bucky's babygirl

Nerd Clark who thinks you're friends.

Nerd Clark who has no idea how bad your intentions are. That you hardly want friendship from him. What you want is for him to ruin you.

Nerd Clark who watches you stare at him, thinking its a loving look on your face except your eyes are raking over his body thinking about how soft those curls would feel under your palms, how those glasses would fog up when you have him panting under you, how those massive ridges of muscles would ripple when he's thrusting into you and how those veins would feel if you traced it with your tongue.

Nerd Clark who snaps you out of your wild imagination with a snap of his fingers and you're left breathless and wet in the office in the middle of the day.

Nerd Clark who believes your excuse of not feeling well when you look all red and leave for home early.

Nerd Clark who would never know that you spent that night riding your vibrator pretending it to be him, moaning his name out loud until your walls have it memorised. (I meant bedroom walls, what're you even thinking, you dirty minded duckling)

Nerd Clark who's all shy when you kiss him for the first time. All nervous smiles and fumbling hands as his lips move over yours in a slow rhythm.

Nerd Clark whose glasses nugde against your nose when he leans in for a second kiss, much to his annoyance but only until you end up giggling against his mouth.

Nerd Clark who does not understand why you're so keen on him leaving his glasses on during the kiss even when it's in the way.

Nerd Clark who you think would be shy and soft and sweet in bed and turns out he's anything but.

Nerd Clark who has you pinned against the door the moment you close it after getting home.

Nerd Clark whose hungry eyes, dilated pupils, and shameless strokes of his fingers under your shirt surprise you in the best way becuase where did that shy nerd go who was nervous to kiss you?

Nerd Clark who has known everything since the beginning and still let you work for him, and yearn for him, all this time.

Nerd Clark whose voice is possesive and dark and rough when he leans in close to your ear and whispers “You've been testing my patience, baby” before his mouth is on you.

Nerd Clark who revels in watching you all shocked and dumbfounded at knowing how his shy personality just switches off around you.

Nerd Clark who has the filthiest mouth on him and loves to rile you up “Why do you look so dumb baby? Were’nt you the one who invited me here?”

Nerd Clark who chuckles against your lips when you have no words left and you decide kissing him would be the appropriate response.

Nerd Clark who picks you up like you weigh no more than a pillow before he trudges toward your bedroom.

Nerd Clark who takes his sweet time with you. Kissing his way down your body, worshipping every inch of skin revealed.

Nerd Clark who you know is gone when his eyes zeroe in on your tits, his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips before his mouth is on you. Warm and wet and so fucking desperate as he laps at your skin, nipping your nipple with his teeth ever so slightly to draw out those quiet gasps and whines you make for him.

Nerd Clark who spends way too much time fondling your tits, only stopping when they're tender and red from the assault his mouth put them through. He finally moves on with a whine when he sees you whimper at the overstimulation, but not before pressing a chaste kiss to both of your breasts like they're something living and could feel his affection.

Nerd Clark whose mouth is a weapon of mass destruction and you somehow have the misfortune (or should I say, fortune?) of being his target.

Nerd Clark who laps at your pussy like a man starved. Holding your thighs apart with those chiseled arms of his while he attacks your clit with little kitten licks. Giving only enough for you to writhe beneath him.

Nerd Clark who works you patiently, drawing your pleasure out until you snap on his tongue with his name loud in your mouth and your body convulsing around him.

Nerd Clark who let's you harshly tug at his hair as the force of your climax consumes you whole. He doesn't so much as whine in complaint when your thighs all but suffocate him with how tight they're wrapped around his neck, shoving his face deeper into you.

Nerd Clark who has almost all of his face shiny with your release when he crawls back up to you. The sight stealing all air out of your lungs becuase holy shit is this a sight to see. You're pretty sure you'd pay good amount of money for just another moment to watch him like this again.

Nerd Clark who has you losing your mind on his fingers next “This what you were thinking about that day, sweetheart?” He says as he curls his fingers slightly, hitting the spot that makes you cry out and confessing your ugly fantasies to him.

Nerd Clark who revels in the fact that he's got you so worked up you don't even know what you're confessing.

Nerd Clark who makes the mistake of trying to take off his fogged glasses to avoid losing the sight of you. Much to your displeasure as you shove them back on.

“Baby, I can't see you with these on” he punctuates between kisses, of course he wants the glasses off. Who would be dumb enough to not want to see you, all naked and flushed and moaning for him?

Nerd Clark who realises you have a very specific kink when he sees your reluctance to let the glasses leave his face.

Nerd Clark who slides them upward instead, letting the black frame rest in his hair like a little tiara and god if it doesn't drive you crazy.

Nerd Clark who can see the shift in your energy at that in the way your eyes go dark, and can't wait another moment before he's inside you.

Nerd Clark who is big enough to hurt even after he's stretched you out. And damn it if he isn't proud about it. “Am I too big for you, baby?” He teases, inching inside slowly, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. “You're just a tiny little thing, aren't you?”

Nerd Clark who becomes utterly insufferable when he watches his cock slide all the way into you “Look at you, sweetie. All stretched out on my cock”

Nerd Clark who makes you think you've descended to heaven when he starts to move becuase surely a feeling like this doesn't exist in this universe.

Your hips rock up themselves, meeting his every thrust as endless curses spill from his lips, emphasising how good you feel around him, how perfect.

You let the praise wash over you and drive you closer to the climax.

Nerd Clark who is dominant and unrestrained but never rough enough to hurt. Always looking for signs of discomfort and monitoring your micro expressions to see if you're hurting.

Nerd Clark who doubles down when he hears your sounds pitching higher. His hands make their way to your knees pushing them toward you, making the angle steeper and hitting that deep spot inside you.

Nerd Clark who praises you through it when he sees how you react to it

“Such a good girl for me, sweetheart.”

“Taking my cock so well”

“You're gonna come for me? You gonna be a good girl?”

It makes your skin prickle, fingers tremble and toes curl into the mattress as you bite down on his shoulder to muffle the cry that tears out of you as your orgasm swallows you completely.

Nerd Clark whose thrusts grow erratic when he feels your warm walls convulsing and fluttering around him. The feeling addictive and ruining him at the same time.

His hand find your breasts again “Fuck me, these tits” he grunts, mouth enveloping a nipple as one of his hands grips and massages the other breast as if it is an achor he needs to hold onto to keep himself tethered to you.

Nerd Clark who is loud when he comes. Loud enough that you'll probably have your neighbours complaining tomorrow but your name in his mouth sounds so fucking delicious that you can't bring yourself to care about anything but the fact that you want to hear it again and again and again.

Nerd Clark who cleans you up after. And boy is it a sight to behold. His skin is flushed and glowing with the soft sheen of sweat. His curls all messed up, and you feel a flutter down south knowing its your hands that did that.

There's a shy smile on his face as he's back to the gentle, nerdy part of himself that you so dearly adore.

Nerd Clark who is a cuddler, he pulls you close immediately after he settles onto your bed, rubbing comforting circles on your back making you sleepy in his arms.

And you swear you hear him mumble something like “Sleep good, sweetheart” and soft lips pressing against your forehead before you finally let your eyes close, falling asleep in the arms of the man who you might fall in love with. Especially given everything that happened today. There's no way you're gonna let this be a one time thing.

God! You're thoroughly fucked, aren't you?

Dividers by @diviniyae

Tagging my bucky girlie's just becuase @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @venigrantrogers, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @bstan01, @phoenix-in-writing, @singulartoast, @danerb67, @onyx8514, @globetrotter28, @buckysdecaflove, @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @v33mustdie, @star-yawnznn, @buckybsdoll

you've never really liked highways.

they were far too big and still so small at the same time. they were barren and isolating, almost metaphorical in a way you can't quite name; but even though you find they take more than they give, you find escape in route 66.

it stretches and stretches, a torn grey ribbon pulled tight against the ground, disappearing against the horizon. every mile looks exactly the same as the last. its the same yellow lines and the same broken guardrails, the same low hills and the same signs that promise towns that you never seem to ever reach.

it all feels like a big circle that you can't escape, and from the passenger seat of a stranger's car, it certainly feels endless.

the window is half-open, just enough for the wind to tangle in your hair and carry in the smell of gasoline and dry asphalt. the car hums beneath you, the steady rhythm you've been enduring for the past seven hours constant enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting where you are or WHY you're really doing this at all.

but you remember. you always remember.

the car you sit in is a rented SUV. it smells faintly of sunscreen, beef jerky, and the sour tang of someone who hasn't showered in a couple of days. the glovebox is full of old batteries, a few maps of america, and fast food wrappers. in the front, a cassette tape rattles quietly in the stereo, the sound of bruce springsteen's voice filling the cab, loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough that nobody has to yell.

there's one person in the drivers seat and two in the back, their voices overlapping like they've been traveling together long enough to finish each other's sentences. you dont know their names yet, and you don't think you'll ever learn them, but you can tell by the way they talk that they met on the road— friends made at rest stops, gas station restrooms, motels with peeling wallpaper, and— like you— on the side of the road.

they'd seen you on the side of the road in missouri with your thumb stuck out and a bag that fit your entire life slung over your shoulder. they'd picked you up with no hesitation with the simple explanation of 'that was us once', and you fit in the passenger seat like it was made for you.

"dude, seriously, stop singin'." the woman in the back groans, her plea directed to the man driving the car. "you're gonna blow our ears out if you keep tryin' to duet springsteen."

the driver scoffs, "come on. you know you love it. admit it."

"you sound like a dying dog. nothing to love about that." the man in the back seat chimes in, his arms crossed against his chest. "put my mixtape in and we'll see what real music is."

the woman in the backseat narrows her eyes. "sorry, but nobody wants to listen to ten hours of duran duran's best hits either."

"oooh, burn!" the driver snorts from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his friend's defeated face. "i think that officially made you the least popular person in the car."

you watch them out of the corner of your eye, sometimes finding yourself glancing in the rear-view mirror just to see what they're doing. they're loud and messy and a little corny, but a part of it is comforting. you say nothing and find peace in their noise.

"hey." the man in the back says suddenly, attention diverted towards you now. "is this your first time riding like this? spending hours in the car with people you don't know driving across america?"

you blink a few times before glancing over your shoulder. the attention is a little sudden, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. your thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants, a small and unconscious anchor.

"i only started doing it when i first decided to leave chicago." you tell them, your voice only slightly louder than the hum of the music. "it was more impulsive than anything."

"huh..." the driver tilts his head as he sneaks a glance at you.  "you dont look like someone who just throws themselves out there without a plan."

you shrug, keeping your eyes on the dark streaking asphalt outside. "i didn't think i was that type of person either." you mutter.

the man in the backseat hums in acknowledgment, but then leans forwards again like one question wasn't enough. "why are you on the road? whats the story?"

you hear a slap of flesh against leather, and you can only assume that the woman had hit the man on the arm. "what is this, twenty one questions? let the lady breathe!"

"it's fine." you say quickly, almost hesitantly. "i just... needed to get away from home for a while. packed up what i could and i don't plan on going back there anytime soon."

the man in the back leans back with a thoughtful hum. "yeah, i get that. sometimes moving's better than being stuck."

the driver perks up in his seat, eyes wide like he's forgotten his keys at home. "i forgot to ask, but where were you headed?"

you hesitate. for a moment, you consider lying, and then you consider not saying anything at all. you dont know these people and your answer would do nothing but satiate their thirst for stories of the road; but something about the way the car hums beneath you and the way that the wind tunnels down your sleeve makes it easier than usual to let a small piece of yourself slip.

"i'm going west." you finally say. "california."

the woman smiles like you've given her the perfect answer. "that's the spirit. the road likes it when you don't stop movin'."

you manage a small humourless smile as you turn back to the window. california sits in your mind like a red pin on a map of america. its more of a fantasy than anything solid. you dont have an address or a plan that makes much sense when spoken out loud, and with nothing more than the clothes on your back, your duffel bag, and the certainty that if you keep moving west, something has to change eventually.

and almost like a light in the pitch black darkness, a neon glow flickers up ahead. slicing through the amber orange haze of the sunset, a sign that reads 'HOTEL CALIFORNIA' comes into view, and you find yourself following it even as the car passes, your head turning to watch it disappear into the darkness behind you. the letters shine like a signal, a promise, a miracle like an oasis in the desert, and you would be stupid to ignore it.

your hand braces against the car door as you push yourself up in your seat, your other hand tightening around the strap of your duffel almost instinctively. you turn back to the front of the car, brows knitting together as you lean down and zip open your duffel.

"do you think you could drop me off at that hotel california? the sign said it should be about five miles down the road." you ask.

you reach down and riffle through the unorganised mess in your bag and pull out your wallet. its scuffed from years of use and it pops open the moment you press in the buckle. the cards inside rustle around as you count what cash you have, thumb running over the notes just to make sure it's all there.

the driver glances down at you, his eyes scanning over your alarming amount of money you have. "sick of the car life already, drifter?"

you nod as you shove your wallet back into your duffel, a small smile on your face. "i think i need to stand on solid ground for longer than an hour. my body's forgotten what it feels like to be stationary."

the woman smirks. "that's fair. even the best road warriors need a pit stop sometimes. can't be movin' forever. we can spare five miles for our new friend, can't we?"

the driver nods like it's the easiest question he's ever had to answer. "yes ma'am. hotel california, here we come."

and just like that, the road stops stretching endlessly forwards and instead starts narrowing in on a single glowing sign that promised the hope of a new beginning and a moment to rest your feet on solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of running. at least for tonight, the road can wait.

you clutch your duffel bag straps, letting your eyes linger on the motel as it grows larger by the second. the neon light that stands in the front shines against the darkened sky, spitting orange and teal light across the windshield. and after a few minutes, the indicator starts blinking and the SUV swerves to the left, the vehicle shifting as it pulls into the carpark of the motel.

gravel crunches under the tires, and the hum of the engine drops into a softer sigh, like the car itself is exhaling. a few lonely streetlights cover the area in a soft glow and the motel looms just in front of the car— low, wide, and tired-looking, its paint peeling off of the walls and the roof shingles threatening to fall off of the roof.

you hesitate for a moment before opening the door, like you're waiting for permission you don't need. the night air slips in as soon as it clicks open and you hope out, duffel bag following close behind you and your feet finally touching solid ground. it feels strange after hours of motion, but you find comfort in the smell of dust and warm pavement, like the road has finally let you go.

you turn back, glancing at the people in the car— at their messy hair, at their lopsided smiles, at their clothes that haven't been washed in god knows how long— and you can't help but feel grateful. they didn't have to stop for you or give you a seat in their journey across america, but they did it anyways, and that feels bigger than anything you could possibly say.

your hand grips the side of the door like you're unsure of what to say. finally, you settle on "i really appreciate you guys stopping for me. i'm sorry for just... ditching you for a motel—"

"hey, it's all good. don't let us keep you." the man in the backseat tells you with a sincere smile. "if you need a real bed, then i say go for it. after all, seven hours in a car seat isn't the best for your back or for your mind."

the woman smiles, "just take care of yourself, alright?"

"yeah, and if it's anything like the song, just try not to get stuck in the there forever, alright?" the driver jokes, and you meet him with a weak laugh.

you nod, a smile on your face as you manage a small "thanks for everything" before finally closing the door, and the click of it sounds louder than it should. they drive off with a waving hand out of the window, and now you're all alone in the outskirts of glen rio, texas with nothing but the weight of your life on your shoulders.

the night air is warm and dry, carrying the smell of dirt and the sound of vehicles passing by on route 66. the front office glows dimly through the glass windows, the single LED light flickering like it's considering giving up too. a vending machine on the other end of the motel and the ventilations on the rooftop fight for title of loudest noise in the quiet. a rusted water tower stands neglected on the far side of the property, there are no other cars in the parking lot apart from a beat-up pickup truck parked along two spaces, it's paint sun-bleached and chipped, and you can only assume it belongs to the person at the front desk.

somewhere in the distant, there's a bang. a dog barks and the noise echoes in the desert. the world feels thin out here— stretched wide and empty— and you feel so very small inside of it.

you hesitate for a second, eyes lingering on the motel, before you shift your duffel higher up on your shoulder and head towards the office. the concrete is warm beneath your shoes, still holding the heat from the day, and the closer you get, the louder the hum of the lights becomes— a thin, tired buzz that seeps into your bones.

the door squeals as you tug it open, the rubbing lining along the frame sticking before giving way. cool recycled air washes over you as you step into the office, and the sound of the door shutting cuts through the silence of the room.

the office is small. cramped. a long counter runs along one wall, scratched and worn down by years of borrowed keys and elbows. behind it, a lanky middle aged man wearing glasses sits slouched in a swivel chair, his face half-lit by the glow of his ancient monitor. there's a small radio that sits beside him that plays music from the local radio station, a voice and a guitar that blur into the hum of the lights, and you find it incredibly hard to ignore the smell of lemon air freshener and moist carpet.

the man takes a long moment to really register you and your presence— the bag slung over your shoulder, the dust on your shoes and your clothes, the way you're standing just inside of the doorway like you're not sure whether or not you're meant to be there— and he smiles, dental issues on display for you to see.

"evening." he says eventually, head tilting upwards just slightly like he's trying to take you in, "what can i do for ya?"

"hi—" you step towards the desk, your weight shifting as you lean against the counter. you look at the name on his faded name tag, "trevor. i was wondering if you had any rooms available?"

trevor doesn't answer right away. he just looks at you like you're a pretty thing in the wrong place, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. his eyes trace over you slowly— your face, your bag, the way your fingers wrap around the straps like you might run— and then he leans back in his chair, hands reaching up to rest on the back of his head.

"yeah." he finally says. "got a few."

you dont like the way he says it.

"okay." you blink. "how much would it be for a week?"

"depends what kinda room you want." trevor makes an odd noise with his mouth as he leans forwards, something like sucking in his teeth and popping his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "you by yourself?"

you hesitate, trying to push down the odd feeling that starts to well in the pit of your stomach, but you nod. "yeah. just me."

his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something you'd barely call a smile.

"just you, huh." trevor repeats like he's letting the fact settle. then he sighs and twists in his chair, "alright, give me a sec to pull up the prices."

he turns back to the monitor, fingers moving over the equally as ancient keyboard, and you try to ignore the porn pop-up that he quickly clicks out of and the solitaire match that he's losing. each key he presses fills the silence, loud in the silent office.

click. click. click. then—

blinding headlights sweep through the office, the small room flooding with harsh white light. for a moment, it's so bright that you can't even see a foot in front of you, and you instinctively shield your eyes. when your vision adjusts, you can make out the outline of a massive semi-truck rolling to a stop in the lot, tires crunching into the gravel and engine growling loud enough for you to wonder whether it's meant to be that loud.

it idles near the far end of the motel, headlights still blazing, long shadows cast against the walls. the cab door opens, and you can barely make out the figure of a tall, broad shouldered silhouette stepping out. he pauses for a moment, one hand resting against the cab before he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot.

there's a small, metallic clank, then another, the sound almost hesitant, like he's trying to figure something out or fix something.

but a grating voice brings you out of your head.

"y'know, we don't usually get much foot traffic out here." trevor's lips smack, eyes flicking over to yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "couple'a hippies and cross country truckers, but nothin' like you."

"who wouldn't want to spend a night in a place like this?" you murmur with a hit of playful sarcasm lacing your voice.

"you don't gotta sugarcoat it, darlin. this place is— and always will be— a shithole." trevor sighs as he rests an elbow on the desk, a cheeky smile growing on his face. "the only thing that makes up for it is the company. if you get lonely and need someone to talk to, i—"

"yeah, i don't think i'll be talking to anyone much tonight." you quickly and bluntly cut him off. you dont really have time to deal with creeps right now.

he chuckles, the noise low and almost wet, like he's amused and disappointed all at once. "we'll see about that, sugar."

trevor goes back to clicking away at his keyboard. you're picking at your nails when you feel the heat on the side of your face cool, and you turn your head to find that the semi truck's headlights are off now. your attention drifts back to the clanking of metal and the tall silhouette that moves around in the dark.

you wonder if you'll see the face that's swallowed by shadow. you wonder if he'll come into the office and save you from the creepy receptionist. you wonder if he'll be equally as creepy and if you'll need to sleep with a weapon in hand.

the squeak of trevor's chair brings you back to reality.

"right. single room's cheapest. one bed, small. got a pull-out sofa if you decide you don't wanna spend the week all alone." trevor drags the word, tongue running along his teeth. "but if you want a bigger bed for your beauty sleep and a bathroom for all of your girly things, then we do have a double."

your brow quirks. "the single room doesn't have a bathroom?"

"nope, so i'm assumin' you're gonna pick the double. it's two-fifty for the week." trevor says, "cash or card, sugar?"

"cash." you reply. "and don't call me sugar."

you ignore the huff trevor lets out. you zip open your bag, riffling through it before pulling out your wallet. you pop it open and pull out exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. you set the cash down on the counter and slide it towards trevor.

trevor's eyes widen just slightly as he does a faint double take. his hand slaps against the counter as he takes the money, counting it. "right on the dot. where'd a lil' thing like you get all this cash?"

"work." you simply reply. a stranger doesn't need to know anything about you or your money, and you're not about to give away more information than needed.

trevor hums. he pops open the register and places the cash into the tray with a small metallic clink. then he turns around in his chair, head cranes towards you like an idea had just popped into his head.

"y'know—" he pauses, brows raising just slightly as he leans closer to you. the closer he gets, the more he smells of tonsil stones and tooth decay, and you swear you can see a thought forming in those bloodshot eyes of his. "if you wanted the room a lil' cheaper, you could come around the desk and show me what that pretty little mouth can do—"

"i'll pay the two-fifty." you cut in, voice firm, eyes meeting his and trying to keep him from crossing the line any further. "and i'll take my key now."

the annoyed groan that leaves the man sends a chill down your spine. trevor reaches under the counter and pulls out a tarnished room key with a small plastic tag. he holds it out for you to grab, but just as you do, he snaps it back like a predator played with cornered prey.

"don't think you can just walk around here with that attitude, lil miss." he mutters, low and rough, head tilted down enough that his eyes bore into yours. "just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean things always go your way. you pay, but sometimes... you owe."

the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the pit in your stomach almost comes up as vomit. you narrow your eyes at the sick grin he has on his face, about to tell the asshole to go to hell, but the squeal of rubber lining and metal screeching stops you.

the office door swings open and slams shut, harsh and sudden, and it catches both your and trevor's attention. the two of you turn your heads towards the figure who had just walked in— a tall, broad shouldered man, no doubt the one you'd seen outside working on his truck in the shadows.

with a shaved head, a thick scruffy beard, and a torn denim jacket, the man moves through the room with quiet confidence. there's grit in his posture, his face tired and rugged, with soft lines on his forehead and a shadowed jawline thats strong but worn. he's the type of man you'd see in a movie and be intimidated by, but this man felt different.

the man doesn't smile, nor does he speak. he simply looks between the two of you like he's figuring out what he's just walked in on. before anyone can react, you lean forwards and snatch the room key from trevor's hand. he awkwardly rubs his hands on his oily shirt like he's suddenly uncomfortable.

the receptionist gives you a fake smile as he ushers you away, voice dropping with false charm. "room one, sugar. best room in the house."

you scoff as you walk off, your shoulder just barely clipping the man's arm as you stomp past. the contact is almost nothing— a brush of denim against your sleeve— but it sends a strange shiver up your spine anyways. you push the door open and the night air hits you instantly, a soothing feeling after being trapped in that stuffy office.

as you cross the lot towards the room, you glance back, and through the office window, you see him.

the man stands exactly where you had left him, broad frame filling out the office, half shadowed by the dim yellow lights, his head slightly tilted as he cranes his neck down to watch you. not in the way trevor had watched you. not hungry or leering, but with curiosity, like he's trying to decide something, and you can feel his eyes boring into your back until you reach your door.

the key sticks in the lock for a moment before you twist the doorknob. you shoulder the door open and step inside.

a single double bed sits pressed against the wall, its blankets thick and vaguely floral in pattern, the colours dulled from years of washing. a small nightstand holds an even smaller table lamp on top, a worn bible sitting on the lower shelf. the bathroom light flickers on the far end of the room, and you wonder how long it's been on for. the carpet feels flat and stiff beneath your shoes, and the air smells of moth balls and fruity room spray that feels like it's trying to cover up the scent of something old and damp.

the room is fine. its nothing special, but it's dry, it's quiet, and it has a door that locks. that's about the nicest thing you can say about it.

you drop your duffel bag at the end of the bed and kick off your shoes. you peel your jacket from your arms and throw it over the backrest of the small dinning set chair before sinking down into the mattress. it creaks under your weight, but it holds. exhaustion settles over you all at once, your eyes feeling heavy now that you've stopped moving.

you dont even bother changing. you just lie back, stare at the stained popcorn ceiling, and then let your eyes fall shut.

sleep comes fast— or at least you think it does.

some time later— you're not sure how long— a sound pulls you back to the edge of consciousness. you think it's a door. it softly opens and closes. your eyes stay shut, but your mind sharpens in on the noise. you hear footsteps, slow and heavy, and then the low murmur of movement through the thin wall next to you in room two.

you frown slightly into the pillow as the noise comes to a slow stop. the trucker, you assume. the man with the shaved head and the quiet eyes. the one who had indirectly saved you from the advances of the creepy receptionist.

you roll onto your side, tuck your legs in a little closer, and tell yourself not to think about it. you're safe, you're inside, and you're not on the road anymore. nobody is going to find you.

eventually, the sounds fade and the motel settles into silence, and when sleep takes you, you welcome the old friend gladly.

the next day, you wake up slowly. not with an alarm or a bad dream, but with a sound— a dull, metallic bang.

your eyes crack open, unfocused and strained in the low light. light bleeds in around the edges of the frilly curtains, brighter than you expect. you place a hand against your eyes, and for a moment, you're disorientated and heavy limbed, your body still weighing on the mattress like it's trying to hold onto sleep.

you blink and the sound comes again— metal against metal, constant and loud as it echoes through the empty parking lot— and your brain catches up to your body.

you groan quietly and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling before pushing yourself upright. your joints ache in a way that comes with too much rest and your head hurts in a way that comes with not enough. you rub a hand over your face and glance at the blinking alarm clock in the bedside table.

it's late. not morning late; afternoon late. you'd slept through most of the day and woken up with a grogginess that makes it feel like you never really slept at all, but you give yourself a little leeway— you'd been awake for a day and a half beforehand and this was your first proper bed in a while.

your stomach gurgles, void of any proper food. you get up, tug on your shoes, shove your room key into your pocket, and step out into the heat.

the day has already settled over the motel, the texas sun bleaching the colour out of everything. it still smells like dust and hot concrete, but now there's a faint smell of gasoline and soldered metal. you impatiently make your way to the vending machine you'd spotted last night, the humming getting louder as you near it.

the semi truck is still there, the hood up now, the massive front tilted forwards like a jaw. the man from last night is crouched besides it, his hands and shirt darkened with grease and dirt as he works. tools are scattered at his feet— wrenches, screwdrivers, things with long handles and odd contraptions— and a dirty rag is thrown over his knee.

he looks different in the daylight— still intimidating, still broad and still quiet, but you can see the tiredness in him. the set of his shoulders as he tightens a bolt, the slow and careful way he moves like he's trying to conserve energy, the way he huffs out a breath whenever he meets a particularly stubborn piece of metal. he pauses, wipes his hands on the rag, then leans back to look at whatever he's working on with a slight frown like it's not cooperating and hasn't been for a while.

the vending machine beeps obnoxiously loud at you.

its only when he turns his head just slightly to spot the source of the noise and he catches your eye that you realise you're staring. you turn back quickly and begin feeding your coins into the vending machine, awkwardly pressing on the first button you can see, and wait for the dull thud of something half edible to drop.

you're almost disappointed in yourself when a bottle of old fanta makes its way through the machine instead of food, but you pull it out anyways. the cap hisses when you pop it open. you take a sip more out of obligation than enjoyment. its warm, flat, and too sweet. you take another sad sip and let your eyes wander around.

there isn't much to look at.

the motel stretches out in a long line, sun bleached doors, curtains drawn in most windows, and outdated signs as far as the eye can see. you skip over trevor's badly parked car and focus more on the heat waves that hover just above the ground, and just beyond that, there's a hum of cars passing by every so often. you're about to turn around and go back to your room, but your eye catches on a pink sign that says 'pool'.

it hangs haphazardly on a light post on the far end of the property, the arrow beneath it pointing to a pathway between two buildings with cracked pavement. the sign is barely illegible, the paint faded and cracked, but curiosity gets the better of you and you follow it.

the path eventually opens up into a small, fenced in area behind the motel, and you find that there actually is a pool— or at least a poor excuse of one. the water inside is cloudy, a dull bluish green with leaves and a few empty plastic water bottles floating on the surface. the tiles that surround the pool are either cracked or gone completely, and just beyond that, a few plastic lounge chairs are stacked awkwardly on top of one another, sun bleached and warped from age.

you step closer to the edge and peer down into the water. its so murky that you can't even see your own reflection. alas, you try to squint through at the glare of the sun, but then you feel someone behind you, your shoulders tensing before you even turn around.

"thing hasn't been used in years."

you turn. trevor stands there, hands on his hips and squinting at the pool like he owns it. you hadn't even heard him sneaking up on you, and the thought of it happening again makes you queasy.

"i figured." you mutter.

you take a small step backwards just as trevor steps forwards, his head craned down towards the pool like this is the first time he's seen it in years. he kicks a pebble and it lands into the water with a thick splashing noise before he turns to you.

"used to be nice though. families'd come during the summer. kids'd scream and they'd barbecue. used to get a lot of action." his eyes flick to yours, "not like that anymore."

you nod even though you don't really care.

trevor smacks his lips. "what are you doin' round back?" he asks, the question a little pointed and slightly accusatory.

you straighten a bit, gesturing vaguely. "just looking."

"at the pool?"

"at whatever was back here." you say, already turning away from him. "i was bored."

you start walking back towards the front of the motel before he can respond, but the scuff of shoes against pavement behind you tells you that he's close behind and that the conversation is far from over.

"i get that. not much to do round here." he says easily like this is completely casual and like he isn't matching your pace too well. "but we got a little kitchen just beside the front office if you wanna heat up or cook your food. microwave, coffee pot, workin' sink, that kinda stuff."

"okay."

"and you can probably tell, but housekeepin' doesn't run regularly anymore," he continues, "so if you need fresh towels or soap or anything, you just gotta swing by the front desk and ring that little bell. i'll sort it out for ya."

"i'll manage."

"independent type, huh?" he chuckles softly, and then— almost like he has a death wish— he reaches out and places his clammy hand on your shoulder like you're just an old pal. "i like that about you, sugar."

your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulder jerks back, pulling away from his touch, and you turn to him with a glare sharp enough to kill.

"don't touch me and don't call me sugar."

trevor blinks, caught off guard. his hand hangs limply in the air for a moment before it dramatically drops back to his side. he scoffs, hand returning to his hips.

"alright, alright—" he says, lips pursing like you've personally offended him. "no need to get snappy with me."

you don't reply. you just turn and walk away.

trevor stalls for a second, hands on his hips like he's deciding whether he should follow you or just let you go. the clanking from earlier has stopped, but you barely notice it through the ringing in your ears and the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes.

"we also got laundry service if you wanna change outta those rags." trevor calls from behind you, hand cupped around his mouth to make himself louder. "maybe get a new shirt on— it doesn't do much for your figure!"

you ignore the jab, keeping your eyes straight ahead as you reach your room. you reach into your pocket for your keys and pull them out, but your hands shake just enough for you to miss the lock on the first try, the key scraping uselessly against the painted wood. you manage to slip the key in, but then—

"everything alright over there?" a low, calm voice calls out from the far end of the lot.

you pause halfway through turning the key. your shoulders tense before you can fully control it, your breath catching just slightly as the words sink in. you've never heard his voice, but there's only three people here and it's not hard to guess who it belongs to. you glance over your shoulder, half expecting him to be speaking to you, only to realise that his eyes aren't on you at all; they're on trevor.

the trucker has gone still beside the hood of his truck. the rag that once rested on his knee is now thrown over his shoulder and his hands rest on his hips as he takes in the scene in front of him. his posture is calm, almost casual as he glares at trevor like he knows exactly what he's looking at.

"all is good, sir." trevor says quickly, with a thin smile and a weak thumbs up, "jus' helpin' a guest get settled."

the trucker doesn't look away. "doesn't sound like it."

the words aren't loud or aggressive. they're calm in the same way that his posture is calm, and somehow that makes them carry more weight than if he'd raised his voice at all.

trevor shifts in his spot. its subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it anyway— in the way his shoulders drops, in the way his cheeks dimple into an awkward smile, in the way his hands flap around like he's searching for the words.

