bucky's babygirl

When did that "problem" happen? When did that problem decay into the fact that you were actually that problem?

Talking about "it" was uncomfortable. You couldn't tell your mother or your friends. Because how would you just come out and say? You know what? In my two relationships, never, never once did I have an orgasm. And the worst part is that both men told me I was the problem. No, just thinking about it would make you sink with shame. You would want to disappear, to never have opened your mouth. Even worse when you heard everyone saying they had an orgasm with their boyfriend. They commented on it as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if it were something that always happened. And even though you knew that men only seek their own satisfaction, not yours, you also knew very well, maybe the problem was you. Because two different men repeating it to you, over and over again, had to mean something, right?

"Ah, of course it's not me, you must have problems," one said when you had confessed that you only felt a little warmth, but an orgasm, nothing. He lay there calmly, lying back on the bed, not even looking at you. As if what you had just told him was an annoyance, your own mistake that he didn't have to fix.

"Now you want everything to be dedicated to you, please, you must have a problem," said the other, looking at you with those eyes that you used to like and that now only made you feel small. "I have made thousands of women come," he boasted, crossing his arms as if he were a prize. As if you were the only one who didn't work right.

So you stopped trying. Maybe it was work stress, maybe the nerves of being with someone new, maybe the discomfort of seeing how a man could finish in bed with you, ejaculate and that's it. No more work, no more caresses, no more nothing. Because he had already gotten his part. And you stayed there, looking at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with you.

But now the fear had returned. You had been two years without a boyfriend, two years without having to worry about this. And when you started dating Clark, you didn't mention it to him. Of course, you were just going on dates, it wasn't anything formal. Besides, he didn't seem like the man who takes you to bed on the first date. He was slow, everything about him was slow: his way of speaking, his way of looking at you, his way of getting close to you. And that slowness also made your heart race. You didn't want him to get annoyed and end up leaving your life like the other two.

Clark was cute. Too cute, even for your taste. You had always said your type were serious men, with few friends, who looked like a block of ice and were intelligent. But you ended up with an intelligent man, yes, but with the prettiest shyness you had ever seen and the loveliest smile anyone had ever given you. A man so tall and so big that to you, who wasn't small, he made you feel protected. You loved holding his hand everywhere, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours. You loved it when he pushed the stray locks of hair behind your ear and smiled at you as if you were the prettiest thing he had seen all day.

But you knew the next step was coming. Or maybe you only thought it one day, while he laughed at something silly you had said. Clark was a gentleman, truly. He wouldn't continue doing something if you told him you felt uncomfortable. Never. That was clear. But interrupting him mid-kiss was awkward. You would make him feel uncomfortable. And he would pull away. Like the others. Or worse, he would stay out of pity.

It wasn't planned. You had only agreed to eat at your apartment, but nothing more. It was after the movie. You kissed him first, almost without thinking, and from there you had been kissing for almost thirty minutes. Your lips were swollen, your breathing uncontrolled, your hands on his chest feeling his heart beat. His curls tangled between your fingers. He was squeezing your waist slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. But then that thought returned. You pulled away to breathe more air. He leaned in as if wanting to let you know he wanted to keep kissing you, but not finding your lips, he buried his face in your neck. You sighed, caressing his curls. You longed to feel him so much, but your fear invaded you. Should you fake an orgasm again? You remembered how ridiculous you felt doing that, those fake moans, that lie that only served to make him finish faster.

"Do you want to stop?" Clark whispered in your ear when he saw that you were only touching his curls without saying anything.

He looked at you. His cheeks were red, but his blue eyes were dilated, dark. Lips swollen like yours. You pressed your lips together. If you were the problem, you repeated to yourself, you'll ruin it. Again.

"No," you said. But you lowered your gaze to his shirt, playing with his button.

Clark tilted his head. He waited for your answer. You knew he didn't want a kiss to continue. He didn't want you to just keep going as if nothing was wrong. He wanted to know why you were nervous. And it wasn't normal nerves, he noticed it. There was something behind your trembling hands, behind the way you avoided his eyes.

"It's just that… I… have a problem," you whispered. And you felt your cheeks burn with shame.

"Problem?" said Clark. He moved on the couch to see you properly. Very carefully, he moved the lock of hair that covered your face and put it behind your ear. "Is it serious?" he asked, and his voice sounded genuinely worried.

"No… no… nothing like that," you said quickly, shaking your head. "It's just… well… I have problems with… that." You made a vague gesture with your hand, not daring to look at him.

Clark frowned, confused.

"I… never… well…," you tried to say, but the words got tangled.

"Hey, pretty, it's okay," he said, and his voice was soft, calm. He caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers. "Do you want to tell me? Go ahead. If you don't feel ready, nothing will happen." There was no anger in his eyes, no contempt. It was just Clark smiling with those dimples that appeared on his cheeks.

"I've never had an orgasm," you finally said.

You watched him blush. He nodded without saying anything. And your heart sank. You thought he would start to hate you. You thought you should have kept quiet and just faked it like you had done so many times before. The silence grew long, too long.

"No… but it's my problem," you blurted out, the words coming out fast, barely breathing. "I really enjoy it, it's just that… I won't reach that point. But we can keep going, don't worry about me." You said all that with the intention of making him forget, of him kissing you again and that's it.

Clark looked at you fixedly. "Not worry about you?" he asked, as if he hadn't understood correctly.

He guided you onto his lap gently. You sat on him. The friction was evident, noticeable, but he was focused on you, not on himself. His hands remained still on your hip, not squeezing, just resting.

"It's not just your problem," he said slowly. "Is it a problem? I mean… why do you say it's a problem? Did a gynecologist tell you that?" he asked, and he said it wanting to understand, not to judge.

"No," you played with his shirt again, not looking at him. "It was the… people I was with before," you said, and the word people tasted ugly in your mouth.

"Or they were the problem," Clark said simply.

You looked at him. How could he say it like that, so easily, as if it were obvious?

"But it's two people saying the same thing," you said, and you felt your throat close up. "Two, Clark. It's not a coincidence."

Clark nodded. He had left his glasses on the table an hour ago, since he started kissing you. Now his blue eyes looked at you without a filter.

"We can try it right now," he said simply, like someone says let's have a drink or let's watch another movie. He looked at you with that calm that only he had. "And we'll check if it's true or if you just had two people with low resistance next to you." He smiled a little. "You know I'm very resistant, don't you?" Clark asked.

And you, despite the fear, despite the shame, smiled blushing.

And then you kissed him.

You didn't think anymore. You didn't give yourself time to think. You just leaned your face in and your lips found his again. Clark made a small sound, a low moan that was lost between you two. Your hands went up to his neck. You felt his hot skin, his rapid pulse under your fingers. His hands were on your hip at first, still, as if he was afraid of squeezing too hard. But then they went down to your thighs and there they did squeeze, with desire. He went back to your neck, stopped kissing your mouth to go down to that soft spot right under your ear. He stayed there for a while. Just kissing, just sucking a little, just breathing against your skin. You felt him so good that you moaned uncontrollably. It wasn't a low or subtle moan. It was a moan that came from deep within, without you being able to do anything to stop it.

"Oh, Clark!" you said. And your hands clenched his curls tightly, as if you were about to fall and he was the only thing holding you up.

You took off his shirt. It wasn't easy because he wouldn't stop kissing you, but you managed. The fabric went up his back and he let go of your lips just long enough to take it off completely. Then you took off yours with his help. His hands were large and trembled a little as they unbuttoned the buttons. You didn't know if it was nerves or desire, maybe both. When your shirt fell to the floor, Clark looked at you for a second. Just a second. His blue eyes ran over your face, your neck, your shoulders. And then he kissed you again as if he had been waiting for days to do it.

Clark took your waist and sat you on the couch. But he didn't sit next to you. He did something strange. He crouched down, lowered his body in front of you. A movement you didn't understand. What did he intend to do? He pulled away from your lips, very slowly, as if it cost him effort. He kissed your neck again. Then went lower. He kissed your chest, the top part, right where the heart beats strongest. Then lower down. He kissed your abdomen, right in the center, and you felt your skin pucker from how soft it was. You looked at him. The living room lamp let you see little, just shadows and glints. But the sighs came out of you as soon as you felt him remove your pants. He unbuttoned them, lowered them slowly, looking at you as he did so. Then he took off your panties. Also slowly. His fingers hooked the fabric and lowered it down your legs. Your hands were trembling. Everything was trembling.

His huge hands parted your legs. Gently but firmly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. You opened your legs more for him, without thinking. Your pupils were so dilated you could barely see. But when you looked at his face, he was looking directly at your center. You threw your head back. You couldn't look. You were embarrassed and yet you didn't want to stop looking.

"Clark," you moaned. His name came out broken, like a long sigh.

He leaned in. He kissed your vaginal lips as if they were your regular lips. With the same softness, the same calm. Your mouth fell open. You couldn't believe what he was doing. No one had kissed you there before. No one had taken that time. You felt his tongue lick your line, that little opening you had been so afraid to show. Then he opened it more with his tongue, carefully, and even penetrated you a little with it. The sounds coming from below were wet, lewd, shameful. But you didn't want him to stop. Everything was different. Everything was so strange and so good at the same time. Your hands tangled in his curls again. Your hips lifted on their own, as if your body came to life and wanted more from Clark. More of his mouth, more of his tongue, more of everything.

"Do you like it?" you heard him say. His voice came out hoarse, low, and he was still between your legs. "My pretty girlfriend, you taste so good," he said. Then he pulled away slightly. You looked down and saw a line of saliva hanging from his lips to you. You smiled, blushing, and thrust your hip towards him. He understood. He didn't protest. Oh, he never would. Clark found that exquisite, you could see it in his eyes. To see how his mouth could melt you. He just thought how you must have felt when they pointed out that you didn't have orgasms. When they told you that you were the problem. Surely they were the problem, Clark thought. And he set out to do it the second you told him the reason for that fear. He would show you. He would show you they were wrong.

"Oh, Clark!" you said again. But this time it wasn't just pleasure. It was something else. A strange tremor ran through your body, started in your belly and went up your back. Your legs contracted on their own. Your hands in his curls pushed his face further against you, even though he didn't need you to push him. "God, I… no… Clark," you said. And then it happened.

A strange sensation ran through your entire body. It wasn't like anything you had felt before. It was as if something inside you broke but in a good way. As if you let go of something you had been holding onto for years. Slow spasms, undulations that went up and down your legs, your belly, your chest. You breathed as soon as you could, but it was hard. The air didn't come in well because your whole body was shaking. Clark approached slowly. He kissed your thigh, then your abdomen, then your neck. He kissed softly, very softly, while your body still shook a little.

"My beautiful girlfriend was treated so badly," he said. He gave you kisses on your neck, one after another, while you recovered from the previous wave. You didn't have the strength to even speak. Then he kissed you on the mouth. His saliva and your juices mixed with your own saliva and you didn't care. Nothing mattered more than continuing to feel what you had just felt.

Clark pulled away just enough to take off his pants. He lowered them quickly, this time without calm, and kicked them off completely. He looked at you. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire.

"I don't have a condom," he whispered. And his voice sounded almost apologetic.

You shook your head. "It's okay," you nodded. You said it so fast you barely thought about it. You were lost. Needy for him. Not just anyone. For him.

Clark smiled looking at you. "Good," he whispered. But nothing happened. Not at first.

Until you felt something enter you. You moaned, brushing your lips against Clark's. It wasn't what you thought. It wasn't him. It was his two fingers. He inserted them slowly, one first, then another. He needed to stretch you a little more so you would adjust to him later. But the simple position had already warmed you up more than you thought. His swollen lips close to yours. His hand working below, inside, moving with a rhythm you didn't know. His other hand on your waist, squeezing gently. Your hands on his shoulders, clinging to him. The closeness of his face, the warm air coming from his mouth mixing with yours. The dilated pupils of both of you, so large you could barely see the color of his eyes.

You opened your lips to say something but no words came out. He moved closer, their teeth clashed a little, and he kissed you. It was a messy kiss, wet, with both of them breathing poorly. They moaned between kisses. His fingers entering and exiting you, faster each time. Your tongue playing with his. A third finger entered and you felt everything stretch down there. You closed your eyes tightly. You pulled away from his mouth just to breathe, just to not suffocate. He took your neck with his free hand, very gently, and pulled you close again. And then…

"Damn it… again," you said. Your voice trembled. Everything trembled. "I… oh," you said. You couldn't finish the sentence.

Your body shook entirely. A new wave, stronger than the first, shook you from head to toe. Your hands squeezed Clark's shoulders as if you were sinking. Your legs trembled uncontrollably. Clark held you tight, pressed his chest to yours and held you while you shook. You breathed with difficulty, your face buried in his neck. He didn't move. He just held you. With one hand he massaged your leg with fingers stained with you, and that soft caress helped you come back. Little by little. Very little by little.

