you. You see him in every artistic feature of his face, you see him in the way he cocks his head to the side and flashes a smirk at you.

            “Then what are we waiting for?” He asks playfully, nodding his head toward the more open part of the bar. You don’t rush to take his outstretched hand, but once your palm is against his, you get the same feeling that you’ve felt every time your version of Bucky has ever touched you. It feels electric. It feels like every nerve ending beneath your skin is on fire. It feels like you’re on the edge of a cliff and a strong wind is about to blow through and send you spiraling down.

            Back at the safehouse, Bucky’s stomach is twisting into knots as he pictures you wrapped up in the arms of anyone but him. He knows it’s stupid. He knows that this guy, in some way, really is him. But it still feels wrong. He listens reluctantly as this younger, more charismatic version of himself flirts and banters with you through multiple dances. He listens as the young soldier leans in close to your ear and tells you how you took the breath out of his lungs the moment you walked into the bar. He starts to feel a little nauseas and wonders if he’s finally heading into his own bout with time sickness when he hears the sound of a genuine laugh slipping past your lips at whatever it was that the young soldier said to you.

            It isn’t long before Bucky’s ripping the in-ear monitor out and tossing it on the kitchen table. He paces back and forth, focusing on the sound of his feet thudding against the wooden floorboards. Don’t go too far with him tonight. Bucky can still hear the way he pleaded with you earlier today. It was pathetic, but it was heartfelt. This younger version of himself would be completely on board with your mission even if you’d just flashed him a smile. Fuck. He runs his hands through his hair and curls his fingers into the soft brown locks, tugging them away from his scalp as he stops pacing. What the hell is he doing? You invited him into bed last night. You slept next to him. You let him slip between your legs and eat you out so thoroughly that he swears he can still taste you now. You let him finger your pussy just so he could find out if you were lying or not. You’re not going to let this younger version of him take things too far after all of that, right?

            Bucky exhales through his nose as he sinks back into one of the kitchen chairs and stares down at the earpiece on the table. He takes it in his flesh hand and rolls it between his middle and index finger for a moment, knowing he has to put it back in. When did he turn into such a jealous guy?

            The young Sergeant Barnes is captivated by you. He watches from the bar as you breeze through casual conversation with Peggy. You have a way of seeming so genuinely interested in anything that anyone says to you. You wholeheartedly hang on every word spoken and you get this look in your eye like nothing is more important to you than whatever’s being said. You seemed every bit as invested in Bucky’s spiel about Ferris wheels as you were when he leaned into your ear and told you about his family back home.

            “She’s a lady, Buck.” Steve says lightly, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a short sip. Bucky swirls amber colored whiskey around in the bottom of his glass as his blue eyes glimmer in the low lights of the bar. “Don’t get any ideas, she works with Peggy.”

            “You work with Peggy.” Bucky points out, casting him a disapproving glance before zeroing in on you again. “And you have ideas.”

            “I have ideas.” Steve mumbles, nodding curtly in surrender. He can’t lie to Bucky.

            “You don’t want to take your ideas over there and ask her to dance?” Bucky shifts his gaze to Peggy. He can almost imagine her proper accent as he watches her lips move in conversation with you. He has no doubt, just from the little interaction between Steve and Peggy when you girls first arrived at the bar, that Steve’s head over heels. Not only Steve, but Peggy’s envisioning a life with him too.

            “It’s not the right time.” Steve replies, setting his mug down on the bar and turning to face the same direction as Bucky.  

            “If you keep waiting, you’ll miss the time entirely.”

            “Can you miss fate?” Steve asks thoughtfully. Peggy lifts her gaze and turns her head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze across the bar for a fleeting second.

            “I’m not going to wait around here with you and find out.” Bucky’s downing the last of his whiskey and heading for you just as Peggy’s heading for Steve. His eyes are all over you as he approaches, sending your confidence soaring and your nerves stirring in the pit of your stomach. When he steps in close and wraps an arm around your waist, letting his right hand rest on the small of your back, you melt into his touch.

            “How much of London have you seen?” He whispers the question in your ear, letting his lips ghost so close to your ear that a shiver rolls through you.

            “Not enough.” You admit, biting down on your bottom lip as he curls his fingertips against the back of your dress.

            “Let me show you?” It’s a request. But when he pulls back and looks into your eyes, there’s no way you could deny him.

            No. Bucky’s clenching his fists atop the safehouse kitchen table as he listens to the sound of his younger self pushing open some creaky door. The din of the bar fades into the background as your heels click against pavement. You’re outside of the bar now. You’re not going to see London, that’s for fucking sure. Bucky grits his teeth as his own voice plays through the earpiece. He’s never wanted to wring his own neck so damn bad.

            “There are a lot of parts of the city that aren’t safe with the war going on, but if you work with Peggy, I’m guessing you’re used to that.” You stand still at the side exit of the bar, watching as Bucky carefully places his army uniform hat over his head. Somehow, the dark brick walls of the alley make his eyes seem more blue.  

            “Are we going somewhere dangerous, Sergeant Barnes?” You ask softly, looking up at him through your lashes as he straightens up his uniform jacket. You let your eyes coast down, taking in the sight of him in full uniform. Why don’t they still dress men this way?

            “Sergeant Barnes, hm?” He repeats the name slowly, taking two steps toward you as you take one step back toward the brick side wall of the Whip and Fiddle.

            “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

            “You don’t like calling me Bucky?” Another step forward and the fabric of his jacket is brushing against the fabric of your dress as your back meets the brick wall. He leans in and raises his arms, letting his palms rest against the brick on either side of your head as he cages you in. Truthfully, you don’t like calling him Bucky. You’ve avoided saying his name all night. It feels weird, it feels wrong. Just last night you were moaning that name with a slightly different man between your legs. By calling this one something different, you can at least separate the two a tiny bit.

            “You don’t like when I call you Sergeant Barnes?” You skirt around his question with one of your own. He chuckles as a smug look spreads over his features. He drops his head lower and lower until his lips are a mere inch away from yours and his blue eyes are staring so far into you that you’re sure he can see every thought in your spiraling mind.

            “You can call me anything you want and I’m damn sure I’ll love it.” He whispers. Your eyes track the movement of his tongue as it darts out and wets his lips.

            Your world shifts when you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in. His lips are soft as they part against yours and move in the way that only men named Bucky Barnes seem to move their lips. He kisses you like he’s done it countless times in every timeline that exists. Even as rain begins pattering down, soaking his uniform and your dress, you only tug on his jacket a little harder and angle your head to the side. As his tongue dances along your bottom lip, you hesitate for the shortest second. You can hear a voice echoing in your head, asking you not to go too far tonight, but his tongue is in your mouth and your guilt only multiplies when the taste of honey-tinged whiskey soaks into your taste buds.

            You taste like honey.

            You remember the first time your version of Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth as the rain begins to pour down. You don’t mean to be so rash, but you’re loosening your grip on the uniform jacket and pressing your palms flat against his chest in an instant.

            “What were you drinking tonight?” You ask in a raspy whisper. You let Bucky stay close enough that your foreheads are nearly touching as he sucks in a deep breath and bites his bottom lip. Shaking his head like you’ve just asked him the most out of pocket question he’s ever heard, he releases his bottom lip slowly.

            “Four Roses.” He answers just as quietly. You nod to yourself as you commit the name to memory. He lets his left hand trail down the wet brick wall, moving it closer and closer to your face until you feel his warm palm press against your cheek. The fact that his palm isn’t a cool vibranium metal one contrasting with your heated skin makes you draw in a sharp breath and close your eyes. Why the fuck are you having so much trouble with this? You should be able to make out with the guy and put on a convincing act for five minutes. But no, he tastes like honey and you’re done for. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how long it’s been since you heard even the tiniest noise through your earpiece, and your guilt increases tenfold. As if the man before you can read your mind, he lets his hand fall away from your face. “You’re not mine to kiss like this, are you?”

            “That’s the problem.” You whisper shakily, curling your fingers into the coarse fabric of his jacket lapels one more time. Your eyes float upward and meet his as you fight the urge to swallow the words you’re about to speak. “I think I am, and that scares the hell out of me.”

            Something changed for you at the Whip and Fiddle tonight. Peggy isn’t quite sure what it is, but she senses it. She senses it in the air in the same way she senses the coming rain. Even if she couldn’t see the dark clouds gathering along the edge of the city, if she couldn’t smell the rain in the air, she could feel the atmosphere changing as the storm approaches. Everything is set for tomorrow. The Howling Commandos are going to take down yet another HYDRA base, and now that you have an in with the forty’s version of Bucky, it shouldn’t be all too hard to use the connection to your advantage and slip inside of the base yourself. As far as he knows, you work with Peggy and you can hold your own pretty damn well. So, as you sit in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car staring straight ahead, why do you seem so off? If everything is going according to plan so far, what’s wrong with you?

            “Sergeant Barnes seemed quite taken with you.” Peggy comments as she guides the car away from the city. You’re not really paying much attention to her words, not when you’re still mulling over the realization you came to when you kissed the young sergeant in the alley earlier tonight. You couldn’t stand the fact that his left hand was his own, or that he was missing that characteristic darkness around him. It was Bucky, of course, but it wasn’t really Bucky. It wasn’t the Bucky you know. Sure, when you kissed him he tasted the same, he even smelled the same. But you were kissing a version of Bucky that hasn’t yet experienced any of the things that made the man you slept next to last night. You feel like you’ve been carrying around a perfectly crafted piece of pottery, neatly sculpted and fired in a kiln. It’s been hardened and glazed with dark earthy tones, completely finished. Then, someone shoved that piece of pottery into the back of a kitchen cabinet and handed you a wet mound of clay. You don’t want the soft, unmolded version of Bucky. You want the hardened, finished version.

            “He still drinks the same whiskey.” You don’t know why you’re dwelling on that little detail. You reach up with one hand and press your fingers against your lips, feeling a frustrating warmth awaken low in your stomach. Peggy looks over at you briefly, not letting her gaze linger for long before her eyes are back on the road ahead.      

            “Steve and I…we wait until it’s too late, don’t we?” Peggy’s question snaps you out of your thoughts and your hand drops to your lap quickly. You turn your head and stare at her, but she remains focused on the dark street that the car is rolling down.

            “What makes you ask that?”

            “I have a feeling.” She sighs heavily, pursing her red lips at the end of her sentence. “I have a feeling that we don’t allow ourselves that happiness in this lifetime, and you’re not allowing it for yourself either.”

            “It’s different for me.”

            “How so?” She asks softly, taking a right turn. The car begins coasting down a street you recognize and you know the safehouse is just a couple of minutes away now.

            “It’s just different. I can’t just give in and see if things turn out okay. We work together, we live across the hall from each other.” You’re grasping for excuses.

            “You trust the man with your life but you don’t want to trust him with your heart?”

            Peggy has a way with words. You don’t have a response for her as she slows down and turns into the driveway of Howard Stark’s house a couple of minutes later. As the car idles in front of the house, you feel a heavy weight settling on your shoulders.

            When you reach the front door, you find that Bucky’s left it unlocked for you. You slip in quietly, leaning against the wall of the foyer for a second to gather your thoughts. The house is mostly dark except for a small light glowing in the kitchen. Your stomach is churning as you tiptoe through the foyer and peer into the kitchen, careful not to let your heels tap on the floor. You see no sign of Bucky there. When you turn your eyes to the dark living room, you see him sitting in the middle of couch with his back to you.

            “The mission is set for tomorrow.” Your words come out sounding meek and uneasy as you stare at the back of Bucky’s head. He’s leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he’s lost in thought. He doesn’t even move at the sound of your voice and nervousness starts to bubble up inside of you. “Bucky?” He visibly tenses at the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue.

            “I stopped listening when you kissed him.” Bucky rubs his palms together slowly as he stares down at the living room carpet. He doesn’t move from the couch, and he can tell by the silence behind him that you’re not moving either. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would bother me that much.” Bucky lies, tracing the lines of his vibranium hand with his flesh index finger. It’s dark, but he has the golden crevices memorized.