"everything's fine." he insists with a forced smile. he turns to you and gestures to you like you're supposed to back him up. "isn't that right, lil miss?"

but you don't reply. you twist the key and shoulder the door open, stepping into the room and shutting it behind you. you lean against the door for a second just enough to catch your breath before throwing the fanta bottle onto the bed.

through the thin curtains, the motel parking lot stretches out like a stage. the trucker and trevor are standing in what looks like a stand-off, their bodies still and eyes locked. there's a few words exchanged, but you can barely hear what's being said before trevor flaps his hand once and turns to walk away.

you watch as the trucker shakes his head, and then— just slightly— he tilts his head, and you swear he's looking right at you. your chest tightens and you press yourself a little closer to the wall beside you.

until long, the stranger goes back to working, bending back over the hood of his semi, the metallic clanking noise breaking the tension, and for the first time since you arrived here, you dont feel like you're the first person to realise something is off about this place.

you spend the next three days doing all that you can to bunker down in your motel room and avoid any and all interaction with trevor.

you keep the curtains drawn. you reuse the same towel over and over again just so you don't have to face him. you time your trips to the vending machine with the noises outside of your door. you listen for footsteps, for whistling, for anything that signals his presence before you even think of placing your hand on the door handle.

although it helps, you find that the isolation keeps your mind running rampant with no distraction from it. everything you'd once pushed down floods to the forefront of your mind until they feel like they're echoing— the reason why you'd run from home, the reason why you'd chosen to ditch the travellers, the reason why you're even here at all. its an endless cycle of staring at the roof and spiralling into thoughts that you can't escape from.

and by the third day, your hunger overpowers your caution. the vending machine had stopped offering anything desirable and your stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours by now. later that day just as the sun had set, you find yourself sneaking off to the motel kitchen with the hunger of a man starved, and just like the rest of the motel, you find that it's anything but special.

the fluorescent lights above poorly illuminated the room. the linoleum floor is cracked and sticky with every hesitant step you take. the contact paper on the cupboards is peeling, and they smell of dust and mildew. there's an odd mould stain on the roof in the corner of the kitchen that watches you as you step inside. the refrigerator hums in the corner and the counters are clean apart from a thin layer of dust and— trevor was right— there was a microwave and a coffee pot and a working sink, but theyre so outdated that you aren't even sure whether they function properly.

the first thing you do is inspect the kettle. it's dusty and it's text a little faded, but otherwise useful. you brush the thick layer of dust from the metal and bring it over to the sink, humming softly to yourself as it fills with water. the stove flicks on— surprisingly— with little hesitation, and you waste no time in placing the appliance onto the flames.

you wander towards the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. the last proper meal you had was a week ago, and even then, it wasn't much more than something to keep you upright.

most of the shelves are empty or packed with things that have long outlived their usefulness— dusty imploded bean cans, jars of preserves that weren't preserved well, and cardboard boxes full of cereal that were certainly stale by now. your stomach growls anyways as you rifle through the mess, your hand landing on a cup of instant ramen, the kettle whistling as you do so.

the ramen container is slightly dusty and the use-by date had passed a handful of years ago, but it sat like treasure in the palm of your hand. desperate times count for desperate measures, sure, but you really did not want to eat red beans smothered in crystallised strawberry jam anytime soon.

you peel open the foil of the ramen container, empty the sachets, pull the kettle from the stove, and begin filling the container with the boiling water. the faint smell of sauce and dried vegetables mixes with steam, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its yours; a small refuge in a motel that otherwise reeks of tired paint and decay.

but then the door squeaks open behind you and you freeze, hand hovering over your food as you pray in your mind that it isn't trevor. you tilt your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, and the small breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant.

it's the trucker.

he steps inside the room with the same quiet confidence he's been holding onto ever since he pulled into the lot. he holds a plastic container in one hand and a set of plastic utensils in the other, and for a moment, he takes the time to glance at you. he doesn't say hello or really acknowledge you in any way; he simply moves towards the microwave on the other side of the kitchen like this is his own home and opens the door, sliding in his food, pressing a few buttons, and then leaning back against the counter as he waits, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.

neither of you speak, but you're sure you're both aware of each other. it's a constant battle against your brain to try not to stare at him and watch his every move, not because he's threatening, but because he's unfamiliar— unlike trevor, he's a presence you haven't learnt how to place just yet.

and as you continue trying to make your old ramen soak up the broth, you hear his boots press against the old linoleum as he heads towards the table— the only table in the room— and place his keys and his utensils onto the surface with a soft clink like he hasn't even considered whether or not you might have wanted it. its a small table with only two chairs, but he takes up the space in a way that makes it feel like there's only room for one.

so you stay where you are, hip pressing into the kitchen counter as you stab at your noodles with a fork, watching as the steam lazily curls from the cup, and pretending you're not waiting for him to move.

but he doesn't.

the microwave beeps three times, and the trucker steps forwards and pulls at the handle. the smell of plastic and artificial food spills into the kitchen, and he wastes no time in tearing the plastic seal off and tossing it haphazardly into the trash before setting it down onto the table, pulling a chair out, and sitting down to indulge.

he eats in silence like it's all he knows. his eyes are on his food and his plastic fork scratches at the plastic container, his shoulders loose and his jaw working as he makes quick work of the microwaved slop.

eventually, you turn— just a little, just enough to check whether he's still there. you try not to watch him, but you fail, and thats when your eyes meet his.

he's already looking at you. not in a sharp way, or in a way that feels judgemental, but more like he's observing you. his gaze almost feels the same way as your first night when his semi truck pulled into the motel parking lot and the high beams blinded you, and in a funny way, you almost feel like a deer in headlights.

his gaze flicks from you to the empty chair across from him, then back at you. there's a small shift in his composure— the pause of his jaw as he scavenges for food in his teeth, the scoot of his jean-clad butt in the squeaky metal chair, the cock of his head as he lets out the softest sigh you've ever heard— and then he moves.

he reaches out with his foot and nudges the other chair out by its leg. it scratches against the floor as he pushes it towards you, creating a space where there hadn't been one before. he lifts his chin in a gentle gesture towards it, lip jutting out just slightly.

"i don't bite." he simply says.

you hesitate. your fingers tighten just slightly against the warmth of the cup, your brain running through all the reasons why you shouldn't— all of the ways this could end horribly for you— before you suck in a soft breath, push off of the counter, and move towards the table anyways.

you take the seat across from him. the chair legs shift slightly as you sit, and the sound feels louder than it actually is in the silence of the kitchen. you dont bother tucking in your chair, afraid of invading his space, and the trucker goes back to eating like nothing has changed, his fork stabbing at various vegetables and chunks of artificial meats, eyes on the container in front of him; but not entirely.

every so often, his gaze finds you. he doesn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but his eyes find you frequently enough for you to wonder what he's looking for, and you have to pretend you don't feel it. you believe it's because he's checking on you, like maybe he's trying to figure out what someone like you is doing out in the middle of nowhere.

you shift under the weight of it, not uncomfortable, just hyperaware of it all— of yourself, of him, of the little space there is between you, and of the silence that surrounds you. it's something you didn't necessarily prepare for when you left your room a little while ago.

you continue swirling the noodle around the cup, putting off actually eating them. you dont know whether you should just get it over with and possibly be sick for the rest of the week or if you should just pour it down the sink and live off of stale vending machine chips.

eventually, the table creaks under his arms as the trucker sits back up and sets his fork against the side of his container. you pause at the sudden shift, eyes drifting slowly up to find that he's already looking at you— not in a way that feels invasive or creepy, but thoughtful, like he's trying to piece together the puzzle that is you instead of asking for answers out loud.

"you been on the road long?" he asks like its not even a question he really needs the answer to, but something to fill the silence.

there's a small raise of your brow as you huff out a small breath, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost find his question funny. you stop stirring your noodles and let the fork sink into the cup.

"not long," you say, head tilting just slightly. "but it feels like it's been forever."

he hums quietly at that like he knows exactly what you're talking about, and you're sure he does. you can see it up close in the lines of his face, in the soft greying of his hair and his stubble, in the freckles surely painted on by the sun through his truck windows, and in the tiredness that sits heavy in his eyes as he nods.

"yeah," he says after a long moment. "roads'll do that to you."

he doesnt say anything after that. he simply shovels food into his mouth, quick but still neat like he hasn't lost interest in eating. a part of you thinks he's only invited you to sit for the company, and you appreciate the gesture for what it is, because you believe you needed it too.

your eyes flick to the dirty curtain-covered window without really meaning to— to where his truck sits out in the parking lot, the hood up more often than not. it sits in the dark, toolbox still on the ground beside it and a half-empty beer bottle laying on the ground next to that.

you decide to ask a question next; something to fill the silence that sits in between the two of you just like he did. 

"is there something wrong with your truck?" you ask, trying to seem casual and actually landing somewhere close to it. "i heard you working on it all day."

there's a second where you think you might've crossed an invisible line— asked something too personal or maybe been a little too demanding in your question. his fork pauses over his food, jaw working as he swallows what remains in his mouth. there's a small pause as he follows your eyes out to his truck before he gives you a half shrug.

"somethin' like that." he sighs like the topic is something that stresses him out. "she runs, but not as good as she used to. somethin' in the hood exploded back in shamrock and i've been tryin' to keep her alive long enough to get where i'm goin'."

you blink. "where are you headed?"

he glances at you, just briefly, like he's deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. the corner of his mouth tugs like he's in on some inside joke you aren't aware of.

"california. america's very own golden state."

his words land heavy as they leave his mouth, and your brain moves before any other part of you does.

california. warm. bright. somewhere that isn't here or home. somewhere thats still so, so far.

three days. that's all you have. three days before the cash you have tucked in your duffel bag grows thin, before trevor gets bolder and meaner and before you inevitably have to leave. you can't stay here and you know that. you dont have a car or a plan. you dont even have a general direction, just a need to keep moving; and suddenly, sitting across from you, is a man who is already doing exactly that.

you hesitate.

you shouldn't ask. you know you shouldn't. this is how people get into trouble— they trust sketchy strangers from dingy motels, follow their impulses, mistake a well-time coincidence as opportunity, and end up on the evening news as a missing person. it's something you know all too well and you're not going to leap into it headfirst.

you're smart and you know it. you'll come up with a plan and you'll stick to it. all you have to do is ration, stick to yourself, and try not to think about how three days is so much closer than you think.

so you keep your mouth shut and simply nod. your eyes fall back down to the neglected cup of ramen in your hands. it's gone lukewarm and a thin film has formed over the broth. the noodles finally suck up the liquid, but they swell into something soft and mushy and vaguely unappetising. you wouldnt even feed this to starving a stray animal.

the man's eyes briefly drop to the cup of ramen that sits in your hands. you stare at it like you dread even thinking about it, and he furrows his brows.

"you gonna eat that, or are you just gonna stare at it until it goes cold?"

"oh, it, uh... i was going to, but..." you grimace like watching the corn pieces swimming around in the soup has suddenly made you loose your appetite. "i'm not even sure if it's still edible."

"here," he motions gently for you to come closer, and you're confused for a moment before he points a finger vaguely at your mug of mediocre noodles. you slide it over and he wastes no time shovelling some of his food into yours. vegetables and meat sink into the soup. the gesture is sweet and you feel your stomach growl at the thought of having actual food for once.

he slides your cup back towards you, and you dare yourself to dip your fork back into the soup, stab at a floating piece of meat, and bring it to your mouth. you chew on it and swallow the bite, the warmth of it settling in your stomach like a small comfort.

"young girl like you has to eat food that hasn't been rottin' in a cabinet for god knows how long." he says, and then continues before you can respond, "trust me. i've been on the road long enough to know what malnutrition looks like."

you shovel another forkful of noodles into your mouth, ignoring the way the soup sloshes around in the cup and certainly sending droplets of the liquid into the air. you shake your head, half-amused and half-unnerved by how closely he seems to be watching you.

"thanks, but i'm not young." you manage between bites.

the low laugh that leaves his mouth catches you off guard.

"well, you definitely aren't old. skin's all plump and clean and you've still got all your teeth." he says, his voice low and almost teasing, eyes still glazing over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. "i've probably got tools in my truck older than you."

the way he says it makes all the noise you hear go silent. suddenly the soup that drips from your chin and the noodle hanging out of your mouth doesn't feel all that casual nor does it feel presentable. he's watching you like you're something he's never seen before, eyes steady and intent, and you're unsure what to do with all of the attention.

you hastily wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, clear your throat, and sit up a little in your chair. maybe a small part of you wants to prove him wrong— show him that you might be young but you're wise beyond your years— and you try to do so by fixing your posture and looking at least somewhat put together even with a cup of reasonable ramen in your hands.

it doesn't go unnoticed. if anything, it seems to catch his attention more.

his gaze lingers, but not in the way that trevor's did— not with hunger or entitlement— but with intrigue, like he's catching the shift in you and filing it away in his head. there's something softer in his expression now, a faint crease in his brows that you've only noticed just now as if you've just become a little more intriguing than he had first assumed.

he gently nods, curiosity trickling into his face. he leans forwards just slightly, elbows digging into the table. "what's your name?"

and the question hits you off guard even though you know it was inevitable.

for a moment, you consider dodging his question— lying, deflecting, keeping yourself small and unremarkable like you've been doing for days. it's not that you don't want to tell him, it's just that answering feels like you're giving this stranger a piece of yourself— a story, something to hold onto, something from your past that you'd been running from this entire time, and the reason you're here.

you turn your head, eyes flicking to the large crack in the middle of the kitchen's linoleum floor that sits split in two. it feels safer to look at something broken that isn't you. he takes your silence as an answer.

"that's alright. you don't owe me anythin'." he says as he leans back in his chair like he's trying to ease the pressure off of you without making a show of it. "my name's james, but you can call me bucky."

hm. he doesnt look like a james, but he sure as hell looks like a bucky.

you turn back to him with a turned lip. "what's bucky short for?"

"full name's james buchanan barnes. it was just a nickname my pa gave me that stuck." he says easily. then, like he's joking, he adds, "now you've got my full name just incase i try to pull somethin' on ya."

you huff softly, "how do i know you aren't lying about your name? i could come up with about fifty fake names right now, and you wouldnt know any better. criminals lie all the time."

he quirks a brow as he pops open the top of his coke bottle, the bubbles popping at the surface as he lifts it to his lips with a sneaky smile. "guess you just gotta trust me then, sweetheart."

you hum softly in acknowledgment, the faintest smile on your lips, fork scrapping at the bottom of the ramen cup for scraps. the food settles warmly in your stomach, and it reminds you that you're tired— really tired.

you stand, the empty ramen cup in your hand, and awkwardly brush your other hand on your pants before vaguely gesturing to the cracked kitchen door.

"i think i'm gonna head back." you tell him like you're unsure of what you should do. you don't know if he even cares, but it feels like the respectful thing to do.

bucky inhales a breath, the sound low and sharp, and it feels like you might've just pulled him from his thoughts. he reaches up and runs a hand over his head before nodding once. "s'pose that's fair. princess needs her beauty sleep."

you hesitate for a second, but a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "night, bucky."

he offers you a smile of his own, head tilting just slightly with a soft nod. "sleep tight, sweetheart."

you turn and push the kitchen door open, slipping into the night. the door creaks shut behind you as you tread through the parking lot, unaware of how long bucky sits there after you're gone, or how long he stares at the empty seat across from him like you might come back.

you've never been a great judge of character— you have the scars and the pain to prove it— but this man didn't seem bad, or at least didn't seem like an axe murderer, and unless you want to walk along the edge of route 66 with your thumb stuck out hoping that another car full of non-murderous travellers picks you up to take you to california, your only other bet is trying to hitch a ride with bucky.

and plus, there are worse ways to get to california than riding shotgun with a trucker who calls you princess and sweetheart.

the next morning doesn't come with any great revelation, and you wake with the same boring nothing. there's no obvious sign, no sudden clarity, no omnipresent voice from the universe telling you what to do. theres only the texas heat seeping through your room windows, pressing in in you like it wants you to stay and rot in your room.

the heat is so prevalent that at midday, you've already had about three showers in the dingy bathroom.

it doesnt help much. the water never gets quite cold, the shower head sprays water in every direction but yours, and the humidity clings to your skin before you even step out of the shower. the towel you'd received when you'd checked in had served you well, but now it smelt of dirty laundry and damp cloth, and no amount of air drying or shaking it out seems to fix that.

you stare at it for a second before deciding you're not desperate enough to use it again.

you get dressed into something that could battle the heat yet leave you covered enough when you inevitably have to face trevor and leave your room with your dirty towel tucked underneath your arm.

the lot shimmers in waves under the sun, radiating the kind of heat that you might think will melt the soles of your shoes.

unsurprisingly, bucky's already out there. his truck's hood is up as per usual, his tools scattered all around the front, and he's leaning over the engine with the focus of someone who's been at this for hours, and you could already tell by the metal-against-metal noises that he'd had been up before you'd even opened your eyes.

and the second you shut your door, the noise pulls him from his work.

his head turns to see the cause, and when he noticed it's you, he straightens like he's trying to get a better look at you. for a moment, the truck seems forgotten, his attention caught on the sight of you leaving your room with your little shorts and your towel tucked under your arm. he doesn't rush to get back to what he's doing, and his gaze lingers instead, taking you in like this is a rare pause he doesn't mind stretching out.

sweat darkens the front of his tank top, clinging to his body in a way that makes it clear that the heat is winning. the thin fabric is stretched across his chest, damp and heavy, tracing every muscle earned through years of labour rather than vanity. his jeans are stained with grease and grime from his work, and what little hair he has on his head sticks to his temple in small soft curls.

his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip almost like he's forgotten you can see him, a reflex born from the heat— or maybe something else entirely.

god, he looks good.

after a long moment, he straightens with a soft exhale, grips the hem, and pulls the tank over his head in an attempt to free himself of the wet fabric. the muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes, glistening under the texan sun, and the light catches the sheen of sweat that forms over every inch of his body. the fabric finally slips free and gets tossed over the hood of the truck, leaving him bare to the heat.

you nearly walk straight into the curb. the toe cap of your shoe bumps against the concrete, jolting you from your wandering thoughts. you only barely manage to catch yourself, the towel sliding slightly from your arm, and bucky knows exactly what's happened.

he tilts his head just slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what's he's doing. his eyes flick briefly to the curb you'd almost stumbled over, then back to you, a mix of amusement and some genuine concern flooding his face.

"you alright, princess?" he calls out, his voice low but carrying easily over the heat-laced lot, and you realise you've been staring like a madman. 

"i'm fine." you awkwardly reply, and he hums.

you break eye contact and pick up the pace towards the front office. sweat prickles along your skin, and the warmth of the sun suddenly feels more invasive than it does comforting. you dont even know if youre sweating because of the heat or because of him. 

you hadn't expected this when he'd sat in front of you in a baggy denim jacket last night in the kitchen. where had he been hiding all of... that? the broad shoulders? that lean muscle? the six pack? it had all been covered by fabric and shadow, and you almost want to drop to your knees and thank mother nature for deciding to work in perfect harmony to reveal bucky like this.

you skid to a stop in front of the front office door. the handle squeals as you push down on it and shoulder the door open, and a cold blast of air hits you— blessed, if a little stale. it smells faintly of mold, the result of a leaky unit, and of vinegar potato chips.

trevor is there slouched in his chair like he hasn't moved since the first time you met him. his eyes flick up as you step inside, and with a lazy smile and lopsided glasses, he turns to face you like he's excited to see you.

"hey, you." he drawls with a hint of surprise in his voice. "thought you'd never come back 'round to see me."

"you said you handle the laundry and all that stuff?" you recount, your voice stiff and to the point. you place your folded towel onto the counter and slide it towards him, the action swift. "i'd like a new towel, please. maybe two."

trevor smiles, a yellow tooth poking out from his lips. "i do do the laundry. i can fix up a towel or two for you, gorgeous. can't have the little princess walking around here with a dirty towel now, can we?"

you don't reply, nor do you give him the pleasure of seeing you smile. the rhetorical question hangs in the air between you, practically gathering dust as it remained unanswered. the nickname doesnt roll off of his tongue nearly as good as it does when it comes from buckys—

oh my god. stop thinking about that man. 

trevor leans back in his chair with his shoulders raised. "c'mon, that was funny. you gotta admit that i'm the best thing about this dump."

"the best thing about this dump is the air conditioning." you quickly retort before crossing your arms against your chest. "how long is this gonna take?"

his grin falters just slightly before twisting into something sharper. "it'll take no time, but it'll cost ya a pretty penny."

something cold settles in your chest. "you said it was FREE."

"boss raised it to ten bucks per piece." trevor stays like it's perfectly reasonable. "but if you wanted to discuss another form of payment, you can always come back after dark and we can see how it goes from there."

your jaw clenches. its one thing to demand ten dollars to wash a singular piece of clothing, but it's another to continuously press down on you with the threat of a good time to see if you'll break.

"i'll figure something out." you grab your towel from the counter and turn towards the door. "thanks anyways."

the word thanks tastes bitter on your tongue, but you don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. you push open the door, and just before it shuts, you can hear trevor shout out—

"oh come on, sugar! you know you want it!"

the door slams behind you harder than you meant it to.

heat hits you all at once, thick and suffocating as it wraps around you like a punishment. you clutch the towel tighter in your hand as you stomp back out into the parking lot, your pulse ringing in your ears.

metal clanks somewhere to your left, and then stops. you dont look, but you can feel the way the air shifts; the weight of someone's attention.

you risk a glance, and quickly find that bucky's no longer bent over the hood of his truck. he's standing upright now, a hand on his hip and a rag in the other. his expression is unreadable, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes slow and assessing, and whatever he sees on your face makes his grip on his rag tighten.

"you okay?" he asks, breaking the silence like he's testing the ice. his voice is calm like it usually is, but there's something sharper that rests underneath it.

you hesitate. every instinct you've honed over the years tells you to just shrug it off, that this is just another case of a man expecting something, to say its nothing and to keep moving. but you're done holding it in.

you huff, gesturing angrily at the front office where trevor is still sitting like a king. "asshole wanted ten bucks for a new towel. and he keeps—" you pause, the words echoing in your mind, "he keeps making these horrible passes at me and i just—"

you stop yourself and bucky's expression changes almost immediately. its not dramatic, nor is it explosive; it's colder, like something you'd said had rubbed him the wrong way.

you look at him then. "it's fine. i'll figure it out."

he studies you for a moment longer as you stand there soaking up the heat. its silent as his eyes flick from your face to the towel and then back to your face. then he exhaled and reaches into his jean pocket.

"i've got a spare towel in my room that you can take. it's clean." he says as he digs for something before he pulls out a pair of keys with a cheap plastic keychain that you recognise as his room key.

you quickly shake your head, "you don't have to—"

"i wasn't askin'." he tosses his room key to you and you catch it, the metal rattling in your palm. "you can take it."

your jaw tightens as you fidget with the keys. they feel heavy in your hand and still warm from his pocket. "i don't want to owe you anything."

the corner of bucky's mouth lifts just a fraction— not quite a smile, but something softer. "good. wouldnt want you to." then quieter, like he can sense your hesitation and like he doesn't want anyone else to hear it, he adds, "it's just a towel."

you really do want to turn him down, but the heat presses in on all sides and you're sure that if you use your towel one more time, it'd leave you stickier than you'd entered the shower feeling. to top it off, bucky is looking at you like he expects nothing in return.

"...thanks, bucky." you finally say.

he nods once, easy and almost proud of you for accepting his help. "it's folded up on the tv console. you cant miss it."

your fingers curl around the key and you give bucky one last glance before you turn and head towards his room. the walk across feels longer than it should, every step you take heavy with the awareness of bucky's eyes on your back. sweat sticks to your skin and the sun is relentless overhead, but the heat isn't what's bothering you— it's the fact that you're about to walk into the room of a stranger and cross a line you didnt even know you were standing on.

you stop in front of the door, slide the key into the lock, and twist— but it doesn't open. you try again, a little harder this time, but there's still nothing. you glance over your shoulder towards bucky.

"oh, the door sticks." he yells from across the lot. he makes a stranger gesture with his shoulder, "gotta give it a shove."

you hesitate, then brace yourself before shouldering your way into the room. the door pops open with an awkward crack, swinging inward enough for you to slip inside.

the first thing you notice is how lived in it feels. its similar to yours, but it's warmer somehow. the curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin strip of sunlight that cuts across the bed and the worn carpet. the air smells faintly of engine oil and generic dollar store soap— the grit hidden underneath the clean— and something distinctly him, like heat and metal and long hours on the road.

there's very little decoration, but what is there counts. a denim jacket is slung over the small desk chair in the corner and a pair of black jeans sit messily folded on the table, scuffed with red dirt like they've seen more miles than most people. a half empty water bottle sits on the rickety bedside table beside a folded up receipt and an open pocketknife, the blade well-used.

the bed isn't neat, the blankets thrown to the side without much care. an open duffel bag sits on the end of the bag, and you hate how nosy you feel when something in it catches your attention.

you take a few steps forwards until you're able to peek inside, hand brushing against the zipper of the duffel. there's not much; a wallet and folded clothes, a blend of worn and clean fabrics— a flannel, torn blue jeans, crisp white socks— but then something out of place catches your eye.

paper.

it's not loose. it's tucked carefully into a pocket on the inside of the bag. you tell yourself that you're only looking because it's there, and you reach in before you can even think, pulling it out with care. just a glance— that's all.

the edges are worn and it's creased down the middle like it's been folded and unfolded more times than it should've survived, evident by the thin piece of tape that's holding a corner of it together. the colour has faded into something dull, but the frozen memory printed onto the front is anything but.

two men stand in the centre of it, close in a way that feels more personal than anything you'd ever known. you recognise one of the men as bucky— younger, happier, and clean shaven— a bright smile on his face as he stares at the other man. the other man is broad shouldered, his features sharp underneath his stubble, and wearing a smile similar to bucky's, one so wide that it almost looks like world hasn't had the chance to take anything from them yet.

your thumb absentmindedly brushes against the photo where bucky's face is, the finger curling right down the curve of his jaw.

there's no writing on the back, nor is there an explanation. who is this mystery man, a friend? a boyfriend? either way, they look awfully close.

your chest tightens, red hot guilt flaring in your stomach with the awful realisation that this is something extremely personal to bucky and you've probably just crossed hundreds of lines. the open bag seems to stare at you, and for the first time since you stepped foot in the motel room, you've become acutely aware of how much of an invasion of privacy this is.

you look away from the photo like it might burn you, heart thudding as you fold it back up and shove it back into the pocket you found it in. you find the towel folded up on the tv console just as bucky had said— white, clean, and untouched— and you grab it quickly, beelining straight towards the door.

you shut the door behind you and lock it. you cross the lot, quicker this time and with your eyes fixed on bucky like he might see through you if you blink. he's still by the truck, arms deep in the engine system, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he hears your rushed feet heading towards him.

"you find it?" he asks as he steps off of the bumper.

you nod and hand him the key. "yeah. thanks again."

your fingers brush when he takes it— just the briefest touch of his calloused fingers against your soft ones— and he curls it into the palm of his hand, gaze flickering at the clean towel in your hand.

you turn to leave, a half smile on your lip. you're halfway through a step when—

"hey." bucky calls.

you pause and turn back around.

"you busy tonight?" he asks,

"unless you count watching old reruns all night and listening to the rats in the walls, not really." you try to joke, but the humour dies halfway in your throat when you realise it's your reality. "why?"

he shrugs like his suggestion is nothing big. "there's a decent diner about ten miles down the road. thought maybe we could get something in you that isn't shit from a vending machine."

for a split second, you almost say yes immediately. the idea of real food, of leaving this place even if its just for a little while, of just having someone normal to talk to, feels like a god-given grace. but instinct cuts in fast. the logical part of your mind tells you to not get comfortable.

comfortable is how you get stuck. comfortable is how you get hurt.

"yeah, i don't know about that." you gesture vaguely to your room, and then to your empty pocket. "running low on cash."

"don't worry bout it." bucky says almost immediately. "my treat. least i can do after you've kept me company these past few days."

you blink. "we met last night."

then, almost like you'd just told him a joke, a small laugh falls from his mouth, and god, something about it makes you weak in the knees. "maybe, but you sittin' in your room all day staring at me fixin my truck is still better company than listenin' to trevor watchin' cheap cable porn in his office all day."

oh. he noticed that?

you open your mouth but shut it again. there's no point in denying it, and the cheeky grin that sits plastered on bucky's face shows that you can't gaslight your way out of this one.

the texas heat presses in and the motel hums around you, and for once, the idea of staying in your room all night feels worse than the risk of saying yes. you lift your eyes back to him and sigh, the fight leaving your shoulders.

"okay." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then you nod. "yeah, okay. dinner sounds... dinner sounds nice."

bucky's smile spreads across his face, slow and satisfied like he knew you would accept. "good. i'll knock around seven."

and he does.

the knock comes at 6:58pm, solid knuckles banging against the wood. the sound echoes through your room louder than it needs to, and it sets every nerve in you alight.

you sit up straighter in the edge of your bed, your heart giving a traitorous jump. for a second, you stare at the door like the sound might go away, but it doesn't. there's a soft scuff of boots against concrete on the other side, and then there's a quiet huff of breath, patient and unhurried.

"hey." bucky's voice comes through the door, low and careful, almost like he's giving you an out. "it's me."

you swallow. your hands are clammy and there's a strange heaviness that sits in the pit of your stomach. you can't remember the last time someone knocked on your door for you.

"yeah—" you rub a hand over your face, clearing your throat as you push yourself to your feet. you're too aware of how your clothes fit and how you look. "uh, just... give me a second."

"i'm not goin' anywhere."

you smooth your hands over your shirt, eyes glazing over your reflection in the small hanging mirror, and then you look down at yourself. you're presentable enough. with one final breath, you cross the room and open the door.

the creak of the door catches bucky's attention. he's standing there with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his boots scuffed and his hair a little wet like he's washed up since the last time you saw him. there's something pleasant about the way he smells— like sandalwood and leather and him, a welcome change from the stale mix of dusty carpet and mouldy insulation.

he looks good. he looks handsome.

"ready?" he asks, and you cant ignore the way his eyes travel down the length of your body like he's taking you in for the first time instead of the girl he's seen coming and going all week. "let's get some food in you."

it isn't scrutinising, but it's thorough enough for warmth to creep up your neck, to make you suddenly aware of where your hands are, how you're standing, how close he feels in the narrow doorway. you haven't felt this way since— never mind.

your brows knit as you glance past him and towards the lot. "wait, are we taking your truck? i thought it was fucked up."

bucky's face relaxes as he turns over to glance over his shoulder, then back at you. "she's fucked, but she can still drive."

"i hope so." you murmur as you lock your door and slide the keys into your pocket. you hear bucky chuckle.

as you walk beside bucky, you manage to sneak a glance at him. he's relaxed, his shoulders loose and his steps casual. he carries himself with the confidence of a man who does this all the time— talking to strangers and helping them out, letting himself form connections that inevitably lead nowhere— meanwhile your pulse is throbbing throughout your body, struggling to differentiate the difference between the first date jitters you feel and your fight or flight response kicking in.

you force yourself to suck in a deep breath. bucky is nice. he's done nothing but help you., and even if he weren't, you aren't helpless. you know how to run and you know how to fight. you've done it before and you'd do it again. the thought settles the restless anxiety in your chest, and that gives you enough clarity as you near the truck.

the first thing you realise is how big the truck is. from afar, it looks just like every other semi you've seen in your life. up close, it's rusted metal and worn paint, scratches and dents adorning the length of it, and it towers over you like a skyscraper.

bucky reaches up and over and pulls open the door. "might be a bit of a climb. you think you can get up there yourself?"

"i think i'll be fine." you quickly reply, already stepping forwards.

you reach up and grab a hold of the support handle and plant your foot on the step, and you immediately realise you have no idea what you're doing. something about the layout of the truck is strange in a way that makes your brain short circuit for a long moment. the step is higher than expect, the handle a little too far back, your arms criss crossed and your leg is suspended for a moment as you try to figure out where to go next.

its not graceful at all.

you drop to the ground in defeat. before you can try and embarrass yourself again, bucky's hands are there, firm and warm on your waist, steadying you without being rough.

"'s alright, princess," he murmurs. "i've gotcha."

he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively brace against his shoulders, solid beneath your palms, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. for a second, all you can feel is his hands. you're painfully aware of how close his face is to your stomach— to that area— and you feel a little breathless as he hoists you up and sets you down into the passenger seat like you belong there.

you look down at him with a tight lipped smile, "sorry."

"don't be." he says gently as he gives you a small pat on the side of your thigh, already stepping back with a small smile and his hand on the door. "truck's old. not exactly built for somethin' little like you."

you blink as he shuts the door for you and circles the truck before clicking open his own door and climbing in with ease. the cab feels smaller when he settles into his seat, filled with the low rumble of the starting engine and bucky's scent.

he glances over as you as he pulls his door shut. he glances over at you, eyes flicking downwards. "seatbelt." he reminds you, and you quickly buckle in. he nods once when it clicks, satisfied.

bucky clicks some switches and tugs at some levers, and the truck lurches forwards with a load groan. gravel crunches under the tires as bucky reverses the truck with ease, manoeuvring the huge vehicle out of the small lot. the headlights sweep across the cracked paint of the motel, illuminating the stretch of route 66 that it sits on.

it feels strange— being here on the road again, moving again after a stagnant period— like your body remembers the rhythm of the road even if your body hasn't quite caught up.

for a few miles, neither of you speaks. the radio hums softly between stations, bucky skipping until it lands on something that vaguely resembles dire straits before he finally leans back, one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the sill of the window, the glass cracked open just enough for wind to funnel into the cab.

you watch the world go by through the windshield. there's desert scrub, flickering neon motel lights, the occasional passing set of headlights that fly past before you even really notice them. it's peaceful in a way you hadn't really expected.

