Loki Love

He tries to glare at you, but it just makes you giggle again. You lean down, kissing over his face and rolling your hips cruelty down. You know just how to keep him on the edge. He hits deep inside of you, right against your g-spot as you use him to get off. He looks up at you with glossy, star-struck eyes and parted lips, and you smile sweetly.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he groans.

“Don’t- Don’t be mean, doll-“

“Hmm.” You pout, dragging your hips in a slow, torturous circle. “But you like it when I’m mean.”

A broken whimper escapes Bucky’s lips, and you hum, picking up the pace just enough to make him pant.

“You want to cum for me, baby?” You whisper, and Bucky nods frantically.

“Please, please-“

You start to rock back and forth, shoving down on his chest and purposefully clenching your tight, sweet walls around his cock. Bucky cries out your name, his face slack and eyes unfocused as you pull him right to the edge.

“Still trying to hold it for me,” you whisper. “Good boy.”

He moans, staring at you hopelessly, and you take mercy. He’s too pretty like this, for you to say no.

“Let go, Bucky,” you whisper, and at your command—just as always—Bucky cums.

Beautiful sounds escape him, as he does. His whole body trembles with the force of it, his hips rutting up into your heat as thick ropes of cum paint your walls and dribble down your thighs. You don’t stop when he’s sensitive and moaning, using his orgasm to get yourself off. When it’s done, you roll over and guide Bucky’s face into your breasts, petting his hair with a lazy smile.

“Good?” You ask softly, always just to be sure.

He makes a garbled sound and holds you tighter. Good.

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

“Hi,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Welcome.”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just watched you from across the shop with those sharp blue eyes, as if you were the only thing in the room worth noticing. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. The sound of his boots against the wood floor was too loud, even over the rain.

You forced yourself to smile, tucking your hands against your apron. “Looking for anything in particular?”

His gaze flicked to the flowers around him—the rows of tulips, daisies, carnations—but came back to you almost instantly. “No.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “Just looking.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. You nodded quickly, reaching for the small bouquet you’d put together that morning—bright daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, wrapped in soft brown paper. You always kept a few by the counter, little gestures for the shy customers. “Here,” you offered, holding it out. “On the house. For the rain.”

He stared at the bouquet like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then at you. The silence stretched until your hand began to tremble, and you almost pulled it back—when he finally reached out. A black leather glove brushed your fingers as he took the flowers from you, and you had to bite down on a startled gasp. “Thank you,” he said, the words careful, deliberate. He pulled a roll of bills from his coat pocket and slid one across the counter. A hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar bouquet.

“Oh, no—you don’t have to—”

His gaze cut into yours again, silencing you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just… final. “Take it.”

Your throat tightened, and you nodded, tucking the bill away quickly. “Alright. Thank you.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, flowers in hand, watching you like he was committing every detail to memory—the tilt of your head, the nervous twitch of your fingers, the way you couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Finally, he gave a small nod, turned, and left. The bell chimed again, the rain swallowing him whole. You stood frozen for a long time, the shop suddenly too quiet, the hundred-dollar bill burning in your apron pocket. You thought it was a one-time thing. Just a stranger passing through on a rainy afternoon.

---

The bell chimed again the next morning, bright against the quiet rustle of petals you were arranging on the counter. You looked up—and nearly dropped the stems in your hands.

It was him.

The man from yesterday. The one who’d filled the shop with his thunderstorm presence, left with daisies and a hundred-dollar bill. He stepped inside like he owned the space, though he said nothing at first. His suit was different today—charcoal instead of black—but the gloves were the same. His eyes swept the shop in that same quick, assessing way before settling on you. You found yourself smiling automatically, though your voice wobbled. “Hello again.”

He nodded once, moving closer. “Morning.”

You fiddled with the ribbon in your hands. “Back for more flowers?”

His mouth twitched, just barely, like the question amused him. “Something like that.”

The air felt charged. You cleared your throat and reached for a bouquet of tulips. “These are fresh today. Spring colors. They’re lovely.”

He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed on you, steady and unreadable. “I’ll take them,” he said.

You wrapped them quickly, fingers fumbling with the paper under the weight of his stare. He laid another bill on the counter—another hundred—for a bouquet worth maybe fifteen.

Your cheeks burned. “Sir, this is too much—”

“Keep it.” His voice left no room for argument.

You tucked the bill away, heartbeat quickening, and slid the bouquet toward him. “Alright. Thank you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, flowers in hand, gaze lingering on you. It was different from yesterday—less curious, more deliberate. As if he’d come here with a purpose, and the tulips were only an excuse. Finally, he asked, “what’s your favorite?”

You blinked. “Favorite?”

“Flower.”

“Oh. Um…” You glanced around the shop, suddenly flustered. “Gardenias, I think. They’re… simple, but beautiful.”

He nodded once, filed it away. You could see it in the set of his jaw. Then he turned and left, the bell chiming in his wake. You stared after him, unsettled but oddly warm. The next morning, there was a box of white gardenias sitting on the shop counter when you arrived, no note. But you already knew who had left them.

---

The gardenias weren’t the end. They were the beginning. The next time he came in, he didn’t go straight for the counter. He lingered. Walked slow between the rows of flowers, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting something delicate.

You pretended to be busy, fussing with the stems in a vase, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. He didn’t look like anyone else who came through here—too sharp, too dangerous, too… magnetic. He stopped at the counter at last, resting one gloved hand on the polished wood. “You like gardenias.”

You startled a little. “I do.”

“They suit you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “They’re… simple.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he didn’t agree with the word. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned in just a little, his presence heavy and steady. “What else do you like?”

You blinked. “What else?”

“Food. Music. Where you go when you’re not here.”

Your stomach flipped. The questions weren’t casual, not the way he asked them. His voice was too low, too intent, as though he planned on remembering every answer. You swallowed. “Um… I like reading. I usually just go home after work. I’m… not very exciting.”

Something flickered in his eyes then—something sharp, almost dangerous. “Good.”

You frowned softly. “Good?”

“Means you’re not wasting your time on people who don’t deserve it.” He pushed a bouquet of pale roses toward you. “These. Wrap them.” You obeyed, fingers fumbling with the paper, conscious of his eyes on you the entire time. He paid, again far too much, and lingered a second longer before he finally said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And he did. The days bled into weeks. He became part of your routine, though you never said it out loud. You’d unlock the shop in the morning, set out the displays, and brace yourself for the moment that bell chimed and he walked in.

Sometimes he bought flowers. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just stood there, leaning against the counter, asking you quiet questions about your day. And slowly, the questions became instructions.

“Don’t walk home alone tonight.” “Eat more than just a muffin for lunch.” “Don’t talk to the men who loiter outside.”

You told yourself he was just being kind. Just looking out for you. But when you spotted his black car parked across the street one night, headlights off, and realized he was watching—waiting until you got safely into your apartment—your chest tightened with something you didn’t want to name. The scariest part wasn’t that he was watching. It was how safe you felt knowing he was there.

---

The office smelled like you. Not you exactly—he wasn’t that lucky—but the flowers you touched every day, the ones you told him you loved. Gardenias, roses, tulips, bundles of wild lavender tied up in neat twine. They crowded the corners of his office, spilling over in vases and pitchers, climbing along windowsills that used to be bare.

It was ridiculous. He knew it. The head of the Barnes Syndicate didn’t decorate with flowers. His men were already whispering, smirking behind their hands when they came in for orders and found the place looking more like a garden than a war room.

But he didn’t care. Every stem reminded him of your hands. The way you handled them so gently, trimming, arranging, never rushing. He’d caught himself staring more than once, smiling faintly as if the flowers were your private secret. He wanted to burn the image into his skull.

“Boss?” Bucky glanced up from the papers on his desk. Natasha stood in the doorway, sunglasses hooked on her shirt, one brow raised. Her eyes flicked over the room—the gardenias on the shelf, the tulips by the window, the roses near his chair. “You planning on opening your own shop?” she asked dryly.

“Shut up.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his metal hand.

Natasha smirked, stepping inside and dropping a file on his desk. “You’re getting soft. All this for a girl who sells daisies.”

His jaw tightened. “Careful, Romanoff.”

“I’m not saying it’s bad,” she countered, folding her arms. “I’m saying you’re obvious. Half the crew knows you’ve got a flower girl now.”

He stilled. The words hit something sharp in his chest. “She’s not—” He stopped. His voice dropped low, darker. “She’s mine.”

Natasha tilted her head. “Does she know that?”

His eyes narrowed, blue hard as ice. “She will.” The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside.

Bucky reached over, plucked one of the gardenias from the vase, and turned it slowly in his fingers. He remembered the way your face lit up when you told him they were your favorite. That soft smile. The little stammer in your voice when he leaned too close.

The world was chaos, betrayal, blood. He’d spent his whole life building walls of steel and shadow. But you—your shop, your quiet, your kindness—were untouched by it. And he wasn’t about to let anyone, anything, change that.

“Make sure the shop’s covered,” he said finally, voice flat with command. “No one bothers her. Not a single soul.”

Natasha studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Understood.”

When she left, Bucky leaned back in his chair, the flower still turning in his hand. He should’ve felt stupid, surrounded by petals and stems. But all he felt was calmer, steadier, knowing some piece of you was in his world now. He wanted more. He’d take more.

---

The bell chimed, right on time. You were bent over the counter trimming stems when his shadow crossed the shop. You didn’t even need to look up anymore—you knew the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to shift when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, glancing up with a small smile.

His eyes warmed just enough for only you to notice. “Morning, doll.” The nickname slipped out as if it had been waiting on his tongue. You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t correct him. That alone sent something hot curling in his chest.

He moved toward the display of carnations but didn’t so much as glance at them. He was looking at you—always you. The flowers were a thin excuse by now, and you both knew it. “What’d you eat for breakfast?” he asked suddenly, voice low, casual only on the surface.

You hesitated, trimming another stem. “Just… coffee.”

He frowned, a line cutting between his brows. “That’s not breakfast.”

“It’s fine—”

“No.” His voice had that edge again, quiet steel that brooked no argument. He leaned on the counter, closer than before. “You need more than that.”

You bit your lip, looking down at the stems. “I wasn’t really hungry.”

His jaw flexed. He straightened, pulling out his phone. “What do you like? Pastries? Eggs?”

“Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“I asked what you like.” His tone softened, but it was no less insistent.

You murmured something about croissants before you could stop yourself, and he was already typing. Ten minutes later, a man you’d never seen before slipped inside, dropped off a white bag with a bakery logo, and left without a word. Bucky nudged it toward you. “Eat.”

You blinked. “You… you just had someone bring this—?”

“Of course I did.” His eyes softened again, watching you like you might vanish if he looked away. “You think I’m gonna let you starve?”

Your cheeks burned. You opened the bag and pulled out a still-warm croissant. His gaze followed every movement as you took a shy bite. “Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, but you heard it, and the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Later, in his office, Natasha raised an unimpressed brow when another delivery came in—this time boxes of delicate pastries stacked beside the flowers. “You feeding her now too?” she asked, smirking.

Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork. “She doesn’t eat right.”

“You checked?”

“I asked.” His pen stilled. He glanced at the gardenias on the windowsill, the new croissant bag on his desk. His voice dropped, quiet, certain. “She’s mine to take care of.”

Natasha leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. “You sure it’s not the other way around?”

But Bucky didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone again, thumb hovering over your number he hadn’t even asked for—but had anyway.

---

The bell had barely gone silent when you heard it: the click of heavy footsteps against the wet sidewalk. You turned the shop’s sign to closed and reached for your keys, glancing out through the window. He was leaning against a lamppost across the street, hands in his coat pockets, suit jacket darkened slightly at the shoulders from the drizzle. Your breath caught. Bucky didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. He just waited. The way a mountain waits—immovable, unbothered by the storm.

You stepped outside hesitantly, locking the door behind you. “Are you… waiting for someone?”

“For you,” he said simply, pushing off the lamppost.

Your fingers tightened around your keys. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“Doll,” he interrupted, falling into step beside you before you could finish. “It’s dark. You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of his presence swallowed the words. He wasn’t touching you, but somehow he filled the space around you completely. The streets were quiet, rain slicking the pavement. You tried to ignore the way his stride matched yours, the way his eyes scanned every shadowed alley and passing car like they were threats only he could see. “Do you do this often?” you asked softly.

“Do what?”

“Walk women home.”

His jaw tightened. “No. Just you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. At your building, you fumbled with the keys, aware of his eyes on the back of your neck. When you finally got the door open, you turned to him. “Thank you. But really… you don’t need to go out of your way.”

He leaned one hand against the doorframe, caging you in without touching. His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “This is my way,” he said quietly. “You’re not out here without me again. Understand?” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even harsh. But there was no mistaking them for anything but a command. You swallowed hard, nodding before you could think better of it. His eyes softened then, the steel melting to something warmer. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your temple, a ghost of a kiss. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he stepped back into the rain, leaving you breathless in the doorway, your heart pounding too hard to ignore.

It became a ritual. You didn’t even question it anymore—when the bell above your shop chimed closed for the night, he would be there. Always. A dark figure leaning against the lamppost, waiting to fall into step beside you. He didn’t ask if you wanted the company, and you didn’t ask why he bothered. The silence between you was enough.

That night, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glowing under the yellow streetlights. You walked side by side, the only sound the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.

You tried not to look at him too often, but it was impossible not to notice the way his hand would occasionally flex at his side—as if itching to touch you but holding back.

As you passed a small boutique on the corner, something in the window caught your eye. You slowed without meaning to, gaze snagged by the display: a delicate glass lamp, its shade painted with tiny pressed flowers. Soft light glowed inside, warm and golden, spilling petals and stems across the glass like a garden frozen in time.

It was beautiful. For half a second, you let yourself imagine it on your nightstand. The way the light would spill across your room, soft and comforting. The way you could fall asleep beside it, safe. But the thought made your chest ache. You dropped your gaze quickly and kept walking, quickening your pace until you matched him again. He said nothing, just glanced once at the boutique window before his eyes slid back to you.

At your building, he stopped as always, waited until you were safely inside. You whispered a soft “goodnight,” and he lingered a moment longer before vanishing back into the shadows.

You thought nothing more of it. The next morning, when you opened your shop, the lamp was waiting on the counter. The exact same one. You froze in the doorway, keys clutched in your hand. There was no note, no explanation. Just the lamp, plugged in and glowing faintly in the early light, casting warm petals across the shop walls.

Your breath caught, throat tight. The bell chimed, and he walked in. Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t done anything at all. Your eyes snapped to him. “Bucky… did you—”

He set a paper bag on the counter. You caught the smell before you even peeked inside—croissants, still warm. He leaned one hand on the wood, watching your face. “You liked it,” he said simply. Not a question. A fact.

Your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” His eyes softened, but there was steel in them too—an unwavering certainty that made your heart stutter. “You want something, doll, you get it. That’s how this works.”

You swallowed hard, glancing at the lamp again. Its soft light seemed to fill the whole shop with a kind of warmth you didn’t know how to accept. “I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice lowered, a command wrapped in velvet. He reached across the counter, brushing his fingers against yours just long enough to make your pulse trip. “Don’t hide from me. If you want something, I’ll know.”

He left you standing there, the lamp glowing at your side, the croissants still warm in the bag, your heart pounding too loud for the quiet shop. And you realized something terrifying and undeniable, he was watching. Always watching.

---

The lamp glowed soft and golden on the counter, petals painted across its glass shade, when you finally found the courage to speak. He was there again, leaning his weight into the wood as if the whole shop belonged to him. His gloves were off this time, thick hands resting easily against the surface, blue eyes pinned to you in that steady, unblinking way that always left you a little breathless.

But today, the warmth in your chest twisted into something sharper. “You can’t keep doing this.”

His head tilted just slightly. “Doing what, doll?”

“This.” You gestured to the lamp, to the bag of pastries he’d brought without asking. “Showing up every day. Buying things I didn’t ask for. Acting like…” Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. “Like you own me.” Silence dropped between you, heavy and sudden.

No one ever told him no. No one ever raised their voice to him, not his men, not the people who feared his name. He could see your fingers trembling where they gripped the counter, but you still held his stare. The corner of his mouth twitched—something between amusement and disbelief. “Own you?”

“Yes.” Your throat felt tight, but you pushed on. “You don’t ask me out. You don’t… talk to me like a normal person would. You just decide things. You decide to walk me home. You decide I don’t eat enough. You decide I want a lamp. And I—” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t agree to any of it.”

For the first time since he’d stepped into your life, he looked caught off guard. Just for a flicker of a second, his eyes widened, like the ground beneath him had shifted. Then the surprise hardened into something else. His voice dropped, low and even. “You think I don’t know how to ask? You think I don’t know how to take a girl to dinner, buy her flowers, wait for her to say yes?”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, leaning closer, his gaze like ice and fire all at once. “I don’t do that with you because I don’t want to give you the option to say no. I don’t want you to walk away. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”

Your breath hitched. He exhaled slowly, raking a hand back through his hair. For a moment, he looked almost… raw. “You don’t get it. You’re already mine. Always were, the second you looked at me with those soft eyes and handed me daisies like I wasn’t a monster.” His gloved hand brushed the lamp, a subtle reminder. “You think I do all this because I don’t know how to court you? I do it because I can’t stand the thought of you needing something and not having it. Because I want to see you safe. Fed. Smiling.” His voice broke on that last word, just barely.

Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it. You should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But under the steel in his voice was something else—something aching and desperate. Still, you held your ground, even if your voice shook. “Then ask me. Like a person. Not like… this.”

The room went still again. He studied you for a long, tense beat, and you could see the war in his eyes—control versus obsession, command versus care. Finally, his lips curved into something softer, almost rueful. He leaned in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “Fine, doll. I’ll ask.” His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something new in it. “Dinner. Tonight. With me.”

The way he said it still didn’t sound like a question, but for the first time, you knew he was trying. And that unsettled you more than anything else.

---

Dinner with Bucky wasn’t what you expected. He came to the shop just before closing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair combed back, his usual gloves on. He didn’t wait for you to lock up—he did it himself, sliding the key from your fingers with a quiet, “I’ll take care of it.”

The car waiting outside wasn’t the same sleek black one you’d seen lurking near your building before. This one was even darker, windows tinted, the kind of vehicle that made people cross the street when it pulled up. He opened the door for you, and his hand lingered on your lower back as you climbed inside.

The restaurant was one of those places you’d only seen in magazines—low lights, white tablecloths, the quiet murmur of money in every corner. The maître d’ didn’t even ask for a name; he bowed and led you straight to a private table at the back.

You shifted uncomfortably as you sat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. You hadn’t had time to change, still in the simple sundress you wore to work. Compared to the glittering couples around you, you felt out of place. But Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes on you like there was no one else in the room. “You look perfect.”

Your cheeks warmed. “You didn’t even let me change.”

His mouth curved in that faint, dangerous smile. “Didn’t want to give you the chance to run.”

You frowned, half-playful, half-serious. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.” He poured you a glass of wine himself, ignoring the hovering waiter. “If I let you walk away, you’d start thinking too much. You’d talk yourself out of me. And I can’t have that.”

You looked at him, really looked. The way his metal fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his glass. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you, hungry and unblinking. “Bucky…” you whispered. “You don’t even know me.”

His jaw tightened. “I know enough.”

“That’s not the same.”

He leaned forward then, voice dropping. “I know you hate crowds but love little kids buying flowers for their moms. I know you hum to yourself when you sweep up the petals at night. I know you wear that same sundress every Wednesday because it makes you feel put-together.”

You blinked, startled. “You—”

“I pay attention.” His gaze softened, but the edge in his voice stayed. “More than anyone else ever has. Tell me I’m wrong.” You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your pulse raced under your skin. He reached across the table, taking your hand gently but firmly in his, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I might not have asked the right way before. But I’m asking now. Let me have this. Let me have you.”

Your breath caught once again. The waiter appeared with menus, but Bucky didn’t even look at his. His eyes stayed on you, unwavering, as if the answer was the only thing that mattered. “Order something,” he said, tone clipped, smooth, the way he probably gave orders to his men.

You blinked, lowering your gaze to the menu. “You could say please, you know.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “I just did.”

“No, you told me,” you said quietly, the edge of a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Telling isn’t asking.” That made him still. His head tilted, studying you as if you’d just spoken in another language. No one corrected him. No one pushed back. Certainly no one teased him. You turned a page in the menu, forcing your shoulders to stay loose, though your pulse hammered. “If you want me to do something, maybe try asking. Like a normal person.”

For a long beat, his eyes stayed locked on you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. You thought you’d pushed too far—until the corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Normal, huh?” His voice dropped low, velvet-dark. He leaned across the table just slightly, one hand resting near yours. “Alright, doll. What would please you tonight? Salmon? Steak? Or do you want me to ask sweeter?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it is.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles, light but deliberate. “You want me to say the words. ‘Please, sweetheart, pick something so I can watch you enjoy it.’ That what you want?”

You swallowed hard, caught between flustered and indignant. “It wouldn’t kill you to try it.”

For a long moment, he just watched you, silent, eyes burning into yours. Then, softly, deliberately, “please, doll. Order something. For me.”

Your lips parted in surprise. The weight of the words, the fact that he’d said them—not barked, not commanded—hit you harder than it should have. You ducked your head quickly, hiding your flush in the menu. “Okay,” you murmured, finally pointing to something on the page.

His grin widened, wolfish, triumphant. He sat back in his chair, content now, as if coaxing that small concession from you meant more than anything else on the table. But you caught the way his eyes lingered, sharp and possessive, even when his voice had softened. Like no matter how politely he phrased it, he still thought the end result was the same: you, bending to him. And part of you wondered if you minded as much as you should.

The dinner stretched on in a haze of soft light and low voices. The waiter came and went, but Bucky barely acknowledged him—every ounce of his attention stayed fixed on you. He did try, though. You could see it in the way he caught himself before giving another clipped order, the way he reshaped his words into something that almost sounded like a request. “Try the wine, doll,” he started to say, then stopped himself. His eyes softened, a little sheepish for once. “Would you… please try the wine?”

You bit your lip to hide a smile, lifting the glass to your lips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He chuckled low in his chest, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”

But he kept doing it. Through dinner, through dessert, through the awkward-lovely rhythm of you teasing and him adjusting. He was clumsy at it, but he tried—for you. When the plates were cleared and the check was slipped onto the table, and ignored by him, you expected him to take you straight home. Instead, he offered his hand as you slid from your chair, steady and warm at the small of your back as he guided you out into the cool night. The city hummed around you—cars hissing down wet streets, neon signs buzzing faintly in the dark. You walked together in silence for a while, his stride matching yours, his hand never quite leaving your back.

Finally, you glanced up at him. “You really don’t ask for things, do you?”

He looked down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “I do now.”

“You tell me what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, when I should go home—”

“Because you don’t look after yourself the way you should,” he cut in, voice steady, but softer than usual.

