“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.

“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.

Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”

They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now. 

“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”

Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”

The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird. 

“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”

“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. 

Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you. 

Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.

“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.

He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class. 

You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says. 

Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”

Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other. 

“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes. 

You lost your silica gel.

It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.

But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that? 

And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach. 

Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm. 

Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.

She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away. 

Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting. 

Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper. 

If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do. 

Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up. 

“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”

You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”

“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”

You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”

“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”

You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say. 

She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”

But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers. 

“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”

“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”

She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”

You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.

Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.

Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely. 

You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.

“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”

“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”

He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.

“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.

You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.

“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”

“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”

He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.

“Hey.”

You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always. 

“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.

You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”

“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”

“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”

“Can I see?”

You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”

“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”

“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”

“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”

“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.

“I was sick.”

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.

She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”

“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention. 

“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.

Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”

“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you. 

Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.

“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”

“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say. 

“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”

“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.

Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”

“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”

“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”

You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”

“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”

You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is. 

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”

“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”

“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”

Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.

“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.

You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.

And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing. 

“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.

Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”

He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that. 

You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want. 

You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.

You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork. 

“Not a fan of the bun?”

You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously. 

“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”

“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”

“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”

Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”

You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture. 

You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.

“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”

“I zoned out.”

“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”

“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”

You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus. 

“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”

Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”

“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”

You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.

“Wait, go back,” he says.

You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.

“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering. 

It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open. 

“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles. 

“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”

“How?”

“Do you have Instagram?”

“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”

“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.” 

“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”

“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”

You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.

“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”

“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”

He lights up. “Same here.”

You type your number into his phone. 

Hi :) says the message on your phone.

Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒. 

“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.

“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”

“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.

“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”

You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.

“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”

You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”

“So what? You’re really good.”

You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”

You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms. 

And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—

“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”

Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over. 

“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”

“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled. 

“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.

And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.

“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”

You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other. 

“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.

“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”

“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”

“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”

Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out. 

“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it. 

“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.

“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”

“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”

You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”

“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”

“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett. 

Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”

“A win is a win.”

“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.

Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”

You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”

All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed. 

Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck. 

“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.

Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop. 

“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”

Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”

Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”

Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften. 

“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back. 

“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.

You smile. “They’re of you.”

“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”

You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.

“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.

“Stop by anytime.”

“See ya around,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods. 

You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you. 

Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.

“Hey, wait up!”

You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.

“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”

You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”

“What? You didn’t—”

“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”

“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”

“Nerds?” you finish.

“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”

You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”

“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”

His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.

“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”

No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you. 

“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”

“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”

You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”

“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning. 

You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”

“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”

“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”

He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”

“It’s on the plaque.”

“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”

“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”

“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”

“History is cool.”

Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”

You smile. “I guess so.”

“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”

“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.

“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”

“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”

You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”

“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”

The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.

“I really do like talking to you,” you say.

“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.

“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.

She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.

She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.

You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.

“Hi.”

You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.  

“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.

“I wasn’t invited,” you say.

He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?

“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”

You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”

“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”

“Oh. That’s confusing.”

He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”

People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.

You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.

“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.

“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”

“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”

That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.

“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”

“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”

“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”

“We are?”

He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”

“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”

“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”

You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.

“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”

You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.

Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.

But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be. 

“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”

Logan grins. “Awesome.”

“You have nice teeth.”

He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”

“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”

Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?

“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh…”

“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”

You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”

“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”

You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes. 

Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.” 

People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered. 

“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”

You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.

“What were you listening to?” he asks.

“Brown noise.”

“Is that a band or a song or…”

“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”

He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”

“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”

“So you don’t listen to music?”

“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”

“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”

“Will you really?”

Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”

You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.

Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.

“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.

You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.

Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.

“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.

The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”

“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”

You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”

He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”

As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.

You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.

You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

“Can I refresh that for you?”

You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup. 

“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”

He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”

Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.

“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of games?”

“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”

Ben frowns. “Are you together?”

“He drove me here in his car.”

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”

“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”

His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”

You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”

Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”

Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway. 

“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”

Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.

“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”

Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”

“Together for what? Sex?”

Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation. 

“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”

Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground. 

“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.

“Hey.”

Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you. 

“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.

You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is. 

Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”

“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”

“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”

Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest. 

“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”

Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”

Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face. 

“Fine. Fucking whatever.”

He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar. 

He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”

Relief softens your body, even if Logan’s only taking you somewhere quieter so he can tell you off. “Okay.”

You pick up your napkin and throw it away. Then you follow him to the backyard. It's big too, and you're glad everything is well-lit and marked. It'd be too easy to get lost in this house. Logan takes you to two chairs on the deck where there's less people. Most of the guests are inside since Beau didn't fill the pool.

You sit. People hate it more when you defend yourself, but Logan has to know that you really did try not to make a scene. You care about things that your friends like, and you want to keep Logan as a friend. You like him, especially after tonight. 

“I tried to tell him I wasn't interested in my quiet voice,” you say. “So many times. I didn't want sex. I swear I didn't send him signals, Logan, I didn't even approach him firs—”

“Whoa, hey.” He pushes his hair back, leaning in. “Hey, hey. I know you don't like Pembroke, and you don't have to try to convince me that he started it. He was a total jerk.”

You’re miserable. “People don't like when I use my loud voice, but sometimes they just won't listen to me. I had to.”

“Is it okay if I take your hand?” Logan asks softly. 

You nod. Logan takes your hand in both of his, resting them on his knee. He’s quiet for a moment. 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally says. “When someone is harassing you, you have the right to be as loud as you want. It fucking sucks, and I’m sorry he did that. I’m gonna tell the guys and make sure he doesn’t make the team next year. He’s a shit player anyway.”

You fiddle with the silica gel again. “I wanted to be good at the party. You like parties, and a video I watched about making friends in college said that I should do things that other people like to become their friend.”

“Oh,” he says gently, rubbing your knuckles. “We’re already friends. You don't have to go to any parties to be my friend. Parties are fine, yeah, but they aren't the only thing I like. I'm not Dean.” He rolls his eyes and laughs. 

You smile, pleased to catch onto his joke. “He was dancing with Allie.”

“Yeah, I think we may have witnessed a historical event: Dean Di Laurentis not getting what he wants.”

“Because she didn't kiss him?”

Logan snorts. “Exactly. Look, do you wanna ditch this party and do something else? There's a guest house on the property if you just wanna chill. I would drive you home, but I’m still a little tipsy.”

He's still holding your hand. You like it. You like how rough his palms are, his cool skin against your warmth. You link your fingers with Logan's. He looks down, then looks back up at you.

“I'm hungry, actually,” you say. 

He hums. “Good.”

“How is that good?”

“No, I mean, it's good you're being honest with me and telling me what you want. Don't force yourself to go to any more parties, okay?”

“Okay, Logan. Is there a Taco Bell nearby?”

****

“You’re a genius,” Logan says, his mouth full of Crunchwrap. He chews, then swallows before speaking again. “Taco Bell should be a post-game tradition. Garrett’s a health nut, but I think I could convince him.”

The Taco Bell is only a few blocks away from the house, so you and Logan walked here. He paid for your food even though you have money. He said it was to make up for the shitty party. You told him he didn’t need to do that. He said he wanted to.

“It’s my favorite fast food,” you say, working on your potatoes. You stick a fork into one, then carefully dip one corner in sour cream and the other in the nacho cheese.

“I thought they put the sauces on top,” he says.

“Normally they do, but I ask for them on the side because otherwise all the potatoes don’t get an equal distribution of sauce.”

It’s quiet, and you find Logan staring at you as you chew. You swallow, frowning.

“What?”

He shakes his head, grinning. He does that a lot. “Nothing, just… you’re different.”

“Oh.” You pull your food closer to you, shoulders curling in.

“Not in a bad way! I like it. You know what you want.”

“Not really.” You suddenly remember Allie and Dean dancing. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to get it.”

“I think that’s pretty common,” Logan says, resting his chin in his hand. “I’ve been in that situation plenty of times.”

“What did you do?”

“Hmm.” He takes a long sip from his coke. “Depends on what I wanted. For the most part, I just went for it. No one else is gonna give it to you, you know?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you want?”

It strikes you now that Logan’s eyes are not just brown; they’re speckled gold, like spattered sunlight on tree bark. They’re lovely even in the harsh fluorescent light. He’s like some kind of fantasy novel angel with the wings and his swoopy curls. His lashes are long and thick. He licks his lips, and now you can’t stop staring at his mouth. Your heart starts to pound, the longer he looks at you.

Oh no, you think. Oh no. I don’t want to be his friend. 

Yet another thing you’ve misunderstood. 

“I don’t know,” you say hoarsely. You clear your throat. “I really don’t know.”

“Well,” Logan says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And whatever it is, it’ll be there for you.”

You can hardly speak. You twirl the silica gel between your fingers. You do that the whole car ride home. Logan leaves the radio on low again. He gets out and opens your door after he pulls up to your dorm. Again, he offers his hand, and again, you take it.

“You look really pretty in those wings,” he says, like he’s telling you a secret, even though he already told you that earlier. He must really mean it. 

It’s just you two here; campus is pretty much dead because almost everyone else is at the party.

“So do you.”

He laughs, and you think you’d really like it if he gave you a hug right now. But you’re not a hugger. You don’t know how to ask for such a thing from John Logan.

“You played really well,” you say.

Logan hums. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”

He’s still holding your hand. He squeezes it. 

“Well, um, bye,” you say, letting go.

“Goodnight,” he says after you.

Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.

He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.

“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.

You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.

He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.

Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.

He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.

His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.

You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.

Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.

“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.

“I liked it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.

And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.

He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.

“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.

“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“

He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.

Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.

“Big.”

He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.

“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“

You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.

“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.

“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”

You blink, and his eyes widen.

“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“

Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.

“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.

Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.

“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”

Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.

“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.

Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.

You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.

He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.

Safe and attended to.

You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.

It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.

“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“

He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.

Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.

He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.

Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.

It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.

Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.

Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.

And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.

Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.

Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.

You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.

There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.

Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.

You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.

He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.

It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.

If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.

On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.

There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.

Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.

It’s an oddly romantic thought.

There are lots of those to go around.

Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.

“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.

“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”

“See it-“

“X-ray vision.”

“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Clark bows his head, almost in shame.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “It fine-“

“I wanted to-“

“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

He blinks at you, then relaxes.

“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.

“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”

Clark laughs at that, and you beam.

It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.

“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.

“I-“

“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”

He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”

You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.

“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“

Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”

You laugh. “Bring it on.”

✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦

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He'd been furious, convinced that Hood was a bad influence. It'd taken you all but promising you'd continue your father's slimy legacy to talk him down. You can't lose Hood. You detest your father but Red Hood is the only reason you haven't changed your name and moved to an island forever.

The idea that the news will talk for weeks about how you've been seen with your father again after a year makes you ill. Hood knows how much you hate these things, and he'd questioned you about it this morning, asking if you really wanted to go. But you'd waved him off, giving a half-truth about how it would fix things with the man you punched weeks ago.

And that was that.

Hood hovers nearby. There's more security than usual today because of all the diplomats and almost-kings. Hood seems almost more on edge than usual.

You haven't been able to chat with him like you usually do at these events because your father will definitely spot that and decide that you really do need a new bodyguard.

So you sit and wait. Eventually, guests will disperse, and you'll be able to sneak out. For now, you just have to endure it.

Your father approaches with two men flanking him. He crooks two fingers at you, indicating that you should stand. You glare at him, but obey.