            “Bullshit.” You say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You knew it would bother you, but you swore I was the right person for this op anyway.” You’re not going to let him act like you did something wrong, when you’re doing exactly what you were brought here to do. You watch the back of Bucky’s head as he nods slowly.

            “Okay, that was bullshit.” Bucky agrees. Rain begins to patter against the roof, starting out slow and soft but quickly picking up until the sound of it is filling the house. “I knew it would bother me. I guess I just didn’t expect you to let him take things so far.”

            “How far do you think he took things?” You ask incredulously, with offense evident in your tone. If Bucky stopped listening when the kiss first started in the alley of the bar, then he didn’t hear a damn thing. He didn’t hear the brevity of the kiss or the way you pushed back and stopped it. He didn’t hear you coming to the realization that you already belong to him. He didn’t hear shit.

            “Pretty damn far, if he’s me.” You scoff at his answer and run a hand through your hair, leaving it looking a little tousled and messy.

            “It’s 1943. If pretty damn far means we kissed and went back inside then sure, he went pretty damn far.”

            “That’s it?” Bucky asks, pushing himself up to stand and turning around to face you. The couch and a few feet of distance stand between the two of you as Bucky raises a brow. He doesn’t believe you.

            “He’s not like this modern version of you.” You say defensively, gesturing at him as you speak. “He didn’t want anything more than a kiss from me.” You know your words aren’t necessarily true, but you say them anyway. Bucky shoots you a pointed look before shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

            “Yeah, he did."

            “No, he didn’t.” You argue childishly, narrowing your eyes at him. “He was sweet and kind and we had innocent fun.”

            “Innocent?” Bucky repeats the word and narrows his eyes at you in return. You bend one knee and lift your ankle up toward your ass as you start undoing your heels.

            “That’s what I said.” You huff as your heels clatter to the floor and you push them over to the nearest wall with your foot.

            “I was anything but innocent in the forties.” Bucky says lowly. When your eyes land on him, he’s approaching you slowly, moving around the couch but keeping his gaze trained on you. Something about the way he’s looking at you is dark, making your skin feel warm and your muscles tense up. Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair as he continues taking slow steps in your direction. “You’re really telling me he didn’t have you pushed up against a brick wall in some dark alley tonight?”

            You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught in a lie. Of course he knows exactly what happened. He doesn’t need comms or a surveillance team to know what he himself would’ve done with a pretty girl on a night out. You say nothing as Bucky moves around the couch and comes to stand right in front of you. You take a small step back as he invades your space, but he doesn’t stop. He presses forward until he’s backing you against the living room wall.

            Bucky’s fighting to keep up the charade. He wants nothing more than to just be honest and tell you that he’s jealous. He wants to tell you that even though it was only another version of himself that you went out with tonight, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He needs you to know that he sat here for hours, thinking about nothing but you. He watches you with an intense gaze as your back collides with the wall and you look up at him through your lashes. He’s so close that he can see the wispy black mascara tinting them. It isn’t smudged in the slightest bit and that, at the very least, calms him a little. Bucky’s hands find your hips and he holds you still against the wall as he leans in and nudges the curve of your jaw with the tip of his nose.

            “He didn’t touch you like this?” Bucky whispers against your neck, as his flesh hand glides around to your ass. He grabs a handful and curls his fingertips against the soft fabric of your dress. You offer no response, because although you didn’t let him touch you like that, you know Bucky won’t believe you now. Bucky groans as he nips at the column of your throat, taking your silence as confirmation. He kisses his way up to your lips and then drags his tongue up your chin until he’s letting it delve into your mouth. You tilt your head as he kisses you, feeling a burn in your chest from the lack of air. He pulls back suddenly, and cradles the back of your head with the same hand that was just grabbing your ass. “He didn’t kiss you like that?” He questions, already assuming the answer. You whimper as Bucky tugs on your hair lightly and moves his lips down to your neck again. Instead of simply kissing your skin this time, he sucks on it and scrapes his teeth down toward your collarbone. When he lets go of your hair and slides his hand down your thigh, your back arches off the wall and you swear you feel him smile before he pulls back and smirks down at you coldly. Curling his fingers behind your thigh, he hitches your leg up around his hip and uses his body to push you further into the wall. “He didn’t pull your leg up like this?”

            It’s as if Bucky’s following a script. He knows himself so well that he’s able to carry out every single move his younger self would have made on you if you’d let things continue in the alley earlier. Bucky leans in and presses one last chaste kiss to your lips before he steps away from you entirely, leaving you struggling to catch your breath as he turns on his heel. You watch, thoroughly flustered, as he heads right back to the living room and takes a seat on the center cushion of that ugly vintage couch.

            “That’s what I thought.” He says lowly, causing a pang of guilt to bubble up inside of you. You let out an exaggerated sigh before reaching behind yourself and undoing the back of your dress. Bucky listens as you let the dress slip off of your frame and fall to the floor. He’s still for a moment, refusing to look back as you stand there in nothing more than a lacy black bra and matching panties. You glare at the back of his head for a second too long before stalking off to find a t-shirt and some sweats to put on before you continue the conversation at hand.

            “You don’t get to judge me for what he did tonight, for what you think he did.” You say coldly as you emerge from the bedroom a few seconds later. Bucky’s still sitting on the couch, now with both of his arms outstretched along the back cushions and an almost bored expression on his face. “You told me that your younger self would swoon and that’s exactly what happened. You knew what you were sending me into, you knew he’d want to do all of those things. So, if you want to be pissed, be pissed at yourself. Your current self or your former self, I don’t care. But stop being pissed at me.” Your feet thud against the hard floor, overtaking the sound of rain pouring down on the roof as you come to stand in front of the couch, facing Bucky.

            “I’m not pissed at you.” He says plainly, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. You’re wearing an oversized white t-shirt that he assumes you pulled from his side of the closet, rather than picking any of the forties-style pajamas from your own side.

            “Then why make me feel like I did something wrong? I did exactly what I was supposed to do on this mission.”

            “I’m jealous.” His confession sucks the air out of your lungs and leaves you stunned.

            “What?”

            “I’m jealous.” He repeats calmly, looking you right in the eyes. “It took everything I had not to stop you from leaving earlier. I knew what he’d do. I knew that he’d kiss you, that he’d take every inch you gave him and ask for a mile more.” The fact that Bucky’s so calm and stoic as he confesses all of this has you shaken to your core.

            “No, you don’t get to do this.” You say angrily, running both hands through your hair as you turn away from him. He’s sitting there with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and his expression as unreadable as ever and it’s only making you more mad. “You don’t get to say shit like that to me. You don’t get to be jealous. You sent me into that situation even after I made it abundantly clear that I didn’t think I was the right person for this mission.” You turn back around and look at Bucky with a fiery rage burning in your eyes, but then your gaze settles on his calm, almost serene expression. He cocks his head to the side as you study him, with whatever angry words you were about to spit at him temporarily on hold. Your eyes float down his chest, passing over the dark t-shirt he’s sporting. With the way his arms are outstretched along the back of the couch, you can see the outline of his abs clearly through his thin shirt. When your eyes land on the front of his sweats, you notice two things. The first is that he's sitting with his legs spread in a way that tells you he’s comfortable as hell on that ugly couch. The second is that his cock is semi-hard and pressing against the fabric of those sweats shamelessly.

            You want to leave. You want to head for the front door and run out into the rain, losing yourself somewhere in this city that you don’t know and this timeline that you don’t belong in. You don’t want to be in this house with Bucky for another minute. You can’t think straight when you’re around him. Here you are, angry as hell over something you can’t even recall in this exact moment, because when you look at him and he looks at you this way…you’re torn between wanting to run and wanting to straddle him right there on the couch. Bucky can tell exactly what’s on your mind when your eyes zero in on his lap. Even though the anger hasn’t dissipated from your features, he can tell it’s sitting on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall in and disappear if he says the right thing.

            “Go ahead.” Bucky says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you.

            “What?” You cross your arms over your chest like he’s seen you do a thousand times before as you stand in front of him. You watch as Bucky looks down at his lap for a moment, letting his gaze linger on his thighs before he lifts his head up and stares into your soul. Your heart begins to race as he tilts his head to the side slowly, the expression on his face never changing.

            “Sit.”

            The three seconds that you stare back at Bucky with your arms crossed over your chest feel like three hours to him. When you finally do take a step forward and let your arms reach out to him, he’s fighting to hold in a sigh of relief. You move slowly, lifting your right knee up to the edge of the couch first and letting it touch the outside of his left thigh. When your left knee lands on the couch beside his right leg, you carefully position yourself over his lap as your hands come to rest on his shoulders. Bucky’s fingertips curl into the fabric of the couch as he wills himself to keep his arms along the back of it, refusing to grab your hips and guide you to sit on his lap himself. You’re apprehensive as you stare down into his blue eyes and sink onto his lap at a painstakingly snail-like pace. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the outline of his erection pressing against the black lace panties you have on underneath the white t-shirt, but you don’t stop. You seat yourself firmly on his lap, with your knees bent on either side of his hips and your palms pressed against his opposing warm and cool shoulders. It bothers you that he doesn’t move his arms, that he doesn’t try to touch you. It really bothers you that his expression is still unreadable, as if having you on his lap doesn’t do a damn thing to him. If his cock wasn’t hardening more and more with each passing second, you’d truly believe that you weren’t having any sort of effect on him right now.

            “You don’t get to be jealous.” You whisper, shaking your head just barely as Bucky studies your face.     

            “Why not?”

            “Because this is just…” Your eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over Bucky’s lap, but his never leave your face. He knows what you’re about to say and he’s already wishing you wouldn’t. This is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. “This isn’t real.” It feels every bit as shitty as he thought it would, hearing you say it out loud. The muscle along the side of his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together. “It’s just tension. We let it build up too much and then we don’t know how to handle it, and we think it’s something more but—"

            “But it isn’t.” Bucky finishes your sentence stiffly. You nod, but your eyes are searching his. You want him to convince you, you want him to tell you that you’re wrong like he has before. You need him to tell you that this isn’t just tension. But he stays quiet, staring at you like he doesn’t really give a shit what you need right now. So, you ramble on.

            “Maybe if we take a break from being partners after this mission is over. We could let things cool off and give each other space.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly, but they leave a bad taste. “But it’s hard to give each other space when we live across the hall from each other.” Bucky nods along, cocking his head to the side as he watches you scramble for other options. He doesn’t know why you’re still sitting on his lap if this is the direction you’re taking things, but he isn’t ready to push you off and end this just yet. Not if it might be the last time you let him get this close to you.

            “Do you want space?” He asks lowly. You struggle to find a reasonable answer when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You watch as it slides across his bottom lip slowly before disappearing into his mouth. He shifts his legs beneath you slightly and it causes his hard cock to press against your barely clothed cunt just a little more firmly than before and you inhale sharply, curling your fingertips into his shoulders as he stills once again.

            “I want to stop thinking about you the way that I’ve been thinking about you.” Bucky’s heartbeat is rising steadily as your words sink in. You’ve been thinking about him. God, he wants to tangle his hands in your hair and pull you in closer, refusing to let go of you until you admit that you fucking want him. “I want to go back to when we had a normal, uncomplicated partnership in the field.” He wants to say fuck normal and uncomplicated and have his way with you, but he stays still. “I want to fuck.”

            Bucky’s stunned. He blinks twice before squinting his eyes at you and letting out a long, slow breath.

            “You want to fuck.” Bucky repeats under his breath, seeming like he doesn’t think he’s heard you right. You nod, coming to the realization that that’s exactly what you want.