“That’s not the same as asking,” you insisted, your tone gentle but firm. “You keep saying I’m yours. But you never asked me if I wanted to be.”

That stopped him cold. His steps slowed, then stilled entirely. He turned to face you fully, the glow of a nearby streetlamp carving hard shadows across his jaw. No one ever pushed him like this. Not his men. Not his enemies. And yet here you were, standing there in your simple dress, looking at him with those soft eyes that had undone him from the start—and daring to tell him no.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw worked, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His voice was low, rough-edged, but stripped of command. “Do you?”

You blinked. “Do I what?”

“Want to be mine.”

The words were plain. Honest. Asked, not ordered. Your heart lurched, caught between fear and something warmer, heavier. You didn’t answer right away, and you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened as if bracing for rejection. But you didn’t pull away. You held on. “I don’t know yet,” you admitted softly. “But if you keep asking instead of telling… maybe I’ll figure it out.”

The silence between you stretched, charged and alive. Then, for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky let out a breath that wasn’t weighted with control or calculation. He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles once, reverent. “Then I’ll ask,” he murmured. “As many times as it takes.” And when he walked you home that night, he didn’t touch your back, didn’t cage you in with his presence. He just walked beside you, his hand holding yours, as though that was enough.

The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual. His hand stayed in yours, heavy, grounding, but he didn’t say anything more after that promise. The city’s neon glow flickered across the wet pavement, painting the silence in color. At your building, you stopped at the door, fingers brushing the keys in your pocket. He didn’t reach for them this time, didn’t lean against the frame and cage you in. He just stood there, watching you. You hesitated, then looked up at him. “Are you… coming in?”

His jaw worked once. You saw the war in his eyes—possession urging him to say yes, control telling him to wait. For the first time, he looked almost… uncertain. “I want to,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “But I’ll ask. Do you want me to?”

Your chest tightened. The way he said it—like the words were foreign, dragged out of him against instinct—made something inside you ache. You shook your head gently. “Not tonight.”

For a flicker of a second, you thought he’d argue. That steel-blue stare locked on yours, intense enough to burn. But then he nodded once, sharp and deliberate, like it cost him something. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”

You slipped inside, heart pounding, and leaned against the door after you closed it. His shadow lingered on the other side, unmoving, until you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.

The next morning, the bell chimed right on time. You looked up from the counter and there he was again—sharp suit, gloves, eyes only for you. But there was something different about him. The usual possessive certainty was still there, but now it was tempered, measured. He set a small bundle on the counter—gardenias again, perfectly fresh. But this time, he didn’t say take them. Instead, he watched you closely, voice low. “Do you want them?”

Your lips parted. You blinked, then smiled softly, shy but certain. “Yes.”

His shoulders eased, just barely. He nodded once, satisfied, though the glint in his eyes still promised he’d never stop wanting to give you more than you asked for. And as you placed the gardenias in a vase by the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He was still the storm hovering over your quiet life—but now he was learning how to ask before he struck.

---

The bell chimed when you left the shop that Sunday morning, keys tucked into your pocket and your bag over your shoulder. The sun was out for once, the kind of warm golden light that made the city feel softer, less sharp around the edges. You’d planned on wandering down to the farmer’s market, picking up fresh bread and maybe some fruit for the week.

You weren’t surprised when you felt him before you saw him. Bucky fell into step beside you like he always did, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street. He didn’t say he’d been waiting, but he didn’t have to. “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low and even.

“The farmer’s market,” you said. “Do you… want to come?”

It slipped out before you could stop it. You weren’t sure why you offered—maybe because it felt strange to keep pretending you didn’t see him watching you. Maybe because part of you wanted to see what he was like outside your shop, outside dim restaurants and shadowed sidewalks. His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

The market was buzzing with people—kids tugging at their parents’ hands, couples wandering between stalls, vendors calling out prices. The air smelled of warm bread and herbs, the kind of scent that made you feel like the city wasn’t so heavy after all. Bucky stuck close, but not in the looming, possessive way he usually did. Today he just walked beside you, his broad frame making space for you in the crowd. He looked… normal. Or as normal as a man like him could look.

You stopped at a bakery stall, eyeing the fresh loaves stacked high. “These are always gone by the afternoon,” you explained, pulling a bill from your bag. Before you could hand it over, Bucky passed cash to the vendor instead, his gloved hand steady.

“Bucky—”

“Don’t argue,” he said softly, almost smiling. “Consider it me asking.”

You rolled your eyes but accepted the bread, and his smile deepened like he’d won something. At the flower stall—of course there was a flower stall—you noticed his gaze linger on you as you inspected the bouquets. For once, you didn’t feel self-conscious. You just let yourself enjoy it. Then you spotted a row of little jars at another table a few stalls away—local honey, the labels hand-painted with tiny bees. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, tugging him along. “Come on, look at these—”

You let go as soon as you reached the stall, too focused on the honey jars to notice the way he froze for half a second when your hand touched him. His gaze dropped to where your fingers had been, his jaw tightening. He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. But the weight of that touch lingered in his chest, hot and heavy, long after you’d pulled away. You picked out a jar, holding it up with a little smile. “Isn’t this cute?”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes weren’t on the honey. They were still on you, watching the way your face lit up in the sunlight, the way you smiled without thinking. And for once, he didn’t feel like the man everyone feared. He just felt like a man walking through a market with a girl who made him want things he’d forgotten he could have.

The market felt different with him beside you. Normally, you drifted through the stalls without much notice—just another face in the crowd—but with Bucky there, people stepped out of the way. Vendors straightened. Conversations dipped quiet for a moment before picking up again. You pretended not to notice, but you did. And so did he. His hand brushed the small of your back once or twice, subtle but guiding, as though keeping you in his orbit. At a food stall, the scent of frying dough pulled you in. You lingered over the handwritten sign—fresh fritters dusted in sugar—and before you could even reach for your bag, Bucky was already paying. “You don’t have to keep buying everything,” you said, exasperated but a little amused.

He handed you the warm paper bag, eyes steady. “I know. I want to.”

You bit into a fritter, the crunch giving way to soft, sweet warmth. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. Bucky’s eyes softened. He didn’t take one for himself—he just watched you, like the sight of your smile was enough. You found a bench near the edge of the market, shaded by a tree. Sitting side by side, you let the crowd blur into background noise. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you glanced at him, curious. “So… what do you do?”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been… spending time together. You know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”

His jaw tightened, as if weighing how much to say. Finally, he leaned back against the bench, gaze fixed on the crowd instead of you. “I run things. Businesses. Keep people in line.”

“That’s… vague,” you said carefully.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Vague’s safer.”

You studied him for a moment, the sharp set of his shoulders, the way he scanned the people moving through the market like he was cataloging threats. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… something. Something real.”

His eyes flicked back to you then, and for a beat, the weight of his stare pinned you in place. “Something real?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a long time, then finally said, “I don’t sleep much. When I do, I keep the lights on. Always have.”

You blinked, surprised at the intimacy of the admission. He hadn’t given you facts about his work, but he’d given you something raw instead. Something closer to the truth. You nodded softly. “That’s… real.”

His shoulders eased, just slightly. The silence stretched again, but it felt different this time—warmer, less guarded. You shifted, brushing sugar from your fingers, and without thinking, offered him the last fritter from the bag. He didn’t take it right away. He just looked at you, eyes flicking down to your hand, then back to your face. Finally, he reached for it, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Thank you.” The words were simple, but they carried weight.

As you sat there together, sharing sugared dough in the sunlight, you realized this felt almost like a normal second date. Almost. And though you didn’t notice it, he did—the way your shoulders leaned just slightly toward him, the way your knee brushed his. To anyone else, it was nothing. But to Bucky, it was everything.

The walk back from the market felt easier than you expected. Maybe it was the sunlight softening the edges of the city, maybe it was the paper bag of warm bread under your arm, or maybe it was simply that Bucky wasn’t looming as much as usual.

He carried most of the weight without asking—jars of honey, bundles of herbs, a carton of fresh eggs balanced in one hand. He hadn’t made a show of it; the moment you’d started to juggle too many things, he’d quietly relieved you of them. “You don’t have to carry everything,” you said, hugging the bread close to your chest.

“I want to,” he answered simply. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, “besides, you’re terrible at hiding how heavy it is.”

You ducked your head, a little embarrassed, but the teasing softened the moment instead of sharpening it. The streets thinned as you left the crowded stalls behind. For once, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop to admire the painted mural on a corner building, the stray cat curled in a sunbeam on the stoop. His gaze followed everything you touched with your eyes, memorizing it silently. “You seem… different today,” you said after a while, glancing at him.

“How so?”

“Less…” You searched for the word. “Commanding. More like…” You gestured at the bags in his hands. “This. Normal.”

He was quiet for a beat, then let out a low breath. “Maybe I just wanted to see what it feels like. Doing this with you.”

You blinked. “Feels like what?”

“Like I’m not who I am,” he said, eyes straight ahead. “Like I could just… be a man walking home from the market with his girl.”

Your steps faltered. He noticed immediately, his head turning, sharp blue eyes locking onto you. But he didn’t backtrack. He let the words hang there, bare and heavy. You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you shifted the bread under your arm and kept walking. As you reached your building, you touched the edge of his sleeve lightly, without thinking, to slow him. “Thank you,” you said softly.

“For what?”

“For coming with me. For trying.”

His gaze softened, more than you’d ever seen. He leaned down just slightly, his voice quiet, meant for you alone. “I’d try for you, doll. Always.”

He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t push. He just pressed the bags into your hands and waited until you were inside, standing guard in the shadow of your building until the door closed. And though you couldn’t see him, he stayed there for a long time, staring at the place where your fingers had brushed his arm, replaying it like a man clutching his first breath after drowning.

---

The weeks passed quietly, the rhythm of your little flower shop unchanged in all the familiar ways and altered in one very specific one. The bell still chimed at odd intervals, children still pressed coins into your palm for bouquets for their mothers, and old women still lingered at the counter to gossip. But now, James “Bucky” Barnes was a fixture.

He came every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at closing, sometimes both. At first, he’d only bought flowers. Now, more often than not, he was simply there—watching, asking you questions in that low voice of his, or taking up a quiet corner of the shop where his looming presence managed to make the whole space feel smaller.

What surprised you most was how quickly he adapted to your routines. One evening, as you were dragging a heavy bucket of water toward the back room, you heard a faint scrape. When you looked up, Bucky was already carrying it with one hand, like it weighed nothing. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said when you frowned at him.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” you reminded him.

“Not anymore,” he replied, setting the bucket down and fixing you with that firm stare that made arguments slip off your tongue.

After that, he just started doing things. Sweeping up petals after closing. Refilling water vases. Straightening displays. The strangest sight of all was him in his immaculate suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully trimming stems with the clumsy concentration of a man who had never held shears before. You caught yourself smiling one evening when he leaned too hard on the broom and nearly knocked over a pail of carnations. “What’s funny?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.

“You’re… bad at this,” you admitted, covering your mouth with your hand.

His lips twitched as though fighting a grin. “Maybe. But I don’t mind being bad at something if it’s for you.”

That made your chest tighten. Later, when he tried to lock up the shop himself, you shook your head. “You can’t just decide things, Bucky. You have to ask.”

He paused with the key in his hand, blue eyes sharp on yours. “Ask?”

“Yes. Like a normal person.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, silent. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, “may I lock up for you, doll?”

You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks, before nodding slowly. “Yes.”

He turned the key with a satisfied twist, and though he said nothing more, the look in his eyes told you he was storing that moment away, filing it under things he would never forget.

And that became the new pattern. The man everyone else feared—the man you still didn’t fully understand—swept floors and carried buckets in your flower shop. Not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to. Because it meant being near you, being part of your world, even if it meant stumbling through tasks that had nothing to do with his.

---

The idea came to you while restocking vases one quiet afternoon. Bucky had settled himself on the stool by the counter, jacket draped over the backrest, sleeves rolled up as he trimmed stems with more concentration than skill. It was still strange seeing him like that—this man who radiated danger, carefully adjusting the angle of scissors to keep a daisy neat. “You’re free tomorrow, right?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.

His head lifted, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”

You hesitated, fingers brushing water from your palms. “There’s an exhibit at the museum. I thought… maybe you’d like to go with me.”

Silence. You felt suddenly foolish. Of course a man like him wouldn’t want to wander through quiet halls, looking at paintings. You opened your mouth to take it back, but he spoke first. “When?”

You blinked. “Noon?”

He nodded once, decisive. “I’ll pick you up.”

The museum was quieter than the farmer’s market, but no less alive. Families moved from gallery to gallery, tourists snapped photos, students sat on the floor sketching. You bought tickets at the front desk, and when you glanced over, Bucky was already scanning the lobby like it was a threat he had to neutralize. “You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you teased gently.

“I don’t like crowds,” he admitted, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Too many hands. Too many eyes.”

You offered him a small smile. “Then just look at me instead.”

Something flickered across his face at that—something raw and unguarded—before his expression smoothed again. He followed you into the first gallery without a word. The space was filled with soft light and framed canvases, oil paintings that stretched from floor to ceiling. You paused before one, studying the brushstrokes, and realized after a moment that he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was watching you. “You’re supposed to look at the art,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“I am,” he replied.

Heat crept up your neck, and you busied yourself reading the plaque beside the painting. As you moved from gallery to gallery, he stayed close, his hand brushing your back whenever the crowd grew too thick. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it surprised you. He had opinions—sharp, quiet observations about color, about shadow, about how one painting seemed “lonely” while another looked like “noise trapped in a frame.” His voice was low, thoughtful, nothing like the clipped commands he usually gave.

You stole glances at him while he studied the paintings. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his watch or his phone. He looked, really looked, the same way he looked at you in the shop—like he was memorizing every detail.

At one point, you wandered ahead into a side gallery where a massive sculpture stood under a skylight. You stopped, tilting your head, trying to make sense of the twisting stone form. A moment later, his shadow fell across yours. Without thinking, you reached back and caught his hand, tugging him closer. “What do you think this is supposed to be?”

His hand stayed in yours, warm and steady. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease. He just let you hold him, his gaze dropping briefly to where your fingers curled against his before answering. “Doesn’t matter what it’s supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Matters what you see in it.”

You didn’t even realize you were still holding his hand until you let go to gesture at the sculpture, your cheeks heating. He didn’t comment, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. By the time you stepped back into the sunlight outside, the afternoon was waning. He carried the museum’s little pamphlet in one hand, folded neatly, like it was something precious. “Thank you,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself. “For coming.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “You ask, I’ll come.” And though his voice was steady, you couldn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was resisting the urge to reach for yours again.

The walk home after the museum felt different than any other evening you’d shared with him. Maybe it was the soft glow of the setting sun bouncing off the buildings, or maybe it was the quiet between you—comfortable, not weighted the way it usually was.

You carried a little bag from the gift shop, a postcard print of your favorite painting tucked inside. He’d insisted on buying it when you lingered too long at the rack, ignoring your protests. Now it swung lightly from your fingers as the two of you turned down your street. He stayed close, as always, scanning shadows and corners. But he wasn’t tense. Not like usual. His shoulders looked looser, his jaw softer, as if he’d finally let himself breathe for once. At your building, you stopped at the door. He reached for the key the way he always did, but this time you didn’t hand it over. Instead, you turned it yourself, then hesitated. When you looked up at him, he was watching you, waiting. “Do you…” You bit your lip, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to come in?”

For a flicker of a moment, something raw crossed his face—surprise, then hunger, then something softer. His eyes searched yours as though trying to find a trick hidden there. “You sure?” His voice was low, almost rough. He was asking, not telling.

You nodded, stepping inside and holding the door open. He followed, quiet as a shadow, and the door clicked shut behind him. Your apartment wasn’t much—small, cozy, smelling faintly of lavender and bread. A few books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, a vase of flowers by the window. His eyes swept the space once, but not with the sharp calculation you were used to. This time it looked like he was… curious. Taking in the pieces of your life he hadn’t been able to reach until now. You slipped off your shoes and gestured awkwardly. “It’s not much, but… it’s home.”

He stepped further in, silent for a moment, before his gaze found the vase by the window. White gardenias, still fresh, but starting to droop a little. “You kept them,” he murmured.

“Of course,” you said softly.

Something shifted in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His shoulders eased even more, and when he finally sat down on the couch—careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb anything—he looked almost human. Almost ordinary. You brought him a glass of water, and he accepted it with a quiet, “thank you,” fingers brushing yours deliberately. The lamp he’d given you glowed faintly in the corner, casting its warm petals of light across the room. He noticed, of course. His eyes lingered on it for a long moment before he turned back to you. “Feels like you,” he said.

You tilted your head. “What does?”

“This place. The light. The quiet. All of it.” He leaned back into the couch, watching you with that same intensity he always did, but softer now. “I like it.”

Bucky didn’t sit like a guest. He sat like he belonged there, broad shoulders sinking carefully into your couch, his hand resting heavy on his knee. The lamplight painted him in soft gold, blunting the sharpness of his jaw, but nothing could dull the intensity of his eyes. They tracked you as you moved—setting the bread on the counter, tidying the little bag from the museum gift shop, fussing with nothing at all just to give your hands something to do.

You finally settled across from him, tucking your legs under yourself. He was too large for your space, all dark edges against your quiet home, and yet… he didn’t look out of place. Not anymore. “You’re quiet,” you said softly.

“I like it here,” he answered simply. His gaze flicked around the room again—the flowers on the sill, the stack of books on your table, the blanket folded neatly over the back of a chair. “Feels like you.”

Your lips curved, though you tried to hide it. “That’s because it is me. It’s my space.”

He studied you then, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You let me in.”

The weight of those words settled heavy between you. He didn’t sound surprised. More like he was… marveling at it. Testing the shape of the truth on his tongue. “I trust you,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

His jaw tightened. His hand flexed once on his knee. “You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not with me.”

The honesty in his tone chilled you, but it also pulled at something deeper. You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees. “Then tell me why.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was deciding whether or not to let you see past the walls he kept so carefully built. Then he shifted, elbows on his thighs, leaning closer. “Because I don’t stop. Once I want something—once I want you—I don’t let go.”

Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks. But instead of recoiling, you held his gaze. “Then maybe you should ask me if I mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you?”

You hesitated, heart pounding, before whispering, “no.”

The silence that followed was thick, humming with unspoken things. He leaned back slowly, the tension in his body still coiled tight, but his expression softened—just barely. “Good,” he murmured.

You didn’t know what possessed you then, but you rose and crossed to the kitchen, pouring him another glass of water, setting it down beside him like it was the most natural thing. He accepted it without breaking eye contact, his metal fingers brushing yours deliberately.

The night stretched longer, the city outside dimming into quiet. At some point, you found yourself curled in the chair across from him, head resting against your hand, listening as he told you little things—not about business, never that, but about the food he liked, the places he couldn’t stand, the way he hated the sound of clocks ticking. Small truths, but truths nonetheless.

When he finally stood to leave, it was later than you realized. He lingered at the door, one hand braced against the frame. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”

You didn’t argue. When the door closed behind him, your apartment still felt full. Heavy with his presence. And when you went to bed, the lamp he’d given you cast its warm glow across the room, reminding you that letting him in once meant you’d never be rid of him again.

The next night, he didn’t wait on the street. You closed up shop, locked the door, and there he was—already leaning against the brick wall, arms folded across his chest. The way he looked at you made the air feel heavy, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Come on,” he said quietly, falling into step beside you.

The walk to your apartment was silent, but not tense. His hand brushed yours once or twice, and though he didn’t take it, you felt the weight of restraint in every step he took. When you unlocked your door and pushed it open, you hesitated. He didn’t ask this time. He didn’t have to. The question was in his eyes, and the answer was already in yours. “Stay,” you said softly.

Something uncoiled in him at that word, something he’d been holding too tightly. He stepped inside without hesitation, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of your chair like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Your apartment filled with him—his size, his presence, the faint spice of his cologne. You made tea because it gave your hands something to do, and when you handed him a mug, his fingers brushed yours deliberately, lingering just long enough to make your pulse trip. He sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. He drank the tea like he wasn’t used to it, sipping carefully, his eyes never leaving you. “Feels different,” he murmured after a while.

“What does?”

“This. Here. With you.” His gaze flicked around the apartment, then back to you. “It’s quiet. No one watching. No one waiting on me. Just… you.”

Your chest tightened. “Is that what you want?”

His jaw flexed. He set the mug down, metal fingers tapping once against the porcelain. “Yeah. More than I should.”

The silence stretched. You shifted under his stare, then finally leaned back against the couch, letting your shoulder brush his. He stilled at the contact, then eased, as if the world had just given him permission to breathe. The hours slipped by. You talked about nothing—books, music, the weather—and sometimes you didn’t talk at all. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, warm, almost domestic. When the clock ticked past midnight, you stifled a yawn. His head turned instantly, eyes narrowing. “You’re tired.”

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was drowsy.

He stood, towering over you, then offered his hand. “Bed,” he said.

You arched a brow, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Excuse me?”

His mouth curved faintly. “To sleep, doll. I’ll take the couch.”

You hesitated, then nodded, leading him toward the small bedroom. He didn’t linger, didn’t push. He just pulled the blanket up to your chin once you were settled, his hand brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your throat ache. “Sleep,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, the glow of the lamp warm against the walls, and the last thing you felt was the weight of his presence just outside the door—silent, steady, keeping watch.

The smell of coffee pulled you awake before the sunlight did. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming—the rich, dark aroma, the soft clink of ceramic from your kitchen—but when you sat up, the lamp still glowed faintly on your nightstand, and the blanket tucked under your chin smelled faintly of his cologne.

You padded quietly to the doorway, pausing when you saw him. Bucky stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he poured steaming coffee into your favorite mug. His jacket was still draped over the back of the chair from last night, his sleeves rolled up again. On the counter beside him was a loaf of bread you’d bought at the market, neatly sliced into even pieces, and butter softening in a small dish. It looked… domestic. Almost ordinary. And it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You don’t have to do that,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked up instantly, sharp as always, but his expression softened when he saw you. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”

You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You’re really bad at pretending this is normal.”

“Maybe,” he said, setting the mug in front of you. His voice lowered. “But I like pretending with you.”

The warmth of the cup seeped into your palms. You took a sip, humming at the taste—it was stronger than you usually made it, but good. He watched your reaction like it mattered more than anything else. “See?” he said, almost smug. “Better than what you usually drink.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You think you can just take over my kitchen now?”

His grin widened, wolfish but soft around the edges. “If you let me.” For a long moment, you stood there, sipping your coffee while he leaned against the counter, watching you like the morning belonged to the two of you alone. When you finally set the mug down, he reached past you, brushing your wrist deliberately as he moved the butter closer to the bread. “Eat something,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes but picked up a slice anyway. “You know, most people say ‘please’ when they want something.”

He chuckled low, the sound warm and rough. “Please, doll. Eat something for me.”