"so," bucky breaks the silence without turning to look at you, his voice just slightly louder than the hum of the radio and the growl of the truck. "california."

your head turns towards him before you can really control it. "california." you echo, the word sitting strange and heavy on your tongue despite it being the goal you'd been trying to reach for so long.

theres another small pause before bucky hums.

"what's so special about california? job? family?" he turns and glances at you for half a second, throat bobbing once before he turns back to the road. "or did you just throw a dart at a map and decide it was good enough?"

a small laugh slips from your mouth before you can stop it— soft, surprised, one that almost catches you off guard— but it fades into something you'd barely call a smile. you glance down at your shorts, fingers picking at the fabric, and although bucky doesn't look over, you get the feeling that he's listening in a lot closer now.

"i don't know." you admit. "i just needed to get the fuck out of chicago."

bucky nods once, slow and understanding. "that's fair. not always good to stay in one place forever."

he doesnt ask you to explain, nor does he pry. he simply adjusts his grip on the wheel and shifts in his seat before he adds, almost absentmindedly, "a lotta people end up on the road for that reason."

"hmm." you softly nod. then your head lulls to the side just slightly, enough that you can gesture to the back of the truck that rumbles behind you. "what about you? what've you got back there in the trailer?"

bucky glances over at you for just a second, his brows furrowed like you'd just recounted a complex math equation. "who taught you that?"

"taught me what?" you ask, "trailer?"

"yeah." bucky's lips curl into a soft smile, and you can see the small crinkle of his eyes in the rear view mirror. "usually pretty girls like you just refer to the back— or they just call it the truck. you knew what you were talking about, and that's not usually something you just know unless you've picked it up from someone."

you ignore the pretty part of the sentence, and instead try to put on a teasing grin. "do you talk to a lot of pretty girls?"

and then, almost like he can sense the playfulness in your tone bucky turns his head just enough for you to catch the smirk that sits on his lips. "only the ones who can tell the different between a cab and a trailer."

your chest flutters in a way that unconsciously makes a smile grow on your face, warmth creeping up your neck until bucky finally turns away from you and back to the road. there's something in the curve of his jaw, in the blue of his eyes, in the quiet confidence he drives, in the faint rush of his scent carried by the wind— it's confusing, but also exciting. you can't help the pull of curiosity or the way your mind lingers on the idea of him for longer than you should.

but something horrible tugs at your heart. it's something familiar, something you've know for so many years, something that's made its home in your body; guilt.

"my, uh..." you scratch the side of your neck, pausing just momentarily to pull your eyes away from the side of bucky's face. "my boyfriend built semis. he taught me all about the parts and the frames and stuff to try and get me into the business to help out but—" a small, self conscious shrug follows. "not a lot of it stuck."

"boyfriend?" bucky asks. "and where's he?"

"far away, i hope." you say. there's a tightness in your chest, and you reach up to fidget with the necklace that hangs around your neck. "he's actually the reason why i left chicago."

you're looking out of your window now, but you can feel the burn of bucky's eyes on the back of your head as he turns to look at you for a moment.

"he an asshole?" he asks, half joking, but his tone is soft and patient like he already knows the answer.

"you could say that." you reply with a soft laugh, a little tight lipped and a little sad, but relieved that he isn't prying for more, and for the first time in days, it feels okay to leave it out in the open and mostly unspoken.

the road ahead stretches into flat darkness. the radio hums quietly. the truck rumbles as it rolls over rocks and asphalt. ahead, a bright pair of headlights glow bright. it's peaceful.

"garden gnomes."

your brows furrow. you turn your head towards bucky, who's eyes are set on the road. you're sure you'd misheard him. "what?"

he glances at you, then back at the road, his voice low like he's confessing a classified secret. "in the back. it's garden gnomes."

you blink, a bubble of a laugh slipping free before you can stop it. "you're hauling gnomes across the country? is that a joke?"

"sounds funny, but apparently those little bastards are worth more than both you and i and this truck." he says, dead serious, but there's a small twitch of a smile on his face. "rich people have nothin' better to spend their money on."

you snort again, laughter bubbling from your chest and breaking the heaviness that had settled there. bucky smiles at the sound— small, satisfied, toothy— like that was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. you press a hand against your mouth to try and suppress your laughter, but it barely works.

"hey— they're gettin' a nicer trip than most people do." he half-heartedly adds with a grin. "they're drivin' with the best trucker in america. not everybody can say that."

"the best trucker in america and the most humble."

"don't start, missy." bucky warns you, but the amusement on his face gives him away. "you're apart of the lucky few who can call themselves a passenger of mine."

you scoff, "whatever you say, buck."

the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and for half a second, you wonder if you've crossed a line. but you watch how bucky's eyes linger on you and the way his knuckles flex against the wheel, turning white just ever so slightly as his grip tightens. there's a slight tick in his jaw before his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.

a neon light catches your eye. it's bright against the dark of the sky, the singular word DINER illuminated in bright pink and faint blues. it's a simple sign, but it gets the work done. a small building comes into view, small and unassuming yet warm and homey, like it's just waiting for people to stumble in for a feed.

"that must be it." bucky mutters as he squints through the windscreen. he pulls at a few things, and the truck rolls to a slow as you near the building.

"good." you murmur. "i'm starving."

bucky slows the truck, turning off of the highway steering wide and pulling the truck to the far end of the lot where the truck won't block anyone in (even though there's only three or four cars in the lot).

"she's too big to squeeze in there." he adds as he pulls the brakes and shuts the engine off. the rumbling stops, and suddenly it's quiet again. "hope you don't mind the walk."

"it's fine." you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. you click open the door and push it open, almost falling out at the weight of it. you glance down to the step, and then towards the trucker. "uh, bucky... would you be able to—"

before you can finish, bucky's door swings open, the cab groaning at the shift of weight. "i've got it." he says, voice calm but amused before he hopes out and shuts the door behind him.

you watch the top of his head as he circles the front of the truck, and he appears at your door. he reaches a hand out before you can even think about trying to hop down yourself.

"here." he says as you take his hand, the other arm extended just in case you slip.

you let him guide you down, one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. you hop down knowing that bucky would catch you if you fell without hesitation. the gravel crunches beneath your boots when you touch the ground and your hands slip from bucky's.

he takes the time to give you a small smile like it was nothing, and the two of you head towards the diner. the evening air carries the scent of grease and coffee and something faintly like him, and you're not sure if you're smelling him because he's so close or if its because

bucky steps ahead of you to push the door open for you, and the bell overhead dings and echos through the diner. the first thing you notice as you step inside is the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the soft buzz of the coffee machine on the counter.

although clean and well-kept, the diner looks like it hasn't been updated in decades. the checkered vinyl floor is worn in some places from years of customers, the metal trim around the counter and the stools shine in the bright led light, and the red leather of the booths fray and tear at the corners. there are dozens— if not hundreds— of framed black and white photos on the wall of passing customers, food, and the employees, and next to those are various old school records hung haphazardly.

a few customers are scattered around the diner, all invested in their own world, and don't dream it's over by crowded house plays faintly from the jukebox in the corner, filling the space with music where otherwise would be ambient diner noise. a bell dings and your eyes dart to the kitchen where a chef passes the waitress a plate full of fries and a cheeseburger. the sight makes your stomach growl despite the vending machine snacks you'd had earlier that day.

bucky seems to catch onto your hunger and is quick to place a hand on your lower back and usher you towards an empty booth in the emptier half of the diner. the leather creaks as you both slide in, your hands instantly grabbing for the menu and flipping it open.

the first thing you look at— almost instinctively— are the prices.

"it's a bit expensive for a highway diner." you think out loud as you scan the menu, your thumbnail in between your teeth.

"get whatever you want." bucky says as he watches you. you catch him looking, and through your lashes, you watch his expression soften. "i don't like keeping a bunch of cash on me anyways."

you feel bad, but he's offering. you look down at the menu again, thumb playing with the frayed corner. after a minute, you ask, "so... what are you getting? the BLT looks good."

he shrugs lightly as he leans back against the booth. he gives you a small smile as he shakes his head. "i had somethin' back at the motel."

before you can reply, a waitress appears at the side of your booth. she's older, grey streaks in her brown hair and her eyes kimd but tired. her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and a red apron is tied around her waist. she reaches for her notepad and her pen, and then she smiles.

"evenin'." she greets. "what can i get for you folks?"

you sit up straight and smile, menu in hand. "hi. could i get one classic cheeseburger with fries? and two cokes, please."

the waitress nods and jots down your order on the notepad. you put the menu down thinking you're done, but then you look at bucky, and find that he's already looking at you. you blink at each other before an idea pops into your head.

"actually, sorry, could you make that two cheeseburgers?"

the look at bucky gives you makes you grin.

"of course, sweetheart. so two cheeseburgers with fries?" the waitress recounts, and you nod feeling a little victorious. "alright, it'll be out in no time."

"thank you." you smile.

the waitress leaves, and you lean back in the booth like you hadn't done anything. there's a moment of silence where you're smiling at bucky and he's staring back at you with a perplexed look.

"what was that?" bucky asks after a moment. his brows are raised, and the look on his face turns into amusement.

"what was what?" you reply, feigning innocence.

"that." he gestures vaguely to you. "the— you know... the cheeseburger thing."

you lean forwards. "i'm not gonna sit here and eat a burger while you stare at me, bucky. if we're doing this, we're gonna eat fries and drink out cokes together."

bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "anyone ever told you you don't play fair?"

"once or twice." you grin.

and just like the waitress had said, your cheeseburgers were out in now time. she slides the plates in front of you with practised ease, and you dive in without hesitation.

the bun is soft, the cheese is melted just enough that is droops off of the patty, and the fries are the perfect amount of crispy. you take a bite, one that makes you sigh in relief, and you dont even bother to eat politely. you scarf down half of your burger before bucky's even touched his.

he shoves a fry into his mouth as he watches you chew. "should i be worried you're gonna steal mine too?"

you swallow. "if you dont eat it fast enough, then maybe."

he huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he finally leans forwards and takes a proper bite of his burger.

the two of you keep eating, but your eyes drift back to bucky every so often. there's something about him that you just can't look away from— the way he holds his burger, the way he chews, the way his eyes watch the other customers behind you, the way his shoulders relax now that he's finally eating— but then, uninvited, your mind slips back to the photo in his duffel bag.

the worn edges. the fading colour. the way bucky looked. the man beside him. everything about it pulls at something in you.

you finish your burger and slow down. you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, your stomach full as you lean back to digest. you watch him for a moment longer before you tilt your head just slightly, reaching for a fry as if to imitate cluelessness.

"what did you do before all of... this?" you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere more questioning. "the hauling, i mean. the travelling and all that stuff. did you always do this, or was there... someone who got you into it?"

its subtle— something in the way your words trail off, in the way your eyes search his for an answer— and bucky clocks it immediately.

his jaw pauses mid-chew. his eyes flick between yours like he's replaying what you asked word-for-word. he swallows his food, and he squints just slightly.

"you snooped in my bag, didn't you?"

your shoulders tense. for a moment, you think about denying it or telling him that he's crazy, but you respect him too much to lie.

"i swear i didn't mean to. it was just... open, and i just—" you blink, huffing out a small breath. "i'm sorry."

bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. he takes another bite of his burger and continues chewing on his food while you stress the fuck out. you sort of just stare at him as he places his burger back down and takes a breath.

"'s fine. not much in there for you to take anyways." he says as he leans back. he crosses his arms against his chest, eyes flicking towards you. "i'm guessing you wanna know who he is."

"only if you want to tell me." you tell him.

a beat passes. then bucky exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's decided on something.

"alright. i'll tell you about sam—" his gaze sharpens just a bit, more intent now. "but you have to tell me more about your boyfriend."

the proposition sits in front of you heavier than you'd expected. your stomach twists, not with fear, but with the awareness that agreeing means opening a door you've been keeping shut.

but your curiosity— or maybe your resilience, that stubborn part of you that refuses to let your past dictate every choice you make— overcomes your fear.

"okay." you nod. "fine."

bucky leans back in the booth, hands reaching out to rest on the table. his fingers drum slightly on the table, his eyes unfocused for a second like he's replaying a memory in his mind.

"the man in the photo... his name is sam." he begins. "we were... friends. real good friends. we had a truck together once— an old thing, nothin' fancy, but we'd spent hours tinkerin' with it, fixin' whatever broke. sometimes we'd race the damn thing down the road just for somethin' to do. felt like we could do anything' back then."

his lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but into something fleeting. you watch as it passes on his face, brief but visible.

"where's sam now?" you ask softly.

bucky exhales. "i don't know. one day, we got into an argument about... everything and nothing, really. it was stupid. and then we just... went in different directions." he speaks slow like he's trying to remember, or maybe he's trying not to feel. there's something underneath, like he's choosing to trust you even if it costs him a second of discomfort.

"do you ever think of going back? of ever talking to him again?"

"all the time. not a day passes where i wish i could just... call him up and tell him i'm sorry." bucky admits. "i've done a lot of things wrong in my life, but not fixin' that... not tryin' to make it right... it sticks with me."

he pauses, fingers stilling on the table. "no matter what i do or where i go, a part of me stays back there— with him."

its said plainly, but there's something in the way that his jaw works that shows he's already said a lot more than he usually allows himself to. the memory isn't old or something fleeting he thinks about every so often. the memory of sam is still very much alive in bucky, and he carries it with him mile after mile.

bucky reaches over and grabs his coke. he brings the straw to his lips, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a sigh. he crosses his arms again, and his eyes flick back to you, steady now.

"that's all i've got. your turn."

you nod once, then again, like the motion might knock you out of the daze you'd pulled yourself into. there's a small inhale through your nose,

"right. okay, um— where do i start..." you think out loud, eyes focused on the condensation of your glass like it might give you an answer.

"i guess it started back in high school. i didnt have many friends or talked to anyone, so the moment a guy started paying attention to me, i guess i didn't know any better." you swallow, eyes unfocused now. "he was older. he knew how to talk, and he was confident, and i fell head over heels. it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever actually seen me."

"but then we moved in together, and it got bad. he hurt me— a lot." the laugh that leaves your mouth is more uncomfortable than anything humorous. your finger traces the edge of your plate just to try to ground yourself. "he knew how to do it in a way that made sure i'd always somehow come running back to him."

your voice wobbles on the last word, and thats when bucky moves.

its not abrupt or enough to startle you, and you barely even look up. he just leans forwards, forearms resting on the table now, like he's making sure you know he's there and that you don't have to do this alone. his jaw tightens, not angry at you, but in anger at the man who left scars you dont name.

"i didnt realise that the attention started turning into control." "you admit softly. "or how easy it is to mistake the control for love when you don't know any better. i don't know. sometimes i wish i could just... shove it all into a box and throw it from a moving car... and then go to bed and sleep for once."

"but would you be able to rest?" bucky asks.

"no." you shake your head. "no, i don't think i would."

you can hear a small sigh slip from his mouth, and you almost feel pathetic. you hated being pitied, and this was prime pity territory.

but then bucky reaches forwards to hold your shaking hand, his grip warm and steady. his thumb presses against your knuckles, grounding, like he knows exactly how close you're coming to slipping.

a part of you still shivers at the vulnerability you display— at being seen like this— but the tired part, the honest part, of you doesn't mind the contact if bucky is the one pitying you.

"sweetheart, people like that... they're good at makin' it feel like you're the problem. like you're the one who keeps messin' up. but that doesn't mean you were weak or stupid. it means you were young and you were lonely, and someone cruel decided to take advantage of that." his thumb presses into your skin just slightly. "you got out."

you look up for the first time since you started talking. your waterline burns with unshed tears, and there's a quiver in your lip despite your best attempts to keep it steady.

"i did something bad, bucky. i did something really bad."

he doesn't interrupt. he doesnt tense nor does he pull away. his hands stay exactly where they are in yours, his thumb stilling. his eyes search yours, waiting, giving you the space to speak.

"i shot him."

the words hang heavy in the air between you, whispered but still deafening, and for a second you think the world might come crashing down on you. you prepare for bucky to rip his hands away from you, to spit in your face, and leave you here to rot— but it never comes.

if anything, his grip on your hands tightens. bucky exhales through his nose. he's not shocked. he's not angry with you either— he could never be angry at you. his jaw tightens, and you watch as his thoughts pass in his eyes. his thumb resumes the small circular motion on your knuckles like he's trying to calm you down.

"okay." he says quietly, like he's afraid he might shatter something more fragile than you, like anything louder that leaves him might break you. "okay. thats okay."

his hands never leave yours, but you watch his face change like he's distanced himself from you.

"did you mean to?" he asks gently, not prying nor accusing, just trying to understand what happened. and before you can spiral into whatever answer you're forming, he adds, still soft, "you don't gotta justify yourself to me. i just wanna know what you're feelin' right now."

you pull away from his touch. it almost feels like too much. you retreat into yourself, hands holding yourself just for another sense of safety, but even then, you dont feel safe in your own skin. your fingers press into your sides just to remember that you're there and that you exist outside of the memory and the guilt and the fear.

"i don't know. i was just scared, and he was— he was yelling, and it was so loud. and i shot him, and i was— god, i don't even know if he's alive." you spit out all at once. you turn to bucky, "please don't be scared of me—"

"i'm not scared of you, princess."

bucky says it immediately— no pause, no hesitation— like there was never another option. his voice doesn't rise in anger or soften in pity, and he never once looks away from you.

"you were scared and you did what you needed to survive." he adds quietly. "nobody can blame you for that."

and for the first time since you've said it out loud, the word shot doesn't echo as violently in your mind as it once did. its still there, but it isn't screaming at you anymore.

you nod because its all you feel you can do. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the wetness, the vulnerability, the rawness you feel after admitting it for the first time.

"how about we get this packed up, and we'll head back." bucky suggests like he's offering you an out.

"yeah." you blink and nod, "okay."

and that's exactly what you do. you leave the diner in silence, and you drive back to the motel in the same silence. bucky helps you down from the truck, and he hands you the entire bag of food with the soft assurance that he 'isn't hungry', bidding you a good night at your room door.

in the shower, you stand under the running water until your skin prickles and your fingers prune, letting the water run over your body for what seems like hours, and when you get out of the shower, you lay in bed half under the covers staring at the ceiling and tracing the cracks and bumps for what feels like even longer.

your body is exhausted, but your mind won't follow. every time you blink, it's there again; the yelling, the smell of sweat and metal, how loud is was. god, it was so loud.

you see it in fragments. the way his face had changed, the split second wgere you realised this was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not, the recoil, the ringing in your ears, the sound of him collapsing, and the blood.

you suck in a breath and sharply turn your head to the side.

the alarm clock glows an ugly red. 3:04am. you reach over and click on the table lamp, and before you can overthink it, you swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the dresser where your duffel sits, half open and slumped against the wood.

you kneel in front of it and unzip it the rest of the way. you begin sifting through your belongings, your fingers clumsy but determined as you dig through scraps of your life that you've shoved together without much care.

and then your hand brushes against something heavy and metallic. you reach in and grab the gun by the barrel, pulling it out and watching as the metal glows under the lamp light before you pull it into your lap. a shotgun. it looks smaller there, stripped of context and fear, but your hands still remember the weight of it. your body itches like it's bracing for something you know has already happened.

you stare at it for a long time— the stupid, ugly thing that changed everything.

it'd been the thing you shoved into your boyfriends face when he'd threatened to keep you locked up in that cramped apartment of his. it'd been the reason he'd let you go, and the thing that saved your life; but simultaneously, it'd also been the thing that'd ruined you.

you decide to be rid of it.

one second you're sitting on the carpet with the shotgun on your lap, and the next, you're pulling on a spare hoodie and stepping out of your room, completely barefoot and all sense of rationality thrown out of the window. you dont even lock your room door.

you cross the small space between your room and bucky's. you knock once, twice, and then once more for good measure, knuckles stinging as soon as they make contact with the wood.

there's a pause. there's a shift. then the door opens.

the door creaks open, and from the dark, bucky emerges. the first thing that you notice is that he's shirtless, and the first thing he notices is that you're carrying a shotgun.

"what's wrong?" is the first thing he says. his voice is still gravely with sleep or something close to sleep, and you almost feel bad for dragging him into your drama again. he doesnt sound scared or in fear for his own life, but you can hear the concern laced in the question. "is that—"

"i want to get rid of it." your hands tighten around the barrel of the gun.

bucky doesn't ask why. he just nods once and steps back inside of his room to tug on a shirt and grab his keys.

the truck eats the miles quickly, the headlights carving a thin path through the dust and the scrub of the texas desert. the land opens up the further out you go, and the two of you drive until you can't see anything but the darkness. bucky pulls off of the road where the tires fade into the sand and kills the engine.

the land bucky helps you down onto is bare in a way that only places with nothing to witness can be. you cant see much further than a couple of feet ahead of you, and the silence is almost deafening. nobody is driving past on route 66 at this time, and nobody is there to watch you hide the weapon.

you hold the gun while bucky holds the shovel and a flashlight.

you dont know how far out you walk. the ground shifts under your bare feet, toes digging into the cooling sand and small stones, but you keep going until the heavy metal in your hands starts feeling heavier than your body can hold. when you glance over your shoulder, you can barely see the moonlight silhouette of the truck in the distance.

in front of you, bucky slows, his flashlight scanning the area out of habit, then he nods.

"here should be good." he says quietly, turning back to you just to check on you. "doubt anyone every comes out this far."

you don't reply. you simply nod, the action small, fingers curling tighter around the barrel and the handle. your throat feels thick, your words lodged there with nowhere to go, and maybe it's better that way. you dont know what you'd say even if you tried.

bucky holds the flashlight out for you to grab, and you take it and shine it at the ground. the light cuts a pale circle onto the sand, and your brows furrow when bucky presses the tip of the shovel into the ground, tasting the density.

"maybe i should do it." you interrupt, the words coming out thin, like you're testing out the question more than asking it.

he doesnt even look at you. "i've got it."

but you still feel so guilty. he doesnt even know your name and he here is on the border between new mexico and texas buring evidence for you.

"it's my gun, bucky." your grip tightens around the flashlight, the muzzle of the gun scratching against the ground. there's a quiet guilt and responsibility in it, a quiet belief that this is something you have to carry alone. "you don't have to do this for me—"

bucky sighs as he finally pauses to look at you. he pulls his hands from the handle of the shovel and folds them on top of each other on the handle, his eyes soft and unyielding like he's already made up his mind and he's just waiting for you to catch up.

"you already asked me to bring you out here, sweetheart. i'm not lettin' you do this on your own anymore." bucky says, quieter but no less sure, and his eyes never leave your face. "you've done enough survivin' by yourself. let me do this for you."

you hesitate for half a second longer like you might still argue, but the fight drains out of you instead. the way he's looking at you feels like he's willingly shouldering the weight with you— or maybe for you.

you nod once. "okay."

bucky gives you a short nod back like your compliance is all he needs before he turns to the shovel again. he drives the shovel down, the metal biting into the ground with a dull clang. he pulls the shovel from the ground before slamming it back down again, harder and stiffer this time like he knows exactly how much force to use and when.

you keep the flashlight trained on the growing divot, the beam wobbling just slightly whenever the shovel meets the ground. after a while of staring at bucky, you swallow, your voice low.

"do you think i could go to jail for this?" you ask him. the question had been running rampant in your mind ever since you'd left y the apartment in chicago.

bucky pauses mid-scoop for a second, head tilting upwards towards you. the raise of his brows and the small huffed out laugh he gives you makes the question you just ask feel stupid— and in retrospect, it probably was.

"people go to jail for less serious shit than shooting your ex-boyfriend, princess." he says, not unkind, just honest. he turns back to the ground and stabs into the sand. "if that asshole's still alive and he gives the cops a story about how you left guns a-blazin', you could be set up for attempted murder."

"oh." you mutter as you fight the urge to roll your eyes. "thanks bucky. that really helps. super comforting."

he huffs quietly. "you asked."

you kick at a mound of sand like it had personally wronged you, and it's only then that you realise you're completely barefoot. you're not sure when that happened.

"well—" you pause, flashlight dipping just slightly, "yeah, i asked, but hearing it that way instead of a simple yes or no or maybe just freaks me out."

"sorry." bucky exhales through his nose. "not much point in worryin' about it now. thinkin' that far ahead'll eat at you, and it sounds like it already has been."

"whatever." you grumble. "i at least wanna get to california before i get thrown in a cell to rot."

bucky glances at you. "and you will."

bucky finished digging the hole with a finally jab of his shovel, sand piling up around it in a large mound. he steps back and nods towards it, giving the the go-ahead without saying it out loud. you lean down and place the gun inside, pushing it down as far as it can go, the metal scratching against the sand as it sinks inside. when you stand back up, you cross your arms over your chest.

the weapon you'd used to maim someone now looked so small. stripped of its power and its noise. just a cold, ugly thing sitting in a hole in the ground.

for a long while, the two of you just stare at the gun. there's not much to look at, but there's something about it that just feels different now. it doesn't look like fear or adrenaline anymore. it just looks out of place, almost wrong, like it never belonged in your hands in the first place.

bucky breaks the silence first, his question a little too casual for the context behind it. "was it a good shot at least?"

you turn your head just slightly to look at him, and he does the same. he watches you as you search for the answer, a soft sigh falling from your mouth.

"i got him right in the shoulder." you bluntly reply, your voice quiet even in the silence of the desert. "he was bleeding a lot, though. almost thought his arm was going to fall off."

bucky hums once, his face unreadable, then he steps forwards and starts pushing the gathered sand back into the hole. you watch as the ground swallows the gun, and inadvertently swallows up everything else you'd brought with you— the dread, the panic, the buzzing tension you'd felt for so long.

but you feel a lot better now. of course you still have the topic of being homeless and being arrested on your mind, but at least you aren't carrying around the immediate weight of that cold metal in your hands. the gun is gone, and you can rest a little easier now.

you stand there for a moment longer as bucky finishes up, kicking the sand around so it looks a little less messed with. then, almost wordlessly, the two of you walk back to the truck.

he opens the truck door for you, helps you in, and then he circles around the front and gets in his seat. the engine growls as it comes to life and the headlights blink on like the sun on a bleak morning, and with a few pressed buttons and pulled levers, bucky is pulling the truck back onto the road and back towards the motel.

the road is steady underneath the wheels, and for the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter. neither of you really speak at first. the desert stretches onwards, and your eyes glance to the small analogue clock on the dashboard— 4:17am.

and it's almost like bucky can sense the exhaustion that laces your bones. he glances at you, his own eyes tired although his mind is anything but. "you think you're gonna sleep much tonight?"

you shrug, staring out of the windscreen. "i'll try. there's still a lot on my mind."

your thoughts drift, unbidden and unruly— memories of your boyfriend, the way things had been once and how they are now, and the tension you felt in your body when you left home— but the thought of your him somehow brings you back to trucks, and the thought of trucks and sleep brings you back to the thought of the sleeper cab of a semi truck.

a little impulsively, you twist in your seat and pull at the curtain that sits behind you and you peek inside. the little bed sits neatly against the wall, the blankets neatly made and the singular pillow slightly askew at the head of the bed. it's nothing inherently interesting, but it's something that's always confused you.

bucky glances at you in the rear view mirror, "what are you lookin' for back there?"

"just looking at the bed. i've never seen one in real life." you casually reply, "is it comfy back there? mattress looks thin."

bucky half shrugs, his eyes ahead on the road. "it gets the job done, but its not as good as the real thing."

you pull the curtain back just a little further. it's hard to see in the dark, the shadows making it hard to see any object in real detail, but you can make out the pillows and the blankets, a small shelf with a basket full of miscellaneous items— a couple of batteries, a bottle of painkillers, an empty water bottle, and a couple of magazines. you cant read the words, but even in the dark, you can make out the shape of a... is that a lady wearing a playboy bunny costume?

you turn back to bucky and find that he's already watching you through the rear view mirror like a hawk. his brows are slightly furrowed, his eyes dark and steady, but theres a small, sly tilt of his lips.

"are those... playboy magazines?" you almost laugh, glancing at bucky with your brows raised and a cheeky grin. you tease, "those get the job done too?"

theres a moment where bucky sucks on his teeth and glances at you over his shoulder, and you think you should've probably kept your mouth shut— but then he smirks.

"like i said—" bucky lets the corners of his mouth curl, his voice low as he replies. "not as good as the real thing."

oh.

you blink. you blink again. you blink so much that you think you might actually start crying, or throw up, or do something equally humiliating. heat crawls up the length of your neck, settling in your cheeks. what the hell do you reply to that?

"right." you manage, pushing it out a little too quickly. you slide the curtain shut and turn back in your seat, tugging at your seatbelt to get it adjusted right. "yeah. that— that makes sense."

you clear your throat, forcing yourself to stare forwards at the dark stretch of highway instead of paying any attention to bucky. you can feel him glancing at the side of your face, lingering whenever you feel particularly flustered, and you can hear the soft chuckle he makes at your reaction that he doesn't even try to hide.

it settles somewhere low in your stomach, warm and aggravating and far too effective for how little he's actually doing.

god, that image is gonna be burnt in your mind forever.

the motel sign flickers back into view not long after, and the breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant. the neon lights buzz as bucky pulls into the parking lot, headlights beaming over the building before he kills the engine and opens the doors. you follow, and he circles the front and he helps you down from the truck just like he usually does, your hands on his shoulders while his wrap around your waist. it lasts for only a second, but it lingers on your skin all the same.

you walk side by side towards your rooms, the ground luke-warm under your feet and the air cooler now that the night has deepened. it's quiet now in the way most empty places are— no noises or other people for miles, just the two of you sliding your keys into the locks and pushing open your doors.

and when you're about to step foot into your dark room, that's when bucky clears his throat. you pause, poking your head out of the doorframe.

"hey. i'm, uh..." he pauses, voice slower than usual. "i'm sorry about earlier. in the truck. i didnt mean to make things weird."

you blink before the conversation floods your mind. you take a step back out of the door and put on your best attempt of trying to act nonchalant before swallowing down the butterflies that come with the memory.

"there's nothing to be sorry about. its a normal human function and we're both adults." you reply with a casual smile, but you're not sure if you're actually convincing anyone. "right?"

bucky doesn't answer right away. he just sort of looks at you like he's thinking about something that he hasn't decided how to say yet, his jaw clenching once as if he decides against saying anything at all.

"right." he watches you for a second longer, unreadable eyes falling to the dip of your neck, his gaze tracing your collarbone before he looks up again. he gives you a small nod, "get some sleep, okay?"

"i'll try. thanks again for tonight. i really do appreciate it." you pause with a small, faint smile, then quieter, you add, "goodnight, bucky."

"goodnight, princess." bucky replies, his voice soft and steady, carrying enough warmth to make your chest tighten.

and then you're both retreating into your own rooms, doors closing and keys clicking, the thin motel walls swallowing whatever else might've been said.

you don't bother turning on the lights. you pad towards the bed, feet brushing against the carpet to get rid of the sand that sticks to your toes, drop keys onto the tiny table and crawl into bed like sleep might take pity on you if you lie down fast enough.

minutes pass. you glance at the clock. 4:56am. its only been thirty minutes, but it feels like you've been in bed for hours. you lie there on your back half under the covers, your eyes tracing the cracks and divots in the ceiling like they might lead somewhere else, trying to will your brain to shut up, but it doesn't.

the magazines. the sleeper. the idea of bucky

you had meant what you said earlier about how it is a normal human function and that you're both adults and can joke about this sort of stuff all the time and it shouldn't matter, but the mere thought of bucky getting himself off makes you feel like a pervert.

you roll onto your side with a frustrated huff, pulling the blankets tighter over your body as if it might smother the thoughts that plague you, but you have no such luck.

not as good as the real thing.

your brain is cruel enough to supply you images you definitely don't want— bucky alone in the sleeper cab in low light and the magazine crinkling awkwardly in his hands. his pants pool just above his knees, his hand gliding down his stomach, brushing past his happy trail and the waistband of his underwear, the rough palm of his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, the slow looseness of his jaw as it falls open with every tentative stroke—

oh god. you squeeze your eyes shut, heat blooming under your skin, mortified by how fast your own brain betrayed you. you try to push the thought away before it can fully form, like distance is something you can try to manufacture in your head, but it's difficult.

"jesus," you mutter into the empty room.

this is ridiculous. you're exhausted. you're emotionally wrecked. you're traumatised. you should be asleep, and thats all you want to do; so why do you feel so wet? it's pathetic, really, getting wet over the thought of a handsome stranger after he made one joke, but now you're never going to be able to sleep when the heat between your legs feels inescapable.

your hand— almost like it senses your desperation— trails down the length of your stomach and slides past the band of your underwear, fingers dipping through your folds, and the ragged breath that leaves you is almost shameful.

you slide a finger into your weepy entrance, the rhythm you set is slow, the pads of your fingers brushing against your insides at the same pace you imagine bucky would touch you. you can't stop imagining it's his fingers instead of your own.

"bucky." you whine breathlessly into the air as you glide in another finger, the stretch almost delicious.

you pump in and out of your cunt until youre panting into the side of your pillow, until your hips move on their own, until you feel that familiar heat growing deep in your stomach.

then you catch it. cedarwood. musk. his scent. your shirt still smells like him from all those miles you spent sitting in his truck, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth at the smell brings you closer to the edge.