And then he carried you.

You didn't even have time to say anything. Clark put his arms under your body, one behind your back and the other behind your knees, and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. Your arms circled his neck by reflex, and you pressed your face against his shoulder. You felt his hot skin, his smell, his agitated breathing. He walked towards your room. He knew the way. He had learned every step of your house when he came to visit you and helped you leave something in your room. A jacket, a bag, a book. He always noticed everything, even if you didn't realize it. He knew where the bed was, where the door was, where the lamp was. When they arrived, he entered without bumping into anything. He placed you on the bed gently, as if you were something fragile. The sheet was cold against your back and that contrasted with the heat of his body on top of you.

You felt his member brush against your entrance. Barely touching you. Just a graze. And you, without thinking, lifted your hip towards him. Your body moved on its own. You were no longer afraid. You no longer wanted to hide. You just wanted to feel him inside you.

"That's it," Clark said, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. His member became stained with your juices as he rubbed against you, barely entering and exiting, just the tip. You moaned every time he brushed against that place that needed him so much. "We're going to show them who the real problem was," he said. And then he gave you a kiss on the jaw, right where your face ends and your neck begins. That kiss was soft, but he said it with a certainty that made you believe him. That was enough for him to insert himself into you. Not all at once. It was slow. Very slow. You felt him fill you little by little, centimeter by centimeter. You opened your mouth but no sound came out. Just air.

Then the thrusts began. Slow at first. Very slow. Every time he entered, your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his movement. They went up and down like small waves. Clark's lips went straight to them. He kissed the tip of your nipple, which was already hard, very hard. He kissed it softly, with closed lips, then with his tongue. His mouth was hot and wet. Your hand tangled in his curls again, squeezing gently, pulling a little. His hot breath lingered on your skin every time he parted his lips to breathe.

"Oh, Clark," you said. Your voice came out choppy, broken by moans. "You feel so good," you admitted. It wasn't a lie. You had never felt anything like it. He filled every empty space you had inside.

"No," Clark said, shaking his head while continuing to move inside you. "You are the one who feels so good." He bit your nipple carefully, barely a pinch with his teeth. "So adapted to me," he said, and then he took your entire nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, playing with his tongue around it.

You stayed underneath him on your back for a good while. Then he turned you over gently and you were face down. He penetrated you again and again, from behind, and you buried your head in the pillow to keep from screaming too loudly. Clark's fingers dug gently into your hip, guiding you, moving you to his rhythm. Then he took you and arranged you on top of him. You sat on his stomach and he looked up at you from below. You set the pace yourself. Your hands trembled as they rested on his chest. You bent down from time to time to kiss him, and he took that moment to grab your buttocks with his large hands. He gently spread them to sink deeper into you. That made you moan louder. But you kept your rhythm. Your hips made slow circles. Your breasts moved in a back-and-forth sway, left and right. Clark squeezed them with his hands, massaged them while you moved on top of him. You moaned, but this time it wasn't just any moan. You were almost singing to him, letting your voice out with each rise and each fall. You felt so close. Clark noticed it because your rhythm began to get slower, clumsier. You were tired but you didn't want to stop.

"I… Clark, help me," you whispered. Your voice was barely audible.

He didn't need you to repeat it. You leaned on his shoulders and he lifted your body with force. Clark began to penetrate by lifting and lowering his hips. He led the rhythm now. Both moaned together, at the same time, as if their bodies were one. They were both so close. Clark grabbed your bottom with one hand, with the other he grabbed your hip, and penetrated deeper. Your eyes became moist. You didn't know if it was from pleasure or something else. You looked at him blurry, because the tears hadn't fallen but they fogged everything up. Clark's senses heated up seeing you like that. You breathed so fast you almost felt dizzy. And then you trembled. In the last thrust, your body contracted entirely. You trembled like a leaf in the wind. And you felt Clark fill you, hot, inside. Enough for you to fall onto his chest without strength. Still trembling. Still shuddering when Clark's arms hugged you tight.

He didn't let you go. He didn't push you away. He didn't turn his face to the wall like the others did. Clark kept you on his chest, with an arm around your back and the other hand caressing you gently. He waited for your breathing to normalize. He didn't speak. There was no need. He just held you. And you sank into his chest tired, happy, calm. Hugging him too. With your eyes closed. With a smile he couldn't see but surely felt.

"Confirmed," Clark said after a while, his voice still hoarse but with a laugh hidden in the words. "You are not the problem."

You laughed. A small, trembling laugh, but real. He felt your laugh on his chest, the vibrations of your throat against his skin. And he also laughed. His laugh was low, soft, like everything about him.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look at him. You gave him a short, quick kiss on the lips. And then you hugged him again, burying your nose in his neck.

"I really like you, Clark," you admitted. Your voice came out small, as if you were still embarrassed to say it.

Clark blushed. You felt him get warm under your lips. "I am in love with you," he said. He paused, as if thinking the word embarrassed him too. "A lot," he added, so there was no doubt.

You hugged him tighter, not looking at his smile, but you knew it was there. You felt it in how his chest moved as he breathed.

"Let's clean ourselves up," Clark whispered after a while, running a hand through your messy hair. "We'll take a shower."

Clark did it. He got out of bed, took your hand and led you to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water tap and waited for the temperature to be right. Then they got in together. You curled up against his chest, stuck to him as if it were the safest place in the world. He soaped your hair first, carefully, undoing the knots with his fingers. Then he soaped your body, slowly, running the sponge over your back, your shoulders, your arms, your legs. There was no hurry. The water fell over both of them and the bathroom filled with steam. Then he soaped himself, with your eyes watching him. In the end they dried off with a large towel that Clark ran over your body first before running it over his. Then they went back to bed, still with damp skin and the smell of soap.

Clark already had his purpose for every night. He wouldn't let you think again that you were a problem. He would show you whenever necessary. With kisses. With caresses. With patience. With that very way of his of looking at you as if you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. That night, when he turned off the light and hugged you from behind, with his nose buried in your nape and his arm crossed over your waist, you knew you weren't alone. That you would never have to pretend again. That Clark would stay. And you, for the first time in a long time, closed your eyes and felt calm.

Your hands flew across the keyboard without stopping, that familiar click click click sound that you didn’t even notice anymore because it had become so ingrained in your mind it was like breathing. Every now and then, you clicked your mouse once, then again, then again, as if that would somehow make the words come faster. But it didn’t. You were still stuck on the same sentence you’d been wrestling with for the last fifteen minutes.

You stretched your neck from side to side, feeling it crack slightly, and the small relief was enough to keep you going. You shifted in your chair because you could no longer feel your butt; honestly, you’d lost all sensation after sitting there for so many hours in a chair that was clearly begging to be replaced.

You adjusted the glasses you only wore for computer work. They were uncomfortable, always slipping down your nose or pressing painfully behind your ears, but without them the screen blurred and you’d end up with a headache.

You let out a deep sigh and looked over your monitor, directing your gaze toward the office elevator.

No one important.

Just familiar faces. Coworkers carrying coffee cups or folders.

But not the person you’d been waiting for since yesterday.

Since this morning.

Since the moment you arrived.

“Waiting for someone special?” Lois asked, watching you glance toward the elevator for what had to be the tenth time.

One eyebrow was raised, and she wore the mischievous smile you knew all too well.

You looked at her and shook your head, feeling your cheeks warm slightly.

“No... well... no,” you said shyly, smiling as you lowered your gaze to your keyboard as though the letters had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

You didn’t type a single word.

You simply stared while your fingers remained frozen above the keys.

“No?” Lois leaned toward you like a curious puppy. “Is someone coming to pick you up? A guy, maybe?” she asked, her voice quiet but excited, as though she already knew the answer and simply wanted to hear you say it.

You laughed.

A nervous laugh.

The kind that slipped out when someone caught you doing something you hoped they wouldn’t notice.

Eventually, Lois gave up and returned to her article, though that little smile remained firmly planted on her face.

The smile that clearly said, I know something you’re not telling me.

“A guy?”

Jimmy’s voice sounded directly behind Clark, causing the poor man to nearly drop his coffee.

It was strange because, well, Clark could normally sense anything approaching him from yards away. Hear footsteps. Feel vibrations. All those things that came with his abilities.

But something about being Clark Kent seemed to interfere with those hidden Kryptonian instincts.

When he was in the office, he wasn’t the man with the cape.

He wasn’t Superman.

He was just Clark.

And somehow that made things weird.

One moment he could hear a sigh from across the city.

The next, he failed to notice his best friend standing directly behind him.

He jumped, nearly spilling his coffee, surprising even himself with how startled he’d become.

You and Lois looked over briefly before returning to your work, as though Jimmy sneaking up on Clark had become a perfectly normal part of office life.

Of course, Jimmy didn’t know.

No one did.

Jimmy was interested in Clark, but not in the way Clark was interested in you.

Jimmy simply enjoyed teasing his friend.

It was entertaining watching Clark turn red whenever someone mentioned you.

Clark glanced in your direction while you continued typing, and the moment Lois whispered something to you, his attention abandoned his article entirely.

If anyone were being honest, Clark could probably be called nosy.

Or perhaps, to him, invading someone’s privacy wasn’t really a crime if the intentions were good.

And you were the girl he liked.

The girl who stole his attention every chance she got.

The girl who made him forget how to breathe whenever you smiled.

Listening a little wasn’t so terrible, right?

Right?

Clark looked at Jimmy, blushing.

How had his powerless friend gathered all that information so easily?

It seemed Jimmy possessed the superpower of overhearing other people’s conversations.

Or maybe Jimmy had only pretended to use Lois’s printer so he could come directly to Clark and extract information.

Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Clark said casually, though his voice came out tighter than usual.

“They’re stealing your girl, buddy,” Jimmy said, shaking his head as though he’d already accepted his friend’s inevitable suffering.

“She’s not... Jimmy, she’s not my girl,” Clark replied, raising a finger like a teacher delivering an important lesson. “She’s not an object that belongs to someone.”

Then he glanced at you.

Just for a second.

Long enough to see you laughing at something Lois had said.

“Besides...” he added quietly, “she’s allowed to date other people.”

His voice softened as though hope itself were slipping away.

As though the words weighed heavily on his tongue.

“Sure. Because you never actually ask her out,” Jimmy said, shaking his head.

There was equal parts affection and frustration in his expression, as though he’d already had this conversation a thousand times in his head.

“You heard Lois say she liked Andrew. Steve’s coworker,” Clark said, directing his gaze toward the man standing a few desks away.

Andrew.

The guy currently showing off his gym routine with his hands on his hips and his chin raised as though he owned the world.

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “But I heard it. Sorry. Couldn’t keep it in.”

Then he looked toward Andrew.

“But come on. The guy is basically ‘Look at my biceps’ or ‘Yesterday I worked out for three hours’ or ‘I drink disgusting spinach smoothies every morning.’”

Jimmy imitated him in a ridiculous voice while flexing his skinny arms.

Clark couldn’t help smiling.

The day continued that way.

People coming and going.

Lois disappearing to discuss an important article with Cat.

Jimmy working through his fourth cup of coffee while flirting with the woman from the Culture section—the one who always wore enormous earrings and laughed loudly.

Clark looked at you.

Then at Andrew.

Andrew picked up a folder and smiled at you.

You smiled back while continuing to type, nodding as he walked away at an annoyingly leisurely pace.

Clark lowered his eyes to his keyboard.

A heaviness settled in his chest.

Maybe it simply wasn’t his time.

Maybe he was destined to be the supporting character.

The one who never got the girl.

The one who stood by and watched the person he loved fall for someone else.

Maybe under different circumstances.

Maybe in another life.

Things would be different.

“You’re here!”

You jumped up from your chair so quickly that you nearly sent it crashing backward.

Clark’s head snapped up immediately, his spine straightening without him realizing it.

You hurried toward the elevator, excitement radiating from every step.

For one terrifying second, Clark thought you were already spoken for.

That the guy you’d been talking about had finally arrived to take you away.

Then he looked closer.

The person stepping out of the elevator was a woman.

Shorter than you, but undeniably similar.

The same smile.

The same eyes.

The same lightness in her walk.

Clark tilted his head, confused.

Then he smiled.

Your mother.

There was no doubt.

Not after the way you hugged her.

Not after she lovingly brushed your hair back.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t find the right floor. I got off on the fifth floor, and they told me you didn’t exist. I said, ‘What do you mean my daughter doesn’t exist?’ Then they finally realized who I was talking about,” your mother said as she walked beside you toward your desk, looking around with fascination as though the office were a museum filled with treasures.

You smiled.

That big smile that only ever appeared around her.

“I told you I could come get you, Mom,” you whispered, kissing her cheek.

Meanwhile, Clark kept his eyes glued to his computer screen while paying absolute attention to every word.