You laughed then, quiet but real, and he looked at you like he’d just won a war without firing a single shot. And as you sat at your tiny kitchen table, him across from you with his coffee, you realized you weren’t just letting him into your apartment. You were letting him into your mornings, your routines, your life. He seemed to realize it too. Because when you reached for another slice of bread, he leaned back in his chair, eyes soft and possessive all at once, and said quietly, “get used to this. I’m not going anywhere.”

You thought he’d leave after breakfast—slip out the way he usually did, shadow heavy but fleeting. Instead, he stayed, long after the last crumb of bread was gone and your coffee had cooled. He didn’t hover, not exactly. He followed you with his eyes as you moved around your apartment, tidying plates, straightening cushions, feeding the little plant on your windowsill. Every small domestic motion seemed to hold his full attention, as if he were cataloging it all for later.

When you bent to pick up a book that had slipped under the table, he was suddenly there, crouched beside you. His metal fingers brushed the spine before yours could reach it. “Got it,” he murmured, handing it over. His eyes lingered on the cover—an old paperback, spine worn soft. “You like this one?”

“It’s a favorite,” you admitted, hugging it to your chest. “I’ve read it more times than I can count.”

He nodded slowly, eyes sharp, as though he were etching the title into his memory. You retreated to the couch, curling into the corner, and he sat at the other end—close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the couch, watching you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “You’re different here,” you said quietly.

“How?”

“Quieter. Softer.” You hesitated. “Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”

For a moment, something flickered across his face—something raw, almost vulnerable. “Maybe it’s because I’m with you.”

Your cheeks warmed. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to fuss with the flowers on the sill. “You say things like that too easily.”

“I don’t say anything easily,” he said, voice low, firm. “Not unless I mean it.”

The air grew heavier, thick with unspoken things. To break it, you stood and gathered the empty mugs. “I should wash these.”

“I’ll do it.”

Before you could protest, he was already in your tiny kitchen, sleeves pushed up, broad frame bent over your sink. The sight of him there—dangerous and untouchable to the rest of the city, carefully rinsing soap suds from your favorite mug—sent a strange ache through you. “You really don’t know how to act normal,” you teased gently, leaning against the counter.

He glanced at you, lips curving faintly. “This is normal. For me. If you let it be.”

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how easily he was weaving himself into your space, your life. When the mugs were clean and drying on the rack, he returned to the couch, looking far too at ease in your home. As though the line between visitor and resident had already blurred. And when you finally told him, half-awkward, that you needed to open the shop soon, he only nodded, standing slowly. His eyes swept the room one last time before settling on you. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, not as a command but as a promise.

And when the door clicked shut behind him, your apartment still felt full.

The second time he stayed, it felt less like a choice and more like inevitability. He didn’t even ask if it was alright—he simply slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly over the arm of your couch, and stretched his long frame across it like it was a habit he’d been keeping for years.

You went to bed with the lamplight still spilling warm gold into the hallway, the faint hum of the city outside, and the comforting knowledge that he was only a few steps away. It was deep into the night when you woke. Thirst pulled you from sleep, groggy and heavy-limbed. Padding into the living room, you found him still on the couch, blanket pushed low around his waist, one arm draped over the edge.

For a moment, you thought he was sleeping peacefully. His chest rose and fell, steady. But then you noticed the twitch of his fingers, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the low, almost inaudible sounds escaping his throat—half-formed words, broken whispers.

You froze. A nightmare. Your first instinct was to leave him be, let him fight his shadows alone. But something in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath hitched, made your chest ache. “Bucky,” you whispered, stepping closer. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” You reached out, intending only to brush your fingers across his shoulder, to anchor him in the present. But the instant your skin touched his, his metal arm snapped up, lightning fast, clamping around your wrist.

The pressure was startling, firm enough to hurt, and you gasped softly. His eyes flew open—wild, unmoored, glassy with panic. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t here with you. He was somewhere else. Then recognition hit. His grip loosened instantly, his chest heaving. “God—doll—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You sank down onto the edge of the couch, cradling his arm with your free hand, your voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You didn’t mean to.”

But he was already shaking his head, his flesh hand scrubbing hard over his face. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t touch you. Not when I don’t know where I am. Could’ve hurt you. Could’ve—”

You caught his wrist before he could pull further away. “You didn’t. You didn’t hurt me.”

His metal fingers trembled against your skin, so different from the usual deliberate steadiness you knew. He kept repeating it, almost under his breath, like a mantra breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” you whispered, sliding closer, resting your other hand lightly against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm. “Look at me.” It took a moment, but his eyes finally lifted to yours—blue and raw, stripped of every layer of command and control. “You’re here,” you said softly. “With me. You’re safe.”

The tension in his arm eased by degrees, until his grip was nothing more than a loose circle around your wrist. He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with this.”

“I don’t mind,” you whispered. And you didn’t. Not when it was him.

For a long time, you just sat there, your hand still against his chest, his breath slowly steadying under your touch. When his grip finally fell away completely, it wasn’t because he pushed you—it was because he let go, trusting you not to move. You didn’t. You stayed.

And when he drifted back into sleep, your wrist still tingled from the weight of his arm, but it wasn’t fear that lingered. It was the way his voice had broken on your name, the way he’d clung to your presence like it was the only thing anchoring him in the world.

By the time the apartment grew quiet again, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You’d sat there with him, your hand still resting over his chest, listening as his breath evened out beneath your palm. You told yourself you’d move once you were sure he was settled.

But your eyes grew heavy. The couch was warm beneath you, his body warmer still, and before you knew it, you were sliding sideways, cheek pressed against his shirt. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, his arm—flesh, not metal—loosely draped over your back as though even in sleep he couldn’t help but hold you close.

The couch was small, too small for the both of you, but you didn’t notice. Not with the weight of him grounding you, not with the lamp’s glow painting soft gold across the room.

When you woke, morning light was spilling through the curtains, pale and thin. It took a moment to realize where you were—why your pillow was too firm, why your blanket smelled faintly of his cologne. You shifted, groggy, and felt his chest move beneath you. He was awake. His breathing was shallow, controlled, the way he sounded when he was trying not to disturb you. “Morning,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.

His chest rumbled under your cheek with a low, uncertain sound. “You shouldn’t… have stayed here.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were sharp, but not cold. There was guilt there, deep and quiet. “Why not?”

“I could’ve hurt you,” he said. His metal hand flexed once against the blanket, as though the memory of gripping your arm was still burning through him. “I did hurt you.”

You shook your head, propping yourself on your elbow. “You didn’t. You scared me for a second, but… you didn’t hurt me.” His jaw worked, but he said nothing. You studied him for a moment—his hair mussed from sleep, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he looked so much younger like this, stripped of the armor he wore in daylight. “Bucky,” you said softly, “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep here if I didn’t feel safe with you.”

That silenced him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking away for a moment as though he couldn’t bear the weight of what you’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he brushed his knuckles across your cheek, his touch light, reverent. “You shouldn’t trust me that much.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered, leaning into his hand. “But I do.”

For the first time in longer than he could probably remember, his mouth curved into something almost fragile, almost grateful. You stayed like that for a long moment, the morning wrapping around you both like a secret. The couch was still too small, your neck was already sore, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Because for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were comforting him, or if he was comforting you.

---

The bell chimed as usual when he stepped into your shop, but today felt heavier somehow. Maybe it was the memory of the night before, of waking up in his arms on your too-small couch. Maybe it was the image of his wide, haunted eyes as he whispered apology after apology, and the way your chest had ached to soothe him.

You’d been thinking about that all morning. About how much he gave you—his presence, his protection, his steadiness—even if he never admitted it aloud. And for once, you wanted to give him something back. So you’d worked quietly before he arrived, hands steady even as your heart raced, trimming stems and tying ribbon. Now, as he approached the counter, you wiped your palms on your apron and brought the bouquet out from behind you.

It wasn’t like the ones you usually sold. This one was deliberate, personal. Deep blue delphiniums, soft cornflowers, pale forget-me-nots woven together in layers, all tied with a silver-gray ribbon. The colors matched his eyes perfectly—sharp and striking at the center, softer and gentler around the edges. You held it out shyly. “For you.”

He froze. For a man who seemed to always know what to do, what to say, he looked completely undone in that moment. His eyes flicked from the flowers to your face and back again, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “You made this… for me?” His voice was rough, low.

You nodded, your fingers twisting the edge of your apron. “You’ve brought me so much. I just thought—maybe you’d like to have something, too.”

He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and took the bouquet from your hands. His metal fingers brushed the ribbon with surprising gentleness, as though afraid he might crush the delicate stems. For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his jaw worked, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “No one’s ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”

Your heart clenched. “Then I’ll just have to make sure it’s not the last time.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, something raw burning in them. He set the bouquet carefully on the counter, then reached across with his flesh hand, curling his fingers around yours. “Thank you, doll,” he said, voice unsteady. “You don’t know what this means to me.” But from the way he held your hand, from the way his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of you, you thought maybe you did.

Bucky carried the bouquet back with him, cradled more carefully than the files his men handed him daily. When he entered his penthouse, the first thing Natasha noticed wasn’t the flowers themselves—it was the way he set them down gently on his desk, like they were priceless.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Boss, if you keep this up, you’re gonna need a bigger office. Between the vases and bouquets, it’s starting to look more like a conservatory than a headquarters.”

He shot her a sharp look, but it lacked real heat. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the bouquet, fingers brushing over the ribbon like he still couldn’t believe it was real. “You got a problem with flowers, Romanoff?” he asked, voice low.

Natasha’s smirk softened into something almost approving. “Not with flowers. Just with you hiding in here behind them.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not hiding.”

“You’ve skipped the last three meetings,” she countered, stepping further into the room. “You can’t keep pushing them off. People are starting to notice. And this next one—you can’t get out of it.”

His eyes darkened, steel sliding back into his expression. “When?”

“Tomorrow night.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Seven o’clock. You’ll be there, and you’ll sit through it, whether you like it or not.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. His metal fingers tapped once against the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then he let out a slow breath, eyes flicking back to the blue bouquet. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”

Natasha tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve got her making bouquets just for you now?”

His lips curved faintly—dangerous, but softer than usual. “Yeah. She did.”

Natasha’s brows lifted. “And you’re going to tell her where you’re going tomorrow?”

His gaze sharpened again, voice dropping low. “No.”

“Bucky—”

“She doesn’t need to know.” His eyes lingered on the flowers, something fierce burning beneath the calm. “Not yet.”

Natasha studied him for a long beat before finally sighing. “One of these days, Barnes, you’re gonna realize she’s not just another thing you can keep in the dark.”

But he didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the bouquet again, his hand steady, his mind already far from the meeting Natasha had chained him to.

The following evening, Bucky was restless. He’d shown up at your shop like he always did, the bell chiming as he stepped in, but his presence felt heavier than usual. He leaned against the counter, silent, eyes fixed on you while you arranged fresh stems in a vase. His gloves were still on—he hadn’t even rolled his sleeves the way he sometimes did when he helped close up. “Long day?” you asked, glancing up.

His jaw flexed once. “Not finished yet.”

Something in his tone told you not to press. But you noticed the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, as though he were memorizing everything about you—the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your hands as you tied ribbon.

When you locked up for the night, he was there as usual, walking you home. His stride was slower, though, deliberate. Like he didn’t want the walk to end. At your door, instead of leaving with his usual “goodnight,” he lingered. His eyes traced your face with an intensity that made your heart race. “You’ll stay in tonight,” he said softly.

You blinked. “I was planning to, yes. Why?”

He exhaled, the faintest flicker of relief passing across his features. “Good. I need…” He hesitated, words sticking like they were foreign in his mouth. “I need to be somewhere. But I don’t want you worrying.”

Your brows furrowed. “Where?”

His eyes softened, but the steel never left them. “Not a place you need to know about.” It stung, a little, but before you could respond, his flesh hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. His touch was warm, but his grip was firm, almost desperate. “Promise me you’ll stay here tonight,” he murmured. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”

“Promise me.” His voice was low, commanding, but under it was something raw. Fear.

Your heart twisted. “I promise.”

Only then did his shoulders ease, just slightly. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than usual. When he pulled back, his eyes burned with something unspoken. “I’ll be back,” he said simply. And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the city.

You stood in your doorway long after he’d disappeared, the bouquet you’d given him still fresh in your memory. Whatever world he was going back to tonight, it wasn’t one you were part of—not yet. But the way he’d looked at you before he left made you wonder how long he could keep the walls up.

It was late when the knock came—so late the city outside had gone quiet, even the hum of traffic muted. You woke with a start, heart pounding, blinking against the faint glow of the lamp in your bedroom.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamed it. Then it came again, firmer this time. Three heavy knocks that rattled the wood. You slipped from bed, pulling a sweater over your shoulders, bare feet whispering across the floor. When you peered through the peephole, your stomach dropped. Bucky. He stood close to the door, shoulders squared, hair mussed, suit rumpled. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with something fierce and unsteady. And his knuckles—flesh and metal both—were streaked with blood.

You unlocked the door quickly and pulled it open. “Bucky.” He exhaled your name like a prayer, his chest rising and falling hard. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, filling your small apartment with his presence, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud. You reached for his hand automatically, the blood stark against your skin. “What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, pulling back just enough to keep the mess off you. “It’s done.”

“Bucky—”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His voice cracked low, raw, like he’d used up every ounce of steel at that meeting and had nothing left to shield himself with now.

You guided him toward the couch anyway, ignoring his protest. “Sit.” He hesitated, then obeyed, sinking down heavily. His shoulders were still tight, coiled with tension, his fists flexing and unflexing as though he hadn’t yet come down from whatever storm he’d just walked out of. You fetched a cloth and warm water from the bathroom, kneeling in front of him. He tried to take the rag from your hand, but you shook your head. “Let me,” you said softly.

For once, he didn’t argue. He let you cradle his hand, your smaller fingers working gently over the bloodstains. His skin was rough under your touch, his palm scarred, but you treated it like something fragile, as if the violence hadn’t seeped into the lines of his hand at all. He watched you in silence, blue eyes intent, following every stroke of the cloth. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t want to do this for me.”

“Maybe I want to anyway,” you whispered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark. “You’re gonna ruin yourself, doll. Being close to me.”

You wrung out the cloth, wiping gently at his other hand, this one colder, harder. His metal fingers twitched under your touch, then stilled. “Maybe you don’t get to decide that,” you murmured.

His chest rose sharply, his eyes snapping to yours. The intensity there was almost unbearable—possessive, desperate, aching. “I came here,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “Because after it was over, all I wanted was you. Just… you.”

You finished cleaning the last smear of blood from his knuckles, then set the cloth aside. Without thinking, you reached up and pressed your hand against his jaw, tilting his face toward you. “I’m here,” you said simply.

And for the first time that night, his shoulders dropped, the fight bleeding out of him. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing, as though your palm was the only anchor he had left.

You didn’t let go of him right away. Even when his shoulders eased, when the fury and tension in him finally started to drain, you kept your hand at his jaw, kept your body close enough that he could feel your steadiness. When you finally shifted to stand, he caught your wrist—not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to stop you. His eyes opened, and there it was again: that raw, unguarded fear. Fear of you walking away. “Stay,” he murmured.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly. “But you need to rest. You can’t keep carrying all of this on your own.” You tugged gently until he let you go, then stood and gestured toward your bedroom. “Come on. You take the bed tonight.”

His eyes narrowed immediately. “No.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m not putting you on the couch in your own home,” he said sharply, rising to his feet. “I’ll take it. Always.”

The finality in his tone made you hesitate, but then you stepped closer, meeting his intensity with your own. “You came here for comfort, didn’t you? Then let me give it to you. Please.”

The word hung between you. You almost never asked him for anything. His jaw worked. He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at you, his expression caught between resistance and something almost… longing. Finally, he exhaled slowly. “Fine. But only if you stay too.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky—”

“I won’t sleep otherwise,” he admitted, voice low, hoarse. “Not without you.”

The ache in your chest deepened. You nodded once, quietly, and guided him into the bedroom. He moved carefully, stripping off his bloodstained shirt and leaving it folded on the chair before slipping under the covers in just his undershirt and slacks. He looked out of place in your small bed, too large, too coiled with silent tension.

You slid in beside him, the lamp’s glow soft across both of you. At first, he kept to his side, stiff and deliberate, as though terrified of crowding you. But when you reached out—just the lightest brush of your fingers over his wrist—he shifted closer, inch by inch, until his forehead rested against yours. “Sorry,” he whispered again, the word barely audible. “For last night. For tonight. For all of it.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whispered back, eyes closing. “Not with me.”

His breath stuttered against your cheek, and then his arm—warm, heavy, trembling slightly—wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. It was a long time before his breathing evened out, before the tension bled from his body completely. But when it did, he slept deeper than he had in years, anchored by your presence.

And you stayed there with him, awake for a long while, listening to the steady thrum of his heart and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was learning how to let someone share the weight he carried.

---

You woke to the sensation of warmth. Not the sunlight—though that was spilling pale and soft through the curtains—but the solid weight of the man beside you. His arm was still around you, heavy and steady, his chest pressed to your back. For a moment you stayed perfectly still, afraid that moving would shatter the fragile quiet that had settled over him in the night.

Eventually, you stirred, stretching carefully. His arm slipped away immediately, as if he’d been awake already, holding himself too tightly so as not to trap you. “Morning,” you murmured, rolling to face him. He was lying on his side, head propped on his hand, blue eyes fixed on you. His hair was a little mussed, his undershirt wrinkled. But his gaze was sharp, searching, as though he were trying to read the truth in your expression. “You slept,” you said softly, surprised by how certain you were.

“Because of you,” he admitted.

Something in your chest squeezed. You brushed your thumb lightly across the back of his hand. “I’m glad.”

But he didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw flexing. “You don’t regret this? Letting me stay?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Why would I?”

“Because you saw me last night.” His voice was rough, low, like he hated the words even as he forced them out. “Bloody. Angry. A mess. That’s who I am, doll. That’s what I do when I leave you here. And I don’t…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I don’t want you to look at me different because of it.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbow, leaning closer, catching his gaze. “Bucky. I saw you. And I still asked you to stay.”

His throat bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have to comfort me.”

“Maybe I want to,” you whispered, echoing the words you’d spoken when you cleaned his bloodied hands.

The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable. His hand lifted, brushing lightly over your head, fingers catching gently at the nape of your neck. “You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You shook your head. “Not even a little.”

His eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of that truth was too much to hold. When he opened them again, they burned with something softer than you’d ever seen in him, something dangerously close to hope. And though he didn’t say the words, you could feel them in the way he held your gaze, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin.

For once, he wasn’t just the man who haunted your shop, who walked you home, who carried storms in his chest. For once, he was just Bucky.

---

The day had been quiet, the steady hum of your little shop wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. You were working at the counter, arranging fresh lilies into a tall glass vase, humming softly under your breath. Bucky had slipped into the back earlier, muttering something about moving crates that were too heavy for you, though you hadn’t asked him to.

You balanced the vase carefully in your hands—just a little too tall, a little too slick with condensation—and then it happened. The glass slipped. You gasped, a sharp sound breaking the quiet as the vase hit the floor and shattered. Water splashed across your shoes, stems splayed in every direction, and shards of glass glittered in a jagged circle around your feet.

“Doll?” His voice was immediate, sharp, and then he was there, bursting from the back with all the force of a man expecting the worst. His eyes swept the scene in an instant—the water, the flowers, the glinting glass around your shoes—and then locked onto you.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, holding your hands up like surrender. “I just—”

“Don’t move,” he snapped, the command biting. But his eyes softened a heartbeat later, voice lowering. “Please. Don’t move.” You froze, biting your lip. Shards glittered dangerously close to your ankles, one sliver already catching at your sock. Bucky’s chest rose hard with a deep breath. Then he stepped closer, gaze flicking up to yours. “Do you trust me?”

The question startled you—so direct, so weighted. But your answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

In one smooth motion, his hands found your waist, strong and steady, and he lifted you up out of the circle of broken glass. You startled, legs instinctively tightening around him as he held you against his chest, the strength in his arms effortless and certain.

Your heart hammered, breath catching as the world tilted. You could feel the hard lines of him through his shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed to your chest. For a moment, you were frozen, caught in the intensity of his eyes as he looked at you—so close, so intent, like you were the only thing in the world. Then, before you could stop yourself, a quiet giggle slipped out. You ducked your head against his shoulder, cheeks warm. “You’re… really strong.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous, but softer than you’d ever seen it. His grip tightened just slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he held you. “Damn right I am,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “Strong enough to carry you as long as it takes.”

Your breath caught, the teasing words laced with something heavier, deeper. You clung to him just a little tighter, not because of the glass scattered on the floor, but because of the way he said it—as though he meant more than just this moment.

And when he finally set you down on the counter, out of harm’s way, his hands lingered at your waist, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist even after he’d set you safely on the counter, his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to convince himself you were unharmed. Only when you shifted slightly—cheeks warm, fingers fiddling with the hem of your apron—did he finally step back. “Stay there,” he ordered softly. It wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument.

You opened your mouth to protest, then caught the flash in his eyes, the steel under the softness. You nodded instead, watching as he crouched to gather the scattered stems first, setting them aside with almost comical care before he tackled the glass.

He worked in silence, broad shoulders bent, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he swept every shard into a neat pile with practiced efficiency. He didn’t let you come near—every time you shifted on the counter as if to hop down, his gaze snapped to you, sharp as a warning. “You’re acting like I nearly lost a limb,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.

“You could’ve cut yourself,” he muttered, scooping the last of the glass into the dustpan. “Slipped, fallen—”

“Bucky, it was a vase.”

He dumped the shards into the bin and straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t matter. Anything that touches you—anything that could hurt you—it matters to me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, possessive. Your heart thudded in your chest. When he finally crossed back to you, he brushed his hands down, metal glinting faintly in the shop’s light. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and gently lifted your ankle, checking your sock, then the other. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he needed proof with his own eyes that you were unscathed. “I told you I was fine,” you whispered, heat curling in your chest.

“I had to see for myself,” he murmured. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing lightly against the bone, before he finally let go.

You giggled then, nervous and shy, but unable to hold it back. “You really are strong, you know. Picking me up like that…”

His lips curved into something sharp and slow, a smile that was equal parts dangerous and softened just for you. “You liked that?”

You ducked your head, embarrassed, but nodded faintly. “Maybe.”

His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped closer, caging you gently where you sat on the counter. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how strong I am.”

The words made your breath hitch, your pulse skittering wildly. And though he didn’t touch you again, though he only lingered there in your space, the promise in his voice wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.

The shop closed later than usual that evening—the broken vase had set you behind, and you insisted on mopping every last drop of water yourself while Bucky loomed nearby, pretending to help while really just watching you like a hawk.

By the time you stepped out into the cooling night, the streets were already washed in shadow. He fell into step beside you, as always, but tonight felt different. The air between you was warmer, charged, still echoing with the memory of his hands lifting you clear of the glass, your legs around his waist, your breathless little laugh against his shoulder.