"This is my protégé. My only child. I'm so proud." There are blades in his eyes as he smiles at you. A warning. "Come on. I have some people for you to meet."

Resisting will only make things worse. You begrudgingly stand and perform like your father trained you. You don't make rude jokes, don't point out humanitarian crises or tell anyone they'll likely go to hell. You're a good little ambassador's child.

Your father drones on. You find Hood across the room. He waves a little. You smile. That night, after the gala, you'd gone out for burgers and milkshakes. You'd eaten in the town car that brought you to the event, at Hood's insistence that it was safer, but it was nice regardless.

Halfway through your food, you'd decided to turn around and coax Hood to take off his mask and eat. After a lot of reasoning and begging, he did, and you listened to him eat, your back facing him. You yearned to look at him, but you wouldn't do that. You didn't want it to happen that way either.

You think about it now, looking at Hood's eyes. The only reason he doesn't wear his usual helmet is because that would make you more high-profile. Someone could easily target you to get to Hood. A little bit of his identity revealed is good in this case. A promise of trust, of security.

And you love to find his gaze in a crowd.

You connect the dots too late. Maybe you would be less distracted without your father here, maybe not. But when you see Hood run in your direction, it's only then that you realize something is wrong. And that moment, Hood has said, is when it's too late to stop the wrong thing.

Hood lifts his gun, and people shout in alarm as he fires. At the same time, something hot pierces the side of your ribcage. Pain blooms immediately after, the worst pain you've ever felt in your life. You touch the pain to find that the flesh has already been torn through, near your stomach. Blood is quickly flowing.

"Fuck," Hood says, the only word you can make out in a sea of panic. He's in front of you, and you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You stagger forward. He catches you.

"Hurts," you whisper, grasping his elbows and smearing blood on his suit. You look down at the bloody fingerprints you leave. You gasp for air, panic clawing your throat. "Red, please, it hurts so bad."

"I know, I know. I'm so sorry. I gotta put pressure on it, sweetheart, okay? I'm sorry."

Hood presses the wound, and it's like a blade twisting in your ribs. You cry out, unrecognizable to your own ears. You dig your fingers into Hood's arms. You're begging, tears streaming down your face.

"Red, make it stop, please make it stop—"

"I know it hurts, I know, 'm sorry, hold on."

Your legs give out, and Hood lowers you to the ground. You see a man's unmoving body behind Hood, the eyes wide open, blood trickling down his neck. The man who shot you is dead. Hood killed him instantly.

"Hood," you begin, and he shakes his head.

"Don't try to talk, sweetheart, 's okay. Hey. Stay awake, okay?" Hood holds your cheek, and you look at him. Your tongue is bitter with adrenaline and maybe blood, you're not sure.

You want to talk, want to tell him so many things, but all of your words have scattered. The only thing you can say is "Hood." Over and over.

"Hang on, hang on," he says, until his voice is swept into the chaos of everything else. You're frightened without Hood's voice as your tether. You wish you could see his mouth, watch his lips form shapes. You're okay. I've got you.

Your father's face comes into view. He's saying your name, but it's like you're underwater. He's yelling. He pushes Hood, and it jostles you, which makes you cry out in pain.

You slip unconscious, and it's sweet relief. Your last thought is of Hood, and you hope he won't blame himself.

****

When you wake up, your senses are dulled. Vision, hearing, touch, it's all warped. The lights are off, and it's dark outside.

You hate hospitals, even more so at night. The last hospital you were in was the one in which your mother died. You start to cry. You're alone. You've been abandoned. There's not a soul or sound beyond the steady beep of the monitor.

You cry louder and close your eyes, overwhelmed by what you remember and what you don't. Where is he? You feel pitiful, sick with loneliness, probably exacerbated by whatever pain medication you're on.

Arms wrap around you. You smell oranges, spice, black coffee. Your hand curls into his shirt.

"Hey," Hood says, hushed and devastated. "Oh, no, no, sweetheart, don't cry. Please don't cry. 'S alright."

He's half hanging off the bed, tucked into your side as much as he can be. If you weren't crying so hard, you'd ask him to move you over so he could sit properly.

But all you can do is cling to him, your face in his shirt. Your tears slow. You aren't alone. You haven't been alone in a long time.

Hood draws circles on your arm with his thumb, his cheek resting on the top of your head. It's like coming home. You want this always. You want him to take his mask off and hold you every night.

"We think he was after your dad," he says. "The shooter. He has people looking into it."

"I never want to see him again," you whisper. "I only want you, Hood. It'll just be us."

He's quiet for a long minute. Then he speaks. "He asked me to terminate our contract."

The words land like a rock to your chest. You jerk back, looking at Hood. He looks right back. Hood's never been a coward.

"Tell him you won't. I'll talk to him. He's just reacting out of fear."

Hood shakes his head. "I, um, agreed."

"No."

"Sweetheart—"

"No!" you yell, grabbing fistfuls of Hood's shirt. It's clean. No blood. "No, no, no! You can't, please, you can't leave me."

"I failed." The words come out cracked and weak. "I fuckin' failed you. I let exactly what shouldn't have happened, happen. I didn't protect you. You were bleedin'—"

Hood stops short, like he sees you covered in blood now.

"It’s my father's fault," you say desperately. "It's because I was near him. He's cursed. Hood, you saved me. I'm alive because of you. It’s not—"

"And what about next time?" His voice rises. "What if there's two shooters? What if they don't miss your heart?"

"I can't be any safer than I am with you. Hood, please don't go, please—"

He starts to get off the bed, and you turn hysterical.

"No, no, no!" You try following him off the bed. Your legs are weak, and you buckle. Hood catches you before you hit the floor.

"Stay in bed," he says, pained. "Stop it, trouble, c'mon. You gotta heal."

"You're gonna leave me, don't leave," you beg, helpless to do anything but let Hood pick you up and put you back in bed. Still, you cling to him. He weakly tries to pry you off, but you only cry louder.

"I love you," you say, and you watch Hood break, his eyes crumpling.

"You won't," he says, holding your wrists. "You'll forget and forgive me, I promise."

A nurse enters your room with a syringe, and you realize Hood pressed the call button. You can't even stay awake as he leaves.

You thrash as the nurse approaches your IV, and Hood has to hold you still, pressed to his chest, your arms at your sides as the nurse pushes the sedative.

"No," you say, voice shaky, cracked in anguish. "How can you leave me, Red? What am I gonna do now?"

Renee Harper is the defenseman for the Newport Archers, which is the team that New York is playing against tomorrow night. She is also the ex-girlfriend of one Jay Todd, an ex you heard about years ago. You even met her a couple of times when you visited Jay.

They started dating in their sophomore year, and when Jay mentioned seeing a woman, you were happy for her. The two of you weren't as close then, being at different schools, but Renee was an easy enough topic at the time. You were keen to be a confidant again, and it wasn't anything more than friendly conversation for you.

But now it feels different, especially after knowing how long Jay was in love with you. The fact that a woman was able to break through Jay's crush on you to have a lengthy relationship stirs up feelings you never thought you'd have. Seeing her tonight with Jay is even worse.

It's not fair of you to feel that way, but whoever said jealousy was fair?

If memory serves you right, Jay had graduated, moved back to Gotham, and never mentioned Renee again. It hadn't occurred to you to ask what happened and whether Renee had been signed onto a team. You were happy you and Jay were close again, and you'd assumed the relationship hadn't been a big thing if Jay never brought it up.

The way they're engrossed in conversation right now tells you your instincts were mistaken.

Now you wish you had asked, if only to prepare yourself for the possibility that Jay, having dated a talented hockey player, might very well run into said player again during her career.

You sulk at the hotel bar, nursing a ginger ale. You came down from your room after Jay did, ready to go out to dinner since she and Shauna would be tied up for the next two days. But then you saw her with Renee and you parked your butt into a stool instead, eyes sharp.

Renee is beautiful—Jay Todd attracts strikingly beautiful women. You're not sure if you fit into that category, but you did okay before her, so you figure you must be decent enough.

But Renee is beyond gorgeous. Her red hair is shorter, cut into a shag. She's in a cropped tank top with wide straps that show off her tattooed arms. The green dragon on her right arm is especially cool. She has a silver ball piercing under her eyebrow, and she matches Jay in height.

A year ago, if you were alone at a bar and Renee Harper approached you, you'd probably be equally as giggly as Jay is right now.

Renee leans in to whisper something in Jay's ear. Jay laughs, loud and unrestrained. You sink deeper in your seat, hunched over your empty glass.

"Hey."

You turn to see Shauna, who's less put together than usual. Immediately, you feel a twinge of sympathy.

"Hey, Shauna. Did you eat something?"

She shrugs. "Ordered room service a few hours ago. Then I facetimed Marcy."

You pat her arm as she sits down. "I'm gonna go eat soon. Wanna come with?"

She smiles a little. "Sure, thanks. Where's Jay?"

You can't help the scowl that splits your mouth. You flick a hand in Jay's direction. "See for yourself."

Shauna follows your hand, and her eyebrows shoot up. "Is that Renee Harper? Oh, wow."

"Yeah, great. I love watching my girlfriend-slash-best-friend get flirted with by her hot hockey ex. Really wonderful feeling."

"Jay is nothing but loyal to you," Shauna says seriously.

"I know." And you do know that.

But there's a part of you that worries anyway. How much easier would it be for Jay to date another player? To date someone who has so much in common with her? Who's more experienced in dating women, certainly, and who probably can field a semi-public relationship better than you can.

Not to mention that Renee is, well, hot. You have eyes. She exudes an easy confidence you wish you had. And she really rocks those tattoos. You can acknowledge the physical element to the attraction.

"Hey, they broke up for a reason," Shauna says. "They both had growing up to do. Just not the right time. Jay was devastated, but it had to happen."

"I had no idea." Why wouldn't Jay say anything?

Now you're more scared. How appealing would it be to be approached by the ex you struggled to get over and for them to tell you that they were wrong to let you go, that they're different now, and they're ready to fully commit to you?

"I'm going over there," you say, sliding off the stool. "Be right back."

Shauna says your name, but you ignore her, already walking with purpose across the bar. Renee spots you first, and she watches, expression mild, as you slide into the booth next to Jay.

"Hi," you say, a little too loud. You hold Jay's arm with two hands, like you can physically keep Renee from taking her.

Jay lights up, kissing your head. Her hand slips to your back. "Hi, baby. Ren, this is—"

"Her girlfriend," you interrupt. "Rachel, is it?"

Renee presses her lips together, like she's trying not to laugh. "Renee, actually, but that's okay. Call me whatever you want. Nice to see you."

A quick glance at Jay tells you that she's bewildered, but you push on. You're not letting Renee swoop in without a fight.

"Right. Are you a hockey player, Renee?"

"I sure am. I play for Newport." She glances at Jay. "We're gonna kick your ass, by the way."

"Yeah, you can give it your best shot," Jay says with that cocksure attitude that usually weakens your knees and makes you want to maul her. But there's no time for that tonight.

"Okay, well, I'm hungry." You look at Jay. "So is Shauna. We want to go out."

"Shauna's here?" Renee asks.

Jay nods. "Yeah, we were transferred together, if you can believe it."

Renee laughs. "You two are like kittens in a box! Remember in sophomore year, you guys—"

"No way, you swore y'wouldn't mention that again. Y'swore, Ren," Jay says, shaking her head.