Every laugh.

Every touch of your mother’s arm.

“This is my desk,” you said, sitting down and gesturing toward the chair beside you so she could see where you worked. “I’m writing an article.”

You pointed toward the screen filled with words you’d written and deleted a hundred times.

Your mother nodded seriously.

“Mhm.”

She looked around.

Then leaned closer.

Without taking her eyes off the office.

“Which one is Clark?” she whispered, scanning the room like a spy in a movie.

You blushed instantly.

Heat rushed up your neck and into your ears.

“Mom,” you whispered, practically sinking beneath your desk.

Even though she’d spoken quietly.

Even though it was barely audible.

“What?” your mother replied with a knowing smile, leaning closer. “You spend hours talking about him on the phone. I deserve to meet the man my daughter is in love with.”

Those words echoed through your mind like they’d been shouted through a megaphone.

Across the room, Clark felt his heart somersault.

“It’s him,” you whispered, barely moving your head toward Clark.

Just a tiny gesture.

Your mother followed your gaze.

Clark wasn’t sure whether it was your heart beating that loudly or his own.

He could hear two racing heartbeats.

One closer than the other.

And he couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.

He licked his lips, trying to suppress the enormous smile threatening to spread across his face.

He lowered his gaze to the keyboard.

Tilted his head.

Tried to hide it.

Oh, sure.

This was definitely one of the advantages of super hearing.

Listening to the entire city wasn’t always enjoyable.

But moments like this?

Hearing your voice whisper that you were in love with him?

That made every second worthwhile.

“So you’re the beautiful mother of my best friend.”

Lois interrupted with her brightest reporter smile.

She approached with her hand extended and a sparkle in her eyes.

You stood so quickly you nearly knocked into your chair.

“Lois Lane, right? Of course. Black hair. Eyes capable of making any man fall in love. Gorgeous. That’s you,” your mother said, shaking her hand firmly while looking her up and down as though she’d just met a celebrity.

You laughed and shook your head.

Embarrassed.

Happy.

Both at once.

Lois looked at you with curiosity, one eyebrow raised.

You shrugged with a mischievous smile.

“She’s the one who gives me all the advice I give you.”

Lois laughed loudly before pulling your mother into a hug as though they’d known each other for years.

From his desk, Clark stared at his keyboard with an idiotic smile he couldn’t erase, listening to the laughter of the three of you blend into the sounds of the office.

Then Clark stood up.

Not gracefully.

Not remotely.

It was the kind of standing up that happened when someone’s legs suddenly forgot how to function.

His hands trembled around a sheet of paper.

His eyes shifted from you.

To the floor.

Back to you.

As though he couldn’t decide where it was safest to look.

Thankfully, Perry had asked Clark to print an article and deliver it to you so it could be passed along to the editors, just like always.

A real reason to approach you.

A legitimate excuse.

Not one he’d invented.

Yet even with that perfectly reasonable excuse, Clark felt as though his knees might give out at any moment.

He walked toward you in short steps, clutching the paper against his chest like a shield.

With every step, his heart climbed higher into his throat.

You looked up as he approached.

Your heart stopped.

Or maybe it stopped twice.

Or maybe it stopped altogether.

Your mother glanced at you from the corner of her eye, wearing that familiar smile.

You looked at her.

Or maybe you swallowed.

You honestly couldn’t remember which came first.

You only knew that the office suddenly felt warmer.

And your palms had started sweating for absolutely no reason.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Clark said quietly.

So quietly it sounded as though he were asking permission to exist within your space.

He smiled at you.

A trembling smile.

The kind that escaped before he could stop it.

His fingers continued squeezing the paper as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“No, no,” you replied immediately.

Far too quickly.

Then you looked at your mother with eyes that clearly pleaded, Please don’t say anything weird.

“I... this is my mother, Clark... no... what’s wrong?” you said, realizing halfway through the sentence that none of those words made sense.

You sounded as though you were apologizing.

Or answering a question he’d never asked.

He only wanted to hand you a paper.

Not meet your mother.

At least, that’s what you assumed.

But your mouth had sprinted ahead of your brain.

And it was far too late to catch up.

Clark smiled anyway, despite not fully understanding what you’d just said.

He extended a hand toward your mother.

Then immediately pulled it back.

Wiped it on his jacket.

Then offered it again more carefully.

As though presenting something fragile.

“Clark Kent, ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”

His voice came out slightly higher than usual.

The unmistakable sound of someone who was desperately nervous.

You smiled at your mother.

The kind of smile that hurt because of how hard you were forcing yourself to appear calm.

“Clark Kent,” your mother repeated, savoring the name like candy. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

She dropped the words casually.

Like someone tossing a grenade and waiting to see the explosion.

“About everyone,” you corrected quickly.

Far too quickly.

Far too obviously.

Your voice sounded rushed.

Artificial.

You fooled absolutely no one.

It was as obvious as the sky being blue.

As obvious as coffee being hot.

Your mother gave you a look that clearly said, Oh, my sweet foolish daughter.

Clark turned as red as a tomato.

“Yes, well, I hope my daughter does a good job and is a good coworker to everyone,” your mother said, releasing Clark’s hand after holding it a second longer than necessary.

Then she turned toward Lois as though she hadn’t just left her daughter internally screaming.

“She is. She’s the best.”

Clark’s words came out instantly.

Purely.

Directly from his heart before his brain had a chance to intervene.

Even he looked surprised.

You stared at him.

Speechless.

Your mother stared at him.

One eyebrow raised.

A huge smile spreading across her face.

Lois stared at him too.

Barely managing not to laugh.

Her expression practically screamed, These two are hopeless.

You smiled without entirely understanding why.

Then looked at your mother with a mixture of embarrassment and happiness you couldn’t conceal.

“I’m glad to hear that. I won’t take up any more of your time. Your work is important,” your mother said, waving a hand as though dismissing an entire army. “I’ll wait for my daughter downstairs.”

She paused for a moment.

Thinking.

“I’ll look for a restaurant while I wait. I hear Metropolis has excellent restaurants.”

She looked around as though expecting someone to hand her a map.

“The Italian restaurant next to the park is amazing,” Clark recommended.

The moment he finished speaking, he blushed so intensely it looked like he’d suddenly developed a fever.

He adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger.

A habit he always had when he was nervous.

Though he had no idea he did it.

“I think,” he added quietly, suddenly uncertain of his own recommendation.

You smiled.

One of those smiles that appeared without permission.

The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

“Of course. When we went there with Jimmy,” you said, remembering.

Clark nodded, relieved that someone had confirmed he hadn’t imagined the place.

You turned to your mother, your eyes shining.

“It really is good.”

Your voice carried far more conviction than one would expect from a conversation about food.

“Oh, then you should come with us, Clark. You seem to know the city well,” your mother said casually, as though inviting an old family friend to dinner.

You shook your head so quickly your neck nearly hurt.

“He’s lived here exactly as long as I have,” you tried to point out, as though that were a perfectly reasonable argument against him joining.

Your mother didn’t even look at you.

Her eyes remained fixed on Clark with the determination only mothers possessed when arranging something their children never requested.

“It would be my pleasure to join you. I... yes... Perry said...” Clark began.

Then immediately tangled himself in his own words.

He pointed at the paper still clutched in his hands as though he’d only just remembered it existed.

“This is for you,” he said finally, extending it toward you with the care of someone presenting an important trophy.

His fingers brushed yours.

Just for a second.

Both of you pulled away at exactly the same time.

As though the contact had shocked you.

“I... I’ll leave on time so I can take you both,” Clark said.

Then he retreated so quickly it looked like he was escaping a fire.

He nearly tripped over a chair.

Caught himself at the last second.

Then walked straight into a doorway that had been there forever.

And kept going.

His cheeks were so red they looked like two apples hanging from either side of his face.

You looked at your mother with wide eyes, having absolutely no idea what expression you were supposed to make. Whether you should be offended, laugh, or simply crawl under your desk and never come out again.

Lois smiled at your mother, shaking her head from side to side with the expression of someone who had seen this story before and already knew how it ended.

“See, ma’am?” Lois teased, crossing her arms and leaning against the desk as though she were watching her favorite television show. “Those two are complete lovebirds. It’s only a matter of time before they end up together.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the silly smile that slipped onto your lips.

Your mother simply nodded.

Serious.

Thoughtful.

As though she were mentally documenting every single thing she had witnessed.

Saving every detail for later.

For one of those phone calls when the two of you were alone.

When she could finally interrogate you properly and you would end up confessing everything you felt for Clark Kent.

If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.

That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.

He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.

Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.

Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?

And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.

He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.

Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.

But anyway, that was not the point right now.

The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.

The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.

While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.

“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.

“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.

“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.

“Connections to who?”

“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.

That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.

But that was exactly what happened.

Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.

Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.

But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.

But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.

He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.

When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.

Superman stood in front of you.

Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.

“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.

You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.

“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.

Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.

You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.

No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.

Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.

You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.

You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.

“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.

“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.

You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.

There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.

Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.

It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.

You were just his coworker. Nothing more.

But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.

Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.

After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.

A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.

The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.

He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.

He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.

You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.

You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.

“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.

Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.

Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.

“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.

You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:

“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Of course you were not easy to fool.

She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.

But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.

You only seemed curious.

You only seemed… interested.

“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.

“Really?” you asked skeptically.

“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.

He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.

Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.

He came back.

He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.

“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.

“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”

Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.

You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.

“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”

He took the plate carefully.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”

Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.

And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.

The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.

One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.

“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”

Clark smiled inwardly.

Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.

So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.

After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.

And now you shared that with Clark.

Well… with Superman.

But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.

One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”

“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”

Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”

“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”

“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”

Your eyes widened.

“What?”

“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.

“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”

“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.

“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.

The two of you ended up laughing.

You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.

That became his favorite part of every day.

Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.

But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.

And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.

Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.

Because he had someone waiting for him.

And that someone was you.

That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.

You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.

In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.

And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.

Oh, God, he thought.

He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.

But he still wanted to test it.

He needed to know.

So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.

Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.

“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.

His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.

You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.

“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.

Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.

He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.

Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.

“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.

You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.

“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.

Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.

“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.

He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”

Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.

“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”

Superman lowered his gaze.

He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.

You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.

“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”

That made everything worse.

Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.

Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.

“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.

Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.

You looked at him with a frown, still worried.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.

Superman nodded slowly.

“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.

You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.

Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.

“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.

You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.

“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.

“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”

Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.

“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”

He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.

“I never imagined,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.

“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”

Clark felt his stomach flip.

“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.

You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.

“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.

You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.

Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.

“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”

You let out a short laugh.

“I already know that.”

“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.

He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.

“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.

“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.

Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.

So he simply nodded again, harder this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”

Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.

“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.

Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.

He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.

He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.

He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.

Nothing else mattered.

Only you.

Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.

Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.

He was going to ask you out.

That was a fact.

He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.

Or fly around the world.

Or both.

Kid, so he could look away.

Kid, so you'd stay safe.

You've been watching him for six years now. Learning the way he takes his coffee, the tells when he's had a bad night, how he'll rub at his left shoulder where metal meets flesh, like the junction still aches. You've seen all of it, studied all of it.  Sometimes you think about making a list, just to prove to yourself how pathetic you've become. Line item number one: he takes his coffee black but adds sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Line item number seventy-three: the nightmares are worse in winter. You could write a dissertation on Bucky Barnes and never run out of material.

You've watched him go from your dad's traumatized war buddy to something resembling human again. Watched him learn to laugh at your dad's shitty jokes and argue about sports teams and pretend the nightmares didn't still wake him up sometimes.

Watched him, lately, watch you back.

It's different the way he watches you. You don't think there's a name for it, or if there is, it is too scandalous to say out loud. His gaze will catch on your mouth when you're talking, or track the movement of your hands, or linger on the strip of skin between your shirt and jeans when you reach for something on a high shelf. Then he'll look away fast enough to give himself whiplash, and call you kid again like the word's a shield against whatever he's been thinking. It's one of those 'say it enough times, you'll start believing it' situation.

The first time you caught him staring at your mouth, you'd forgotten what you were saying mid-sentence. Just stood there like an idiot while he blinked and looked away. Your dad asked if you were feeling okay. You weren't. You haven't been okay since you were nineteen and saw him for the first time.

What's killing you now is that you don't know what happens next. You've played out a dozen scenarios in your head — him kissing you against the kitchen counter, you finally calling him on his bullshit, the world ending before either of you has to acknowledge this thing happening between you two. But you can't predict Bucky Barnes. He's controlled but also has triggers you don't know from stories he won't tell, and trying to guess his next move is like trying to catch smoke.

When you let yourself into your apartment on a Tuesday and hear him at your sink, you're not even surprised anymore. This has become routine. Your dad forgets his stuff more often than not, Bucky shows up to collect them, the excuse wearing thin each passing day. Both of you pretending this is normal.