You stole a glance at him as you walked. His jaw was set, his gaze sharp on the street ahead, but there was something softer in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken simmering in his eyes when they flicked toward you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.

He turned his head slightly. “For what?”

“For earlier. For making sure I didn’t… get hurt.” You smiled faintly, shy. “And for carrying me. Even if it was just across a puddle of glass.”

The corner of his lips curved, slow and wolfish. “I’d carry you farther than that, doll. Anywhere you wanted.”

Your heart thudded, and you ducked your gaze to the pavement. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly reluctant to let the night end. He stood close, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin, close enough that the city noise faded into nothing. He studied you for a long moment, blue eyes intent, then lifted his hand. His knuckles brushed along your cheek, light as a whisper, before he leaned down. The kiss wasn’t on your lips. It was at the corner of your mouth, feather-light, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. When he pulled back, his gaze was burning, fierce and possessive but softened in a way you’d never seen before. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You managed a quiet, flustered, “goodnight,” before slipping inside, leaning against the door once it clicked shut. Your pulse was still racing. The ghost of his touch still lingered on your cheek. And you knew, with startling clarity, that something between you had shifted again—deeper, closer, and far harder to resist.

---

The last customer had barely left when you flipped the little sign on the door to closed. The shop was quiet, petals scattered on the counter, the air still thick with the mingled perfume of roses and lilies. Bucky was already there, leaning against the wall near the register, sleeves rolled up, watching you sweep the last of the day’s mess into a neat pile.

It was almost habit now—him staying until you locked up, walking you home like a shadow no one could shake. But tonight, as you tied off the trash bag and wiped your hands on your apron, you found yourself blurting something out before you could second-guess it. “Do you… want to come grocery shopping with me?”

His head lifted, eyes narrowing as though you’d just offered him something strange and dangerous. “Grocery shopping?”

You nodded, a little shy. “Yeah. Just the corner store, nothing big.”

For a moment, he just studied you, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, the faintest tug at the corner of his lips. “You’re asking me on a date to a grocery store?”

Your cheeks warmed. “Not a date. Just… normal. Something normal.”

That seemed to strike something in him. The teasing faded, replaced with that sharp, focused look he always gave you when he was paying too much attention. Finally, he pushed off the wall, slipping into his jacket. “Alright. Let’s go.”

The store was half-empty when you arrived, aisles humming faintly under fluorescent lights. You grabbed a basket, but before you could even step forward, Bucky plucked it from your hands, carrying it himself without comment. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, same as he always did when you tried to argue.

You shook your head with a smile and wandered down the first aisle. The ordinary act of choosing bread, fruit, milk felt almost surreal with him beside you. People glanced your way—some because of his presence, some because of his sheer size—but he ignored them, his attention fixed entirely on you. You paused at the shelf of pasta, biting your lip as you compared prices. He frowned. “What’re you doing?”

“Deciding which one to get.”

“Just grab both,” he said flatly.

You laughed under your breath. “That’s not how grocery shopping works.”

He arched a brow. “When I’m here, it does.” And before you could protest, both boxes were dropped into the basket.

A few aisles later, you spotted a display of apples, glossy and red under the lights. You reached for one, but he plucked the apple from your hand. “Too bruised,” he muttered, discarding it for another. Then another. Until finally he chose one and handed it to you, his expression deadly serious.

You bit back a giggle, putting it into the basket. “You’re very picky.”

“I don’t want you eating anything that isn’t good enough for you,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Your heart gave a little squeeze.

At the checkout, the clerk gave you both a curious look, eyes flicking from the man built like a soldier to the flowers still faintly clinging to your apron. Bucky ignored it, pulling out a roll of bills before you could reach for your own wallet. “Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he warned softly, sliding the cash across the counter.

You sighed, but your lips curved despite yourself. When you stepped back into the night, bags in hand, he shifted most of them to his own arms, leaving you only one light sack to carry. As you walked back toward your apartment, you realized your chest felt strangely full—like the simple act of buying apples and bread with him meant more than any extravagant gift could. And when you glanced up at him, his eyes already on you, you wondered if he felt the same.

The bags rustled quietly between you as you and Bucky made your way back to your apartment. He carried almost all of them, his broad frame cutting through the dim streetlight glow like a shield. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing down at you, his gaze lingering on your smaller bag as if he were annoyed you had any weight at all to carry.

By the time you reached your door, he was already fishing the key from your pocket—something he’d made a habit of, though tonight he looked at you first, waiting. You smiled faintly and gave him a nod. He unlocked the door, nudging it open with his shoulder, and followed you inside.

The apartment felt warmer with him in it, crowded but not in a way that unsettled you. He set the bags on the counter, already rolling up his sleeves like this was second nature. “You don’t have to help put everything away,” you said, slipping off your shoes.

“Not letting you do this alone,” he countered, already unpacking a bag.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re terrible at letting me do anything.”

“Only because you deserve better than doing it by yourself.”

The simple certainty in his tone made your chest flutter. You busied yourself with the pantry shelves while he stacked cans and jars, his movements precise, almost military. Every so often, he paused to ask where something went—not in his usual commanding tone, but softer, quieter, like he wanted to get it right. When you turned to find him awkwardly holding up a carton of milk, brows furrowed, you giggled. “That goes in the fridge, Bucky.”

He smirked, shaking his head as he set it inside. “Not my strong suit, doll.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought you were strong at everything.”

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing, but softened quickly. “I am. Especially when it comes to you.” Heat crept up your neck. You ducked back toward the pantry, pretending to fuss with the bags.

When the last of the groceries were tucked away, he leaned against the counter, watching you tie the bags into a neat bundle. His presence filled the small kitchen, his eyes steady and unreadable. “This is…” He paused, exhaling. “Nice.”

You glanced at him, smiling softly. “It is.”

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, you brushed past him on your way to the sink, your arm grazing his, a tiny, wordless acknowledgment. The evening stretched out lazily, the two of you lingering on the couch after the groceries were tucked away. You’d made tea, steam curling faintly between you, and at some point your head had drifted to the back cushion, eyelids drooping while Bucky sat beside you, quiet and watchful. “You’re falling asleep on me,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and almost amused.

“M’not,” you mumbled, even as your head tilted a little to the side, threatening to nod off completely.

His lips curved, subtle but there. “Doll, go to bed.”

You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes, and gave a small pout. “Don’t wanna move. It’s too far.”

The faintest laugh rumbled from his chest. “Too far? It’s ten steps.”

You cracked one eye open, playful despite your exhaustion. “Then carry me.” You hadn’t expected him to take you seriously. But before you could blink, his hands were at your sides, sliding under you with practiced ease. You let out a startled little gasp as the world tilted, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He gathered you up without effort, cradled securely against his chest in a full bridal carry. Your breath caught, a laugh bubbling out as your cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Bucky—”

“Don’t pout at me if you don’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice quiet but edged with satisfaction.

He carried you through the small apartment like you weighed nothing, each step steady and sure. You didn’t protest—you couldn’t, not with the warmth of him surrounding you, not with the way he held you like you were something precious. By the time he set you down gently on the bed, pulling the blanket up over you, your heart was racing too fast for sleep. He lingered at your side for a moment, his eyes soft in a way they rarely were. “Better?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, cheeks warm, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Much.”

He exhaled slowly, almost like relief, before straightening. “Sleep, doll. I’ll be right outside.” And as you drifted off, you could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around you, carrying you like you were the only thing in the world worth holding onto.

---

It started with a lightbulb. You were balancing on the edge of a chair, stretching on tiptoe to reach the fixture above your counter when Bucky walked in. He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowing like he’d caught you dangling off a cliff. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Changing a bulb,” you answered, squinting up at the socket. “It burnt out last night.”

He stalked forward, plucking the box from your hand. “Get down.”

You turned your head, giving him a pointed look. “It’s just a lightbulb, Bucky.”

“Get down,” he repeated, voice soft but firm, like the sound of a lock clicking shut.

You sighed dramatically but stepped down, brushing dust off your apron. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, climbing onto the chair himself. It creaked under his weight, but he made quick work of the fixture, replacing the bulb in seconds before hopping down. He set the empty box on the counter like he’d just conquered something monumental. “See? No problem,” he said, smug.

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “You act like you saved me from falling off a building.”

His gaze softened as he brushed a speck of dust from your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how small it is, doll. I don’t like seeing you in danger.”

The habit stuck after that. A loose hinge on your cabinet? Bucky fixed it before you even realized it needed repairing. A crack in the paint near your window? He brought in supplies and patched it one evening, sleeves rolled and shirt clinging to his back while you tried not to stare too obviously. And it wasn’t just repairs. One night you came home with groceries, and before you could even set the bags down, he was unloading them, stacking cans with soldier-like precision. He held up a carton of tea, frowning. “You drink this?”

“Yes?” you said slowly, tilting your head.

He dropped it into the cupboard. “Not anymore. I’ll bring you something better.”

You crossed your arms, trying to look stern. “You can’t just replace my tea without asking.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Then I’ll ask. May I replace your tea with something that won’t taste like dishwater?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “Fine. You win.”

But the moment that stayed with you came later, when you offered something back. You’d picked up a box of his favorite pastries—something you’d noticed he always lingered over when you passed a certain bakery. When you handed it to him shyly at the shop, his expression faltered. He blinked down at the package, then at you, as if the gesture didn’t compute. “For me?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Of course,” you said, suddenly nervous. “You’re always helping me. I thought… you might like them.”

He opened the box, stared at the neat row of pastries, then at you again. His jaw worked, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. “No one does this for me.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “They should.” His eyes darkened, burning with something fierce, something hungry—but instead of pulling you closer like you half-expected, he only nodded, as if committing the moment to memory.

---

It happened on an ordinary night, the kind where the city felt half-asleep and the shop was already dark behind you. Bucky walked you home as usual, his hand brushing lightly at your back whenever the sidewalk narrowed. The streets were quiet, the glow of the lamps stretching long shadows across the pavement.

You were telling him about a customer who’d come in earlier, half-laughing at their confusion between carnations and camellias, when your foot caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. You stumbled, breath catching as your balance tipped forward.

Before you could even react, his arm was around your waist. It wasn’t just a steadying touch—it was a full, protective pull, yanking you against his chest so hard your breath whooshed out. His other hand splayed across your shoulder, holding you there, shielding you as if the cracked pavement had been a bullet. “Careful,” he rasped, voice rough, too sharp for the small stumble.

Your heart raced, half from the fall, half from the intensity in his eyes when you looked up. He wasn’t just steadying you. He was possessing you, holding you so tightly you couldn’t have slipped away if you tried. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered.

He didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm, the muscle in his jaw ticking as though he was fighting some deeper instinct. Finally, slowly, his fingers loosened, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering even as you stood straight again. “You scared me,” he admitted, voice low. The honesty in it startled you more than the stumble.

You swallowed hard, shy under his gaze. “It was just a crack in the sidewalk.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, the words sharp but weighted with something else—something you couldn’t quite name. “Anything that could hurt you… I won’t let it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched, heavy and electric, until you finally let out a small laugh to ease it. “Bucky,” you teased softly, “you act like you’re my personal bodyguard.”

His lips curved faintly, but his eyes never softened. “Maybe I am.” You didn’t argue. Not when your heart was still racing from the feel of his arms around you, not when the memory of his grip lingered like fire on your skin. And for the rest of the walk, his hand stayed at your waist, steady and sure, as if he didn’t trust the world not to trip you again.

---

It was late when you noticed it. The soft scrape of the couch, the low creak of springs shifting—quiet, but not quiet enough. You blinked awake in your bed, the faint glow from the lamp spilling into the hall. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d dreamed it. But then you heard the sound again, the unmistakable weight of someone moving restlessly.

You padded out into the living room, bare feet whispering on the floor. Bucky sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, elbows braced against his knees. His hands were clasped together so tightly the tendons stood out, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing back words. The blanket you’d given him earlier was pushed aside, rumpled like he’d tried to settle under it and failed. He looked up sharply when he heard you. His eyes softened, but only a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered. You took a step closer, watching him carefully. “Nightmare?”

His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer, but the silence was loud enough. Your chest ached. You crossed the small space and lowered yourself beside him. For a long moment, you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the quiet settle. Then, slowly, you leaned into him, resting your head against his arm. He went very still. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the way his breath hitched, the careful restraint in the way he didn’t move. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you murmured.

He exhaled, a shudder slipping out despite himself. His arm shifted—hesitant at first—then wrapped around your shoulders, drawing you closer. You let him, curling instinctively against his side, your body fitting against his with surprising ease. The silence stretched. His breathing steadied, slow and deep, but you could still feel the echoes of the storm lingering in him. So you stayed, quiet and warm, letting your presence do what words couldn’t.

At some point, your eyes grew heavy again. The steady rhythm of his chest beneath your cheek, the weight of his arm holding you—it was too much comfort to resist. Sleep pulled at you until you gave in, drifting off curled against him.

When you stirred again, it was to the strange awareness of being shifted. His arms were around you, lifting you easily. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and you blinked blearily up at him. “You should be in bed,” he murmured, voice low and rough, though his eyes softened when he saw you awake.

“M’fine here,” you mumbled, not fully conscious of the words.

His lips curved faintly, but he didn’t set you down. Instead, he lowered himself back onto the couch, letting you settle against him, your cheek pressed to his chest this time. His hand brushed down your arm, steady and grounding. You drifted again, half-asleep, your last hazy thought the realization that he was calmer now—his heartbeat steady, his breathing even—as though holding you was the only anchor he needed.

---

The first thing you noticed when you woke was warmth. Not the blanket—you realized quickly it had slipped down in the night—but the steady heat of a chest under your cheek, the quiet rise and fall of someone breathing. It took only a blink to remember where you were, who you were on top of.

The early light from the window cut across the room, spilling soft gold on his face. His head was tipped back against the couch, lashes low, jaw unshaven and rough. He looked younger like this, stripped of the sharp edges he carried in daylight. Vulnerable.

You shifted slightly, the motion enough to stir him. His arm—still heavy across your waist—tightened instinctively, pulling you back before you could move away. His eyes cracked open, blue and still hazy from sleep, but the moment he realized where you were, they sharpened. “Morning,” you whispered, your voice catching at how close you still were.

His gaze searched yours, careful, guarded. “You’re still here.”

You smiled faintly. “Of course I am.”

He swallowed, his throat working, but he didn’t release you. His fingers brushed lightly along your side, almost tentative, as if waiting for you to flinch. “You don’t… mind this?”

Your heart skipped. You shook your head, whispering, “No.” The silence that followed was thick with things neither of you were saying. You could feel his pulse against your palm where it rested on his chest, steady but a little too quick. He was waiting—waiting for a crack, a sign that you’d regret what happened. Instead, you curled closer, nestling against him. “You slept,” you murmured, half teasing. “Didn’t even wake me this time.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “That’s ‘cause you were here.”

The words landed heavy, unpolished and raw, and for a moment neither of you breathed.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t break it. You just stayed there, your cheek against his chest, his arm secure around you, until the sounds of the waking city crept through the window and the day forced you to move. But even then, when you finally pushed yourself up, he let his hand linger at your wrist, reluctant to let go.

The morning moved slowly, like it didn’t want to let go of the quiet night before. You padded into the kitchen first, hair mussed, blanket still slung around your shoulders. Bucky followed a moment later, barefoot, his undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. He looked out of place and yet so settled, as if he’d been here a hundred mornings before.

You went for the kettle, but his hand slid past yours, already reaching for it. “Sit,” he said simply. You gave him a look, but he was already filling it with water, movements efficient, deliberate. You sank into a chair at the table, hiding a smile as you watched him. His broad shoulders bent under your too-small cupboards, his frown of concentration as he searched through your cabinets until he found the tea. He set it down with a grunt, muttering under his breath about “organizing this better next time.”

By the time he brought you a mug, he’d also sliced a piece of the bread you’d bought together, setting it on a plate with a seriousness that made you bite back a laugh. “You don’t have to take care of me every second,” you teased, wrapping your hands around the warm mug.

“Yes, I do,” he answered without hesitation, pulling out the chair opposite you.

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks. “That’s not very normal, you know.”

His gaze sharpened, then softened again, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want normal. I want you safe. I want…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “…I want mornings like this.”

The honesty in his voice stilled you. Your throat felt tight, but you smiled anyway, shy and warm. “Then I guess I’ll let you keep making tea.”

For a long while, you just sat together in the small kitchen—the hum of the kettle, the creak of the chair under his weight, the soft sound of his breathing across the table. Ordinary, but not. Intimate in ways that left your chest aching. When you finally stood to rinse your mug, he was there instantly, taking it from your hands. “I said sit,” he reminded, his mouth curving faintly.

You rolled your eyes but went back to the table. Watching him wash the single mug at your sink, sleeves rolled, shoulders filling the space, you thought that maybe—just maybe—this was what he meant when he said he wanted mornings like this. And you thought, maybe, you did too.

--

It was one of those nights where the air felt restless, heavy with the promise of rain. The shop had closed hours ago, but Bucky lingered like always, walking at your side while the streets shimmered under the faint orange glow of the lamps. The first drop landed on your cheek just as you rounded the corner to your street. You brushed it away, glancing up at the dark sky. “Looks like we’re about to get drenched.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked upward, then back to you. “We’ll be fine. It’s not far.”

But by the time you reached the halfway mark, the drizzle had turned steady, cool drops soaking through your clothes. You let out a startled laugh, clutching the bag you carried tighter to your chest. “So much for fine.”

He caught the sound—the way you laughed, bright and unbothered—and something softened in his face. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” you admitted, tilting your head back to the rain. “Feels kind of… freeing.” He watched you for a long moment, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. The city blurred around you, people darting for cover, but he stayed rooted, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on you. “Bucky?” you asked, blinking the rain from your lashes.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until his hand lifted—hesitant, almost reverent—and cupped your cheek. The rain beaded across his glove, slid down his wrist, but his palm was warm, steady. You froze, heart hammering. “I shouldn’t…” His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want this.”

Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was slow, careful, almost cautious, as though he was giving you every chance to pull away. His lips were warm against yours, tasting faintly of rain and something darker, something entirely him.

For a moment, you were too stunned to move. Then you melted into him, your hand curling lightly into his shirt, your body leaning closer without thought. His thumb brushed along your jaw, grounding, steady, while his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you nearer.

The world narrowed to the rhythm of the rain and the steady thrum of your pulse, the rest of the city fading away. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, eyes burning through the thin veil of water between you. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent all at once.

Your lips curved, trembling but sure. “Maybe I do.” He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, brushing another kiss—softer, fleeting—against your lips before tucking you firmly against his chest. The rain poured harder, but you barely noticed. Not with his arms around you, not with the weight of that kiss still lingering between you.

The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t the silence of strangers or awkwardness. It was charged, heavy with something unspoken—like every step still echoed with the kiss you’d just shared.

Bucky kept you tucked firmly against his side, his arm secure around your waist as though the rain or the night itself might try to take you from him. His head bent closer than usual, his hair damp and curling at the edges, his jaw tight with something you couldn’t quite read.

You caught him looking at you more than once. Not in the way he always did—observant, calculating—but softer. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you’d kissed him back, that you hadn’t pulled away.

By the time you reached your door, the rain had soaked through your clothes, dripping onto the floor as you fumbled with the lock. His hand covered yours, steadying, guiding the key into place. When the door clicked open, you stepped inside, turning back to him.

For the first time since you’d met him, he hesitated on the threshold. His shoulders were squared, his expression composed, but his eyes betrayed him—something raw flickering there. “You should get dry,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse.

“So should you,” you countered softly. “Come in.” For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft finality.

Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever, the air thick with rain and warmth and the weight of what had just happened. You peeled off your damp sweater, tossing it over the back of a chair, and glanced up to find him watching you, his own jacket hanging heavy in his hand. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Finally, you whispered, “Bucky…”

He crossed the space in two strides, his hand lifting again to your cheek. You froze, heart hammering, as his thumb brushed a drop of rain from your skin. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured, though his voice betrayed no regret.

You tilted your face toward his palm. “But you did.”

His lips curved faintly, a hint of something dangerous and tender all at once. “And I’ll do it again if you let me.”

You didn’t answer with words. You rose on your toes, closing the small space between you, your lips meeting his once more. This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper, the careful restraint from before crumbling under the weight of what you both had been holding back. His arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand cradled the back of your head like you were something breakable.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, murmuring your name like it was a vow. And in that moment, with the rain still dripping outside and his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, you knew something had shifted for good.

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the city washed clean, the air sharp and cool when you cracked the window above your sink. Your apartment, though, was warm—warmer still with the weight of what had happened the night before. You padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, still in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. The smell of coffee hit you before you even saw him. Bucky was already there.

He stood at your counter like he owned the space, sleeves rolled, steam curling from the pot he’d set on. His jacket hung neatly on the back of the chair, his damp clothes from the night before draped over the radiator to dry. He glanced up when you entered, and for the first time in all the mornings he’d lingered here, his gaze softened in a way that made your breath catch. “Morning, doll,” he murmured.

You sank into a chair, watching him pour a cup. “You’re getting comfortable.”

He set the mug in front of you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am.”

You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, thick with everything that had changed between you. Every glance lingered a beat too long, every brush of his hand near yours deliberate. When you finished your coffee, you stood to rinse the mug, but his hand caught your wrist lightly. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to,” you said, smiling.

“I want to,” he countered, voice steady, his thumb brushing once across your skin before he released you.

Later, you opened the shop as usual, but the rhythm of the day felt different with him around. He stayed longer than he usually did, claiming a spot in the back to “keep out of the way” but emerging whenever he thought you needed him—hauling a box, adjusting a display, even holding the ladder steady when you climbed up to reach a high shelf. “You know I’ve done this before,” you teased, glancing down at him.

“Not on my watch,” he muttered, knuckles white on the ladder. By the afternoon, he’d drifted closer, sitting on the counter while you arranged a bouquet for a customer. His eyes tracked every motion of your hands, and when you tied the final ribbon, he murmured, “blue suits you better than those roses.”

You blinked up at him, flustered. “That wasn’t for me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low. “You’d make it look better.” Your cheeks warmed, and you quickly turned back to the flowers.

That evening, after you locked the door, he walked you home again. The air was still damp, the sky clear now, but his hand stayed at your back the entire way. At your door, instead of pulling back like usual, he lingered. “Let me in,” he said softly. Not a command this time, not quite. You hesitated only a moment before opening the door. Inside, you both shed your coats and shoes, the small apartment wrapping around you in its familiar warmth. He stood close, too close, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

For the first time, you didn’t look away. And though he didn’t kiss you again right then, you both knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. It was because the night before had changed everything—and you were both still learning how to live in that new space.

---

The first time he left, it felt strange. Bucky had woven himself into your days without question—closing the shop with you, carrying groceries, claiming the corner of your couch like it was his by right. He didn’t linger on the edges of your world anymore; he stepped directly into it.

