Imagine It

Two mugs on the counter.

One had your initials. The other—a vintage WWII fighter plane sticker. It hadn’t been there last night. He knew, because he always did a final kitchen sweep before bed. Counters clean. Dishes put away. Mugs? Accounted for.

His eye twitched.

“…Barnes,” Sam whispered.

He crouched slowly, inspecting the mugs like they might start confessing their crimes.

Then the hallway creaked. Sam turned so fast he sloshed coffee onto his hoodie.

You entered the room, yawning dramatically, hoodie sleeves engulfing your hands.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

Sam squinted. “Is it? Is it really?”

You blinked. “…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, with the exact tone of a man who was absolutely not fine. He walked to the table and pulled out a chair like it owed him money. “Sit.”

“Why?”

“Because I have questions.”

“I’m not under interrogation.”

“You are now.”

“…Sam.”

“Tell me what you were doing between 0500 and 0700 hours.”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

You squinted. “What kind of creepy follow-up—?”

Sam narrowed his eyes like a raccoon about to steal a whole rotisserie chicken. “I knew it. There’s a cover-up.”

You grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the hallway. “There’s a cover-up on your brain, Wilson.”

“I’ve seen the signs,” Sam called after you. “The glances! The whispers! The ‘accidental’ brush of hands during mission briefings!”

“Maybe I’m just clumsy!” you yelled.

“And matching mugs?”

“That sticker was mine first!”

Before Sam could yell something, Bucky entered the room, with aexpression criminally smug. He looked like the kind of man who had just done something worth hiding.

“Morning,” Bucky said, voice low and gravelly. He moved to the coffee pot.

Sam’s eyes followed him like a hawk on its sixth espresso.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“I’m great,” Sam replied. “Y/N just left.”

“Cool.”

“Came in lookin’ real tired.”

“People get tired.”

“You look real tired.”

Bucky paused, looked Sam dead in the eye. “You implying something?”

Sam sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. You implying something?”

They stared each other down. The air crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a tumbleweed rolled by. A raven cawed.

“You need sleep,” Bucky muttered.

“I’ll sleep when the truth sleeps,” Sam snapped back.

Then Sam dramatically left the room—only to storm back in ten seconds later to grab a banana. He peeled it with authority and left again.

Later that morning, when Sam had finally left for a jog—or more accurately, a neighborhood reconnaissance mission—you found yourself back in the kitchen. You were putting away a dish, humming quietly to yourself, when a pair of warm arms slid around your waist.

You didn’t jump. You never did when it was him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured against your neck, voice soft now, stripped of the earlier smugness he reserved for sparring with Sam. His lips brushed your skin like a secret.

“Hey yourself,” you whispered, leaning back into his chest. “You’re not worried Sam’s going to install surveillance cameras?”

“He probably already has.” You both laughed.

He rested his chin on your shoulder. “I left my mug out on purpose, you know.”

You turned your head to look at him, brow raised. “Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged, expression boyishly proud. “He’s been circling for weeks. Figured we’d give him a trail to follow. Let the man feel like he cracked the case.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You are so chaotic.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

You turned in his arms, resting your hands on his chest. “Yeah… I kinda do.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that said, even with a super-spy roommate and questionable mugs, this? This is real.

Later that night you bumped into Sam, sitting on the couch. He was hunched forward, elbows on knees, staring ahead

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice low and suspicious, eyes narrowing like you’d just confessed to treason.

You froze. “Uh. Laundry?”

“Interesting,” he said, voice dripping with suspicion. “You know who else said they had laundry tonight?”

You blinked. “…Literally everyone who owns clothes?”

Sam didn’t smile. He leaned in, voice lowering like he was revealing national security secrets. “Barnes. Same night. Same floor. Same time.”

You paused just long enough to regret getting out of your room.

“It’s a laundry room, Sam,” you said flatly. “That’s how they work. People… use it.”

“Mmmhm,” he replied, writing something cryptic in his notebook. The pen squeaked aggressively against the page.

Just then, the door swung open—and in walked Bucky Barnes, freshly showered, damp hair swept back like a shampoo commercial, whistling something suspiciously upbeat.

 “Y/N. Wilson,” he greeted smoothly.

“Barnes,” Sam said, staring like he was trying to burn a hole through his soul with his eyes.

You smiled. Just a regular smile. Harmless. No romantic undertones. Just two coworkers… being cordial.

Totally.

 “You know... I was asking Y/N here,” Sam said, still squinting, “about her suspiciously coordinated laundry schedule.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Must be fate.”

You coughed, choking down a laugh.

Sam slammed his notebook shut with the kind of theatrical flair that screamed “I was born for this drama.”

“Enough. You think I’m not onto you. But I see things.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You seeing ghosts again?”

“I’m seeing clues, Barnes. Don’t play dumb. You two doing laundry together. The mugs. The vanishing act during last Tuesday’s debrief—twenty minutes. Both of you. Gone.”

You opened your mouth, searching for a reasonable explanation, but let’s be honest—this was Sam. There was no “reasonable” left. This man had turned your laundry schedule into a covert op.

You crossed your arms. “We went to get snacks.”

“Snacks,” Sam echoed flatly.

“Yes,” you said, trying to maintain dignity. “You know. Human food. Fuel. Chips. The sacred post-mission ritual.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. “For twenty minutes.”

“There was a vending machine incident,” Bucky added smoothly, stepping closer, unbothered. “Y/N had a standoff with a bag of peanut M&Ms. It got intense.”

You rolled your eyes as Bucky leaned casually against the doorframe, looking way too smug for someone being accused of laundry-based espionage.

Sam was relentless. “You think this is a game? Because I’ve got spreadsheets. I’ve got charts. I have timestamps.”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky replied, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize I was your top case file.”

“You’re not,” Sam snapped. “You’re just the most suspicious.”

You shook your head, already backing toward the hallway. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go… do the thing. With the clothes. Like a normal human person.”

“Sure you are,” Sam muttered, squinting again like he was two seconds away from installing security cameras.

“Goodnight, Wilson,” Bucky said with a wink. And then—because of course—he followed you out.

“Hey!” Sam called. “This isn’t over!”

You didn’t turn around, but you did hear the sound of him furiously scribbling in that cursed notebook again.

You and Bucky sat side by side on top of the industrial dryer, the hum of the spinning machines filling the quiet room. A single overhead light flickered occasionally, casting a soft glow over the laundry baskets at your feet. The scent of fabric softener lingered in the warm air.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” you murmured, folding a hoodie with unnecessary precision.

“He already has,” Bucky said, smirking. “Tried to stick a tracker in my jacket this morning.”

You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “We should start leaving fake clues. Plant a puzzle piece under his pillow. Hang a tie in the garage.”

“I already put a sock in the fridge,” Bucky said casually, reaching over to pull a warm towel from the dryer.

You turned to look at him, mouth open in delight. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Red. Argyle. No explanation.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I love you.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning in to kiss your temple. “I know.”

You went quiet for a beat, letting the rhythm of the machines and the safe warmth between you fill the space. His knee rested against yours. The scent of his cologne barely clung to the edge of his freshly laundered shirt.

He reached for your hand, twining his fingers through yours beneath the basket of still-warm socks. “He’s getting close, though. We are getting pretty obvious.”

“You wanna stop?” you asked, turning toward him.

He looked at you—really looked. And it was all soft eyes, steady presence, and a patience you hadn’t known you needed until him.

“Not a chance.”

Bucky smiled, warm and easy, and pressed his forehead lightly to yours.

“So,” you whispered, “what are we going to do when Sam actually proves something?”

“We deny everything.”

You laughed. “Even under interrogation?”

“Especially under interrogation.”

One day, he’d prove it.

But not today.

Meanwhile in the living room, Sam was writing in his notebook. On the top of the page:

CASE #110: They’re DEFINITELY Dating. And beneath it, scrawled in increasingly frantic handwriting:

shared laundry = suspicious

“Coincidentally” always sitting next to each other

Y/N smiled at him like he invented air.

Bucky smiled back.

FRIDAY pinged softly. “Sir, your blood pressure is elevated.”

“Because there’s a LIE in this house, Friday!”

War was still on.

But as long as you had Bucky Barnes looking at you like you were his whole world?

You were definitely still winning.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2

A/N: it's me again, hi. just wanted to say a big thank you for all the comments and feedback i've been getting from all of you. never thought that a one-shot could turn into a series with already SEVEN PARTS. anyway, just thank you all again. i hope you're liking where this is going. see you next chapter <3

•••

The first time Matt hears of your issues. It’s early on a Monday morning.

Matt first learned about your issue on his way into the office.

He doesn’t mean to listen—doesn’t want to listen—but the moment your voice filters through the air, he can’t stop himself.

You’re perched on the edge of Karen’s desk, your morning coffee barely making a dent in your exhaustion. It had been a long night, and Karen needs to hear all about it to make yourself feel better.

“So,” you sigh dramatically, “I don’t think he was confident enough to use anything other than his hands. It was like I was his guinea pig. Just kinda laying there pretending to moan, pretending to feel something.”