            “Maybe if we fuck, it would all just go away.” Bucky scoffs as soon as you’ve said it. He’s never felt as frustrated as he is right now. It isn’t just emotional frustration, but sexual as well. You’re fucking tormenting him. While you sit on his lap actively denying the fact that this thing between you is real, you’re simultaneously telling him you want to have sex with him. You tried sleeping it off once before and it didn’t work out for you, so now you want to fuck the feelings away. He’s pissed honestly. As he sits there, with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and the girl he’s in love with on his lap, he’s pissed.

            “Go ahead then.” He says roughly, jutting his chin out at you as his eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over him. “Go ahead and see if you can fuck it all away. It’ll work about as well as when you tried to sleep it off, but I’m willing to let you give it a shot.”

            Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain patters against the windows as tensions rise all around you. It feels like the thunderstorm outside has somehow shifted through the walls and lightning could strike you at any given moment. Though your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in quicker than before, you don’t back down. You maintain eye contact as you lift your ass up slightly and then grind back down, dragging the fabric of your lace panties along the front of Bucky’s sweats. You feel his cock twitch in its confines, but his face never changes. Fuck him and his perpetually cold expression. You grind down again, harder this time, and watch as his hands curl into fists at the ends of his outstretched arms. What do you have to do to get him to put those hands on you?

            Lightning strikes somewhere outside as you lean in and dip your head down, pressing your lips to the side of Bucky’s neck in an open-mouthed kiss. You feel his pulse thumping in his carotid artery as your tongue swipes over it. If you’re going to get this out of your system, you can’t take your time. You need this to be quick and dirty. Bucky senses that and isn’t surprised at all when your right hand starts tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

            “I said go ahead.” He rasps, tilting his head to the side to give you more access to his neck. “Take what you want.” You take the encouragement and run with it, slipping your hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers, quickly finding his length and wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a shaky but controlled breath as you start stroking his cock. He has to bite down on his bottom lip when you tighten your grip around the head and he feels his precum wet your palm. This is going to haunt him forever. He wants this, you, so fucking bad that he’s willing to take whatever he can get. And this is the most he can get. Your hand is around his cock with the sole intention of fucking around with him until you forget your feelings. He should feel used. He does feel used, but if you’re only okay with using him, then he’s fine with it. He’s fine with it because he fucking loves you.

            You feel Bucky’s chest rise and fall at a quicker pace against your own as his cock twitches in your hand. Thunder shakes the house again and a tear slips down your cheek. It feels clinical when you push Bucky’s waistband down further and drag your lips along the curve of his jaw.

            “He kissed me outside of the bar.” You whisper against the column of Bucky’s throat, hating the way he tenses up underneath you. You let your hand fall away from his cock and shift it between your legs, tugging your lace panties to the side beneath the oversized t-shirt. “And I couldn’t fucking stand it.” Your voice breaks and Bucky curls his fingers into the couch cushions so hard that he might’ve heard them rip if the storm raging outside wasn’t so loud. “You weren’t listening, so you didn’t hear me stop him.” Another tear falls as you rise up on your knees and guide the head of Bucky’s length to where it belongs. “But I stopped him.” Lightning strikes and you swear it nearly hits the house as you let out a shaky breath and start lowering yourself down. The sheer size of him makes your thighs ache and the walls of your cunt burn with the stretch. “I stopped him and he knew, before I said anything, that I wasn’t his to kiss.” Bracing your hands back on Bucky’s shoulders, you sink down onto him one slow inch at a time as he stares up at you. His expression isn’t so unreadable now. It’s showcasing the torment he feels, the torture you’re putting him through…the torture he’s enduring just because he loves you.

            “Whose are you then?” He asks, his voice tense and strained as you seat yourself entirely on his cock. He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re not going to answer his question. You know the answer, the tears rimming your pretty eyes and the pleading look taking over your face tell him that much. But you just can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’re his.

            You didn’t give yourself any time to adjust to his size and you’re paying for it as you start riding him. You move slow at first, lost in the way he’s looking at you, wondering why the hell he won’t touch you. But as the storm picks up outside, so does your pace. Faster and faster you lift and lower your hips until it couldn’t possibly be more obvious that you’re trying to fuck your feelings away. Bucky’s pushing past the obscene sounds of skin against skin, past the rumbling thunder and heavy rain on the rooftop, until all he can hear is your heartbeat. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re timing each bounce of your hips with the steady beat of your heart. He focuses in on that when the walls of your pussy begin fluttering violently around his shaft, because if he lets himself focus on anything else, he’ll fall over the edge with you and he refuses to let it happen this way. Your goal isn’t to get him off, it’s to get something out of your system.

            Bucky clenches his teeth when you start coming undone around him, he clenches his teeth and his vibranium arm whirs loudly along the back of the couch as you grip his shoulders and ride out your orgasm. It’s only a few seconds later when you blink your eyes open and let a few tears fall onto the fabric of his shirt.

            “Did it work?” Bucky asks breathlessly, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you against his chest.

            “What?”

            “Did you fuck it out of your system?” He narrows his eyes at you. He’s sure the answer is no, but he isn’t so sure that you’ll admit it. As you stare back into his blue eyes, he can tell you’re giving up and something akin to hope stirs in his chest. You shake your head gently, loosening your grip on his shoulders as the weight of your silent confession settles over you both. “Okay, let’s try again.”

            Bucky doesn’t give you a chance to full catch your breath before he’s slipping his flesh arm around your back and rising from the couch, keeping his cock buried inside of you.

            “Bucky—”

            “You want it out of your system, don’t you?” He asks roughly, carrying you away from the couch and toward the kitchen table. You swallow hard as he skillfully uses his vibranium hand to shove a kitchen chair to the side before laying you down on the table. Still, his cock never leaves your pussy. “If we go at it from another angle…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he pulls his hips backward slowly until only the tip of his cock is left inside of you. You whimper at the loss of his length, hating the way your pussy fights to grip onto what he’s left you with. Bucky pushes your white t-shirt up until it’s sitting just below your bra. Though he doesn’t let himself get a glimpse of your chest, he has no problem with sliding his hands beneath the shirt and running his palms over your breasts. You arch into his touch and another whimper leaves your lips. “This might be the right angle.” He whispers, dragging his hands down until his fingers are curling into your hips roughly. You see stars when he pistons his hips forward so hard that the table shakes beneath the force and you feel him brushing against your cervix.

            “Fuck.” You moan the word out as your tears begin to dry. Your hands circle around Bucky’s wrists as he holds your hips in place and starts fucking you relentlessly. Your mascara is smudged beneath your eyes but you still look so pretty that it hurts him to look at you. You wrap your legs around him as his head falls back a little and a guttural groan escapes him. It feels so damn good, you feel so damn good, but this isn’t how he wants you. Your whimpers and occasional swears turn into uninhibited, borderline pornographic moans as he fucks you until you’re lost in the bliss of it all.

            “If you cum on my cock a second time, is it going to be enough?” He wonders aloud, slowing the pace of his thrusts and simultaneously deepening them as much as he possibly can. His balls press against your ass as a loud clap of thunder leaves the lights flickering. You’re shaking your head before your brain has a chance to reason with your heart. It won’t be enough. “You don’t think so? You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself when you said that this isn’t real. Cumming on my cock this time should be enough for you.”

            “Shit, Bucky.” You let out a frustrated moan as he pulls his hips back slowly and starts giving your cunt the most shallow thrusts yet.

            “This is so fucking real to me that I’d let you do it a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you realize you’re wrong.” Bucky snaps his hips forward and hits your cervix again, admiring the way your body reacts to him as your back arches off of the table and your t-shirt rides up a little more. A tiny bit of the black lace of your bra peeks out beneath your shirt and Bucky lets out another groan before thrusting hard again. He wanted to slow down and make you feel even just a shred of the torment he’s been feeling tonight, he wanted to give you shallow, unrhythmic thrusts and delay your orgasm, but he’s already fucking his cock into you at an unforgiving pace and depth. His name falls from your lips in a breathless moan as your fingernails leave little crescent-shaped indents in the skin of his wrists and your pussy tightens around his shaft all over again. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek, nearly drawing blood, just to keep from cumming with you. His own level of restraint is surprising himself. He hasn’t done something like this in decades and yet, he’s holding himself together pretty damn well.

            “Bucky.” You gasp as your orgasm washes over you and he continues to pump his cock into you. He lets his thrusts slow more and more with each passing second until he’s just lazily circling his hips, giving you the faintest sensation of pleasure mixed with overstimulation.

            “Did it work that time?” He asks between pants. He lets go of your hips as his eyes scan over the expanse of your skin where he had gripped you so tightly before, checking for marks. He can see his own handprints on each hip, but they aren’t red enough that he thinks he’s left bruises. You stare up at him as a sigh of relief slips past his lips. When his eyes finally meet yours, you know he’s waiting for an answer.

            “It didn’t.” You admit. The lights flicker again, going out for a few seconds before coming back on. “I’m sorry I—”

            “I don’t want to hear you say sorry.” God, that’s not at all what he wants to hear you say. He wants to hear you say you were wrong or that you were lying and this is as real to you as it is to him. He wants to hear you say that no matter how many times his cock slides into your pussy, the feelings aren’t going anywhere. As his hands find yours and your fingers intertwine, he tugs you up into a sitting position on the edge of the table and then slips his palms around to cup your ass as he lifts you once more. “We’re going to try this one more time and if it doesn’t work, if you can’t fuck the feelings away…” His voice trails off as the lights flicker one final time before shutting off completely. Bucky carries you down the hall and through the bedroom door in near total darkness. Every few seconds, lightning flashes and illuminates the house through the windows and sheer curtains, and you get a glimpse of Bucky’s serious face. “If this doesn’t work, you have to say it.” Keeping his flesh arm around your lower back, he lowers you onto the bed, hovering over you as his still-hard cock slips out of your sore cunt. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he stands at the foot of the bed and reaches back over his shoulders, grasping the fabric of his t-shirt and tugging it over his head in one smooth move. Lighting strikes again and you watch, with warmth pooling low in your stomach, as Bucky pushes his sweats and boxers down to the floor.

            “I have to say what?” You ask, fighting hard to keep the stutter out of your question. Bucky wraps his right hand around the base of his cock tightly, but he doesn’t dare stroke it. He gives it a quick squeeze before moving that same hand down and palming his balls in an effort to slow himself down.

            “You have to say that you’re mine.” He has no idea that you’ve already said it once tonight. He took his earpiece out, thinking you were having a heated moment with another man, when you were really telling that man exactly what Bucky wanted to hear.

            “That’s how this works? You fuck me a few times and then I’m yours?”

            Bucky can’t stop the dark, hair-raising chuckle that tumbles past his lips when you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him. He moves toward the bed slowly, placing one knee on the end of the mattress and leaning forward until both of his palms are flat on the bed. He’s hovering over you, his face only a few inches from yours when a burst of thunder rings out.

            “You’ve been mine since the day we met, sweetheart. I just let you run around and deny it for too damn long.” Your breath hitches in your throat as he angles his chin toward the headboard, silently letting you know that he wants you to move further up on the bed. You scoot backward, keeping your eyes on him as the room grows impossibly warmer and goosebumps prickle over your skin. When your back lands flat on the bed and your head is laid comfortably on the only pillow there, Bucky’s over you in an instant, nudging your legs apart with his knee as he settles between them. The head of his cock, still dripping with precum, presses against the lace of your panties and he hisses at the contact. He hasn’t let himself cum yet and he’s dangerously close to losing control over his impending orgasm.

            “Since the day we met?” You ask, scrunching up your face in confusion as you think of all of the missions you’ve been on, all of the senseless arguments and shit-giving. Did it all have a deeper meaning for him? Bucky nods as he stills above you and braces himself with his arms next to either side of your head. When he looks into your eyes you can tell that he’s straining to maintain his composure and it almost makes you feel guilty. Here you are two orgasms in and he’s hanging on by a fucking thread. You slide your hand down between your bodies, wrapping it around his length and giving it a few long, slow pumps as his eyes flutter closed and his head falls to your shoulder.