But then one morning, he kissed your forehead at the door and said quietly, “I’ve got business I can’t put off any longer.” His eyes lingered on you like he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll be gone a while.”

You didn’t ask how long. You’d learned by now that some answers weren’t yours to demand. You only nodded, letting him go. When Bucky walked back into his penthouse, the silence struck him like a fist. It was too still, too immaculate, the air faintly cold from being shut up for days. Natasha was already there, perched on the arm of a chair like she’d been waiting. “Thought you’d moved out,” she said dryly, arching a brow.

He shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the back of the sofa. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the fresh bouquets lined along the window ledge. Some were old—petals curling, stems leaning—but the colors still painted the room in soft life. Your flowers. “Hard not to notice,” she said. “Your fortress looks like a greenhouse.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on the fading blooms, something tight twisting in his chest. He’d meant to bring them home, to replace them, to keep them fresh—but the shop, the walks, your laugh, your soft hands pressing tea into his grip… it had been easier to stay in your world than return to this empty one. Natasha’s voice pulled him back. “The meeting last week—you missed it. Again.”

He grunted. “Send them my apologies.”

“You don’t have apologies big enough for the people you’re brushing off.” She stood, crossing her arms. “You’re slipping, Barnes.” He shot her a look, sharp enough to silence most. But Natasha only raised a brow, unshaken. “What happened to you?” she asked, quieter now. “You used to live for this. Now I have to drag you back here by the collar.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He poured himself a drink instead, his eyes drifting once more to the flowers. One in particular caught his attention—a small blue bloom tucked into a vase. You’d given it to him, shy and smiling, saying you’d picked it because it matched his eyes. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m not slipping.”

“Then what do you call it?” Natasha pressed.

He looked at her then, his expression sharp, dangerous—but his voice was low, certain. “I call it finally having something worth more than this.”

Natasha studied him for a long beat, then huffed a quiet laugh. “God help her if she doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” Bucky said nothing. His eyes lingered on the blue flowers, softer now, before he turned back to the empty penthouse.

Bucky didn’t last the night. He’d tried—sitting in the penthouse office, staring at the stack of reports Natasha had dropped on his desk, the kind of paperwork he used to burn through without blinking. But the silence pressed in, suffocating. The city sprawled below him, restless and alive, but all he could think about was the warmth of your little apartment. The way your voice softened when you teased him, the way your hand lingered on his wrist when you passed him tea, the way you’d kissed him in the rain.

He set the pen down, unfinished page abandoned, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes found the vase on the windowsill again—the flowers you’d given him. The petals were curling now, the blue fading, but the sight of them punched straight through the cold shell he wore in this place. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Ten minutes later, he was gone.

It was well past midnight when the knock came at your door. You blinked awake, heart thudding, but you knew who it was before you even checked. The weight of his presence pressed through the wood like it always did.

You opened the door to find him there—damp from the mist outside, hair mussed, eyes burning with something fierce and restless. He didn’t say a word at first, just looked at you, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starved. “Bucky?” you whispered, confused but soft. “It’s late.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, voice rough. The honesty in it knocked the air right out of you.

You stepped aside without thinking, and he slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He stood in your living room like he was both too big for the space and yet exactly where he belonged. His jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, but his gaze was only on you. “I thought you said you had business,” you murmured.

“I did.” He exhaled, a sharp sound, shaking his head. “But none of it mattered. Not when all I could think about was you.”

Your breath caught, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your chest. “You came all this way in the middle of the night… just to see me?”

His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I came because I needed to know you were here. Safe. Real.” The vulnerability under his words left you starstruck. For once, the weight he carried wasn’t hidden behind commands or possessive glares—it was just him, raw and unguarded, standing in your apartment like the man he didn’t show the world. And when you stepped closer, reaching out to brush the damp from his sleeve, his hand caught yours, holding it against his chest like an anchor. “I don’t care how late it is,” he said, voice low. “If you’ll have me, I’ll come back every night.”

The clock on your wall ticked quietly, the only sound filling the space between you. Bucky still hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing absently against your skin as though he couldn’t stand to stop touching you. His presence was steady, grounding—but you could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the way his shoulders slumped despite his stubbornness. You rubbed at your eyes, fighting the pull of sleep. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small, rough with drowsiness.

He tilted his head, gaze softening instantly. “Yeah, doll?”

“Carry me back to bed?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them, half a murmur, half a plea.

For a heartbeat, his expression flickered—surprise, something darker, something warmer. Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into the kind of smile that always made your heart stutter. “You got it.” Before you could say anything more, his arms were around you. He scooped you up easily, strong and certain, bridal style once again. You gave a sleepy little sound of protest, more out of instinct than anything else, your arms looping around his neck as you curled against him. “You like makin’ me do this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, almost teasing as he carried you through the dim apartment.

“Maybe,” you whispered, smiling faintly against his shoulder.

The bedroom door creaked open, and he nudged it wider with his foot. The room was still warm from earlier, the blankets rumpled. He lowered you onto the mattress with infinite care, like you were something fragile that might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.

But when you caught his wrist before he could pull back, your voice soft but certain, his entire body stilled. “Stay with me?”

His eyes flicked to yours—blue, burning, conflicted—and then he nodded once. “Always.”

He toed off his boots, shed his jacket, and slid onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between you vanishing when his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

You sighed, nestling into him, your hand curling around his forearm where it lay heavy across you. His breath was warm against your hair, steady and sure, but you could still feel the tension in him, the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear. Sleep tugged at you again, and just before you slipped under, you whispered, “feels right… when you’re here.”

He pressed his lips to the back of your head, a kiss so soft you almost missed it. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.” And for the first time in a long time—for both of you—you fell asleep without a trace of fear.

The morning crept in soft and unhurried, sunlight spilling across your bedroom in pale strips. You stirred slowly, awareness tugging at you in waves—the warmth pressed against your back, the steady weight of an arm looped around your waist, the faint tickle of breath brushing against your hair. For a moment, you simply lay there, cocooned in the quiet. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against you, solid and reassuring, his arm heavy but comforting, like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep.

When you shifted slightly, he made a low sound in his throat, not quite awake but not fully asleep either. His arm tightened, pulling you closer, his face burying against the curve of your neck. The bristle of his jaw grazed your skin, and you bit back a laugh. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice still husky from sleep.

“Mm,” he rumbled, voice low, heavy with drowsiness. “Stay still. Too early.” You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into him. But when you wriggled again—just to tease—he huffed, pressing a kiss against your shoulder, lazy and soft. “Thought I told you to stay put,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, this time slower.

Your breath caught, warmth spreading through you. “You’re not usually this… affectionate in the morning,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a faint laugh, the sound vibrating against your back. “Don’t usually get mornings like this.” Another kiss followed, lower along your shoulder. Then another, featherlight at the back of your neck.

You giggled quietly, tucking your chin as if you could hide from the press of his lips. “That tickles.”

“Good,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your skin just enough to make you squeak. His arm tightened again when you shifted, holding you flush against him. “You’re not getting away.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you let out a breathy laugh, turning your head slightly to glance back at him. His eyes were half-lidded, blue softened by sleep but burning with something tender. The sight made your stomach flip. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.

“Maybe,” he said easily, brushing his nose against your hair. “But you’re mine.”

The words should’ve sounded possessive, but in his voice—low, almost reverent—they were softer, gentler, like a confession instead of a claim. You didn’t argue. Not when his lips found yours a moment later, lazy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. And for once, maybe he did.

The lazy morning stretched long, unhurried, as though the world outside had decided to pause just for you. Bucky didn’t let you go right away. Every time you shifted like you might get up, his arm cinched tighter, his lips brushing your temple in silent protest. Eventually, though, your stomach growled loud enough to make you both laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, finally loosening his hold. “But only because you’re hungry.”

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging him along behind you by the hand, which he allowed with surprising docility for a man who barked orders at everyone else. He leaned against the counter while you rummaged through the cupboards, watching with that intent gaze that always made you feel both flustered and oddly cherished. “Eggs, toast… maybe fruit?” you mumbled.

“I’ll do it,” he said, already reaching for the pan.

You tried to argue, but he shot you a look over his shoulder—the kind that dared you to push back. You rolled your eyes but smiled, sinking into a chair as he worked. He wasn’t polished, but he was efficient, moving with the kind of quiet precision that said he’d cooked for himself far too many times in silence.

When he set a plate in front of you—scrambled eggs, toast buttered just the way you liked—you blinked, warmth spreading in your chest. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm.

The meal wasn’t fancy, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you ate together at your tiny table. He asked about your week, listened with rapt attention as you rambled about flowers and customers, and even smirked when you teased him about hogging the pepper.

The rest of the day unfurled lazily. You cleaned the shop’s ledger at the table while he stretched out on the couch, half-reading, half-watching you. At some point, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with tea, setting the mug by your elbow without a word. Later, you both ended up tackling laundry, and you laughed when he insisted on folding with military precision. “You’re ridiculous,” you teased, holding up a perfectly squared shirt.

“Efficient,” he corrected, lips twitching.

By mid-afternoon, sunlight spilled through the windows, and you both ended up back on the couch. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest while his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He pressed the occasional kiss to your hair, to your temple, slow and lazy, as though he couldn’t help himself. One kiss landed just behind your ear, ticklish enough that you giggled, turning to nudge at him. “Bucky…”

He smirked faintly, kissing you again, this time softer, lips lingering against your skin. “What?”

“You’re… distracting.”

“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling lightly against your hair before kissing you again, this time catching your lips in a slow, lazy press that left your cheeks warm.

You tried to hide your smile against his chest, but he felt it anyway, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your arm. The day melted into evening like that—quiet, ordinary, yet threaded with something so tender it made your chest ache.

Evening settled gently, the last of the sunlight fading from your windows, and for a while it felt like the day might slip into night without disturbance. You and Bucky lingered on the couch, your head nestled on his shoulder, his arm looped comfortably around you. His thumb traced lazy arcs against your arm while your favorite show played faintly in the background.

It was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, because the knock at your door startled both of you. Bucky’s arm tightened around you instantly, his body going taut beneath your cheek. The easy warmth that had colored the whole day dropped from his face, replaced by sharp alertness. “Stay here,” he murmured, voice low, already rising to his feet.

You frowned, but before you could protest, he’d crossed the room. He opened the door a crack, blocking the entrance with his body. Natasha’s voice slipped in, calm but cutting. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

Your brows shot up, but you stayed where you were, listening. Bucky didn’t move aside, didn’t open the door further. “Not an accident.”

“You’re expected tonight,” she said, and though her tone was casual, there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “You’ve dodged the last two. That’s not an option anymore.”

“I said I’d handle it,” Bucky bit out, jaw clenched.

From your angle on the couch, you could see Natasha tilt her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t handle it from here.”

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. For the first time, you realized just how little you knew about what “business” meant in his world. Bucky’s body blocked you from the door, but the tension in his shoulders told you enough. “I’ll come,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Tomorrow night.”

Natasha arched a brow, then glanced past him toward you. Just for a second, her eyes softened with something unreadable before she nodded once. “Tomorrow,” she confirmed, and then she was gone.

Bucky shut the door with a quiet finality, leaning against it for a moment before turning back to you. His expression had softened again, but not all the way. There was still a shadow there, still a reminder of the part of him you didn’t see when he was folding laundry or kissing your shoulder in the morning. You sat up a little, hesitant. “Was that… work?”

He crossed the room, his jaw tight, and sank back onto the couch beside you. His hand found yours almost instinctively, like he needed the contact to ground himself. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Work.”

You studied him, unsure whether to push, but the look in his eyes stopped you. Not because it was cold—but because it wasn’t. It was protective, desperate, like he’d do anything to keep you from the parts of his life that led Natasha to your door.

So instead of asking, you curled against him again, letting your fingers twine with his. “Tomorrow,” you murmured softly, repeating his promise. His arm wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing your temple. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. But the way he held you, fierce and unwilling to let go, told you that if it were up to him, he’d never leave your apartment again.

The night he finally went, the shift in him was immediate. You’d gotten used to a certain softness around him—the lazy mornings, his arm around your waist as you drifted through the farmer’s market, the way his mouth curved when you teased him. But when he stepped out of your apartment that evening, dressed sharp and dark, there was nothing soft about him. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his whole body coiled tight like a man walking into battle.

You tried not to worry. He’d promised he would be back. Still, when you finally drifted to sleep on the couch, the clock ticking toward midnight, the sound of a knock at your door jolted you awake. You knew it was him before you even opened it.

Bucky stood in the hall, shoulders broad, coat collar turned up against the chill. His hair was damp with mist, but it wasn’t the weather that made your heart lurch—it was his hands. His knuckles were split raw, streaked with blood, some dried, some fresh. His face was drawn, exhaustion and something darker carved deep into his features. “Bucky,” you whispered, reaching for him before you could stop yourself.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past you into the warmth of the apartment. But the words rang hollow.

You shut the door quickly and followed him into the living room. He dropped heavily onto the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head bowed. For a moment, he just breathed, the weight of the night settling on him like armor he couldn’t shed. You crouched in front of him, your hand hovering near his without quite touching. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”

His eyes lifted, blue and tired, searching yours. Something in them softened, cracked, and for a moment he looked less like the untouchable man everyone feared and more like the one who’d spent the morning teasing you with kisses. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”

“It matters to me.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tight, but he didn’t pull away when you reached for his hands. Carefully, gently, you guided them into your lap, your thumbs brushing over the torn skin. You fetched the first aid kit you’d kept tucked away since the first time you’d seen him like this. As you worked, dabbing at the blood, his gaze never left you. His eyes followed every movement of your hands, every soft touch, every careful breath. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he murmured after a long silence.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze steadily. “Maybe not. But I want to.”

His breath hitched, something raw flickering across his face. He leaned forward then, his forehead resting against yours, the distance between you vanishing. “Sweetheart…” His voice broke low, rough. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”

Your fingers tightened around his, careful not to hurt him but unwilling to let go. “That’s not your choice to make, Bucky.”

For a long moment, you stayed like that—forehead to forehead, his battered hands in yours, the room hushed around you. And though he never said what had happened out there, the way he clung to you told you enough.

Bucky was quieter than usual after you finished bandaging his knuckles. His eyes tracked every movement you made, like he was memorizing them, but he didn’t speak. Not when you cleaned up the kit, not when you coaxed him toward your bedroom. When you tugged gently at his hand, he followed without resistance. His shoulders looked heavier than they had all week, but the set of his jaw eased the moment you reached the bedroom door.

You crawled into bed first, expecting him to take his usual place at your side, but when you looked back, he was still standing there. His eyes softened, shadows clinging to the edges of his expression. “C’mere,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “I’m already here.”

He shook his head once, low and deliberate. He sat on the mattress, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. His hand patted his chest. “Here. Want you here.” Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks. The request was tender, almost vulnerable, but it was also so very him—not asking, but needing, like the idea of you saying no had never crossed his mind. Still, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed up, settling carefully between his legs, your back against his chest at first. But when his arms wrapped firmly around you, pulling you closer, you shifted, turning just enough to lay half across him, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, faster than it should’ve been for a man trying to rest. His chin dipped, lips brushing your hair as he murmured, “That’s it. Stay right there.”

You shifted shyly, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “You’re comfortable like this?”

His arms tightened, pressing you flush against him. “More than comfortable.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, your body melting into his, his warmth sinking into you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. The tension in his frame slowly unwound, his muscles relaxing bit by bit as though your weight anchored him back to the earth.

When you tilted your head slightly, you found his eyes already on you, blue and intent even in the dim light. Without a word, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours in the gentlest, laziest kiss you’d ever felt—more a question than a demand, more a sigh than a claim. You smiled against his mouth, shy and soft, and he kissed you again, this one lingering, his thumb tracing idle circles at your waist. You giggled when his stubble scratched your cheek, and his lips curved faintly against yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low and rough, “don’t giggle when I’m trying to kiss you.”

You flushed, hiding your face against his chest, and he chuckled quietly, his mouth pressing into your hair instead. It wasn’t long before your breaths synced again, the weight of the day pulling you toward sleep. But this time, when his body stilled beneath you and his chest rose and fell in the deep rhythm of rest, you knew he was holding you not out of fear, but because—for once—he could.

---

The fight started small—like most things between you and Bucky did. It was late afternoon, and you’d decided to run down the block to grab milk before closing the shop. Harmless, ordinary. When you returned, juggling the bag in one hand, Bucky was already waiting at the door, his expression sharp, his shoulders rigid. “Don’t do that again.”

You blinked, startled by the clipped tone. “Do what?”

“Leave without telling me.” His voice was low, edged, the kind that made most people freeze.

You frowned, setting the bag down on the counter. “Bucky, I was gone ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes is long enough for something to happen,” he shot back, stepping closer. “You can’t just walk out without me knowing where you are.”

Your chest tightened—not with fear, but with frustration. You’d had this conversation with him before. The way he framed things like orders, the way he seemed to assume he had the right to tell you what you could and couldn’t do. You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. “You didn’t ask me, Bucky. You told me.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “So? I don’t want you at risk. I’m not gonna apologize for that.”

“That’s not the point.” You stepped closer too, your voice rising just slightly. “I’ve told you before—I need you to ask me. Not command me like—like I don’t have a choice.” For the first time, he faltered. His mouth opened, then shut again, his jaw tightening. You could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to push back this hard. Your heart hammered, but you pressed on, quieter now, more vulnerable. “If you want me to tell you where I’m going… then ask me. I’ll tell you. Gladly. But don’t bark orders at me, Bucky. That’s not how this works.”

The silence stretched, thick with tension. His hands flexed at his sides, metal fingers clenching once before he exhaled slowly. “No one talks to me like that,” he admitted finally, his voice rough. “No one pushes back.”

You softened, your frustration edged with something gentler. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need someone who will.”

His eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering there—anger, yes, but also respect. And maybe, just maybe, a trace of relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful. “…Will you at least tell me next time?”

You bit back a smile, though your cheeks warmed. “See? Was that so hard?”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. And though the tension didn’t vanish completely, you knew you’d broken through something important—that he’d actually heard you. And Bucky, for all his control, didn’t know what to do with that.

The shop was already locked for the night, the ledger closed, and the soft glow of your single lamp lit the room. You’d expected Bucky to be restless after your argument—brooding, maybe even distant—but instead he lingered in the doorway, watching you curl up on the couch with a book.

When you looked up, you caught that same flicker from earlier—the one that said he’d actually listened. He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the couch. For a moment he just sat there, silent, his hands flexing once on his knees. Then, in a voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him, he asked, “can I hold you?”

Your breath caught. The simple question, asked instead of commanded, made your chest warm. You set your book aside and smiled softly. “Yes.” Relief flickered in his eyes. He shifted back, opening his arms. You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees bracketing his thighs, your arms looping around his shoulders. He drew you in immediately, strong arms banding around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’d been starving for this.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just curled into him, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His breath stirred your hair, slow and deep, as though the tension had finally bled from him.

His hand slid up and down your back, not possessive now, but gentle, grounding. When he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your temple, you giggled quietly, shyer than you meant to be. “What?” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin.

“Nothing,” you whispered, though your cheeks warmed. “Just… it tickles.”

His lips curved against your hair. “Good.” He kissed you again, lower this time, at your cheekbone. “You’re sweet when you giggle.”

You hid your face against his shoulder, and his low laugh rumbled through his chest. “Don’t hide from me, doll,” he said softly, shifting to tip your chin up with his finger. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. “I like seeing you happy.”

The moment stretched, warm and quiet, until your lashes fluttered and you leaned forward, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw. His arms tightened, his breath catching, but instead of claiming more, he held you steady, letting you settle against him again. And there, curled in his lap, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he’d heard you after all.

---

It was a quiet afternoon in the shop, the kind where the sun streamed lazily through the front windows and you could hear the faint hum of the city outside. You were trimming stems at the counter when Bucky walked in, his presence filling the room the way it always did—solid, steady, magnetic.

But instead of his usual lean against the counter or wordless offering of help, he paused. His hands slid into his pockets, his eyes scanning the flowers before finally settling on you. There was something different in his gaze—not sharp or commanding, but hesitant. “Doll,” he said quietly, and when you looked up, you noticed the faint tension in his jaw. “Can I ask you something?”

You smiled faintly, setting down the shears. “Of course.”

He shifted, almost like he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “There’s a gallery opening. Tomorrow night. I was thinking…” He trailed off, then forced the words out, softer now. “Would you come with me?”

The question caught you off guard—not because of the invitation itself, but because of the way he asked. Not a command, not an expectation. A question. You tilted your head, curious. “A gallery?”

“Yeah,” he said, lips twitching faintly. “Art. Paintings. You like that kind of thing, don’t you?”

Your chest warmed. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” His voice was low, steady, but his eyes flickered away for a moment, almost shy. “It’s… not really my scene. But I figured maybe you’d like it. And I’d like to take you.”

Your heart skipped. For all his power, his control, this moment felt different. Vulnerable. Human. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’d love to.”

Relief flashed across his face, subtle but undeniable. His hand covered yours, warm and solid, and he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll make a night of it.”

The promise in his voice lingered long after, and for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about keeping you safe or close. This was him trying—awkwardly, earnestly—to give you something that felt like a real date. Something normal. Something yours.

---

The night of the gallery opening, the city felt different—brighter, sharper, like it was holding its breath. Bucky picked you up just as he promised. You’d taken care with your appearance—clean lines, a favorite dress, a touch of perfume—but as soon as you stepped out of the car and saw the crowd, you realized it wasn’t the same kind of “dressed up.”

Everyone else glided past in tailored suits, glittering jewelry, gowns that looked like they’d cost more than your entire rent. The women’s heels clicked against the marble entrance, men’s watches caught the light, champagne flutes sparkled in elegant hands. They looked polished, untouchable. A different world entirely. And you? You felt… small. Pretty, yes, but simple.

You faltered just a little at the entrance, but Bucky noticed immediately. His hand slid firmly into yours, anchoring you. “You’re perfect,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. His eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. “Don’t even think about it, doll. They’ve got nothing on you.”

Heat crept up your neck, but you nodded, letting him lead you inside. The gallery itself was stunning—high ceilings, gilded light fixtures, and walls lined with canvases that demanded silence. The crowd murmured in low, cultured tones, laughter muffled behind polite smiles. It felt like stepping into another universe.

You noticed quickly how people looked at him. Heads dipped in acknowledgment, eyes flicking toward him as he passed. A few men approached with polite greetings, their voices threaded with deference. Women gave him longer looks, curious, measuring.

You didn’t know their names, but you could feel it: he belonged here. Even if he stood a little apart from the crowd, he carried himself with an authority that made people move out of his way without realizing they had.

And then there was you, clinging to his hand. For a moment, you worried you looked out of place—until you caught him watching you. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. The look in his eyes made you forget the polished crowd, the crystal chandeliers, the undercurrent of wealth and power humming through the room.