That makes Renee laugh harder. "But it's such a good story! And then the night after, you had a—"

"Renee, it was really so nice to meet you, but we should be going." You look urgently at Jay. "Shauna needs company."

"Well, Renee can come. She and Shauna should catch up," Jay says.

Your eye twitches. "I think the table might feel a little crowded."

Jay blinks at you. "Wh—"

"Hey, it's fine. Rain check. Some of the girls wanted to go out anyway, and I said I'd be their designated driver," Renee says.

Jay snorts. "You've never been a designated driver in your life."

Renee winks. You bristle. "Told you I've changed. I meant it." She puts her hands together like a prayer, pointing them at you. "Enjoy the game. Happy you two figured things out."

You deflate slightly. So she both remembers you and knows about Jay's longtime crush. Clearly, not much ruffles her. "Um, right. Thanks."

Renee stands and claps Jay on the shoulder. "See you on the ice. Give me a hard time, yeah? I like a challenge."

"You'll be wishing you said otherwise when we win," Jay says, watching her go.

You exhale as Renee leaves. Finally. You look around to see where Shauna has wondered off to. "Shauna said she wanted tacos. I think at the very least we could find her some half decent—"

"Nuh-uh. Up."

You stop, blinking. "Huh?"

Jay lifts her chin, saying your name. "Outta the booth. We need to talk."

"About what?"

Sweat prickles your neck. You thought maybe Jay would let you get away with your little display. She's famously permissive when it comes to you. The night they won Nationals, Marcy drunkenly told you that Jay's pussy-whipped for eternity, and Jay turned crimson. You kissed her silly for it.

She looks at you sternly now, like you're an unruly teammate she has to go Captain on. "Y'know what. Let's go."

"Shauna's waiting for us."

"So tell her we'll catch up with her in a bit."

It's a different feeling, your girlfriend getting mad compared to your best friend getting mad. Jay is never so firm with you. Cowed, you get up and go to Shauna.

"Um, we'll be right back," you say awkwardly.

Shauna nods, sipping on what looks like a mai tai. "Yeah, no kidding. I'll order an appy. Godspeed."

You feel queasy as you spot Jay, who's waiting for the elevator. You board it with her. An older couple follows you, and Jay holds the door for them. They smile at her and say hello. She smiles back. You'd eat your shoe for her to smile at you right now.

"What floor?" Jay asks, hand briefly resting on your back as she leans over you to press the buttons.

"Six, please," says the man.

Some tension ebbs out of you at the touch. So Jay isn't mad enough not to touch you. That's good. But she's not calling you her usual pet names either. Danger signs.

The couple gets off first. It's two more agonizing floors, then you follow Jay to your room. It isn't until you're inside and the door has shut that she speaks.

"So what was that?" she asks.

You sit on the bed. Jay's unbuttoning her dress shirt. She had to talk to the press earlier at the stadium and dressed accordingly. You told her this morning how pretty she looked, how you wanted her to be late and give you a fashion show, and she'd blushed and let you feel her up before deciding she really needed to go. That seems like a million years ago now. Your stomach twists.

"I really don't know what you mean, Jay."

She nods, undoing her belt. You shift on the bed, feeling pinned even though she isn't looking at you.

"Fine. You were bein' rude to Renee."

You cross your arms. "I'm supposed to, what, roll out the red carpet for your ex-girlfriend?"

She laughs humorlessly. "So you do remember her. Almost got me with that Rachel business."

"Yes, I remember her, Jay. I remember that you two dated for a while, despite you having big, ginormous feelings for me. I guess she was pretty great if she made you forget your crush."

Jay stops, shirt unbuttoned, tank top still on. "Now how is that fuckin' fair—"

"I'm not saying you couldn't date anyone! Of course not. I'm just saying that you and I are dating now, and you two were talking for a really long time. She was whispering in your ear and touching you and—"

"Were you spyin' on me?" Jay asks. "How long were you down here?"

"That's not the point."

She approaches the bed, standing over you, brows furrowed. "No? What is the point? You thought I was gonna sleep with Ren and forget six months plus ten years of you and me? Just like that?"

You throw your hands up. "No, I didn't! I know you wouldn't cheat on me, Jay. But she was being so—"

"She was just friendly. She didn't come onto me once. And I'd know if she did."

You pull your legs up onto the bed. "She's gorgeous, Jay. She's on a major team. You have history. I got scared."

"Y'had no right to barge in like that. This isn't gonna work if you can't trust me."

Acidic fear seizes your throat. You grab her hands. "No, honey, I do trust you. Jay, I do. Please don't think I don't. You just seemed so comfortable together. I kept thinking, 'what if Renee convinces you that you'd make it work this time?' Shauna said it was just the wrong time. Now you're a major league player and older and more yourself."

Jay bows her head, sighing. Then she kneels in front of you.

"I never told you why we broke up," she says.

You shake your head. "No. I didn't ask because you didn't say anything."

"You're right, I didn't. I couldn't. It happened a week after you visited for spring break. 'Member that? We drove down to the shore with some of the hockey girls."

"Sure, I do." You never said so, but you'd been terrified the entire semester you'd lose Jay permanently. It had seemed like the distance between you, physical and otherwise, was too great. "I loved that week. It felt like we were best friends again, after so long apart. You were doing so well on the team and we texted less and less... I thought you'd get big in hockey and leave me behind."

She makes a soft, wounded noise. "No, I wouldn't have."

"I'm sorry. It was my old, dumb insecurities creeping up tonight," you say, hugging yourself, eyes hot. "I'm sorry, Jaybee."

Jay gently pulls your arms apart and climbs onto the bed. You move to make room, but she follows you, so you're scooted in close to each other.

"Renee broke up with me because I couldn't fall out of love with you," she says quietly. "I was so wrapped up in you the week you visited, I was barely a girlfriend to her. I thought since we were at different schools and we hadn't talked much at all, it'd be awkward enough that my feelings wouldn't be a problem." She laughs. "Fat fuckin' chance. Everything came rushing back. God, I missed you so much."

"Oh," you say, throat thick. "I ruined it. I'm sorry."

Jay pets your cheek, frowning. "No, baby, what're you talkin' about? They were my feelings. It wasn't fair to Ren, and that's why we broke up. Wasn't your fault. And guess what? Turned out to be fuckin' worth it."

She's nudging you onto your back and you let her, your arms going around her neck. Jay kisses you and you kiss back eagerly, desperate to tell her how sorry you are.

"You have me," she says against your skin, like she can read your mind. "Pretty girl. Couldn't be anyone but you."

You press your cheek to hers, hugging her tightly. Her soft curls tickle your chin. "Touch me, Jay. Please touch me. I'm sorry. I was so terrible downstairs."

Jay hushes you, pulling your pants down, then your underwear. She rubs your bare hip, cradling the small of your back.

"No, sweetheart. Y'weren't." Jay plays with your folds, lightly flicking your clit. You squirm and wrap your legs around her. You need her to be as close as possible. "A little bratty, but..." She's smiling.

You're getting wet. You kiss her neck, slipping a hand under her tank top to palm her breast.

"Well, it seemed like she didn't know we're together," you say petulantly. It peters into a moan.

Jay raises a brow. "Y'think I didn't bring you up first chance I got? Tell her what a spectacular girlfriend you are, how sweet and gentle and smart you are? How you take care 'f me? And then there you are, pawing at me, snarling at her. Surprised y'didn't hump my leg too."

"I wasn't that bad," you say, cheeks hot for a different reason. Jay's never spoken to you like this before.

"No? Jealous You can get real snippy."

"I was polite."

She rubs your clit harder, and laughs. The sound makes you wetter. "Yeah, sure."

Jay pushes one finger into you, then another. You tighten, and she pulls back slightly to look at you, rubbing your stomach, your ribcage, your breasts, in an effort to get you to relax. You do, and she curls her fingers the way you like so much. Already, Jay's memorized your body and the way it responds to her.

"I've never been like that with anyone," you say, stuttering. "Really, I don't—it's so silly now—oh, Jay, oh God—"

You clench. She holds the side of your thigh and squeezes.

"All puffed up over little ol' me," she rasps, gently biting the shell of your ear. "The most beautiful girl in the world thought I could ever have eyes for anybody else."

"Renee is pretty." Your voice is nearly a whine. Jay's fucking you in long, sure strokes. "I'm not... you know, I'm not a hockey player or—"

"Quit that," Jay says, holding your hip tightly. You look at her, feeling dazed. She's like an angel over you, her black curls dangling over her forehead. "No competition. It's you over everyone, always."

"You're mine," you say, small and needy. "Right?"

She kisses you again and again. "Yours," she says into your mouth.

"I love you," you say, pleading. Your peak is near, curling your spine. "I love you. I trust you."

"Fuck," Jay grunts, pressing you harder into the mattress. "Love hearing that. Dreamt you'd say it like this for years. I love you too, sweetheart."

You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.

Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.

The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.

It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.

“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.

You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.

Bucky.

James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.

In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.

But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.

You do love him.

Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.

At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.

That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.

But Bucky likes to ruin your life.

It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.

You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.

“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.

James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.

“My… Mother.”

He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.

“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.

“I did say that.”

“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”

Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”  

“What-“

“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”

You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”

There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.

You don’t succeed.

But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.

Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.

Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.

So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.

You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.

Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-

No.

Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.

You’d rather have the gloves.

“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”

You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”

“Okay?”

“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.

“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”

“Hm.”

“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”

“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“

“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”

“Told you, nothing-“

“What.”

Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.

With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.

“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”

“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.

“Yeah, I thought you did.”

“Then why’d you ask-“

“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”

Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.

You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.

There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.

He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-

You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.

But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-

You need a date.

It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.

Which leaves one option.

Dating apps.

There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.

They won’t see. None of them will see.

And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.

“You never tell me about your family.”

Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.

“You never ask.”

His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”

“So?”

“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”

“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”

“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”

“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”

“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”

“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.

He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.

“Why?”

“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”

“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”

“She doesn’t adore me-“

“She adores you.”

He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”

“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”

You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“

“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.

He’s not making that part easy, either.

“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”

“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”

You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.

“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.

“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”

“My favorite flower-“

Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”

“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”

“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”

You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.

If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.

“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.

You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.

“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.

They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-

You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”

Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”

“Yes, sir.” You drawl.

Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.

“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”

“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”

Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.

“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”

He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.

“James, are you-“

“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”

You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.

It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I

Sweetheart.

You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.

You really need to find that date.

It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.

Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.

The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.

Hence, the dating apps.

It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.

But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.

Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.

Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.

You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.

You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.

James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.

You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-

Located thirty feet away.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.   

Fucking- Fuck-

You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.

Next photo.

Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.

Which means-

You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.

Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.

He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.

You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.

Your thumb drifts a little to the right.

You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.

And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.

You scream, and throw your phone across the room.

Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.

“Are you-“

“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.

You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.

He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.

Like he can sense you, he looks up.

Your eyes meet.

And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.

Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.

“But- I can help-“

“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”

“Steve-“

“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.

“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.

“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“

“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.

Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.

Barely.

Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.

It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.

But he matched with you, too.

He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.

Bucky’s not the type to do that.

He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.

But you’re pretty sure you do.

This is making your head hurt.

Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-

Your phone buzzes.

Message from James.

You throw your phone again. He knows.

Death is looking lovely right now.

Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.

“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.

“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.

“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”

“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.

“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”

You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“

“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“

“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.

“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”

You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”

“But you’re not.”

Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.

“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“

“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.

“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”

You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.

Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.

And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.

“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”

Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.

But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.