Karen pouts back at you, understanding your predicament like most women would. “Oof, that is bad. At what point did you call it?”

“When he kept trying to make eye contact with me…from down there, it gave off weird vibes. So, I just patted him on his head and got up.”

“You did not!”

You groan up at the ceiling, covering your face with your hands. “It gets worse…after he left, I tried to help myself -yah know. And nothing.”

“I think you might be cursed.” Karen has already given you all the advice she could. What helped for her, what didn’t, even which brands of lube that might help. But nothing. Literally nothing has helped.

“Yeah, no shit! I’m convinced I’ll never know how it feels to have my own mind blowing, out of this world, orga- “

You stop dead.

The weight of your stare pressing against him even though he can’t see it. He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses as he enters the room.

You quickly shoot a look to Karen who just smirks.

“Morning Matt” you both chime, dripping with innocence.

He grumbles a response not really stopping to interact with you. His mind running a mile a minute. Have you never had an orgasm? Maybe I could help?

Matt doesn’t know why that gets under his skin as much as it does. But it does.

He drops into his chair, flexing his hands at his sides. Your voice is still there, looping in his head, and it shouldn’t be this distracting.

I’m convinced I’ll never know how it feels…mind-blowing, out-of-this-world…

Christ.

He doesn’t need this. He’s had a hell of a week already—barely any sleep, too many cases piling up, and now? Now he’s going to spend the rest of the day haunted by the mental image of you—spread out, breathless, wanting.

Matt knew the dynamic between you went beyond friendly colleagues. There had always been something there, an unspoken tension simmering beneath every playful jab, every stolen glance. But he had never taken it seriously.

That changes now.

He moves before he can stop himself, heading to the office kitchen. Two cups of coffee—one for him, one for you. It’s a rare gesture, but he knows you’ll appreciate it.

“For you.” He grunts shoving a mug towards you. Your fingers brush his as you take it. Matt lingers for a moment longer than necessary. His eyes boring into yours intensely. The telepathic message he’s sending not quite reaching you.

Just when you think he is going to say something his lips smack closed and he’s walking away.

The words I can help lost in his throat. Matt scowls at himself for chickening out. He couldn’t embarrass you like that. It really is none of his business.

All you notice however, is how his fingers are flexing at his side, as if your quick brush has stung him. The gesture of coffee confuses you, but you’re too distracted by his hands. You picture what they can do for you, take you to an edge you’ve never experienced before.

“Well, I don’t get coffee like that” Karen snides from her side of the room. You flush and hide behind your stack of papers. You take a sip and hum. It’s just how you like it, Matt always knows how you like things.

Matt spends the rest of the morning trying—and failing—to focus.

The sound of the office hums around him, phones ringing, papers shuffling, the steady rhythm of keyboards clacking. But all he can hear is you. Your voice, looping in his head, the way you sighed when you talked about last night, the frustration laced in every word.

I’m convinced I’ll never know how it feels…

His fingers twitch against the edge of his desk. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t want to care.

But he does.

And that’s the problem.

By the time lunch rolls around, he needs space. Needs air. Needs to clear his head before he does something stupid.

Because the last thing he wants is to come off as some arrogant asshole who thinks he has all the answers. The last thing he wants is for you to think he’s just like every other guy who assumes he knows what you need.

Even if, deep down, he’s pretty damn sure he does.

The thought twists in his gut as he heads back to the office, rehearsing ways to make a move that don’t end with him humiliating himself—or worse, pushing you away.

But the moment he steps inside, ready to test the waters, Foggy’s voice cuts through the air.

“…I know he knows what he’s doing.”

Matt stops. Freezes mid-step on the stairs.

He’s on about a blind date.

Someone else.

Someone else touching you. Someone else making you laugh, making you moan. Someone else failing you.

Whilst Matt was out Foggy took the opportunity to swoop in, grinning as he flops into the chair across from you. Getting you to spill all the details from last night.

You skim over the basics—the guy took you to a nice restaurant, knew how to flirt, wasn’t exactly your usual type but still tried. Foggy questioned if you managed to get off, which shocked you. You knew you hadn’t told him, which means Karen must have.

The snap of Matt’s jaw tightening echoes in his ears.

He doesn’t remember moving, doesn’t register the way his fingers crush the takeout bag in his grip, barely even feels the splintering pressure of his cane beneath his palm.

All he knows is that when he speaks, his voice is sharp enough to slice through the air.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, can you please leave our paralegal alone to get on with her work?”

Silence.

He’s standing in the doorway now, Foggy blinking at him in surprise, you stare at him like you’re trying to read him. Like you can feel the heat radiating off of him from across the room.

Matt clenches his jaw, forces himself to move, to breathe. Forces himself to walk away before he does something reckless.

It’s not my problem. It’s none of my damn business.

But the thought of anyone else fixing this for you—that is what has his stomach twisting. That is what has his grip tightening around his cane until he’s sure the wood is about to crack.

I know what I’m doing.

Your pulse, however, is unsteady as you turn back to your desk, your mind is spinning.

Matt never snaps like that—not over you.

And yet, the frustration in his voice, the heat behind it, the way he stormed off like Foggy had just personally offended him—

You swallow hard.

No. No, you must be imagining things. Reading too much into it.

But then some time later, as you return from the bathroom, you pause. Confusion flickers across your face as you spot something on your desk—a plate, half a sandwich, some chips.

You glance around, questioning, until Karen gives you a knowing smirk, tilting her head toward Matt’s office.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t acknowledge what he’s done.

•••

It’s late. The office is quiet, save for the occasional rustle of papers and the low hum of Matt’s computer. Everyone has gone, leaving just the two of you in the dimly lit space. You’ve been pretending to focus on paperwork, but your mind has been elsewhere- on the weight of Matt’s presence, on the way he looks in the glow of his screen, his jaw tight with unspoken tension.

Matt, with headphones in, is distracted. He’s thinking about you, like he has been all day. Thinking about the way you might touch yourself when no one is watching. About how much he wants to be the one touching you instead.

The thought takes hold, creeping into his veins like wildfire. His hand drifts lower, pal, pressing over the hardness straining against his slacks. He exhales sharply, his mind flooding with images - your skirt bunched around your waist, your body arching against his, the breathless sound of your moans as he drives you over the edge. His fingers tighten. He’s losing himself in it, lost in the fantasy of you, of having you, of making you his.

He doesn’t hear you approach.

You stop in your tracks, eyes widening at the sight before you - Matt, head tilted back against his chair, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, his hand gripping himself through his trousers. A bead of sweat slides down his temple. Your name spills from his lips in a quiet, desperate murmur.

Heat coils in your stomach.

You should walk away. Pretend you never saw. But you don’t.

Instead, you step closer.

“Enjoying yourself, Mr Murdock?”

His body goes rid His body goes rigid. His eyes snap open, unfocused but sharp, as if he can feel your presence more than see it. His breath is unsteady, his arousal still evident, straining against the dark fabric of his slacks.

It takes him a moment to speak. "You’ve done this to me," he rasps, voice rough, edged with frustration. "Drove me to this. I haven’t stopped thinking about you all day."

A slow smirk tugs at your lips. You take your time, stepping between his spread legs, savouring the way his breath hitches. You step closer, the air between you electric. His hands clench at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to pull you into his lap and grind against you until you’re just as desperate as he is.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he confesses, voice tight with restraint. “Every look. Every word. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You hum, tilting your head as if considering his words. “And what exactly have I done, Mr. Murdock?”

His jaw tightens. He’s unraveling, restraint slipping through his fingers like sand. You see it in the way his breathing turns ragged, in the way his control—so carefully maintained—is fracturing before you.

“You already know,” he growls.

Your hands brush along the armrests of his chair, caging him in, your body close enough that he can feel your warmth. His fingers twitch, aching to touch.

“You’ve spent all day thinking about me?” you murmur. “Thinking about what you’d do if I let you?”

His control snaps.

One hand grips your waist, dragging you onto his lap in a fluid motion. His other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head so your lips are a breath away from his.

“Say the word,” he rasps, mouth ghosting over your skin, teasing, tormenting. “Say the word, and I’ll show you exactly what I’ve been thinking about.”

Heat coils in your stomach. His fingers dig into your hips, firm and possessive, as if grounding himself.

“Then show me,” you whisper.

It’s all the permission he needs.

In a blur, your skirt is bunched around your waist, and his mouth is on you—hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your neck, each one laced with the promise of what’s to come. His hands roam your thighs, spreading you open, savouring every inch of exposed skin like it’s something sacred.

"You smell incredible," he murmurs against your lips, voice reverent, like he’s memorising every piece of you. His touch is maddening—just enough to make you shiver, but not enough to satisfy the ache burning between your legs.

He lowers himself to his knees pulling you to the edge of the desk. Bringing one of your legs over his shoulder, placing gentle kisses until he reaches your centre.

His breath hitches as he finally—finally—tastes you. A low groan vibrates through his chest as his tongue drags over you, slow and deliberate. You gasp, your fingers threading into his hair, anchoring him there.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against you, voice thick with reverence. “You taste even better than I could ever imagine.”