"Kitchen," he calls before you've closed the door.

You don't question why he's here before you're even here. To be honest, it makes you happy, to see someone else — no, to see him. The henley he's wearing enhances his biceps, you almost want to chew through it. You've seen him in this shirt before. You know you have. But every time feels like the first time, like your brain can't quite process the reality of him. There's grease smudged on his jaw that he's completely missed while washing, all you want to do is let your fingers touch him under the guise of removing it. His hair's getting long, and you have approximately thirty seconds before you do something stupid like offer to trim it for him.

"Where's dad?"

Bucky glances at you, a fractional hesitation before he shuts off the water. "Got held up at work." He reaches for the dish towel — the one you've told him a hundred times not to use for his greasy hands — and starts drying off. "Said he'll grab the bike next week."

"Right. Next week." You drop your bag on the counter, not surprised once again. Your dad's been saying next week for three weeks now. At this point, the bike is practically furniture. Why does he leave his things over here if he never cares enough to get them back himself? 

"Well, he's busy." 

"So, he sent you?"

"He didn't send me, I offered," he says. The way he's looking at you now makes your aware of your heartbeat, the steady thunk it used to be is now replaced by this erratic energy that has nowhere else to go.

The kitchen suddenly feels too warm. Or maybe you're too warm. Maybe you've been too warm since the moment you walked in and saw him standing at your sink. You shrug out of your jacket, feel Bucky's eyes track the movement, watching the fabric slide down your arms, every inch of your skin waking up under his gaze. When you look back at him though, his eyes are fixed on the ragged towel at his hand, like they weren't on your skin this whole time. 

The grease on his face is starting to bother you. Though, bother would be a big word. You just want to rub it off. Why? You don't know. Maybe to get your hands on him. "You've got something on your face," you tell him.

His hand rises automatically, searching for the stain in the wrong place. "Where?"

"Other side. No — here, just —" You step closer, and immediately realise this is a mistake. You know it's a mistake even as you're doing it, but your hand's already there, thumb swiping at the smudge on his jaw.

Bucky goes still, that's the only way to put it. A whole-body freeze, every muscle locked down. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you absolutely do not want to. That's what you keep telling yourself. Liar, something in you whispers. You've wanted to count them since forever. You've wanted to note every detail of him and keep them somewhere safe.

There's a faint knowing of the world running in the background, but nothing else seems to matter when he's still not moving. And neither are you. "Got it," you say, but you don't step back.

"Thanks." 

Your thumb's still on his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin. You can feel the texture of it, slightly coarse. Suddenly, you're struck by the intimacy of knowing how his face feels under your hand. This is the kind of knowledge that belongs to girlfriends and wives, not to the daughter of his best friend who's been harbouring increasingly inappropriate thoughts for years. You can feel his pulse jumping in his throat, like he's been running. Neither of you is moving. Neither of you is even breathing if you're entirely honest. There's a slow dance of his eyes, from your own to your mouth, then back to your own. Yours do the same, mirroring him in the most minute way possible. There's about three inches of space between your mouth and his.

"This is a terrible idea," Bucky says as he leans in, which in turn makes you lean in. The distance closes in itself by excruciating degrees. 

"The worst." The two words from your mouth are swallowed by his own, the space between you both narrowed to a negative as his lips touch yours. The first graze of it is gentle, testing. Like he's afraid you'll shatter or bolt or realize what a stupid thing this is. But you've been waiting for this. There's months — no, years — of watching, wanting and pretending you weren't doing either, years of lying to yourself that you could be satisfied with just existing in his orbit, and gentle just isn't going to cut it. You fist your hand in his shirt and pull him closer, breaking whatever thread of control he's been clinging to.

Bucky makes a low sound in his throat and kisses you harder, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, metal arm sliding around your waist. The metal is cool even through your shirt, a shock of temperature that makes you gasp into his mouth. He tastes like coffee and mint gum, the taste so unique because it's him. When his tongue sweeps into your mouth, you forget how to think in complete sentences. Language becomes optional, unnecessary. Who needs words when you have this, have him finally, finally touching you the way you've dreamed about. Your free hand finds his shoulder, gripping hard enough to feel the shift of muscle under skin, as he backs you up until your hips hit the counter.

The kiss turns messier and desperate. His beard scrapes your chin, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling small sounds from you. You'd be totally embarrassed if you had any capacity to think. But, you're drowning in it, in him, in six years of wanting finally combusting into this.

The limbo of the kiss, the existence narrowed down to the dance of your lips is mercilessly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.

Bucky tears his mouth away from yours with a curse that would make your father blush, his forehead finding residence at your temple, both of you panting. You can feel his breath on your skin, uneven, matching your own. His hand shakes slightly as he fumbles for his phone.

"It's your dad."

The words are a bucket of ice water, waking up fear and shame, squashing any leftover desire. Guilt crashes over you in waves. This is your dad's best friend. Your dad's traumatized war buddy who he trusts completely, who he invited into his life, into your life. And here you are with swollen lips and shaking hands, having just had his tongue in your mouth. 

Bucky steps back, puts physical distance between you before he answers the phone. The loss of his warmth feels physical, like something's been ripped away. "Yeah?" His eyes are still on you, pupils still blown, gaze oscillating between your parted lips and your pleading eyes. "No, just wrapped up. Heading out now." A pause where he could take a deep breath, but doesn't. "Yeah, she's good. I'll tell her."

When he hangs up, the silence that follows is excruciating.

Expectant eyes search his face, his mouth, guilt threading through your own features as you take in his. Whatever you'd expected him to say, it wasn't this, "I should go," Bucky says

"That's it?" The words tear through you, frustrated and angered by his choice, his decision. "That's all you're gonna say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Maybe any sentence that doesn't make me feel like I imagined the last five minutes."

His jaw clenches and unclenches. You can see him thinking, the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing what he should say versus what he wants to say. He looks like he's choosing his next sentence carefully. But when it does come out, it doesn't seem all that careful. "You didn't imagine it."

"No? Great. Very comforting." You cross your arms, looking like the very kid he claims that you are. "So what, you kiss me like that and then just leave?"

Bucky doesn't quite meet your gaze as he grabs his jacket and starts his way away from you, stillnot looking at you. 

"Why?" You prod. 

"You know why." Finally, he looks at you, whatever you see on his face makes you want to hit him or kiss him again. Pain, maybe. Regret. Want that he's trying desperately to bury and failing. Not trusting your body to keep its distance, you put some between you, stepping back. Bucky sighs, and runs his metal fingers through his hair. "Your dad's my best friend. I'm too old for you. This is — we can't —"

"I'm twenty-five, Bucky."

"I know how old you are. You think I don't know exactly how old you are? You think I — Fuck!" The frustration in his voice borders on anguish, like the knowing is what's killing him.

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that your dad would kill me. The problem is that I've got no business touching you. The problem is that I can't —" He runs his hand through his hair again, and you think he might pull it off if he's not careful. "I need to go."

Bucky walks out, leaving you standing in your kitchen with kiss-swollen lips, racing heart, and anger. You're furious. At him for kissing you and leaving. At your dad for existing. At the whole goddamn universe for making this so complicated. At yourself most of all, for still wanting him even as he walks away.

A week. Seven days of you jumping every time someone knocks on your door, checking your phone obsessively like he's going to text you, half-expecting Bucky to show up with another tissue-thin excuse about tools or motorcycles or whatever.

He doesn't.

Day two, you convinced yourself you hallucinated the whole thing. Day three, you stared at your kitchen counter trying to remember the exact spot where he'd backed you up against it, like if you stand there long enough you'll be able to conjure the feeling of his hands on your waist.

Your dad picks up the bike himself. Mentions Bucky's been busy with some job for Sam, says it casually, disinterested. That means he has no idea anything's changed. You smile, nod and try not to think about the way Bucky's mouth felt on yours.

It doesn't work.

You replay the kiss in your mind so many times it starts to feel like fiction. But, you can still feel the ghost of his metal arm around your waist, still taste coffee and mint when you close your eyes.

On day seven, you've nearly convinced yourself to show up at his apartment and demand answers.

But he shows up at yours.

It's Tuesday night, exactly one week later. You're in old sweats and a tank top, halfway through a pint of ice cream you're eating straight from the container. 

The knock is an inconvenience at this time, perfectly ruining your plans of rewatching Brooklyn 99, turn your mind off and eat the damn ice cream. You almost don't open, 9 PM is hardly any time for visitors, hoping that person takes the hint and fucks off.

The second knock comes up more insistent, a hurry in the air, forcing you to pad towards the door, ice cream in hand. 

And there's Bucky. 

Bucky, who looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, wearing an expression like he hasn't slept in days. He looks how you feel, which is both gratifying and heartbreaking. His hair is damp. It takes you a moment to understand it's drizzling. Drizzle would be a stretch, for the raindrops are the size of a pomegranate pearl, dropping down with vigour. 

"Hey," he says.

"No." You start to close the door, even though all you want to do is haul him inside, towel off his hair, dry those strands that are matted together. 

His boot hits the doorframe, an obstacle in your plans, a test on your self-preservation. "Wait —"

"I don't want to hear it, Bucky. I really don't." You try to push the door close anyway, mustering up the courage. But he's stronger than you physically, stronger than your thinning anger, which is dissipating by the second. "Move your foot," you try somehow. 

"Not until you let me talk."

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're a nicer person than I deserve."

A smile starts to break into your features, but you quickly tone it down. He's not playing fair, showing up here looking lost and using that voice. "Flattery's not gonna work."

"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to apologize."

You stop pushing on the door, the bare minimum you could do without showing all your cards. "Then apologize."

"Can I come in?"

Now, that would be a tremendously bad idea. If he comes in, you're not sure where else he'll be coming in. 

"You can apologize from right there." 

Bucky's quiet for a moment, studying your face. You try not to show your true feelings,keep your expression neutral, unaffected, like your heart isn't actively trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I'm sorry. For leaving like that. For not calling. For —" He looks like he's frustrated with himself, abruptly stopping the sentence. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "for all of it."

"Okay." You still don't open the door wider. "Apology received. Have a good night."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Shut me out. I know I fucked up, but —" He runs his hand through his hair, the water droplets cascading down his skin. You hate that you find it endearing, that even now, even angry and hurt, you're memorising the way the water runs down his temple, the exact shade of misery in his eyes. "Can we talk? Please?"

The 'please' is what does you in. You've never heard Bucky Barnes say please about anything, the sheer novelty of it makes you hesitate just long enough for him to see the weakness in your armor. "Five minutes," you tell him, stepping back.

You close the door behind him as he enters. When you turn around, he's closer than you expected, your back hitting the door with the need to put distance between you both. "You said you wanted to talk," you remind him, voice breathier than you'd like.

"I can't stop thinking about it." His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips. "About kissing you. About how you tasted. About the sound you made when —"

Feigning indifference seems like the only way out of this. "Okay." You try to sound unaffected, like your pulse isn't racing, like you haven't been thinking about it too. Obsessively, unhealthily, to the point where you can't focus on anything else. "So you've been thinking about it."

"That's not okay."

"No?" You raise an eyebrow, daring him. "Sounds like a you problem."

Bucky takes a step closer, trapping you between him and the door, the distance feeling anything but threatening, not having felt this alive in seven days. "I've been trying to do the right thing. I know that sounds like garbage from where you're standing."

"It does have that smell."

His lips curve into a smile. You wish you were immune to that, to his smile, to him. His hand comes up, hovering near your waist but not quite touching. "Your dad trusts me. He's trusted me for years. And here I am, showing up at his daughter's apartment, thinking things I've got no business thinking."

"What kind of things?" 

"Don't ask me that."

"Why not?" You're goading him, and you both know it. "Afraid you'll tell me the truth?"

His hand finally makes contact, just a light touch on your hip, just over the fabric of your top. "I've thought about you in every room of this apartment. I've thought about you when I shouldn't, in ways I definitely shouldn't. I've tried to stop, and I can't, and it's driving me out of my mind."

"You should suffer a little. You left me standing in my kitchen like what happened meant nothing."

"It meant everything." His other hand finds your waist, both of them spanning your hips, and you wish you weren't wearing anything, just so you could feel his hands on your skin. "That's the problem. If it meant nothing, I could've walked away and stayed away. But it meant everything. I still tried to stay away — tried to do the right thing, but here I am."

His breath comes out hard, he's so close you can clearly see the flecks of gray in his blue iries, which are turning black by the moment. You can smell the rain on him, soaked strands falling in front of his face, begging to be brushed away from his eyes.

"Stop calling me kid," you tell him.

Bucky's hands tighten on your hips. "I didn't call you that tonight."

"Not tonight. In general."

Bucky doesn't respond, but his hands move a fraction, the metal in his arm grazing your skin, cool even through your thin tank top.

"Say my name."