            “I can’t stand you.” You say evenly, as he starts rutting into your hand carelessly. His small thrusts are sloppy and restrained, but he continues on as you stroke his cock and smear his precum around the length of it. He groans in response and bites down on your shoulder hard enough to make you inhale sharply. “I can’t stand the way you slept so close to me last night, because the next time I sleep alone, I’ll feel like something’s missing.” Bucky freezes, but you continue your ministrations with your right hand. He doesn’t lift his head, fearing that if he so much as moves an inch you’ll stop talking. “I can’t stand the way you say my name, because when anyone else says it, it doesn’t sound as good.” He lets out a shaky breath as he builds up the courage to move. Snaking his vibranium hand down between your legs, he starts tugging your panties to the side just like he did earlier. You move in tandem with him, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance as he clears the way. “And I really can’t stand the way you kiss me, because if I ever let anyone else kiss me, I’ll only ever be disappointed.”

            Bucky pulls his head back and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, looking as though he’s thinking hard. The head of his cock notches into your pussy and he pushes his hips forward just enough to sink the first couple of inches inside of you, watching as your mouth falls open and your eyes close tightly. He’s staring at you with such an intense focus in his blue eyes that when you finally look back up at him, you feel like his gaze alone is burning a hole through your head. You spread your legs a little, bending your knees slightly to give him a better angle as he pulls his hips back slowly. When only the head of his cock is sheathed inside of you, he licks his bottom lip before snapping his hips forward and delivering one hard, deep thrust that forces the headboard to slam against the wall.

            “I love you.” Bucky says the three words with conviction, with a confidence you’ve never heard before. You wait a few seconds, trying to recover from the earth-shattering sensations of your pussy being destroyed and actual bliss. His words sink into your skin and melt into your soul with an unexpected warmth as he drags his cock out of you and then pushes back in again. He loves you.

            “You can’t stand me.” You correct, not even trying to hide the smile that’s beginning to spread across your lips as Bucky starts setting a rhythmic pace. He laughs, but then groans as you scrape your nails down his back roughly.

            “I can’t, but still…”

            “You love me.” You repeat smugly, finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need you to say it back yet. Just the fact that you didn’t shove him away and flee the house when he said it is enough for him right now. A few sultry moans play in his ears and he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, moving your legs so that one is over each of his shoulders before he starts fucking you so hard that he thinks Howard Stark might need to buy a new mattress, new headboard, and maybe even have the damn wall re-plastered.

            The next few minutes consist of nothing more than filthy, pornographic sounds. With skin slapping against skin, the headboard snapping against the wall, your moans, and Bucky’s strained groans, neither of you can really hear the storm raging outside anymore. You focus in on Bucky as much as you can, watching as his abs ripple and the muscles of his flesh arm flex repeatedly. He catches you staring at him as he fucks you and he holds eye contact, letting his mouth fall open and his eyelids drop down halfway as he watches you watch him. Filthy. It’s filthy the way he's fucking his cock into you in someone else’s bed. You moan his name out in a raspy tone and it sends him over the edge. He guides your legs down, setting them back on the bed before crawling over you and fucking you missionary while he swallows every moan you let out. His lips brush against yours over and over again, but you don’t kiss. You breathe each other in until you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts grow sloppy.

            “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Bucky groans, thrusting a little harder and deeper as he nears his release. You grip his sides and bend your knees as your own orgasm looms. “You’re so fucking tight and….fuck, you’re just…shit, baby.”

            “Bucky, I love you.”

            He loses every last remnant of control when you finally admit it. He can’t stop the flood of cum that starts spilling out of his cock and into you. Truthfully, he wouldn’t want to stop it. He thrusts as deep as he can and grinds his hips into you, watching your eyes scrunch closed and your mouth fall open as you take every last drop of his cum. It’s everything to him. Not you taking his cum this way, not you letting him have you like this, but you telling him the one thing he never thought you would. You love him.

            His post-orgasm haze should last longer than yours. He should be collapsed next to you on the bed right now, but as you lay beneath him trying to catch your breath, he’s staring down at you with perfect clarity.

            “If you go back to pretending you don’t feel anything after this…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he feels a good bit of his cum dripping out of you and back onto his shaft. He moves in a little closer and pushes his cock the rest of the way inside you as gently as possible, earning himself a whimper from your pretty lips.

            “You’ll what? Fuck me on another table?” You tease, smiling up at him. He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip in an attempt to hide his own smile, but you catch it anyway.

            “Why would I do that when there are so many other surfaces we haven’t tried out yet?”

            “I hate you.” You retort playfully, sliding your hands up his chest and preparing to push him off of you. His cock hasn’t softened in the slightest bit yet and you don’t know if you can take another round tonight. His small smile turns into a hearty grin as his cock twitches again.

            “That’s a lie.” He smirks, dragging his tongue along his teeth after speaking. You narrow your eyes at him as you realize he’s still leaning on his ridiculous theory that your pussy clenches down when you lie. “You love me.” He says slowly, dropping his head down and pressing his lips against yours. He kisses you gently at first, pecking your lips twice before going in for a longer one. After a few seconds, he slips his tongue into your mouth and the longer he kisses you, the more weight you feel lifting from your shoulders. You didn’t realize how exhausting it was to deny this for so long. But now that you’re here, letting it happen, you can’t stop the tear that starts rolling down your cheek. Bucky pulls back as soon as he feels it, searching your eyes to see what’s wrong. “What did I do?” He asks quickly, preparing to separate himself from you. You stop him, sliding your hands down his sides and curling your fingers against his skin to hold him in place.

            “Nothing.” You answer honestly, smiling up at his look of concern even as that tear continues to roll down your cheek. “Peggy has a feeling that she and Steve wait too late in this lifetime, that they don’t let themselves have this kind of happiness.”

            “I told you they end up together.” Bucky says gently, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tear from your cheek.

            “I know. I wonder if this is how they felt when they finally made it back to each other.” Bucky takes a moment, really thinking about it before he moves a stray lock of hair away from your face and lets out a deep breath.

            “How do you feel?” He asks, speaking with a soft tone as he eyes you closely.

            “Like if you asked me for a lifetime, it wouldn’t scare the shit out of me.”

            As Bucky stares down at you, you can see that all of those times you thought his expression was so unreadable were because you didn’t really want to read what was there. All you see in his eyes is love. Love and probably some kind of half-assed plan to ask you for a lifetime while his dick is inside you, just so he can see if you’re lying or not.

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a breathless sob tore out of your throat, so loud it echoed.

you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, your wet coat soaking through to your skin, but you didn't care.

your chest was heaving so violently you couldn't catch your breath.

It’s just easier....

the words repeated in your head, a cruel mantra that pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat.

he had lied.. he had left you alone in the dark with cold food and lit candles so he could drink wine in his sweatpants on his ex girlfriend's couch.

by the time the elevator hit the lobby, you scrambled to your feet, wiping furiously at your face.

you didn't just walk out of the building, you broke into a run, rushing past the startled doorman and straight back into the storm, desperate to let the freezing rain wash away the humiliation burning on your skin.

when you finally threw open the door to your own apartment, the silence inside was suffocating.

the candles had burned down to stubs, leaving behind the faint smell of vanilla and melted wax.

the two plates of dinner still sat on the counter, perfectly arranged and cold.

"easier," you choked out, your voice shaking.

you walked over to the table and with a sweep of your arm, knocked both plates off the surface.

they shattered against the hardwood floor, ceramic exploding into a dozen pieces, pasta and sauce splattering across the room.

you didn't stop there.. you lunged toward the dining table, grabbing the vase of flowers you’d bought fresh that morning and hurled it against the wall.

the glass shattered, water and crushed petals raining down onto the floor.

you tore the cushions off the couch, threw the decorative pillows across the room, and grabbed a framed photo of you and Clark from the bookshelf, a photo taken at a park where he was looking at you with what you thought was love and threw it face down onto the floor, the glass cracking down the center.

you trashed the place until your lungs burned and your hands were shaking from the adrenaline.

you stood in the center of the room, panting, looking at the mess you had created.

it was the first time the apartment actually matched how you felt on the inside... completely broken.

you exhaled before moving, you dragged your large suitcase to the bedroom.

you didn't pack everything, just your clothes, your laptop, and the absolute essentials.

your phone buzzed on the counter.

lois: please answer me. i am so, so sorry. it’s not what it looks like, i swear to you. let me come over. let me explain. please don't hate him.

you stared at the screen but didn't reply.

it's not what it looks like... please don't hate him.

you scoffed and instead, you blocked her number and then, you blocked his.

wrapping your now dry coat tighter around yourself, you grabbed your suitcase, stepped over the broken glass, and let the door click shut behind you.

𓂃₊ ⊹

you'd rather be anywhere but here, you've avoided the office for as long as you could but today perry said he needed you here.

a week had passed since you've spoken to either of them.

the silence between you and clark shifted from uncomfortable to deafening.

you kept your eyes glued to your monitor, your fingers flying across the keyboard with a rhythmic click clack.

you could feel clark's eyes on you from across the room, but you didn’t look at him.

not when he drops a file on your desk or when he clears his throat.

every time he builds up the courage to speak, you conveniently pick up your desk phone or rush off to the copy room.

you're making yourself unreachable, and it's driving him out of his mind.

you can hear clark's footsteps before he actually reaches your desk, so you keep your eyes locked onto your computer screen.

he stops right at the edge of your desk and out of the corner of your eye, you can see him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, nervously adjusting his glasses.

he looks entirely drained, the guilt weighing down his broad shoulder, the bags under his eyes are dark.

"hey," he starts, his voice quiet and hesitant. "you've been typing for three hours straight... you uh you need to take a break. let me get you something from the cafeteria? a snack, or... or some tea?"

you don't blink or pause, you just hit the backspace key a few times and keep typing.

clark lets out a small, ragged breath, leaning in slightly closer so his words don't carry across the busy bullpen.

"honey, i know you're furious with me and you have every right to be. what you saw at lois's apartment"

you snapped your head toward him, tilting it slightly as if analyzing a stranger. your eyes narrowed, drilling into his.

clark froze, the words dying in his throat as his eyes locked onto your face taking in every feature like it'd be the last he'd ever see them again before he spoke quietly.

he reached out, lightly brushing your hair from your face before caressing the side of your face. "... i know how it looked... and i know how much i hurt you by lying about where i was. i just want a chance to explain it properly."

he drops his hand, waiting, hanging on the hope that you’ll at least respond but when you turn your head to stare back at the screen.

a look of quiet desperation crosses his face and he swallows hard.

"i'm not going to force you to talk to me here," he says softly. "but please, just give me a chance to make it up to you. let me take you to dinner tonight.. we can just sit down, and i will tell you everything. no secrets. i promise."

you remain still, your expression blank as you scroll down a spreadsheet.

realizing he isn't going to get a verbal answer, he reluctantly pulls a small pad of bright yellow sticky notes toward himself.

he grabs a pen from your desk organizer, his hand trembling just a fraction as he quickly scribbles down the name of a quiet restaurant downtown, along with a time.

he peels the sticky note and gently presses it onto the corner of your desk, right next to your keyboard where you can't possibly miss it.

"eight o'clock," clark whispers, his blue eyes searching your face one last time, practically begging for another glance. "i'll be waiting for you at our favorite table by the window. i really hope you come."

eight o'clock.

by the time 7:30 PM rolls around, the office has emptied out and you sit alone, staring at the note.

every logical instinct tells you to go back to your hotel room and let him sit there.

he lied to you, used his job.. the very thing that constantly tears him away from you as a shield to cover up the fact that he was with his ex girlfriend.

the humiliation in lois’s apartment hadn't faded.. if anything, sitting in the quiet of the office had only made it feel worse.

you feel like an afterthought and yet, your heart betrays your pride.

you want him to fix it, to give you a piece of truth so undeniable that the knot in your chest finally unspools.

so, you grab your coat, pull the sticky note from the desk, and leave.