You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.

Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.

And Bucky.

Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.

Almost.

He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.

“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”

He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.

You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.

Like nothing ever happened.

But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.

Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.

“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”

You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”

Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”

“I know. I’ve read the about page.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”

“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.

“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“

“I’m aware.”

“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”

He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”

It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.

But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.

“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”

Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.

“By everyone.”

You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.

Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.

You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.

When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.

His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.

“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.

“Thank you.”

He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”

“I’ve been told-“

“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.

You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-

“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“

“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”

He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.

You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.

Endlessly and uselessly love it.

Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.

It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.

You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.

You are resting.

By catching up on emails.

There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.

Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.

Not a mistake.

Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.

You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.

When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.

You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.

“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.

“Hey.”

“What’re you-“

“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”

You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”

You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“

“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.

Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.

“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.

“You’re not my boss.”

Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”

Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.

“James…”

“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.

“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“

“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.

He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.

Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.

“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”

You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.

And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-

No.

You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.

He brought you flowers.

To apologize for breaking your heart.

Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.

“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”

“Bucky-“

“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.

Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.

“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“

“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”

You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you meant it?”

You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.

“Could you?”

“What?”

“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.

“Ja-  Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”

“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”

“Is it you?”

“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“

You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“

“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”

He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.

But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.

“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.

“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”

“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”

His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”

Oh.

What.

Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.  

You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.

“You read my messages, right?”

You shake your head, and he groans.

“I- I’m sorry-“

“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“

You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“

“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”

You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.

He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.

Bucky follows you.

Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.

And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.

“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”

Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.

“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”

He tenses around you. “Don’t?”

“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”

Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“

“Bucky-“

“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.

“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“

“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“

“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.

Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.

“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.

Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.

“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.

“You.”

“Me?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.

“What about me isn’t nice?”

You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”

“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”

“You don’t mean it.”

Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“

“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”

You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”

“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“

“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.

“James-“

“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.

Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”

You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.

“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”

“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”

“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”

You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.

“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”

And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.

But-

“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.

“Okay-“

“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”

You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“That a problem, doll?”

“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“

Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.

You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.

And nothing has done it justice at all.

Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.

One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.

The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.

Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.

His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.

“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.

“Bucky-“

“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”

You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.

But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.

“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.

“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.

“How long-“

“The same.”

“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“

You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.

Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.

“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“

“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”

His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“

“Then show me.”

Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.

“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.

He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.

“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”

“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”

You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.

“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”

You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.

“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.

“Yeah. Yes. Please-“

He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.

“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”

You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.

“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”

“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“

You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.

“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.

It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.

Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.  

“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”

Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“

“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.

You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.

“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”

“You- You didn’t-“

“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”

You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.

“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“

Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.

“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”

His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.

Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.

“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”

You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.

“Trust me?”

“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.

“Good girl.”

Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.

Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”

You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.

“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”

“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”

Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.

“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”

He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.

“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“

“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.

“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.

“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”

“Wha- Bucky-“

He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.

“Bucky, come back-“

“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”

You scowl. “James-“

“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”

He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.

“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Strip.”

“Like, completely?”

“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”

He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.

But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.

Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.

Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.

“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.

“Please?”

Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“

“It’s polite-“

“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”

You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-

Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.

“Next time?”

He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”

You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.

And he’s just watching you.

Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.

You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.

Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.

“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”

“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“

“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“

His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.

Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.

“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”

You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.

“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”

You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“

“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”

If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.

“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”

“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“

He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”

You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.

“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”

You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”

“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”

There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.

“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”

“You’re- You’re touching me-“

“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”

He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“

“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”

“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”

Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”

“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.

Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.

“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.

“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“

“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“

“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.

“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.

“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“

“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.

Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.

“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”

You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.

With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.

Being fucked by him might kill you.

It’s a risk you’re willing to take.

“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.

“Hi.”

“You still in this?”

You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“I’d like you to say it-“

“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.

It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”

You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.

“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”

You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-

“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”

He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.

“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”

You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down. 

“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”

“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“

You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.

He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.

Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.

“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.

Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.

“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“

Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.

This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”

You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”

You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.

Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.

“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”

You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.

And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.

Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.

His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.

Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.

“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”

You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.

Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.

“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”

You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”

He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”

You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.

“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.

“But you’re so pretty when I do.”

He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.

He’s going to treat you well.

“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”

“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”

Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”

You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.

And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.

This is different.

Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”

You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.

He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.

“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.

“Are you-“

“Yes- Fuuuuck-“

You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.

Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.

“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“

The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.

Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.

“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”

Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.

You might have already lost your mind.

“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.

The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.

“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.

“You gotta stop doin’ that-“

“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“

His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.

You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.

“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”

“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“

“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”

He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.

“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”

Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“

His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.

“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”

There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else. 

“Ye- Yes.” 

“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”

“I- I was-“

“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”

“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“

You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.

Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.

“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”

You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.

“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“

He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.

“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”

“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“

“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”

You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.

“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”

He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.

“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”

“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.

“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.

“Buuccky-“

“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”

And he does.

Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.

He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.

He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.

Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.

“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“

You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.

“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.

You nod, shaking with the need to snap.  Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.

“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”

Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.

Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.

There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.

He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.

Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.

“That wasn’t too-“

“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.

“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.

For a second, you just watch each other.

And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.

He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.

He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.

You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.

He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.

“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.

“I know.”

“I was serious, about all of it-“

“I believe you.”

Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.

It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.

To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.

“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“

“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm,” you mumbled tiredly.

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

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

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

Your Bucky.

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

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

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

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

“Very selfish of you, James.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

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

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

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You ladies are unbelievable—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could get us all in trouble.”

“You’re only thinking for yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All finished—”

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

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

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

You truly didn’t know what to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Queen’s favorite flower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want you to stay here with me instead.

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

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

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

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

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

Drown out everything else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Move along, Sergeant.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” Bucky said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky was standing right beside her.

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

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

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

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

You felt your heart drop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think he finds me charming?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?

Had he forgotten?

Or worse—was everything Princess Daphne said true?

Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“… For how long?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You forced a smile. “It’s okay.”

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

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

“Hey!”

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

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

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

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

“James—”

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

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

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

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

“James, calm down—”

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

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

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

“Y-yes, sir!”

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

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Bucky had never spoken to you like that.

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

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

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

“You broke bread with the boy?”

You didn’t dare to speak.

“Answer me,” Bucky commanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky was leaving?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky couldn’t wait any longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What an eager little thing,” he taunted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my—Buck, too… too much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky… I’m—I’m going to—”

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

I’m not going anywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So perfect,” he mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right,” you whimpered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.

Was this a drill?

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

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

“Sokovian flags on the horizon!”

“Soldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!”

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

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

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

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

That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.

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

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

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

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “How—”

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

You felt your blood run cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nat!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, there he was.

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

Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.

He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.

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

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

And that was all that mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Princess is exposed! Cover!”

“Barnes!”

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

All he cared about was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky—”

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

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

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

“I love you,” you whispered suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky kept his promise—and more.

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

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

You're atop him, legs straddling his stomach. Jason drums a silent pattern on your thighs. You smooth the nose flap and his nose twitches. The flap curls out of place. You sigh.

"Dude."

"Tickles," he says, the word muffled from trying not to move the mask.

"Okay, I'm done. You can talk now."

"I feel rejuvenated already," Jason says, pink lips even pinker in contrast to the ghostly mask.

"You look rejuvenated to me," you say happily.

He grins. Jason always seems to smile more around you.

"So what're we doin' tonight? Besides putting sea minerals on my face."

"Um?" You point to your face, with its own mask. "Not just you. Soon, we'll both be rejuvenated."

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jason says, looking at you like you're the best thing on earth. "After we both get sea-mineralized, are we ordering in?"

"Yeah. I have a coupon for Vinnie's. Can I paint your nails?"

"Sure, baby."

"Yippee!" You leap off the couch and sprint to your and Jason's shared room. You dig through the vanity Jason hand-built and painted for your birthday last year. It's Robin's egg blue, with white accents. He admitted shyly, later, that he'd built it in the hopes that it'd make you want to move in permanently with him.

So a bribe? you'd asked, grinning.

I like to think of it as motivation.

And, well, it worked. You've been living together for almost a year now.

You take out the dark red, almost black polish and return, jumping on the couch. Jason's on the phone, ordering pizza. He gives you his left hand and you tuck yourself against him, opening the polish and starting to paint his nails with the focus of a brain surgeon.

"Uh-huh, yeah, for delivery. Twenty minutes? Alright, thanks." He hangs up. "Ooh, my favorite."

"You better believe it, handsome. Only the best for my favorite boyfriend."

"Favorite?"

You shrug. "Yeah. Don't tell the others."

Jason gently takes the polish and sets it on the coffee table. You're confused—you've only painted two fingers.

"What're you—"

He cuts you off by grabbing your waist with his unpainted hand, pulling you against him and kissing your neck. You squeal in laughter, grasping at his shoulders.

"Jason!"

"I'll show you favorite," he says, pressing ticklish kisses down your throat. He has his painted hand in the air, away from his antics, because he knows you'll pout if the polish gets messed up.

"Uncle, uncle! Please." You pant, delighted, as Jason lets up. You're lying on his lap, and he pulls you in for a real kiss. You pull away from his mouth enough to say, "You know you're the only one for me, Jay."

He hums and kisses you again, rubbing your shoulder. You slacken in his grip, running your fingers through his hair. You twirl one of the silver curls around your finger.

"Much better," Jason says when you break for air.

"I'd never upset my meal ticket," you say, gleeful when he rolls his eyes.

"You're on thin ice, baby."

The look she gave you was flat-out incredulous. "Are you serious? Isn’t that the last place I should be aiming?"

You resisted the urge to sigh. "That’s exactly why you should aim there. Everyone goes for his right. They assume it’s weaker. Bucky knows that. He’s trained to defend that side, conditioned even. But the left? Sure, it’s strong. That doesn’t make it invulnerable. Watch him."

You nodded toward Bucky, shadowboxing in the centre of the mat, relaxed but precise, like a predator keeping his muscles warm. "See how he braces before a punch? That slight weight shift? It’s a habit. Subtle but predictable. It leaves a small window, but just enough. Learn to spot that, and you can drop someone twice your size."

Kate’s expression turned thoughtful, eyes narrowing as she studied Bucky more intently. "Okay… so how do you get good at spotting weaknesses like that?"

"Learn to observe. Don’t rush in swinging. Patience and preparation will win a fight long before your fists do."

Kate nodded slowly, rolling her shoulders. "Alright. Let’s see if I can prove you right."

She took a step forward, then hesitated, glancing back at you with a sheepish grin. "I am a little scared, though—"

You gave her a flat look. "Just go, Kate."

She groaned but turned back toward Bucky, stepping onto the mat with a reluctant sort of determination.

It was late afternoon, and golden light poured through the gym windows in long, drowsy streaks. Dust drifted lazily in the sunbeams, but the air was thick with tension—not the kind that came from training, but from something far more complicated. Natasha and Yelena had thought it hilarious to pair you not only with Kate for sparring but also with Bucky. You had no doubt they were watching from the sidelines, smirking into their water bottles. Those two were always scheming.

Natasha hadn’t said anything to you yet, but then again, you’d been avoiding her like the plague since yesterday’s meeting. She was too sharp, too perceptive not to pick up on the subtle shifts in both your and Bucky’s behaviour. The cracks were already showing, the slightly too-long looks between you and Bucky, the stiffness in your tone whenever his name came up, the defensiveness you thought you’d kept hidden but apparently hadn’t.