His tongue moves in long, languid strokes, teasing, savouring, drinking in every sound you make. His grip tightens when your hips jerk against his mouth, an unspoken command to stay still.

But he’s not done teasing you. Not yet.

“You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?” His voice is low, gravelly, sending shivers through you. “Going to do exactly what I say?”

You can barely form words, nodding, breathless.

“Good.”

And then he ruins you.

His tongue works you over with practiced precision—each flick, each stroke designed to drive you higher. Your body trembles, a desperate whimper escaping your lips as pleasure coils tighter, hotter.

“You like this, sweetheart?” he taunts, voice dark and full of promise. “Like knowing how fucking desperate I’ve been for you?”

You moan, back arching, legs trembling as you lose yourself in him. He keeps going—pushing you closer, dragging it out until the pleasure is unbearable. It’s almost a pain mixed with white hot pleasure. You beg for more. For it not to stop. It can’t stop. You grip Matts hair to be sure it doesn’t. He sucks on a spot that makes you want to scream. Or maybe you are. It’s all too much and you need it. And then you reach a point where it is too much, and your eyes squeeze close and your thighs shake.

And then—release.

You shatter, thighs tightening around his head, a strangled cry escaping your lips. He groans against you, lapping up every last tremor, drawing out every aftershock until your entire body is shaking.

And still—he’s not finished.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s pulling you into his lap, large hands tracing slow, grounding patterns along your abdomen. The fabric of his slacks is rough against your oversensitive skin, the hard press of him impossible to ignore.

"That’s one," he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple.

You barely register the words before his fingers are sliding back between your legs—tracing, teasing, pushing inside you with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Your body jolts, oversensitive, but Matt doesn’t stop.

“We’re not done yet, darling.”

You grind against him instinctively, chasing friction, chasing him. His head tips back, jaw clenched, as you roll your hips over him.

"Fuck," he grits out, hands gripping you tighter. "You're going to kill me."

His fingers curl inside you, stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy. His breath is hot against your ear, murmuring filth that makes your toes curl, your body tightening once again.

It doesn’t take long until your second orgasm hits like a freight train. "That’s two."

And then he’s standing, lifting you like you weigh nothing, and bending you over the desk.

Your cheek presses against the cool wood, the contrast to his burning heat making you shudder. Light brushes against your shoulder blades as he moves your hair aside, placing slow, reverent kisses down the curve of your neck.

"You have no idea how perfect you are like this," he groans, his hands steadying you, grounding you. "Falling apart for me. Letting me take what I want. You deserve to feel it all."

Your mind is blank—no, not blank, just utterly consumed by him.

"You still with me, sweetheart?" His touch is slow as it glides down your spine, teasing, taunting.

You barely manage a nod.

He chuckles darkly. “Think you can take one more?”

A whimper is all you can offer.

"That's what I thought."

And then he’s inside you.

The stretch is exquisite, overwhelming, a perfect contradiction of pleasure and desperation. He gives you a moment to adjust—to feel every inch of him, to let the sensation take you over.

And then he moves.

Deep, unrelenting strokes, each one angled to wring more from you, to keep you right on that edge where pleasure and pain blur into something devastating.

"So tight," he groans. "So fucking perfect for me."

He fists a hand in your hair and pulls you up, your back flush against his chest. The movement is purposeful—possessive. His free hand finds your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, feeling the way you gasp for him.

You’re babbling, incoherent, barely able to hold yourself together. And Matt loves it.

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering as the pleasure consumes him. "Fuck," he hisses, his grip on you tightening. "You’re going to make me—"

Your body clenches around him, and that’s all it takes.

He groans your name into your neck, the sound raw and wrecked as he tumbles over the edge, heat spilling inside you. His hold on you tightens as he rides it out, dragging you with him, until the only sound in the room is your ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of your hearts.

And still, he doesn’t let you go.

His arms stay wrapped around you, holding you firm against him, his breath still ragged against your ear. His hands, once gripping with desperation, now trace slow, grounding circles over your skin. Neither of you speaks for a moment—just the sound of your heartbeats, the slow rise and fall of your chests in sync.

Then, finally, Matt exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His fingers slide down to your waist, squeezing gently, almost reassuringly.

“You okay?” His voice is lower now, softer, a stark contrast to how he had just wrecked you.

You hum, too blissed out to form words. He chuckles, the sound warm and satisfied, and the vibration of it sends a pleasant aftershock through you.

For a while, you just stay like that, his body still pressed against yours, neither of you willing to move just yet. He runs a hand up your spine, then down again, like he’s memorising every dip, every curve, every shiver you give him.

Finally, reluctantly, he pulls back just enough to let you turn in his arms. His face is unreadable, but there’s something intense lingering behind his expression. Something possessive, something tender.

His fingers ghost along your jaw, tilting your chin up. He studies you, like he’s committing this exact moment to memory.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs.

You blink up at him, dazed, still trying to process everything. A small, breathless laugh escapes you, and he grins, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

A beat of silence stretches between you. The weight of everything settles in the air—what just happened, what it means, where it leaves you both.

And then, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“So…” he murmurs, a teasing edge creeping into his voice. “Still convinced you’ll never know what a mind-blowing orgasm feels like?”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you swat weakly at his chest. “Shut up, Murdock.”

He laughs, catching your wrist, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. “Just making sure you’re keeping count,” he teases. His lips trail down, ghosting along your collarbone, dangerously close to starting something all over again.

You arch a brow at him, trying to feign exasperation, but you already know the truth.

matt’s head tilts, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “look too much?” he repeats, and there’s this dry, low chuckle. “sweetheart, that’s the one thing i can’t do.” his hands wrap firm around both your wrists, pressing them to your sides. "but if you think i’m not paying attention…” he leans in, flattening his tongue against your clit, closing his mouth around you and moving it slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world.

the rest of what he says is muffled against you, but it sounds nothing short of pure adoration.

his hands slide up, locking over your stomach when your hips start to jump, holding you down firmly as he doubles down on making you cum. the sensation is unfamiliar, your breaths breaking into sobs as the pressure builds too fast to handle. but he pats your thigh to show you how immensely proud of you he is, eager to feel you bloom on his tongue.

when you cum, it’s overwhelming, your body jolting as you cry out, his name breaking in pieces on your lips. he keeps going just long enough for a second wave to hit—and a third—until you’re left seizing and babbling.

later, when he has you tucked against his chest, your body still trembling and pliant, he brushes a hand over your hair, his lips ghosting over your temple.

“you know you’re mine forever, right?”

you nod against him, your body still humming from the aftershocks, sinking into the comfort of his touch.

and he holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

you're perfect.

it's true what they say about weddings; it goes by in a blur. although he's a little tired, and tipsy from all the reception champagne (okay, it's some sort of sparkling “wine” and yes, you're all at josie's), matt feels like bliss. this day had been a long time coming, and truthfully, matt never thought it'd happen, but of course, that all changed when he met you.

right now, matt's bowtie is undone, shirt a little ruffled, and his skin slightly flushed from the number of drinks foggy's bought for you all. he's riding the high from your little ceremony at the church, presided over by father lantom, with sister maggie, foggy, marci and karen in attendance. you had insisted it be small, with only your chosen family there, and god, it was just perfect.

.

father lantom and sister maggie opted out of the reception, pulling you and matt aside for a small embrace, a meaningful exchange of words. you've never seen the two of them so happy, tears glistening in their eyes as they took in your beautiful dress and matt's expressions of unbridled joy. this was a very significant moment, especially for father lantom; he would always, always worry about matt, but with you, matt would never be alone again.

.

it wouldn't be a wedding reception without speeches, right? and foggy did exactly that, climbing on top of the pool table (at josie's dismay), tapping his tie clip on his whiskey glass, capturing the attention of every patron. in typical foggy fashion, he delivered a speech that embarrassed the hell out of matt, drawing laughter from all corners of the bar, but made sure to wrap it up with a message of endearment, sweet words that you'd cherish for the rest of your life.

and karen? oh, karen. her speech made you and matt cry -- to be fair, you'd expected nothing less -- and it was soon followed by the rising chants of your newfound audience: 'first dance! first dance! first dance!'

so, with the clink of a couple quarters into josie's jukebox machine, completely unaware of what song was about to come on, a little space was cleared for you in the middle. matt took your hand, guiding you into the centre, holding your waist as you nuzzled your face into his neck. the music startled you a little, the upbeat sound of 'god only knows' filling the small space. not what you would've picked for a typical first dance, but you'd take it. as you pressed your lips into matt's, still in your wedding dress by the way, everything fell away around you, and there you were; the two of you. just the two of you.