8:05 PM

the sign of the restaurant shines through the rain streaked window of the cab.

you step out, the door of the restaurant chiming as you walk inside.

the inside is intimate, warm and lit by candles.

you scan the room, bracing yourself to see his broad shoulders slumped over the table, nervously checking his watch.

but the table by the window is completely empty.

a familiar knot forms in your stomach and you pull out your phone... 8:07 PM.

he's seven minutes late.

no, you tell yourself, biting the inside of your cheek as you sit down at the empty table.

he said he’d be waiting and he wouldn’t do this tonight.. not after everything.

you tell yourself he's just caught in traffic or that perry threw a last minute rewrite at him.

you make excuses for him, even now, because what could be the truth hurts too much to face.

9:00 PM

an hour crawls by.

the hostess brings you a glass of water, offering a polite smile that feels entirely pitying.

the bustling dinner crowd begins to thin out, the laughter of happy couples surrounding you sounds like a mockery.

every single time the front door chimes, your head snaps up, your heart doing a pathetic, hopeful leap only to sink lower when it’s a stranger stepping in from the cold.

9:30 PM

half an hour later.

you stare at your phone and there's nothing.. no texts or missed calls and you had unblocked him before you stepped through the door.

the anger thats been in you this past week starts to form into a sickening ache...

is he back at lois’s?

10:00 PM

the restaurant is dead and the staff are quietly sweeping the floors and stacking chairs in the back corner, their hushed voices a subtle hint that you’re overstaying your welcome.

a realization sinks into your chest..

he stood you up.

to explain away a lie, he gave you another promise, and then he broke that one too.

you pull your coat over your shoulders, your body tense with humiliation and exhaustion.

standing up from the table, you slide a generous stack of bills out of your purse, far more than enough to cover the untouched glass of water and the time you took up occupying their best table by the window.

as you walk toward the front entrance, you stop by the hostess stand where a tired looking server is wiping down menus.

"i'm so sorry for keeping you all late," you say, your voice tight as you force a small, apologetic smile. "thank you for letting me stay so long."

the server looks up, her eyes softening with a wave of pure sympathy that almost makes your composure crumble on the spot. "don't worry about it, sweetie. have a safe night, okay? it's really coming down out there."

you nod quickly, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, and push open the heavy glass doors.

you walk blindly, your head ducked against the harsh wind as you begin to walk down the cracked sidewalk of the downtown district.

the towering office buildings shut out what little light the night sky has left

your mind is trapped in a loop of humiliation.

he promised, with his hand trembling, and swore there would be no more secrets.

and you, desperate to believe him, sat in an empty restaurant for two hours like a fool.

a sudden, earth shattering boom rips through the air, vibrating so violently that you stumble.

you freeze, it wasn't thunder and before you can even process it, there's a wave of police cars speeding down the street, one siren echoing after the other.

you shrug it off and keep walking but then the corner of the intersection half a block ahead erupts.

a wave of people come screaming around the brick building, bodies fleeing the main strip.

it starts with a handful of late night commuters, but within seconds, it grows into a desperate flood of dozens of people.

umbrellas are abandoned on the flooded ground, crushed by feet as everyone sprints for their lives.

"he's killing them! he's picking up the cars!" a man screams, his voice hoarse with terror as he sprints past you, his tie flying over his shoulder, his eyes wide.

a woman trips on the slick curb just a few feet away, her heels skidding out from under her.

she hits the wet concrete hard, crying out as the crowd blindly swerves around her, too consumed by panic to stop.

you instinctively step forward to help, but the momentum of the crowd hits you.

a rushing shoulder slams into yours, forcing you forward, your head slamming against the concrete with a sickening crack.

everything goes white, your head is ringing and the noise around you is deafening, slaps of wet shoes, the ragged, breathless screams of children being dragged by their arms, and the blare of police sirens in the distances.

a throbbing ache is at the base of your skull, and when you blink, hot rain washes over your face except it’s too thick and warm.

you reach up with a trembling hand, your fingers brushing your forehead, and they come away stained a dark crimson.. you're bleeding.

you try to push yourself up onto your elbows, but your limbs feel like lead and the stampede of people don't care that you're down.

heavy boots and soaking sneakers splash violently into the puddles just inches from your head.

a heel catches the fabric of your coat, dragging you a few inches, while another foot just slightly misses stomping directly onto your hand.

you are completely invisible to them and if you stay flat on your stomach, you’re going to get trampled to death.

adrenaline forces your body to move despite the dizziness.

you push yourself up trembling hands and knees and the ground sways beneath you, while you gasp for breath, you begin to crawl, dragging your heavy, soaked coat through the water.

you lose your sense of direction entirely.

instead of reaching the shelter of the storefront doorway, you accidentally crawl off the lip of the curb and slide directly into the open, empty street.

the stampede remains confined to the relative safety of the sidewalk but you are completely exposed.

the massive, armored villain stands in the center of the intersection, his eyes fixed on the remaining police line.

with a guttural snarl, he digs his heavy fingers deep into a crumpled, overturned sedan.

he lifts the multi ton vehicle over his head with sickening ease and launches it forward.

but it’s not aimed at the cops, the trajectory is completely off.

it's hurling through the air directly toward you.

time seems to slow as you stare up from the wet street, paralyzed by the sheer horror of what’s coming.

the massive underbelly of the car blocks out the flashing emergency lights, casting a large shadow over you as it tumbles end over end through the heavy rain.

your completely frozen, it feels impossible to move, impossible to run.

you can feel the rush of wind pressing down on you as the falling metal begins its final, crushing descent.

you close your eyes and brace for the impact but the crushing weight of the falling car never comes.

instead,the sound off concrete shattering rips through the air directly infront you, so powerful it blows the rain away in a wide, circular shockwave.

the deafening screech of tearing metal explodes right over your head as the shadow stills.

trembling, you force your eyes open through the blood and rain falling down your face.

standing over you, his feet planted firmly into the now dented concrete, is superman.

"are you okay ma'am?!" his voice clear and steady through the rain.

he's holding the entire crumpled sedan above his head with one hand, his jaw clenched as he effortlessly hurls the massive piece of steel away, sending it crashing into an empty, abandoned building down the block where it can’t hurt anyone.

the savior of metropolis is standing right in front of you.

his red cape snaps in the rough winds, and the streetlights catch the bright 'S' across his chest.

he looks completely invincible.

but as he turns his head to look down at you, the confident aura of superman completely fractures.

he freezes.

through your dizzy, blurred vision, you can see his face perfectly.

superman is staring at you with a look of absolute horror. his chest heaves, his breath catching in his throat so sharply it looks like he’s the one who just took a physical blow.

his eyes track the dark crimson blood dripping down your forehead, your soaked, shivering clothes, and the way you are helplessly sprawled on the wet pavement.

he drops to his knees, sinking straight into the deep puddle without a care for the mud or the freezing water soaking into his suit.

before you can even gasp through the pain, his massive hands are framing your face.

his palms are calloused and warm, completely covering your cheeks, but they are shaking violently against your skin.

he cradles your head with tender care, his thumbs brushing frantically across your cheekbones to wipe away the rain and the dark blood that won’t stop leaking from your hairline.

"hey, hey....look at me, you're okay, hmm," he begs, his voice cracking.

"it's okay.." words tumble out of him in a breathless, frantic rush.

the resonant voice that superman uses when he addresses crowds or speaks on the news is completely gone.

in its place is a soft, broken whisper filled with terror.. a voice that hits your concussed, foggy brain with a wave of familiarity.

It's a voice you know intimately, stripped of all its usual calm.

he leans down so close his face is basically against yours, using his broad shoulders and the heavy fabric of his cape like a makeshift tent to block out the biting wind and the downpour.

his eyes are wide and wild with guilt as they track the injuries on your face again, the way you are shivering uncontrollably, and how close that car actually came to ending everything. a ragged, choked sob catches in his throat.

"i've got you, baby, i've got you. you're okay, i promise you're okay," he murmurs against your wet hair, entirely forgetting the rest of the city, the damage echoing down the avenue, and the fact that he is wearing a symbol meant for millions.

in the middle of the dark street, the hero has completely evaporated.

the mask has slipped without him even realizing it, leaving only a terrified man holding onto his entire world.

he presses his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips as he closes his eyes.

"i'm so sorry. oh God, my love, i'm so, so sorry. i shouldn't have been late. i'm right here."

you look past the bright 'S' on his chest, past the heavy red cape, and look straight into his wide, terrified eyes.

through the static of your concussion, the familiar slope of his jaw and the specific, frantic cadence of his breath finally cut through the illusion.

the impossibility of it settles into your chest, an unsure realization.

"clark...?" you breathe out.

it’s barely a whisper, more like a faint, breathless question easily swallowed by the howling wind, but his entire body goes completely rigid at the sound.

his chest stops heaving and his thumbs freeze against your wet cheeks, eyes widening in shock as it hits him that you've seen past the suit.

but you don't have the strength to wait for an answer.

the pulsing concussion has you passed out, your head lolls back against his arm, your eyelids fluttering shut as your body goes completely limp in his embrace.

"no, no, no.. hey! sweetheart, wake up! look at me!"

𓂃₊ ⊹

the first thing that returns to you is the smell.

that sterile scent of rubbing alcohol and heavy bleached linens.

then comes the sound, there's a rhythmic, electronic beep that echoes in the quiet room, a steady, comforting pulse that keeps time with the throbbing ache at the base of your skull.

you force your eyelids open, but the harsh light above makes you wince, a low groan escaping your dry throat.

the ceiling is made of those familiar, white acoustic tiles... a hospital.

"honey?!... hey, take it easy. don't try to sit up just yet."

the voice is soft but cautious, and instantly draws your eyes to the right side of the bed.

clark is sitting in a cramped hospital chair pushed right up against your mattress.

he looks completely exhausted, his flannel shirt is wrinkled, his heavy winter coat draped over the back of the chair, his glasses sitting squarely on his nose, and his blue eyes are bloodshot.

the moment he sees you looking at him, his shoulders drop in a massive, visible wave of relief.

he reaches out, his large, warm hand carefully enveloping yours where it rests on the stiff hospital sheets.

his fingers are trembling slightly, his thumb gently tracing the back of your knuckles.

"the doctor said you have a concussion, and they had to put a few stitches on your forehead and the gash on your cheek," clark says softly, his voice raspy as he leans a bit closer.

he looks down at your hand. "but you're going to be okay. they're just keeping you for observation."

you look at his hand wrapped around yours, and a spike of hurt flares in your chest.

with a tight frown, you pull your hand completely away from his grasp, tucking your fingers beneath the stiff hospital blanket.

the sudden movement makes your head throb but you ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on him.

clark’s thumb freezes, he looks down at his open palm for a fraction of a second, his expression fracturing with a look of hurt before he slowly lets his arm drop back to his lap.

"where were you?" you ask, your voice raspy, the exhaustion making the words sound heavier than you intended.

you stare at his wrinkled flannel shirt, "i waited for hours, clark. you didn't text. you didn't call. i was sitting there by myself like an idiot, and then the whole city went to hell while i was trying to get home."

clark looks completely devastated.

he flinches slightly at your words, his jaw tightening as he stares at the white blanket between you.

he opens his mouth to say something, to give the usual clumsy excuse about a deadline, a lost phone, or getting caught in transit but the words seem to catch in his throat.

he looks up at you through his thick glasses.

the silence stretches between you, you turn your face away from him, staring fixedly at the blank white wall opposite the bed.

the sight of his slumped shoulders and his guilty, exhausted face is just too much to handle on top of the throbbing ache in your skull.

"just go home, clark," you say quietly.

your voice is flat, stripped of all its anger, leaving only exhausted exhaustion.

beside the bed, Clark goes still. "darling, please... let me stay. just let me make sure you're okay..."