“This one,” you whispered after a while, pausing before a painting of blue-gray waves crashing against dark rocks. The colors pulled you in, fierce and haunting, yet strangely calm. “I like it.”

Bucky leaned close, his hand still around yours, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Because it looks like my eyes?”

You flushed instantly, glancing up at him in surprise. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he’d said it on purpose. “Maybe,” you admitted shyly, but your smile gave you away.

He chuckled softly, his arm sliding around your waist. And just like that, the crowded room, the expensive clothes, the stares—they all faded. Because no matter what world he belonged to, in that moment, he was looking at you.

The gallery opening stretched on, the crowd shifting like a tide of silk and crystal. Every so often, someone approached Bucky—men in sharp suits, women draped in jewels, people who clearly knew who he was. Their greetings were subtle, respectful, often accompanied by a dip of the head or the briefest handshake. You noticed how quickly their eyes slid to you afterward, measuring, curious, but no one dared to say much beyond polite murmurs.

Bucky’s arm stayed around your waist through it all, his touch steady, grounding. He answered their greetings in clipped tones, a man who knew he didn’t need to waste words. The difference between how they treated him and how you knew him in the quiet of your apartment made your head spin.

At one point, a server passed with a tray of champagne. You hesitated, unsure if you should take one, but Bucky plucked a glass easily and offered it to you, his lips twitching faintly at your shyness. “Go on, doll. You’re allowed.” You took it, fingers brushing his, and felt oddly proud when you managed a small sip without feeling out of place. He leaned down, his voice low and meant only for you. “You doing okay?”

Your heart fluttered—not just at the words, but at the way he asked them. Quiet, careful, not assuming. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

For a while, you walked together through the halls, pausing before a few pieces of art. He didn’t say much about them, but you could feel his eyes on you as you spoke, listening as though your thoughts mattered more than the art itself.

And then, almost before you knew it, he was steering you away from the noise, out onto a balcony strung with soft lights. The city sprawled below, glittering, alive. Out here, the hum of conversation dimmed, replaced by the quiet night air. You set your half-empty glass on the railing, exhaling slowly. “They all know you,” you said softly, more observation than question.

Bucky glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “They know of me.”

The correction made your stomach flip. You turned toward him, searching his face. “And what should I know?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand reached for yours instead, fingers lacing with deliberate slowness. “Just that I wanted you here with me. That’s all that matters tonight.”

The way he said it—firm, certain, yet soft enough to make your chest ache—kept you from pressing further. You squeezed his hand, letting the quiet stretch between you, filled only by the glow of the city lights. When you finally left the gallery, his hand never let go of yours.

The car ride home was silent but not heavy. His hand rested over yours the entire drive, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your skin, and every so often his eyes flicked to you, as if reassuring himself you were still there.

It wasn’t until he walked you upstairs, the city hushed around you, that he finally broke the silence. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said simply, voice low, the words meant only for you.

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you smiled shyly, your fingers tightening around his. “Thank you for bringing me.” His lips curved faintly, and for once, the powerful, untouchable man from the gallery was gone. It was just Bucky—your Bucky—looking at you like you’d given him more than he’d ever thought to ask for.

---

Bucky’s office was dim, the blinds drawn against the daylight. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, though a closer look would’ve shown smudges of ink on his knuckles where he’d signed contracts and notes. He’d spent the whole morning hunched over the desk, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp and clipped as he handled one matter after another. The work never stopped; it simply waited for him to return.

Natasha leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze steady on him as he hung up the latest call. She’d been patient—quiet even—but her silence was its own kind of weight. When he finally looked up, she pushed off the wall. “You’ve been slipping,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been managing.”

“Managing?” Her brow arched, cool and unimpressed. “You’ve been avoiding meetings. You skipped the last sit-down with the heads. You didn’t show up to the import check. That’s not managing, Bucky. That’s negligence.”

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift of his weight. “Everything that needed to be handled was handled.”

“Not by you.” Natasha’s tone sharpened. “And people notice. You can’t disappear into that flower shop every other day and expect them not to talk.” At the mention, his eyes flickered, a spark of something softer breaking through. Natasha caught it instantly. “There it is,” she said, quieter now. “You’ve been different. Lighter. Hell, even I noticed. But you can’t keep living in both worlds without one swallowing the other.”

Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against the desk. “She doesn’t know.”

“And she shouldn’t,” Natasha countered. “Not unless you’re ready to bring her in. Because if she stays in the dark, she’s a liability. Not because she’s weak—because she’s unprepared. And unprepared means vulnerable.”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The thought of dragging you into his world, of letting you see the blood and steel behind the quiet moments you shared—it twisted something in his chest. He wanted to keep you untouched. Untouched and his.

Natasha’s voice softened, though it never lost its edge. “You’re at a crossroads, Bucky. Either you pull back, or you let her see who you really are. But you can’t keep her in the middle. That’s where it gets dangerous.”

His eyes narrowed, jaw working, but he didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t have an answer. Because she was right. The silence stretched, heavy as the air between them. Then finally, his voice came out rough, low. “I can’t let her go.”

Natasha tilted her head, unreadable. “Then you’d better figure out how to keep her safe. Before someone else decides she’s the best way to get to you.” The words hung in the room like smoke, impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt something he didn’t allow himself often: fear. Not for himself, but for you.

That night, you noticed something was different the moment Bucky walked through your apartment door. Usually, when he came to you after a day of work, there was a rhythm—sometimes tired, sometimes sharp-edged, but always softened the moment he saw you. Tonight, though, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual. His coat stayed on, his posture stiff, his eyes shadowed in a way that made your chest tighten. “Hey,” you said softly, trying to draw him in. “Long day?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. He shut the door quietly, almost too quietly for a man who usually moved with certainty. His gaze flicked over you—like he was making sure you were really there—before he crossed the room.

When he pulled you into his arms, it wasn’t like before. Not just affection, not even just need—it was desperation. His grip was tight, almost crushing, his face buried in your hair. You froze for a moment, startled, before sliding your arms around him, holding on just as firmly. “Bucky,” you whispered, trying to lean back enough to see his face. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed against your temple, and you could feel his heart hammering through his chest. Finally, in a low rasp, he said, “you don’t understand how dangerous it is.”

Your breath caught. You’d always known, in some quiet corner of yourself, that there was more to him than the man who carried your groceries and folded your laundry with military precision. But hearing it now, in that tone—it was different. “Dangerous… for me?” you asked carefully.

“For you,” he confirmed, his hands tightening on your waist as though to prove his point. “Being with me… it paints a target on you. And if anyone ever—” His words cut off, sharp, like the thought itself was unbearable.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, softly, you said, “and if you left? If you pulled away?”

He finally lifted his head then, his eyes finding yours. They were raw, unguarded, and the sight of them nearly broke you. “I can’t,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’ve tried to think about it. Tried to imagine it. But I can’t, doll. I can’t stay away from you.”

Something in you cracked open at the confession, equal parts fear and tenderness. You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over the stubble there. “Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t stay away. Just… let me be here. With you.”

His breath shook, his metal hand lifting to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. He leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes shutting for a moment. When he opened them again, his voice was steadier, though still low. “If I do this—if I keep you close—it means you’ll see things. Parts of me, parts of my life… I’ve kept them from you on purpose.”

You swallowed hard but nodded. “Then show me. I’d rather see than be left in the dark.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, searching, as if weighing the truth of your words. And then, finally, he exhaled, pulling you back against his chest. “Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “But once you’re in, sweetheart… there’s no going back.”

And though his tone carried warning, his arms held you like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

---

It started with a question you hadn’t expected. A few days had passed since that night in your apartment—the night Bucky had admitted he couldn’t let you go. He hadn’t said much more about it, but you felt it in the way he hovered a little closer, in how often his hand found yours, in the quiet determination that lingered in his eyes.

So when he showed up at your shop one afternoon, leaning against the counter with that intent look of his, you thought he was there just to keep you company. Instead, he said, “there’s a gala this weekend. I want you to come with me.”

You blinked. “A gala?”

“Big one. Everyone who matters will be there.” He didn’t elaborate who everyone was, but the weight behind his words made it clear. Then, softer, “I want them to see you with me.” The warmth in your chest almost made you forget to breathe. Official. That’s what it sounded like.

He didn’t waste time. The next day, you found yourself swept into a world you’d never touched before. The tailor’s boutique looked more like an art gallery than a store—marble floors, velvet curtains, rows of gowns shimmering under soft lights. You hovered near the entrance at first, your fingers twitching nervously at your sides. The place smelled faintly of leather and perfume, expensive in a way that made you want to keep your hands tucked safely away.

Bucky, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease. He guided you forward with a hand at the small of your back, his voice steady as he spoke to the attendant. “Something for her. For Saturday night.”

The attendant’s eyes widened just slightly, recognition sparking as she nodded quickly. Within minutes, you were being ushered into a fitting room with armfuls of gowns in every shade and style. The first dress was sleek, dark, clinging in ways that made you self-conscious. You stepped out hesitantly, smoothing your hands over the fabric. Bucky’s eyes lifted instantly. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe for a moment. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, before he finally said, “beautiful.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “It’s… too much, maybe?”

“Not enough,” he countered smoothly, his voice rougher than usual.

You ducked back into the fitting room, your pulse racing. The next dress was brighter, softer, with delicate embroidery along the bodice. When you stepped out this time, he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. “This one’s good,” he said, but his tone wasn’t casual—it was thoughtful, assessing, almost protective. “But I want something that makes them stare.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “That sounds… intimidating.”

“Good,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “They should be intimidated.”

By the third dress—a deep navy that shimmered when you moved—you felt the air change. Bucky stood this time, crossing the room in a few strides. His hand lifted, brushing along the fabric at your waist, not quite touching you, but close enough to make your breath catch. “This one,” he said, voice low and certain. “Matches your eyes. And when you walk in with me wearing this, no one’ll dare forget it.”

You giggled softly, nerves twisting with warmth. “Bucky… it probably costs more than my whole apartment.”

His lips curved faintly, but his gaze stayed steady. “You let me worry about that.” And in that moment, as the silk whispered around your legs and his hand hovered at your side, you realized: this wasn’t just a dress. This was a declaration.

The attendant had just whisked the navy gown away to be pressed and boxed when something caught your eye. Off to the side, away from the racks of shimmering evening wear, hung a small collection of lighter dresses—soft fabrics, airy shapes. The kind of thing you’d wear in the shop on a warm day, not at some glittering gala.

One in particular made you pause. A simple sundress, pale with little embroidered details along the hem. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t dripping with jewels or stitched with silk. It was… sweet. Something you could actually see yourself wearing, not just trying on for someone else’s world. The attendant followed your gaze. “That’s from a quieter line,” she explained with a professional smile. “Not evening wear, but if you’d like to try it, you can.”

You startled slightly, glancing back at Bucky, who was still flipping idly through a lookbook the attendant had left with him. He looked up at the hesitation in your posture. “Try it,” he said simply. Not a command this time, but a suggestion—an invitation.

You hesitated. “I couldn’t… it’s not—”

His brow arched, the faintest curve of a smirk playing on his lips. “Doll, if you want to try it, you try it.”

So you did. The fabric was soft against your skin, the cut loose but flattering. When you stepped out, you felt lighter somehow, less like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world and more like yourself. Bucky’s gaze lifted immediately. For once, he didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. His eyes roamed slowly over the dress, then back to your face. You fidgeted under the weight of it, tugging gently at the skirt. “It’s simple. Too simple, probably. Not for…” You gestured vaguely to the opulent boutique around you. “This.”

Still, he didn’t say anything. Just stood, crossing the room with quiet steps until he was right in front of you. His hand reached out, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip, his thumb pressing lightly into the material. “You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, almost frustrated with himself. “You look like you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… good?”

“It’s perfect.” His voice was rougher than usual, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt. “The gala needs the navy gown. But this one? This one’s for me.”

Your heart fluttered, and before you could argue—before you could even tell him you couldn’t possibly afford something like this—he was already glancing over his shoulder at the attendant. “We’ll take both.”

Your mouth fell open. “Bucky—”

His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, silencing the protest before it could fully form. His eyes softened, that steady, unyielding gaze fixed only on you. “Let me.”

And standing there, wrapped in a simple sundress in a boutique that reeked of money and power, you realized it wasn’t about the price. It was about him wanting you to have something that made you feel yourself, even in his world.

Bucky didn’t let you change out of the sundress. The attendant had neatly packaged the navy gown, slid it into a garment bag, and made a note of the transaction, but Bucky had waved her off when she offered to take the sundress back to the fitting rooms. “She’s keeping it on,” he’d said, casual but with the kind of finality no one ever argued with.

And so you found yourself leaving the boutique hand-in-hand with him, the evening air brushing against your legs as the hem of the simple dress swayed with each step. It felt strange—like you were supposed to be polished and expensive after a store like that, but instead you felt like yourself. More than that, you felt like his.

He opened the car door for you, but instead of giving the driver an address for home, he leaned down and murmured, “let’s take a walk first.”

The driver pulled away a few blocks later, leaving you and Bucky in a quieter part of the city. The streets were lined with little shops and cafés, the kind that glowed warmly in the evening. He guided you toward one tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall, the kind of place you might’ve gone with friends—if you’d had the time.

Inside, the café smelled like coffee and sugar, the hum of conversation gentle and low. No one looked twice at you. No one cared that you weren’t in glittering gowns or pressed suits. And Bucky—your Bucky, who had filled a marble-floored boutique like he owned the world—looked almost out of place here. His broad shoulders crowded the small table, his hands too large around the delicate porcelain cup. But the way he watched you, leaning forward as though you were the only thing that mattered, made the rest fade away. “You like it here?” he asked, his voice softer than the quiet jazz playing in the background.

You smiled, stirring your drink absently. “It feels… normal.”

“Normal,” he repeated, like the word was foreign on his tongue. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Guess I could get used to that.”

For a while, you sat together in that small café, talking about nothing and everything. He asked you about your favorite flowers—not the ones that sold best, but the ones you secretly kept for yourself. You teased him about how he never drank his coffee until it was practically cold. He listened, his hand finding yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in steady circles.

And when you left, walking slowly down the street, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop at the little bookstore window, linger at the flower stall, laugh at the sight of a dog sticking its head out of a taxi. At one point, you tugged his hand without realizing, pulling him closer to something that caught your eye—a display of postcards painted with watercolor scenes of the city.

He didn’t comment on the gesture, but you felt the weight of his gaze as you flipped through them, your fingers brushing over the colors. When you finally slipped back into the car, the sundress soft against your skin and a paper bag of postcards in your lap, Bucky leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You looked beautiful in the gowns,” he murmured, his tone low, almost possessive. “But this? This is what I’ll remember.”

And you realized it wasn’t the marble floors, or the glittering chandeliers, or the navy silk that made the night feel important. It was him. It was this.

---

The gala was nothing like the gallery. From the moment you stepped into the ballroom, it was clear this was a different level of opulence entirely. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light across the space, polished marble gleamed beneath your heels, and the air hummed with the low thrum of strings from a live orchestra. Guests glided past in gowns stitched with gemstones, tuxedos pressed to perfection, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.

You’d taken extra care tonight, wearing the deep navy gown Bucky had chosen for you, the one that shimmered with every movement. It hugged you in ways that made you nervous at first, but when you saw the way his gaze lingered on you before you left your apartment—sharp, reverent, possessive—you knew you didn’t regret saying yes.

At first, you kept to his side, your fingers woven with his, your steps perfectly matched as he led you through the crowd. His presence was magnetic; people parted for him instinctively, their eyes darting toward you with open curiosity. Some smiled, others whispered, but all of them looked.

The first introductions came quickly—men with quick, firm handshakes, women with perfectly painted smiles. They greeted Bucky with respect, almost deference, and then turned their attention to you. The questions came in polite tones—your name, how long you’d been in the city, whether you enjoyed the gala.

You answered as best you could, but each new set of eyes made your chest tighten. You weren’t used to being the center of attention, and in a room like this, the stares felt heavier than silk gowns and diamond necklaces combined.

So you inched closer. It was subtle at first—your hand tightening on Bucky’s, your shoulder brushing his arm as someone else struck up a conversation with him. He didn’t move, didn’t draw you in, just let you settle where you wanted. But as the night stretched on and more people gathered, you found yourself tucking yourself closer and closer into his side.

By the time he was cornered by a trio of older men discussing investments, you were practically pressed to him, your arm sliding around his. His body was solid against yours, steady in a way that kept you grounded. He shifted slightly then, not pulling you in but adjusting just enough that you fit more comfortably against him. You realized you were hiding. And that he was letting you.

Between conversations, he leaned down just once, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “you okay, doll?”

Your breath caught, but you nodded quickly, whispering back, “Just… a lot of people.”

His hand slid down, resting against the small of your back, warm and firm. “Stay close, then.” And you did. Through introductions, through polite laughter, through glasses of champagne that you barely sipped. You stayed tucked into his side, your cheek brushing his shoulder once when you leaned in to whisper something shyly, and his answering smirk told you he didn’t mind in the slightest.

It was overwhelming, yes. But the whole night, Bucky’s presence wrapped around you like armor. You weren’t just there as a guest—you were there as his. And judging by the way people looked at him, then at you, that message was loud and clear.

The gala bled into night, the golden chandeliers giving way to the hush of the city as you and Bucky slipped into the car. The door shut, muting the noise behind you, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted against the seat.

For the first time in hours, you exhaled, your shoulders slumping slightly. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until now. Bucky’s hand found yours almost immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “You did good,” he murmured, his voice quiet but certain.

You smiled faintly, though your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t really do anything.”

His eyes slid to you, blue and intense even in the low light. “You were with me. That’s everything.”

The words settled heavy in your chest, warm and strange, like they meant more than you knew how to hold. The car turned, and instead of heading toward your apartment, you noticed the streets getting sharper, quieter, the buildings taller and glinting under the city lights. You glanced at him, curious. “This isn’t the way home.”

He didn’t look away, didn’t let go of your hand. “No. I want to show you something.” When the car pulled up to a gleaming tower, you felt your breath hitch. This was the kind of place you’d walked past before but never imagined entering. The doorman nodded the instant Bucky stepped out, opening the door like it was second nature. No questions, no hesitation. Just respect.

He offered his hand to help you out of the car, steady and sure, and guided you inside. The lobby was marble and glass, understated yet impossibly expensive. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout. The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of the machinery and the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. His hand stayed at the small of your back, grounding you. When the doors opened, you stepped directly into his penthouse.

It was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, the city sprawled out beneath like a living map of light. The furniture was sleek, dark, carefully chosen—luxury without clutter. A bar lined one side of the space, glassware gleaming faintly under soft recessed lighting. There was a piano, too, its polished surface reflecting the skyline. You turned slowly, taking it all in. “This is… yours?”

“Mine,” he confirmed simply, watching you carefully as you moved further inside.

It felt surreal, like stepping into the part of him he’d kept hidden. The part that wasn’t coffee shops and farmer’s markets, but glass towers and quiet power. You drifted toward the windows, resting a hand against the cool glass as you looked out over the city. Behind you, you heard his steps, deliberate and steady, until his reflection appeared beside yours. “Why tonight?” you asked softly. “Why show me now?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because after tonight, there’s no pretending. Everyone saw you with me. They’ll keep seeing you. And I don’t want you walking into this blind.”

You turned, looking up at him. The shadows in his eyes were still there, the weight of his world, but so was something else—something softer, rawer. “I told you I’d rather see than be left in the dark,” you whispered.

His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”

And then, before you could answer, he bent his head and kissed you. Not the shy, tentative kisses of your apartment, but something deeper, firmer, threaded with everything he hadn’t said aloud. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he needed to remind himself you were really there. The city stretched endlessly below, but in that moment, all you could feel was him.

Bucky didn’t stop at the kiss. When he finally drew back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand slid down to lace with your fingers. “C’mere,” he murmured, tugging you gently away from the windows. “Let me show you around.”

The penthouse unfolded like something out of a dream. He guided you first through the living space—sleek lines, soft lighting, and a bar stocked more like a high-end lounge than a home. Past that was a dining area, the table long enough for ten but polished to a shine that suggested it wasn’t often used.

Then he took you down the hall to the master suite. The bedroom was spacious but not ostentatious, anchored by a bed large enough to swallow you whole. It was softened by details you hadn’t expected—heavy curtains, a worn leather chair in the corner, books stacked neatly on a nightstand. Not the kind of impersonal room you imagined in a man like him.

But it was the closet that stopped you cold. The space was larger than your entire bedroom at home, walls lined with dark wood shelves and neatly arranged clothing. His suits, pressed and orderly, filled one side. On the other, though—where you expected emptiness—were rows of neatly folded soft fabrics in your size. Pajamas. Sweaters. Undergarments in delicate lace and cotton, still with tags. Even shoes, flats and slippers and a pair of heels you knew you hadn’t bought. Your steps faltered. “Bucky…”

He watched you carefully, his hands tucked in his pockets, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to come here and not have anything.”

You turned slowly, looking at him. “You… bought all this?”

“I had someone pick it up,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. But the way his eyes never left your face told you it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.

Your throat tightened. It wasn’t just that he’d thought of it—it was that he’d prepared for the possibility of you being here long before you ever were. You smiled softly, shy but earnest. “Thank you.”

His shoulders eased just slightly, and he stepped closer, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Just want you comfortable, doll. Always.”

Before you could answer, a voice carried from down the hall, low but sharp. “She’s here, then?”

You turned, startled, as Natasha appeared in the doorway. She was different from how you’d pictured—tall, poised, her red hair a striking curtain around a face that gave nothing away. She leaned casually against the frame, though her eyes, green and assessing, flicked over you in a way that made you straighten unconsciously. Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah. She’s here.”

Natasha’s gaze lingered on you another beat before she gave the faintest of nods. “Good. Better she’s here than in the dark.”

You weren’t sure what to say, so you offered a small, polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Her lips curved, just barely. “We’ll see if you still think that later.” Then, with a glance at Bucky, “she’ll need to know more. Sooner rather than later.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, but he nodded once. Natasha’s gaze softened—if only slightly—before she slipped away as quietly as she’d come. The silence left behind felt heavier than the closet full of clothes, heavier than the glittering view outside. But when Bucky turned back to you, his eyes softened, grounding you once more. “You okay?” he asked. And this time, he phrased it like a question.

You let out a shaky breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I think so.”

Once Natasha’s footsteps faded, he tugged you gently back into the hall, his hand warm and steady around yours. “C’mon,” he said, softer now. “There’s more.”

The penthouse was larger than you’d realized. He showed you the kitchen first—polished stone counters, state-of-the-art appliances, cabinets so tall you wondered if he ever actually used them. But there were signs of him here too: a coffee mug left out near the sink, a half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter, a dish towel folded with military precision.

From there, he led you to a smaller sitting room, tucked away from the sweeping skyline. It felt more lived in than the main space—cozier, with a blanket folded across the back of the couch, a chessboard set up mid-game. You wondered if he played with Natasha, or if the board had been waiting for an opponent he hadn’t found until you.