"faster— god, please." you beg, brows furrowing and mouth falling slack as you speed up the assault on your pussy.

you continue until you feel that tight ball of heat finally in your stomach snap. you barely have time to shove your face into your pillow before a borderline pornographic moan rips from your throat, breath hot into the cotton as you grind into your hand.

you pull your shirt over your nose, inhaling bucky's scent with every breath you take, and you find that sleep washes over you easier that night.

the morning light seeps into your room in thin and warm stripes through the curtains, landing across your legs and the crumbled up sheets. you wake slowly— not startled or filled with dread, just rising with a sense of awareness of things of you'd been too overwhelmed with to notice before.

your body feels lighter than it has in a while, rested in a way that almost surprises you. you're not sure if it's because you'd buried one of your biggest worries under four feet of sand or if it was because of your late night self-love session. either way, it was a win for you.

you sit up in the bed, sleep still fuzzy in your eyes, and you look over at the alarm clock— 2:34pm. you'd slept for a while.

then you hear it. the low rumble of a truck outside. it's definitely bucky's— because who else would pull over into this fuckass motel— but it sounds different, almost steadier, not rattling like it had been the last few times you'd heard it. it idles smoothly and confidently, like it finally wants to be running.

you kick the sheets off, pad across the room, shove your feet into your shoes with half-assed effort, and push the door open without bothering to check yourself in the mirror.

the afternoon suns shoots down at you from the sky, rays burning against your skin as you step outside, door closing behind you as you make yourself towards the scene.

bucky is at his usual spot near the hood, shoulders bend and back hunched over the engine, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder and his grey tank dark in places, spotted with sweat and oil stains, clinging to his body in a way that makes it very hard for you not to notice how broad he is.

but you try to ignore those thoughts and the fact that you'd fucked yourself to the thought of him last night. you perk up, hands folding in front of you as you put on an award winning smile.

"morning." you greet, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep but still light.

bucky is quick to cock his head to the side, and when he sees it's you, he straightens, hands still leaning against the metal of the vehicle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the truck continues to purr under his palms.

"mornin'." he says back, low and easy like it's the easiest thing in the world. his eyes flick over you once— almost habitual— before  finally settling on your face. "you look happy."

you grin. "i feel happy. she sounds better than she has all week. did you figure out what was wrong?"

bucky groans as he leans back up, pulling at the rag on his shoulders and wiping off his hands, eyes focused on the newly fixed engine. "yup. figured it out about an hour or two ago. somethin' wrong with the fuel line, but i managed to fix it up. i think she'll be ready for the road tomorrow morning.

he gives the metal of the truck a light tap as you nod before his attention drifts back to you. this time, his eyes dont just flick over you once; they take their time, slow and analysing, like he's reading something you're trying not to show.

his gaze lingers at your face, on your posture, on the way you hold yourself in an unwittingly protective stance in response to his peering eyes. his mouth curls into a smirk, almost amused.

he nods towards you, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, voice even, but now there's something in the way he speaks that makes you wonder if he knows.

"it was fine." you meekly reply with a pathetic smile.

bucky hums under his breath in acknowledgment. his eyes stay on yours, unreadable in nature but not unkind. after a second, he exhaled and rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to release the tension that weaves through his muscles.

"hey, you still got the leftovers from the dinner?" he asks.

you blow out a huff of air through your mouth as you glance back towards your room. "i think so. i can heat it up if you're hungry."

"yeah." he says easily. "that's be great."

so that's exactly what you do— after all, it's the least you could do for bucky after he'd practically sidelined his own mission just for you. you head back to your room, pull out the leftovers, head over to the kitchen.

you pop the lid off of the leftovers and slide it over to the microwave, but when you press the button, but there isn't a beep nor is there any numbers on display. you press it again, harder this time like it might flicker to life, but it doesn't. the microwave sits there dead and useless, smelling faintly of popcorn and disappointment.

"great." you murmur.

after a moment, you snap the lid back onto the container. there's only one other option, and you already dread it— trevor.

you enter the office, the air conditioning hitting you square in the face the moment you open the door. you step forwards and ring the cheap desk bell on the counter, and the back room door opens by the second ding. trevor steps out, glasses askew, a few strands of his dirty blonde hair sticking up in strange directions, and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth like it's part of his uniform.

you don't bother with pleasantries and are quick to get to the point. "the microwave in the kitchen is broken. is there any way you could fix it or maybe heat this up for me?"

trevor squints at you, unimpressed. "i'm not doin' no favours for you after the attitude you've been givin' me ever since you stepped foot onto the property."

"it's not for me." you tip your head towards the window. "it's for him."

both of you glance towards the parking lot. bucky's by the truck, still working, still sweating, still leaning over the hood in a way that makes his muscles look extra toned in the sun and his body look carved out of heat and hard work. you feel your heart thump against your ribs and trevor lets out a pathetic huff, but you're sure you and trevor both look away for different reasons.

he sucks on his teeth as he looks you up and down once because he holds his hand out and makes a gesture for you to hand it over. "i got one in the back. it'll be a minute."

you hand it over with a shit-eating grin. "i can wait."

trevor murmurs something under his breath as he disappears behind the back door. a few seconds later, the microwave kicks on— a loud, rattling sound that you can hear even through the shut door.

you tap your fingers against the counter, eyes wandering around the offie. there's a popping noise that catches your attention, and you find yourself looking out of the window and watching bucky again.

he wipes his hands on his rag and tosses it back onto his shoulder, unaware of your eyes on him and focused enough that his tongue sticks out against his lower lip in concentration. there's something unusually calming about watching him work like this, like the world is simple under the hood of a truck.

"... authorities are still searching for the suspect responsible for the shooting of a man in central chicago last week.

your fingers curl at the edge of the counter? your eyes darting towards the small red radio in the corner of the room. you lean over and turn the volume knob until you can hear the words clearly over the microwave.

"witnesses describe her as..."

your blood runs cold.

the description never seems to end. your hair colour and texture, your eye colour, your skin colour, your height, your build, your type of clothing. everything is listed. it feels like everything about you is being peeled open and dissected live on air for millions to hear.

"... authorities urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of this individual to come forward..."

you turn to the back room door.

you're not sure if trevor can even hear the broadcast, but you hope that he set the timer for longer than a minute. the microwave whirs loudly behind the door, drowning out the radio, and you go silent as if the broadcaster could hear you if you spoke, like any sound you make would make them aware of where you are.

and then it ends. just like that, the radio clicks, replaced by cherry country music that spills back into the room as if nothing had ever happened. you don't realise how tight you'd been holding the counter until you hwar the beep of the microwave from behind the door, and trevor pushes it open with his foot soon after, the steaming container in his hands.

you swallow your fear as trevor slides the leftovers across the counter towards you, forcing your hands to uncurl from around the table.

"it's hot—" he starts, but your hands wrap around the container anyways and you pull it from him.

you turn and shoulder the door open with little care.

"not like i wanted a thank you or anythin'." trevor shouts behind you as you practically shut the door on his face.

the heat seeps through the container and into your palms as you cross the lot towards bucky. he straightens when he sees you, lips already curling into a smile and his mouth parting like he's about to say something.

"what were you doin' in th—"

you lean down and place the leftovers on the top of his toolbox, catching his wrist and pulling him to the side of the truck all without missing a single step. the shade from the truck's body swallows you both, and you almost bucky's quick to steady you, brows knitting as his free hand comes up almost instinctively to hold you by the upper arm.

his brows furrow at the worry in your face. "woah, what's goin' on?"

"we have to go. we have to leave today or tonight, okay? like right now." you rush out in a singular breath. it almost feels like everything from chicago had come back to bite you in the ass.

"hey— slow down." he says, another arms reaching out to hold you steady by your shoulders. he lowers his head slightly, looking at you through his eye lashes. "what happened, sweetheart?"

your lip quivers, and bucky reaches up to cup your face in one of his hands. his thumb presses firmly into the skin on your cheekbone, and the touch is reassuring enough for you to speak.

"in the office, they were talking about what happened— what i did. they started listing all these things about me. my hair, my eyes, my— just everything."

something ticks in bucky's jaw. he glances past you towards the office for half a second, his expression almost unreadable. his shoulders square like he's bracing himself for a hit he'd been expected but still hated taking.

the hand that cups your cheek falls back to your shoulder. "did they say anythin' about a location?" bucky asks, eyes boring into yours.

you shake your head. "no. it just said that there's a suspect, said my full name, and described exactly how i look." "

"and did he hear anythin'?" he asks again.

"no, he was—" you shake your head, glancing over your shoulder towards the office where you can see the top of trevor's head. "he was in the back room with the door closed and the microwave was way too loud."

bucky exhales long and slow, like he's trying to come up with both a plan and a promise at the same time. it doesnt help that you're watching him like he's the only thing keeping you afloat.

his hands fall from your shoulders and rest on his hips.

"alright," he says at last. "we're okay for now."

your chest tightens. "but bucky—"

"hey." his voice softens, his eyes the calm of the storm in the hurricane of emotions you feel. "if they knew where you were, they wouldn't be broadcastin' it all over the radio. this place'd be locked down and you wouldn't be talkin' to me right now. we're fine."

you nod, hesitant, but you're sure he means it.

"and even if they were here, i wouldn't go done without a fight." he adds, trying to cheer you up. "i've had my fair share of encounters with the law."

the mental image is ridiculous enough to shake a bit of the nerves out of you. you let out a soft scoff, eyes rolling just slightly as some of the tension actually manages to bleed away.

"i'm serious, princess." bucky defends himself, brows raised in complete seriousness even though you can hear the tinge of dry humour in his tone. "i fought the cops before and i'll do it again if i have to. just say the word and i'm goin' in there, fists swingin'."

"you can't fight the cops, bucky." you tell him.

"fine. maybe not, but look... how about you just—" he exhales through his nose, the humour escaping from his voice. he gestures vaguely to the toolbox you'd set the food down on. "sit down while i work, have somethin' to eat, and then we'll figure out a plan."

you nod, the last of the tension seeping out ouf you as you finally let yourself believe him. you both turn, bucky's hand falling to your back to direct you to the large toolbox, the metal still warm from the sun. you grab the food and sit down, appetite slow but present, while bucky turns back to the truck, his hands disappearing back into the engine.

you watch him while you eat. the way his shoulder flex, the occasional mutter of something irrelevant under his breath, the pause he takes every so often to think, his jaw set and his eyes focused. its ordinary— almost domestic— and somehow that normalcy steadies you a lot more than any reassurance could.

every so often, bucky glances over just to make sure you're still there with him, and you always are.

as you continue to eat, you realise you'd practically consumed the entirety of the leftovers. all that's left is a quarter of a cheeseburger and a couple of fries, and you feel a little guilty for taking what was meant to be bucky's food.

"are you going to eat anything?" you ask.

bucky pokes his head out from the hood. "no, i'm good. have what you can and i'll have whatever's left over."

you furrow your brows at the slight smile he has sitting on his face, and then it slowly dawns on you. he never really wanted the food— not for himself, anyway. he just wanted to make sure you ate.

you glance down at what's left, then back up at him. without a word, you extend the container out to him, eyebrows lifting just enough to make your point.

bucky pauses. he looks at the food, then at you.

"bossy." he mutters, but there's no real malice in it.

he reaches out and takes what remains of the cheeseburger and takes a bite out of it like he hasn't eaten all day. then another, and another, and the burger is gone in seconds.

you can't help the smile the spreads across your face.

bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gives you a quick, almost sheepish look, because he clears his throat and goes back to fixing the fuel line like nothing had happened.

you stay right there, sunlight warm on your skin, the truck humming beside you, bucky working hard, and for now, you decide this is enough.

night comes gently.

the texas heat bleeds out of the day, replaced by silence and the occasional cricket chirp, the low buzz of the motel sign outside ringing softly in your ears as you shuffle around the belongings in your duffel bag, reorganising the mess and ensuring you have everything you left with.

you have less than a day left here. in the morning, you'd have to leave. you dont know how you'll get there, but you've mustered up enough courage to ask bucky if you could hitch a ride to california. after all, you'd basically spent the past three days spilling your deepest darkest secrets to him; you aren't just going to leave him now.

you're in your room in the partial darkness, body enveloped in the shadows while the far corner of the room is covered in light from the table lamp. the curtains stir slightly in the breeze of the rattling air conditioning, and its so quiet that you can almost hear the electricity running through the walls.

you pause mid-movement, fingers brushing against something small and cold at the bottom of your bag. you reach in and pull it out.

a locket.

it's small. easy to forget. you'd ripped it off the moment you'd gotten on a bus to st louis and thrown it into your bag hoping it'd get lost and you'd never see it again.

you turn the locket over in your palm, the snapped chain curling around your fingers as you inspect the scratched piece of jewellery. it doesn't open, at least not anymore. the hinge bent inwards and snapped the last time you'd forced it closed, and you're almost grateful for your harsh treatment of the metal. you dont even try to open it. you already know what's in there: a picture of you and your boyfriend, one where you're forcing a  smile and he isn't bothering to even try to look happy. 

for a moment, you just stand there. the weight of it heavy against your skin in the same way it'd been heavy around your neck when you still cared for it. then you cross the room and drop it into the trash. it makes a soft, dull thud at it hits the bottom, and you barely flinch as the engraved flowers stare back up at you.

it's gone now, and although a version of you from the past wouldve mourned the cheap locket, the version of you now feels better without it weighing you down.

then comes a knock at the door. it's soft but firm, and you know who it is before you even look over your shoulder. you wipe your hands out of habit as if the locket was filth and cross the room, the lock clicking and the handle squeaking as you open the door.

bucky is standing there. he looks cleaner than he did when the two of you said goodnight a few hours ago, and truth be told, you're not sure why he's here. he's wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably thinks are comfortable but are covered in splashes of paint and dark spots of dried enamel. the shitty LED light that glows overhead bathes him in a glow that almost makes him look angelic, and you almost have to do a double take.

"hey." he says.

you blink. "hey."

the two of you stand there for a moment. bucky rocks on his heels with his hands in his back pockets and your fingers drum against the back of your door, both of you waiting for the other to say something.

"uh," you clear your throat. "did you... need something?"

his brows raise just slightly like you'd pulled him out of a thought, then he shakes his head once, "no, i just... wanted to check in. make sure you were okay."

something soft blooms in your chest at his words, and a part of you is glad that you shot your boyfriend. that asshole wouldnt have bothered to check on you, and he certainly wouldn't have asked if you were okay. if anything, he would've been the reason you were feeling like complete shit.

"you can—" you hesitate, door creaking open a little more as you step to the side, "you can come in. if you want. i could use the company."

"yeah." he nods. "okay."

you step back as he steps inside, his once confident footsteps falling just short of awkward as he steps into your room. you close the door behind him, the lock clicking shut, pushing the night out and sealing the two of you into the silence of your room.

bucky glances around the room, and the poor guy looks like he's never been in a woman's room before. his gaze falls on your shoes messily discarded by the door, then towards the bed and it's mess, and then it lands on your duffel bag. clothes are still thrown everywhere, and he looks like he might combust at the sight of so much... woman.

you smile softly as you walk back over to your bag, glancing over your shoulder just to glance at him. "you can sit down if you want to, bucky. you're not gonna get cooties or anything."

"...right." he mutters with another nod, and yet he hesitates anyways and decides to sit on the edge of your bed, his thigh just barely brushing against the side of your duffel bag, and he glances down at it before looking back at you. "reorganising?"

you huff out a small, tired breath as you go back to digging in your bag. "just trying to see what i brought. it all happened so fast that i forgot how fast i packed up my shit and left."

you pull out a hoodie and hold it up to the light. the logo of one of your favourite bands stares back at you, you haven't worn it in ages because your boyfriend insisted that you listen to 'girlier' bands, and you being naive and compliant, you listened. the small frown that grows on your face doesn't go unnoticed by bucky.

"you should put it on." he suggests, leaning back on the bed with his palms pressed firmly into the mattress.

you "i'm not even sure if it fits—" "then you should see if it does. no harm in tryin'." he's quick to interrupt.

you blink at him, but he just cocks his head like he wants you to do just as he said. you hesitate, fingers tightening over the worn fabric, then you huff out a breath and tug it over your head.

its a little oversized, but it fits better than you expect it to. the sleeves fall just past your wrists and the hem brushes against your thighs, the fabric warm against your skin, finally yours again in a way it hasn't been in a long time.

you glance down at yourself, then at bucky. "happy?"

"very." he says, a grin pulling easy at his mouth as he tilts his head. he jokes, "suits you. i don't think you should ever take it off."

you roll your eyes at him, already reaching for the hem of the hoodie. "very funny, buck." you say dryly. "it's a million degrees outside. i'd die if i kept it on forever."

you grab the bottom of the hoodie, pulling it upwards to pull it off, the action slow and barely thought through. the cotton slides back over your stomach, the cool air brushing against your skin as it takes your shirt up with it for a couple of inches.

and bucky's eyes drop without meaning to— for a long, gruelling second— just long enough for him to catch the tiniest sliver of black lace peeking out of the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging into the plush of your hips.

it's practically nothing— barely there— but it's enough.

"shit." he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible but still loud enough for you to catch it as you pull the hoodie over your head.

but just as quick as it had appeared, it vanishes as your shirt falls back down the length of your stomach. his eyes linger for a second longer before flicking back up to your face, hair messy from the hoodie.

"hmm?" you hum as you toss the hoodie somewhere on the bag, brow raised just slightly as you ask him about what he said. "did you say something?"

bucky blinks before he quickly shakes his head, tongue running over his teeth as an involuntary way to distract himself. he sits back up and readjusts himself, digging his elbows into his knees to try and hide the growing tent in his pants, but the faintest amount of tension in his posture has you furrowing your brows.

"nothin' important." he mutters, but there's a tightness in the way he says it. "it was, uh... nothin'."

you brush it off. you lean back into your bag, sifting through clothes and belongings before deciding that you've had enough. you lean over and grab a shirt and shove it back into the bag, not bothering to fold it.

bucky watches you for a second, completely silent. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you move, and you try your best to not pay him any attention. finally, he clears his throat.

"your... boyfriend," bucky starts, the title cold and a little accusatory on his tongue, but there's something in his tone that's more careful than it is angry. "you always talk about how he wasn't good to you. talks all big, but inside, he's really just an asshole with a tiny dick."

you sigh, just shy of a laugh. "sounds just like him."

your words come out flat, but there's a crack underneath them that gives you away. you hadn't meant to sound hurt— you tried not to— but the ache sneaks through anyways.

bucky. notices. of course he does. before you can turn back to your things, he reaches out and catches your wrist, his fingers closely gently around your skin, stopping you mid-motion.

"sit." he tells you.

and pathetically enough, you do exactly as he asks. his demands dont fall onto you in the same way your boyfriends did. bucky's are softer and rooted in certainty rather than control, and you're not sure if you could ever disobey him.

you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand settling in your lap while bucky holds the other. your heart thuds against your ribs as your eyes flick between his, never quite brave enough to stay there for long enough. you exhale a small breath, eyes trailing down the curve of his throat, tracing over the bump of his adams apple, and settling on the hollow at the base of his neck where you can see the soft thump of his pulse beating underneath his skin.

bucky swallows when he notices. his thumb just barely shifts against your knuckles, like he's trying to ground himself more than you are.

but god, he smells so good. it's unfair how something so subtle can make your thoughts slow and your pulse speed up. you don't want to think about it, you just want more of it. you almost want to slip his shirt off of him and wear it so the scent lingers even when he moves away.

you want to sit a little closer. you want the bed to be smaller. you want any excuse just for him to touch you more, for him to stop holding onto your hand and touch you in all of the places you'd imagined him touching the night before.

bucky's head dips, eyes focused on where his hand begins to trail down to your fingers, the rough skin on his hands ghosting over your soft knuckles like he's memorising every single joint and every swirl embedded in your skin.

"did he ever pay attention to the little things?" he asks quietly. his thumb brushes gently over your ring finger, pressing into the skin where an expensive ring would sit if he had his way. "like how pretty your hands are. how careful you are with them."

your breath hitches as his hand trails back up your arm, the tips of his fingers climbing up until they're pressed firmly on the skin just under your shirt sleeve, warm and intrusive in all of the right ways.

"or how when you're nervous, there's a little hitch in your breath like you forget how to breathe." his thumb shifts, feeling it happen again as he presses into the plump skin. his eyes lift to yours then, searching your face for something you'd never say out loud. "he ever notice that?"

you whisper, "bucky, what are you talking about—"

"your boyfriend never... took care of you, did he?" the question is innocent, but there's something deeper hidden in the words. this isn't idle curiosity, this is something that wants to claim.

"what do you—" you swallow, your mouth suddenly thick with saliva that makes the words stick half out. "what do you mean?"

bucky doesn't answer immediately. his eyes drop back to where his hand is held against your arm, his other hand sliding slowly up the side of your thigh until he has a firm grip on you. his thumb traces tiny circles into the skin, and he can feel the slight quiver you try to hide so hard.

"never made you feel good? never made you cum?" he murmurs, lips parting just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet his lips. then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you probably got off better last night than he ever did for all those years."

and just as head observed, your breath hitches ahain, catching in your throat at his words. god, you thought you were quiet. fuck this stupid motel and fuck its stupid thin walls and fuck bucky. fuck him and his stupid deep voice and his stupidly big hands that make you shiver under his touch.

you blink. "you... heard that?"

he shifts in his spot, moving further onto the bed so he can face you completely. his hand moves from your arm and slides up the side of your neck. his hand cups your jaw, thumb digging into the dip of the bone as he tilts your head, eyes glazing over the soft skin and imagining how pretty it'd looked all bitten and bruised.

"the walls are thin. i heard everything, sweetheart." bucky admits, his voice so low and his lips so close to yours that arousal starts pooling low in your stomach. "your breathing when you touched yourself through your panties... that gasp when you finally dipped your fingers into your needy pussy. could practically hear every time you pumped yourself full of those pretty fingers."

the hand that rests on your thigh slides a little higher, just enough that his thumb digs into your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him the most.

"bucky." you almost whimper.

"heard you say my name too, just like that. almost burst through the door right then and there." he continues, his voice low and even, but you watch as his brows knit together softly as his thumb digs into your inner thigh. "but no. had to settle for my hand instead and imagine it was yours."

you lean into his hand, the warmth and the roughness of his skin something you'd been craving for far too long.

"tell me." he whispers, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. "tell me you want me to stop and i will."

you shake your head. "i don't want you to stop—"

and he doesnt wait any longer. bucky leans in fast, almost crashing into you as he pushes you back onto the bed. his lips find yours, demanding and insistent, and your chest tightens as soon as you meet him halfway, caught off guard with how much heat he's radiating. there's no teasing or testing, just the urgency of him needing to close the space between the two of you.

his tongue parts your lips in a quick and desperate action, pressing against yours like all he wants to do is taste you.

his knee slips up until it presses against your clothed cunt, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the soft cotton of your shorts. you pant into his mouth and he swallows them with ease, pressing his leg harder against you as you press down onto him.

the hand that rests on your throat trails down until he has a firm grip around your neck, pressing gently into the skin. his other hand digs into your hip, dragging your hips against his thigh until you leave a spot of your own arousal on the fabric of your shorts. you grind down on his knee, trying to find friction where you need it the most. your hands rest on his sides, and you barely have time to break away for a breath before he's swallowing your words. 

"buck." you manage to whine.

a low groan leaves his mouth, his hands leaving your hips despite the small hesitant 'no' that leaves your lips.

"i like when you call me that." he murmurs before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick with something heavy and almost inhumane— a need to be close, a need to be in you.

his hands trail away from your hip, rough fingertips dipping inside of your shirt and dragging along the soft skin of your stomach, reaching higher and higher until he hits the band of your bra. you reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up until it bunches just below your neck, putting your bra on full display for him.

bucky pulls away from the kiss, his lips all bitten and coated in saliva. almost impatiently, he slides a hand under your back and lifts you up, hand fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it clicks open with a satisfying pop. they spill out as bucky pulls the confining fabric away.

"fuck." he groans, "such pretty tits."

his head dips down before he can even really think, dragging his tongue across the flesh of your breast, lapping up any of the salty sweat that'd gathered in the valley of your chest, his other hand massaging what he can't abuse with his mouth. and when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, the sound wet and loud in the quiet of your room, you arch into his touch. your hips rut against the air trying to find friction— any friction— but he moves his leg the moment he feels you press against him.

"no, please—"

he detaches from your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the bruised skin. he pushes himself up onto his knees and eagerly tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground beside the bed. he glows in the dim light, catching the dips of his shoulders and his chest, highlighting all the soft scars and burns from his work, and all of the muscle that he'd gained over the years of hard work. it's nothing you haven't seen before, but you're not complaining either.

he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off, and you lift your hips to give him easier access. he slides them down the length of your legs and off of the tip of your toes before he discards them just as he did with his shirt, and the site that greets him steals his breath.

you're wearing possibly the laciest panties he's ever seen. there's almost no opaque fabric, thin lace barely covering anything. its more of a thong than actual underwear. his thumb runs along the edge of your panties, tracing the lace like it's a physical manifestation of everything you need and want.

"did you wear these for me?" he asks.

he sounds so sweet— so sure— that he's the reason you're wearing them, and if you entire body wasn't already warm with desire, you're sure it was burning from embarrassment.

"no, they were—" you swallow, almost embarrassed as the truth slips out of your mouth. "they were my only clean pair."

he hums softly, a small smile playing at his face as he lets out the smallest amused huff. "cute."

you smile, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to your lips. you chase his mouth when he pulls away, but let out a soft gasp when he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another onto your jaw. he presses one onto your neck, kisses your collarbone, and continues downwards until his lips find the delicate lining of your panties.

he hooks a hand under your knee and gingerly places it into his shoulder, his hands wrapping around your waist so he can pull you closer to his face. you hold your breath, waiting for what you think is going to happen to happen. your boyfriend could never get this part right.

and then he does it. bucky presses a chaste kiss to the fabric of your panties, lips pressing into the fabric with a delicious pressure. his tongue darts out of his mouth as he licks a long, slow strip across your clothed pussy, soaking what little fabric there is covering you with his saliva and your slick.

you bite down on your hand and he groans at the taste, eyes flicking from your face to the soaked fabric. he reaches forwards, hooking a finger around it and tugging it to the side, and you instinctively clench at the knowledge that you're practically laid out for him and on full display. he's so close that you can feel his breath fanning over your cunt, and you don't think you'd trade this feeling for anything in the world.

he leans in and presses a kiss to your inner thigh before he licks a slow wet stripe from the bottom of your leaking pussy right to your clit.

you let out a moan, biting down on your finger until it burns, but he reaches up and pulls your hand from your mouth. he interlocks his fingers with yours and places your hands firmly against your hips.

"don't be shy, baby." he murmurs into your cunt, not bothering to come up to make sure you can hear it. "wanna hear every noise you make."

he leans in again and laps at what he can, his nose nudging against your swollen clit every time he tries to stick his tongue further into you. you're not sure if you're the one grinding down on his face or if he's doing it himself, but his tongue pokes through your entrance and you find yourself hooking your other leg over his shoulder and holding him there, and bucky gladly accepts his fate.

his tongue plunges in and out of you, pulling away ever so often to suck on the soft skin of your folds. the ball of heat in your stomach in your stomach is so close to snapping and bucky can tell. he lets go of your hand and slides two thick fingers inside of you, pushing until he brushes up against the spongy spot that makes you curl into his touch, and you can't help but slide your fingers through his hair and tugging at the salt and pepper strands.

he continues the rhythm until your legs are clamping around his head and he tastes the sweetness that leaks from your heat.

"fuck—" you cry, your brain fuzzy and your body hot with arousal, "bucky, i'm gonna—"

but just as you're about to spill all over his face, he pulls away. you gasp, your legs instinctively try to tighten around his head to pull him closer, but bucky's stronger. he pries your legs open like it comes naturally to him and rises until he's on his knees.

and then he reaches for his belt buckle. the noise is startling, but it also brings a flurry of butterflies through you. the band of his underwear peeks from his jeans and you can't help but stare up at him as he pulls his belt from his jeans. his eyes bore into yours as he undoes his jeans and slides them down like he knows he's torturing you.

bucky's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear and he slides them down, his cock springing out and hits his stomach, the head all flushed and leaking and begging to stretch you open.

his eagerness is barely hidden in the way his hands are back on you, calloused palms running up your sides and cupping your breasts. the blunt tip of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding past your folds and resting there as he leans down for another messy kiss, but you stop him.

"wait, bucky—" you whisper against his lips, hands flat against his chest. you push him away with little resistance. you can feel his breath against your face, and the worry on his face sends a pang of guilt through you.

"am i hurtin' you?" he murmurs with furrowed brows.

youre quick to shake your head. "no, i'm okay, i just... you still don't know my name. you still don't know my name and we're about to—"

bucky's hand slides up from your breast and cups your cheek, his thumb running against your bottom lip. "you don't have to tell me it if you don't want to, princess."

your head shakes the slightest bit, "but if we're gonna do this, i want to tell you."

so you do. your name falls from your lips like a secret you're whispering to him in the dark, and bucky repeats it back to you with such reverence that you've never experienced before, and you find that you never want him to stop saying it.

you lean forwards and kiss him. the kiss is slower than the others you'd shared, and bucky groans into your mouth as he finally pushes into you. the stretch burns, but your hips push against him despite the pain because he feels just like safety.

his cock drags against your soft walls, every second feeling like pure heaven. every sound that slips from your lips is swallowed by bucky and echoed back into your mouth, a chorus of moans and heavy breathes that never seems to end.

he bottoms out with a low groan before he grinds against you like he can't get enough of how you feel, but before you can beg for him to start moving, he pulls out and rams back into you. a yelp jumps out of you, but you try to hold it back.

"be loud, sweetheart. i wanna hear those pretty moans."

"trevor's still— fuck— trevor's still here."

a breathy scoff spills from bucky's mouth, and the shit eating grin that he wears on his face tells you he couldn't care less. "let him hear. the only time that lowlife's gonna get any action is when he hears how good i fuck you."

then bucky's thrusts get harder and sloppier. his chest presses against yours with a welcomed weight, dragging out all of the pathetic bodies you'd been trying to hold back, and your nails dig into the rough skin of his back to try and make them stop. you're embarrassed. your eyes fall shut in a daze, but a growl stops you.

"no, look at me." bucky huffs out, hands coming to grab you by the jaw and redirect your eyes. his thumb digs into your cheek. "look at me, princess. want you to see who's fuckin' you better than that pathetic boyfriend of yours ever could."

and god, you can't do anything but obey. you practically fall limp in his arms as he looks into your eyes and fucks you, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to where bucky wants you. he's brushing against your walls and pressing into spots that you didn't know where there and dragging noises out of you that you didn't know you could make. your name falls from bucky's mouth like he's a sinner begging for forgiveness, like he's been promised that your name is all he needs to be pure again.

all you feel is warm. bucky's skin as your nails carve your presence into his back, your insides as he fucks you better than your stupid boyfriend ever could, your heart as you pull yourself closer to him with every bit of your being— everything is so perfect.

the noise the fills the dingy motel room is wet and filthy, the stickiness between you building, and with a few final thrusts, you cum with a loud moan, and bucky follows soon after, his head tucked into your neck as he fucks his seed into you with a groan.

you're trembling, every small movement wringing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. bucky pulls his head out of your neck and places a chaste kiss to the soft skin below your ear.

"took me so good, baby. just perfect for me," he murmurs.

bucky pulls out of you with a soft breath. his thumb swipes at the liquid that leaks from your weeping cunt before he brings it to his mouth without a second thought, his lips closing around the digit with a soft hum. his thumb pops out of his mouth and he lays beside you, quick to make sure you're tucked into his side, your body pressed against his perfectly like you'd both been shaped from the same mould. your head falls to his chest, a soft tired sigh escaping you.

a while passes. there's no noise coming from the outside world anymore— no cars or trucks, no planes overheard, no game show playing on full volume coming from trevor's office. you're not sure how long it's been quite for, but you know for a fact that the only thing that could've been heard for miles was your moans.

the bedside table lamp buzzes. bucky's heart beats steadily in his chest. there's the faint call of a coyote, and then another, and then silence. it's the kind of quiet that only happens when you're sure everything will be already.

but of course, nothing stays perfect forever. doubt creeps into your mind like a parasite and feasts on the security you feel. bucky is a stranger and you are just another girl. who's to say he won't just abandon you at this motel and leave you for another sketchy trucker to pick up?

"bucky?" you whisper into the silence, unsure if he's awake or if he's simply staring off into space just as you are. your fingers run through the wispy hair on his chest as you try to anchor yourself, but the wave in your tone gives you away.

"hmm?" he hums, his head tilting just slightly towards you.

"can i ask you something?"

"of course, sweetheart."

"this is probably too much to ask, and you can say no if you want." you hesitate. "but can i come with you? to california, at least. and you don't have to say yes, because i know it's sort of your thing to travel alone and everything, but—"

"i was just inside of you, sweetheart. i don't do that with just anybody. thought it was already a given that i'd be takin' you."

you shrug. "you might've changed your mind."

there's a soft silence until bucky shifts. his hand slides up the back of your next and his fingers glide through your hair. you prop your chin up until you're looking straight at him, eyes flicking between his as you await his answer.

"i'd take you around the world if you asked me to." he says.

your breath falls short, replaced by a smile that makes its way onto your face before you can stop it. "thank you, bucky."