.

when matt takes you home later that night, carrying you over the threshold of your front door, it's hard to describe the feeling coursing through your veins; the pure, euphoric joy making your heart swell beyond belief.

you lose count of how many times matt calls you 'mrs murdock', the words falling from his lips sweetly at first, then dipping into a tone laced with hunger as he takes his time undoing your dress, the soft thud of the fabric pooling around your ankles music to his ears.

as he finds himself between your legs, his shirt not even completely off yet, he calls you mrs murdock again, before his tongue dives into you.

later, after you've fallen apart on his tongue and his cock more times than you think humanly possible, it's hard to mistake the devotion radiating from him, radiating from who is now your husband.

and, as you lie in his arms, fingers grazing against his wedding ring, you trace over the raised braille dots of your name engraved into the metal.

"how is it that i got so lucky, huh?" matt whispers against your cheek, hands intertwining in yours.

matthew michael murdock and the green-eyed monster are close, close friends. even though you've chided in his behaviour and try to lead by example (you've had plenty of chances because your boyfriend seems to always find beautiful ladies who have questionable morals), matt definitely gets possessive.

he thinks he's subtle, but he's the complete opposite. his tells are the way he tightens his grip on his cane, white knuckles drawing your attention, or the way his nostrils flare with jealousy.

he's the kind of guy who would sit behind a restaurant menu a few tables away from you, pretending like he's not eavesdropping.

oh, and eavesdropping is mr murdock's speciality. he'll hear your voice in his head, telling him to cool it, but he just can't help it. he'll lean his head back, tip of his ear going pink as he concentrates his efforts, clinging on to every word or action circling you.

it's also a good time to point out that with matt's enhanced sense of smell, he is crazy attracted to your pheromones. even more so when you're sweating and working out. he can smell you before you even walk in the door, and it makes him lick his lips, become feral... it makes him want you.

sometimes, if you meet up with someone and say, give them a hug, their scent lingers on your skin, even if just in passing. and you'll get home, seeing that matt's gritting his teeth, shoulders tensing at thoughts he knows he shouldn't have.

part of this relates to his trust issues, sure. he's a work in progress, and so are you, but he never gets angry at you. never. sometimes that frustration gets misdirected, but you're always there to steer it right. and sometimes, that requires a little bit of exertion over his control.

you just have to teach him a lesson.

maybe you'll tell him to get on his knees, or lie down so you can sit on his face. you'll tangle your fingers in his hair, maybe jerk his head back a little bit, just to look down at his perfect, perfect face, those hazel, sightless eyes, his beautiful nose... the lips of a sinner...

"tell me you know i'm yours, matthew," you'll insist, gripping his chin.

"i-i know, sweetheart," he'll rasp, as you lower yourself down on his cock.

and you'll tease him, roll your hips at a pace that's infuriatingly slow, watching him as he tips his head back, not caring about the sounds falling from his mouth.

he'll give into you, fall apart under you...

but the teasing gets a little too much, and matt wants to regain control.

matt stills himself inside you, his grip around your throat and stomach loosening. there's no way he heard what you said correctly–

"matt."

he arches his eyebrows as he moves his hips, drawing out a moan from you. "huh?"

"i said, i want you to cum inside me."

he sputters, torn between two hard places, moving his hips again instinctively. a soft groan leaves his lips as you tighten around him, willing himself to back down from the edge you've so easily brought him to.

you moan again, throwing your head back into matt's neck. "i mean, only if y-you're comfortable with it. and i'm on the pill if that worries you."

"sweetheart are you... are you sure?" matt rasps. he's somehow harder than he was before, and your words spur a desire deep inside him, a desire he's tried to suppress for a very long time.

your change your tone. it's more stern now, more of a command than a request. "i want to feel your cum inside me. i want to feel it dripping out of me after. i want you to mark me as yours."

he growls, breath coming out in shallow pants as one hand finds your throat again. with the other, he brushes your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear, leaving your neck exposed. then, with his chest pressed into your back, his cock still deep inside you, he wraps his free arm around your stomach.

he's got you exactly where he wants you.

"you want my cum, sweetheart?" he grunts in your ear, grinning as he picks up on your racing heartbeat.

"yes, matty," you breathe, whimpering as he nips your earlobe, face pushing into the sheets.

"be a good girl and take it for me, okay?"

he pistons his hips into yours, ignoring the obscene slapping of flesh that echoes throughout his bedroom, relishing in the orgasms he coaxes out of you with his cock.

that angle is too good, too deep for him... and before long, he's groaning, sloppy thrusts an indication that he can't hold off for much longer. you're so wet, so tight for him and he's cursing and feeling your skin on his and...

he explodes inside you, crying out your name, burying his face into your back. you don't care his stubble scratches at you, that that vice of a hand grips your neck with a ferocity you've never seen.

"matty," you whisper, feeling his warmth spread inside you, feeling his muscles go rigid as he holds you close, cock still pumping.

"fuck!" he yells, dragging himself out of you until just the very tip of him remains.

before you can speak he fills your body with his again, the mix of both your arousals making it so easy for him to slide back in.

he fucks his cum into you until he's satisfied; until you can't give him any more and you're both spent beyond belief. when he eventually pulls out, he sniffs the air, chuckling lowly at the scent of his cum dripping out of you.

"you gonna clean me up, matty?" you ask, flipping onto your back and propping yourself up on your elbows.

Once everything was set up and ready, you tell him to take off the mask. Not wasting a second, he rips the thing off his head, his brown hair now a mop of a mess that makes him unfairly attractive, as his eyes go wide at the surprise you had in store for him. 

“Baby,” he whispers, walking closer to the new Spider-Man suit you had made him. 

You smile, side-stepping so he can get a full look at it. 

“Your old one was getting a lot of tears in it, so I thought I’d try to make you a new one. I also tried to stick to your design cause I know you like it, but–“ 

You’re quickly cut off by hands resting on your cheek and hip, lips on yours, and the wall suddenly against your back as Peter’s kissing you. You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, causing Peter to smile against the kiss. It’s all teeth and smiles before he’s pulling away, gently holding your face in both hands like you’re the most precious thing in the world, before he starts kissing every inch of your face. 

“I take it you like your surprise?” You ask through laughs. 

He nods, mumbling “love it, love you more though,” in between kisses. 

You’re not sure how much time passes until he pulls away, leaving you a breathless, giggling mess as his eyes flicker between you and the new suit you had made for him. 

“I can’t believe you made me a new suit,” he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. “Thank you,” he says, kissing your lips once again. 

“If this is how you’re going to react when I make you a suit, I might just make you a new one every day,” you joke. 

Instead of responding, Peter kisses your forehead, as if he can’t get enough of kissing you, as if none of it was enough. Before he can start his onslaught of kisses again, you’re gently pushing him away from you, laughing at his pout as you nod your head towards the suit. “Go try it on!” You exclaim with a laugh. He eagerly nods, stealing one more quick kiss before grabbing the suit and heading to the bathroom. 

“Fits like a glove!” He exclaims, exiting the bathroom with the suit on, and what you think is supposed to be a poor attempt at jazz hands. He does a small spin, letting you see the full suit on him as you grin a wide smile that almost makes your cheeks hurt. 

“Looks great!” You tell him. 

Peter scoffs, ripping the mask off his face as he strides towards you, cupping your face as he kisses you once again. This time, soft and slow, as if he’s trying to pour all his love and gratitude for you in that one kiss. “Looks perfect,” he mutters when he pulls away. “Feels perfect, seriously, baby, thank you.”

You shrug with a smile. “Course,” you say through another fit of giggles as he starts pecking your face with kisses once again, like he’ll never get tired of this, of you. 

“Love you,” he says, with a final kiss to the tip of your nose. 

“Love you more,” you reply. 

Peter scoffs, rolling his eyes in feigned annoyance as he kisses you one more time to tell you that no, he loves you more, actually. 

peter flufftober taglist: @ireadmorethantalk @bingsbitch @njdluvr

You let out a tipsy laugh, much louder than you'd hoped, and some guests look over at you both. "You wish," you say and stumble forwards, almost knocking Pietro over if he hadn't caught you by the waist, pulling you into him. You're too distracted by the warmth of his body to push away from him. 

"You want to know something, Princezna?" He asks conspiratorily, his lips near your ear, and you shiver. You shouldn't have drunk so much wine because now his voice causes butterflies in your stomach. 

"I'd like you better if we slept together," Pietro finishes, and your blood runs cold. You snap your head up to look at him, searching for any sign that he is joking. You take a breath, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. You should slap him. He would deserve it. You consider it for a moment, but ultimately, you decide to drag him to your bedroom and push him up against the wall to kiss his lips. 

Pietro groans as his shoulders hit the wall, but he reacts quickly and kisses you back. Grinning against your lips, he opens his mouth to speak, but you cover his mouth with your hand. You stare at him, licking your lips. His lips taste of whiskey and a mix of the delicious wine you were drinking. Gross. You kiss him again, kissing him deeper this time. 

Pietro spins your bodies around, his hand coming up behind your head to make sure you don't hit it against the wall. You hike your leg up his hip, tugging at his silver curls. This feels sinful and delicious. You're addicted, you couldn't stop even if you tried. 

"Fuck," Pietro groans, kissing and sucking under your collarbone as he unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans. He shimmies them to his ankles as he bunches up your dress, pushing aside your panties. You moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation. There is a pause, and you open one eye. Pietro is staring at you with an unreadable expression. He leans in and softly kisses your lips. 