He showed you a study too, lined with dark shelves and heavy books, the scent of old paper lingering faintly. A few leather-bound journals lay stacked neatly on the desk, a fountain pen resting perfectly parallel beside them. You didn’t ask, but part of you wondered what he wrote in them.

By the time you circled back to the master suite, the nerves that had knotted your stomach earlier had softened into something else—curiosity, warmth, and the quiet awe of realizing this was his space. And now, in some way, yours too. He paused at the bedroom door, his eyes flicking to you. “You should get ready for bed. The pajamas are in the closet.”

You bit your lip, shy but smiling, before disappearing into the walk-in again. The set you chose was simple—soft cotton, a pale color trimmed with delicate lace. It fit perfectly, hugging you without clinging, comfortable in a way that made your breath catch. He hadn’t just guessed. He’d known.

When you padded back into the bedroom, barefoot, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the pajama top, Bucky was already waiting. He sat at the edge of the bed, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the city lights spilling across him through the windows. His gaze lifted the moment he heard you. And it lingered.

You froze for a moment under the weight of it, heat rushing to your cheeks. “They… fit,” you murmured.

His lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed intent, almost reverent. “Told you. I just want you comfortable.”

You crossed the room slowly, and when you stopped in front of him, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently between his knees. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch careful, grounding. “Stay here tonight,” he said quietly. Not a command. A request.

You nodded, your chest tight, your heart racing. “Okay.”

He exhaled softly, his hand sliding to your waist as he pressed a kiss against your stomach through the thin cotton. Then he looked up at you, his eyes blue and raw. “You look like you belong here.” And for the first time, standing barefoot in silk-soft pajamas in his penthouse bedroom, you believed him.

---

The bed was cold when you rolled over, your hand brushing against rumpled sheets where Bucky should’ve been. For a moment you thought maybe you’d imagined it—the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest pressed to your back—but the faint indentation in the mattress told you he’d only slipped away recently.

You sat up slowly, tugging the pajama top tighter around you, and padded out into the hall. The penthouse was hushed, the city beyond the windows muted in its endless glow. You followed the faintest sound—paper rustling, a pen scratching—to the study.

There he was. Bucky sat behind a heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, a lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. Papers were spread across the surface, neat columns of numbers, ledgers, notes scrawled in his firm hand. He didn’t look up at first, but the moment your bare feet padded against the rug, his gaze lifted. “Doll,” he murmured, his voice softening instantly. He set the pen down and held out a hand. “C’mere.”

You crossed the room, shy but certain, and when you reached him, he tugged you gently onto his lap. You settled sideways across his thighs, your head resting against his shoulder. His hand smoothed along your back, slow and steady, grounding you. “You should’ve eaten first,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “I’ll text Natasha, have her send something up.”

You hummed, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t come looking for food.”

His brow furrowed slightly as he angled his head to see you. “No?”

You shook your head, cheeks warming. “…I missed you. In bed.”

For a moment, the silence stretched. Then his chest rumbled with a low exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re gonna kill me saying things like that.”

You smiled shyly against him, and after a moment, curiosity tugged at you. You shifted just enough to glance at the papers scattered across the desk. Numbers, neat rows and totals, some underlined, some circled. “What’s all this?”

“Work,” he said simply, but when you didn’t look away, his mouth softened. “Keeping track of everything. Shipments, money in, money out. Making sure it all balances.”

You blinked, surprised. “You do the books yourself?”

“Trust’s hard to come by,” he said dryly, though his thumb traced idly over your hip. “Don’t like letting anyone else touch the numbers.”

Your lips curved faintly. “I do my shop’s books too. Every night before I close.”

That earned you a glance, one brow raised, a flicker of amusement breaking through his guarded expression. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not as complicated, but… numbers don’t lie. You can see the whole picture if you know where to look.”

His smirk deepened just slightly. “Smart girl.” He tapped one of the ledgers with a calloused finger. “Wanna help me, then?”

You looked at him in surprise, then back at the papers. The idea of being folded into this part of his world, even in something as simple as numbers, made your heart beat faster. Slowly, you nodded. “Alright,” you whispered. “Show me what you’ve got.”

And for the next hour, you sat curled on his lap while he walked you through the ledgers, his voice low and steady, his arm always around you. It was strange—intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not just the touch of him, but the trust of it.

Bucky’s voice had become a low murmur in your ear, patient as he explained the rows of numbers. You tried to keep up, scribbling a few notes in the margin of his ledger, but the warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles over your thigh slowly lulled you. Your head grew heavier until it finally settled against his shoulder. He noticed the shift instantly. Your pen slipped from your hand, rolling across the desk. Bucky caught it without looking, setting it aside, his gaze softening when he realized your breaths had evened out. You’d fallen asleep on his lap, curled up like you belonged there.

For a while, he just let you rest, one arm wrapped around you protectively, the other turning pages with a deliberate quiet. Every so often, he brushed his thumb over your side or adjusted the blanket he’d pulled down from the back of the couch. A knock broke the silence. Sharp, precise. He didn’t even raise his voice when he answered, “come in.”

The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a pot of tea, plates neatly covered. Her sharp gaze flicked over the scene in front of her—you asleep, Bucky’s arm wound firmly around you—and her lips curved just slightly. “She’s out,” she said softly, setting the tray down on the corner of the desk.

“Mm,” Bucky grunted in agreement, his hand still smoothing idly along your back.

Natasha straightened, crossing her arms. “You should put her in bed.”

His jaw tightened, and he shook his head once. “She’s fine here.”

The redhead studied him for a beat longer before nodding. “I’ll leave you two, then.” She turned to go, but paused at the door, glancing back with a raised brow. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be, Barnes.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just shifted slightly, holding you a little closer, his gaze fixed on your sleeping face. Natasha’s faint chuckle followed her out of the room. The penthouse grew quiet again. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek against his chest. His hand stilled over your side as he bent to press the gentlest kiss to your hair. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so quiet you didn’t stir. “I’ll keep you safe. Always.”

The breakfast tray sat untouched on the desk, the tea growing cooler by the minute. But Bucky didn’t care. You were warm, you were breathing steady, and you were here.

And for him, that was enough.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

bucky barnes taglist: @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @averyhotchner @umbreoni

God you loved Clark.

You loved him more than anything in the world and he loves you too. But you know deep down that you share his love with the world. I mean, when your boyfriend is Superman, things aren't as simple you wish they could be.

He grew up in a loving home on a farm in Kansas with this need and want to protect those around him. He saw what humans were capable of, the good and the bad and he still looked at everyone like they have goodness in their heart. It was sweet and so charming.

It's one of the reasons you fell in love with him. He was at his core a hero. The sun to a world that frankly didn't deserve him. It's amazing and so admirable and so so hard to be around sometimes. It makes you feel guilty.

That your bright eyed superhero boyfriend could also the the source of your deepest insecurity. You're no hero. You aren't fighting for justice. You're not like his friends who use their natural curiosity and punk attitude to expose corruption and report on world events with writing. You're not a metahuman who can save the people of metropolis with wings or super smarts. You're not special.

You worked in an office for a boring corporation and took the subway and didn't like sharing your food. Your days off were spent doing mundane things like laundry or shopping. Sure you held the door for people and always said please and thank you, but you were far from the kind of heroes that protect the city.

Being with Clark, loving him the way you do, you want so badly to be someone he can be proud of. To be a hero just like him. He's never made you feel like you weren't worthy on his own, but your own mind had convinced yourself that he was too good for you. That you had to earn his love. Earn the right to stand next to Superman and be the one he comes home to when the dust is setteled.

But today…the reality of it all came crashing down on you. You're not a hero. You're just a human. A human who's scared and selfish and not someone who belongs with a guy like Clark.

Some other worldly being attacking Metropolis isn't anything new. But it had never happened so close to you before. You watched as the streak of red and blue shot through the sky. Your boyfriend coming to the rescue in a matter of seconds. But even Superman can't prevent all the destruction that follows. Buildings were being destroyed and people were screaming, alarms blaring in your ears as first responders showed up. You heard crying and you just…froze.

You wish so badly you could have been something. Helped people evacuate or guide those to a safe place indoors. Stayed calm and done something other than run away. You just ran. You ran with everyone else, didn't stop to help other people. Didn't even think of anything but yourself in the moment and you felt awful for it. Your feet carried you all the way to Clark's apartment building. The spare key he gave to you resting heavy in your pocket. You should go up and wait for him but you just can't.

A part of you worries that if he sees you like this, he'll realize that you're not the right person for him. Just thinking of his face in that moment is too much to bear. So you slipped into the stairwell. Walked to the to part of the building no one ever comes to and sit on the hard floor. Your legs tucked to your chest as you let your mind dig itself into a pit you don't think you'll be able to climb out of.

You don't know how much time has passed since but you do hear the sound of squeaky shoes getting closer. They're frantic and a little clumsy and you just know it's Clark. You don't look up, eyes trained on a spot on the carpet.

"Jeez! There you are honey." His voice that normally makes your stomach flutter now makes you wince and you know he sees it.

"A-Are you okay? Are you hurt?" He asks as he kneels down harshly.

You look up and finally get a look at your boyfriend. He's dressed in his cute navy suit, his shirt buttoned messily and he still has soot on his face from whatever he was fighting. You quietly reach up and wipe some of it away with your thumb. Fear spikes more in his chest the longer you stay quiet. Why are you so quiet?

"I was so worried. I came home and you weren't here so I flew to your place and you weren't there either and you weren't picking up your phone and I…" He trails off as he sees the slightest bit of shine in your eyes. Tears.

"I'm okay Clark." You say softly but his face doesn't change. His eyebrows still knit together as he studies your face.

"No, you're not." He sits crossed legged next to you.

It looks a little awkward with his massive frame but he hunches over and smiles and you feel that pang in your heart. His curly hair falling just in front of his forehead. He reaches out and grabs one of your hands, playing with your fingers as he holds it just to let you know he's here. Clark would never force you to talk about it, but you know he wants to so badly. That worry is written all over his face.

"Clark, do you ever think we're too different?" You ask hesitantly, a part of you doesn't want the answer but the other part is desperate to know what he thinks. He seems taken back at the question, almost flinching at the words.

"No. No not at all." He says firmly. There's never been any doubt in his mind.

"Do you?" He asks.

"Sometimes." You admit, your head falling down as you close your eyes in defeat.

"What do you mean?" His voice is so small, so scared. The pain and fear in his voice makes you whip your head up. Clark is massive but for once he looks so small.

"You're Superman Clark. You have a heart of gold and you do great things and you're just so good." He tilts his head in confusion, his heart clenching when he sees the defeated look on your face.

"I saw danger today and I froze up and ran. I'm not a hero like you. I burn my toast and my idea of a fun weekend is to stay in and watch reruns of game shows." You groan in frustration. It feels so embarrassing, so childish.

"I…Sometimes I worry that you're too good for me." The confession weighs heavy as both you and Clark take in the gravity of your words.

"You think because you didn't run head first into possible death that you're not good enough for me?" He says slowly. Like he can't believe the words coming out of is mouth.

"I don't know Clark. You're like this bright light for the human race. Even the people who can be horrible and selfish and unworthy of everything you give. Me included." He lets out a sound of disbelief.

"You couldn't be more wrong." He cups your face and forces you to look at him. There's hurt deep in his eyes as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

"You are everything to me. The reason I wake up every morning and why I can't wait to come home every night. I love watching reruns with you and folding laundry and sure you're not running into a burning building but I once watched you feed a squirrel half of your donut." He gently maneuvers you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you comfortingly.

"He looked really hungry." You mumble and he chuckles.

"Honey he was very fat." He hums lovingly. It hurts his heart to hear you say such mean things about yourself, but if he has to tell you over and over how much he care he will.

"I love you so much and I don't need you to be a hero, I just need you to be you." He rests his chin on top of your head and breathes in slowly.

"I'd actually prefer you don't run right into danger. Just the idea of that might kill me." You give a half smile and he smiles right back. He leans down and nuzzles his nose against your cheek. His lips pressing a soft kiss too.

"You never have to compare yourself to anyone, especially not to me."

"I'm sorry for making you deal with this after saving the city." You mumble and he scoffs.

"None of that nonsense. I could come home to you yelling at me and be a happy man." You snort in laughter.

"You're crazy."

"Yeah about you." He replies and your heart squeezes at the goofy smile on his face. So cheesy.

"Now come on, There's some hot chocolate and it's your pick for movie night." His super strength allows him to stand up with you in his arms with ease.

His hand resting on your back in a comforting but steady way. He's there. He's right there and he's not going anywhere. Sure he may be Superman and a part of him will belong to the city.

You were one of Perry’s newest hires, fresh blood thrown into the Daily Planet bullpen like bait into shark-infested water, except you never seemed intimidated by any of it. Most newcomers either tried too hard or shrank into themselves. You did neither. You found this impossible balance that made people gravitate toward you without realizing it.

Kind, but not overly sweet in a rehearsed way. Professional, but still willing to join after work drinks. Funny, but not enough to earn Perry’s eternal annoyance the way Jimmy did after getting warned three separate times about “inappropriate use of humor during serious editorial meetings.”

You fit too easily into their world. Beautiful without trying, smart enough to keep Lois interested in conversation, sharp enough to challenge Perry during meetings, and somehow constantly showing up to work covered in bruises with absolutely no explanation.

The first bruise Clark noticed sat just beneath your jaw.

Not because he was staring. He absolutely was not staring.

It was only there for a second when you tipped your head back laughing at one of Jimmy’s terrible jokes, the collar of your sweater slipping just enough to expose the faded purple mark against your skin. Clark’s fingers paused over his keyboard immediately. His hearing dimmed beneath the sound of your laugh.

A bruise.

Not the kind someone got from bumping into a door, either. It looked darker than that. Finger-shaped almost.

Something ugly twisted in his chest.

He wanted to ask if you were alright. Wanted to know who put their hands on you hard enough to leave marks. But there was something guarded about you too, hidden beneath the easy smiles and sarcasm, and Clark worried that asking would make you retreat entirely. So he stayed quiet, even while the image lingered in his head for the rest of the day.

Three days later there was another one.

This one wrapped around your wrist, peeking beneath your sleeve when you reached up to grab a file from the top cabinet. Clark caught sight of it from across the bullpen and looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash when your eyes flickered toward him.

“Smooth,” Lois muttered without glancing away from her computer screen.

Clark blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

“I am not.”

The immediate defensiveness in his voice only made Lois snort.

“Oh, you absolutely are.”

“For your information,” Clark said stiffly, “I was looking at the cabinet.”

“The cabinet wearing glasses and cardigans?”

Clark cleared his throat and suddenly became very interested in the article on his monitor. Lois leaned back in her chair with a knowing smirk.

“You know,” she said casually, “normal people ask coworkers out instead of conducting FBI investigations.”

His ears burned instantly. “I’m not investigating her.”

Except he was.

Because there were patterns.

Clark noticed patterns.

You arrived every morning carrying coffee from the tiny stand three blocks over, despite always claiming you were running late. You wore thin-framed glasses that slid down your nose whenever you got stressed, and every time you pushed them back up, Clark had to physically stop himself from staring. Some days, there were scratches along your knuckles. Other days, bruises bloomed beneath your sleeves in places too deliberate to ignore.

And then Jimmy mentioned it. You disappeared almost every lunch break and came back twenty or thirty minutes later looking flushed and disheveled, your hair windswept like you’d been sprinting across rooftops.

“She disappears for hours sometimes,” he said one afternoon while tossing gummy bears into his mouth at Clark’s desk. “Like full mystery mode. One second she’s here, next second poof.”

Clark tried to sound casual. “Maybe she just likes being alone.”

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “You're defending her because you’re in love with her?”

Clark nearly inhaled his own saliva.

“I am not in love with her.”

Jimmy looked unconvinced.

The thing was, Clark disappeared during lunch too, so he never actually noticed you leaving. Usually, he was halfway across the city, stopping a robbery or preventing some catastrophic disaster before rushing back to the Planet pretending he hadn’t just held up a collapsing bridge. But now that he knew you were vanishing too, every weird little detail about you started clicking into place.

And the biggest thing of all?

You somehow never reacted to Superman.

Everyone reacted to Superman.

Jimmy lit up like a little kid every single time Superman came up in conversation. Lois always had opinions, whether she admitted it or not. Half the newsroom stopped working whenever he flew past the windows.

You?

You barely looked up.

Like you’d seen stranger things before. Like the flying alien in blue wasn’t remotely the most interesting thing in your life. You never pitched Superman stories. Never fought for front page exclusives about him the way every newcomer usually did trying to impress Perry. Sometimes Clark caught you listening quietly when the others talked about Superman, your expression unreadable behind your glasses, but you never joined in.

It drove him insane.

Clark leaned back slowly in his chair one evening, staring at you across the bullpen while realization settled into his chest piece by piece.

Another superhero.

It had to be.

You weren’t active in Metropolis. He would know if you were. He would have seen you during patrols or heard whispers about a vigilante operating nearby. But another city? Another state?

A hidden identity.

A superhero.

The thought should not have thrilled him as much as it did.

Yet suddenly every interaction with you felt charged with something heavier. Something electric. Because maybe you understood him in ways no one else could. Maybe you understood the exhaustion of splitting yourself into pieces for the world. The balancing act. The secrecy. The isolation. The terrible loneliness that came with carrying things no one else could know.

And once the idea rooted itself in Clark’s mind, it refused to let go.

“You’re doing it again,” Lois said without looking up from her laptop.

Clark’s head snapped upward so quickly it was almost suspicious on its own. “Doing what?”

“Staring.”

“I’m not staring,” he said immediately. “I’m observing.”

Lois finally looked at him then, one eyebrow lifting slowly toward her hairline. “That somehow sounds significantly worse.”

Across the newsroom, completely unaware of the crisis currently unfolding at Clark’s desk, you sat cross-legged in your chair flipping through interview notes with one hand while absentmindedly chewing on the end of your pen. Your glasses had slipped halfway down your nose again, and every few seconds you nudged them back up without even noticing you were doing it. The soft yellow light hanging over your desk caught against the side of your face and illuminated the faint purple bruise resting high along your collarbone just above the neckline of your sweater.

Clark swallowed hard.

It looked fresh.

Not severe enough to panic over, but enough that his stomach twisted unpleasantly anyway.

Lois followed his line of sight with painful ease, then let out one long dramatic sigh like she was exhausted by his existence.

“Okay,” she muttered, shutting her laptop halfway. “Spill it, Smallville.”

Clark immediately lowered his voice despite the fact nobody around them was paying attention. “I think she might be a vigilante.”

Lois stared at him blankly.

Clark pressed forward before she could interrupt. “Or a superhero. I’m not completely sure yet.”

For three full seconds, Lois said absolutely nothing.

Then she burst into laughter loud enough that three people looked over, including Jimmy, halfway across the bullpen.

Clark frowned immediately. “I’m serious.”

That only made her laugh harder.

“Oh my God,” she wheezed, grabbing the edge of the desk for support. “You are serious.”

Clark crossed his arms defensively. “There’s evidence.”

“The fact that she’s pretty is not evidence.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Mmhm.”

“She disappears every lunch break.”

Lois deadpanned. “So do you.”

Clark blinked once.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Clark opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Lois smirked victoriously before continuing. “Clark, this is Metropolis. Half the city disappears during lunch because something explodes every twelve minutes.”

“She comes back injured.”

Lois snorted. “I got clipped by a taxi last month and still came into work. Last week Jimmy walked into a parking meter and got a concussion.”

“Hey,” Jimmy called from across the room. “That was one time.”

Clark ignored both of them. “These aren’t normal bruises.”

Lois glanced toward you again, her expression softening slightly as she caught sight of the mark on your collarbone. “Okay, maybe they’re not ideal, but you’re jumping from concern to full conspiracy theory pretty fast here.”

“She hides behind glasses.”

Lois stared at him slowly.

Very slowly.

“Clark.”

“Yes?”

“You also wear glasses.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

Clark opened his mouth again.

Then closed it.

Because honestly, hearing it out loud made his entire theory sound insane.

Lois rubbed both hands down her face. “You have a crush and your brain stopped functioning.”

“It’s not a crush,” Clark said immediately, far too fast to sound believable.

Like he’d been summoned by the sheer force of gossip, Jimmy suddenly appeared beside Clark’s desk holding a soda and an expression full of dangerous curiosity. “Who has a crush?”

“No one,” Clark answered at the exact same time Lois said, “You.”

Jimmy gasped dramatically loud enough to earn a glare from Perry’s office.

“On Y/N?” he whispered aggressively.

Clark nearly inhaled his own tongue.

Jimmy’s grin widened instantly. “Dude.”

“I do not have a crush on her.”

“You stared at her for like six straight minutes yesterday,” Lois said.

“I was thinking.”

“About her mouth?” Lois shot back.

Clark physically choked.

Jimmy looked delighted. “Oh my God, you’re down bad.”

“I’m not down anything.”

Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk with all the confidence of a man who enjoyed making situations worse. “You should ask her out.”

Clark immediately shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

Because what if you really were risking your life every night somewhere? Because what if getting involved complicated things for both of you? Because what if you looked at him too closely and saw through every carefully built layer separating Clark Kent from Superman?

Because maybe a part of him desperately wanted you to.

Clark looked away instead.

Jimmy squinted at him suspiciously. “Wait.”

Clark already hated that tone.

“Are you scared of her?”

“No.”

“You totally are.”

“I’m not scared of her.”

“She is kinda intimidating,” Jimmy admitted thoughtfully. “In a hot way.”

Lois gagged.

Jimmy ignored her. “Last week I saw her come back from lunch with blood on her sleeve.”

Clark went completely still.

Every sound in the bullpen seemed to dull instantly around him.

“Blood?” he repeated carefully.

Jimmy nodded, suddenly less amused now that he had their full attention. “Yeah. Not a ton, but enough that I noticed. She was trying to hide it.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I saw her scrubbing it out in the bathroom sink afterward.”

Lois sat up straighter now too, concern flickering across her face despite herself. “Okay, that is a little weird.”

Clark’s pulse started hammering.

Jimmy continued, oblivious. “And she looked exhausted after too. Like she’d been in a fight or something.”

Clark’s stomach dropped.

A fight.

Lois pointed a finger at him before he could spiral further. “Do not start building your murder board yet, Kent. There are normal explanations for this.”

Clark looked unconvinced.

“She could’ve gotten a nosebleed,” Lois argued. “Or spilled ketchup on herself. Or helped somebody who got hurt.”

Jimmy made a face. “Who spills ketchup directly on their sleeve?”

Lois ignored him. “My point is you are going from zero to one hundred.”

But Clark barely heard her anymore.

Because across the newsroom you laughed softly at something another reporter said, completely relaxed, completely normal, while absentmindedly tugging your sleeve lower over your bruised wrist like you didn’t want anyone noticing.