"'course." bucky meets you with a similar smile. "now get some sleep. we've got a long drive ahead of us."

morning arrives faster than you'd like. the truck is packed, your duffel bag sitting snugly on the floor of the passenger seat, and the engine rumbles steadily outside in the texan sun. the familiar sputtering and mechanical sounds that had plagued it for days before was finally gone, and you couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this place.

"checking out." you announce as you place both yours and bucky's room keys onto the counter. the metal clatters against the counter, echoing in the silence of the office.

trevor looks up from the magazine in his lap and stops chewing on his piece of strawberry gum, eyebrows lifting from the keys to you, then towards bucky, who stands behind you with his arms crossed.

"hm." trevor sniffs. he eyes the two of you like you'd dropped a suspicious package right in front of him before he puts his magazine down and stands up. "didn't think you'd get your truck fixed. thought you two were never gonna leave."

"tempting." bucky replies dryly.

"right. you're all set. safe travels, sir." trevor grabs the keys from the counter and holds them in his hands for a second before he nods towards you. "you too, sugar."

the word spills from his mouth like he knows it'll be the last time he can piss you off before you disappear into the desert like all of the other visitors. you want to walk away— it's the responsible thing to do— but you're already on the run, so what's the harm?

you pull your fist back and slam it directly into trevor's face. a loud crack fills the office as he yells, his hands flying to his fac to figure out what damage you'd done. red seeps through his bony fingers and curses spill from his mouth, the man too preoccupied with his broken nose to notice that you and bucky are already leaving.

the last thing you hear is "you fuckin' bitch! you'll pay for—" before the office door shuts. his yelling is drowned out by the glass, and even if you could understand what he was yelling, you really couldn't care less.

bucky steps forwards with a smug smile. he reaches up and opens the truck door for you, a hand extended. "you feel better?"

"a little." you sigh, your hand in his as he helps you climb up the steps and hop into the passenger seat. "would've been better if i knocked out a few of his teeth."

"i could go back in there and bring back a few of 'em." bucky suggests with a grin, though you're not entirely convinced he's joking.

you shake your head, "nah, he can keep them. i'm sure i'm not the first person to hit him and i definitely won't be the last. they'll need something to aim for."

bucky sucks in a sharp breath with a playful shake of his head. "i think spending time with lil old me turned you into a monster."

you roll your eyes. "i shot my boyfriend, fled my homestate, and ran from the cops, bucky. i was a monster before you even pulled into this parking lot."

he hums, "touché."

the passenger door shuts behind you. bucky circles the truck and hops into his seat. the truck rolls forward, tires squealing as the vehicle veers into the road and takes off, and for the first time in a while, you finally know where you're going. your final destination? california.

Your favorite barista at that. With your patience hanging by a frayed thread and the little spark of energy you have left inside of you, you exert all of that to defend this poor girl — and the sanctity of this place.

“Are you always this much of a dick or only to people you think are beneath you?”

The man — tall, brunette, blue eyes, a classic all-American clad in an MIT t-shirt, looking like he bathes in daddy’s money — has the audacity to look taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“I’m asking if you take pleasure in bitching at people who get paid minimum wage to serve douchebags like you overpriced coffee every day.”

Blue Eyes gapes at you. It’s a shame, really. He would’ve been just your type if he weren’t such a dick. That’s the regrettable thing about men — they have mouths.

“I’m not—” he begins, having the decency to get somewhat flustered. His eyes fly around the room to find pairs of curious, judgmental eyes on him. His lips twist in irritation but he manages to grit out, “I just want my actual coffee order.”

“Then ask for it,” you snap, “you don’t need to pull a Shakespearean soliloquy to get a fucking frappuccino.”

“Black coffee,” he corrects.

“Of course it is,” you roll your eyes. “Now, can you ask politely or do I need to start my own monologue about the detrimental effects of men in society?”

He gives you a satisfying wince. “No, you don’t need to do that.” He turns to Evelyn, the barista. “Can I get my correct order?” He only glances at you because you’re searing him with a look, which ends up with him adding, “Please.”

Now, when the two of you tell your separate group of friends that this is the story of how you met, no one would believe you — not with the way the two of you are joined at the hip. You bicker, you argue, you get into hours-long debates at house parties about the ethics of Greek life.

But afterwards, you can also say without a doubt that Scott is a friend.

A friend who you then proceed to drunkenly fuck one night at his frathouse.

A friend who you swear you would never fuck again afterwards.

A friend who you, that same night, decide to fuck. Again. Thrice.

You hate to give credence to his reputation on the MIT campus, especially as an outsider who doesn’t go here, but you understand why there are constantly women throwing themselves at him.

You tell yourself that this is all in good fun; your last couple of youthful years before selling yourself to the American healthcare system for the greater good should be spent doing the worst humanly possible things to yourself.

If that means fucking Scott every chance you get, having him stretch you out over every possible surface, his hand over your mouth to muffle your cries, a packed house be damned, then so be it.

Truth be told, you don’t expect things to go anywhere with Scott. The two of you come from vastly different worlds with vastly different dreams. It’s not a tragedy. You two are simply star-crossed, never meant to be lovers.

Scott complains to you about how his parents are constantly trying to set him up with debutantes — the crème de la crème of society — for him to marry; all the while you’re still tucked to his side, naked limbs tangled between each other.

You don’t acknowledge the ache that pulses in the left side of your chest. It shouldn’t matter at the end of the day because friends don’t stay friends forever, let alone lovers.

And you and Scott are not lovers.

However, you do have to reckon with the consequences of your decisions and the implication of your feelings when you find yourself with your head in the toilet, breakfast swirling down the drain for the third time that week. You have to really reckon with Lady Luck punishing you when you realize that you’re weeks late on your cycle, too caught up with school and Scott to notice.

When the two pink lines appear, your fear has reduced your inevitable shock into ashes.

Your first thought is that you have to tell Scott. There isn’t a doubt who the father is since you haven’t been with anyone else since him. This feels like a decision the two of you have to make together; you’re both adults and you should be able to have a professional, rational conversation.

That’s what you tell yourself all the way to his place, body moving on autopilot tracing back the path to his lush apartment near his campus. You barely acknowledge Jimmy, Scott’s very kind doorman, when you take the elevator to his floor.

Not once in the entirety of your… acquaintanceship have you ever been nervous to see Scott. But now your hands are trembling and you suppose it’s from the fact that you have a fucking unplanned pregnancy.

You don’t have time to fully process what that means when Scott swings open the door, and the first thing you see is the suitcase popped open on the floor with clothes haphazardly thrown into it.

Swallowing the bundle of nerves in your throat, you raise an eyebrow in question. “Going somewhere?”

“Head to my uncle’s in Oklahoma for the long weekend.”

“Oklahoma?” You close the door behind you as he begin to fusses with his clothes again.

“Yeah, he’s a real estate developer buying up a shit ton of land down there. Thinking about connecting it with storm chasing. He’s expanding quickly so figured I’d see what it’s like. ”

Your stomach sinks, dread tightening your chest. “The job or Oklahoma?”

He shrugs, completely unaware of your spiraling mind. “Both.”

“You’d really give up your cushy doorman apartment for tornadoes and motels?”

His lips curl into a smirk and your stupid heart is quick to hammer in your ear. Curse him and those deep dimples. “Sweetheart, you know I was born and raised in the south.”

Oh, you know. There’s a reason why that tinge of an accent goes straight between your legs every time he’s upset. “I don’t think a metropolitan like Dallas is the same thing.”

While Scott busies himself with packing again, you splay out on his bed, eyes on the bare ceiling as you try to calm your thundering pulse. You really shouldn’t be this stressed. There are ways out of this — options that two of you can take regardless of what you decide.

Hey, Scott, I’m pregnant. Yes, your child. Am I sure? Yes, you shithead, I haven’t fucked anyone else in months.

Oh, by the way, I’m also probably in love with you, but that’s a secondary problem to the human growing inside me. Thoughts?

“Did you need something?” His voice rips you out of your head.

Your heart rate hasn’t eased, but you have to do it now. So you turn on your side, propping your head up as your belly twists with apprehension. You open your mouth but then you notice the look in his eyes. You know that look all too well; it’s the trigger to all of your bad decisions, including but not limited to being bent over the bathroom sink with all of your friends on the other side of the door and risking arrest for public indecency on a public beach on spring break last week.

His eyes trail over the exposed sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up, his hands abruptly dropping a shirt to reach over and drag his calloused palm over your hip. He slides it to your back, onto that little dip on your spine. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he likes the way you automatically arch towards him when he does it — like right now.

He hums and squeezes your waist to prompt you.

“Nothing,” you blurt out, flipping over so you’re facing his window instead. The city looks beautiful this time of day, sunset casting a golden glow across the architecture, painting it in the shades of the sun.

You hear him shuffle behind you before the mattress sinks with his weight. He smooths a hand over the curve of your waist again, fingers spreading out across your stomach. “You’re thinkin’ about something.”

With a deep breath, you test the waters. “Just the future, the usual.”

“What about the future?” His fingers brush your hair to the side as his lips cling to your neck.

“Work, family, friends,” you pause, chest squeezing, “kids.”

“Kids?” He snorts softly, “Where is this coming from? Never heard you talking about them before.”

Stay calm. You roll over to playfully glare at him. “I’m not getting any younger, so I have to think about these things today.”

“Or in a few years once you get your license and settle into the hospital,” Scott cocks an eyebrow. Your lips thin and he relents. “Alright, so kids, what about them?”

This is it. “Have you thought about them? Whether you, um, want them?”

Scott tilts his head deeper into his pillow. “I don’t think so. Not anytime soon at least. Kids are a hassle and I’m too young for that. Still have to go out there, make money, chase dreams and what not. I can barely take care of myself, let alone another human being.”

His chuckle is drowned out by the sudden persistent ringing echoing in your ear. He must sense it, feels your body going taut next to him.

“What about you?” He murmurs.

If he had asked you a few months ago, you would’ve scoffed and called him crazy. You too have your own dreams to pursue, the world to change and all that. But now, when you know that there’s something else growing inside you, you find that you don’t have the answer to that.

You’re not part of the crowd that thinks aborting this baby would mean murder, but you also never thought that you would be carrying something so special so early. While Scott’s answer isn’t surprising, your reaction to it is — your rationale had been simple: if Scott says no, then you wouldn’t go forward with the pregnancy. If he said yes, then you would have to consider it more seriously.

Scott’s answer is loud and clear, yet you don’t feel so settled with your own.

“Hey, you alright? What’s going on with you?” Concern stitched to the furrow of his brows.

You laugh, your throat feeling a little tight. “Probably just pre-period thoughts.”

He relaxes at that, rolling his eyes. “Women—” you pinch him and he yelps, chuckling. “I’m kidding. I can pack later. Let’s go pick up a pint of that strawberry cheesecake ice cream you like.”

The corners of your lips tip up as he pushes himself off the bed and offers you a hand. “Since when are you so nice to me?”

“I’m nice when I want to get laid.”

You don’t bite back the urge to roll your eyes.

So you’re a coward, sue you. While Scott finishes packing for his flight, you fall asleep in his silk sheets. Slipping in between the edges of consciousness, you feel Scott tuck in behind you, a kiss pressed to the back of your head as you finally give in to slumber.

Afterwards, you tell yourself that you have two months to make a decision. Two months until graduation, that’s your deadline.

A big part of you wants to tell him so you can stop lying about how you won’t be drinking tonight because you’re still hungover from some other party that you never went to. You’re exhausted from biting your tongue when he invites you for sushi, your favorite meal.

“I’m paying,” he insists for the third time.

You yawn, feeling the twinges of nausea rearing its head at the thought of it.

“You never turn down sushi.”

However, you also realize that telling him would be selfish. Despite his reputation, the man has a strong sense of responsibility to finish what he starts. In this case, it would be you. You can’t fathom him feeling like he has to stay here, that he has to be with you, that he has to give up his dreams. For you. He would hate you — if not now, then in the future.

Even worse when you imagine him telling you that he would never, ever do this with you — specifically you. After all, he has many bachelorettes lining up at his doorstep who are likely more than happy to wait a few years to start a family with him.

You’re not sure you’re prepared for that.

With every day that passes, the truth is shoved further down your throat, fear overtaking it.

Before you know it, you’re standing at the airport with him. He wrangles you into a Scott-like hug: one-armed, stiff, a click of his tongue like it’s inconvenient for him to show affection.

“You’re gonna be good, right?”

You scowl, “I’m not a dog.”

His mouth curves up, teeth peeking in his smirk. “Not even gonna turn around thrice and bark for me for my last day?”

“Are you trying to get on your flight in a body bag?”

He’s silent then for a moment, looking at you. Everything blurs around the two of you, noise muffled like you’re in a bubble and all you can hear is his long exhale. “This isn’t forever, you know. I’ll come visit when I finally need you to pump my lungs of all the dirt I’ll be inhaling.”

“Gonna cost you.”

“Wouldn’t expect any less.”

The two of you leave it at that. You could say more. I’ll miss you. I love you. Come back. Stay. But you say none of it. Part of you thinks that Scott knows, part of you hopes he doesn’t. This is his big moment. His future. A picture-perfect frame and you’ve been cut out from the canvas. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” Scott shrugs with a promise.

Your hand flies to your stomach on instinct. You can practically feel that silent heartbeat. If you keep this baby, you can’t possibly hide it from him.

If you can’t hide it from him, he may hate you.

And that’s not something you can ever bear.

So you smile and nod — and you let him go.

To say it’s been a long day would be an understatement. Starting your morning with a hundred unread emails followed by a series of difficult patients (one of which sneezed on you for good measure) and then a last-minute, dreaded ping at four from one of the study sponsors looking for data — all on a Friday no less.

What you need is some hot tea, a long massage, and preferably your phone buried six feet under. A place where you won’t be able to hear the constant calling of your name.

“Girl, are you ever going to leave?” Jenna pops her head in. “You need to go and get ready.”

You peer down at your sleeveless blouse and slacks. “Why cna’t I go to dinner in this?”

She gives you a look, a bone-chillingly disapproving one. “Get your ass out of here and I’ll come pick you up. We’re going out out.”

Given that this is a planned outing, you shouldn’t feel so miserable about it. You’ve even planned it all out — your mom takes Ben until Sunday, which neither of them mind because they adore each other — and you finally get one night to yourself to do whatever you wanted and an extra day to recover. It’s the first time in four years you’ve actually had time.

Don’t get you wrong. Your body created the miracle that is your son. Beautiful, bright Ben. Sweet, kind-hearted Ben who inherited none of his parents’ terrible tempers and foul personalities. You couldn’t have asked for a better pregnancy, better birth, or better child.

It’s the first time you’ve been away for him for a personal outing. Usually, it’s some sort of work emergency; what constitutes a work emergency as a research coordinator, you’ll never know but the higher-ups love the dramatics of making everything sound like life or death.

Jenna, your colleague and probably the closest person you consider a friend, swings by your place an hour earlier than promised.

You’re still not fully ready.

“I knew you were going to drag your feet through this,” she sighs and drops an armful of clothes onto your couch.

“I’m not dragging my feet, I just have nothing to wear.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m here.”

Jenna has always had a knack for convincing people to do things they never wanted to do in the first place. For example, this is how you find yourself squirming uncomfortably throughout the night, wiggling to adjust the skirt lower down your thighs. However, when you do so, it ends up hanging too low on your hips, showing more skin than you’d like.

“Will you quit fidgeting?” she huffs as she pulls you through the crowd, “You look hot.”

“I look like I’m attempting a mating call with a freshman with a fifty-dollar fake,” you grunt.

She giggles. “Well, if you want to play cougar, I do see some college kids who have been eye-fucking you since you stepped in.” She nods her head in the direction of a group of boys who are in fact staring at the two of you, expressions a little too salacious for your liking.

“They’re looking at you,” you note pointedly.

Jenna is the the perfectly balanced combination spicy, smart, and sweet. At least two doctors and more than a fistful of residents follow her around like puppies around the hospital. She has them on leashes.

“That’s because my tits look great in this dress,” she grins. “Come on, let’s get some shots.”

In hindsight, ripping three shots back to back when you haven’t drank like since college is a terrible idea. It hits you hard and fast, but it was much needed to avoid crinkling your nose at the pile of sweaty bodies on the floor. You dance with Jenna for the most part, you let a few people buy you drinks, and… you’re having a good time.

Sometimes, you miss this part of you — the one that isn’t a mom. You love being Ben’s mother but at the same time, you have to relearn what it means to be you.

While this may not be you forever, this is a piece of you that feels like coming home. At least, that’s what you think when you feel much looser with the liquor in your veins. Jenna twirls you on the floor and you laugh, barely paying any mind to the pinching of these knee-high boots or the fact that you’re showing more skin than you have these past few years.

She spins you around again — except this time, your balance is already walking a fine line, so you end up stumbling into a wall.

Shit, not a wall. Said wall is moving.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” you blurt out, hand to your chest to prevent your tits from spilling out of this top. The last thing you need on your first night out is to be arrested for flashing a stranger. You’re straightening to look for Jenna when you hear your name.

Not only your name but it’s your name. Your name said in a way that has fireworks exploding in the pit of your stomach. Your name in a way that knocks the breath right out of your lungs.

Because it’s your name coming out of the mouth, with the voice of, the one person you thought you would never see again.

Scott’s eyes are wide when you finally lock gazes.

“You—” he starts then stops. “Holy shit.”

“W-what are you doing here?” You gasp.

“I’m out with, um, the guys,” he says, but his eyes never blink. Neither do yours. You almost want to, hoping this is some sick nightmare and you’re going to wake up in bed with a filthy hangover that takes you out for the day.

On the other hand, it’s Scott — and he looks good. Too good. His hair is a little longer, curling at the base of his neck. His eyes shine fifty different shades of blue with the flashing lights. His strong brows are furrowed into that familiar frown, one that has heat gathering between your legs. He’s got a suit on that seems to stretch for miles over his shoulders, top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal his pretty collarbones and that gleam of a silver chain.

You can’t be here. You can’t do this.

“Right, okay. I’ll leave you to it then.” You’re turning on your heel and you’ve barely made it forty-five degrees before his large hand wraps around your elbow.

“Wait, hold on,” he calls out, tugging you back towards him, your back landing against his front as you stumble backwards. He ducks his head towards your ear to make sure he’s heard but all you can feel is the ghost of his warm breath tickling your skin. “Where are you going?”

You try to extract yourself from him but his grip is firm, now on your hips. “I’m here with a friend. I need to go find her.”

“I’ll go with you.”

You absolutely do not want that. It must show on your face because then he’s scoffing, frown morphing into a disgruntled scowl.

“Is that how you greet a friend you haven’t seen in years?”

Instead of deigning him with a response, giving him the satisfaction of your annoyance, you wordlessly turn and make your way through the crowd. Scott is close behind, you can feel his height looming over you. He’s got a protective arm out to push away anyone who even comes close to touching you, charting a path through this Red Sea.

Jenna is on someone’s lap when you find her. She drags her eyes away from an unfairly attractive man when she spots you. You narrow your eyes at the man before turning back to your friend. “Are you good?”

“Peachy,” she beams. Her attention on you is short-lived when it wanders to Scott who’s hovering around you like a chaperone. “I see you’ve found your entertainment for the night as well,” she winks, eyes practically glittering as she wiggles her brows at you. “I’ll catch you at work Monday?”

Well. That’s your cue to go home. With one final press to make sure she’s okay, Jenna waves you off.

“Your friend’s having much more fun, maybe you should consider doing that for yourself,” Scott whispers in your ear, head ducked to reach your ear. “I could volunteer myself for that position.”

Whirling around, you trap him with a burning glare, which he only grins at.

There’s no way in hell you’re getting into this clusterfuck tonight. Not when you’re still half-convinced that you’re dreaming this up. So you turn back around and start marching towards the exit.

Unfortunately, he continues to follow you. He doesn’t even do anything except stick close to your tail. For some reason, that only pisses you off even more. Maybe if you will him away with your mind, you’ll turn around to find him gone. Because he can’t be here. Why the fuck is he even here?

“Why the fuck are you here?” You snap now that you’re on the quiet sidewalk. The music inside is muffled, leaving you alone with your heart beating in your ears and Scott’s stupid smirk plastered across his face.

He leans back against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. You can see how the cotton of his shirt stretches across his wide chest. Jesus, did he get bigger? How is that even possible? The worst part is the amused look printed onto his face, dimples carved out deep. “I’m doing a talk — at MIT.”

Of course, he is. You shouldn’t be surprised. You’d never admit it to him but you have been keeping up with him in the news. He’s been building a startup with advanced technology focusing on disaster resilience combined with real estate development. While you don’t know the full mechanics, you know he’s successful enough to be nailing government and corporate contracts, landing himself on the Forbes 30 Under 30 list.

You could also lie and say that his face is everywhere, but you really had to look him up to find anything about him.

“So why aren’t you talking? At MIT. Why are you here?”

Scott shrugs, “I reached out to the guys to catch up. I would’ve reached out to you too if I had your number.”

You stiffen, chancing a look at his face to find pure irritation. He has every right to be, but you also had your reasons for doing what you did — he just doesn’t know it.

A gust of wind whips past your bare legs, the chill settling on your shoulders. Boston is unforgiving this time of year so you quickly shrug on your jacket. However, you can still the weight of his gaze rolling over the length of you, slow and warm. His steely blue eyes look almost onyx with the way he drinks you in, dragging across your exposed collarbones down to your bare legs.

“What are you doing here?” He asks coolly.

“Out. With a friend.”

His lips tighten around the corners — slightly, only enough for you to notice. “What, to pick up guys?”

“No,” you scowl, “just for a good time.”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Having a good time?”

You were — until him. “Fabulous time,” you sarcastically sigh as you pull out your phone, readying yourself to call a car home.

But your movements halt when you feel warmth soak your entire body, your breath hitching in your throat. Scott’s buried his face in your neck, his front against your back, nose tracing the column of your neck, palms splayed over your stomach.. His teeth graze your skin, eliciting a trained shiver out of you.

“How about we have a better time elsewhere?”

“No,” you swallow, “we shouldn’t.”

“Come on, you don’t miss me?” Scott slides his hands higher, enough for his thumb to brush the underside of your breasts. “We used to have fun, didn’t we?”

“Scott, no,” you protest, but you sound frail even in your ears.

“Why not?” He murmurs, lips placing soft, wet kisses against the back of your ear. Your head tilts on instinct, granting him more access as he nibbles down your neck.

“You’re drunk.”

He chuckles, “‘M so fuckin’ sober. I got a shot in when you bumped into me.”

“Then you should go back in there, go have a good time.”

“Found something more fun to do tonight,” he smiles against your skin. “Well, someone.”

His hands drift a little higher, cupping your tits and squeezing. The groan he lets out molds with yours as you resist another whimper crawling up your throat. “We’re outside,” you hiss.

“Never stopped us before.”

The more warm kisses he presses onto your skin, the weaker your resolve becomes. Your body moves on its own accord, leaning back against his chest while your own rises with a stuttered breath.

“Come with me. Promise I’ll make you feel good. Just like old times.”

“Scott…”

He knows — by the way you say his name — that you’ve given in. He doesn’t give you a moment to hesitate, squeezing your hip and keeping you close as he calls a car. His hand stays on you, toying with your nipples until you’re grinding your ass back against the erection under his slacks.

He hasn’t even kissed you, not properly at least. His lips stay on the pulse point on your neck, nipping lightly as his hands settle possessively around your waist. Even in the car, he hoists you over to his side, a thick arm wrapped around your waist to hold you hostage against him. When his other hand travels up to bury in your hair, he yanks on it just enough to have you gasping.

“Always so sensitive,” he whispers with a grin, “so responsive for me.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter weakly.

His breath is warm as he chuckles into your hair.

The car pulls up in front of some posh-looking hotel. You don’t have a moment to guess how much this place costs a night — nor do you want to, the number would likely break your heart. His hand is wrapped around yours, tight, like he’s making sure you don’t try to make a run for it, as he pulls you stumbling through the lobby.

Scott invades every single one of your senses when he corners you in the elevator. He bites down on his moan when he dips his head, nose nuzzling into the curve of your chin as he takes a deep inhale. His exhale quivering.

“You still wear the same perfume,” he notes, sounding almost pleased.

“Creature of habit,” you mutter, hands finding purchase on his biceps in an attempt to stay upright. Your knees feel a little weak with the proximity, with how much heat his body is radiating.

He’s barely swiped through the door and you’ve barely had the chance to close it before Scott is pinning you against the door and slanting his lips over yours. The first kiss knocks you right off your feet and Scott is quick to catch you and hold you up against the door — one hand on the back of your neck and the other on your waist.

He breathes you in as his tongue strokes your bottom lip. He tastes like a mix of vodka, sugar, and a hint of bittersweet nostalgia. The way he moves his mouth is familiar, you’re drawing on muscle memory to remember how you used to kiss. How to move your mouths in sync with the rhythm of your heartbeat.

You swallow his hungry groans as his hands explore you all over, sliding up your curves to push off your jacket before venturing south again to cup your ass from underneath your skirt. “This fucking outfit,” he snarls low, “never seen you wear anything like this before. So fuckin’ tiny, I could see your ass walking behind you.”

“J-Jenna’s,” you clarify breathlessly. “My friend’s.”

“And this goddamn top — I could peek down your chest the entire time we were there. Wanted to rip this off you so I could play with these pretty tits,” he murmurs, kissing his way along your jaw and down your neck. “Then this—” he squeezes your ass, “if I saw one more person try to get a peek, I would’ve bent you over the bar and fucked you then and there to show them that none of them have a shot. Not them. It’s only going to be me.”

Your response dies in your throat when he begins to suck light bruises onto your skin, pain blooming in concentrated spots across your skin. He’s always been territorial, leaving one mark after another to deter anyone else from coming close.

While you usually enjoy the slow build, the persistent ache between your legs demands otherwise.

“Come on, just fuck me already.”

“So goddamn impatient,” he snips but picks you up, legs wrapping around his waist. Your body slips a little lower and you can feel the bulge in his pants poking against your own core. Your panties pressed directly against the thickness, which leaves very little to the imagination. “So fuckin’ hard,” Scott grunts, “started getting a chub the moment I saw you. Then I saw you walking from behind, this gorgeous ass just swaying like you’re teasin’ me. Then you gave me that mean look you’ve got and I’ve never been so fucking hard in my life.”

“You’re such a freak,” you huff in a laugh

“Takes one to know one.” Scott backs you into the hotel room, letting you fall back against the bed as he tucks himself between your legs dangling off the edge. His eyes roam over you, exploring every inch of your exposed skin. You’re fresh meat and Scott is starving.

He leans forward, a single index finger starting at the outer corner of your breast where it’s pushed up by your corset and journeys over the trim of your top. You hold your breath, back arching slightly into his touch. “I can’t believe you were out like this. Dressed like a fuckin’ slut. I don’t even wanna know how many guys out there imagined fucking your tits.”

It’s demeaning, you should tell him off. But this is Scott and he knows exactly what you like and — god, do you like this. A whimper climps past your lips instead, a needy little sound that has him smiling to himself.

“But I’m the only one who gets to do that tonight. Isn’t that right, sweetheart? You don’t spread your legs for anyone else.”

“Do you ever s-shut up?” You snap, voice frayed to betray the desire thumping in your chest. His hands slide underneath you, settling on your lower spine, as your body rises instinctively to his touch. He drags the zipper of your corset down, peeling it off you and casting it aside.

Scott straightens again, tilting his head as he takes you in from his vantage point.

His gaze burns uncomfortably. He doesn’t say a word and, for the first time with Scott, you feel… shy. Hands fly to your stomach as burning embarrassment sears like a branded mark on your skin. He takes a deep breath and his sweet time outlining the shape of you like he’s recreating a sketch of you in his mind.

“You’ve changed.”

Your heart sinks. The two simple words sting more than they should. Pregnancy changed your body. While you know that it’s created a miracle, it’s survived and remained strong, you also know that you aren’t the same. Softer, more lines stretching across your stomach. Your muscles haven’t survived your long hours at the hospital. You just never thought it would hurt this much for him to point it out.

But you know better than to take this kind of disrespect. If he no longer finds you attractive, you know that you could very easily find another man to satisfy you.

You try to wiggle away from him as your face shifts in aggravation. “Well, I have. So, if you don’t like it, I’m going to go because I don’t fucking need this from—”

“Hold on, never said I didn’t like it,” he murmurs, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them above you. He ducks forward again, nose brushing against your jawline. He breathes you in, you can hear him gulp. “Fuck, you look so good, sweetheart. Sexier. Something about you. Even better than I remember — and shit, do I remember you. Thought about you far too much.”

Oh. “Really?”

He pulls away slightly, eyes searching yours as his lips curl into that smirk. “Really. Every night, with my fist wrapped around my cock, imaginin’ it was this tight cunt of yours wrapped around me. I remember how it would squeesze so sweet like you’re trying to choke my dick.”

“You’re so crass,” you roll your eyes.

“You’re tellin’ me that that doesn’t turn you on?” He grins, hand stroking up your inner thighs until he finds your center, fingers nudging the damp gusset of your panties to the side as he dips in between your slick folds. “Knowing that I get off thinking about you. Thinking about this perfect cunt of yours and the way you’d pulse around me, milkin’ me dry every time you cum. It’s like this pussy was made for me.”

On cue, you tighten around him, breath hitching in your throat with his filthy words.

“Yeah, she likes that,” he chuckles, “shit, did you get tighter? I don’t remember you being this stiff. It’s gonna be tough getting me in, baby. Gonna have to stretch you out and it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.”

You clench again at the thought, a moan bubbling up your throat. Well, seeing as you haven’t slept with anyone in years, it’s not a surprise. But you’d never tell Scott that — you don’t want to think about all the other people he’s fucked since the two of you split.

“We’ll make it fit, we always do,” he coos and you don’t block the roll of your eyes, pulling another amused sound from his lips. “Still got that attitude,” he shakes his head, hands squeezing around your wrists, “Don’t worry. I’ll fuck it out of you soon.”

Scott drags down your underwear, flinging it somewhere around the room. You’re about to scold him but the only thing that comes out of your mouth is a broken whine as he stuffs two fingers into you. The slide in is humiliatingly easy with how wet you are, but his thick fingers still stretch out your taut insides.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “won’t even let me in, huh? Have you been takin’ care of her, sweetheart?”

Heat pools low in your stomach and rises to your face. He pushes in and out of you slowly at first, blue eyes staying on you to watch you squirm, watch your body shift off the bed. He mutters something about still the fuckin’ same as he prods his fingers into you, testing out different angles to see which ones make you tick — like he’s relearning how to please you.

He realizes that it takes no time at all to do so because you still move the way he expects you too, especially when he brushes up against that spongy area inside you that wrestles a noise that mixes a gasp and a moan from your lips. Through the hazy blur of your vision, you spot a proud smile dancing on his lips as he continues to push and push until you’re panting desperately underneath him.

Every drag of his fingers along your cunt feels like the strike of a match that sets your entire body on fire. He sets off flames in different parts of your body, all the while he’s still holding you down with just one hand. His head ducks to take a nipple into his mouth and sets your entire being ablaze. The two actions combined are enough to have you sweating over the risk of cumming too fast, too hard.

You’ll be damned if you finish in under two minutes with him.

Another curl of his fingers has you resetting that bar to at least one minute.

“Scott, please,” you rasp.

“Please what, sweetheart?”

“You know what.”

“Use your big girl words,” he tuts softly, “you can do it. I wnat to hear you ask for it.”

Your brows descend in a vexed glare. “Why are you suck a prick?”

“Because it fucking turns you on,” Scott grins, “and because you like my dick.”

You can’t help it, you poke because that’s what you do with him. “I can find good dick elsewhere.”

His fingers stop moving inside you, his body completely still as he levels you with a stare that sends a shiver slithering up your spine. His jaw clenches, white fury masked by his terrifyingly composed expression. “You wanna run that by me again?”

Your mouth feels like sandpaper now, snippy response scraped away to death on your tongue.

He pushes his fingers in deeper, drawing out a cry from your chest. “Think you can get good dick anywhere, sweetheart? Is that why you’re so fucking tight? Have you been spreading your legs for anyone?”

“Fuck you.”

“I thought you had better taste. Clearly, none of them could stretch you out the way you like. You fuckin’ like it when it hurts, when it burns so good you can taste it on your tongue,” he mocks, hand releasing your wrists to grab your jaw. He applies just enough pressure to have your cheeks aching, but that pain only has you clenching around his fingers, stomach twisting with stupid need. “Look at you,” he chuckles, gripping you harder, “gettin’ so tight around me before I even stick my dick in you. Filthy slut just likes bein’ treated like one. Maybe I should stuff that mouth so you stop running it — don’t need you to talk, just need to hear those desperate little sounds you make when I fuck you good.”

Your chest sings with shame when all you can do is take his words. But you take what he gives because he only gives you what you can take; he knows exactly what to say to rile you up, to tip you over the edge, have you seething and dripping between your legs. Even after years, he still knows your body best.

Except now, he has a touch more of that southern drawl that you’ve always adored but could never get enough of.

“She just squeezed me again, sweetheart.” His eyes twinkle with delight. “Why don’t you put yourself out of your misery and just ask me?”

Your lips pinch and Scott pushes deeper, eyes fluttering when he feels you tighten around him again. He can feel your control slipping away, pride curling deep into your chest to hide.