He hesitates like the word might burn him. You watch him struggle with it, something like pain or hurt flickering across his face before he utters, "sweetheart."

"That's not my name."

"Please." His voice is rough, pleading. 

"Say it, Bucky."

"Please don't make me."

The vulnerability in it catches you off-guard. "Why not?"

"Once I say it, that's it. I can't take it back. Can't pretend this is something I can walk away from."

"So you do want to walk away still?"

So soft, so fragile, your name leaves his mouth. It sounds different in his voice, shaped by his accent, rough with want. You've heard your name a thousand times but never like this.

"Was that so hard?" Your own voice is softer now, your hands somehow having found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

"Yes." All that want he's been trying to bury, is written across his face in sharp relief. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide, grip on your hips tight enough to bruise. "You have no idea how hard it is."

"Saying my name is hard?"

"Saying your name while I've been watching you, wanting you, knowing I shouldn't touch you. That's hard."

"You want me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

"Don't ask me that." It sounds like it's being dragged out of him. "Please."

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't."

Bucky makes a sound that just might be the frustration in him seeping through, but his eyes are full of want. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I want you. I want you so much it feels like it's killing me. Happy now?"

"Not yet," you tell him befote smashing your lips into his. Anything but gentle, absolutely no testing the waters thing he did the first time. This is want distilled into action, six years of waiting and pretending all combusting at once, every fantasy you've ever had, every late-night thought you've tried to suppress, finally made real. Your hands fist in his damp hair, tightening his grip on your hips, bruising. When you bite his lower lip, he groans into your mouth like you've wounded him.

"We shouldn't," he speaks against your lips, but he's doesn't pull away, not even close. "Your dad —"

"Is not here." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Do you want to stop?"

Bucky looks at you like you're asking him to cut off his other arm. "No."

"Then stop talking about my dad while you're kissing me."

That startles a brief laugh out of him. Without wasting another second, he's kissing you again, walking you backward through your apartment. You're vaguely aware of furniture and doorways, of his jacket hitting the floor somewhere, of your ice cream forgotten on the counter. None of it matters as much as the slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of him, the way his hands are mapping your waist like he's memorizing you.

When the backs of your knees hit the couch, you try to pull him down with you, but Bucky resists. His hands find your hips, steering you around until you're standing and he's sitting, thighs spread wide to make room for you between them. The position puts you above him, taller for once. On his face, theres a crack in the armor where you can see straight through to the want underneath.

He looks up at you, and you've never seen him like this. Vulnerable doesn't seem like the right word for Bucky Barnes, but it's close. It's in the way his hands rest on your hips, loose enough that you could step away if you wanted. In the tilt of his head, exposing his throat, how he's letting you see him want you without the usual defenses. It makes you feel invincible and terrified both.

"Still time," he says.

"For what?"

"For you to tell me to leave."

You reach down, fingers sliding into his hair. The strands are cool and wet against your palm. When you drag your nails lightly against his scalp, his eyes flutter close. "I don't want you to leave."

Bucky leans forward, resting his forehead against your stomach. The intimacy of it steals whatever breath you have left. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs stroking small circles through your tank top, the warmth of his breath you can feel through the thin fabric.

"Should've done this right," he mutters into your stomach. "Should've taken you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Not just shown up at your door like some —" he stops, breathing into you, the warm breath wet against your skin even through the flimsy cloth. 

"Like some what?" You prod. 

"I don't know. Obsessed asshole with no self-control."

That makes you laugh, earning a smile from him that you feel against your stomach. "I don't want dinner," you say. 

"You should want dinner. You should want the whole thing — flowers, romance, somebody who isn't —" He sighs, not able to finish what he was going to say. If he says it, it will be real. 

"Who isn't what?"

"Too old for you. Too —"

"Bucky." You tug his hair until he looks up at you, mouth parted, so gorgeous. "I don't care about any of that."

"You should."

His hair is soft under your touch, your fingers playing with them as you speak. "Well, I don't. And for the record, I hate fancy restaurants. They never give you enough food, and everyone whispers."

His mouth quirks into the fondest of smiles. "That's your objection? Portion sizes and volume?"

"I'm serious. I went to this place once where they served a single scallop on a plate the size of my head. One scallop. I'm supposed to eat one scallop and pretend I'm satisfied?"

"Sounds terrible."

"It was. I stopped at McDonald's on the way home." It had been a date, actually. Some guy from your office who'd taken you where the menu didn't have prices and the portions were insulting. You'd been hungry, bored and wishing the entire time that you were with Bucky instead.

Bucky's hands slide under the hem of your tank top, fingers finding bare skin. "No famcy restaurants where they serve a single scallop. Noted."

His touch almost derails your thoughts, you have to work to keep your voice steady. The rough calluses on his fingers drag against your skin, leaving trails of fire. "Anyway, you're here now. That's worth more than some overpriced shit."

"Is it?" There's doubt clouding his eyes, you can see clearly. 

"Yeah. It is." You just hope he understands how much you mean this. 

His hands move higher, taking your shirt with them, bunching the fabric above your waist. The metal hand is cool against your overheated skin, cold enough to make you gasp. Bucky stops his touch on its tracks. "Is it cold?"

"A little."

He starts to pull back, his touch leaving you becoming a physical thing you feel the loss of. Catching his wrist, you hold the metal hand flat against your stomach. "Don't."

"You sure?"

"I like it." The contrast, the warm flesh on one side, cool metal on the other, makes your skin feel alive. You've thought about his arm before, late at night when you shouldn't. Wondered what the metal would feel like against your skin, wondered if he'd let you touch it, trace the plates. "Feels good."

His grip tightens, both hands spanning your waist now, the slight tremor in his fingers you feel more and more each passing second. Like he's overwhelmed by being allowed to touch you like this. Like he can't quite believe you're real. The next thing you know, Bucky is leaning in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.

The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes your knees weak, almost wobbling. He does it again, lower this time, tongue tracing a path across your stomach that has you gripping his shoulders for balance. His stubble scrapes your skin, adding another layer of sensation you've never felt. When he bites down gently on your hipbone, a soft gasp leaves you, like there's not enough oxygen in this room for the both of you, especially not with the way he's pressing these kisses. 

The silence while he's kissing your stomach is too much. You need to fill it with something before you combust entirely. "Been thinking about this?" Your voice comes out breathy.

"Yes." Bucky doesn't even attempt to lift his head, continuing his way across your stomach, hands holding you steady.

"How long?"

Bucky's mouth stills against your skin. For a second you think maybe he won't answer, maybe he'll pull back, and this is it. But almost soft as a whisper, his words come. "Long enough to feel ashamed about it."

"How long is that?"

"Remember that barbecue last summer?" His lips brush your navel as he talks. "You were wearing that black top, and you bent over to grab a beer from the cooler? Yeah, I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to stare at your ass."

"That was July."

"I know when it was." His hands slide higher, taking your shirt with them. He pushes the fabric up and over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your bra from the waist up. The air feels cold against your exposed skin, but Bucky's gaze is hot enough to burn. "Been drivin' me crazy for months."

You remember that day. Remember catching him staring and thinking you'd imagined it. Apparently, you hadn't. Bucky looks at your bra, but decides against it, pushing it up too, just shoving it out of the way, pulling you down into his lap. The position puts you straddling his thigh, friction of his jeans against your sweats making you acutely aware of how wet you already are. Embarrassingly wet. He's barely touched you and you're already soaked through, probably leaving a damp spot on his jeans. 

Bucky's mouth finds your breast, and whatever coherent thought you had left scatters like startled birds. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tongue working the sensitive peak. Your hips roll forward involuntarily, the pressure against your clit perfect but not nearly enough, chasing more friction, grinding down on his thigh.

"That's it," he murmurs against your breast, switching to the other side. "Take what you need."

His metal hand cups your neglected breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, the cool touch making you gasp. He seems to like that reaction, doing it again with more pressure. Having him like this, puts all your fantasies to shame, your fingers threading through his hair to hold him close.

You didn't know it could feel like this. This consuming. Every nerve ending in your body is focused on the wet heat of his mouth, the cool press of metal, the friction building between your legs. You're making these small desperate sounds you can't control, hips moving faster now. Bucky groans against your breast like watching you get off on his thigh is the best thing he's ever seen.

"Bucky —" You're close already, wound too tight, and it's almost embarrassing how fast he's gotten you here.

"I know." He bites down gently on your nipple, soothing it with his tongue. "Can feel how wet you are through your sweats. Gonna cum just from this, aren't you?"

The words almost send you over, but before you can, he lifts you off his lap, laying you down on the couch. You barely have time to process the change before he's hooking his fingers into your waistband, dragging both your sweats and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your bra which was previously pushed atop your breasts, is discarded too, and you're naked. Completely naked while he's still fully dressed, and somehow that makes this hotter. There's this moment where neither of you moves, stuck in a limbo, where he just looks at you, sprawled across your couch. You watch him take in every inch of exposed skin. You watch him watch you. 

"Jesus," he breathes.

"Are you just gonna stare, or —"

Bucky kisses you, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark you were about to make, mouth insistent, tongue tasting yours. When he pulls back, you try to follow, chasing him, but he's moving down your body.

He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse is racing. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, if he knows what he does to you. He takes his time with your breasts again, like he can't quite believe he gets to touch them. His mouth blazes a trail down your sternum, mapping the soft plane of your stomach with lips, teeth and tongue.

When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips inside, circling, your back bows of the couch in response. "Bucky, please —"

"Patience. Wanna look at you first." His hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. The first brush of cool air against your wet core makes you shudder. You should be self-conscious about this, spread open for him, the position in itself making you vulnerable, but the way he's looking at you makes you feel like a goddamn masterpiece, killing any embarrassment before it takes root. 

His finger traces your slit, so light it's almost not there, and you try to cant your hips up for more pressure. Bucky's metal hand presses down on your lower stomach, holding you still.

"Stay," he says, like you're a misbehaving dog and not someone who's writhing for breath beneath him. It's not quite a command but close enough to make you clench around nothing. 

Bucky explores you with devastating thoroughness, tracing the shape of you with one finger, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you whimper. He spreads you open with two fingers, just looking. "She's so pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So fucking pretty."

He leans down to lick a stripe up your center, tongue flat and broad, and you forget how to breathe. Even the first touch of his mouth is too much, when you're already so worked up, so close from grinding on his thigh. The wet heat of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, not even embarrassed about how loud you are. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building know. He seems encouraged by the sound, doing it again with more pressure. He eats you out like it's the only thing he wants to be doing. Like he could spend hours between your legs and die happy. His tongue works your clit in slow circles, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has you squirming. When he closes his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, you nearly come off the couch entirely. "Oh god — Bucky —"

He slides one finger inside you while his mouth stays focused on your clit. Your fingers on his hair tug them harder with each pass of his tongue, almost scaring you with how tight you're pulling and whether you're hurting him. You might actually rip his hair out, but you can't bring yourself to care because it feels too good. None of that even seems to cross his mind as his finger curls, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. He works it mercilessly while his tongue keeps that same steady rhythm.

You're pretty sure you're babbling now, saying his name and god and please in an endless stream, nails of your one hand — the one not currently buried in his hair — grasping his flesh shoulder, hard enough that it has to hurt. Again, Bucky doesn't seem to care. If anything, he doubles down, adding a second finger and increasing the pressure of his tongue. He's going to ruin you for anyone else. Not that there's ever been anyone else to compare with, but after this, you're done for.

You can feel the release gathering in the clench of your thighs, in the way every muscle in your body goes tight. Bucky seems to sense how close you are, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as he keeps that relentless pace. "C'mon," he says against your clit, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through you. "Let me taste it."

The orgasm crashes over you, your whole body seizing as pleasure tears through you. With your hands, it's never been like this. Never this intense, never this all-consuming. This feels like you're coming apart and Bucky's the only thing holding you together. You're dimly aware of crying out his name, your thighs trying to close around his head, the way your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers. Bucky works you through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're pushing at his head from oversensitivity.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He looks obscene, debauched, like something out of your dirtiest fantasy. The satisfied look on his face would be smug on anyone else. On him it's just honest satisfaction, like getting you off was the highlight of his month. "You good?" His voice is rough.

Words seem far away right now, you can barely remember your own name. You just nod, boneless, wondering if it's possible to die from pleasure.

Bucky crawls up your body, settling his weight on top of you carefully. Even wrecked with want, he's careful not to crush you. When he kisses you slowly, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It feels filthy and intimate at the same time, sending a fresh wave of arousal through you despite having just come. "That was —" You still can't form complete sentences. "You're really good at that."

He grins against your mouth. "Yeah?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." Bucky is smiling, you realize this might be the most relaxed you've ever seen him. Happy. He looks happy. When was the last time you saw him look happy? "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

"Since July, apparently."

His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing spit. "July's when I stopped being able to pretend."