You knew you couldn’t dodge her forever. Sooner or later, she’d confront you. And when she did, you’d have to lie—or worse, tell some version of the truth. What that truth even was… you weren’t sure. Not yet.

And Bucky?

You had no idea how to tell him you thought she already knew. That kind of conversation was a minefield, one wrong word and you’d either send him into horrified silence or make him regret every second of the nights spent together. Neither option was appealing.

You exhaled sharply, arms crossed as you watched Kate bounce on the balls of her feet, testing the space between her and Bucky.

He stood still in the centre of the mat, arms relaxed at his sides, expression unreadable. Brooding and unimpressed, as always. He hadn’t looked at you once all day, not properly at least. And yet you couldn’t stop thinking about how you knew exactly what he looked like when he came undone beneath you, fingers tangled in sheets and voice gone rough with need. He had been about as excited as you felt when the ‘teams’ for sparring were announced. You were beginning to suspect some convoluted plot half the compound was in on to see you and Bucky go head to head.

Now, he was back to being the Winter Soldier, being precisely what H.Y.D.R.A trained him to be, stoic, intimidating, unreadable. He had a talent for making his opponents feel beneath him. Unworthy. It was a tactic, you knew that, but it still worked.

Kate circled warily, eyes darting as she tried to read him, every shift in her posture betraying nerves. You watched her movements closely, noting the hesitation, the constant foot adjustments. She was looking for the right moment. You just hoped she’d recognise it when it came.

Much to Yelena and Natasha’s annoyance, you had flipped their little prank back onto them, sending Kate out to spar first, hoping to break her out of that ‘swing first, think later’ style Yelena loved so much.

A shadow moved in the corner of your vision as Yelena strolled up beside you, arms crossed, her gaze flicking between you and the fight. Speak of the devil, and she will appear. 

"You’re staring real hard," she drawled. "What, got money riding on this?"

You didn’t bother looking at her. "She’s your pet project. Remind me again why I’m the one training her?"

"Apprentice," Yelena corrected smoothly.

You blinked. "What?"

She gestured vaguely toward Kate, who was still circling Bucky with the kind of careful precision that told you she was second-guessing herself. "She’s my apprentice, not a pet project. There is a difference."

"Uh-huh," you said flatly, entirely unconvinced. "And yet I’m the one teaching her how to think, instead of just swinging wildly and hoping the universe sorts it out."

Yelena smirked. "Because I am all wham, whack, bang, bam, action! Yes? You are all boring lectures and tactical talk. It is balance. How is she supposed to know how cool and awesome I am without hearing all your boring lectures about battle analysis—"

You turned to her, unimpressed. "Did you just make up sound effects?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said sweetly, then sipped from a water bottle like she hadn’t just made cartoon sound effects with complete sincerity.

Your focus shifted back to the fight as Kate feinted right, then hesitated—again. Bucky wasn’t attacking yet, just watching her with the kind of stillness that would’ve put even you on edge. He was waiting for her to make the first move, to reveal her plan before he committed to a real counter.

"She’s hesitating too much," Yelena observed.

"She’s calculating," you corrected. "That’s what she’s supposed to do."

Yelena made a sceptical noise. "If she waits any longer, he’s just going to knock her flat."

"If she rushes in without a plan, it’ll be the same result."

Bucky shifted—just a subtle test, quick and clean. Kate dodged, but barely. Her stance faltered. Yelena sighed, dragging her hands down her face. "Okay, this is painful to watch. You should just let me handle her—"

“No. I’m trying to teach her to think, not charge in like a wrecking ball.”

"Excuse you," Yelena gasped, touching her chest in mock offence. "I am a very tactical wrecking ball."

You didn’t respond, eyes narrowing. Kate was watching Bucky now—really watching. Good. She sidestepped his next move, then launched into the attack.

A feint to the right. A quick pivot. Just like you’d told her.

Bucky braced for the strike to his right, but it didn’t come.

Kate dipped low, powered off her back foot, and drove her elbow toward his ribs. Clean, sharp, decisive.

Bucky twisted fast, but not fast enough.

Her elbow landed. His breath left in a tight, surprised grunt.

"See?" you muttered, nudging Yelena with an elbow. "She’s learning."

Yelena lifted a brow. "Yeah, yeah. We’ll see if she follows through."

Instead of retreating, Kate followed through, using the momentum to drive her knee upward.

Bucky jerked back, but not far enough. Kate’s knee clipped his chin, snapping his head up just enough for the final blow.

You scoffed. "Give her some credit—"

A sharp smack rang through the gym.

Bucky let out a startled grunt of pain, staggering back, one hand cupping his face. Blood was already leaking between his fingers.

Kate froze, eyes going wide in horror. "Oh my god—Bucky! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—are you okay? Oh god, you’re bleeding—"

Bucky tipped his head back, exhaling sharply through his nose, which only made more blood drip down his lip. “No kidding.”

Yelena snorted beside you. "Okay, I take it back. She might actually be good at this."

Kate was still floundering, hands hovering like she wanted to help but had no idea how. "What do you need—should I get a medic? Ice? Tissues? A priest?"

Bucky shot her a glare, nostrils flaring as more blood dripped down his lip. "Just… just give me a second."

You stepped forward onto the mat. "Well. I’d say she followed through."

Yelena smirked. "Yeah. Maybe a little too well."

Kate turned to you, looking utterly betrayed. "You told me to go for the left!"

"I said to attack the opening on his left, not ‘punch him in the face like you’re trying to knock out a tooth’, but hey, improvisation is an important skill."

Kate groaned. Bucky muttered something low and vile in Russian as he turned toward the exit, blood trailing faintly in his wake.

Even Yelena blinked. “That sounded like a curse, Kate. Possibly an ancient one.”

“Don’t say that!” Kate whined in fear. 

"I’ll handle him," you muttered with a sigh, already following. You paused at the edge of the mat, glancing back at Kate. “You did good. Maybe pull your punches and ease off the full-force murder next time?”

Kate groaned louder. "That was me pulling my punches!"

Yelena’s laughter followed you as you crossed the room, clapping her hands together as she bounced on her toes like an excited child. "Oh, this is fun. We should do this more often."

You pushed through the changing room door and stepped into the cooler air beyond. The space was clean and sterile in that way that only rich tech-billionaire funding could buy. Polished tiles, dark wood lockers with brass fittings, and the faint scent of citrusy cleaner lingering beneath the hum of recessed lights.

The sound of running water guided you to the sinks.

Bucky was hunched over the white porcelain basin, one arm braced on the counter, the other still cupping the lower half of his face. The mirror above caught his reflection, blood-streaked, jaw-tight, brows drawn down in a frustrated knot. Crimson spiralled down the drain, bright against the ceramic.

“You look like a crime scene,” you muttered as you crossed the room.

Bucky let out a sharp breath through his mouth, meeting your comment with a pointed grunt that spoke volumes.

You raised a brow. “Are you going to keep glaring at me like I put out a hit on you?”

“You did,” he muttered flatly.

You rolled your eyes, making a beeline for the paper towel dispenser. You pulled out a few thick, folded sheets and pressed them into his free hand. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.” he grumbled.

“Bucky.” You shot him a look, unimpressed. “Sit.”

His jaw tightened like he wanted to argue, but after a moment, he relented, pushing off the counter, and he trudged toward one of the benches in the centre of the room and sat down stiffly, wincing as he tilted his head back.

You crouched in front of him, studying his face. The blood smeared across his upper lip stood out starkly against his skin, but at least it wasn’t gushing anymore. His nose was red, swelling a little but not crooked. Reaching out, you ghosted your fingers over the bridge, careful and light. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

Bucky huffed. “Feels broken.”

“Yeah, well, maybe don’t let Kate punch you in the face next time.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t dignify you with a response.

Shaking your head, you folded a fresh set of paper towels and pressed them lightly against his nose. “Hold this. It'll keep you from dripping all over Stark’s precious floors.”

Bucky took them with a sigh, his metal fingers brushing yours briefly.

You sank to your knees without really thinking about it, watching as Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, adjusting the pressure with careful precision. His shoulders had lost some of their earlier tension, but his posture was still guarded like he was bracing himself for something more than just the dull throb of pain. The quiet hum of the ventilation system filled the space, blending with the distant murmur of voices from the gym beyond.

“Last night, I—” Bucky broke the silence first, his voice slightly nasal from the swelling.

“You fell asleep.” You cut him off gently, offering a faint smile. You didn’t know how much he had actually heard before exhaustion had finally claimed him. Maybe that was for the best. Perhaps it had been a mistake to let your guard down, to speak so openly, to bare your soul so easily. You had told yourself you wouldn’t burden him with your struggles. He already carried enough of his own.

And yet, he had this way of making you feel safe. Too safe.

It was almost ironic. He was supposed to instil fear, his name alone enough to make enemies think twice. And yet, all you saw was a rather sad, damaged, and tired man, his big, mournful puppy-dog eyes carrying the weight of things he could never put into words.

“Yeah. I don’t… remember it happening,” Bucky admitted, frowning slightly as if frustrated with himself. “One second, I was with you, and the next—”

“Did you sleep well, at least?”

He hesitated like he was debating whether to downplay it. But then, finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Best I have in a while.”

Your smile grew just a little. “I’m glad.”

Silence settled again, not awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. Then, after a beat, Bucky sighed.

“I’m sorry that I don’t talk to you much outside of… lessons.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine, Bucky. You don’t… owe me anything.”

“It’s just… I don’t know how to act,” he admitted, gaze flicking away. “Not with everyone watching. I don’t want them figuring out. I don’t like their attention being all over me.”

Your smile faltered for just a second before you forced it back into place. 

“How’s your shoulder?” you asked, shifting the conversation.

Bucky’s brows pulled together in confusion. “How do you know about that—?”

You shrugged. It was your job to observe. To pick people apart and learn their secrets before they even knew them themselves. “During training, I’ve noticed you favour your right side. You block and punch heavier with it. You were compensating subconsciously because your left side was giving you grief. Have you thought about seeing a physio?”

His lips parted slightly like he hadn’t expected you to catch that. Then his gaze narrowed, a hint of suspicion creeping in.

“Is that why you gave me a massage yesterday?”

You smirked, tilting your head playfully. “Hm. Maybe.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Always two steps ahead, huh?”

You leaned in just a little, eyes glinting with amusement, a witty remark hanging off your tongue—only to dissolve the moment the door swung open.

Steve sauntered in, halting mid-step by the sinks as he took in the scene. You were kneeling between Bucky’s legs, a faint smirk tugging at your mouth while he looked down at you with something dangerously close to a smile—bloody paper towel and all.

Steve’s brows lifted. Confusion crossed his face, mixed with something harder to place, surprise? Suspicion? Whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t expecting this.

You jerked back instinctively, hands bracing on your thighs as you turned to face him.

“It’s not broken,” you announced a little too quickly, jerking your chin toward Bucky. “He’ll live. Bit of swelling and a bit of bruising. Nothing that won’t fade.”

Steve blinked, still trying to piece things together. “I didn’t realise you two were… friends?”

You let out a short, sharp laugh, already on your feet and several paces away. “Hear that, Barnes? We’re friends now.”

Bucky—who stiffly sat on the bench, with his hands still braced against his knees—remained utterly rooted in place as if one wrong move would shatter the illusion. His eyes flicked to you, then to Steve, then back to you, a silent plea not to say anything more.

Steve, on the other hand, still looked perplexed. 