"You're sure?" he asks, his tone careful. You frown, surprised by this side of him, and wrap your arms around his shoulders. You crash your lips into his once more. 

"Shut up and fuck me, Maximoff," you whine, opening your legs a little more for him. You have never wanted anything more in your life. 

The moment Pietro slides in, you feel like you're in a haze. His stubble is scratchy against your neck as he thrusts in and out, whispers incoherent praises as he fucks you. You groan and moan, unable to form sentences. It's the hottest thing you've ever experienced. 

After what feels like forever in the best way possible and your second orgasm, Pietro pulls out and jerks himself off for a moment, tears in his eyes. He catches your gaze, and you understand that he's not quite sure where to come, and you drop to your knees, taking him in your mouth. Pietro inhales sharply and comes almost instantly. 

Your hair is a mess when you pull away, resting on your heels. Your chest is heaving, your eyes hazy, and you expect Pietro to clean himself up and leave you. Instead, his face comes into your view, and you frown when his hand cups your cheek. "You did well, Princezna," he praises and kisses your sweaty forehead. "So so good."

You let your eyes close, your body leaning against his. You're exhausted now, and you need to be held. 

You don't have the strength to be confused as to why Pietro's being so kind all of a sudden, and you definitely don't have the strength to fully comprehend his words when he whispers, "I like you for real, y/n," in your ear. 

"Clark! Can't that kill you?" You hold him up, gently guiding him to the couch. He sits down happily and thinks for a moment. He shakes his head, his hair falling in front of his eyes. 

"No– I mean, I don't think so," he laughs and leans against the couch. "'M tired."

You sigh and rest your hands on your hips. "You're a mess."

Clark looks up at you. His eyes are bleary, but he cracks a smile. "You're pretty." He sits up and grabs your arm. Using his strength, he pulls you into him. You gasp, surprised by the gesture, but you quickly realize you're trapped in his arms.

"Clark," you warn, squirming. This only prompts Clark to fall sideways onto the couch, still hugging you to his chest. He rests his head on yours, smelling your hair. 

"I love you."

"I love you too, but I–"

"Fuck, I love you so much."

"Clark!" You laugh, not expecting the foul language. He must really be out of it. Your Clark never swears. He chuckles and pulls you closer. Finally, you stop squirming, and your body slumps against his chest. He's too strong. "You're like a huge, very, very strong teddy-bear," you say, resting your hands on his forearms, enjoying his closeness. 

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Clark mutters like a chant, pulling you even closer, which was something you didn't think was possible. 

"Alright, Clark," you laugh, unable to calm the giddy smile as warmth explodes in your chest.

He presses his lips to your temple, his kisses dipping down to your neck. "I'm serious. You're my soulmate. I didn't believe in that before you."

You pause, his words hitting deep. It takes you a moment to respond; your stomach tightens with such happiness that it's almost unbearable. "You're my soulmate too, Clark," you admit, only to receive silence. 

"Clark?"

You turn your head a little, feeling him against your neck, and then you hear a soft snore. He fell asleep. You sigh, smiling a little, and you simply lie against him. 

The next morning, you both awoke on the couch where you had drifted off to sleep. "Mornin'," Clark groans, his head hurting a little. He loosens his grip on you finally, and you sit up with him, pressing a kiss to his lips. 

"Hi, soulmate," you tease, wondering if he remembers.

To your surprise and joy, Clark's smile widens, and he kisses your lips gently. "I love you, soulmate," he says, his voice so soft it soothes any kind of worry or doubt in your mind he might not have meant those words. 

After all, this is Clark Kent.

"Peter." You're breathless as you cautiously cups his bruised cheek in your hands, "I saw you outside! What happened?"

He has blood in his mouth and on his lips, a deep cut on his chin, and his nose is obviously broken. "I swear I'm going to murder whoever did this to you," you whisper as you leads him to you room. Once you've shut the door, Peter collapses on the ground, groaning in pain as he clutches his side. 

"I'm okay. I promise I'm okay," he moans and leans his head on the wall.

"Hush, no you aren't," you say as you quickly disappears into your bathroom, returning seconds later with bandaids, tissues, and alcohol in her arms.

"Y/n/n," Peter chuckles, his lopsided smirk making an appearance, "How did you know I wanted a drink?" His smile doesn't last as he hisses in pain and bows his head. You pull your lip into your mouth and kneels down next to him so you can incline his head upwards and examine his wounds.

"I don't have anymore hydrogen peroxide in the cupboard and Mary-Jane keeps this in my bathroom for when she comes over. It's not mine. Now, don't make anymore jokes when you're bleeding out in my room!" You warns as you pours some alcohol onto the tissue and begins to clean his wounds.

"How did this happen?" you ask. Peter looks up and stares at you with his puppy brown eyes. He wants to be honest, he wants to selfishly admit he's Spiderman so that you'll hug him and reassure him that he's okay and that, even bruised and broken, he is still a hero. You would understand, you would support him endlessly, he knows you would.

But he can't. You can't know his secret.

"Some dude on the subway thought I was looking at him funny." Peter laughs. "You should see him though. If you think I'm beat up, this is nothing." He points to his swollen cheek, the one your not cleaning, and grins. You only frowns, pressing the tissue unnecessarily hard on Peter's chin so he hisses in pain.

"You just lied to me."

His eyes widen and he stumbles on his words, "I didn't lie! I don't lie. What makes you say such a thing?" His voice is squeaky.

"I heard it. Peter, I know you and this is the third time you have lied to me this week alone." You open the bandaid and places it on Peter's cleaned cut. Gently, you smooth your hand over his cheek, "It's starting to hurt a little," you admits and then look at him seriously.

"You can tell me if you're in trouble, you know? I can handle it. I'm here for you." 

Peter has never felt more like an asshole. He's hurting you, no matter what he does he's hurting you.

He shouldn't have come tonight.

You're looking at him now, waiting, and all he can do is stand up, "I can't," he says, stumbling.

But then you're grabbing his hand and whispering, "Peter, please. I love you."

And now you're sitting on the ground and he's standing over you. It's an unfair power imbalance and he knows it. You also know it but because you're so sure he would never hurt you, it doesn't matter.

He stares into your eyes and it's like time isn't moving. You're so beautiful, and you love him, and it's killing him because he loves you just as much but he can't have you.

All he can say is, "Thank you" as he pulls his hand from yours and turns around. It's insensitive and cruel, and Peter almost thinks he did it on purpose so that you would hate him.

Hating him would hurt less than loving him.

"I know you love me." 

An icy chill runs up his spine. "What?" He rasps out as he spins around again, staring at you.

"I know you, Peter." You are crying, but somehow you're also smiling at him. Peter frowns.

It's not true. You don't know him. You don't know what he's become. "I-I'm not the person you think I am, Y/n," Peter whispers as he looks at you sadly. Only your smile doesn't disappear like he thought it would and instead, you laugh. 

"You think I don't know that? Peter, I know you're Spiderman."

Automatically, he shakes his head. No, this can't be happening, he thinks to himself. You aren't supposed to know. It's his most important rule.

"I'm not Spiderman." Peter's lying again, his voice is breaking, and he now can see that you truly do know because you're standing up and looking at him with such intense disappointment. 

"Please don't lie to me," you plead, "and please don't make me feel stupid either." 

"I'm not!" Peter laughs now, hands waving around him animatedly, "But I'm not Spiderman! How can I be Spiderman?" As he defends himself, he sees you walk around your room to the small balcony you have from her window and his heart is suddenly pounding.

"What are you doing?" He asks anxiously.

You turns around once you've climbed onto the balcony, "I'm proving my point." Your hands are harshly pressed around the railing and you inhale, "Because I trust you."

You're leaning over now, wind in her hair as the city noises drown out the ringing in her ears. Closing your eyes, you extend one hand out but you aren't quick enough to jump as something silky wraps around your arm. In a blur, you're being spun around and pulled into the room again. Losing your balance, you're thrown into Peter, whose arms instantly wrap around you.

"Motherhugger, you're insane!" He hisses, cheeks burnt from his anger and his pain as, upon collision, you had involuntarily bumped into his bruised chin. His pain disappears when you throw your arms around him and hug him.

Peter shakes his head and cups her cheeks in his hands, "Why would you jump out of the damn window!? I mean shit, imagine if I wasn't Spiderman!? You would have died before I could run to you!" He's pissed as all he can imagine is him being unable to prevent your fall. He sees you limp and lifeless in his arms and it's bringing back too many memories he can't handle; memories you don't even know he has.

"But you are Spiderman!" You exclaim, staring up at him innocently. 

Peter looks down at you in his arms. You don't understand what you did wrong and his hand relaxes in your hair. It's not your fault you doesn't know about Gwen, or about Harry and everyone who was harmed because of him.

It's his fault.

"I am Spiderman," he admits, "but this changes nothing."

You tense and your lip quivers, "What do you mean it changes nothing? It changes everything, Peter!" 

Peter's voice comes out shaky. "I'm so sorry." 