"What changed?"

"You looked at me." He says it simply, like it explains everything. "Just me. After that, I couldn't pretend anymore that I didn't want you looking at me like that all the time."

You've been looking at him since the day you knew him. You don't tell him that, those demons can stay where they lay. You pull him down into another kiss, slower this time, trading breath and heat. When you finally break apart, you can feel how hard he is against your hip, still fully clothed and probably painfully uncomfortable.

"Your turn," you tell him, reaching for his belt. Bucky catches your wrist, slowing you down, thumb stroking across your radial pulse, eyes pleading, saying everything his mouth can't. The gentle touch is at odds with the hunger in his gaze. You feel your pulse jumping under his fingers, giving away how badly you want this.

"I want to," your voice is barely a whisper. You need him to know, to understand that this isn't one-sided, that you've been wanting this just as long. That seems to be all the permission he needs. He releases your wrist and lets you work his belt open, the metal buckle clinking as you pull it free. Your fingers are shaking slightly, adrenaline and want making them clumsy. His jeans follow, while he watches with those hooded eyes, like this is some kind of religious experience.

When you get his shirt off, you take a moment to just look. God, he's a masterpiece. You've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never laid out for you, never yours to touch. There are scars you knew about, the ones you've seen at pool parties and barbecues, the ones your dad mentioned in passing when he thought you weren't listening. But there are others you didn't know, smaller ones scattered across his ribs and chest, a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone. Each one tells a story he's never shared, pain he's survived, and you want to learn every single one. The place where metal meets flesh is a work of terrible artistry, plates and skin fused in ways that probably hurt more than he'll ever admit.

You lean in and press your lips to his shoulder, right where metal becomes man. Bucky goes very still. Like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to recoil, to change your mind. "You don't have to do that."

You don't respond him with words, just another kiss to the seam, the metal cool under your lips, then lower, across his chest, the skin warm, the contrast intoxicating.You work your way down his body, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his boxers, wanting to map every inch of him with your mouth, memorize the way he tastes. Bucky's hand leaps to tangle in your hair, gentle but insistent nonetheless, pulling you back up. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. But if you put your mouth on me right now, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he answers. The admission goes to your heart and cunt at the same time, the idea that you affect him that much doing things to you. 

That makes you pause, a laugh threatening to bubble out of you, but you keep it contained. "How fast we talking?"

"Thirty seconds, maybe." He doesn't look embarrassed about the admission, though there's a slight red tinge to the tip of his ears. That blush, that tiny hint of vulnerability, makes you want him even more. "I've been half-hard since I kissed you in the doorway, and I've been thinking about this for months. So unless you want me coming down your throat before we even get to the good part, you're gonna have to wait."

The bluntness of it sends heat racing through you, right between your legs, warmth spreading over the apples of your cheeks. Glancing down to not meet his eyes, you're met with the unevenness of this situation, suddenly very aware that you're naked while he's still got his boxer briefs on. "That's not fair."

Bucky manoeuvres you, hands on your hips, guiding you back down to the couch with a gentleness that contradicts his size. "Life ain't fair, sweetheart." 

Bucky's body looms above you as he settles between your thighs. The breadth of his shoulders blocks out the light from the lamp, casting shadows across his face that make him look almost dangerous, but he's soft to you. You watch him shove his boxers down, cock springing free, curved slightly towards his stomach, thick and flushed, bead of precum spilling over the tip. It's bigger than you expected, thicker, and for a moment anxiety spikes through your arousal. His flesh hand wraps around himself, working his cock, while the metal one is braced against the couch, framing your head. And you realise this is quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever seen.

"Like what you see?" You'd assume it was asked out of cockiness if you didn't know him better. You know him better, and there's genuine curiosity in his question, mixed with almost boyish shyness. 

"You already know the answer to that."

"Maybe I wanna hear you say it."

"You're fishing for compliments now?"

"Is it working?"

"Yes," you admit, earning a bright eyed and genuine smile from him,transforming his whole face, making him look younger, happier, and you want to be the reason he smiles like that forever. "You're gorgeous, okay? You're so hot it's actually annoying."

"Annoying?"

"Yeah. You walk around being all broody and hot, and I'm supposed to just — what? Pretend I don't notice?"

"You can notice me all you want, sweet girl."

Sweet girl. You like the sound of it, somehow much more intimate that anything he's ever called you. It's not really an accomplishment because all he's called you before is 'kid'. 

Bucky laughs, a sound you want to bottle up and listen when your days get dark. His fingers are between your legs again, two of them sliding inside easily, thanks to your orgasm from earlier, still wet, still open. But the stretch makes you gasp anyway, an open-mouthed silent cry, that he swallows for himself with a kiss. He works them slowly, watching your face, conflict playing across his features. Want versus restraint. Need versus caution.

"You're so tight," he mutters, almost to himself, fingers pumping in and out. Each slick sound makes your face burn, embarrassingly loud evidence of how much you want this. "Gonna have to take my time with you."

"I can take it," you tell him, voice fracturing with need, the ache to be filled by him. His cock stands proud against his abdomen, jerking with every motion of his fingers, taunting you. You want to feel the weight of him inside you, splitting you open, claiming you completely.

"I know you can." He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your back arch, and does it again just to watch you squirm. "But I'm not gonna hurt you. Not if I can help it."

He leans down to kiss you, slower this time, thorough, his tongue plunging into your mouth, remnants of your own juices lingering, while his fingers keep that steady rhythm. You're climbing toward another orgasm already, your body wound tight and responsive. Bucky breaks the kiss, only to pepper a few more on your jaw, the corner of your mouth, breath coming in hot. 

"Have you taken cock before?"

The question catches you off-guard, the blatant crudeness of it. Stilling beneath him, you will your breath to come, his fingers slowing on your cunt not being of much help. 

"Baby." His free hand comes up to cup your face. The tenderness in the gesture makes your eyes sting. "I need to know. Need to know how careful I gotta be."

The truth sits in your throat, heavy as a stone. You could lie, tell him you've done this a dozen times, that you're experienced and worldly and this is no big deal. But lying to Bucky feels wrong, feels like starting this thing between you on a foundation of sand.The way he's looking at you, open and honest, worry lines framing his face, also makes it impossible. "No," you finally whisper.

His fingers stop moving, just frozen inside you while he stares at you with an expression you can't quite read. Shock. Concern. Fear? "What?"

"No. I haven't."

Bucky starts to pull his fingers out, a pained expression on his face, like the knowledge of it physically hurts him. "Jesus Christ. You should've — I wouldn't have—"

No, no. He can't do that. You catch his wrist, holding his hand in place. "Don't."

"We can't —"

"Yes, we can." You roll your hips, taking his fingers deeper, and watch his eyes go dark, control slipping. "I want this. I want you."

"Your first time shouldn't be — It should be special. Someone who —"

"Someone who what? Takes me to a fancy restaurant and serves me one scallop?" You're babbling now, words tumbling out, desperate to keep him in. "I don't want that. I want you. This is special."

"I'm too old for you. Too fucked up. Your dad's gonna —"

"I don't care about my dad right now." You tighten your grip on his wrist, needing him to see that this isn't some impulsive decision. "I care about you. And I'm not some delicate flower you're gonna break. I can take you."

Bucky looks at you like you've wounded him, like the trust you're placing in him is almost too much to bear. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, and you hope he loses, you hope the walls he'd erected within the past twenty seconds crumble and he comes back to you. "You're all I want, Buck," you press. 

A long sigh leaves him, but finally he says, "you tell me if it's too much." The words sound torn from him, reluctant but resolute. "The second it's too much, you tell me and we stop. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"If it's too much, I'll tell you." You pull him down into a kiss, teeth claiming his lips. You bite down, tasting copper, needing him to feel something, anything. "Now stop treating me like I'm made of glass and fuck me already."

That startles a laugh out of him. You wrap your fingers around his length, almost pulling him by his dick, he doesn't seem to care though. The skin is hot and silky under your palm, cock twitching in your grip, precum leaking from the tip. Bucky pulls his fingers free, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses against you, even that initial pressure making you tense. "Breathe," he instructs. "Just breathe for me, sweetheart."

You force your muscles to relax, and he pushes in. Just the tip at first, just enough to make you gasp at the stretch of it. It's immediately more than his fingers, wider and so overwhelming you forget how to think in complete sentences.

Bucky freezes, his hard length stuffing you halfway. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just — a lot."

"I know, sweet girl." His metal hand comes up to cup your face with a gentleness, it in itself bringing you to tears, cool metal against your overheated cheek grounding, keeping you anchored. "We go slow. As slow as you need."

He works himself in gradually, stopping every time you tense, giving you time to ease yourself. It's torturous, this slow invasion, your body struggling to accommodate his size. But his words keep you company, praise, reassurance, sometimes filthy little things he'd want to do once you get used to this. Things about how he'll fuck you in every room of this apartment, how he'll bend you over the kitchen counter, how he'll wake you up with his cock inside you. About how good you're doing, how tight you are, how perfect you feel. When he's about halfway in, tears fully start leaking from the corners of your eyes. You don't think it's from the pain, just from the overwhelming fullness of it, the sensation of being split open, claimed and filled so completely there's no room for anything else. 

Bucky immediately senses the tears and stops, jaw clenching with the restraint of holding himself still above you, trembling with the effort of not moving. "Too much?"

"No." Back of your hand rushes to wipe your eyes impatiently, frustrated that your body's betraying you like this, showing weakness when you want to be strong for him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

"You're crying."

"I know I'm crying. It doesn't mean —" You roll your hips, to show him that you can take him deeper, that these are good tears, from pleasure alone and nothing else. At another roll of your hips, Bucky groans. "See? I can take it."

Bucky stays still, his hand finding your lower stomach, pressing down gently. The added pressure makes everything more intense, even fuller. "Can feel myself inside you," he mutters, almost wonderstruck. "Right here. Can you feel it?"

"What?" You're barely coherent, too overwhelmed to process what he's saying. You think he's trying to distract you, the palm on your abdomen pulls you enough from whatever discomfort you might feel from your first time. You welcome it. 

Bucky takes your hand and presses it against your lower stomach, right where his hand was. You can feel it, feel the solid presence of him inside you, the way your body's stretched around him. "Oh my god." The realization is visceral and overwhelming. "That's — you're —"

"Yeah. That's me, fillin' you up, sweetheart." Sounding wrecked, Bucky pushes the rest of the way in. The slide of it, the final inch that seats him fully inside you, makes you both freeze. You just lie there connected, trying to adjust to the reality of this. Through hooded eyes, you look at him. He's focused, jaw tightening as his gaze is fixed on the way your cunt swallows him whole. 

"You okay?" His eyes tear from your place of union reluctantly to look into yours. 

"Ask me that one more time and I'm gonna hit you."

That makes him laugh, the movement jostling where you're joined, making you clench around him involuntarily.

"Can you —" You shift your hips experimentally. "Can you move? Please?"

"Yeah." He pulls out slowly, so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein, before he pushes back in just as carefully. The slide is easier now, your body adjusting, learning to take him. "This okay?"

"More." You're chasing the friction, hips canting up to meet him. "I need more."

Bucky is so careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But when you urge him on with hands, hips and broken pleas, his control starts to slip gradually. The thrusts get deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, until you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.

It's never this good when you're alone. Bucky seems to have woken up your body from a slumber you didn't know it was in. Every sensation is not only new but also heightened. 

"So fucking tight," he groans, his hand pressed to your belly again. "Can feel my cock moving inside you. You're takin' me so well, sweetheart. Look at you."

You can't look at anything except him, his jaw is clenched with effort, pupils blown so wide there's no blue remaining, just black, the flush spreading across his chest. The still slightly damp hair falling in front of his face, but he makes no effort in moving it off, the salt and pepper stubble that scratches your cheek everytime he pushes forward, everytime his pelvis meets yours. He's gorgeous like this, desperate and wanting. 

"Bucky —" You're climbing again already, wound too tight to last much longer. "I'm gonna —"

"I know, baby." His thumb finds your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Can feel you getting tighter. Squeezin' me — fuck —"

The added stimulation is almost too much. You're right on the edge, balanced on that knife-point between pleasure and too much. Already at the verge of losing, made worse by Bucky leaning down to suck a mark into your neck while his hips keep that relentless rhythm. "Wanna fill you up," he mutters against your throat. "Wanna fuck you full of my cum. Wanna fuck a baby into you."

"Yes — Please —" You are completely disconnected from your mouth, it being a separate thing only remembering words that are his name, yes and please. 

"Gonna make sure it takes." His thrusts get erratic, control fraying. "Gonna keep you full of me until your belly swells. Until everyone can see what we've been doing."

The image he's painting is filthy and visceral. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, verge of telling him yes to everything when he keeps going. This is not just distraction anymore, the farthest part of your brain whispers.