“What?” you asked, turning back to the sink and rinsing your hands of the small amount of blood that had smudged across the skin during your brief inspection.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing, I just, uh…” His face twisted slightly like he regretted speaking at all. “I’ve never heard you laugh before. It surprised me, that’s all.”

That stopped you. Cold. The smirk slipped from your face like it had never been there. Classic Steve Rogers. World’s most well-meaning bastard. Saying the worst possible thing with the purest damn intentions.

You hadn’t exactly made yourself the most approachable presence on the team. You kept your distance, never bought into the ‘team bonding’ crap that Stark and Fury constantly tried to shove down your throat. You weren’t here for friendships but to do a job. But something about how he said it—I’ve never heard you laugh before—grated deep. Like your silence was an affliction. Like you were broken because you didn’t play nice like everyone else.

Without thinking, you flicked water in his direction.

He flinched back with a slight grimace. 

“Thanks, Rogers,” you said, bone-dry. Then you turned, walking away without another word.

You could faintly hear Steve’s voice, panicked and confused, coming from behind you as you pushed the door open.

“What? What did I do?” he called to Bucky, his voice trailing.

“That was painful,” Bucky muttered loud enough for you to catch. “You always tell women to smile more, or is that just your opener? Remind me how you bagged Sharon talking like that—”

“That wasn’t what I was saying—!” Steve protested, his words quickly swallowed by the sound of the door snapping shut behind you

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, you probably would laugh more if life hadn’t spent the past few years making sure you forgot how. If it weren’t for how every genuine emotion now felt like an act, something you wielded like a weapon to get what you wanted. The only time you really smiled or laughed anymore was on missions, tools of the trade. Smile here, flirt there, manipulate, mislead, vanish. You could fake it all like second nature, charm so convincing it fooled even yourself sometimes.

Because when it was real, it still felt like a lie.

You stalked back into the gym, trying to push the thoughts aside. Yelena’s sharp eyes caught yours almost immediately. “We’re going to the bar after this. You coming?”

You reached for your gym bag, slinging it over your shoulder without missing a beat. “No,” you answered flatly, prowling to walk toward the door.

“You’re not coming?” Kate had appeared from nowhere at your side, big blue eyes staring up at you.

You glanced down at her, deadpan. “Can you even go? Aren’t you like twelve?”

Kate’s begging expression melted into a playful glare, hands on her hips as you hesitated by the door. “No! I’m in college. I’m not a kid!”

You raised an eyebrow, her defensive tone amusing you. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” she shot back, almost proudly.

You grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Ah, barely legal.”

“It’s fine, she’ll be with us!” Yelena chimed in, giving you a pleading look. “Nat is coming, the others too, maybe Kate can buy Bucky a drink as an apology for breaking his nose—”

“Hey! I didn’t break it!” Kate protested, then looked up at you with a fearful expression, voice dipping in volume. “I didn’t, did I?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning in dramatically as if giving a speech. “I can already see the headline: ‘Avengers Drunken Antics on Public Display’—.’”

Yelena scowled at you. “It’s fine!” 

You smirked, but the exhaustion from the past few hours still weighed heavily on you. “You’re probably right. I can’t say much, in Russia we had vodka with breakfast.”

“So you’re coming?” Yelena asked one last time, sounding hopeful despite your resistance.

“No.” You said it with finality.  “I’ve seen too much of your face today. I need a break.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow, but Kate was already heading towards her bag with a skip in her step. “Fine! More for us then!”

The training room was unusually quiet without Yelena’s smartass remarks ricocheting off the walls. Usually, the three of you trained together in the early mornings, but she and Kate were off on some covert infiltration upstate. Childs play for Yelena, really, though she’d taken her duties as a mentor for her little pet project rather seriously. That left just you and Natasha circling each other on the mat. You weren’t exactly thrilled about Yelena’s absence, which meant you were facing the full brunt of Natasha’s wrath alone. What didn’t help was that you hadn’t slept properly in days. You were running on fumes, and it showed. The last week had felt like one long string of wipeouts, each one dragging you down further with no sign of relief.

You ducked beneath a lazy strike, half-hearted at best, and swept your leg toward Natasha’s ribs. She blocked it with her shin like she’d barely noticed.

“Sloppy,” she remarked.

You threw a punch, weak and lazy. Natasha easily caught your wrist, spinning your body and throwing you to the mat. The impact knocked the air out of your lungs. She didn’t even break a sweat. She let out a short laugh, her hair spilling into her face as she looked down at you, amused.

But something was off.

Not in how she fought—no, that was as sharp as ever—but in her expression. Tight-lipped. Smug. And not her usual brand of smug, either. This was different, like she was sitting on a secret and absolutely itching for you to notice. She had that look again. The same one she’d had for the last two weeks. A silent challenge. An arrogant knowing. A game of cat and mouse neither of you had been willing to finish.

You groaned, deciding to cut your losses and pushed yourself off the mat, wiping sweat from your brow.

“There’s obviously something you want to say to me,” you muttered.

Natasha didn’t even pause. She moved in for another strike before you could fully recover, but you caught her forearm and twisted. She resisted effortlessly, that infuriating calm grin spreading across her face again.

“Nope,” she said. “Just… pleased, that’s all.”

“Pleased about what?” you asked cautiously.

Natasha pivoted out of your grip like water slipping through your fingers and swept your legs out from under you with a sharp hook of her foot. You hit the ground again with a dull thud. She didn’t bother offering you a hand up as if half-convinced you’d stay down.

“That I figured out your little secret before everyone else.” Her grin turned vicious. She started to circle you again, tone sing-song and entirely too satisfied. “Took me a while, but once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.”

You rolled up to your feet, levelling her with a look. “What secret?”

You played it cool. Innocent. But you both knew the gig was up. Natasha was like you, trained to spot what others missed, to read the body language no one else even registered. She’d probably clocked you and Bucky the moment you returned from the Gala. She and Yelena hadn’t exactly been subtle about their hunches, either.

She raised a brow. “Oh, come on. You’re really going to make me say it?”

You blinked back at her, expression blank.

“You,” she said, dragging the word out. “And Barnes.”

You deflected with a snort. “Yelena’s theories getting to you?”

“Don’t lie.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “He’s always making those puppy-dog eyes at you when he thinks no one’s looking.”

You barked a laugh, catching her off guard just long enough for you to swing a low kick her way. She dodged it neatly.

“Puppy-dog eyes? I can’t imagine it.” You lied through your teeth. “He always looks like someone kicked him while he was down. That or the brooding.”

Natasha’s smirk sharpened. “And you’re into that? He must be a very good fuck if you’re sticking around this long.”

“We haven’t…” You hesitated with a curse, missing a beat in your footwork. You shook your head, willing your mind to be able to focus on two tasks at once through the haze of fatigue. “Why would I want to fuck Barnes—”

“Considering our line of work, you’re a terrible liar sometimes.” You scowled at the amusement dripping from her voice. 

“It’s not like that between us.” You relented. “Not that it’s any of your business anyway—”

She cut over you, tilting her head. “You’re telling me you two haven’t had sex? God, don’t tell me it’s romance—”

“I’m just helping him feel normal.” You snapped back, hoping to shut her down before it got worse. “H.Y.D.R.A fucked him up, that’s for sure. The same way the Red Room fucked us up.”

Natasha made a face like something had clicked into place in her mind. “Shit.”

Your stomach dropped, movements stuttering as you realised you had unintentionally opened the floodgates. 

“Right,” she murmured, and something about her tone shifted. Not her usual brand of teasing. “You’re not… Never mind.”

You lunged toward her on instinct, catching her wrist with a clumsy grip. The contact was unsteady, your fingers didn’t have the strength they usually did, and Natasha didn’t fight back immediately.

“What?” you asked, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied too quickly, too carefully.

“You’ve said it now,” you pressed, breath short. “Go on.”

She hesitated, her jaw ticking as her gaze drifted down, avoiding yours. The tension in her body softened by degrees, like she’d been carrying the thought for too long and finally decided it wasn’t worth holding onto.

“I just…” she exhaled, slow and controlled, “I worry about you sometimes. I hope you’re not taking on too much.”

You blinked at her, the fog in your head thick and sluggish. “Why do you say that?”

“You know what I mean.”

You knew what she meant, even if it was a truth you’d been hiding from yourself. A truth you didn’t want to look at too closely out of fear of it consuming you whole. A dull ache formed your chest, a lump in your throat as you shook your head. 

You knew Natasha wouldn’t have had any way of knowing those forbidden words you’d uttered to Bucky, the ones he had missed as sleep had pulled him under, the thoughts that haunted you now that you had finally shown them acknowledgement. You felt sick. Rotten to your core. Like maggots and rot festered within, wriggling and twitching beneath the skin, just enough for you to pretend, smile, and continue like normal as your world shattered around you.

“I’m not some broken little girl, Nat,” you said, heat rising behind your words. “I can look after myself.”

“I’m sure of that,” she said softly, and it was the softness that rattled you most. Natasha didn’t do soft unless it mattered. “But… can you look after yourself? Or have you just isolated yourself for so long that you’ve tricked yourself into thinking the only person you can trust is yourself?”

Her voice, the quiet honesty of it, landed harder than any blow she’d dealt all morning.

You looked down, your fists trembling faintly. You flexed your fingers, opening and closing them like the answer might be written in your palms.

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t argue, but she didn’t believe you either. You could feel it in the silence between her breaths. Natasha never spoke unless she meant it. She was always calculating like you.

“I just…” she said, the words tentative like they were being picked up and examined before they left her mouth. “I don’t want to see you hurt.” 

She paused, then added with a wry twist of her lips as if to soften the blow, “Or Barnes.”

You snorted, the sound bitter and short. “Since when do you care about Barnes?”

“I don’t,” she said. “Not really. But if he gets attached and this doesn’t go how he hopes, he could spiral. And if you get attached and he panics…”

“I know.”

And you did. You knew it too well. The thought had curled up behind your ribs and sat there, heavy and unwanted, gnawing at you whenever he looked at you like you were something soft. Like you were safe. You didn’t feel like a safe option. 

“Just…” Natasha’s voice was quieter now, more cautious. “Don’t lose yourself trying to fix him.”

You met her eyes, forcing yourself to stay grounded. To not waver. “I’m not damaged.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but you saw how her brow pinched, the subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

You sighed, the weight of your exhaustion peeling every word from your throat like it didn’t want to come willingly. “I’m also not trying to fix him. We’re just… friends. With benefits. Nothing more.”

She gave a slow nod like she was willing to accept that on paper, but in her gut, she wasn’t buying it.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll believe you. Just… don’t go all radio silent on me like you do. I’m here for you, you know?”

You raised a brow, trying for humour but lacking the energy to pull it off entirely. “You getting all sappy on me now?”

“Never.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“Hm. Maybe.” She swiped the back of her hand across her brow. “But don’t tell Yelena. She’ll rip me to fucking shreds over it.”

Despite yourself, you let out a faint, tired laugh.

But it only lasted a second before Natasha lunged again.

You weren’t fast enough this time—your sluggish body didn’t catch up to the signal your brain sent. Her leg swept yours, and the mat slammed into your shoulder before you even realised you were falling. Pain flared, dull and heavy, and you lay there. Breathing hard. Staring up at the ceiling like it might offer you some kind of answer.

Natasha hovered above you, arms crossed loosely, her expression unreadable.

“Seriously,” she said. “When was the last time you actually slept? You look like shit.”