"i am okay," you interrupt, still refusing to look at him.

you pull the rough hospital blanket higher up around your shoulders, physically shielding yourself from him. "the doctors are watching me. i don't need you here. just... go home. go back to the daily planet, or wherever it was that was more important than meeting me."

out of the corner of your eye, you see him open his mouth to plead, to give you some kind of explanation, but he stops himself.

a ragged exhale escapes his lips.

slowly, the vinyl chair groans as he stands up. he towers over the bed, he goes to walk but stops.

he leans down into your space and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"I am so, so sorry," he whispers against your skin, his voice filled with regret.

"i'll... i'll go," he whispers, "but i'm leaving my phone on. if you need anything.. anything at all.. just call me. please."

you don't answer, you just close your eyes.

he pulls back slowly, as if pulling away from you physically pains him, before turning and making a quiet, reluctant exit from the room.

the soft click of the latch signaling that you are finally alone.

your eyes stay closes, your chest aching with something that has nothing to do with your injuries.

you expect to feel a sense of relief now that he’s gone, now that you don't have to look at his guilty face or listen to the excuses you were sure he was going to make.

but instead, the anger and hurt begins to drain away, leaving behind a feeling of loneliness.

you shift slightly on the stiff mattress, and a sudden vivid image flashes behind your closed eyes.

not the empty restaurant table or clark in his wrinkled flannel.

you see a cape blowing in the wind, a blue and red figure kneeling in a flooded street, unbothered by the storm.

you feel the ghost of massive, trembling hands framing your face with terror, and a voice deeper, stronger, but carrying that exact same, frantic cadence whispering sweetheart and my love into your wet hair.

your heart rate spikes, the monitor beside you accelerating slightly.

hands that could crush steel, yet held you as if you were made of glass.

the monitor beeps faster, its frantic rhythm filling the quiet room as your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.

the voice, the breathless, cracked panic of the city's hero as he knelt in the mud, crying over you, calling you darling, calling you my love.

it wasn't the booming voice Superman used on the news, it was a voice you knew personally, a voice that felt like home.

“clark...?”

the breathless question you had whispered right before passing out echoes perfectly as you repeat it out loud.

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚★⋆｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆★˚┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ⋆ ⋆ ┊ ┊ ┊ ★⋆ ⋆★ ┊ ┊ ◦ ◦ ┊ ★⋆ ⋆★

(i tagged people who asked for a pt2 and seemed like they'd be interested in one sorry if you didn't wanna be tagged or i missed you)

That's Bucky's second mistake, letting himself do a double take. 

It's less conscious than that though, like catching his reflection in a mirror. His eyes move on their own accord, sliding away from his careful profiling and locking solely onto you. 

Draped in silk and sin, poised and perfectly posed. You're perched on a bar stool, entertaining a small group of bald suits with wild hand gestures and well timed grazes of your hand. 

He watches one of your manicured fingers reach out and adjust the lapels of one of their jackets. It's the only time Bucky's ever wished he had his father's hairline. 

The movement is practiced, too perfect to be anything but well-rehearsed. You move like mercury, gentle and smooth. Like you could kill him if he dared to touch you. 

Bucky's third mistake is abandoning his position. It's bad enough he's lost sight of the target, that bald suit went to bathroom three minutes ago. Oblivious, Bucky abandons his spot in the shadows. Losing any vantage point he may have had and walking straight through the heart of the crowd. 

He can't be bothered with politeness, shouldering his way between conversations without even sparing them even an apologetic glance. It's only ten strides, maybe twelve before he has you back within view. 

It's even worse up close, the curve of your chin, the tilt of your smile and the way your tongue peeks out between your lips to grab a wandering drop of champagne off the rim of your glass.

His fourth mistake is looking at your lips. 

Pretty, plush, painted with perfect precision. They only serve to tighten your already iron clad grip on him. He doesn't hear a word you say, he already knows your voice will match the rest of you. 

It's enchanting, the way they curve around each word. He's never taken much stock of how people look when they talk. A mouth moves and he takes no thrill in the way it shapes sound. Until yours. Until he saw them part to allow a laugh passage. Suddenly he's quite sure there's nothing sexier. 

Like Venus has pulled him into her orbit, another moon for her collection. 

Bucky doesn't stop until he's close enough to hear the men around you, chuckles, music and the clinking of dishes all falling to distant static. 

Bucky's fifth mistake is not realizing that there is no static, at least not in the bubble surrounding you. In fact your circle of jesters has gone quiet, beady eyes staring into him as he obliviously stares at you. 

A hand passes back and forth in front of his face, finally freeing him from his reverie. 

When Bucky comes to there's laughter again, at his expense. 

He doesn't even care, too busy processes that he can actually hear it this time. Ringing out an octave above the rest is your giggle, distinctly feminine. It sounds rehearsed, borderline unnatural, as if you've had to force it up your throat and then pitched it be heard above the rest.

It's fake, obviously so. At least to anyone willing to actually listen.

You're talking then, face turned toward him with a smirk on your lips. Your voice is smooth, velveteen. It pulls him in, as if you're giving him all of your attention with every word. 

Bucky leans closer, all of his focus swimming around the sound of your speech. 

It hits him all at once. 

He's listening, hard. His ear turned toward your face to make sure he doesn't miss a syllable and-

He can't understand a word you say. 

What is that? Russian? German? No, he knows those. He only speaks of a little bit of Slovakian, but it doesn't sound like that's it either. 

It's melodic, although Bucky can't be sure if that's the language or just you.

You stare at him expectantly when you're done, voice lilting up as if you've asked him a question. Head cocked slightly to the side to match. 

Like you've told him something he should have already known. Alpine gives him the same look when she wake him up at three a.m. to let him know her bowl is empty. 

You're not a cat though, even if your eye gleam with mischief like one.

Is it French? Maybe you're speaking French?

"I'm sorry I don't-" he fumbles for a moment, heat rushing his cheeks with a vengeance. "I don't speak-"

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, corners turning down into a soft frown. You say something to the rest of the men, layering it with silk and buttercream. 

He catches a few more syllables that time, the fluidity as they string together some collection of words. Whatever they are has the men disappearing, a slow retreat. Like how ink dilutes in water. Gone before he can even pretend to sound out the first half of what you said.

Your shoulders lower for just a moment, visibly relaxing as you take a step closer to Bucky. 

"Agent Barnes, oui?" You ask. Your smile is smaller this time, more friendly than enchanting. His name is different on your tongue, thick and accented. It's slower than before, as if you took extra care crafting it properly on your tongue.

His name has never sounded like that before. Like someone was paying attention, cared about getting it right.

He wants to know yours. Badly.

Wants to trace each of your teeth with his tongue, lick each syllable off it and taste your voice.

He feels like a kid in a school gym, sweaty palmed with a flipping stomach.

That kid never used to falter though. Bucky prays he’s still in him somewhere. 

Sam’s voice cackles in his ear, his tone something between amusement and frustration.

“I see you’ve met Sirène.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, Sirène?

“I thought we were solo on this one Sam?” Bucky does his best to keep his voice level, offering you a small nod as he speaks.

“Our guy is wanted in several countries Buck, including hers. We went over all of this in the briefing? They sent her over for backup, y’know another set of eyes and someone who could sweet talk his foreign associates.”

The bald suits, presumably.

“Oh.”

“Yeah oh.” Sam’s voice trails on, Bucky hears something about plans and paperwork. Bucky’s also pretty sure there’s a jab about listening ears in there too.

While yeah, he probably should pay more attention during briefings, he’s also pretty sure no file could have adequately prepared him for you.

You’re still in front of him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you bite back a laugh.

“Siren?” Bucky repeats, directing the question toward you. Eliciting another giggle.

“See-ren.” Sam corrects in his ear. “It’s French.”

Bucky feels his confidence build ever so slightly, at least he was right about that.

He tries again, taking the same care that you did with his. It's a code name, of course it is. But it's something. 

Your grin is enough to turn Sam's voice in his to static.

"Makes sense." Bucky muses, "Pretty sure you could lure any man, anywhere."

Your reply drips like honey, the deepening in your tone unmistakable. "Vous aussi?" You murmur.

Bucky feels his knees start to melt with the way they hit him. Molten and sultry. "I'd fall right in line with them." He continues, unable to directly respond the way he wishes he could. 

Thirty languages programmed deep in his psyche and somehow French isn't one of them.

"Quel genre d'espion ne parle pas français?" You tease, or at least he thinks you tease. 

"I should'a listened when my Ma told me to take French in school."

"C'est pas grave, je les aime mignons et bêtes." You lean in closer on that one, taking the collar of his shirt between your fingers and smoothing it over. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me-"

"Oooh-kay." Sam sing-songs, cutting Bucky off. "If you two are done with whatever this is, we need to find our target."

Shit. Bucky curses. Of course Sam is right, he really should focus. 

He turns to look at you, something apologetic already half off his tongue when you start to lean in. 

With a hand on his chest, you toe up and whisper in his ear. Or more accurately, into his ear piece. 

"Il Dans le coin le plus à droits, assis fauteuil en cuir." You murmur, close enough for your lips to brush the skin oh his ear lobe. "Nous-I'm observe depuis trois minutes."

You pull back, the hand on his chest snaking up to his neck and curling around the back of it. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to dance along the hair at the base of his head. 

"J'ai entendu sa femme dans la salle de bains. Elle disait qu'il ne fait pas confiance à ceux qui viennent seuls à ce genre d'événement." You continue, all but purring as you rake your nails over his skin. You let out a laugh then, one of the fake ones from earlier. This time you keep it low, soft enough that it won't travel further than the two of you. "Heureusement, je suis venu accompagné d'une belle cavalière."

Bucky's mind in swimming, swirling with the ecstacy of your touch and the vibration of your voice. How is a man supposed to even pretend to listen? 

"Little help on the translation Sam?" Bucky asks. Doing his best to follow your lead, he slides an arm around your waist, his hand resting heavy over the slope of your hip. 

He can feel his pulse in his palm, thrumming hard under the skin with nerves. You don't seem to notice, or perhaps care, not bothering to move an inch as Bucky waits for Sam's response. 

"Our guy is across the room at eight o'clock. He likes couples so she's doing her best to sell it." Sam explains, "So maybe loosen up a bit, give her a hand yeah?"

Bucky feels his throat bob as he swallows, his tongue suddenly gone thick. His nod is short, hardly visible and too stiff for the kind of level head this situation calls for. 

"Yeah." Bucky exhales, "I can do that."

He forces himself to ignore Sam's chuckled Can you? in his ear.

"Respirer profondement." You whisper, taking the hand Bucky had placed (respectfully) on your hip and moving it around to your back, letting it rest at the base of your spine, just where your ass begins to curve.

One long exhale later, and Bucky finds his nerve. 

His hand splays out over your skin, daring to take up the space there. With one quick pull he brings your chest flush to his, nearly throwing your balance as he does so. 

You beam, smile widening with approval. 

"Nice." Sam chides in his ear, equal parts proud and disgusted. 

You squeeze Bucky's shoulder. "Il vient par ici."

"He's headed toward you." Sam translates. 

You bring your hand around from the back of Bucky's neck, sliding it down over his collarbone until your palm rests flat on his sternum. "Laissez- parler."

"Let her do the talking." Sam tells him. Through a window a light catches Bucky's eye, a red scope trained in his direction. Sam's careful aim sitting on his shoulders like armor. 

"My pleasure." Bucky agrees. 

With his hand still on your back, the skin below his ear buzzing from where your lips had brushed, Bucky thinks he means it more than either you are Sam truly understand.

Bucky's began to wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D. asked you to stay on to test him.

Or more specifically, test his sanity. 

With the arrest made, a power vacuum big enough to swallow Wilson Fisk opened up. Wannabe kingpins popping up every three blocks with the potential to wreak more havoc than they have any right to. 

And with the dissemination of your Target's organization, most of them happen to be French. 

They need you, S.H.I.E.L.D. of course. Not Bucky, no Bucky just likes your company. 