"Think about it," he groans, hand spanning your stomach again. "You round and full with my kid. These perfect tits getting bigger." His thumb presses harder on your clit, while he bends to take one nipple into his lips, neck straining. "So full of milk you'd need me to help you, need my mouth on you. They'd be so heavy, baby."

That's what sends you over. The orgasm tears through you, whole body seizing as pleasure obliterates thought, ears ringing, not even hearing the way you scream his name. Your inner walls clamp down on him so hard, he curses, loses his rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

Bucky fucks you through it, chasing his own release. "That's it. Milk my cock. Show me how much you want it. Want me to breed you properly —"

He comes with your name on his lips, hips grinding against yours as he spills inside you. The warmth of it, the sheer volume is startling, pulling soft noises from your wrung out body. You can feel it coating your walls, filling you up exactly like he promised, marking you from the inside out. 

Boneless like you, Bucky balances himself on top of you, forearms braced against the couch, not pulling out. You feel his cock twitching inside you, spurting the remnants of his release, and feel the wet slide of cum down your inner thighs. Through the haze of your orgasm, something clicks into place. The way he'd been fixated on your stomach from the beginning, how his hands always found their way there, pressing, holding and claiming. The breeding talk that seemed to come so naturally to him. He'd been obsessed with it, with your stomach, with the idea of filling you up, you'd just been too overwhelmed to notice.

"You're obsessed with my stomach," you say, still trying to catch your breath.

Bucky lifts his head to look at you, and there's no embarrassment in his expression. If anything, there's pride there, satisfaction. "Yeah. Have been since you wore crop tops all summer."

"All summer?"

"I'm not proud of it." But he's smiling slightly, thumb stroking across your stomach where he's softening inside you. "Couldn't stop thinking about marking you here. Putting my hands on you. Making you mine in every way that matters."

The possessiveness in his tone, the raw need, stirs something primal in you, that wants to be his. The fact that this is your first time ever doesn't concern you, just makes you feel wanted and claimed in the best possible way.

He finally pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. The slide of him leaving you feels like a loss, an ache of emptiness. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you. Those worry lines are back, you want to smooth them away. "That was perfect. You were perfect." You kiss him softly. "I'm fine. Better than fine."

He still looks unconvinced, but before he can spiral into guilt, you pull him down on top of you. His weight is comforting rather than crushing, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. His arms band around you, face buried in your neck. 

For a while, he stays where you put him, his body heavy over yours, warm and shaking in small, leftover ways he would probably deny if you mentioned them. His face remains tucked in your neck like he can hide there from every terrible, responsible thought trying to crawl back into his head. You can feel the guilt gathering anyway. It keeps making itself known in the careful way he holds his weight off you, the tiny pauses before his mouth touches your skin, the way his arms tighten whenever you shift. The guilt doesn't get to settle in though, because you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, pulling him back to look at you. "Stop thinking so loud."

"I'm not —"

"You are." Your thumb traces the crease between his brows. "I can hear it from here."

Bucky huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before starting a slow path downward. His lips drag across your sternum, then lower, mapping ribs and soft flesh. Each kiss is soft and slow, like he's got all the time in the world to learn what makes you sigh. When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips in the same way it did earlier, circling, and your hips twitch involuntarily.

"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin, quiet want in his tone. His mouth continues lower, across the plane of your stomach, and this is where he lingers. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to skin that's still flushed and overheated, his stubble scraping in ways that make you squirm. Both hands splay across your belly, spanning the width of it, metal and flesh holding you like something precious. He's almost worshipful about it, pressing his lips just below your navel and staying there, breathing you in.

"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out soft.

"Thinkin' about how good you'd look." His thumb strokes back and forth across your stomach. "Round and full. Wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."

Bucky's orgasm doesn't seem slow him down, he's only edging you towards the start of another one, the words sending signals straight to your core. "You already can't keep your hands off me."

Bucky laughs as he presses another kiss lower, then another, working his way down until he's kneeling between your spread thighs. 

You're about to pull him up, tell him you're still not recovered, but Bucky's not looking at your face anymore. His gaze is fixed between your legs, watching as his cum starts to leak out of you, painting your inner thighs white. "Fuck," he breathes, his fingers gathering the mess and pushing it back inside you. "Can't waste it," he mutters, almost to himself, two fingers pressing deep, pushing his release back where it belongs. "Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta keep you full."

You're boneless, can't do anything but lie there and let him have this strange, filthy little ritual, watching through dazed eyes. The room smells like rain and sex. Your couch is absolutely never recovering, and maybe neither are you. He keeps his fingers inside you with that focused, almost frightening devotion, pushing the mess back where he thinks it belongs, one open-mouthed kiss landing on your lower stomach as he does it.

You reach down and catch his wrist, stilling his hand. "Bucky. I'm not going anywhere. It's not going to leak out in the next five seconds."

He looks up at you, a bashfulness in his face you've never seen on him before, caught doing exactly what he wants with zero shame left to hide behind. "I know. I just —" He trails off, fingers still buried inside you.

"You just what?"

"Like seeing it," he admits. "Like knowing I put it there."

The honesty of it makes you want the next round desperately, and before that thought could take root, you tug on his wrist, pulling him towards you. He withdraws his fingers reluctantly, wiping them on his discarded shirt before crawling up your body. When he settles next to you on the couch, you turn into him, tucking yourself against his chest. His arm comes around you, metal hand cool against your overheated skin.

"So that happened."

"Yeah. That happened." His lips and hands keep mapping your body in small increments, like he's making up for lost time, like he doesn't want to let you go. 

The silence stretches. You count his heartbeats — twelve, fifteen, twenty — before he eventually says, "your dad's gonna kill me."

"Probably." You trace patterns on his chest with one finger, following old scars, the raised tissue telling stories he won't. "But at least you'll die happy."

"Small comfort."

"I could tell him it was my idea," you supply. 

"That'll make it worse. Then he'll kill me for not having more self-control." He catches your hand, stilling your wandering fingers mid-trace. "He trusts me. Trusted me with you. And I just —"

"Fell in love with me?"

The words shatter between you. You've never said them out loud before, never put a name to this thing that's been building since you were nineteen. Bucky goes very still at that, body stopping everything, even breathing. "What?"

"That's what this is, right?" You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Because if this is just some — I don't know, some itch you needed to scratch, you should probably tell me now before I —"

"It's not." He cuts you off urgently. "It's not that. It's —" The struggle plays out on his face, words getting stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.

"It's what?"

"It's me being stupid in love with you for the past six months and trying real hard not to be," he finally says. The confession comes out rough, like it's been dragged from deep inside him. "It's me seeing you and forgetting how to be a person. It's me lying awake at 3 AM thinking about your laugh. It's — fuck, I don't know. I'm not good at this."

"Doin' fine so far," you tell him softly.

"I'm old. You just graduated college a few years ago. Your dad's my best friend. I got no business —"

"Bucky." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, meet your eyes, the intensity in them hopefully squashing any lingering doubts. His eyes do that thing where they won't hold yours for more than two seconds, darting away like he's afraid of what you'll see if he stays. "I'm twenty five. I have a job, an apartment, a 401k that I don't understand but I have one. I'm not some kid you're taking advantage of."

"I know that. I do. But —"

"But what?"

"But I've been to war. I've killed people. I got nightmares that wake me up screaming and a metal arm because I got fucked up and — You should want someone normal. Someone who doesn't have to check the exits in every room and who doesn't flinch at loud noises."

You think about all the times you've watched him scan a room, cataloging threats that aren't there. How he never sits with his back to a door. How he jumped that time your neighbor dropped a toolbox in the hallway. "Should I? Is that what I should want?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't." You lean in and kiss him before he can argue, or state reasons why this shouldn't happen. You continueto speak against his mouth, "I want you. Nightmares, metal arm, all of it. I want you at 3 AM when you can't sleep. I want you checking exits. I want all the parts you think are too broken to love."

A frustrated sound leaves him, sounds like a laugh but could easily be anything else. "You're gonna regret this."

"Let me worry about that."

"When your dad finds out —"

"When my dad finds out, we'll deal with it. Together." You settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its jumping out of his ribs. "Besides, he likes you better than me anyway. I'm pretty sure if it came down to it, he'd keep you and disown me."

That actually makes him laugh. "That's not true."

"It absolutely is. You fixed his transmission. I can't even check my own oil."

"I'll teach you."

"See? This is why he likes you better." You press a kiss to his sternum. "Useful."

"That's me. Useful." You can hear the smile in his voice now, the tension finally bleeding out of him.

"Among other things." Your hand drifts lower, fingers trailing down his stomach.

He catches your wrist, halting its path. "Again? Already?"

"What? You get to be obsessed with my stomach but I can't appreciate yours?"

"I don't —" He stops when you look up at him. Your expression must give away exactly what you're thinking, Bucky's jaw tightens, Adam's apple bobbing on a hard swallow. "Okay, yeah. I'm obsessed with your stomach. Happy?"

"Very." You kiss his jaw. It's hard to keep your hands to yourself when he's laid out beside you like a Greek statue taunting you. "For the record, I'm obsessed with your arms. Both of them. And your shoulders. And this thing you do where you bite your lip when you're concentrating."

"I don't do that."

"You absolutely do. You did it like three times while you were trying to get my bra off."

"I was nervous," he admits. There's a pink tinge creeping up his neck, faint but visible. "Kept thinking you'd realize this was a mistake and change your mind."

"Not a mistake." You tilt your head up to look at him properly. "Best decision I ever made, actually. Well, second best. First best was wearing that black crop top to the barbecue."

He groans. "Don't remind me. I had to hide in the garage for twenty minutes."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" He shifts, and you feel the evidence of why pressing against your hip. "You bent over to grab a beer and I thought I was gonna die right there."

"Poor baby. Must've been so hard for you." You're not even a little bit sorry. 

"Not funny."

"It's hilarious." You kiss him again, deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours lazily, like you have all the time in the world. When you pull back, his eyes are dark again. "Also, we should probably move to the bedroom. This couch isn't big enough for both of us."

"Can you walk?"

Good question. Your legs feel like overcooked pasta, your body wrung out and remade into someone new. "I — Maybe?"

Bucky sits up, taking you with him, and before you can protest he's scooping you up. "I got you."

"I can walk," you insist, even as you're wrapping your arms around his neck. The automatic way your body curls into him feels like muscle memory you haven't earned yet.

"Sure you can." He's heading down the hallway. "But let me do this."

"Such a hardship, carrying me around naked."

"The worst." He's grinning, and when he lays you down on your bed, carefully, like you're precious cargo. He stands there for a second, just looking at you sprawled across your sheets. You should feel exposed — you are exposed, completely bare under his gaze — but the way he's looking at you kills the urge to cover up.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing. Just —" He shakes his head. "Can't believe this is real."

"Want me to pinch you?"

"Smart ass." He crawls onto the bed, settling beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. You curl into him automatically, throwing one leg over his hip, and he makes this satisfied sound in his throat. Out of content, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell the difference.

"Gonna stay?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

"Yeah." His arm tightens around you. "If that's okay."

"More than okay." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like yours. "Bucky?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you too. Just so you know."

For three full seconds, he doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe if you're being honest, his ribs don't move. You're about to take it back, pretend you were joking, anything to break the awful stillness — "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Have for a while now. Since before the barbecue, even. Maybe since I was nineteen and saw you sitting at my dad's table looking all broody and tragic."

"I wasn't broody."

"You were absolutely broody. You still are. It's annoyingly attractive."

He huffs a laugh against your hair, the warmth spreading to your neck, raising goosebumps. "Attractive, huh?"

You bite his shoulder lightly, teeth scraping enough skin to make him hiss slightly. "Everything about you is attractive."

"Everything else like what?"

"You don't cut your hair unless it bothers you, until it falls over your face and blocks your vision, like now. You like it when I ask you things, when I need help… I think it makes you feel wanted, you don't know that I always want you." Your mind goes to your windowsill. "You always fill the bird feeder, even if I forget." 

"You noticed all that?"

"I've been studying you for six years, Barnes. I could talk about you in my sleep."

"That's — That's a little creepy, actually."

"Says the man who just spent ten minutes trying to plug me up with his cum."

A soft laugh vibrates from him as his fingers trace idle patterns on your hip. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

There are a hundred things you could say. Practical things about what happens now, how this changes everything, whether he'll still come over for coffee on Saturday mornings with your dad or if this makes it weird. But your eyes are heavy, body sated and wrung out, not enough energy to keep the conversation going, even if you so badly want to.

"Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't leave before I wake up."

"Not going anywhere. Not anymore, sweet girl." A soft lingering kiss to your forehead is all you remember, the ghost of its touch following you to dreamland. 

MY MASTERLIST!

But then the air shifted.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

The low timbre wrapped in affection sounded stronger than the bass of the music.