"So you don't love me?" 

You look so heartbroken and lost when he says he doesn't love you. Peter's heart is breaking and it shatters when you pull away and wipe your tears. But, as crazy as it sounds ,Peter is reassured when you say,

"You've lied to me too many times now, Peter. I want you to leave"

He lets out a breath. At least he knows you know he loves you and that's the only thing he can give you. 

* * *

You don't speak to him when you see him in class the next morning. You don't speak to him until three weeks later when you're standing with him in the hall, arms crossed and looking as nonchalant as possible. Only Peter can hear your pulse quicken as you admit, "I have a date tonight," 

If you want to hurt him, Peter can't blame you. However, the sting is harsher than he imagined and his chest tightens, "I need to not love you anymore, it hurts too much. I just wanted you to know, I don't know why but,"

"It's okay, I understand." His lip trembles but he sends her an understanding smile. You look down, almost like you're disappointed and Peter doesn't understand why until you look up at him once more.

"I want you to tell me not to go."

Peter shakes his head, starting to tear up, "Y/n," his voice dies as you continues to just stare at him, waiting and longing. He wants to tell you that you shouldn't move on, that you should only love him because he'll never be able to love anyone like he loves you.

But he stays silent because you remind him too much of her.

It wasn't because you necessarily had things in common, but because the love he has for you burns as intensely as the love he had for Gwen. It burns differently, but nonetheless as intensely and that love caused Gwen's death.

It won't cause yours.

"I want you to be happy without me,"

"I don't think that's possible, Parker."

You snap and suddenly you're leaning in, hands on his cheeks as you kiss him. Because he's in shock, Peter doesn't have any time to respond to the warmth of your lips but once you disconnects them, he's gripping onto your shirt at the waist and his cheeks have turned pink.

"I―" He starts, lightheaded.

"Promise me you love me?" You implore, staring at him.

Peter doesn't want to deny it this time so he nods. He thinks you could burst into tears when your expression hardens, but you don't. Instead, you stand straighter, hands sliding down his cheeks so you wrap them around your arms, "Okay." 

It took one word and now you're gone. And this time, it feels final.

Peter stands incredibly still. He should be reassured; he didn't want you harmed and now no one can hurt you. You're not in his life, you aren't in danger anymore. It's simple. Only the hole in his heart isn't simple and he suddenly can't shake the feeling that he was making a mistake.

It was this feeling, the uneasiness in his chest, that caused him to essentially stalk you and your date; who was an undeniably handsome man, who, however, looked much too old to be into a girl your age.

Peter was burning with jealousy seeing the man take his your hand, her coat on his arm, as you smiled up at him. 

You should be smiling at him, not this random man you probably met online, and Peter can't stand it. He can barely stand looking at you anymore so, for what only feels like a moment, he looks away. 

It isn't until he hears you that he looks down again, "I saw you from the restaurant. You're watching over me, aren't you?" you ask, smiling, "You can come down and walk like a normal person now Spiderman, he's gone."

He hadn't seen the man leave but it's true; you are alone now and you're waiting for him. While he doesn't come down from the smaller building's roof like she wanted, he jumps to a lamppost near her and instead, hangs upside down. You laugh at his childishness and the sound makes Peter's cheeks burn and, unbeknownst to you, his smile widens.

He shouldn't be here, joking with you like friends turned into lovers, but he can't seem to leave.

"Always the dramatic," you smile and walks closer to him.

"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't be harmed by um, him," Peter explains quickly, his heart pounding in his chest as you stand near him now, your noses almost touching. He knows what's coming when you slowly pulls down his mask under his mouth. He's endlessly thankful no one is around because when you kiss him, he doesn't want anyone watching you.

He wants this moment to be yours.

It's inconvenient, kissing while he's hanging upside down in the air, but he doesn't mind because it's you, kissing you could never be anything less than amazing. Once you pull away from him, you're looking at him seriously and you ask, "How long have you been watching me?"

Peter jumps around and lands on the ground, his arms instantly wrapping around you as he pulls you into him. You gasp breathlessly because of the momentum and squeal when he shoots his web at the building across from you and hoists you into the air.

You hide your head in his chest as your arms tighten around his neck. 

Once you land on the Brooklyn Bridge, you inhales sharply, skin suddenly chilly from the Autumn wind, and as you're about to open your mouth to shout at him never to do that without a warning again, but Peter uses one arm to pull his mask from his head and answers you; "Honestly? Since forever." 

You seem a little surprised by his answer, almost losing your balance as you stare at him unblinkingly. Because he's scared to sound like an obsessive creep, he continues in a hurry, "It's only because I couldn't imagine losing you. So, I had to keep an eye on you whenever I could, both as Peter Parker and as Spiderman. I'm sorry."

You just grin at the embarrassing confession, taking your time to look at him with fondness until she asks, "So why can't I be with you?" You pause, holding onto his shoulders so you wouldn't lose your balance again, "I think I'm much safer with you around than without you!"

As much sense as that makes, Peter can't make that conscious decision knowing, when it mattered the most, he couldn't save Gwen. So your wrong, it's not that simple.

It seems like it never is. 

Sensing his doubt, you presse your hand over his mouth so he can't argue. "Peter, listen to me now. I know you're scared. But I'm not. I know the risks and I know you must have lost someone you loved. I can see it in the way you look at me and I truly hope someday you'll tell me what happened to them, because I will listen and understand, but I'm making this decision now. I want you to let me love you because you deserve love."

You continue, voice softening, "I love you so much it hurts so please, please let me love you. Don't push me away anymore. I'm a big girl and I can handle whatever comes with you being Spiderman. I promise."

Peter didn't know how exhausted he was, trying to pretend like he could live alone, until your last sentence resonates in his ears, "Just because you're Spiderman doesn't mean you can't have love. You need it more than anyone." 

Suddenly, he doesn't want to argue with his heart or you anymore. He knows it's stupid and that it scares him, and that it'll undeniably make things messier but looking at you now, skin bathed in sunlight, he knows it's worth whatever pain he could experience. Because if his days can be sunny with you in them, he won't let the possibility of the rainy ones take this love from him. 

"Okay," he blurts out, shaking his head a little, "Okay. I want you to love me. I'm ready. I'm fudging terrified, but I'm ready." 

Your eyes lit up at his confession and you instantly pull him closer as you throw your arms around him. Peter steadies you and holds your waist in his arm. You giggle and presses your nose to his, "I love you so much." 

Peter beams as he caresses your hair, that uneasiness in his chest disappearing. 

You barely managed to smile before his teeth grazed your jaw, his scruff dragging just enough to make you shiver. His body blanketed yours, warm and solid, pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.

“You saw me this morning,” you murmured, fingers curling into his hair.

“Not like this.”

The shirt came off.

Then his.

You didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Because being under Bucky Barnes like this—held like something he didn’t want to let go of—was the only time you felt whole. His touch, his mouth, his breath in your ear as he whispered how good you felt, how fucking perfect you were when you were under him like this.

It was all consuming.

He kissed his way down your chest, every inch of skin worshiped like he didn’t just want you—he needed you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down, slow, like he loved the way you sounded when you gasped just from anticipation.

You watched him from above, chest heaving, skin flushed—and in that moment, something tight twisted in your stomach that had nothing to do with arousal.

It was the ache.

The quiet question in the back of your head that always came right before you let him *n.

What are we?

You didn’t ask.

You just let your legs fall open, let his body settle between them, and swallowed the question whole.

He looked down at you once more, eyes so soft they burned.

“You want me?” he asked, voice hushed, reverent.

You nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered, leaning down, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He groaned, low and wrecked, and then he was inside you.

One thrust.

Slow. Deep.

Your back arched, your mouth parting in a gasp as he bottomed out, hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself in you.

He didn’t move at first.

Just breathed.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You always feel like home.”

You blinked.

Your heart stopped.

But then he started moving—hips rolling slow, dragging pleasure from your core in waves. Every stroke was measured, precise, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him. Like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding you, claiming you without a single word about what it meant.

You let your nails scrape down his back, your thighs tightening around his waist, chasing every thrust like it could answer the questions you didn’t dare ask.

He kissed you again.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Just soft.

Like a man who thought you already belonged to him.

His pace stayed slow at first—torturously so. Each thrust sank deep, dragging friction that had your nails pressing harder into his skin, a soft whimper caught at the back of your throat.

He was watching you now.

Eyes dark, focused, mouth parted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when he was buried inside you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, and the way he said it—it was too soft. Too real. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

You arched up to meet him, hips rising into each roll of his body, chasing that dizzying edge as the room dissolved around you. The only thing real was the heat building between your bodies, the slick slide of his skin against yours, the way he groaned every time your walls clenched around him.

You could feel your release winding tight, breath ragged, body shaking.

And then—

His hand cupped your cheek.

His lips found yours again, tender and aching as he whispered into your mouth, “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

It hit you like a wave.

You shattered underneath him, crying out as your body clamped down, orgasm tearing through you with a sharp, wet sound of skin against skin and your name on his tongue like it was sacred.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts faltering, rougher now, deeper, desperate.