If he can even call it that. 

What do you call it when you spend all day with someone and then also spend all of your free time with them and spend all the time you're not together replaying their words in your head? 

Sam calls it a crush, Bucky staunchly disagrees. 

What do you call it when you can't understand a word the other person says?

Sam calls it a Love Actually. Bucky doesn't know what the fuck that means.

You laughed when he told you about it though, loud and obnoxious. Hard enough for your head to tilt back and expose the thin skin of your neck. The line where muscle meets collarbone and the kissable swell of your clavicle. 

Bucky doesn't look up it, afraid of what he'll find. 

Instead he asks you to teach some more French. 

Je m'appelle Bucky. My name is Bucky. 

Explained to him with a smile as you finally slipped him your own.

Pour qui travaillez-vous? Who do you work for?

Your voice guiding him through the pronunciation as you and Sam prepared him for a few simple phrases he might hear. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? What the fuck are you doing?

Rasped though the static of a com as you watch him through a security cam in a van about two hundred feet away. A huff of frustration and Bucky is sure a matching furrow in your brow.

That one is probably his favorite. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When you catch him eating from one of those shitty breakfast trucks parked outside. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When he takes you out for sushi (a nice place Sam recommended, emphasizing its romantic atmosphere despite Bucky's protests), this time gasped in mock horror as he picked up a fork. 

He'd stared back confused, already half-offended before he realized what you were talking about. 

You waved the chopsticks sitting between your fingers at him, clicking their ends together once as if to punctuate the sentence. 

Bucky had fumbled, ripping open the paper that held his pair and holding them uselessly in either hand. 

"I'm not exactly sure how to-" 

You'd already reached across the table before he could finish, grasping his hand and articulating it with your fingers. You pulled and flexed until satisfied and then slid the chopsticks into place. 

"Mieux." You'd said with a satisfied nod

Bucky had to ignore the way he stirred in his boxers under the drip of your praise.

At least he's pretty sure that's what it was. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? Shouted over a loud bass and shitty DJ. Bucky learns that in the heart of Brooklyn, people do still dance. It just looks little different now. 

And it hurts his ears.

Stiff as board, he watches you from just a few feet away. A tight dress, strappy heels, the lace of your bra just beginning to tease itself over the neckline-

What the fuck are you doing? He curses to himself, blinking hard as if it could change the way his body is already reacting. 

You're dancing, hips swaying in time with the music while your face sits in a scowl. Lips pressed into a line as you stare him down with what he thinks is French for contempt. 

"She wants to go to an American Club," Sam had told him. "A bunch of us are gonna go, y'know make a night of it."

Bucky hadn't been easily convinced.

He'd laughed, full chested and slightly terrified. "Hard pass."

Sam knocked his shoulder, hard enough to yank Bucky straight out of his cowardice. 

"Don't be an idiot." He'd chided. 

"I'm not it's just not my scene." Bucky tried to reason. "You honestly think she'd want me there? What so I can stand there awkwardly all night and pretend to get buzzed?" 

Sam's groan bounced off the walls around them, "You're shitting me right?" 

Bucky shrugged. 

"You've been making fuck-me eyes at each other for the past month." Sam deadpanned. 

The denial was second nature, the only thing that made sense. "She doesn't feel that way-" 

"Do you speak French?" Sam interrupted. 

"No." 

"Okay then shut up and listen to someone who does." Sam said.

Bucky's protest died on his tongue. 

"Just fucking go tonight okay? I'll play translator and then if you don't believe me after that you really are fucking hopeless."

So Bucky Barnes, despite being just about seventy years too old, went to the club. 

He wore those cargoes that make the lady at his Chinese place stare at his thighs. A black t-shirt that is probably a little too small but his other one was dirty and he didn't have time to wash it. Topping it off with a leather jacket and a scoff at himself in the mirror. 

"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" He whispered to himself, already picturing ten different versions of your disgust. 

Sam had already been knee deep in conversation with you when Bucky finally got there. 

Vowels flying left and right, wild gesticulations that made Bucky fear for the safety of your drinks next to you. 

He had to ignore the way his heart jumped when you spotted him. Forced himself to brush off the way you immediately stopped talking to Sam. 

"Bucky! Tu es venu!" You crooned in his ear, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you took a hug. A month later and the way you say his name is still enough to send a shiver up Bucky's spine.

You'd already had a drink, probably two if the looseness of your shoulders is anything to go by. 

When you pulled back it was to give him an appeasing look, eyes traveling over him with slow deliberation. When you finally met his eyes again, your finished with a slight cock of your head. Then you nodded, as if he'd answered a question you silently asked. 

"Vous êtes à croquer, Sergeant." You finally spoke, ending the sentence with one last hum and a pat on his shoulder. 

Then you were gone, pulled away by another agent and into the dance floor, leaving him alone with Sam at the bar. 

Minutes passed, long stretches of silence with nothing but the chaos of the music and the crowd around them. The shouts of drunk partiers ordering more drinks, the clamor of girls at the DJ booth. 

"You look good enough to eat." 

Sam finally broke the silence, taking a long swill of his drink before looking at Bucky for his reaction. 

"That's what she said." He explained, nodding in your direction. "She also spent our entire conversation staring at the door waiting for you."

Bucky's pulse stuttered, then began pounding a new rhythm. Something between surprised and utterly terrified. 

His face burned, like when you sit too close to a campfire. Bright hot and impossible to ignore. Across the club you glowed with your own light. A flame burning so bright you hurt his eyes, flickering with motions so fluid he has no choice but to keep staring anyway. 

You caught his stare, lips setting into a frown as his favorite words rolled off your tongue one more time. "Qu'est-ce que tu fous?"

Finally, Bucky thinks he knows how you want him to answer. 

The look, the contempt. It's something else entirely. It's half-lidded and frustrated and utterly sick of waiting. You're not disgusted, you're wanting. 

Shit, Bucky realizes, What the fuck have I been doing?

His jacket is shrugged off before he can think better of it, too busy holding eye contact to make sure he actually passed it Sam's direction.

"Hold this." He says, reaching over to steal the last few sips from his friend's drink. 

Your frown turns back up, lips quirking with mischief. The same hint of trouble he saw that very first night. 

As if you know, you lift on hand, using it to crawl your finger in a slow 'come hither' movement. Then you turned, breaking the spell and leaving Bucky to stare at your back as you fell back into the music. 

"Don't think I need to translate that one." Sam cracks, letting out a low whistle as your hips began to sway even harder than before. 

"No." Bucky grunts, "You don't." 

By the time Bucky makes it to you, he already knows he won't last long. 

He comes up from behind, and the smile you throw him over your shoulder nails his coffin.

It's three songs, maybe four. 

Three songs of your body pressed so tight to his Bucky's not sure where you end and he begins.

Three songs of the curve of your ass rolling against his cargoes until he's fighting at his zipper. 

Three songs of your arm stretched above your head, hand curled around the back of Bucky's neck. 

Three songs of your lips brushing over his skin. The seam of his jaw, the hollow of his collar bone, just over the thump of his jugular. 

Three songs of Bucky realizing he's been paying too much attention to talk.

You say plenty without ever even opening your mouth. 

His hand closes over your hip and your body answers with a sway, your weight leaning back into his chest. 

He finds the courage to bring his other hand to your front, splaying it protectively over your stomach. You return it in ten fold, pushing onto your toes and leaning your head onto his shoulder. 

He can't hear the noise you make but he feels it vibrate through your chest, a low rumble echoing through every part of you he can feel. 

For the first time Bucky's able to hear what you've been trying to tell him. Finally, it's a language he can speak. 

Mercifully, he's fluent. 

His hands spin you around slow, pulling until you're face to face. The lean down is just as tortuous, bending until you're all but nose to nose. 

The noise of the club around you acts like a curtain, drawing closed around your bodies until he forgets anyone is there at all. 

Your eyes dance from his own down to his lips, lashes fluttering with the movement and dusting your cheeks. There's glitter on your nose, Bucky's torn between wanting to know where you got it, and licking it off. 

He definitely wants to find out if there's more.

"Vas-tu enfin m'embrasser?" It can't be louder than a whisper, Bucky's ears so finely attuned to your voice he's sure he could pick it out of any room. 

He feels his cock throb, responding to your words despite not even knowing what they mean. You could have been reciting the the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Bucky wouldn't have cared. 

It was never about what you said, or what language you spoke it in, it was always about how you said it. Bucky answers with the only thing he can make sense of. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me on." 

Your hand snakes a path down Bucky's chest, sliding between the space where your bodies are pressed together so you can palm his bulge. 

"Ça se voit." You purr, thumb pressing into his zipper. 

Bucky's dick jumps under your touch, all his want pooling under your hand. 

"That's not fair." He groans, his grip tightening on your hips, enough to make the fabric of your dress bunch between his fingers. "All my cards are on the table."

You pull back, pushing up onto your toes again as you stretch towards him. "Je vous dirai tout ce que vous voulez savoir. Il suffit de demander."

"Okay it's even less fair when you do that." He crumbles, meeting you halfway and pressing his forehead into yours. "I'm already caught you can stop with the siren song." 

You laugh, low and soft and mercifully real. "Demande , Bucky."

He doesn't find the words he was looking for, no grand speech or sweeping music. Just the weight of his better judgment finally giving out on itself. 

His lips find yours with a sigh of relief, the tension between you finally releasing with a palpable burst. 

Your soft against him, nose turning ever so slightly to slot against his. 

It's gentle at first, soft, exploratory. A test of pressure, the shock of feeling you so close against him.

Then it turns, pressure grows, each of you pushing harder into the other. Hands take on lives of their own, grabbing at any inch of exposed skin they can find. Yours are everywhere, his neck, his arms, his jaw and at the sliver of skin at his waist. You leave fire burning in your wake, mouth slanted against him as you swallow every sound that escapes. 

Maybe you weren't joking about eating him.

The tension that existed before comes back tenfold, growing into something malicious and untenable. It burns even brighter now, like the first puff a cigarette. His body is already craving more and you're still on his lips.

When the need for air finally wins out, your bodies are so entangled Bucky is sure half of the dance floor is giving you a dirty look. 

Bucky can't hear your breathing but he can feel it, the rapid rise and fall of your chest against his. The way your lips are parted, the skin around them irritated from his scruff. It strike a white hot pulse of possession. 

You look wrecked and Bucky can't get enough of the fact that he's the one who did it. 

When you speak it's at the same time, two gravely voices begging the same question. 

"Ramène- à ta maison?"

"Can I take you home?"

Both of you are answered with another kiss.

Bucky - woefully unprepared Bucky, takes you back to his apartment. He guides the most ethereal woman he's ever met up two flights of stairs and into his shoebox. 

Okay, it's little bigger than a shoebox but not by much. 

He does his best to steer you through the living room, kissing you earnest as he walks you back toward his bedroom. In part just to kiss you, but also to keep you from seeing the makeshift bed on the floor by the couch. 

You either don't notice his tactics or don't care. By the time you make it to his room you've stopped walking altogether. No, instead your legs are wrapped around his waist, having jumped up somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom. Just threw your weight at him between kisses and trusted him to catch you.

It makes his head feel warm to think about. 

The bed is softer than he remembers, his hands sinking into the plush mattress as he lays you down on it. 

He waits until your back is flat, then leans onto his haunches. His chest pulls tight at the distance, like an invisible is string gone taut between you. His jacket comes off in rushes drags of sleeves down his arms, one side even catching on his wrist in the hurry. He doesn't even remember putting it back on, doesn't remember much about leaving the club except the way you were tucked into his side with a hand in his back pocket. 

The jacket lands somewhere behind him with a thud, the sound marrying beautifully with your giggle. 

Bucky has to take a moment just to look at you. 

You perched on your elbows and staring up at him with nothing but excitement. Youwith your dress bunched up around the tops of your thighs, bare skin catching in the dim light of his lamp. You with a pretty smile on your lips, any lipstick that you had started the night with long gone.