There it was, the usual cool, snide remark to cushion the fact that she truly cared. Like she knew you’d run like a spooked animal if she showed too much kindness. You didn’t answer right away. Just closed your eyes and let the silence stretch.

Natasha let out a grunt, not the least bit impressed.

You would have to warn Bucky that if he kept looking at you like that, the two of you were bound to end up in a whole world of trouble. 

It was bad enough that Natasha was on your tail—worse than that—she’d found the bones in your closet, polished them clean, and lined them up like trophies. You knew she wouldn’t breathe a word to Yelena, or anyone else for that matter, but you could feel a future creeping toward you, one where her tongue slipped. Just once. That’s all it would take.

And Bucky? He wasn’t helping. Not with that look. Not when even Steve Rogers did a double take, brows ticking up as if to say really, Buck? 

You were fresh off a particularly gruelling recon mission at Karpin’s club. No fists were thrown, no bullets dodged, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting. Playing the role of an attractive, naïve dancer took more skill than most people realised. You’d spent the last six weeks prying secrets from Karpin’s greasy fingers. Details about his buyers, how payments were moved, anything useful. He never suspected a thing, too high on his own ego to realise the little thing on his arm was gutting him for intel.

Fury had been unmistakable in his instructions—get the buyers first. If they caught wind that S.H.I.E.L.D was sniffing around, they’d scatter like roaches, and the whole operation would collapse. So you played the waiting game. Carefully. Precisely. Night after night.

Now you just wanted a drink. And a scalding-hot shower. Maybe both at once. Your skin felt like it had absorbed the club, cheap vodka, cigarette smoke, and desperation.

You adjusted the fur coat around your shoulders with a groan, trying to ignore how your dress—if you could even call it that—kept shifting against your skin. Yelena had dubbed the coat your ‘mob wife piece’ after finally watching The Sopranos, and the name had stuck. Your heels were the real punishment, though. Tall, unforgiving, and cursed by whatever sadist designed them.

After every recon job, the standard protocol was to turn in evidence immediately—cameras, bugs, audio mics, and a hand-written report. After six hours of playing pretend, you were scribbling in agonising detail while the evidence collection agent across from you gave you a rather pointed, unamused look. You briefly considered banging your head against the desk.

And, of course, Bucky was watching you. Not subtly. No, he was seated in a glass-walled meeting room across the way, surrounded by agents and Avengers, but his eyes hadn’t left you in a while. He looked like a gambler who’d just hit the jackpot. You watched him watching you, and you forgot to be annoyed for a second. He looked... ravenous. Unapologetically so.

The meeting finally broke. Doors opened. Agents spilled out. That was your cue. Evidence was handed in, and your aching wrist is getting no thanks for its service. The agent slid your report into a folder stamped ‘CLASSIFIED’ in angry red ink. You almost laughed. God, the theatre of it all.

Natasha bumped your shoulder as she sauntered past towards the elevator. 

“Better keep loverboy in check,” she muttered in your ear as she passed. Her smirk was wicked. 

You shot her a scowl.

Bucky was in the crowd, still watching. His gaze wasn’t on your scowl, though. It was lower. Tracing the cling of the gold mesh slip dress, the way it shimmered under the harsh overhead lights. Tacky enough for the job. Tight enough to draw attention. It hugged every curve with intent, and though it wasn’t your usual style, you were beginning to wonder if it might become one.

You hadn’t pegged Bucky for the type who’d go wild for glitter and skin, but judging by the look in his eyes…

Thank god for lessons, or he'd be dealing with a very awkward elevator ride. 

“I think I’ll take the stairs,” you replied, more bitterly than you meant to.

Natasha smirked as the elevator doors began to close, her eyes dancing with amusement and just a hint of sympathy. But it was Bucky’s gaze that lingered until the very last second as if he could memorise the sight of you before the doors cut him off.

You turned sharply on your heel and made for the stairs, the ache in your feet be damned. The heels bit with every step, but you welcomed the sting. It was easier to focus on than the heat lingering after Bucky’s gaze.

Four flights up, your phone dinged.

You didn’t have to check it to know. You already had a feeling. Still, a smirk pulled at your lips as you glanced at the lock screen.

Can I see you tonight?

Bucky had taken to modern tech far better than Steve ever had. Where Steve still asked what a GIF was or accidentally created a new group chat every time he tried to reply, Bucky had easily slipped into the rhythm. 

You thumbed out a reply as you rounded the next flight of stairs.

Aren’t you going out for drinks with the others?

Fridays had become a ritual for the team, provided no one was off saving the world or buried in a mission, so there’d be a few rounds at a bar nearby. Laughter. Cheap beer. Temporary normalcy.

You watched the typing bubble flicker to life… then vanish. Then again. And again.

Not my scene.

A pause.

Is that a no?

You grinned, slowing your steps just a little. You could picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, hovering over the screen like the answer might change everything.

You typed quickly.

I’ll come to your room right now if you ask nicely.

You paused in the stairway, hesitating outside the door for the residential floor where all the apartments were located. Your pulse tapped a little faster beneath your skin.

Another ding.

Please?

That was all it took.

You pushed open the door.

On my way.

“I want to try something different,” you murmured against Bucky’s skin, your lips brushing the hollow of his throat as you nuzzled into the warmth of his neck.

It all happened in a blur when you stepped through his door. Heels abandoned at the threshold, your coat sliding from your shoulders like a shrug of tension gone loose. Bucky had lasted all of two seconds, long enough for a strained smile and a greeting muttered through clenched teeth before instinct took over. His hands found your waist. Your back. Your thighs. And then you were in his lap as he stumbled backwards onto the bed, the mattress giving under both your weight and the familiar gravity that always pulled you toward each other.

Mumbled apologies about the scent of alcohol and sweat were lost beneath kisses, the air thick with the smell of him—black coffee from his meeting and that damn aftershave—as you melted into your usual spot atop him.

His rough palm ghosted up the back of your thigh in lazy strokes, the pads of his fingers brushing skin like he already knew it by heart. You blinked up at him, studying the angles of his face, searching for that tell-tale flicker, tightening of his jaw, a furrow between his brows, anything that indicated hesitation or worry. But there was none. Instead, he caught your eye, the touch of vibranium fingers cool and featherlight against your cheek.

“Last time you said that,” he murmured with a low chuckle, “you blindfolded me.”

“And it worked, didn’t it?” You cut back rather smugly, only to be met with a reluctant hum of agreement. “I want to talk about something first.”

Bucky stilled, alert now in that quiet, observant way of his. “What’s that?”

Your fingers toyed with the fabric of his shirt. “Are you afraid of me touching you?”

He blinked, surprised. “No? Is this a trick question—?”

“Do you like me touching you?”

“Yes.” His answer came easily, without hesitation.

“But you don’t like me touching your cock.”

That gave him pause. The stroking of your thigh faltered. There it was, his jaw ticked, the smallest tension rising between his brows like a storm cloud forming just behind his eyes.

“I don’t…Isn’t that what we’ve been doing these past few months?” His voice was low, cautious.

“You let me touch you near it,” you said gently. “But if I move my hand under your waistband, even just a little, you freeze. You ask me to stop. I just want to know why.”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. He stared at the ceiling instead of at you, like maybe the answer was written there if he looked hard enough.

“There’s no wrong answer,” you whispered. “I’m not upset. I’m not trying to push you. I just want to understand. To help.”

He exhaled slowly, brows knitting in thought. 

“It’s overwhelming, I think,” he said finally. “The added…feeling. On top of everything else that’s already happening.”

“So,” you said slowly, “if it happened in isolation. Nothing else, just that, you’d feel more comfortable? More in control?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I think so.”

You hesitated, then asked softly, “Would you be okay with trying today? Right now?”

His eyes finally met yours, a flash of vulnerability behind the steel blue. “Putting me on the spot here, doll…”

Doll. That was a pet name you wouldn’t look too deeply into. Or acknowledge. He didn’t even seem to notice he had said it.

“You can always say no,” you reminded him softly. “That’s the most important rule, always. Either of us can stop at any time. No questions, no pressure, no hard feelings.”

He was quiet momentarily, gaze flickering between your eyes, searching for something. Then he nodded once, steady.

“Let’s do it.”

You paused, holding his gaze. “Are you sure?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a touch wry. “I trusted you when you blindfolded me, didn’t I?” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “I don’t see any reason not to trust you now.”

That was all the encouragement you needed.

You slipped off his lap with ease, sinking onto the floor between his knees, the hem of your dress bunching up around your thighs. You blinked up at him expectantly, steady but unhurried. Bucky hesitated, shoulders tensing as his hands hovered uncertainly at his belt. A flicker of embarrassment was behind his eyes, the kind he hadn’t yet learned to hide from you.

You didn’t comment on it. Didn’t tease him for the blush creeping up his neck, or for the way his fingers fumbled slightly as he undid the buckle and began peeling off the layers. You just waited—quiet, patient, allowing him to find his own pace. You didn’t point out the irony of it all, how easily he’d unravel for you, but how nudity still brought hesitation. Like showing skin was somehow more vulnerable than offering up his soul.

His boxers were the last to go, and by the time he slid them down, he was already half-hard, his cock flushed with arousal. The pink tint on his cheeks deepened as his eyes darted away from yours.

You tilted your head, shifting closer until you were kneeling between his legs. The warmth radiating from his thighs drew you in like a hearth. Your hand brushed lightly over his knee in reassurance, and he twitched at the contact.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice more hum than a question.

He nodded, but it was too tight, too instinctive.

You paused.

“Need to hear your words, Bucky. I’m only going to do this if you tell me you’re okay.”

There was a beat of silence, his vibranium hand clenching in the sheets beside him.

“I want this,” he said, voice low but certain, even if his body still trembled faintly beneath you.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell with shallow breath.

“You remember what to say if you need to stop?”

He nodded again, more grounded this time. “Yeah. I remember.”

Satisfied, you reached out, your fingers wrapping gently around the base of his cock. You were cautious at first, letting your touch linger without pressure, just the soft drag of skin against skin. A strained groan left him almost immediately, the muscles in his thighs tightening on either side of you.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, watching his face twist with the sensation. His jaw slackened, mouth parted, eyes nearly fluttering closed as you began to stroke him. Slow, deliberate, careful. He was thick and heavy in your hand, already pulsing with anticipation, growing harder by the second. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Not after the nights spent grinding into each other, his arousal pressed tight and insistent through layers of clothing, but still, the reality of him was enough to stir a wicked spark behind your smile.

You pumped him a few more times, watching how easily his composure began to slip. He was already squirming, breaths ragged, his abdomen twitching every time your palm slid down to the base and back up again.

His head fell back, a quiet whimper escaping him as you thumbed over the slit at the head of his cock. He flinched from the contact, one hand flying to your elbow and gripping it like an anchor, his whole body responding to the jolt of pleasure like he’d been struck by lightning.

“How do you feel?” you asked, voice low, almost teasing.

It took him a moment to answer. His lips parted, trying to form words while his chest heaved, his eyes glazed over with ecstasy. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip, and you collected it with your fingers, spreading it down the shaft to ease your rhythm.

“Good,” he finally gasped. “Amazing. Did it always… I don’t remember it feeling—”

His words dissolved into a sharp gasp as you leaned forward and kissed the tip. The contact was featherlight, but it shattered him. His metal hand shot up into your hair, not to pull or direct, but to ground himself, trembling as if the sensation threatened to lift him right out of his skin.