“Fuck me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That it?”

“Please.”

He's biting back a laugh, lips curving just a little more. “Attagirl, there’s your manners. Was that so hard? Guess I haven’t been around to teach you how to be polite with me.”

Your chest throbs with a mix of disgrace and need again. He pulls out his fingers, watches them glisten with your juices underneath the room’s warm lights. Then, with his eyes locked on yours, he slides them over his tongue and closes his lips around it. He sucks on it hungrily, moan muffled as he laves at them to savor.

“Tastes a little different too,” he hums, “maybe I just missed you too much. Missed this pretty pussy.”

Maybe if you weren’t so focused on getting him to fuck you, you might’ve noticed a strange something laced into his syllables — something you may mistake as hurt.

But that wouldn’t be possible because Scott Miller doesn’t get hurt. He takes and throws away like it’s nobody’s business, only thinking about what would be beneficial for him until it no longer has a use. He’s untouchable, always has been.

Before you can process even a hint of it, you feel Scott sliding his cock along your pussy lips, wet with juices that can’t seem to stop leaking all over his sheets. “Makin’ such a mess already,” he grunts, tip poised at your entrance.

You nudge your hips lower in an attempt to encourage him to move faster, but his palm presses down on your hips as he gives you a scalding look.

“Behave.”

Your legs press together around his hips. He feels it. But you do as you’re told.

“Good girl,” he sighs as he slowly pushes himself in. The initial burn has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, like fire between your legs as you let out a cry with how much he’s opening you up. His cock parts through you like a spear and your breath catches in your throat as he finally buries himself all the way in. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he hisses, “you’re so goddamn tight. Feels like that first time. Like you’ve never been fucked in your life.”

“B-been a while,” you stutter, the confession slipping out before you can stop it.

Scott’s hands on your hips drag you closer to the edge until your ass is against his hips, he pushes your legs up against your chest, feet thrown over his shoulders. “I can tell. You’re such a good girl for me, baby. Been saving yourself for me? Have you been thinking about me too?”

You’d die before you give him the satisfaction. Because you have, but you’ll never tell him how many times you’ve come undone with the memory of him alone. Filthy words he’d whisper in your ear toiling around your brain until you can practically hear him right next to you. Promises that have you gasping for air before you’re thrown over the edge of desire.

“Perfect pussy, she’s takin’ me so well,” he moans, deep and guttural, as he begins to ease himself in and out of you. He starts off with a slow pace before building a steady rhythm that painstakingly stretches you out around his cock. With every thrust, he stretches you out just a fraction more, each time slightly easier than the last until the burn dissolves into warmth blooming between your legs.

Scott’s still watching you; with every jerk of his hips, he intentionally angles himself to hit all the right spots that have you crying out for more, your fingers tangling in the sheets. It’s as if he’s drawing out a map of you, marking x wherever he finds a winning piece. He knows exactly how fast to fuck you to have you gasping and crying, tears leaking down your face until you can taste the salt on your tongue. He knows exactly how slow to go to have you begging him, desperate sounds falling from your lips until he has no choice but to show you mercy.

He knows that telling you you’ve got a cunt like a virgin would have you squeezing around him. He knows that praising you for being such a good pussy for him would have you arching off the bed with your eyes slammed shut.

He just knows and that thought scares you more than anything.

“Fuck, I missed this pussy. Nothing else could compare, you know. Tried to, trust me. Every time, I can only cum thinking about your leaking cunt, always drooling all over my fat cock, thinking about you sobbing underneath me until I kiss away those pretty tears. I couldn’t stop picturing feeding her my cock, stretching her out until you’re whining like a bitch in heat,” Scott growls as he picks up his thrusts, sliding in easier, faster now that your arousal has paved the path in for him.

You should be offended by his words, the feminist in you wanting to tell him off for such ridiculously degrading words, but all they do is add fuel to the fire. You haven’t felt this good in so long and you don’t think—

“Wait, fuck,” you blurt out, fingers latching onto his bicep. “Scott, condom.”

Scott freezes, like deer in headlights. “Condom? We’ve never fucked with a condom.”

“I know,” you bite out but again say, “condom.”

There’s a vein pulsing on his forehead, the last shred of his self-restraint hanging on by a thread. He looks more inconvenienced than anything. “Did you get off the pill?”

“N-no, but just wanna be careful.”

Scott laughs, nudging his cock deeper. “Why are you worrying? It’s ninety-nine percent effective.”

Well, apparently, you’re part of that one percent of failure.

He sees that you still look conflicted and he lets out a frustrated exhale. “I don’t have condoms. Haven’t carried it around with me in forever.”

“I need to fuck this pussy, sweetheart. I’m not letting that pretty head of yours change your mind. Not gonna go outside just to get condom. I’ll just pull out.”

“That shit does not always work!”

“Neither does a condom!”

Fuck, he makes a good point.

Scott slowly begins fucking you again, chipping away at the walls you’ve slammed up. “Promise I’ll pull out when I cum. Won’t do it inside you. No matter how much I want to cream inside this pussy, just like I used to.”

Your stomach flips with that admission.

“Remember how I used to fill you up? God, I can still see white leakin’ out of this cunt. I loved cumming inside you in the morning, you could never get all the cum out so you’d be dripping with me. Could smell you when I fucked you again after too.”

Shit, he knows your resolve is down to nothing when he pumps faster into you. He doesn’t need you to confirm what he already knows. He returns to fucking you with fervor. His hips are eager as they chase after yours, slamming against you as his cock fucks all rational thought from your mind. He leans forward, pressing you deeper into the mattress until all his weight is squeezing the breath from your lungs. It only intensifies the pleasure, his cock sliding in with a trail of fire as he kisses your calves.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he coaxes, “give it to me. I know you wanna cum. I can feel you tightening around me.”

More moans tumble from your lips as you babble your agreement, words slurring together in an incoherent mess.

“Give it to me. Let her go. I wanna see you fall apart on my cock, want you remember that no one else can make you feel like this. Nobody can — or ever will — fuck you this good. This pussy’s mine and I’m gonna make sure she only remembers me, only takes the shape of my cock.”

You’re struggling for air as your chest constricts, wanton need burning all throughout your body.

“Cum for me, baby. Come on,” Scott grunts, punctuating each word with a thrust.

With a few more pumps of his cock, your stomach tightens, desire coiling tight until it snaps and your pleasure crests. It feels like you’re soaring, body trembling with the force of your orgasm as you clam down around him, legs shaking and pussy sucking him in deeper.

Your cunt continues to pulse as your descent from the high occurs painfully slow. But Scott’s not done. He just uses you at that point, treating you like a little pocket pussy to get himself off as he fucks dirty into you. He spreads your legs so he can see your tits bouncing with how fast he’s going. You can tell he’s close when his drives get sloppier, cock just fucking into you because he can. Then he’s quickly yanking himself out with a gasp, tilting his cock so that ropes of cum spill across your stomach, your tits, decorating the skirt with abstract splatters of white.

His hard cock twitches against his stomach as he holds himself up on the mattress, labored breaths weighing down on his chest.

Even in your weary state, you can’t help but giggle. “It’s been a while, huh, old man? Can’t keep up anymore?”

He tosses a glare your way. “Let’s not forget the last time I overstimulated you until you cried and begged for me to let you cum again. How many times was it? Five?”

Your cheeks warm at the memory. “That was years ago.”

His gaze softens, melts into something that has your heart squeezing. “Yeah, it was.” ith a groan, he pushes himself up and disappears into the bathroom, leaving you in the mess of his orgasm. When he comes back out, he’s got a warm, damp towel in hand that he’s using to clean you of the sticky mess. 

He raises your legs again to check on your pussy. 

“Does it hurt?”

You’re only mildly surprised by his concern, mostly because you haven’t been on the receiving end of it for a while. “No, I’m fine.”

“You sure? I went pretty hard.”

All you can do now is roll your eyes, using your foot to nudge his stomach. “I’m a big girl, Miller. I know what I can take.”

His lips twitch as he shakes his head, muttering something you don’t catch under his breath. He plops down next to you, eyes sliding shut as he lets himself sink into the bed. He drapes an arm over his eyes, stomach dipping as he exhales deeply.

The lines of his chest are still defined. If anything, his muscles are more evident now. Veins running along his biceps to display the progress he’s made while he was away. You didn’t realize how much he’s changed, how much broader he got, how there are more grays on his head than before. Jawline that was soft through the year that you knew him sharpened into a knife that slices straight through your chest.

You turn away from him, eyes glued to the ceiling. The moment Scott stepped back into your life, he rolled out a fog that clouded your judgment. Now that the haze has cleared, you’re lying in the consequences of your actions, you can’t help but let the remorse carve its place into your bones. You’re a fool if you think this time will be any different.

It took you one night — one night — to fall for his charm. One night for your years-long resolve to fall apart.

You thought you would feel differently about him now, that you could let these silly emotions fade into dust in his absence. However, your heart still beats the same way for him — a little faster, skipping a beat or two, but always towards him. The two of you still move in sync, like two pieces of the same puzzle finally slotting together.

But you’ve changed — or, you should’ve changed. You shouldn’t be this easy, not anymore. Not when there’s more at risk than just your heart.

The shame crashes over you in waves, pulling you under, and suddenly, you’re breathless. The air feels thin when you think of Ben — your son who doesn’t even know who his father is, who has been curious enough to ask once but kind enough not to ask twice.

An arm splaying across your thighs sends you crashing back to reality. He rumbles with eyes closed, “Sleep.”

Gently, you remove his arm as you come to your feet. You move swiftly, body functioning the same it always does — opting for flight rather than fight. You collect your panties and quickly tug them on under your skirt. Before you can reach for your top, a hand wraps around your arm.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna go.”

His confusion deepens. “Why?”

With a shrug, you pick up your corset from the floor and zip it back up. Scott steps in your path before you can make it to the entryway — still fully nude, cock half hard.

You force your eyes to stay on his face instead. “We fucked, we’re good, right?”

Annoyance flashes across his eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What else do you want from me, Scott?” You sigh.

You try to sidestep him but he moves faster. His shoulders stretch out to their full breadth as he straightens. “What if I want to fuck again later?”

“You’ve survived this long with your fist, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say a word. The silence lingers like a ghost between you. He looks conflicted, eyes shifting around the room like he can find the answer somewhere on the walls. “We haven’t seen each other in years and you’re flaking on me?”

It’s your turn to offer no response, mainly because you don’t have one.

“You disappear on me for years. I’m seeing you for the first time since we graduated and you can’t even be bothered to stay?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I just really need to get home. I have to go to work tomorrow to wrap up a few things.”

“I can drive you.”

“I have no clothes.”

“We’ll leave early in the morning.”

“Scott.”

Your mind wanders to Ben, wondering what he’s doing right now, how you should be there with him — instead of here with the dad that he never knew.

“Alright. Let me drive you at least.”

He watches as your eyes get distracted again by his nude form before you, him completely shameless, maybe even smug that you still find yourself cross-eyed with him.

“No, I can find my own ride.”

When you manage to maneuver around him, Scott hooks a finger through one of your belt loops to yank you back, and you’re now facing his broad, bare chest, the light smattering of curls directly in your line of sight.

“Can I see you tomorrow then?”

He ducks his head so his lips brush over yours. You can feel that familiar dizziness tease the edges of your rational mind. He knows exactly what he’s doing, especially when you unconsciously lean towards him, like a moth to flame, Icarus who flew too close to the sun.

“Scott,” you whisper when he pulls back to mock you.

“You ever gonna tell me what happened? Why you left me high and dry. You disappeared from everywhere, couldn’t find you on anything,” Scott begins, “Then you went ahead and changed your number. I had no way to reach you.”

You don’t blame him for the bitterness that stains his voice. Even after you promised to stay in touch, the further along you were in your pregnancy, the more you realized that you couldn’t handle the guilt of lying to him. So you… simply stopped. Stopped responding to his texts. Stopped picking up his calls.

Once he ceased his efforts, you changed your number. You hoped he wouldn’t notice, that it would be a clean slate. Clearly, that isn’t the case.

“Can we talk about this another time? I’m exhausted and I’m sticky—”

“Use my shower. Sleep here. I’ll drive you home then to work in the morning.”

It’s a kind offer. Far too generous for a man whom you distanced yourself from. “You don’t have—”

“I want to,” he insists, “don’t be fucking difficult.”

“Tomorrow, alright. Please,” you plead one last time.

Scott’s blue eyes wash over you, searching for a sign of weakness. He must see the firm stubborn hold in your gaze, because you see him deflate in real time. “Fine. Give me your number.” You open your mouth, ready to extend some bullshit excuse, but he beats you to it.  “So help me god if you try to argue with me again, woman, I’m tying you to my bed.”

You know he’s serious. You can only relent and say that you’ll text him.

“Now.”

“Scott.”

“I’m not fucking around,” he snaps, “I’m not spending the time I have here trying to chase your ass down again.”

Again? You’re too tired to question it further so you pull out your phone, finding his contact — one that you haven’t touched in some time — and shoot him a quick message.

“Happy?”

“Delighted,” he bites back, baring his teeth at you.

You only roll your eyes. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to go.”

“Call a car.”

“‘Course, I will!”

He snorts. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t have taken the T home.”

You’re about to argue again, but he knows you too well. The T would’ve saved you money, but certainly not time. Instead of replying, you say, “I’m going to go.”

Scott still seems none too pleased but lets you go.

As you cave to the pull of slumber that evening, your phone lights up with a message.

It was good seeing you tonight.

You’re a goddamn coward, that’s what you are. You don’t actually have to come into work the next day but you needed an out. Instead, you wake up that morning with an old friend — that jackhammering in your head commonly known as a hangover. 

Vices hit a little differently when you’re older, especially when you haven’t touched a drop of it in a while.

That goes for the drinks and Scott.

It feels like a fever dream when you wake up alone the next morning, you wanted to pretend like none of it ever happened. Like you didn’t meet your former fuck buddy slash friend slash father of your child at a club and went to his hotel with him as if no time had passed. 

Opening your phone to his text was the first slap of reality.

The second was when you look in the mirror to see the marks all over your neck like you’ve been mauled by a mountain lion.

Possessive fucker. 

Jenna’s message certainly isn’t helping either. Hope you had a great night ;) 

You did. You wish you didn’t but Scott somehow still knows you like the back of his hand and, if you had stayed, there would be no doubt that he would change your great night into a fantastic night.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you quickly reply to her with an appropriately crude emoji. 

Scott — well, you do what you do best. You don’t respond.

You don’t reply when he asks you what time you get off work today.

You don’t reply when he sends a single question mark as a follow-up.

You definitely don’t reply when he says—

You’re going to ghost me again, aren’t you?

Instead of acknowledging the magnitude of your actions, you spend the weekend keeping yourself busy. Every time your mind veers to Scott and the messages left unanswered, you pick a new spot in the house to clean. 

By the time Ben returns on Sunday, the house is spotless.

Your mom looks at you suspiciously. “You cleaned.” 

“Yes,” you say before you turn to pepper wet kisses all over your baby. He giggles and his face scrunches up. “How was weekend with grandma?”

“We ate ice cream!”

It’s your mother’s turn to look guilty when you raise an eyebrow at her. “Is that so? How much ice cream?”

Ben, realizing what he’s just exposed, turns to his grandmother then back to you. He pinches his fingers together. “This much.”

“Mhmm, next time grandma gives you ice cream, I’m gonna remind her how much dental visits cost,” you coo, pinching his nose. 

He runs off to unpack his bags, which leaves you alone with your mother who is much too perceptive for her own good. 

“So, good weekend?”

“Good,” you brush off, glancing at your gleaming kitchen counter.

“Did you bring a man home?”

“Mother!” You gasp, “We are not talking about that.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re an adult, I’m sure the birds and the bees talk is no longer necessary. Not to mention protection, you’ve learned your lesson there.”

“Thanks,” you drawl.

“I’m just saying you look… good. Satisfied.” Your cheeks flame. “You know you’re allowed to have a life outside of all this. You’re still young and there’s still time to find love.”

Love, huh? Scott’s face appears in your mind with that stupidly attractive smirk. You shake your head. “Yes, Mom. I’m aware.” She stares skeptically at you. “I know. It was just a night of fun. I have responsibilities, can’t be reckless anymore.” 

“It was chance,” your mom murmurs, “you were never reckless.”

“The universe has picked her favorites and I’m not one of them,” you laugh, “but I think I milked my luck with Ben, can’t ask for a better kid. Hopefully he behaved?”

“He was an angel.” You nod, humming. “Are you not going to tell me about this man then?”

Groaning, you try to walk away from her but she follows you down the hall. “There’s nothing to tell and I didn’t bring him home.”

“Oh, you stayed at his?”

“No, I… went home.”

She lets out a little surprised noise. “That bad?”

No, that good. “I’m not discussing this with you further.” 

Monday sends you crashing back to earth. While you spent your Sunday recuperating with Ben, a calm day of eating vegetables to balance the treats and touching grass on the playground, being back in this office — this dreary reality reminds you that life really isn’t that swell.

It doesn’t help that Jenna pounces the moment you walk in, an endless stream of questions pouring out of her lips about the hottie you were with and if you got your brains fucked out of your head. You don’t satisfy her with a response, slipping into your office and locking it shut.

An office job coordinating and babysitting adults for the sake of science was never part of the plan, but plans change and you’ve learned to accept it. Now, you’re stretching to work out the crick in your neck as you do a doom scroll of the countless unread emails in your inbox.

You’re trapped in there for most of the day, vision beginning to blur when you have to squint at the screen to decipher the letters. However, the banging close to the end of the day has you jolting awake at your desk, knee slamming up against your table.

A curse slips past your lips as you hop over to open it. Jenna — wide-eyed and dangerously excited — grins like a cat that’s caught a mouse.

“Hottie alert.”

You look at her, unimpressed. “Please don’t involve me in your plans to cross professional boundaries. I don’t want HR to mark me as an accomplice.”

“No, I mean hottie — as in hottie from the club who gave you those hickeys that even your concealer can’t hide.”

Your hands fly to your neck, where the bruises pulse in demand of your attention. Warmth crawls across your face. You’ve spent enough time allowing your mind to wander to memories from that night, you don’t need to do it again at work.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s outside — looking for you!”

The splat of your heart dropping to the floor echoes in the ensuing silence. You must be hearing things because you could’ve sworn Jenna just told you that Scott is here at your workplace. The place where you work.

“No,” you blurt out.

“Yes,” she hisses, “get your ass out there. Clearly, you made quite the impression. Or did he make an impression with his dick inside your—”

“Finish that sentence and I revoke your rights to see Ben,” you warn and she gasps, biting down her giggles. “Can you just tell him I’m not here? Better yet, tell him there’s no one here by my name.”

She gives you a look. “He’s not an idiot. He saw me and clocked me as the friend who dressed her like that.”

Groaning, you press your forehead against the door.

“Was he that bad?”

Again, that good.

“He looks like a good time. Mind if I take a crack at him?”

The question has you jerking upright, your expression souring. Jenna’s a great friend, but Scott is— what is Scott? He’s nobody. He should be nobody.

“I’m kidding,” she laughs, “jeez, you’re obviously into him. Why are you being difficult?”

Because this will end the same way. Your heart broken. Scott gone again.

“Listen, I don’t think he’s leaving and the others are starting to gossip. They think you’ve got golden pussy that’s bringing a male suitor around this desperately.”

Fuck, the last thing you need is Scott causing problems at work. With a relenting sigh, you follow Jenna out front and find Scott standing there, looking impassively at some of the women — nurses and patients alike — who are shooting flirtatious looks at him. In fact, he’s not looking at them at all — his eyes float around the room until they land on you.

He doesn’t look pissed. No, his lips tug up into a smirk tinged with mirth. He says your name, your heart sinks. It sounds like a greeting and a threat. Your stomach turns.

Scott looks you up and down, a silent assessment that concludes in confusion at your clothes. Instead of addressing it, he hands you one of the cups in his hand.

“Tea,” he answers before you can ask, “with a spoonful of honey.”

Your favorite afternoon remedy.

Unfortunately, you feel your colleagues’ aggressively probing gazes burning to your side. It’s natural they’re curious; you’ve never had visitors aside from your mom and Ben — let alone a man. Let alone a man who looks like Scott.

You’ll never hear the end of this.

“Follow me.” You drag him by the elbow towards the waiting room, far away from the disappointed looks. When you’re finally out of sight, you turn around. “What are you doing here?”

Scott looks far from pleased, but his tone is calm. “Came to see you.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee — probably black with a drop of cream.

“You can’t be doing this to me at work, Scott.”

“You weren’t responding to my texts.”

“I’m at work.”

“I can see that.”

“Don’t be cute.”

“You always think I’m cute.”

You take a deep breath. “Scott, what happened last Friday—” He perks up. “It can’t happen again.” 

“Why not?” He scowls, jaw clicking off to the side. 

“We’re adults now, we can’t be… doing whatever we were doing. It was fun when we were young but come on.”

“What? Too old to have fun?”

“I think I’m at a point where I should be looking for something serious, not a repeat of college.”

There’s a firmness to his eyes that makes you squirm. Something unexpectedly grave that’s foreign to Scott. “Serious,” he echoes, “you want serious?”

“Of course, I do.”

He licks his lips, taking a step towards you. Your heart skips a beat. 

“If that’s the case—”

“Mom!”

Your entire body goes cold, the word both warms and slashes your chest. Your son barrels down the hallway and you barely flinch when you feel his tiny arms wrap around your legs, Ben cheesing up at you with a toothy grin.

You don’t spare Scott a glance when you crouch down to Ben’s height, allowing him to wrangle you in a tight hug. “Hi, bud, what’re you doing here? I was supposed to meet you at home.”

“Missed you.” He pulls away to beam at you and your heart positively melts.

This perfect kid. “Missed you too, buddy,” you smile, “I still need to finish up work. Think you can be patient for me and wait a few more minutes?”

He blinks at you. “Aunt Jenna?”

You shake your head. Jenna is always a crowd favorite. “Aunt Jenna—”

“Is right here!” The familiar voice cheers as she appears next to you. Ben throws himself around her legs next with a giggle. “Come on, we’ve got some new toys in the playroom I can show you. Cool LEGOs.”

Before you know it, she’s already whisking him away, leavingyou, Scott, and your mother — who is staring at him with a little too much curiosity.

On the other hand, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him. The thing that shakes your confidence the most is his silence. Upset Scott goes on long tirades, spitting out vile things until he’s clam enough to take action.

However, a very, truly angry Scott is quiet. The rage simmers on the surface, bubbling in imminent explosion on the inside.

Your mother grins at him with sparkling eyes. “I never knew my daughter had such a handsome friend.”

“Mom!” You immediately scold, embarrassment spreading through you like wildfire.

Scott clears his throat, smile cordial as he turns to your mom. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Scott. A friend.” The last word he seems to add reluctantly.

“Oh yes, she did mention… a friend,” your mom says with a teasing lilt that proves to push that stake of betrayal deeper into your gut. “We’re going to head back for dinner after this. Would you like to join us?”

“He has other things to do,” you say at the same time Scott responds with, “I’d love to.” This time, you do turn to look at him.

His eyes are cool, almost distant, as he regards you. It’s an impassive look that says more than most people expect. A shudder wracks through you as your mouth dries in fear.

“I’ll be there,” he emphasizes, looking pointedly at you.

Your body withers slightly under the intensity of his gaze and you choose to redirect your own displeasure at your mother who simply disregards you. “Wonderful, I’ll wait with Ben. Come find us when you’re done, honey.”

Leave it to your own blood to make the bed and force you to lie in it.

But you’re also your mother’s daughter so you take that as a chance to escape yourself. “I have to wrap up work so I’ll see you later,” you exhale quickly and high-tail out of there before he can even open his mouth.

Procrastinating emotions has always been your strong suit.

By the time you finish work and step back outside, you pray that Scott’s anger would’ve faded. He’s calm when he agrees to follow your family car in his own. You’re constantly peeking at your rearview mirror to see if he changes his mind but his car never disappears from your line of sight.

When you let all of them inside the apartment, Scott gives it a critical once-over. He politely toes off his shoes and steps into the living room. Sweat piles on the back of your neck as you urge Ben to wash up while you and your mom prepare dinner.

“Pasta alright?” You ask, testing the waters.

His answer is respectful and composed. A simple yes, thank you.

It only makes you more nervous.

Dinner passes by without a hitch, despite your bouncing knee the entier time. Your mom asks Scott how he knows you and what he does for work; she’s at least smart enough to tread carefully on the bigger questions of why you’ve never mentioned him and why he feels comfortable enough to show face at your job. The extent of his introduction to Ben is taht he is your son and Scott is your friend.

“Uncle Scott,” Ben confirms, familiarizing himself with Scott’s name on his tongue.

You see the ice in his eyes chip away, albeit slightly, but he nods.

After Ben gets exactly a single scoop of the chocolate chip ice cream in the fridge, you tell him that it’s finally time for bed. He whines about how having a guest means that he should be able to stay up longer. You give him one look and he promptly skulks to the bathroom. 

You take this chance to escape Scott’s attention for a little while; god knows his staring gets unnerving after two hours of it. You take your time preparing Ben for bed, switching him to his comfy pajamas, reading him his favorite book with the voices the way he likes it. When he’s finally out cold, you get up, press a kiss to his temple, and turn to exit. 

Scott’s standing in the doorway, watching you quietly. His expression is thoughtful, but he doesn’t say a word when you lead him back to the kitchen. 

You walk your mom to the door, thanking her for the day.

Her eyes wander to Scott behind you who seems intent on lingering even when it’s late. She smiles at you. “He seems like a good one,” she whispers. “I like him.”

“You’ve known him all of two hours.”

“I can sense it. I like how you are with him.” You raise an eyebrow in question. “Emotional. You get riled up so easily. You’ve spent the last few years playing adult that it’s sweet to see you like this.” 

Your cheeks are hot as you shoo her again. She throws out a final nice to meet you and see you again soon before she finally leaves the two of you alone.

Scott’s eyes chase after you as you fuss with your kettle, preparing caffeine for the conversation you’re about to have. Maybe you should break out that tequila buried deep inside your cabinet instead. He no doubt has questions. You don’t know if he’s connected the dots; you can only hope he hasn’t. Ben looks more like you after all.

There’s a small part of you that hopes Scott would know, call it fatherly intuition, but a bigger part of you wants to avoid addressing that question. He’s only here to visit, he doesn’t need to know that he has a son. If he doesn’t know, then the two of you can return to life as is once he leaves.

You don’t want to admit how much the thought stings.

“Ben,” Scott clears his throat as you set a cup of coffee in front of him. He gratefully accepts it, takes a sip. “Is his dad…”

“Not around.” It’s a safe answer.

“Who is he?”

“No one you know,” you lie smoothly, maybe too quickly.

His eyes narrow a fraction but he doesn’t push. “You never told me you have a son.”

“We weren’t talking, Miller. It would’ve been strange to say hey, hope you’re doing well, by the way, I have a kid!”

“Well, whose fault is that?” He snaps.

The air is strung tight, electricity crackling quietly in the echo of his words. 

“I just—” He takes a deep breath, hands shoved into his hair. “I don’t want to fight,” he says, doing his damndest to try and mean it. You know that he wants to push, to question, to challenge you. Confront you for leaving him in the wind. 

But he doesn’t want to lose you — the same way you don’t want to either. 

“Ben’s a good kid,” you murmur, thumb stroking the rim of your mug. 

“Well, you did raise him,” he notes, lips twitching up. 

You clear your throat. “This is why I can’t do… whatever that was last night again. It was a fluke and a mistake. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night out like that and apparently I just needed to get laid.” 

Instead of the chuckle you’re expecting, some jab about you being abstinent, there is weight that settles heavy in the atmosphere. Scott looks at you carefully, lips tight. “A mistake? Really?”

“Not—” you stop yourself, biting your tongue, “not like that.” He cocks an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of irritation and interest. “I just think I shouldn’t have been so irresponsible.”

“Why? You would’ve fucked any man that night?” 

“Of course not!”

“So just me then.”

“Yes!”

The moment the confirmation leaves your mouth, you stop. Scott smiles, smug. “Good to know.”

“Oh, screw you.”

“You already did.”

The urge to hurl your mug at his head grows stronger by the second.

Scott bites down on his smile but you can still see the ghost of amusement on his lips. “But, listen, in all seriousness, if you need anything— I know raising a kid isn’t cheap and, with your hours and obviously childcare and all the necessities—”

You cringe. “Please don’t tell me you’re offering me money right now.” 

“I just want to help.”

“Not your responsibility.”

His jaw clenches. “I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend.” 

His jaw clenches. “I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend.” 

You consider arguing with him again, defending your stance as a perfectly capable, independent, single mother. However, you know he means well. This is how Scott Miller helps, this is how he shows you he cares. 

“Thank you,” you sigh, “I appreciate it, but I promise you I’m fine.”

Scott hesitates for a second. “You’re not a nurse.” It’s not a question. 

“I wanted to do it, but the pregnancy and the tough hours just didn’t seem healthy – or fair to a newborn. I’m doing something safer, more regular hours. It’s not so bad.”

“Wasn’t your dream though.”

“Well, sometimes dreams don’t work out.”

He doesn’t look appeased. “Why not now? He’s a little more grown. How old is he?”

Your heart rushes in your ears. “I have a good routine going. It’s not like I hate what I’m doing now—”

“But you don’t love it.” Once again, not a question.

“It’s… a job, Scott, I’m lucky to be employed in this economy.”

He grunts but doesn’t push further. “I’m not going to give you shit for not telling me—”

“Shocker.” The sarcastic remark slips out on instinct, Scott tosses you a scalding look with no heat behind his eyes. 

“But at least let me try and help you.” He knows you too well, can sense the argument threatening to fall from your lips, so he quickly adds, “I don’t want to hear it. However I can help, I will.”

When he has this voice, you know there’s no point in arguing, so you let it slide. “Sure. Thank you,” you surrender. “How long are you here for?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

Oh. You’re fast to school your expression. “Got it. We should plan to catch up properly at some point then. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

The corners of his lips tug up and you’re already rolling your eyes, ears tingling with the stupid comment to come. “You don’t think we did that already? Or did you want a repeat?”

“Pig.”

“You love it.” 

A laugh bubbles up your throat, light and airy that has Scott’s smile rising a smidgen higher. 

For a moment, you think everything will be okay.

+ sam: im sorry for the woman i've become with him (i'm not) (i love this idiot so dearly). hope you enjoyed this part and look forward for more drama to come in the second!!!

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt

In any other circumstance, that would be normal. The suit was thick, you were moving around, except this time you were in the middle of Siberia and the vents in the base hadn't worked for a long time, so it was pretty much freezing as much inside as it was out, save for the wind. 

It started almost imperceptible, like a predator ambushing a prey. You walked behind Bucky like you couldn't feel the sweat under the layers of kevlar you had on, like the scent of his detergent and just his skin weren't enough to make the space between your thighs slick. 

You took your gloves off while Buck's eyes stayed facing ahead, making sure neither of you would get caus by surprise by anything else. Wiping your hands down on your thigh you could feel how hot and sweaty they were, you felt like your clothes were suffocating you from the inside out, like your skin didn't fit quite right. 

The thing is—you didn’t feel sick. Not dizzy. Not nauseous. Your vision was mostly clear, your steps steady. But your heartbeat felt louder than usual. Like your pulse was pressed to the inside of your lips, your fingers, between your legs. You shifted again, trying to ignore it.

Bucky glanced over as he secured the last of the drive cores. “You okay?”

You nodded too fast. “Fine. Just... warm.”

He tilted his head slightly, squinting at you. His eyes did that thing they always did—soft and curious, like he was seeing something you didn’t want him to. “You sure?”

You forced a smile, shoulders tightening. “Let’s get out of here before the storm, please.”

As if God and everything holy decided to mock you, you did not make it before the storm. So both of you were forced to hike up to an old safehouse form his cold war days. The trek was brutal, snow high on your legs, but the cold felt good agasint your skin, relieving it even if it was barely there. 

You unzipped your suit halfway. Then halfway again. Bucky’s eyes flicked toward you for a split second, then away.

You thought maybe it was just adrenaline. Mission high. You told yourself it was nothing.

But your skin was too sensitive. Your breath wouldn’t stay even. You were aching, and not the kind that came from bruises or sore muscles. This ache was low. Hungry. Electric. And no matter how you shifted or clenched your fists or dug your fingernails into your palms, it wouldn’t go away.

When you arrived he went straight to starting the generator, snow still in his hair. You didn’t say anything when he offered you a protein bar. You just shook your head and stared out the window, trying not to cry from how badly you needed to be touched.

You didn’t tell him that your underwear was already damp. That your thighs were starting to tremble. That your body was responding to something it didn’t understand, something it didn’t choose. That you were scared.

He shifted in place in front of you. “Y/N,” he said softly. “Talk to me.”

Your eyes stayed on the floor. “I think something’s wrong.”

There was a pause. “Physically?” You nodded, throat bobbing when you gulped.

Bucky didn’t speak again. You could feel him watching you, waiting. That unbearable patience of his. That calm. That strength. You wanted to claw it off him and beg him to fix it.