He wonders if it's rouge on your cheeks or if you just glow like that all by yourself.

For a second, he's out of his body. Who is he to have this? The soft bed beneath his knees is unfamiliar, the trust you offer yourself up with even more so. 

It must show on his face. 

"Bucky?" You whisper, humming as you bring his attention back to you. "Ça va?"

He nods, only half sure he understood the question. "I'm okay." He promises, "Just making sure you're real."

You melt, slight enough that only someone as well attuned as him would notice. Shoulders curling inward, lips twitching at the corners, the brief break in your eye contact. 

Slowly, you lower yourself flat once more, this time grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him with you. 

Your hands grab the hem of shirt, reclaiming the skin you had teased on the dance floor. This time you don't stop at a sliver, pulling it up over his head until it lands somewhere by his jacket. 

A low breath blows from between your teeth, borderline a whistle. "Es tu?" You ask, cocking an eyebrow as you flatten your palm over his abdomen. 

Bucky can't be bothered to decipher that one, instead he decides he's much more bothered by the fact that you are still wearing so much clothes. 

Okay the dress really isn't much in the way of fabric but his point stands. It's between him and your skin and that's crime enough.

Your zipper slips between his fingers twice, the delicate metal pull taunting him as he tries to grasp it. That's when he gives up. 

The zipper pulls apart with just a little pressure, coming undone in a cascade of popping teeth. From the top of the dress to the end of the zipper at the base of your spine, it's rendered useless in seconds.

Bucky waits to be scolded, a hand slap or sharp glare. 

When he finally looks back up at you all he sees is want, pupils blown wide with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. 

Bucky's hands freeze where they had been pulling the dress down, fabric bunched in his hands like a brute. 

Then you nod. 

It rips like paper, tearing along the seam that had run up your hip and all the way to the base of the zipper. 

He throws it so hard it hits the wall. 

You're even worse bare, the sight of you in nothing but a bra and panties enough to turn what's left of Bucky's mind to mush. 

It's his turn to be greedy. He copies the path you took, from sternum to ribs to belly button. Only he paints it with his mouth instead. 

A kiss over your collarbone, then just over your heart. Then one is pressed in the valley between your breasts, another further down at the base of your ribs. Until finally he laves one more just above the waist band of your underwear, low enough for the elastic to tickle his chin. 

Your breath catches, a sharp gasp that catches just as he makes contact. Like he's caught you off guard, something he didn't even know was possible. 

It would make even the worst cowards brave. 

Bucky tucks a finger into the elastic on either of your hips, pausing just long enough for you to know his intentions. 

Without missing a beat you raise them, lifting off the bed by just as inch and giving Bucky the only signal he needed. 

They don't even get pulled all the way off, abandoned somewhere around your ankles and left for you to kick away as Bucky gives all his attention to the sight in front of him.

The low lights cast a shadow across your body, draping you in gentle curves and sharp contrasts. It settles over your skin until you look like a painting, and your cunt is no exception. 

There at the apex of your thighs, Bucky's is pretty sure sits the holy grail. 

He moves slow, like a predator stalking its prey. He makes a home for himself between your thighs, pushing your knees apart to make room as he lays down between them. 

Your words from earlier play back in his mind, the translation Sam had fed him.

"Vous êtes à croquer" He whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. He probably butchered the pronunciation, dragged the vowel too hard or exaggerate a letter that doesn't belong but you don't seem to care. "Means you look good enough to eat."

As if forgetting him, your legs immediately try to close, a little whimper bubbling from the back of your throat as you're blocked by his hands. 

Bucky clicks his tongue, using the movement to shift your position. The legs that had been on either side of him are lifted onto his shoulders, rendering you completely vulnerable to hid intentions.

"Sil te plaît." You whine, hips jerking up toward him. Your breathing turned erratic, sharp inhales and cut-off exhales as you wait for him to finally do something.

Bucky doesn't pretend to hide just how much he likes it. 

His fingers find you first, wet heat that catches on his skin. You feel like fire, tantalizing and hypnotic. His index and pointed drag through your folds, parting them to give him a better view of your ruin. 

He repeats the motion a few times, gathering slick around his digits and watching your reaction with every pass. 

The tensing of your thighs when he just misses your entrance, the way your chest stills when he passes over the hood of your clit. 

Your body is a language he's desperate to be fluent in. 

The taste of you melts on his tongue, potent and sweet. Better than anything he's had the privilege to swallow in years. 

One lick, then a second slower one. The full width of his tongue pressing flat against your clit. Then he can't bear another second, closing his lips around the bud in a sloppy wet kiss. 

Your hands fly to his hair, followed by a jagged moan that sounds more like it was torn from your body than given willingly. 

"Bucky-" you gasp, fingers pulling on brown locks, "Fuck!" 

Your slip up is missed completely, half covered by your thighs over his ears and half drowned out by the his own satisfied groan. 

His mind is blissfully blank, for the first time in a long time he's not thinking about anything other than the task at hand. 

Your pleasure isn't even a direct motivator, well it is, but Bucky's driven by his own just as much. The way you feel in his mouth, the vibrations of your moans and the how your entire body jolts when he finally slides two fingers inside of you. 

It's relief, finally understanding that as much as he wants you, you want him. It only fuels him further, his nose pushing against your clit, fingers working along side his tongue inside you. Curling at different angles until he hears that scream again-

"Bucky!"

You're wet everywhere, the insides of your thighs and down his chin. Some sick part of him wishes he could bottle it, where the most natural part of you as a cologne.

His own hips grind into the mattress, more instinct than intention. He's harder than he's been in seventy fucking years and you don't even speak the same language.

Your legs go rigid around his head, tightening as your orgasm starts to build.

Bucky's making sure you get there, pressing his fingers into that spot inside you until he's all but giving it a massage. Your walls pulling tight around him, pulsing in time with your rapid heart. 

His lips close around your clit one more time, tonguing it with gentle pressure. He can't help but hum, he's damn near choking on you and would die happily if it was between your legs. 

Then it all bursts. 

His nightmare, his French muse, his siren, his Venus cums hard on his tongue. 

Bucky swears he can taste a whole language, the sweetest elixir God could have ever made and he's drinking it from the source. 

You're one fire above him, broken curses and whimpered babbles of his name. 

As it retreats, your grip finally loosening, Bucky crawls back over you. Not stopping until he's above your face, watching it contort in the come down. 

You're still speaking, the sound of it finally coming back into focus. 

"So good," you gasp, "So fucking good Bucky don't stop-"

Everything goes still. An entire orbit freezing in place. 

He can see it in your eyes, something hazy and romantic as you finally lock in on him. Your hands cup his face, oblivious to the fact that you've given it away. 

"You speak fucking English?" It comes out harsher than Bucky means for it to. "This whole time you spoke-"

You groan, pulling his lips back to yours. 

Despite it all, Bucky goes willingly. He kisses you and instead of betrayal he tastes something sweeter.

"Was gonna tell you." You whisper, "But wasn't this more fun?" 

When he pulls back that look is there again, the mischief he saw that first night. 

He kisses you again, even harder this time. 

Yeah, he thinks, it was.

Collab Masterlist (If you're interested in Bumpin' that)

Main Masterlist

You had been kissing for a while, a slow exploration that was steadily building into something more urgent. You have always been careful, Bucky—with the way you touched him, the way you kissed him—not because you thought you’d break him, but because you knew he deserved the respect. Allow him time to relearn things and grasp the ropes of intimacy in a way that isn’t rushed or pressured. Bucky Barnes is just a man in need of love, like everyone else; but loving him is different. Has to be.

His mouth is a revelation against yours—soft, never demanding, despite the desperate edge always under the surface. It’s present in his fingers clutching at your shirt (are you real?), in the soft whines he lets out when you pull back (don’t stop).

Your hands find purchase on the muscles of his back now, pulling him closer, molding your body against his until you can feel the impressive strength of him, the barely restrained power that always hums just beneath his skin.

The sheer novelty of it, for him, is palpable. Decades of forced isolation, of human touch that always came in the form of a violation or a command, have left him devoid of genuine intimacy. Dr. Raynor had once called it being touch starved. He hates the expression, every syllable of it, because starvation would mean he was being deprived of nourishment (or depriving himself), and that’s not true anymore. You are right here, in front of him, offering him everything. A heaven-sent gift to his life, dropped at his feet like he was deserving of it. Of you.

Every brush of your skin, every soft moan you let escape when his hands do something good on your body, is a jolt of overwhelming sensation he doesn’t quite know how to process. His body is a live wire, dangerously close to snapping, and you’re the never-ending flame.

You break the kiss for a breath, your forehead resting against his, eyes fluttering open to meet his own. They are dark and intense, a silent question lurking in their depths. “You okay?” you whisper, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw.

Bucky hates that you have to ask—but he doesn’t hate that you ask, because that’s just you being your perfect, caring self. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent, a shiver running through him that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. “Yeah,” he rasps, his voice rough. “‘m okay.”

You smile, then, before you curl your fingers in his hair and bring his face to meet yours so you can kiss him again.

This time, the kiss is heavier. More deliberate, like you’re willing to cross a line and see how far Bucky can handle it. You press your lips more firmly against his and then, a slow brush of your tongue. It’s soft at first, seeking invasion, intimacy that goes beyond simple desire.

For Bucky, it’s a rupture. The soft pressure, the warm probe of your tongue, the way it moves against his, mimicking a more primal act—it bypasses his conscious thought entirely. His breath stutters, and he clings harder to your shirt, leaning forward. You feel it, every movement, always on the lookout for any signs that he needs to stop or slow down, and you read it as a desire to keep going. To push forward.

Your tongue slides into his mouth, curling with his, wet and hot and open. It isn’t aggressive or threatening. But the full intimacy of it is too much—too overwhelming for a system starved for seven decades.

A wave of sensation that feels less sexual and more like an emotional lightning strike rips through him. He makes a choked sound—a sharp inhale that breaks the seal of the kiss—and his hands clench around you, one digging into your hair at the base of your skull, the other curled tight around the fabric of your shirt.

His body seizes, a violent tremor locking his muscles and racking through him.

Bucky pulls back, staggered, his eyes squeezed shut. His face was a mask of shock and searing mortification, the skin across his cheekbones flushing an angry red. He’s breathing in painful gasps, trying to force air into his lungs, but all he can register is the abrupt (and humiliating) wetness blossoming across the front of his trousers. No. Not now. Not like this.

Your eyes go wide with alarm at his reaction. "Bucky? What is it? Are you okay?"

He can’t speak. Just stares at you, his chest heaving, and then his eyes close briefly in utter defeat. The unmistakable warmth that spreads in his pants is the physical representation of the betrayal that screamed vulnerability. He’s supposed to be past this. He’s supposed to be fixed.

Bucky tries to turn his face, to pull away, but your hands are quicker and already resting on his cheeks, gently cupping them and holding him steady. Your eyes flicker between his face and his body, and the moment you understand, your gaze softens impossibly so.

“Hey,” you whisper with no judgment in your eyes, no disgust. Only warmth. Only ever warmth for him. “Buck. It’s okay.”

No explanation is needed. You know. You simply pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing his face into your shoulder. Bucky leans into the warmth of you, your steady heartbeat, the soft rustle of your hair against his ear. The fight leaves him. He’s a soldier, but also a man who has finally, involuntarily, found safety.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, the words thick with shame.

“Bucky, no apologizing.” You shake your head slowly. “This is just… feeling everything at once. But that’s good. It’s okay to feel good. To let go." You murmur into his ear, your fingers gently stroking the short hair at his nape. "I’m happy it’s me. That you feel safe with me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Tentatively, his arms come up, wrapping around you, holding you with a trembling grip. The heat of shame still lingers, but your quiet acceptance, your unwavering touch, is painstakingly washing it away. He might be a wreck, but you’re holding him like he’s everything.

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“