“Oh my god—” He began to whine.

You giggled softly, the warmth of your breath enough to send him over the edge.

Bucky came with a choked moan, his hips jerking as thick, hot ropes spilt over your chin and neck. His thighs trembled with the force of it, his head thrown back as if he couldn’t bear the weight of pleasure crashing through him. You stroked him through it, gentle and slow, coaxing every last pulse from him while he tried and failed to string thoughts together.

As he collapsed back against the mattress, boneless and dazed, you ran a hand up the inside of his thigh, using it as leverage to push yourself upright. His grip on your hair slackened and fell away, his hands lying limp beside him, fingers twitching faintly in the aftershocks.

“I’m gonna clean up,” you hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back, okay?”

He didn’t even open his eyes, just nodded, lips parted, breath still ragged.

“Okay,” he mumbled, voice thick and warm with lingering arousal. “I’ll be right here.”

It took only a few minutes to freshen up. You moved on muscle memory, warm water, damp cloth, and a quick sweep of your hair from your neck. You paused before leaving the bathroom, grabbing a clean towel in case he wanted it. 

But when you stepped back into the bedroom, you found he’d already taken care of himself, his boxers pulled back on.

Bucky was sprawled across the mattress like he’d melted into it, a sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone. He looked wrecked—in the best way. Hair tousled, chest rising and falling in a slow, almost dazed rhythm, but his gaze sharpened the second it landed on you. A lazy, crooked grin tugged at his lips as he lifted an arm in a silent invitation, eyes still half-lidded and blown wide with the afterglow.

You climbed into bed beside him, the weight of his body shifting as you curled into the space between his arm and chest. His skin was warm against yours, the hum of his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. You pressed a soft kiss to the curve of his jaw, and his breath hitched as your hand slid over his stomach.

His mouth found yours not long after, lazy and unhurried like neither of you wanted to break the spell. It didn’t stay that way for long. Hunger crept in. Familiar, greedy heat as his mouth parted and his fingers tangled into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch.

And then… you felt him. Again.

Your thigh brushed his hip, and you stilled. Then pulled back, brows arching in playful disbelief. “Already?”

The question hung in the air like a teasing note, half-smirk, half-curiosity.

Bucky’s eyes dipped, lashes fanning over flushed cheeks. He looked momentarily abashed as if he’d been caught red-handed, though the evidence quite literally pressed against your leg.

“It’s the super soldier serum,” he mumbled, the corner of his mouth curling despite himself.

You tilted your head, amusement rising. He was trying to play it cool, but the slight flush on his ears gave him away.

“Oh?” you drawled. “And how exactly did you come to that conclusion?”

His fingers scratched lightly at the back of his neck, a classic tell.

“Steve said something once,” he offered, deliberately vague.

You blinked. Your smile widened, slow and predatory.

“Steve?” you echoed. “You’ve been talking to Steve about this?”

“No!” His protest was immediate and rushed like a man trying to stop a landslide with a broom. “Not exactly,” he amended quickly. “He was talking about Sharon, I guess.”

A laugh bubbled up, and you bit your bottom lip to stifle it, your hand resting lightly on his chest. You could feel the way his heart kicked beneath your palm. Nervous, flustered. Bucky Barnes, caught in the act of oversharing.

“Sharon, huh?” you said innocently, voice tinged with mischief.

His eyes narrowed slightly, catching the shift in your tone. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” you said airily, pretending to inspect the stitching on the pillowcase behind his head. “Just something Yelena said the other day.”

Suspicion flickered in his gaze, but you forged ahead.

“She thinks Steve wasn’t as innocent as we all pegged him. Something about spotting him and Sharon… in a compromising position.”

Bucky snorted, turning his face into your shoulder to muffle the sound. “I wonder what they’d make of this.”

“Oh, I’d never hear the end of it,” you groaned, flopping onto your back with theatrical flair. “They’re already circling like vultures, trying to interrogate me about the gala.”

He shifted beside you, propping himself up slightly on his elbow to get a better look at your face. “And what did you tell them?”

You hesitated. Just long enough for the silence to tighten.

There it was, the flicker of guilt behind your eyes. You could feel it rise like a slow tide in your chest, swelling into your throat. You should tell him. About Natasha’s uncanny perception, the way her gaze had cut straight through you like a knife, and how you’d cracked under pressure with barely a word from her.

But you didn’t. You weren’t sure how he’d take it. Knowing someone else was privy to this—this, your quiet little secret.

“Nothing,” you said, soft but firm, hoping your smile would mask the lie.

His expression didn’t shift dramatically, but you saw his brow furrowed slightly—a quiet sharpening behind the eye.

“Nothing?” he repeated.

“I just…” You sighed, turning to face him properly. The pillow dipped beneath your cheek. “I figured you didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to make things messy.”

He was quiet. His gaze flicked to the ceiling, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower. “Yeah. It’s probably for the best, isn’t it?”

He didn’t sound entirely convinced by his own words, and you didn’t feel entirely convinced either. 

“It’s up to you,” you said eventually. “Everyone’s image of me is already… well, damaged.” You let out a soft, bitter laugh, fingers twisting idly in the edge of the sheets. “I’m sure this will hardly ruin my reputation. But yours…”

“That seems unfair,” he said, brows drawing together.

“What does?”

“The way they treat you.” Your breath caught slightly, unprepared for its bluntness. You looked at him, and he met your gaze head-on. No hesitation, no irony. Just honesty, raw and unvarnished. And before you could piece together a response, he spoke again. “Do you always do that? Make yourself smaller for other people?”

The question landed like a stone in your gut. You froze, eyes searching his face, almost disbelieving.

He hadn’t said it unkindly. But it lodged deep.

For a moment, you were tempted to laugh it off, to deflect, to be clever. Anything to avoid the sudden, unexpected vulnerability that cracked open inside you like a fault line.

Had he been watching you this whole time? Not just looking, but seeing? Had you been too busy circling Bucky to notice that he circled you in return?

You smiled weakly, wanting to fill the dreadful silence that had settled over the both of you. “I could say the same for you.”

His hand slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against him again. You could feel the weight of him against your hip, the heat building between you again.

You let your nose brush his. “Still something to do with the serum?”

Bucky smirked, lips brushing yours. “That… and you.”

You exhaled a breathless laugh, but something about the way his thumbs moved, slow circles against your ribs, made the warmth curl low in your belly again. The mood was shifting. Building. You could feel it.

And then his voice turned quieter. Uncertain.

“I feel bad,” he murmured.

You blinked, drawing back just enough to see the look on his face. 

“Bad?” you repeated, confused.

“For not…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “Returning the favour.”

You reached up, brushing your thumb along the line of his jaw. His stubble rasped against your skin.

“Bucky,” you said gently, “you don’t have to do everything all at once.”

He frowned, and you could tell he didn’t quite agree. Always so ready to shoulder weight that was never meant to be his. Always prepared to give more than he thought he was allowed to take. He carried guilt like it was just another one of his old injuries that could never quite be healed.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” you added, quieter now. “With information. Or… expectations.”

His eyes searched yours. “But I want to learn.”

“There’s a little more involved in getting a woman to orgasm,” you said, but your tone light as you tried to shake off the weight of his gaze.

“It doesn’t have to be… I just want to make you feel good.”

God. He said it like it mattered. Like you mattered.

Your resolve crumbled.

You rose slowly, coaxing him to sit up with you. Straddling his hips felt natural now, like returning to a familiar place. You took his hand gently, guiding it up over your shoulder over the thin gold strap of your dress.

“Okay,” you murmured. “Then help me take this off.”

His fingers moved with care, grazing over your skin, catching the strap between his thumb and forefinger as he began to ease the dress down your arms. The fabric slid away like a sigh, pooling around your waist, revealing the strapless bra beneath.

You felt him falter, brow furrowing in confusion. “How does this…?”

You turned around on your knees, back to him. “It unclips at the back,” you murmured, sweeping your hair over one shoulder to expose the delicate line of your spine.

“Just three hooks. Here.” You reached behind you, fingertips brushing the clasp.

His fingers met yours, searching as he followed your instructions. A breath escaped him, soft and shallow, before he found the hooks and gently undid them one click at a time.

The tension in your shoulders eased just a fraction. “There you go.”

His hands hovered, uncertain now that your bare back was before him like an empty canvas. You tossed the bra to the floor and reached back, guiding his hands to your waist, then up, encouraging him to cup the full weight of your breasts. He was hesitant at first, the pads of his fingers a little stiff, a little too tense. The contrast of warm flesh and cool vibranium sent a delicious shiver spiralling through you, eliciting a long, satisfied sigh.

That sound seemed to break whatever restraint he was clinging to. His grip shifted, confidence blooming. He began to knead and explore, thumbs brushing experimentally over your nipples. When a vibranium finger flicked one with the barest touch, you let out a soft whine, your back arching to press yourself flush against his chest.

“I think I like this,” he murmured, voice husky at your ear, breath fanning warm across your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, turning slowly to face him again, your balance steady in his palms. His hands slid down to anchor you at the hips.

His gaze lingered, not just on your chest, but on your face. Like he was still processing, still memorising. Desire curled in your gut, a heartbeat between your legs. You fought the urge to reach down, to chase the friction your body was begging for.

Bucky leaned forward and kissed you again. Something in him had shifted. He wasn’t following anymore. He was moving with intent. And when he gently rolled you back onto the pillows, his weight settling above yours, your breath hitched.

You tried to ignore the instinct curling tight in your belly. Tried not to let the familiar feeling of being beneath someone stir that old panic. Like the walls might close in around you. Like control was slipping just a little too far out of reach.

His mouth trailed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, between your breasts, and you squirmed ever-so-slightly beneath him. His tongue flicked out to taste your skin, a soft sound of satisfaction humming against you. He licked a rough stroke over one of your nipples as if it were a primal instinct.

You groaned, one hand gently scratching across his back, the other through his hair. His knee slotted between your thighs, parting them easily, the gold fabric of your dress bunched at your waist. Only a thin slip of lace remained between you. He didn’t look down. He didn’t need to, his lips were still worshipping your chest.

His vibranium hand curved over your knee, pushing you open further, his hips grinding lightly into yours, and that flicker of alarm surged. Too strong to ignore.

You moved fluidly before it could root itself. With practised grace, you flipped the two of you, rolling him onto his back and straddling his hips in a single, breathless motion. He made no protest, just let out a pleased groan as his hands found your thighs.

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself in the present. In him. His wide eyes blinking up at you, still caught in the moment.

He didn’t notice the shift. Didn’t ask why you took control again.

And you were grateful.

As you steadied yourself above him, he sat up suddenly, arms sliding around your waist. His mouth pressed a slow kiss to your sternum. He looked up at you, lashes fluttering, nose brushing the curve of your breast.

Your breath caught in your throat.

As he pressed another kiss to your skin, you realised—without a doubt—that maybe this was the single most erotic moment of your life.

Not the act, not the heat of it all but him. The way he looked at you. The gentleness in his hands. The trust humming beneath his skin like a live wire. The way your name might’ve been forming behind his teeth, even if he hadn’t spoken it.

You sank your hands into his hair and pulled him closer.

You were still tangled in each other, the heat between your bodies humming like static, when the apartment door swung open with an easy, unthinking click.

“Hey Buck, you sure you don’t wanna come out with us—?”

The cheerful voice stopped cold. 

Steve.

PART FOUR ✩

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