The sweat hadn't stopped. The ache was worse now. Your body felt like it was vibrating from something deeper. Something blooming. Something curling beneath your skin and between your legs, turning your nerves into live wires and everything else into water that would amplify your charge.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. If you opened your mouth, you might’ve begged him to carry you. Might’ve begged him to touch you.

You moved to sit on the edge of the couch, hands clenched between your knees. You could feel him watching you. Again.

“Still warm?” he asked gently. You nodded, he stood in front of you, hand on your forehead to feel for the temperature, not knowing that looking up at him like that was feeding all sorts of obscenities that HR would not like you to indulge in. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m just tired.”

“No, you’re not.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Bucky knelt in front of you, voice quiet. “What’s going on, Y/N?”

Your vision blurred slightly. “I think it’s getting worse.” You turned your face away. “It’s like… I can’t think straight. I can’t cool off. And everything feels like—like too much. My skin, my heartbeat. You.”

The last word escaped before you could catch it.

Both of you froze for a moment, and in the spirit of not making it harder — for either of you in every sense of the word — he pretended he didn't hear it. “You should sleep,” he murmured. “If you can.”

The storm hit harder after nightfall. Wind howled against the cabin, rattling the old windows in their frames. Snow piled up fast outside, burying any chance of leaving until sunrise.

Bucky made sure the fire was steady, the doors locked, everything secured. You hovered near the bedroom doorway, clutching the blanket he’d tossed you without meeting his eyes.

He was able to count every ridge on the wood ceiling twice, he thinks. He's been staring at it like it would grant his wish of going deaf right at this moment, or an asteroid landing on top of the cabin, anything, really, so he wouldn't be able to hear you crying in the small bedroom behind walls that were much too shitty to hold back any sound.

He watched you earlier form his place on the couch, going back and forth between the bedroom and the small bathroom, frustrated huffs coming out of your mouth each time. 

An hour later, he felt the breeze of what he could assume was the window you opened to get some relief from the burning feeling of your blood boiling in your veins. 

Now he was being forced to listen to you try to touch yourself into a cure that wasn't coming, and neither were you. At first, it was just shifting. Sheets rustling. The kind of restlessness that could be chalked up to discomfort or cold.

A soft exhale, almost like you were trying to choke down a whine while holding your breath too long. He heard you let out a frustrated and more breathless huff, like you tried even harder and couldn't.

He pictured you on the bed—hips grinding down into your own hand, trying not to cry out from the tension curled inside of you. Sweat-dampened sheets, flushed cheeks, maybe even a pillow clenched between your teeth.

And then he heard his name.

And his entire body perked up like a dog hearing T-R-E-A-T. In no time he was by the door, knocking softly, "You okay?"

"It's getting worse." He didn’t ask what it was. He knew. He always knew, didn’t he? Those compounds were never designed to be kind. They were engineered to torment. To make relief impossible without another person. Without skin-on-skin. Without someone who could anchor you back into your body.

"Bucky, please." Your voice was muffled by the door but it didn't make it any harder for his cock to start to stand attention to you, like you were a siren he was being lured towards. "It hurts so bad."

His hands hesitated on the doorknob, like he didn't trust himself to see you and not give into it, even though he forced himself to believe this was all the compound talking. 

He should walk away, should go outside, bury himself in snow and hope the cold froze whatever heat was crawling into his spine. But instead, he exhaled shakily and turned the knob. The door creaked open just an inch. Not enough to enter—just enough to look.

And fuck.

You were curled up on the bed, facing the wall, your body shaking in tiny, involuntary tremors. The blanket was tangled around your waist, shirt hitched just slightly, one hand pressed between your thighs, the other clenched tightly in the sheets. You were flushed—too flushed—and your eyes, when you turned to look at him, were glassy with unshed tears and sheer need.

“I don't know what's going on,” you whispered again, voice cracking. “I can’t—Bucky, I’ve tried—”

“I know,” he said, barely more than a breath. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “I heard you.” You looked away, shame painting your face in shades of crimson like a bruise. But he didn’t let you turn far.

“Hey,” he said, softly, coming closer. “Don’t hide. Not from me.”

Your lip trembled. “I can’t make it stop. I can’t even—” You let out a bitter, embarrassed laugh that broke off into something like a sob. “It won’t let me. My body—”

“—wants what it was drugged to want,” he finished quietly. "C'mere, lets try a cold bath, okay?"

That got the faintest smile out of you. But it didn’t last. Your hand twitched where it rested on your stomach, and he could see the way your thighs rubbed together instinctively, trying to create friction. Still trying to fix it on your own.

You couldn't look at him. Not when every cell in your body was screaming touch me. Not when the scent of him—clean and masculine and maddening—was clinging to your senses worse than the compound itself.

You nod, unable to speak. Anything is better than this.

You barely remember getting to the tub. You remember the way your skin prickled as he poured in bucket after bucket of snow melt, watching it fog in the cold air before settling into a frost-laced pool. You remember the way your hands shook as you stripped down before he could avoid looking, too weak to feel shame.

You eased yourself in slowly. The cold bites at first, like a thousand pins in your legs, up your spine. Your breath catches on a gasp as the chill wraps around your thighs, your hips, your chest.

Then, you felt relief. A long sigh left your lips as you settled down in it, knees tucked close to your chest and your cheek resting on one knee, while you faced Bucky, who was sitting outside of the tub on the bath mat, across from you. 

The burn under your skin dulls. Not gone, but numbed. Your lungs expand fully for the first time in hours.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, tilting your head back. “It’s working.”

“You scared me,” he says softly.

Your eyes open. “Yeah?”

“Don’t like feeling helpless.” He swallows. “Especially not when it’s you.”

“I’m okay right now,” you whisper. “I swear.” His head finally turns. His eyes land on your face—not your body, not the waterline, just your face—and there’s a warmth there that makes your heart hurt.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Just don’t want to leave you alone.”

You smile faintly. “You never have to.”

You stood like that until most of the snow melted around you, and little by little, you felt the heat come back with a vengeance, making you lightheaded. It bloomed slow, syrupy, underneath your skin, spreading out from your core and licking up your ribs like fire under ice. You sucked in a breath and blinked, thinking maybe you imagined it.

Your fingertips tingled. Your thighs pressed together out of instinct. The cold was no longer a balm. It was a barrier, one your body was suddenly desperate to break.

Bucky noticed right away. “Hey,” he said gently, leaning in. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head, eyes closing, a soft whimper escaping before you could swallow it down. “It’s—it’s coming back.”

“Don’t move,” he said, already reaching for the metal bucket, already halfway across the room to scoop more snow from the container near the door. “We’ll cool it down again—just stay in the bath—”

“Bucky…” Your voice broke. “It’s not the cold. It’s me. I can’t fight it anymore.” You were curled tighter now, shivering not from the temperature but from how hard your muscles were straining to stay still. Your lips were parted. Your eyes glassy.

And he’d never seen anything so painful. Or beautiful.

You let your forehead rest against your knee, panting softly. “It’s like my skin hurts. Like it knows what it wants and it’s just—punishing me for not having it.”

He was a blur of movement and then he was kneeling bside the tub, hand cupping your face and seeing that, indeed, your temperature rose again. He looked at your face for other signs of distress, trying not to get distracted by the dazed look on your face that he would only liken to cockdrunk, which you weren't, hence the fever. 

You studied his face, the furrow between his brows, sheer proof that he was worried about you, the concerned look in his eyes, his pink lips. You had been fighting your feelings for him for so long, and the compound tired you out enough that you didn't want to do it anymore.

You leaned forward fast, water splashing around as you sat up on your knees to kiss him, sighing into his mouth as you felt every nerve ending in your body weeping with joy, and other parts of you weeping for other reasons. 

“I need you,” you gasp between kisses, “please, Bucky—need you so bad—”

He broke the kiss but didn't pull away, your lips finding his jaw and nipping at the skin there. "This isn't you." He groaned out. 

"Yes, it is." You were gasping now, your body having a taste of what it needed. "I wanted you for so long, Buck, it's not— it's not whatever this is." He tried to have restraint, he really fucking did. 

But you pulled away enough to look at him with pleading teary eyes and said “I need you to fuck me,” and whine tore from your throat. “Please.”

He growls—actually growls—and the sound rips out of his throat like something primal, before his hand grabs your jaw and he finally kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft.

It’s all teeth and breath and soaked fabric, and your mouth parts for him instantly, greedy and aching. His tongue swirls inside your mouth and his hands find your waist at the same time yours found his shoulder, looking for stability as you scrambled out of the tub and onto his lap on the tile floor against the wall.

Rough warm hands roam all over your skin, stopping at the supple skin of your ass to knead it, his lips moving against yours like he’s been dying for the taste while you rocked back and forth on top of him, making a wet spot in the front of his pants. 

"Bucky, please…"

“I know,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. His breath is hot and ragged against your lips. “Fuck, I know, baby. I can feel it on you—smell it on your skin—I’ve been going crazy—”

You grabbed his right wrist and shifted his hand from your ass cheek to between your legs, gasping into his mouth when his index and middle finger started to spread your lips and toy with your wetness. 

"She's already so puffy f'me, angel— fuck— haven't even used her yet." Your hips jerked forward helplessly, grinding down on his hand like your body didn’t even want to wait for him to move. He swallowed hard, eyes locked on your face as you shuddered against him.

“I tried,” you whisper, voice wrecked, shaky. “That’s why. I’m— She’s all—puffy—because I tried so hard to come on my own.”

Then he laughs—low and dangerous, the kind of sound that sends a fresh flood of heat right to your core. His hand slips between your legs, fingers gliding through your slick, gathering it like proof.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your clit just light enough to make you whimper.

“You poor thing,” he coos, mock-pitying, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw. “Tried and tried and couldn’t get off with those little fingers, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, a smug edge curling into his voice. “I can feel it. She’s been working overtime trying to get there.”

You sob against his neck. “I needed you—”

“I know you did,” he whispers, kissing your temple now, impossibly tender even as his fingers keep moving. “You lay in bed all hot and sweaty, thinking of me? Playing with my pussy like it’s yours?”

Your head drops back as your hips grind harder into his hand. “She is yours—Bucky—she needs you—”

“Damn right she does,” he growls.

“Buck—” Your voice broke, and your nails dug into his shoulder, “don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I’m not,” he breathed, and he wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a surrender. Maybe both. “I’m right here. I’m not fucking going anywhere.”

“I can’t slow down, it hurts—I hurt—please—Bucky, please, I need more, I need—” You cut yourself off with a moan when he plunged both of his fingers inside of you, flicking his wrist in time with your hips so you were effectively riding his hand now. 

“You’re not ready,” he growled, though his own voice was frayed, trembling. “You’re so fucking tight, baby, I can feel it—if I put anything more than a couple fingers in you right now, you’ll break.”

“I don’t care,” you begged, rocking helplessly against him. “I want you to break me.” You whined again, riding his hand harder and his palm came to cup you, grinding the rough surface againts your clit. 

"Then let her cum for me once, hmmm?" His lips suckled on the skin of your tits, "Make a mess on my hands, y'can do it." He bit onto your neck and curled his fingers in a "come here" motion, scratching the itch deep inside you gummy walls, making your vision go blurry and your body clamp around his fingers. 

“…there you go,” he whispers, trying to catch his breath. “Just like that. That’s it, sweetheart.”

You melt into him, boneless, weight slumping against his chest. His hands stroke your back, your hips, your sides — grounding you in tiny, careful touches like he’s afraid to break you.

It was enough relief for maybe a minute, and when you cuold both feel the heat creeping up your muscles again, slow at first, sliding up your thighs like a tide returning to shore.

The second your body tenses in his lap he adjusts his grip. One arm slides under your thighs, the other around your back. He rises in one smooth motion, holding you like you’re something precious and breakable, even though you’re melting against him like wax.

The cabin creaks with wind as he walks, your skin still damp and glistening, his shirt clinging to your body where it touches. Every step makes you whimper softly. He lets you bounce down on the bed softly. Your legs fall open slightly with the shift in position, and his breath stutters.

You paw at his torso to take his shirt off, and he does that for you. All warm skin, carved muscle and taut want to finish burning you up. 

He crawls over you until he's at eye level, looking at the moonlight coming through the curtains and reflecting off of your eyes like that was all it was ever made to do. He kissed, nibbled, bit, and sucked his way down you neck, your clavicle, the valley of your breasts and each stiff peak of your nipples. 

He licked a hot strip down your stomach and tugged at the skin where your thigh met your torso with his teeth. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “But not like this. Not when you’re hurting.”

“I’m not,” you say softly. “Not when you’re touching me.”

He breathes in slow against your skin like he’s trying to calm himself—like the scent of you is both a balm and a threat. Your thighs twitch around him when his stubble grazes too close to where you’re aching, and your fingers tighten in the quilt beneath you.

“I can feel it in you,” he whispers, voice rasping low as his fingers brush gently over your hip. “You’re holding so much back.”

“I can’t anymore,” you say, breath shuddering. “Please don’t make me.”

He looks up at you—face flushed, lips parted, chest heaving—and something breaks. Whatever part of him was still trying to ration this, to survive it without taking too much—gone.

His next words don't come out verbally, instead he spells every letter agasint your needy cunt with his tongue, circling your clit and sucking it in his mouth, then thrusting his tongue in again, enough to make the knot inside of your stomach tighter and tighter each time. 

He groans low into you—like he’s tasting sin and salvation in the same breath. His hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you open for him as he licks deeper, slow and devastating. You cry out, fingers diving into his hair, hips already lifting off the bed, needing more.

“Easy,” he rasps against your skin, voice trembling with the kind of restraint that’s killing him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

"I feel—" Another moan ripped right through you as a shock of pleasure sent goosebumps all over your body. "I feel like I can't breathe." You gulped down at the feeling of him pushing his face further into your pussy, but your mouth was still dry, unlike the rest of you.

"Gonna get her all swollen for me, baby." He licked a long strip up your slit and circled your clit again at the same time he pungled two metal fingers in, the coolness of the vibranium helping to push the fever down. "You'll see."

Your thighs shake around him. Your breath stutters. Your fingers go numb from how tightly you’re gripping him. “Bucky—” you choke, voice breaking on his name. "Fuck, I— I—oh, my god!"

He already knew exactly where that spot was inside of you, all he needed to really do was get the cool metal to rub on it for a few seconds and you were soaking the bottom half of his face in slick. 

Your body bows like it’s trying to escape him—no, not escape, surrender. You can’t hold still. You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling, chest rising and falling so fast it feels like your lungs forgot how to work.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until your vision blurs. Until you feel his voice vibrate through you again, a low groan of approval, of possession.

He kissed his way up just as he did down, kissing you when he got to your mouth, making you taste yourself on his tongue, your clammy body sticking to his as he settled on top of you between your thighs.

He pulled away to nip at your jaw and neck, "Good girl." and as soon as the damn words came out of your mouth, it all restarted. Your hands grabbed at his pants like the damn thing called your mom names, popping off the button and pulling the zipper down.

He helped you help him shrug the inconvenient piece of clothing down his legs so he could kick them off. Your thighs twitched involuntarily when you saw the length of him spring free. Thick, long, it made your mouth water and your pussy throb "fuck me" in Morse code. 

Your skin was beaded with sweat. Your hands trembling where they rested on the sheets, and there was a low, helpless noise building in your throat—half frustration, half plea. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze, but it was already creeping back in.

“I need you inside me.” His breath catches.

You reach for him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of his neck, tugging him closer, your voice breaking with something between tears and lust. “Buck, please, I need you to fuck me.”

Your hips roll beneath him instinctively as he leans over you again, a helpless grind that makes both of you gasp. You’re soaked. Open. Ready. Already pulsing from the inside out. For a second, all you hear is the wind howling against the cabin, the sound of the storm still raging outside.

Then his hand was back between your thighs, gathering slick and a low moan from you to coat his cock with. He stroked himself once, twice, then teased the head up and down your slit.

Just as your mouth opened to complain he was taking too damn long, he pushed in. The whole. Nine. Inches. "God, yes—"

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel so—so good, baby. You don’t even know.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip. You turn your head just enough to see his face—flushed, eyes wild, mouth parted like he’s struggling to stay human inside this kind of want, and you are too. 

His hand slides under your thigh, hitching your leg higher, and the change in angle nearly breaks you. A helpless moan tears from your throat before you can bite it back.

“Yeah?” he rasps, breath hitched. “Right there?”

You nod—frantic, gasping—and your hips move without thinking, chasing that friction, desperate for more, for everything. 

His hips roll deeper now, slow but relentless, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that makes your whole body tighten. You’re already too close again—everything too much, too hot, too sharp. You whimper beneath him, legs trembling as you cling to his shoulders like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Sweetheart,” he groans against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so good wrapped around me—so fucking tight—"

“You hear that?” he murmurs, voice thick with heat as his hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling where you’re swollen and desperate. “That’s you. That’s how wet you are. Fuckin’ soaked for me.”

You cry out—sharp and broken—hips jerking against his.

“That’s it,” he growls, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “Ride it. C’mon, sweetheart, I can feel you shaking—she’s gettin’ close again, isn’t she?”

“Yes—god—yes, don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he promises, voice dark and hungry. “Gonna make you come again. Gonna have you milking my cock like you need it. You do, don’t you?” He hiked your leg higher and leaned further, putting you in a mating press that would have your hip flexor crying tomorrow. 

You nod frantically, tears in your lashes, overwhelmed while his pelvis rubs agasint your clit. “I need it—I need you—I need everything, please—please—”

“You’ve got me,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’ve got me. Now come for me again, baby. Be good and let go for me.”

His pace doesn’t falter—deep, perfect, almost punishing. His thumb presses tighter, circles faster, and it tips you over the edge with brutal, blinding force.

You sob his name—his real name—as the orgasm crashes through you. Your entire body goes taut, your thighs clamp around his torso, your mouth open on a cry you can’t swallow down.

And he watches you fall apart with awe and wrecked hunger in his eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groans, hips stuttering against yours now. “That’s it, just like that—so fuckin’ beautiful when you come for me—fuck.”

You could feel he was close. Fuck, your brain was mush at that point, if not for the fever and the compound, the supersoldier that was pistoring his hips into yours like you'd die without it. And to be honest, you probably would, at this point. 

“Don’t stop,” you gasp, leaning your head up so you could bite at his chin and the salt and pepper there, every ragged breath of his on your face. “Bucky, please—don’t stop—don’t pull out—please, I want you to come inside.”

His eyes squeeze shut. His entire body jerks like your words hit him harder than anything else. "Need you to fill me up, Buck."

He groans loudly. "Yeah?" And thrusts harder. "This pussy needs me to make her all sticky with my cum? Mmm?"

You nodded franctically, beggin, pleading.

And what kind of man would James Buchanan Barnes be if he didn't just give it to you?

You feel it before you hear it—the way his body seizes, the way his grip on your waist tightens like a vice, the way his mouth drops open on a strangled groan right into your neck as he pumps you so full of cum that it leaks out of you while he's still inside, ring of white at the base of his cock. 

He collapses over you slowly, bracing his forearm beside your head, but he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even try to.

Your legs are still wrapped around his waist, trembling. Your hands stay tangled in his hair. You’re both breathing hard—gasps, really—and your skin is slick with sweat, your pulse thudding against his where your chests touch.

He nuzzles into your neck, still inside, still throbbing, his voice cracked and low.

“Shit,” he breathes.

Your fingers rake softly through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s okay,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“That’s not why I’m—” He stops himself. Swallows. His lips graze your skin. “I’ve just never… had someone like that before.”

You smile faintly, even through the haze. “You’ve never had someone beg you to breed them like a feral animal in heat?”

He huffs out a breath that’s half groan, half laugh, but his eyes flicker up to yours.

“You were serious, weren’t you?” he says, quiet now. “About… needing it. Needing me. That way.”

You nodded sheepishly, the primal need in you giving space to clarity. “I wanted you before. I still want you now. And I—I didn’t want it to stop. Even when it hurt.”

He cups your jaw with one hand, thumb stroking your cheek. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know.” You sighed, "I'm sorry."

“I’ve never seen you like that. Never seen anyone like that.” His brows furrow, and his voice drops even lower. “I would’ve done anything to take the pain away. I still would.”

“You did,” you whisper. He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it. You tighten your arms around him. “You took it away, Bucky. You made it quiet.” There’s a long silence, full of his breath against your neck, your fingers drawing slow circles on his back.

Then you murmur, “You can move now… if you want.” He shifts his hips just slightly, still buried deep—and both of you moan.

His head drops again. “Fuck no,” he mutters. “You think I’m going anywhere after that?”

a/n: don't ask me what kind of demon possessed me, I was writing the pussyjob scene for clean, got horny, and decided to keep the momentum going, for the love of all that is holy PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!!!!!

Maybe you decided too quickly. You didn't realize it until the third day.

The first day without Clark was fine. You tidied up the apartment a little, the baby slept most of the day, and you thought that maybe it was nice having the space all to yourself.

The second day started to feel strange.

The couch was empty.

There was no freshly brewed coffee in the morning.

The kitchen was clean but quiet, without the sound of Clark moving pots around.

The third day was worse.

You missed his presence already.

Not just his help, but his company.

The sound of his breathing from the other room.

The way he held the baby and spoke to her softly, as if she could understand him.

The way he glanced at you when he thought you weren't looking.

You told yourself it was pregnancy sensitivity.

Or postpartum hormones.

That you were emotional, that everything felt bigger than it really was.

But no matter how many times you repeated that to yourself, the sadness wouldn't leave.

It was a small thing, but irritating, like a pebble trapped inside your shoe.

You missed him.

And you didn't know whether it was love or habit, but you missed him.

That night, the baby cried through the early hours of the morning.

It wasn't the kind of soft cry that could be soothed with a lullaby.

It was loud.

Desperate.

The kind of cry that breaks your heart because you don't know what else to do.

You picked her up and rocked her.

You sang to her.

You nursed her.

You changed her diaper.

Nothing worked.

The baby kept crying, and you felt like you were about to cry too.

It was two in the morning.

You hadn't slept at all.

Every time you closed your eyes, she started screaming again.

Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating your exhausted, desperate face.

You sat on the bed with the baby in your arms, and suddenly, unable to stop yourself, you started crying.

Heavy tears rolled down your cheeks and fell onto the little girl's head.

With a trembling hand, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand.

You unlocked it and searched for Clark's name.

You typed quickly, without thinking:

"Can you come over?"

But before you could send the message, you heard a noise at the window.

You looked up and saw him.

Clark was already there, floating outside your window in the blue-and-red suit he wore when he flew.

He slipped through the frame like a shadow, barely making a sound.

You stared as he stepped inside, concern written all over his face, his eyes immediately searching the baby, then you, then any sign of danger.

"What happened? Are you both okay?" he asked hurriedly, still adjusting his cape.

"The baby's fine," you said, and the moment the words left your mouth, you cried even harder. "She won't stop crying, Clark. I don't know what to do. I barely got her to sleep a little while ago, and now she's awake again. I think I'm not good at this."

Clark smiled.

It wasn't a mocking smile.

It wasn't pity.

It was the kind of gentle smile that says, It's okay. Everything's going to be alright.

He approached slowly so he wouldn't startle you and wrapped his arms around you.

He held you carefully, as if you were a crystal glass that could shatter.

One hand rested against your back while the other gently stroked the baby's head.

"It's part of the process," he said in his calm voice. "Babies cry. They don't know how to talk, they don't know how to point at things. They only know how to cry when something feels wrong. It's not your fault."

"But I don't know what's wrong with her," you sobbed against his chest.

"I'm going to buy everything that might help," Clark said. "A wipe warmer, some drops for colic, one of those pacifiers everyone recommends, a white-noise machine. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

And while he said that, he was already thinking about everything he had read online during those two weeks, every product parents recommended for babies who cried for no apparent reason.

Clark pulled away just enough to cup your cheeks in his large, gentle hands.

Slowly, with his thumbs, as if he had all the time in the world, he wiped away your tears.

His fingers were warm, and the touch made you feel a little less alone.

"Actually," he said, "I'll leave when she starts sleeping through the night and you're able to get proper rest. Until then, I'm staying."

You looked at him, your eyes still wet.

Meanwhile, the baby had calmed down a little, only whimpering softly against your chest.

You knew Clark was doing a lot for you.

Maybe too much.

And it hurt to say it, but you said it anyway.

"But it's not your responsibility. You're only the donor."

Clark nodded because it was true.

He was only the donor.

But he was also something more.

Something he didn't dare say out loud.

The father.

The man hopelessly in love with you.

"But I'm your friend," he said instead, "and I'd love to help you. Really. Not because I feel obligated. Because I want to."

That word—friend—settled in your chest like a warm coat in winter.

It wasn't what you might have wanted to hear.

But it was exactly what you needed in that moment.

Someone who would stay without asking for anything in return.

You hugged him, squeezing the baby safely between the two of you, and Clark closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

I wish this moment would never end.

I wish I could stay like this forever.

Clark guided you gently back to bed.

First, he made sure the baby was completely asleep and settled her into her bassinet with a small blanket wrapped around her.

Then he returned to you.

"Let me check your incision," he said.

Even though it made you a little embarrassed, you nodded because you knew he only wanted to help.

You lay back against the mattress and lifted your shirt slightly.

Clark knelt beside the bed and, with extreme care, examined the C-section scar with the tips of his fingers.

It was pink.

Healing well.

No signs of infection.

"It's better than last week," he said quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

He took the opportunity to use his special vision, just in case there was something that couldn't be seen with the naked eye.

Everything looked fine.

Clark also started hugging you more.

At first, they were quick hugs, the kind people give when saying hello or goodbye.

But then they became longer.

Tighter.

More necessary.

He knew you were still sensitive from the C-section, that sometimes your back hurt or you felt tired for no reason.

And he had discovered that when he hugged you, you relaxed.

That your body softened against his, as if his arms were the only place where you could finally lower your guard.

So he started hugging you for no reason.

In the kitchen, while you waited for the food to heat up.

In the living room, while the baby napped.

By the entrance, before he went out to buy something.

And you, without thinking too much about it, leaned into his chest.

Closing your eyes and resting your head against his shoulder had become a habit.

And many times, without even realizing it, you fell asleep like that.

Standing.

Wrapped in Clark’s arms.

He would feel you grow heavier against him, hear your breathing become slower and deeper, and then he would carefully carry you to the couch or the bed.

He would lay you down gently, cover you with a blanket, and stay there for a while, watching you sleep.

He used those moments to stroke your hair, running his fingers through your strands as if they were silk.

It was his favorite moment of the day.

When you didn’t have to pretend anything.

When you didn’t have to be strong.

When you were just you, sleeping peacefully, and he could love you without anyone seeing.

That was when Clark realized that maybe Clark Kent could have the life he had always longed for.

The life of a normal man.

A home.

A woman waiting for him.

A daughter who smiled at him when he came back from work.

The kind of life people had in movies, with family dinners and unhurried weekends.

And he could hide it.

He could keep being Superman when the world needed him, and still come home before dawn.

He could have both.

Because seeing you there, with the baby in your arms, was enough to make him want to try everything.

But he was afraid.

That fear wouldn’t leave, no matter how hard he pushed it away.

It was like a shadow following him everywhere.

And it wasn’t a small fear.

It was a large, heavy fear that tightened around his chest when he least expected it.

The little girl was growing.

Every day, she was stronger.

More alert.

More beautiful.

She learned how to smile.

How to crawl.

And as he watched her grow, he thought about all the terrible things that could happen.

A villain discovering he had a daughter.

Someone following them to your apartment.

The little girl inheriting his powers and not knowing how to control them.

Hurting herself.

Or worse, hurting someone else by accident.

Those images haunted him at night, when everything was dark and his mind refused to stop spinning.

One day, without saying anything, Clark made a decision.

He went back to his apartment.

It wasn’t a goodbye.

It wasn’t a fight.

It wasn’t a door slammed shut.

It was an, “I’m going home to sleep, I’ll be back tomorrow,” that turned into, “I stayed behind to take care of a few things, I’ll come by over the weekend.”

And then into an entire week without him crossing your doorway.

You didn’t say anything to him, because what could you say?

It was his home.

He had every right to be there.

But you missed him.

You missed him the way people miss the sun in winter.

The bed felt bigger and colder.

The empty couch seemed to stare back at you accusingly.

The baby turned her head toward the door every time she heard a sound, as if she were waiting to see him walk in.

And so did you.

Even if you refused to admit it.

You knew he had to keep living his life.

You couldn’t keep him locked inside your apartment forever.

It wasn’t fair.

Besides, you started thinking things that hurt.

What if he truly loved someone else?

What if, someday, he met a woman who didn’t have a recent C-section scar and a crying baby at two in the morning?

What if he wasn’t afraid of anything with someone else?

And then forgot about you?

That thought pierced your chest like a thorn.

You tried to pull it out, but it kept coming back again and again.

You shouldn’t be angry if that happens, you told yourself.

He was only a donor.

He wasn’t your boyfriend.

He wasn’t your husband.

He hadn’t promised you anything.

He was just a friend who had been very generous.

And if one day he fell in love with someone else and left, you would have to accept it.

You would have to smile and wish him the best.

Even if your whole world collapsed inside you.

Even if you didn’t want that.

Even if you wanted the exact opposite.

When the little girl turned seven months old, you went back to work.

Not at the Daily Planet.

Not yet.

You worked from home.

Editing articles.

Correcting drafts.

Sending emails to journalists so they would rewrite entire paragraphs.

It was tedious work, invisible work, but someone had to do it.

Perry valued your work because it was still excellent, even if you were doing it from the dining table with the baby crawling between your feet.

He called you once a week to ask how you were, and he always ended up saying, “Whenever you want to come back, your position is here.”

That made you feel good.

It reminded you that you weren’t just a mother.

You were also an editor.

You also had a life.

Clark, for his part, didn’t disappear completely.

He was still present, but in a different way.

On Fridays, after work, he knocked on the door.

He didn’t knock loudly.

He didn’t make noise with the knocker.

Just two gentle taps with his knuckles, as if he didn’t want to disturb you.

You opened the door and he was there, with a tired but sincere smile, his hands full of things.

He picked up the little girl immediately.

He took her into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifted her above his head, and the baby let out a contagious laugh.

A laugh that made even the plants in the apartment want to dance.

The little girl knew him very well.

She recognized his scent, his voice, the tickle of his beard when he brought her close to his cheek.

And Clark loved that child with an intensity he could barely contain.

His entire face lit up when she grabbed one of his fingers with her tiny hand.

You hesitated whenever you watched him holding her.

Whenever you saw him laughing with her, spinning her in the air, blowing raspberries against her little belly.

Something moved inside you.

Something you didn’t know how to name.

You wanted him there every night.

Not just on Fridays.

Not just once in a while.

You wanted him every day.

Every hour.

Every minute.

But you knew that wouldn’t happen.

You couldn’t ask that of him.

It wasn’t fair.

And besides, what were you supposed to say?

Stay with me because I can’t bear it when you leave?

It sounded insane.

It sounded like someone in love.

Clark looked at you and smiled.

That quiet smile of his, the one that always disarmed you.

But there was something in his eyes too.

Something you didn’t know how to read.

Something that seemed to say, I miss you too, but in a language neither of you dared to speak.

He never arrived empty-handed.

He brought gifts for the little girl.

A new rattle.

A cardboard book with animals.

A soft stuffed toy the baby sucked on until it was soaked with drool.

And for you, dessert.

Always something different.

Flan.

Rice pudding.

A slice of apple pie.

Bread pudding.

Or sometimes, when it wasn’t dessert, he brought flowers.

A small bouquet, the kind sold on the corner, tied with a simple ribbon.

You placed them in a glass cup because you didn’t have a vase, and you looked at them for days, until they withered.

You never said anything to him.

But every time you saw those flowers, your chest filled with something warm and sweet.

And then, as if it were nothing, Clark stayed.

He stayed to clean up the kitchen.

He washed the dishes from lunch, wiped down the counter, put the milk back in the fridge.

Or he went to pick up something from the dry cleaner’s that you had left there because you hadn’t had time to go.

Or he fixed the squeaky closet door.

Or changed a lightbulb.

Always with an excuse.

Always with something to do.

Because the truth was that he looked for any reason to come back to you.

Any excuse to be near you.

He didn’t know how to tell you.

He didn’t dare stay completely.

But he couldn’t leave entirely either.

So he lived in that middle place.

That limbo of Fridays, desserts, and flowers.

And you let him.

Because even though you never said it, you also looked for excuses to make him stay a little longer.

Just a little longer.

Always a little longer.

Until the night grew late and he said, “Well, I should go,” and put his shoes on by the entrance.

And you, sitting on the couch with the baby asleep on your chest, could only manage to say, “Take care.”

When what you really wanted to say was, Don’t go.

You found a caregiver to look after little Eloise.

That was the girl’s name.

Eloise.

A soft name, like something from a fairytale princess, one you had chosen because it sounded beautiful and because you didn’t know anyone else with that name.

Clark had nodded when you told him.

And later, when she was already a few months old and you called her by name, he would say, “Eloise,” in a voice so tender it was as if the name melted in his mouth.

The caregiver was an older woman, the kind with gray hair gathered into a bun and hands that were soft but firm.

Her name was Rosa, and she had years of experience taking care of babies.

She had raised five children of her own and nine grandchildren, so she knew more about diapers and colic than all the books in the world.

Clark found her after interviewing seven people.

He investigated her without her knowing.

He used his hearing to listen to her conversations from far away and his eyes to see if she was hiding anything bad.