“I can’t—baby, I’m gonna—fuck—” he groaned.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulled him tighter, wanted him closer.

“Inside,” you whispered, dazed.

His eyes locked on yours—wide, vulnerable, wrecked.

Then he was coming—hot and hard and raw, his whole body shaking as he buried his face in your neck and let himself fall apart in you.

His voice cracked.

“I love you,” he gasped, barely more than breath.

And you heard it.

Your body was still trembling. Your mind was still fogged.

But your heart?

It snapped to attention.

Because he said it like it was obvious.

Like he’d said it before. Like you knew.

His breathing had slowed.

His body lay heavy over yours, arms curled protectively around your waist, lips pressed to your collarbone in a lazy, half-conscious kiss. You could feel the weight of his affection in every touch—adoring, familiar, like this was just another Thursday night in the life of Bucky Barnes, the man who clearly thought you were his.

Because he said it.

He said I love you.

And not like it slipped.

Not like it was some heat-of-the-moment moan tangled in a climax.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he’d said it before.

Like he thought you already knew.

Your hand twitched on his back.

Your heartbeat, which had only just settled, started racing again—but not with pleasure. With full-blown panic.

Because—

What the actual fuck?

You stared up at the ceiling, body still bare, skin still warm from him, and yet—

Your brain screamed: WHAT ARE WE?

He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, mumbling something incoherent as he pressed a kiss to your chest.

Meanwhile, your soul was clawing its way out of your skin.

Because if he thought this was that—you being his, this being real—then you’d missed a crucial piece of the plot somewhere back in act one.

He never asked.

There was never a “will you be my girlfriend?” conversation. No official status talk. No expectations. Just great sex, unholy chemistry, soft sleepovers, texts that made your stomach flip, and a drawer at his place you never questioned.

You suddenly wanted to sit up and scream.

But instead, you lay there frozen, blinking at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you.

His hand rubbed slow circles on your hip.

You resisted the urge to launch yourself across the room.

What the fuck is going on.

Are we dating?

Is this real?

He sighed against your skin, content and sleepy.

You swallowed hard.

One Week Later

Your phone buzzed beside you on the kitchen counter.

It lit up with his name, the one you still hadn’t changed in your contacts—just “James 🇺🇸” with a dumb little flag emoji he’d added himself the first week you started… whatever this was.

James 🇺🇸:

On my way back—what do you want for takeout?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.

The question was simple. Casual. Routine.

And that’s what made your stomach twist.

Because it was routine.

The texts. The keys to your place. The way he dropped his jacket over your chair like he lived here. The way he smiled when he saw you, like everything else melted away.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

Finally, you sent:

You:

thai? the dumpling place. y'know the one.

Your phone buzzed two seconds later.

James 🇺🇸:

Already reading my mind, huh?

I’ll be there in 30.

Got you extra peanut sauce because I know you hoard it like a gremlin.

You huffed a small laugh, despite the weight still coiled in your chest.

Then you stared at that thread a little too long.

The little hearts you’d sent last week.

The blurry selfie he sent you from his office at midnight, captioned "Thinking about you and losing a vote at the same time 🫡”

The I love you that still echoed in your ears like a gunshot.

You set the phone down.

Walked into the bathroom.

And stared at yourself in the mirror.

You’d never called him your boyfriend.

He’d never asked.

But he acted like he was yours.

And the scary part?

You wanted him to be.

You just didn’t know if he knew that mattered.

The door creaked open with a familiar scrape—he still hadn’t fixed the hinge.

You turned from the couch, face carefully neutral.

He stepped inside in that unbuttoned suit jacket, tie half-loosened, hair tousled from a long day of pretending not to want to strangle half of Congress.

And he was smiling.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, like it was the most normal thing in the world, setting the takeout bags down on your kitchen counter without even looking.

Baby.

You froze.

Okay, he calls you that all the time.

Maybe he calls everyone that.

Does he call Sam that?

“Place was packed,” he continued, toeing off his shoes. “Some guy tried to skip the line and the little lady behind the counter threatened to beat him with a ladle. Reminded me of you.”

You stared.

He wandered to the fridge, pulled out your favorite seltzer—your specific lemon one—and cracked it open before sliding it your way.

You caught it on instinct, fingers brushing the condensation.

He hadn’t even asked.

Just knew.

Then, casually, he took off his jacket, draped it over the chair, and loosened his tie more, tossing it with a sigh. His white dress shirt stretched a little at the biceps. He was still talking—something about a subcommittee vote gone to hell—but you were barely hearing it.

Because now?

You were tracking everything.

The way he set down two sets of chopsticks like it was automatic. The way he separated the sauces—your peanut ones on your side, his spicier one near him. The way he snagged the remote and flopped down beside you like he lived here.

Like this was his couch.

Was it his couch?

Was he paying your utilities?

“I don’t know why I let them keep putting me in these budget meetings,” he muttered, cracking open a box of dumplings. “Every time I try to talk, someone from Indiana gives me a migraine.”

You nodded slowly.

Then: “Do you… have a toothbrush here?”

He blinked at you mid-chew.

“Yeah?” He swallowed. “Under the sink. Next to yours. Why?”

Your eye twitched.

“Do you… always leave a change of clothes here?”

He nodded again, popping another dumpling in his mouth. “Babe, half my henleys are in your closet. You know that.”

You did.

You just didn’t process it.

You turned toward him fully, food forgotten.

His arm was already around your shoulders, pulling you in.

You didn’t resist. You leaned in.

And then you stared blankly at the TV as he rested his chin on your head, warm and soft and so stupidly comfortable.

He sighed.

“I missed you today,” he murmured. “It was shit at the office.”

Your heart did a weird thing in your chest—flipped, twisted, frowned.

You blinked slowly.

“…Do you keep anything at anyone else’s place?” you asked, very casually. Too casually.

He snorted. “What?”

“Just wondering.”

He reached for a spring roll. “No? Why would I?”

“Just wondering,” you repeated, mechanically.

He made a soft mhmm noise and handed you a dumpling without looking, already distracted by the TV again, thumb grazing lazy circles against your arm like his body just knew where you were supposed to be.

Meanwhile, your brain was screaming.

Are we dating?

ARE WE DATING?!

And he just sat there, all warm and sleepy and Thai-food-happy beside you, like the man absolutely not at the center of an existential relationship spiral.

You chewed your dumpling, eyes narrow.

You were going to lose your mind.

A Few Days Later

The sky over Washington was a thick stretch of slate.

Fine rain fell in that soft, insistent way that made everything damp without ever fully raining. The streets were quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, and your lungs ached just enough to make you feel alive as your sneakers slapped against the wet pavement.

Beside you, Rachel kept pace effortlessly.

Of course she did.

She looked like she’d been born doing yoga on a yacht.

“I still don’t get how you convinced me to jog in this weather,” she said, breath easy, ponytail bouncing behind her. “You’re getting fit for a reason or just embracing the sad girl cardio?”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “Trying to keep up with a guy who’s genetically engineered and built like a statue.”

She smirked. “Oh, right. The Bucky Barnes. Still a thing?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your feet hit a puddle, splashing your ankles.

Rachel didn’t wait.

“I mean… it’s cute. Really. Him bringing you coffee, showing up to all your little gallery events, texting you like a golden retriever with a crush.”

You squinted through the mist. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

She gave a mock innocent look. “No ‘but.’ I just think if he hasn’t made it official by now, he’s probably just riding the comfort wave. You know?”

Your stomach dropped—quiet, slow—like something sliding off a ledge in the dark.

“He’s… not like that,” you muttered.

Rachel made a noncommittal sound, the kind that sounded like “maybe” but meant “absolutely.”

“Sure,” she said lightly. “But a guy like that? Everyone wants him. Powerful, polished, and hot—but still gives off that ‘I could destroy you emotionally if I wanted’ vibe. It’s catnip.”

You bit your tongue.

She went on, like she didn’t just lob a grenade at your chest.

“I’m just saying. If I were dating him, I’d make damn sure everyone knew it. Otherwise…” She shrugged, smiling sweetly. “Kind of feels like letting a limited edition slip through your fingers.”

You slowed slightly, blinking rain from your lashes.

Rachel picked up her pace, unaware—or pretending to be.

Or maybe that was the point.

The worst part?

You didn’t even know what to say.

Because in your head, you were screaming: I don’t know if I’m dating him either.

You didn’t answer her.

You just picked up speed.

One second, you were jogging beside her—lungs aching, mind heavy—and the next, your legs were moving, not with purpose but with sheer emotional combustion.

“Wait—what the hell?” Rachel’s voice snapped from behind you, sharp with confusion. “Where are you going?”

You shouted over your shoulder, breath shallow, “Forgot—I left the oven on!”

It was a terrible excuse.

You hadn’t even used the oven that morning.

And Rachel, in all her smug, sculpted glory, definitely knew it.

But you didn’t care.

You turned down a side street without looking back, rain misting against your skin, hair sticking to your neck as you ran harder, faster, legs burning. You were vaguely aware of your own ridiculousness. You were sprinting through Capitol Hill in soaked leggings and adrenaline—not because of a fire, but because your chest was burning.