You didn’t turn your head when Bucky Barnes took a seat, his thigh pressed against yours. You felt his eyes on you anyway, watchful and warmer than how he looked at everyone else. Some days you forgot that he was a dangerous man with power, reach, and a reputation.

My fiancé.

“Hey, yourself,” you replied, hoping your voice didn’t betray the emotions swirling inside you.

“It’s time to come home,” he said.

Home.

“But I’m having such a good time,” you teased, finishing your drink in one gulp.

He snatched the glass from your hand and forced you to meet his gaze. Your breath caught. He was always handsome, but the trimmed beard was really doing it for you. And he was staring at you like he was a heartbeat away from spreading you out on the table and taking you right there.

He had waited long enough.

“It’s midnight,” he said, his breath brushing your lips. “Time’s up.”

You swallowed. One year. You asked for one year of freedom before you had to marry him, and he shockingly obliged. 

But you should’ve realized he’d know right where to find you tonight.

He never stopped watching you.

His expression softened. “Angel, come home with me.”

Your stomach flipped. “So it’s ‘angel’ now?”

“Well, I know you behaved during your year without me, so that’s pretty angelic,” he answered with a hint of possession. “But we can talk more about that at home.”

Talk. Plan the wedding. Become Mrs. Barnes.

Your fate was sealed.

This could be fun to expand on. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

His entire presence commanded obedience. Authority. 

Steve's star-spangled broad shoulders, squared when he stood with his hands on his belt ever the proper man, drew every eye in the room to him like a magnet. 

His voice never wavered when barking orders left and right, always a man with a plan. If strategy A failed, he was already halfway through strategy B, and had already thought of a third alternative. 

The entire weight of the world had always been on his shoulders, for the better part of 108 years. 

Steve is, however, much like a working dog. He's restless. He needs a job to do, and do well, even when his actual job stresses him the fuck out.

So when he's walking up the stairs of your condo in the Village, his throat tired from yelling over gunfire, his feet exhausted from running miles in combat boots, and his shoulders tense from holding back frustration during the debrief, the sound of your voice while you talk on the phone is a soothing balm for his soul. 

He unlocked the door and walked in, the dimly lit apartment making him feel like he could finally let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. 

You were curled up on one end of the couch, throw blanket lazily over your legs as a candle burned on the kitchen isle and some trashy reality TV on, while you talked with your best friend on the phone about the events unveiling in front of your eyes.

Your weekly debrief, you called it. Steve thought it was cute. 

"Okay, but here's the thing," you were saying into your phone, eyes glued to the television. "I don't actually think she's mad about the text messages."

Steve really didn't understand half the appeal of those shows. Every week he'd come over and find some new catastrophe unfolding. Someone was cheating on somebody, someone was throwing a drink, someone was crying in a confessional interview, someone was apparently there "for the wrong reasons."

And somehow you knew every single person's name, history, motivations, and interpersonal grievances.

Steve let the door latch with a soft "click" and he dropped his duffel by the counter and shrugged his shoes off.

You turned your head at the sound immediately, your face softening the instant your eyes locked with his. 

There was something about being looked at like that after a day spent getting shot at, yelled at, and blamed for things outside of his control.

Something about knowing there was one place in Manhattan where nobody expected Captain America.

He was just expected to be Steve, or Babe, or Honey, or Stevie, or—

"Hold on," you told your friend, reaching out to him with one hand, which he knew was code for "come here and kiss me".

He smiled with the side of his mouth and complied, walking over until he was behind you, making you tilt your head back to kiss him, a little murmured "I missed you." against his lips before you went back to your conversation. 

He finished walking around the couch, laying down on top of you as you made space of his waist and torso between your legs, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist as he nuzzled his face into your sternum.

Steve Rogers melted.

That was the only word possible for the exhale he let out as soon as your fingers tangled in his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as he let his entire weight just rest on you. 

"You okay, baby?" Your voice was low, not even a hair above a whisper, and he just hummed in agreement against the soft fabric of your tank top.

"Do you need to go? Baaabyyyy." You rolled your eyes at the phone. 

"Don't start."

"Oh, I'm absolutely starting. Did Captain America just come home and immediately turn into a golden retriever?"

Steve huffed a quiet laugh against your shirt. Your hand immediately moved to the back of his neck, nails grazing softly until you pushed your hand past the collar of his cotton shirt, scratching lightly at his back. 

If he was a cat, he'd be purring right at that moment.

"No, because listen," you told your friend, eyes narrowing at the screen. "The issue isn't that she lied." Steve watched you. "The issue is that she lied badly." Completely, utterly, disgustingly in love. "Those are different crimes."

Blue bird sky eyes that look up at you like you invented spring. Like your voice alone makes flowers bloom and birds sing. 

His chin rests comfortably on your stomach, one arm draped across your waist while your fingers absentmindedly travel back up to continue scratching at his scalp.

The way you laugh when someone says something stupid on the show makes him understand poetry. Because regular sentences in language aren't enough to explain what it feels like when somebody becomes your favorite thing in the entire world.

Steve had always been… tactile when he was tired. Like a working dog, he'd find something to occupy his mind until he was so tired, the inside of his skull was nothing but tv static.

Not clingy, exactly just drawn toward you in the same way a sunflower turns toward sunlight.

His fingers slipped beneath the edge of your thank top, resting against the warm skin of your side, fabric riding up and exposing your stomach to him as he pressed absentminded kisses against the skin there. 

Your eyes flickered to him, another kiss on the lower left side of your stomach, big calloused hands pushing your shirt a smidge up again. 

When he grazed the skin with his teeth and soothed it with his tongue, you realized what he was getting at. Some flavor of "I gotta go, love you, bye" and the call was disconnected. 

"Steve." No answer. His hands slowly came back down the length of your waist, "Steve." He was in his own little world, fingers hooking them hem of your sleep shorts and pulling them down.

You let him, because what woman in her right mind would prevent Steve from seeking comfort, specially if that comfort was eating your pussy until you saw double?

He threw the shorts somewhere in the room, nothing but a grunt here or a groan there coming out of his mouth in the meantime. 

You put your right foot on his chest softly, as to catch his attention, sparkling eyes looking up at you with a little "hmm?" to match. 

"Are you okay?"

He sighed happily. He knew you knew you didn't have to worry about him, he's a super solder, a hero, a goddamn Avenger, what could a mere civilian like you do?

But he still loved your worry. Loved… your love. 

Steve chuckled softly and kissed the inside of your ankle, something along the lines of "always okay when I'm with you" being printed against the skin of your leg as his kisses went higher and higher and higher.

He stopped quickly when he got to your core, place a wet kiss over your panties and pulling them down your legs in one swift motion. The plane of his chest resting against the couch as he settled your legs over his shoulders. 

His arms wrapped around you legs, hands resting on top of your thighs to keep you open for him. He nuzzled his face against you first, eyes closed as he licked a flat, wide strip up your cunt.

The soft gasp coming from your lips only spurred him on, your left hand reaching down to tangle in his blond locks again while your right hand rested on his forearm.

Steve looked like he was in a trance. Hypnotized by the taste of you. He hummed against you, satisfied you were giving him what he wanted. Letting him take what he wanted. 

His tongue was soft, warm, wet as it lapped against your folds. He'd tense the muscle closer to your clit and circle it with his tongue before sucking it between his plush lips, only to slow down and do it again. 

The day had scraped him raw in a hundred tiny ways, and now he was tucked into the safest place he knew.

You.

"Mmmm, that feels good…" You settled further into the couch, letting your legs fall open around his head as he lazily made out with your pussy. His right hand reached up to shove your shirt further up, massaging your breasts once they were exposed, rolling and tugging on the nipple.

His tongue zig-zagged between your folds, bottom to top, and he sucked your clit briefly, setting it free with a soft "pop" once he felt your thigh twitch. 

"Needed this," he kissed your inner thigh. "needed you." Steve leaned further down, tensing his tongue to tease your entrance, and then burying his face in your heat. 

"Oh! Oh, G— Steve, f—mmm…" you were already babbling. The feel of his hot tongue inside of you made your hips jerk, his nose nudging your clit in the process. 

The wet noises were loud enough he could hear them even though your thighs were squeezing around his head. And God, this is what he needed, plush skin and muscle tensing under him, suffocating him in all that was you. 

"Gonna co—hah!—come all over your pretty face." Steve moaned, he moaned into you, hips grinding onto the couch cushions as yours did so against his face, pushing himself to be impossibly close to you. 

He sucked your clit into his mouth again, his tongue flicking it while it was trapped between his lips. 

Your moans grew louder, sharper, until you soaked Steve's lips and chin in wet pleasure. He let you ride the wave of your first orgasm, aftershocks flowing through your body like electricity through water. 

He dragged his right hand down from your breast to rest above your pussy, keeping you where he wanted you, and used his thumb and index finger to spread you further.

"Baby, please…" It was a mix of oversensitive and hungry pleas, which Steve took as a green light to keep going. He flattened his tongue again, licking long paths bottom to top, dipping his tongue in your entrance, and then keeping the path up.

You supported yourself up mostly by your right elbow and your grip on Steve's hair, staring at the scene in front of you with your mouth hanging open, panting. 

His left hand travelled down and he covered his index and middle fingers in your slick, pulling away ever so slightly to pool spit in his mouth and let the hot saliva flow softly from his mouth onto your clit. 

His fingers drove into you slowly with a wet squelch echoing into the room, curling them towards him when he got your folds to touch his palm. "Was only gone a day, sweetheart." He pumped his fingers. "How come you're so tight still, mmm?"

He chuckled when you had no response but a needy whine, the scene was a sight, really. Captain America absolutely lost in the pleasure of seeing his girlfriend completely pliant, missing any bottoms, with her tank top bunched up above her breasts, while he had a soaked face and a raging hard on. 

Humming as he licked and teased your clit once again, this time pumping his fingers in and out, and again, again, again, until he slurped every single drop of your second orgasm, feeling you squeeze your cunt around his fingers while your thighs squeezed every thought that didn't revolve around you right out of his skull.

You pulled him up forcefully by the collar, crashing your lips together, moaning as you tasted yourself on him. Your tongue licked into his mouth like you alone could make him forget everything that happened during the mission, even without knowing details. 

Your hands grazed down his chest over his shirt, quickly finding the hem of his sweats, palming him through them. "Did you touch yourself while I was gone?" His voice was breathy against your lips, almost strained. 

You shook your head, biting your lip. "Not as good when it's not you."

Steve whined, like audibly whined at your praise as you pushed his pants down enough to free his cock. "Good girl."

It slapped against your stomach heavy, hard, and leaking, and Steve immediately reached down to rub the head up and down your slick.

"Put it in, baby, please." You sucked on his bottom lip. "Missed you so much."

Steve chuckled as he lined himself up with your entrance. "Me or him?" He didn't wait for an answer, in days like these he never did. He just pushed his entire cock in to the hilt, knocking the air out of your lungs. "Me. Or. Him?" He asked again. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, "You, baby, fuck—" you panted against his mouth, tiny puffs of air matching his every thrust. "Missed your voice, your scent, your laugh—" another harsher thrust knocked the thought out of your head. "Missed your cock too, ah!"

You felt every drag of him inside of you, the vein on the side that split into two, the bulbous head of him that notched so perfectly around the spongy spot inside of you, you'd think they made him in a lab. 

Well, they did. But you're pretty sure the SSR had no involvement in how perfect Steve Rogers' dick was. 

That was all him. 

He reached down to snake his arms under your knees, bringing your legs further up and out, until his pelvis was flush with your entire bottom. 

"That's a good girl." He sighed, pulling all the way out only to slam all the way back in again. "Always so good."

The more Steve fucked you, the less oxygen you felt you had in your lungs. Every muscle in your core was tightening by the second, everything becoming too loud, too hot, too heavy, too good.

"Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. You want that?" His lips dropped to your neck, sucking and licking on the skin there. You nodded. "But I need you to come on my cock, Princess. Can you do that for me?" 

You nodded even more enthusiastically. 

Steve licked his thumb and down to your clit it went, making your eyes cross and roll and the wave of pleasure crashed onto you again. He felt you clamp down on him, shudders licking up his spine as rope after rope of cum leaked out of him.

Steve thrusted both of you through the aftershocks, until he finally let his entire weight rest onto you as your nails once again grazed his back and neck. 

He lifted his head from where he was resting his forehead against your collarbone and gave you a peck on the lips, then another, then another, until it turned into a slow, deep kiss. 

He motioned to pull out and start to clean up, but you squeezed your legs around his waist. "Just stay with me a little longer here, Stevie." He looked at you like he always did when you asked that, when he knew you asked for it more for him than for you, but still gave in, staying with you until your breaths evened out while the TV played in the background. 

bro honestly idk what took over my body in this ovulation... I already humped my husband every single day this week. THE SHACKLES.