He made sure she was truly a good woman, not just someone who appeared to be one.

And Rosa was.

She arrived on time every morning, wearing her white apron and her grandmotherly smile, and stayed with Eloise while you went to work.

The baby loved her from the first day, maybe because Rosa smelled like bread and lavender soap, or maybe because babies know how to recognize good people.

So you went back to the Daily Planet.

On the first day, you woke up nervous, as if it were your first day at work instead of your return after many months away.

You put on a shirt that fit you well, a pair of pants you could finally button again, and stared at yourself in the mirror for a long while.

“I’m the same person I was before,” you told yourself. “I’m a good editor. I can do this.”

You kissed Eloise on the forehead, left a bottle ready for Rosa, and walked out the door with your heart pounding in your chest.

But the first day wasn’t what you expected.

You arrived at the Daily Planet, and the smell of paper, ink, and old coffee hit you like a hug from a friend you hadn’t seen in a long time.

Typewriters clattered.

Phones rang.

Journalists rushed from one side to the other with papers in their hands.

Everything was the same.

Everything was exactly as you remembered it.

Lois welcomed you the way she always did, with a big smile and a shove to the shoulder.

“Finally! I was getting tired of being the only sensible woman in this place,” she said, and you laughed because Lois was anything but sensible.

Jimmy hugged you, a strong and quick hug, and then looked you in the eye and said, “Where’s the baby? I miss her more than I miss you.”

And you laughed again.

They both knew your little girl, and they loved her.

They had visited her several times.

They had fought over who got to hold her longer.

They had bought her dresses and stuffed animals and books she still couldn’t read.

They were family too.

They made coming back feel safe.

But then Perry called you into his office.

It wasn’t his usual desk anymore, because now he had a bigger office, with windows overlooking the street and a plant dying in the corner because no one watered it.

You sat across from him, and he smiled at you with that grumpy old-man face that, deep down, belonged to someone good.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said, and pressed a button on his phone. “Send her in.”

The door opened, and a woman walked in.

A blonde woman.

The kind of blonde who looked as if she had stepped out of a magazine, with long, shiny hair that seemed like it had been straightened that very morning.

She had green eyes, a pale green like moss after the rain, and a beautiful smile.

The kind of smile that made you want to smile too, even when you didn’t feel like it.

Perry introduced her to you.

“This is Lexie. A new editor,” he said.

And you looked at her.

Measured her from head to toe without meaning to.

And something in your stomach tightened without you knowing why.

Perry kept talking, but you were no longer fully listening.

“She’s been working with Clark these past few months,” he said, as if it were an insignificant detail. “I placed her as a staff writer first, but I think she has editor potential.”

You smiled.

You made the automatic gesture of nodding and extending your hand to greet her.

“Nice to meet you,” you said.

And your voice sounded normal, even though inside, you felt very far from normal.

Because then you remembered something.

You remembered how Clark, in the last few weeks before you returned to work, sometimes spent time on his phone with a smile.

A strange smile.

One that wasn’t for you, or for Eloise, or for anyone you knew.

He would be sitting on the couch in your apartment, the baby asleep against his chest, and suddenly his phone would vibrate.

He would look at it and let out a tiny smile, the kind that slips out before someone can stop it.

You hadn’t given it any importance then.

You thought maybe it was a message from Lois, or an article that had turned out well.

But now, with Lexie standing in front of you, blonde and beautiful and smiling, Clark’s smile took on another meaning.

Clark had never mentioned there was someone new.

Of course, he didn’t have to.

You weren’t a couple.

You didn’t owe each other anything.

He could work with whomever he wanted.

Talk to whomever he wanted.

Smile at whomever he wanted.

There was no agreement.

No promise.

No rule saying he had to tell you about every new person who showed up at the newspaper.

Although he did know you were coming back.

He knew you would return.

And still, he hadn’t said anything.

Maybe because it wasn’t important.

Maybe because it meant nothing.

Or maybe because it did mean something, and he didn’t want you to know.

You lowered your gaze for a moment.

Your shoes, black ones you had worn to feel more serious, suddenly seemed ridiculous.

You went back to your place, the desk you had left empty for so many months.

Someone had cleaned it.

There was no dust, no old papers.

Everything was tidy, as if they had been waiting for you.

But something had changed.

Lexie was seated in front of you now, at the desk across from yours, right where there had been no one before.

Now she was there, with her blonde hair and her smile and her green eyes, arranging her things as if she had belonged there all her life.

You looked at Clark.

He was standing beside his desk, a few feet away.

He saw you looking at him and smiled at you, that smile of his that used to calm you and now did something strange to your chest.

“Welcome home,” he said softly, as if nothing had changed.

As if you were still the same people you used to be.

You nodded.

“Thank you,” you said, and turned back to your chair.

But everything felt different.

More distant.

As if there were an invisible pane of glass between you and the rest of the world.

The sounds of the newsroom seemed muffled, the familiar faces blurred, and every time you looked up, Lexie was there.

Typing.

Laughing.

Leaning over to speak to someone.

And you had no right to any of it.

You had no right to feel jealous.

No right to be angry.

No right to ask Clark why he hadn’t told you anything.

Because he didn’t owe you explanations.

Because he was free to live his life.

Because you yourself had told him, through your actions, that you didn’t need him.

When he left your apartment after the birth.

When you let him pull away.

When you did nothing to keep him there.

You had told him without words that it was fine for him to leave.

And he had left.

Not completely.

But enough for there to be room now for someone else.

You watched them joke around.

Clark and Lexie.

They were standing near the coffee machine, she with a cup in her hand, he with his arms crossed.

Lexie said something.

Clark laughed.

And you saw the way he tilted his head toward her, as if to hear her better.

Inside jokes?

Jokes only the two of them knew?

The weeks she had spent working with him, those months when you hadn’t been there, had created something.

Something you hadn’t watched grow.

Something that was now right there, in front of your eyes, and you couldn’t ignore it.

You looked away.

You looked at your computer, the screen glowing white, the cursor blinking as it waited for you to write something.

Anything.

A headline.

A correction.

Whatever.

You told yourself it was foolish.

That Clark had left your apartment because maybe he felt too obligated.

Maybe he felt trapped.

Maybe he didn’t want to be the donor who stayed forever because that wasn’t what you had agreed on.

Maybe he needed his space.

His life.

His friends.

Maybe you had been a burden without realizing it, and he had simply been too kind to tell you.

Maybe Lexie was everything you couldn’t be.

Lighter.

Easier.

Without a baby waiting for her at home every night.

Without a C-section scar that still hurt sometimes.

Without a pile of diapers and bottles and sleepless nights.

So you focused on your work.

You opened your pending emails, reviewed the articles that had been assigned to you, and began correcting the first one.

It was a piece about a gas leak in the south of the city.

You read every word.

Corrected commas.

Rearranged a few paragraphs.

You did everything right.

Everything professionally.

But every two or three minutes, unable to help yourself, you looked up.

Clark was still there, talking to Lexie.

She was laughing, running a hand through her hair, and Clark was smiling.

It wasn’t a huge smile.

It wasn’t a burst of laughter.

It was a comfortable smile.

The kind someone gives to a person they know.

To someone who doesn’t make them feel self-conscious.

And from your desk, you felt like a stranger in your own place.

As if the months you had spent away had erased something that used to exist.

Something that maybe had only existed in your head.

You said nothing.

You couldn’t.

You had no right.

Clark wasn’t yours.

He never had been.

He was only the friend who had donated his sperm to you.

The friend who had stayed for two weeks taking care of you.

The friend who was now smiling at another woman while you watched from far away.

And that empty feeling in your chest was nothing more than the memory of something that had never happened.

Or that was what you tried to make yourself believe as you typed “revise” beside the article’s headline and pressed your lips together to keep a sigh from escaping.

The weeks passed.

And it wasn't easy.

You couldn't stop yourself from crying, and you hated yourself a little for it.

Because you cried in the newspaper's bathroom, with the water running so no one would hear.

You cried in your car before starting the engine.

You cried in the shower, when no one could see you.

It was stupid, you knew that.

It was stupid to cry over someone who had never been yours.

Now you had your daughter, a beautiful little girl who looked at you with those huge eyes and filled your heart in a way no one else ever could.

You couldn't compare yourself to Lexie.

You couldn't compete with her.

Because this had been your decision.

You had decided that Clark was only a donor.

You had decided that the two of you wouldn't be a couple.

You had decided that he could leave whenever he wanted.

So you had no right to feel bad about seeing him with someone else.

And yet, you felt terrible.

You felt so terrible that sometimes it was hard to breathe.

So you focused on the only thing you could control: your daughter.

Every afternoon when you got home, happiness hit you in the face the moment you opened the door.

Because Eloise would see you, stretch her little arms toward you, and make that sound that was almost "ma-ma," though she still couldn't quite pronounce the "m."

You would pick her up, hold her tightly against your chest, and for a few seconds, everything else disappeared.

Lexie disappeared.

Clark disappeared.

The office, the looks, the inside jokes—everything faded away.

There was only you and her and the baby scent that had soaked into your clothes.

Clark still came to your apartment.

But not like before.

Not with the same frequency.

He showed up on Fridays, sometimes Wednesdays, always with some excuse.

He brought something for Eloise: a new book, a toy, a blanket.

But you no longer looked at him the way you used to.

Before, whenever he walked through the door, your whole face lit up.

Now you greeted him with a short, "Hi," and went back to whatever you were doing.

You didn't offer him coffee.

You didn't sit beside him on the couch.

You didn't rest your head on his shoulder while the baby slept.

You had built yourself a shell.

An invisible suit of armor that wouldn't let him get close.

He noticed, of course.

Clark noticed everything.

But he didn't say anything, because he didn't know what to say either.

And the worst part was that you had started cutting phone calls short too.

When he called, you let it ring a few times before answering with a curt, "What is it?"

You talked only about what was necessary.

The baby.

The caregiver.

Some paperwork.

And when there was nothing left to discuss, you would say, "Alright, see you..." and hang up before he could answer.

You didn't want to hear his voice any longer than necessary.

Because if you listened to his voice, your heart softened.

And you couldn't allow that.

Not again.

You felt guilty.

Terribly guilty.

Because Clark hadn't done anything wrong.

He had simply continued living his life.

He had simply gone to work and met someone new.

He wasn't a traitor.

He hadn't betrayed you because he had never belonged to you in the first place.

Because you had never been together.

And yet, you treated him as if he had stabbed you in the back.

Every time you hung up without a proper goodbye, you stared at your phone afterward and thought:

I'm an idiot.

But you couldn't stop yourself.

Something stronger than you kept pushing you away from him.

Kept telling you to protect yourself.

To avoid giving him the chance to hurt you.

Even though he wasn't even trying to hurt you.

At the Daily Planet, no one besides the people closest to you knew that Clark was Eloise's father.

To the rest of the newspaper, you were simply a woman with a baby.

The father was a mystery.

An anonymous donor.

A "none of anyone's business."

Lois and Jimmy protected the secret as if it were treasure.

They never mentioned it out loud.

Never made comments that could raise suspicion.

So when Lexie arrived, she had absolutely no idea what had happened between you and Clark.

She didn't know he had slept on your couch.

She didn't know he had bought the crib.

She didn't know he had wiped your tears away in the middle of the night.

To Lexie, you were simply the editor who had returned after maternity leave.

And Clark was simply her coworker, the one who had shown her how everything worked during those first few months.

But Lexie, without knowing any of that, began making you feel awful.

You didn't know whether it was intentional or simply her personality, but her words pricked at you like tiny needles.

The kind you barely notice until your skin is covered in punctures.

One afternoon, in the newspaper kitchen, while you were heating water for tea, she approached with her mug and her perfect smile.

"So you really have a baby?" she asked, as though she had only just found out.

You nodded, smiling as politely as possible.

"Yes. Her name is Eloise," you said.

Because she was your daughter, and you were proud of her, even if talking about her with Lexie made you uncomfortable.

Lexie nodded, wearing an expression that suggested she was thinking something over.

"Hmm... and if you have a baby, wouldn't it be better to stay home?" she asked. "I mean... I feel like women who become mothers aren't as dedicated to work as they used to be because they have other things to focus on."

She said it softly.

As if it were a sincere concern.

As if she were doing you a favor by saying it.

You looked at her.

You felt the blood rush into your face, but you refused to let it show.

You stood there with your mug in your hand and took a slow breath before answering.

"I used to think the same thing," you said, with a calmness you didn't actually feel, "until Perry called and told me he needed me back. I guess he still hasn't found anyone better than me."

Then you smiled.

But it was a sharp smile.

The kind that cuts.

And you walked away before she could respond.

You didn't want to hear another word.

You moved quickly down the hallway, your eyes burning.

You didn't want to cry in front of her.

You didn't want to give her that satisfaction.

You entered the women's restroom, locked the door behind you, and leaned against the wall while taking deep breaths.

The tears came on their own.

Just like they always did these days.

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, but more tears followed.

"I'm a professional," you repeated to yourself.

"What that woman said is ridiculous."

"I'm good at what I do."

"I have a daughter, and I'm good at what I do."

But tears never listened to reason.

That was when your phone rang.

It vibrated in your pocket, and you pulled it out quickly, assuming it would be Lois or Jimmy.

But it was Rosa's number.

“Rosa? Yes?” you said, trying not to let it sound like you'd been crying.

Rosa's voice was worried.

She didn't waste time getting to the point.

The baby had a fever.

Not a very high one, but she was restless, crying more than usual, and Rosa thought she should be seen by a doctor.

Your heart dropped straight to the floor.

You hung up without a proper goodbye, shoved your phone back into your pocket, and hurried out of the restroom, almost running.

You went straight to Perry's office.

You didn't look around.

You didn't notice Clark and Lexie in the distance, laughing about something again.

You didn't care.

Nothing mattered more than your daughter at that moment.

You reached Perry's door and knocked.

“Come in,” he called from inside.

You entered and explained what was happening, your voice shaky but determined.

Eloise had a fever.

Rosa was worried.

You needed to leave.

Perry looked at you over the rim of his glasses, frowned for a moment, then nodded.

“Go,” he said. “You've been doing good work since you came back. Don't worry about things here.”

You thanked him and left without looking back.

As you walked down the hallway toward the exit, you heard hurried footsteps behind you.

“What happened?”

Clark's voice.

He had followed you.

Of course he had.

He always noticed when something was wrong, even when you didn't want him to.

You stopped.

Closed your eyes for a second.

You could have told him the truth.

You could have accepted his help.

You could have let yourself fall into his arms the way you had so many times before.

But no.

Something inside you hardened.

Hardened like stone.

No.

No, no, no.

You couldn't keep doing this.

You couldn't keep depending on him.

You couldn't keep needing him.

You couldn't keep feeling like he was the only person capable of holding you together when everything was falling apart.

Because he wasn't yours.

He belonged to no one.

Or maybe he belonged to Lexie.

Or maybe to whoever he wanted.

But not to you.

“Nothing,” you said, your voice sounding angrier than you intended.

But angry was better than broken.

Angry was better than letting him see how badly you were falling apart.

Clark took a step closer.

His face was full of concern, the kind of expression he wore whenever something happened to you and he didn't know how to fix it.

“But something happened. I saw you leave Perry's office with—”

You paused.

Took a deep breath.

And in that moment, you understood that this wasn't fair.

He didn't owe you anything.

You had no right to treat him badly just because you were hurting.

Clark had been good to you.

Kinder than anyone had ever been.

And you were repaying him with silence and slammed doors.

But even then, you couldn't let him get close.

Not again.

Because if he got close, you would fall again.

And falling a second time hurt too much.

You looked into his eyes.

Those blue eyes you had always liked.

Those blue eyes you still liked.

“Eloise has a fever. I'm going home,” you said.

More calmly this time.

But with a distance that hit him like a punch.

“I'll come with you,” Clark said instantly.

He didn't hesitate for even a second.

His body was already moving toward the exit as if accompanying you was the most natural thing in the world.

But you stopped him.

You lifted a hand between the two of you, as if that gesture alone could keep him away.

“No,” you said.

And the word came out stronger than you intended.

“You keep living your life. I'll take care of my daughter.”

My daughter.

Not ours.

It wasn't a mistake.

You did it on purpose.

Because you needed him to understand that boundaries existed.

That the two of you had created them.

And that they had to be respected.

You walked away.

You headed for the exit without looking back.

But if you had looked back, you would have seen Clark standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms hanging limply at his sides and his expression shattered.

You would have seen him drag a hand over his face as if sadness could be wiped away like dust.

You would have seen him open his mouth to say something.

And then close it again because he couldn't find the words.

You would have seen a man in love.

Alone.

Standing in an empty hallway.

Watching the woman he loved and his daughter walk away from him without being able to do anything to stop them.

Because he knew he had no right.

Because he felt guilty too.

Because every night he told himself the same thing.

You can't put them in danger.

You can't love them the way you want to.

Keeping your distance is what's best for them.

And now that you were giving him that distance, it hurt as though someone had ripped a piece of his chest away.

But you didn't look back.

You walked out of the Daily Planet, the afternoon sun warming your face, and got into your car.

And as you drove home, toward Eloise, you cried again.

You cried because your daughter had a fever.

You cried because of what you'd said to Clark.

You cried because you missed him.

You cried because you didn't know how to be angry and heartbroken at the same time.

You cried until there were no tears left.

You arrived home with your heart lodged in your throat.

You climbed the stairs without even feeling your feet, your keys clenched tightly in your hand so no one would see them shaking.

You opened the door, and the first thing you did was search for Eloise.

Ready to run to her.

Ready to pick her up.

Ready to hold her until the fever broke.

But you didn't see her.

She wasn't in her bassinet.

She wasn't on the blanket where you usually let her crawl.

She wasn't anywhere.

The silence frightened you even more.

“Rosa,” you called, your voice trembling.

The caregiver appeared from the kitchen wearing a calm smile that made no sense.

She didn't look worried.

She didn't look frightened.

She looked calm.

Far too calm.

“She’s already with her father,” Rosa said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Mr. Clark calmed her down.”

You froze.

Clark.

He had arrived first.

Of course he had arrived first.

He must have used his speed to get there before you.

To be there while you were still in your car, driving through your tears.

He had flown.

Or run.

Or whatever it was he did to move faster than any normal human being.

And instead of feeling angry, you felt a wave of relief so intense it almost hurt.

Because he was there.

Because he had come.

Because he always came.

You entered Eloise's room quietly.

The door was slightly open, and you pushed it wider with your fingertips.

There was Clark.

Standing beside the crib.

His eyes fixed on the baby.

He saw you enter, and his face immediately filled with sadness.

Not guilt.

Not pride.

Only sadness.

As if he already knew you wouldn't welcome his help, but had given it anyway.

“I heard her heartbeat from the Planet,” he said softly, almost whispering.

“It was too fast.

Much too fast.”

You looked at him, not fully understanding.

Rosa hadn't realized it, but things had been more serious than they appeared.

The temperature had been very high.

Dangerously high.

The kind of fever that could become dangerous in a baby.

The kind that could rise quickly and cause harm before anyone noticed.

Clark had arrived just in time.

“I... used the cold to help regulate it,” he said, gesturing gently toward Eloise.

“My breath. Ice. Things like that.”

And she fell asleep.

He looked at her for another moment.

Those eyes of his swollen from worrying.

From watching.

From feeling too much.

Then he carefully settled her into the crib and tucked a thin blanket around her so she wouldn't be too cold or too warm.

The baby took a deep, peaceful breath.

As if the danger had never existed.

Clark turned toward you.

He took a step forward.

Just one.

With the intention of getting closer.

Maybe to hug you.

Maybe to say something.

But you lifted your hand.

And placed an invisible wall between the two of you.

“Go back to the Planet,” you said.

Your voice came out harsher than you intended.

“I can handle this on my own.”

You left the room before he could answer.

You needed air.

You needed space.

You needed not to fall apart in front of him.

In the living room, Rosa was waiting with her purse in hand, ready to leave.

You gathered what little strength you had left, wiped your face with your sleeve even though you weren't crying yet, and smiled at her.

A fake smile.

The kind that hurts because it takes so much effort to hold in place.

"See you tomorrow," you said, trying to make your voice sound normal. "Clark already calmed her down, and we'll take her to the doctor."

Rosa smiled in relief, nodding.

"That's good."

She blew a kiss into the air in farewell.

You opened the door, watched her disappear down the stairs, and when the sound of her footsteps faded away, you closed it again.

You rested your forehead against the cool wood of the door and closed your eyes.

Behind you, Clark was still there.

You could feel him.

You could feel him without looking at him, the same way you can feel someone's gaze on the back of your neck.

"I don't understand," he said.

His voice wasn't angry.

It wasn't even sad.

It was tired.

The voice of someone who had spent days, weeks, months trying to understand what had happened.

"What did I do wrong for you to treat me like this? What do you want from me?"

You turned around.

You looked at him angrily, but it was the kind of anger that hurt more than sadness.

There were so many things you wanted to tell him that they all crashed together in your throat.

You lowered your gaze to the floor because you couldn't hold his.

Your shoes—the same ones you'd worn to work that day—suddenly felt like the only real thing in the middle of all that chaos.

"You're not the problem," you said.

And your voice cracked.

"It's me. Just... go away, Clark."

Clark took a step forward.

Not a threatening step.

The step of someone who wasn't willing to leave without fighting for an answer.

"Why?" he asked.

And that single word carried more weight than any other word he'd spoken in his life.

You looked at him.

You couldn't hold it back anymore.

Tears filled your eyes, and one escaped, warm against your skin, rolling down your cheek to your chin.

"Because it was a mistake," you said.

The words barely made it out of your mouth.

A mistake.

Two words capable of changing everything.

"Eloise is the best thing that's ever happened to me in the entire world, but... having your genes..." You swallowed hard. "At first, I thought it would be the most beautiful thing in the world."

You looked at him angrily.

But it wasn't anger directed at him.

It was anger at yourself.

At your own stupidity.

At believing you could have him without actually having him.

"My God," you continued.

The words rushed out as though you were afraid time was running out.

"The only reason I even had that thought was because I liked you. Having a child with the person you're in love with is a dream. But... I can't demand anything now that Lexie is there. God, that woman is..."

You stopped.

Took a deep breath.

Tried to calm yourself.

"I can't even insult her because I'm the one who said we were nothing. That nothing would happen. That you'd only be a donor. And now I'm jealous because you acted like we were something ever since I got pregnant and..."

Your voice broke completely.

You couldn't continue.

You covered your face with your hands as if you could hide from him.

From your own words.

From everything you had just confessed.

You cried openly now.

Your shoulders trembling.

Your fingers pressed tightly against your face.

"You didn't tell me about Lexie," you managed between sobs. "And I know that's your right, and... it hurts so much. Just... please go away, Clark."

And then you felt arms wrapping around you.

His arms.

Clark hugged you.

It wasn't a hesitant hug.

It wasn't brief.

It was a full embrace.

The kind that completely surrounds you.

The kind that presses you against a warm chest and makes the entire world stop for a moment.

You cried against him, soaking his shirt with every tear you'd spent weeks holding back.

And he didn't let go.

He didn't tell you to stop crying.

He didn't tell you to calm down.

He simply held you.

One hand cradling the back of your neck.

The other resting against your back.

As if he wanted you to know that he would never let you fall.

"Are you jealous of Lexie?" he asked softly.

His voice was so close that you felt his chin brush the top of your head.

You didn't answer.

You couldn't.

All the words were gone.

But he didn't need an answer.

He already knew.

"If you had told me you wanted me to stay, I would have."

Clark's voice trembled slightly.

"I would've done it without hesitation."

You looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.

Your vision was blurry.

But you could still see him clearly.

As if the rest of the world had turned gray and only he still had color.

"You said it yourself two years ago, Clark. You didn't want anything serious."

The words came out wrapped in a knot of pain.

You had carried them for so long.

Turning them over and over in your mind.

Trying to understand them.

Trying to accept them.

Clark cupped your face in both hands.

Slowly, he wiped away your tears one by one with his thumbs.

His fingers were warm.

Gentle.

The touch made you tremble.

"I didn't want to hurt the woman I love," he said.

And those words, spoken so plainly, struck your chest like lightning.

You stared at him.

Confused.

"What?" you whispered.

Because your brain couldn't process what it had just heard.

Clark smiled.

A sad smile.

A tender smile.

The smile of someone who had waited a very long time to say something and had finally found the courage.

"I thought having a child with you would at least give me the chance to stay close to you."

His thumb brushed away another tear.

"Without having to fear someone hurting you just to find out where Superman is."

Another tear.

Another gentle touch.

"Just to stay close to you."

You stared at him, eyes wide.

"What?" you repeated.

Because there was no other word left in your mind.

Clark laughed.

A small laugh.

A nervous laugh.

The laugh of someone risking everything.

"If you tell me to stay right now, I will."

His voice softened.

"Because there hasn't been a single woman I've loved since the day you walked into the Planet who wasn't you."

He paused.

Swallowed hard.

"And Lexie is nothing more than another woman among many."

His eyes locked onto yours.

Blue.

Deep.

Like entire oceans.

"But you're the woman I've loved."

The words settled between you.

Heavy.

Certain.

Real.

"And if you want me to stay, I'll do everything I can to protect you. I'll never let anyone hurt you. I won't be afraid of having a family anymore."

His voice almost broke.

"But I need to know."

He waited.

Silence stretched between the two of you.

Growing larger.

"Do you want me to stay?"

You looked at him.

And you cried.

But these weren't tears of sadness anymore.

They were the kind of tears that come when something broken for a very long time finally begins to heal.

Clark saw you crying.

And something in his face dimmed slightly.

As if he thought you were going to say no.

As if he were already bracing himself for the impact.

But you weren't going to say no.

You could never say no.

"Don't leave again," you whispered.

Barely louder than a breath.

And you threw yourself into his arms as if your life depended on it.

You clung to him.

His arms.

His back.

His shirt.

Everything.

Clark let out a breath.

Not an ordinary breath.

A huge one.

A breath of relief.

The kind released by someone who has been holding it for years.

He took your face in his hands again with a tenderness so overwhelming it nearly broke you apart.

And he kissed you.

Not on the lips.

Not yet.

He kissed your tears.

Your wet cheeks.

Your closed eyelids.

He kissed every tear as if he could erase them with his mouth.

And while he kissed you, he spoke between each kiss.

His voice broken.

But steady.

"No. I'm not leaving."

A kiss.

"I'm not leaving anymore."

Another kiss.

"Never again."

Another.

"I'm staying."

His forehead rested against yours.

"With you."

A kiss.

"With Eloise."

Another.

"I'm staying for as long as you'll let me."

His voice shook.

"And if you throw me out, I'll come back."

A kiss against your temple.

"And if you push me away, I'll crawl back."

Another.

"But I'm not leaving."

His eyes closed.

"Not again."

His hand trembled against your cheek.

"Not you."

And you held him tighter through your tears and uneven breaths.

And for the first time in months—

For the first time in so many months—

You felt like you could breathe.

Because Clark was there.

Because Clark was staying.

Because Clark—the good, quiet man who had loved you in silence for so long—had finally said everything he needed to say.

And you had finally heard him.

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz@lunaryoongie@hikari-michiko

Almost none of you.

Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.

He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.

He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.

Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.

It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.

Asked.

Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.

You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.

“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.

You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.

Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.

You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-

“Sit up.”

Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.

There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.

He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.

“I told you to sit up-“

“I heard you.”

“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.

“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.

Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”

“No. I work under Nat.”

“Who works for me-“

“Does she?”

Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.

He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.

Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.

No one hates Steve Rogers.

He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.

So you must be the fucking problem.

You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-

Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.

“Yeah?”

Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.

And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.

“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.”

Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.

“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”

You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.

Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is. 

“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.

“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”

“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”

A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.

“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”

“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.

The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.

“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”

He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.

You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.

It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.

“What the fuck is your problem.”

Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.

“This isn’t a dating app.”

“I know that-“

“Didn’t seem like it.”

You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”

Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”

“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”

“That’s rude-“

“Oh, suck my dick.”

You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.

His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.

“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”

You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”

Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.

Not this again.

“If someone got the jump on you-“

“No one gets the jump on me.”

“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“

“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.

 “I didn’t say that-“

“Then what were you going to say-“’

“That you need to be careful-“

“And why do you care-“

“I don’t-“

“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“You- You fucking-“

“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”

You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.

You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.

“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.

Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.

“Nothing important-“

“It looked important.”

Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”

He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.

But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.

You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.

Passion, he said.

Idiot.

It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.

“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”

You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.

“Tony, what’s going on-“

“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“

You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”

“Well, I know it’s your fault-“

“Because everything is my fault-“

“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”

“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“

“I’m not in trouble-“

“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“

“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”

You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”

Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.

“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”

“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”

A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.

“You should sit down, buddy.”

Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”

“Don’t stand there like a creep.”

His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.

“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”

Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”

You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”

Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.

“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“

He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.  

From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.

“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.

Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.

Secret Love In the Avengers.

It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.

“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”

Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”

“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.

“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”

Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So what, do you need us to do another release-“

“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“

“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“

“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”

“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“

“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Yes. I do. And you do too.”

You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“

“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”

“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”

Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“

“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.

“They- What?!”

“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”

You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.

He never does.

“Did you know about this?” You hiss.

He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“

“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”

“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”

Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”

Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”

“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“

“Just- Not now-“

“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”

Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“

“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”

Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.

You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.

There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-

No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.

You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.

You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?  

He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.

Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.

Oh, no.

You want to fuck him.

Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.

He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.

There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute.  Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.

“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.

And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.

You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.

God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.

But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.

“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.

“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“

“We really don’t-“

“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“

You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.

Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.

“Let go-“

“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”

“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“

“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”

Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.

“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”

“Aw. I’m a woman-“

“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.

And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.

“I’m a problem?”

Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”

“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’ll live.”

For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.

“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”

“You’re impossible-“

“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.

“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“

“Yes. You do.”

“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“

“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”

You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.

Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.

“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”

You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“

“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“

“Steve-“

“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”

“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“

“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”

You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.

No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.

But Steve…

He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.

“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.

“Since the second I saw you.”

“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”

His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“

“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.

Stares for a second longer, then nods.

“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.

“Okay?”

 You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.

Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-

Steve snaps.

His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.

You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.

“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.

“Shut up, I could still stop this-“

“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”

Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“

“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”

Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.

He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.

“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.

“You would’ve killed me.”

And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.

“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”

Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.

He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t  been thinking small.

“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”

You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.

“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”

“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”

You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.

“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.

“You- You’re such an ass-“

“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.

A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.

“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“

You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.

“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“

Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.

And he’s still so hard.

You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.

“You’re- Uh-“

“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”

Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“

“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”

He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.

You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.

“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.

Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.

“You like that, doll?”

“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.

“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”

Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.

“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”

“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“

“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”

God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.

“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”

He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.

“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“

“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.

You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.

“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”

He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.

Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.

He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.

Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.

He’s looking at your tits.

He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.

“Steve- Ooh-“

“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“

Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.

He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”

And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.

You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.

He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.

You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“

You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.

When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.

“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.

You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.

This feels real.

You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.

“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”

You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”

“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”

You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.

“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”

You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.

“You gotta hold on.”

“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.

“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“

“I’m holding on tight.”

“Hold on tighter.”

You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.

“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.

“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“

“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“

“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”

He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.

His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.

“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”

“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”

Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”

And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.

The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-

Steve.

You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.

It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-

“Is that me?”

Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.

“Stay.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“

He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.

“You like that, huh?”

“Shut up-“

“No, you liked that-“

“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.

“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“

“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.

Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”

“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“

“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”

“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“

“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”

And all your protests slip out of your head.

I love you.

He- He said-

“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.

“I love you.”

He said it again. “Wh- Why?”

“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”

“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“

“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.

“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“

“It’s not.”

“But-“

Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“

“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.

It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.

“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”

You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.

“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“

“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”

Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.

“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”

Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.

He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.

“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”

You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.

“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.

“Yes?”

You glare at him, and he raises his brows.

“You getting on, or not?” 

For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.

Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.

“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”

He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.

“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.

You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.

He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”

You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.

“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”

You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.

But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.

You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.

Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”

You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.

“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”

“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“

“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”

Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.

“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”

He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.

“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”

Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.

It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.

“St- Steve-“

“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“

“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“

 Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.

“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.

“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.

“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“ 

It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.

There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.

He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.

“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.

You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.

“You gonna talk to me?”

You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.

“I didn’t hurt you-“

You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.

“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“

He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.

“Honey, it’s everywhere.”

You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.

“Okay. Five minutes.”

He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.

Like a real couple.

You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.

A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.

But now-

You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.

“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“

 You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.

Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.

“I love you,” you croak out.

His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.

And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.

And he might really be the only thing in yours.

Your hands played with the Rubik’s Cube you had picked up from Clark’s coffee table. You twisted it absentmindedly, more to keep your fingers busy than out of any real interest in solving it. The colored pieces shifted over and over while your gaze wandered around Clark’s apartment living room.

It was Saturday, and like every week, Lois and Jimmy had gathered at Clark’s apartment. It was the kind of work ritual they had created without meaning to, something that had started by chance and slowly became a tradition. Every Saturday, one of you hosted dinner—pizza, burgers, wine, whatever was available to unwind after a long week.

Tonight, it was Clark’s turn, and the atmosphere felt warm, as always. Jimmy’s laughter, Lois’s clever remarks, and Clark’s calm presence as the host. Everything was the same as every other gathering, but something inside you felt different.