Because the words still a thing were still ringing in your ears.

Because her little smile made you want to scream.

And because deep down, you didn’t know how to answer her.

You didn’t know.

Your lungs ached, your sneakers skidded slightly on wet pavement as you turned a corner, and still—you kept going.

Toward the tall glass building you knew by heart now. The security desk that always smiled when you came in. The floor where the man who may or may not be your boyfriend spent hours arguing policy and quietly doodling in his tiny notebook between meetings.

You didn’t know what you were going to say when you got there.

You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

But you knew this:

You couldn’t keep playing house in your head while the floor beneath it kept shifting.

You needed an answer.

Even if it hurt.

Even if Rachel ended up being right.

You just prayed she got splashed by a Metro bus on the way home.

The doors of the administrative wing slammed open with a bang.

You stumbled in, soaked from drizzle, cheeks flushed, ribs on fire, and about three seconds from a full cardiac event. Your leggings were clinging to your thighs, your hoodie had definitely seen better days, and your lungs were currently staging a mutiny.

Several staffers at their desks froze mid-keystroke.

Someone dropped a pen.

Bucky looked up from where he was speaking with a few of his aides, a file in one hand, coffee in the other—and blinked at you like you’d just teleported in from an alternate timeline.

“Hey—what—?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Silence.

Every single head in the room turned.

Bucky’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.

You pointed at him, panting. “Because—I think it’s time. I want to be your girlfriend. Officially. Like—not just sleepovers and emotional eye contact over takeout—I mean actual, real-life, ‘we’re together’ kind of thing.”

You sucked in another breath and barreled on before you lost your nerve.

“I know you’re busy, and, like, technically running half of Congress with your jawline, but I just—I need clarity, okay? Because I was jogging with Rachel, who’s a menace to society, and she said some stuff and I started spiraling and I just—I ran here. I ran. Here. For this.”

There was a beat of complete silence.

Bucky’s eyes were wide.

His aides?

They were riveted.

One woman actually had her hand over her mouth like this was her favorite telenovela.

You blinked at the room.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You slowly lowered your arm.

“Okay,” you said, breathless. “So clearly, that was… too much.”

You looked around at the awkward stares, then back at Bucky, your voice flattening with pure, defeated embarrassment.

“So maybe I was delusional. Maybe this isn’t what I thought. And that’s fine.”

You nodded to yourself, a slow descent into insanity.

“If I’m just some situationship moron who caught feelings and made a public scene at a congressional office,” you continued dryly, “I’m going to kill myself and take everyone in this room with me.”

You made eye contact with one aide near the door.

He flinched.

Then you sighed heavily and scanned the room, noting every wide-eyed aide pretending desperately to become one with their laptops.

Then you snapped.

“Show’s over, folks. Go home. Or back to your unpaid Excel spreadsheets or whatever.”

No one moved.

One intern coughed.

You groaned, dragging both hands over your face in slow, mortified defeat, mumbling through your fingers, “This is literally my villain origin story.”

You barely heard his footsteps as Bucky approached, but you felt him—warmth, presence, tall and steady as he stopped just a few feet in front of you.

“Hey,” he said gently, “can you look at me?”

You shook your head without moving your hands. “I’ll die.”

“No you won’t.”

“I might.”

He chuckled quietly, and something about it made your heart twist. Like this wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe it wasn’t even close.

You slowly peeked between your fingers.

He smiled softly, eyes full of that same calm patience he used when trying to explain to you how Medicare reform worked.

He stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s 2 o’clock,” he said, glancing around the room. “They all get off at five.”

You stared up at him.

“Oh,” you said blankly. “Cool.”

A pause.

Then, softly—almost hesitantly—he added, “I thought we were already dating.”

Your arms dropped from your face as your expression completely short-circuited.

“…What.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Yeah. For, like… a while now?”

You just stared at him.

Unmoving.

Mouth parted.

One eyebrow quirked in silent disbelief.

“…What.”

He blinked again.

Now he looked confused.

“You… didn’t think we were?”

“…No?”

He gave you the most innocent, baffled look known to man.

“I brought you to Sam's birthday party. You met his nephews. You wear my boxers. What part of this didn’t scream boyfriend to you?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

“I—You never asked me!” you accused, voice pitching.

“I didn’t think I had to!” he exclaimed.

You stared at him, absolutely scandalized. “How was I supposed to know then?”

Bucky blinked. “I—what do you mean? Everything I do is—”

“You’re from the 40s, James!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “You guys used to, like, wear suits and give flowers and do grand declarations and ask girls to go steady in a diner over milkshakes! I was waiting for that!”

His jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“I watched Grease with you last week!” you cried. “You don’t get to act brand new!”

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “Okay, no more old movies for you.”

You crossed your arms, still damp and out of breath, glaring at him like he’d personally invented confusion.

Then he stepped back.

Took a slow, deep breath.

Straightened his posture.

And said, “Okay. Fine.”

He cleared his throat, eyes locked with yours, serious as a heart attack. Then he said your name—your full name.

“Will you do me the incredible honor of officially being my girlfriend?”

The room went so quiet you could hear someone’s chair creak.

You stared at him.

Then slowly, a dumb smile spread across your face.

“Wow,” you said, blinking. “This is… so sudden.”

Bucky paused, squinting

You pressed a hand to your chest. “I mean… we’ve only been sleeping together, sharing hoodies, texting nonstop, and eating Thai food three times a week for a few months. You barely know me.”

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t.”

“I mean, I barely know me, James. Are you sure about this? How could I possibly say—?”

He said your name—a low, gravelly warning that made your smile bloom full force.

You grinned.

“Yes,” you said. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

And before he could react—before he could breathe—you launched yourself into his arms, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his with every ounce of pent-up emotion and leftover adrenaline.

His arms instinctively caught you—one around your waist, the other beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around him like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He kissed you back, hard and fast, like he’d been waiting for this moment—like maybe he needed it as badly as you did.

Somewhere behind you, someone definitely muttered, “What the fuck.”

Another staffer fumbled their phone like they were torn between reporting this to H.R. and posting this on the internet.

Bucky didn’t care.

He just kissed you deeper, right there in the middle of his office, as if the whole damn building hadn’t just watched him get emotionally hijacked by the woman he thought was already his.

Eventually, you pulled back, breath a little ragged, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, arms still looped lazily around his neck.

Bucky was wrecked—eyes dazed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling under you like he’d just run a marathon and won.

You leaned in once more, planted a sweet, casual kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “See you at home.”

You slid off his lap and smoothed your hoodie like you hadn’t just climbed him like a tree in front of half his professional staff.

Bucky blinked. “Wait—what? I was just about to go on break—”

You turned at the door, already tugging your hood up. “Yeah, no, I gotta find Rachel.”

He frowned, still catching up. “Why?”

“To tell her to her face that you’re mine now,” you said flatly. “And so hopefully, she dies of jealousy in front of my eyes.”

You opened the door and strode out like a woman on a mission.

Bucky watched you go, completely speechless, still half-hard in his slacks, shirt wrinkled from where you’d yanked on him like you were trying to break his will to serve.

His aides were frozen, stunned, borderline traumatized.

And then, slowly, that grin started to grow on his face.

A little crooked. A little stunned.

But proud.

Because that?

That was officially his girl.

And God help anyone who tried to say otherwise.

Night- 1:47 AM

You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.

No sound. Good.

You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.

He’d be asleep. He had to be.

You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.

You made it three steps down the hallway.

Then— “Don’t move.”

Shit.

His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.

You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

A light flipped on.

Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.

His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who did this to you?”

You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”

“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”

“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”

He was in front of you in three long strides.

His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”

“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”

“I’m not made of glass—”

“You’re made of everything I live for.”

Your breath caught.

He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”

“I should’ve.”

“Bucky—”

“Tell me his name.”

You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And if I don’t?” you added.

“I’ll find him anyway.”

You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”

He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.

“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”

“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”

You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”

Twenty Minutes Later...

You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.

He hadn’t stopped touching you.

Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.

“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”

“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.

He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”

“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”

He paused. “Wait. You won?”

“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”

He stared.

Then—slowly—he grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.

Still, he wasn’t done.

As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”

Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”

“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”

God.

You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Too late. You did. You always do.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned and kissed your forehead.

Next Day – 2:00 PM

You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:

Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.

—B <3

You rolled your eyes.

And sighed.

And smiled.

He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.

You didn’t even have to ask.

“You found him, didn’t you?”

He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”

“Bucky…”

“And probably won’t be talking much either.”

You stared at him.

“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”

“Jesus—”

“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”

You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.

“You are so dramatic.”

“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”

“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”

He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.

“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”

The Next Morning – 9:07 AM

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.

Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.

“You awake?” you mumbled.

“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”

“You’re creepy.”

“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”

You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.

“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”

“…Is that an option?”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest.

“You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.

You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”

“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”

You swallowed hard. “I get it.”

“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”

“Only a little?”

“I toned it down for your sake.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.