Like you were hiding something.

Clark narrowed his eyes slightly.

Definitely a vigilante, he thought to himself.

If only Clark knew how catastrophically far he was from the truth.

You were not a vigilante. Not a superhero. Not a masked protector operating out of another city with a tragic backstory and secret double life.

You were just unbelievably unlucky.

That was genuinely the entire story.

Your apartment building elevator broke so often you were convinced it had developed personal hatred toward you specifically. Twice a month it jerked violently enough to send you crashing into the wall, and once it trapped you between floors for nearly an hour while you sat on the ground eating stale crackers from your purse and contemplating every bad decision that led you to Metropolis. You bruised absurdly easily too. The smallest things left marks on your skin for days. You once woke up with a bruise on your thigh so dark and dramatic that you genuinely convinced yourself you had some terrifying hidden illness before remembering you’d walked into the kitchen counter half asleep at two in the morning looking for water.

Another time?

A pillow.

An actual pillow.

You had dropped face first onto your bed after a sixteen hour day and somehow managed to bruise your shoulder against the wooden headboard in the process.

Your body simply refused to cooperate with you.

It became such a normal part of your life that eventually you stopped noticing the bruises entirely until other people pointed them out. You were always distracted, always thinking too fast, always halfway somewhere else mentally, which meant you regularly walked into doors, clipped corners, slammed your hips against desks, tripped down stairs, or forgot objects existed directly in front of you. Half the bruises on your legs appeared without explanation because apparently your body just enjoyed creating mysteries.

The rest of your “suspicious behavior” was equally uninteresting.

Your disappearances during lunch breaks were usually spent crying in your car from stress, scarfing down vending machine snacks while answering calls from insurance companies, or sprinting halfway across Metropolis trying not to miss your younger brother’s physical therapy appointments. Since your parents passed, taking care of him became your responsibility, and balancing that with the Daily Planet nearly killed you some days. There were mornings you barely made it to work because you’d spent hours arguing with doctors or trying to convince your brother not to give up on recovery entirely.

The blood on your sleeve?

Your brother dropped an entire cherry slushie directly onto you after laughing too hard at one of your jokes.

You spent twenty minutes in the Planet bathroom trying to scrub fluorescent red sugar syrup out of your cardigan while wondering if adulthood was punishment for something you did in a past life.

That was it.

No secret missions.

No hidden enemies.

No rooftop fights.

Just terrible luck and a rapidly deteriorating mental state.

The only thing Clark had accidentally gotten right was the Superman part.

Because the reason you barely reacted to him anymore was simple.

You had already met him once.

Technically, though, he definitely didn’t know that.

It happened three years ago during what remained, to this day, the worst night of your life.

You’d been visiting Metropolis for a college journalism conference when the bridge collapsed.

Even now the memory felt sharp enough to cut.

You remembered screaming. Metal twisting like paper. The deafening sound of concrete splitting apart beneath hundreds of terrified people. Cars tipping sideways. Smoke everywhere thick enough to choke on. One second you were sitting in the backseat of a taxi answering emails on your phone, the next the entire world tilted violently and disappeared beneath you.

The impact shattered something in your leg instantly.

You still remembered the pain.

White hot and nauseating.

You had been trapped beneath mangled steel and broken concrete while people screamed around you in complete panic. Somewhere nearby a child was crying for their mother. Someone else was praying loud enough for you to hear every word. Smoke burned your lungs every time you inhaled and your vision blurred from the pain until honestly, truly, you thought you were going to die there.

Then suddenly everything changed.

There had been blue.

Bright against all the gray dust and smoke.

Then warmth.

Strong hands lifting impossible weight like it meant nothing.

And a voice.

God, that voice.

Gentle. Calm. Steady in a way that made the panic inside your chest loosen instantly despite the destruction surrounding you.

“I’ve got you.”

You remembered staring through tears as Superman crouched beside you in the wreckage, one hand braced against collapsing concrete while the other carefully untangled twisted metal from around your leg like he was terrified of hurting you further.

You remembered his cape moving in the wind behind him.

You remembered the symbol on his chest.

But mostly?

You remembered his eyes.

Kind.

Not performative kindness either. Not the polished, public version the world saw during interviews and press conferences.

Real kindness.

The kind that reached all the way down into a person.

You had looked at him while shaking from pain and fear, and somehow he made you feel safe immediately.

Like nothing terrible could happen while he was there.

He stayed with you until paramedics arrived even though half the bridge was still collapsing around him. You remembered him brushing dust from your forehead carefully, asking if you could breathe alright, speaking softly enough that only you could hear him over the chaos.

Then he smiled at you.

A small thing.

Quick.

But warm enough that your chest hurt afterward every time you remembered it.

For months after that, every man you met felt disappointing in comparison.

Not because they couldn’t fly or lift buildings or stop disasters.

But because none of them looked at people the way Superman did.

None of them carried gentleness so naturally.

Then you started working at the Daily Planet and met Clark Kent.

Clark Kent, who smiled exactly the same way Superman did.

Clark Kent, who tilted his head while listening exactly the same way Superman did.

Clark Kent, whose voice dropped softer whenever someone was upset.

Clark Kent, who had the exact same eyes as Superman did.

You figured it out in less than a week.

Honestly, it was almost concerning nobody else had.

The glasses helped more than they should have, but still.

Sometimes Clark would disappear for suspiciously long stretches of time right before Superman appeared downtown. Sometimes he came back looking exhausted with his tie crooked and his hair windblown while pretending nothing happened. Once you watched him return to the bullpen with ash smeared along his sleeve less than fifteen minutes after a chemical plant explosion Superman had supposedly been rescuing people from across the city.

You nearly laughed out loud.

But you never said anything.

Because it wasn’t your place.

The secret clearly mattered to him. Deeply. You could see it in the careful way he carried himself, always slightly restrained, always holding pieces of himself back. If Clark ever trusted you enough to tell you the truth himself, then he would. Until then, you would protect it too.

Besides, there was something strangely endearing about watching him maintain the act.

Clark tried so hard sometimes.

Too hard.

He’d intentionally stumble over absolutely nothing whenever people looked too closely at him. He lowered his voice around the office compared to Superman’s. Occasionally he pretended not to understand basic sarcasm because apparently Clark Kent was supposed to be awkward and harmless and incapable of throwing someone through a wall.

It was adorable.

Especially because underneath all of it, he was still just Clark.

Thoughtful. Sweet. Quietly protective.

You noticed the way he always carried extra snacks in his bag because he knew you forgot to eat during deadlines. The way he stayed late helping interns finish assignments without asking for credit. The way he checked if you got home safe after rough weather warnings.

That was the thing. Even as Clark Kent, he was still Superman.

“Hey.”

The sound of Clark’s voice pulled you out of your concentration immediately.

You looked up from your desk to find him standing there awkwardly between the rows of cluttered cubicles, broad shoulders slightly tense beneath his blue button up, two coffee cups clutched carefully in his hands like he was afraid he might spill them if he moved too quickly. His glasses had slipped lower on his nose again, and there was something almost unbearably nervous about the way he hovered there waiting for your attention.

Your stomach betrayed you instantly with a ridiculous little flip.

Which was honestly unfair.

A man should not be allowed to look like that while also being sweet.

“Hi,” you said, trying to sound significantly calmer than you felt.

“Hi.” Clark cleared his throat softly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I got your order.”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise as he handed one of the cups toward you. “You remembered my order?”

Immediately, his entire expression changed.

Clark looked flustered so fast it was almost painful to witness.

A faint flush crawled up the back of his neck, his grip tightening slightly around the remaining coffee cup while his eyes darted away from yours for half a second before returning.

“Well,” he started carefully, “you order the same thing every morning, and I just happened to notice, and I was already there anyway, so I thought maybe…” He trailed off awkwardly before adding quieter, “You looked tired today.”

Something warm unfolded in your chest so suddenly it nearly hurt.

Because of course he noticed that too.

You smiled softly as you accepted the coffee from him, your fingers brushing briefly against his. The contact only lasted a second, but Clark went strangely still afterward, like he felt it too.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “That’s very sweet of you.”

The tension in his shoulders loosened almost immediately at your reaction. Just slightly, but enough that you noticed. Clark always looked like he carried invisible weight around with him, something heavy tucked behind his eyes even during lighter moments, but right now he looked quietly pleased in a way that made your chest ache.

Then his gaze dropped downward.

Your wrist.

Ah.

You had forgotten about the bruise.

It wrapped faintly around the inside of your arm, darker today than it had been this morning, peeking beneath the sleeve of your sweater where it had ridden upward while you worked. You followed Clark’s line of sight automatically and watched concern settle over his features almost instantly.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

The sincerity in his voice caught you completely off guard.

Clark wasn’t asking carelessly. He wasn’t fishing for gossip or trying to satisfy curiosity. There was genuine worry in his expression, in the slight furrow between his brows, in the way his body leaned toward you unconsciously like he was already prepared to help if you needed it.

And suddenly your heart felt painfully full.

You glanced down at the bruise before offering him a small reassuring smile. “Yeah,” you said gently. “Just clumsy.”

Clark looked profoundly unconvinced.

Honestly, insultingly unconvinced.

His eyes lingered on your wrist another second too long, jaw tightening slightly like he was debating whether or not to push further. You could practically see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, all that concern tangling together with whatever conclusions he’d already convinced himself of.

“You can tell me if something’s wrong,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly hard.

Because he meant it.

God.

He really meant it.

Clark looked at you like helping people was as natural as breathing. Like caring was instinctive for him. And maybe it was. You had seen Superman pull strangers from burning buildings with that same expression on his face, gentle and determined all at once.

Now, Clark was looking at you exactly the same way.

The realization sent something dangerous curling low in your stomach.

For one reckless second, you wanted to reach up and touch his face.

Wanted to smooth out the worry between his brows with your thumb. Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to look at you like you were breakable. Wanted to know if his skin felt as warm as you imagined.

Dangerous. Extremely dangerous.

Especially because Clark already occupied far too much space in your thoughts.

You looked away first before the feeling could settle too deeply inside you.

“I’m okay, Clark,” you said softly.

The newsroom buzzed around you both, phones ringing somewhere in the distance while keyboards clicked endlessly across the bullpen, but for a second the noise felt strangely muted beneath the weight of his attention.

Clark studied your face carefully like he was trying to determine whether you were lying.

And maybe you were, just not in the way he thought.

Because no, nobody was hurting you.

But there were things exhausting you. Things wearing you down piece by piece until you barely recognized yourself some mornings. Bills piling up. Hospital visits. Sleepless nights. Fear. Responsibility. The constant pressure of trying to hold your life together with shaking hands.

You wondered briefly what would happen if you told him all of it.

Something in Clark’s expression softened further, his concern melting into quiet helplessness when you held his gaze again. Like he wanted to fix whatever burden you carried even without understanding it.

Finally, after a long moment, he nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he murmured.

But he still looked worried.

And somehow that affected you more than it should have.

Two nights later, Clark followed you.

The decision sat horribly in his chest from the moment he made it.

It felt invasive. Hypocritical. Wrong in ways he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried justifying it to himself. Clark spent half his life protecting his own secrets, carefully balancing two identities and guarding every vulnerable part of himself from public scrutiny, and now he was trailing you through the city because he couldn’t let go of a theory.

But then he remembered the split across your knuckles that morning.

The bruise beneath your eye.

The way you smiled through it anyway like pain was something you’d learned to carry quietly.

And suddenly the guilt became easier to ignore.

That morning had nearly driven him insane.

You walked into the bullpen ten minutes late with your glasses slightly crooked and exhaustion written across every inch of your face. There was a bruise shadowed beneath your eye, dark enough that even makeup couldn’t fully hide it, and when you reached for your bag Clark saw the raw split across two of your knuckles.

His stomach dropped immediately.

“Come on,” Lois had said the second she noticed. Her voice softened with genuine concern as she leaned against your desk. “This is not nothing. What happened?”

You barely looked up from your laptop while setting your coffee down carefully. “I walked into a shelf.”

Jimmy stared at you. “With your face?”

You laughed quietly. “It was a very aggressive shelf.”

Nobody laughed with you.

Clark sat frozen at his desk watching you too closely, chest tight with something ugly and helpless. The bruise beneath your eye looked painful. Angry. Fresh.

And the worst part?

You looked tired. Not just physically, soul-deep tired.

The kind of exhaustion Clark recognized immediately because he saw it in the mirror some mornings after nights spent saving people until sunrise.

“Yeah, you can tell us,” Clark added carefully, trying to keep his voice light despite the tension in his chest. “I’m friends with Superman. I can make sure nobody’s hurting you.”

The second Superman left his mouth, you laughed.

Actually laughed.

Not mockingly, just this surprised little breath of amusement that made your shoulders shake slightly.

Clark blinked.

That was odd.

You rubbed at your forehead afterward and smiled tiredly. “I’m fine, seriously. Like I said, I’m just very clumsy.”

Clark did not buy that for one second.

Not remotely.

So yes.

He followed you after work.

Metropolis blurred gold and gray around him as the sun dipped lower between buildings. Clark kept enough distance that you wouldn’t notice him, perched silently atop rooftops while watching you move through crowded sidewalks below.

You looked painfully ordinary.

That somehow made him more suspicious.

You stopped at a pharmacy first. Then a bookstore. Then, finally headed toward your neighborhood, disappearing farther into the rougher parts of the city where streetlights flickered weakly, and buildings leaned tiredly into one another.

Clark’s confusion only grew.

No secret headquarters, no underground base, no suspicious contacts waiting in alleyways.

Just a rundown apartment building with cracked windows and buzzing hallway lights that barely worked.

You disappeared inside.

Clark perched silently on the rooftop across the street, cape tucked close as he frowned down at the building below.

Maybe this wasn’t where you operated from, maybe the real entrance was hidden somewhere else. Maybe you were intentionally throwing off anyone following you.

Twenty minutes later you emerged again wearing loose sweatpants and carrying two grocery bags.

Clark stared.

That was somehow even more confusing.

You adjusted the bags against your hip while locking the apartment door behind you, expression distracted like you were mentally planning tomorrow already.

Then suddenly you froze.

Clark heard it at the same moment you did.

Shouting.

It was sharp, aggressive, coming from the alley beside the building.

Clark straightened immediately.

Two men crowded near the dumpsters, one of them gripping the arm of a terrified teenage boy clutching a backpack against his chest. The kid looked maybe fifteen at most, eyes wide with panic while one of the men shoved him hard against the brick wall.

Clark moved instinctively.

Ready to intervene, ready to land between them before anyone got hurt.

But then you moved first, and Clark wanted to see what you would do.

Your purse hit the nearest thug square in the chest hard enough to stagger him backward.

“Hey!” you shouted, stepping directly between them and the teenager without hesitation. “Back off, don’t hurt him!”

Clark blinked.

The men laughed immediately.

One of them looked you up and down dismissively. “Mind your business, sweetheart.”

You shoved him backward before he could touch you.

The entire alley went still for half a second.

Then chaos erupted.

One of the men lunged toward you, and you punched him directly in the throat. Not with trained precision or with impossible strength.

Just pure instinct and adrenaline.

Clark watched in stunned silence as the fight spiraled. He waited for you to use your powers.

You got hit almost immediately.

Hard enough that your head snapped sideways against the brick wall.

Clark nearly intervened right then.

But you kept moving.

Kept fighting.

You grabbed a broken broom handle off the ground and swung it wildly, breathing hard while shoving yourself between the terrified kid and the men trying to grab him. One of them caught your wrist hard enough to bruise instantly, but you twisted free and slammed the broom into his ribs with enough force to send him stumbling backward cursing.

It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t superhuman but God, it was brave.

Eventually the men fled swearing under their breath after attracting too much attention from nearby apartments. The teenager bolted immediately afterward, clutching his backpack while mumbling a terrified thank you over his shoulder.

And you?

You just stood there breathing hard.

One hand pressed tightly against your ribs while the other wiped blood from your split lip.

Clark landed behind you before he could stop himself.

The sound made your entire body tense instantly. Slowly, cautiously, you turned around.

Your eyes widened behind your glasses.

“Superman?”

For a second genuine confusion crossed your face before suspicion followed immediately after. “What are you doing here?”

Clark stared at the blood on your mouth.

The bruise already forming along your cheek.

“You’re hurt, ma'am.”

You let out a weak laugh despite yourself. “Little late for that observation, don’t you think?”

“You could’ve been killed.”

The words came out harsher than he intended. It was not Superman speaking; it was Clark. His theory was wrong, and he hated that he doubted you for a second. Instead of asking you, he followed you like a creep and watched you get hurt.

Fear still pulsed violently through him.

You looked startled by the intensity in his voice before your expression softened slightly.

“So could that kid.”

Clark stepped closer before he could stop himself. “Why would you do that?”

Your face changed then. Not dramatically, just enough that something inside Clark’s chest tightened painfully.

“Because no one else was going to,” you answered quietly.

God.

You looked exhausted. Bruised. Completely human standing there beneath the flickering alley light.

Not invincible, not secretly powerful.

Just good.

Clark suddenly felt unbelievably stupid.

“Oh,” you said after a second, voice softer now.

“What?”

A tiny smile appeared despite the split on your lip.

“ You watched the fight. Probably heard it before it happened, yet you didn't intervene. Because you thought I could handle it, didn't you? You followed me back to my neighborhood. Clark. You thought I was a superhero, didn't you?”

Clark’s entire face burned instantly.

“No,” he lied horribly.

“Clark.”

“I just…” He groaned quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I just didn’t believe someone could actually be that clumsy.”

That made you laugh again, a real laugh this time. Warm and breathless and bright enough to completely wreck him.

Then you winced sharply halfway through it, one hand clutching your side.

Clark crossed the distance between you immediately.

“Easy, easy. I got you.”

His hands settled instinctively against your waist to steady you.

The second he touched you, both froze.

Clark became painfully aware of everything all at once.

Your breath caught softly as Clark’s hands settled against your waist. The warmth of his body this close to yours made your head spin a little, especially when your eyes slowly lifted toward his and found him already staring. Your heartbeat fluttered fast beneath his hearing, but not from fear.

His own pulse thundered in response. For a long second, neither of you moved, caught in this strange quiet tension that suddenly felt too intimate for the dark alley surrounding you.

And then it hit him.

You called him Clark. Not Superman. Clark.

Like you already knew. Like you saw through every careful layer, every disguise, every attempt to separate the two identities, and still looked at him like he was just himself.

Clark’s expression shifted instantly, something stunned and uncertain flickering across his face.

“Did you just call me Clark?” he asked softly.

Then softly, almost teasingly, you murmured, “You know, for someone hiding the biggest secret in the world, you’re surprisingly bad at recognizing them in other people.”

Clark froze completely.

Every sound around him vanished. The city disappeared, his hands tightened slightly against your waist before he caught himself.

“You…”

Your gaze met his steadily, affectionate in a way that nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

“I know, Clark.”

For one horrifying second he forgot how to breathe.

Then your hand lifted carefully, fingers brushing lightly against his arm like you were grounding him before he could panic.

“I figured it out almost immediately.”

Clark stared at you in complete disbelief. “You knew?”

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

“What? I am subtle.”

You gave him a look, and Clark immediately deflated a little. “Okay,” he admitted, “maybe not all the time.”

Your smile softened at that. “You wanted privacy. It wasn’t my place to say anything.”

Something tightened painfully in Clark’s chest. Most people reacted to Superman with awe or fear, but you were looking at him like he was just Clark, and somehow that affected him more than he could explain.

“You’re not scared of me?” he asked quietly before he could stop himself.

Your expression softened almost heartbreakingly. “Clark, I watched you hold a collapsing bridge together while comforting strangers so they wouldn’t panic.” His breath caught as you smiled faintly. “I think you’re the safest person I’ve ever met.”

The intensity in his chest became almost unbearable. Before he could overthink it, Clark reached up carefully, his thumb brushing beneath the bruise on your cheekbone with impossible gentleness.

“So all this time,” you murmured, amused now, “you thought I was fighting crime?”

A sheepish smile finally pulled at his mouth. “Cut me some slack, will you? You disappear constantly. What else was I supposed to think?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I have a brother with a disability. He needs constant care, so he stays in a hospital where they can help him properly.” Your voice softened. “I don’t really have other family left, so I try to spend as much time with him as I can. I don’t want him feeling alone.”

Clark stood completely still.

Every stupid theory he’d built over the past weeks collapsed instantly into embarrassment.

You kept talking quietly.

“Sometimes I come in late because we lose track of time playing Uno together,” you admitted quietly. “I think he lets me win now because his hands shake too much to hold the cards properly, but he still smiles like he used to, so I pretend not to notice.”

A faint smile crossed your face before fading slightly. “And sometimes I read stories to the kids in the pediatric wing during treatments because they get scared. It helps keep them calm, and the extra money helps me cover bills.” You looked away for a second. “I think I just… know what it feels like to be stuck in a hospital room wishing somebody would stay.”

Your laugh came softer after that, almost fragile. “Children are brutal critics, though. Apparently my dragon voices all sound the same.”

Clark honestly did not know what to say anymore.

All this time, he had built this entire version of you in his head. A masked vigilante slipping out of the Daily Planet during lunch breaks to save people somewhere across the city. Someone carrying bruises like battle scars, hiding secrets behind nervous smiles and thick framed glasses because they understood the impossible balancing act he lived every day.

Meanwhile, you were just… taking care of people.

Your brother. Sick children. Strangers in dark alleys.

You carried all of it alone without powers, without recognition, without anyone stepping in to help carry the weight with you, and somehow that affected Clark far more than the idea of you being a superhero ever had. Because there was nothing separating you from the pain of it. No invulnerability. No super strength. No ability to fly away from exhaustion or grief or fear.

Just you.

Still choosing kindness anyway.

Clark looked at you standing there beneath the flickering alley light with a split lip and bruised ribs after throwing yourself into danger for a stranger, and something deep inside his chest ached painfully.

“What about the bruises?” he asked softly after a long moment, almost like he was still trying to piece you together properly now that he finally understood.

You looked nearly offended. “Clark, I told you. I’m clumsy.”

“You had one shaped like fingerprints.”

“I sleep weird.”

Clark blinked at you slowly. “...how?”

“I genuinely don’t know.”

The seriousness in your voice nearly made him laugh again.

“And the blood Jimmy saw on your sleeve?”

This time you actually looked embarrassed, your hand lifting to rub the back of your neck awkwardly. “That would be the cherry slushie my brother accidentally launched directly at me.”

Clark stared at you for half a second before closing his eyes briefly.

“Oh my God.”

The sound of your laughter echoed softly through the alley then, bright and warm despite everything, and Clark felt something inside him loosen unexpectedly at hearing it. You looked exhausted, bruised, and emotionally wrung out, but you were still laughing.

“So this whole time,” you said between laughs, “Superman has been secretly investigating me because I walk into furniture too often?”

“When you say it out loud, it sounds bad.”

“It sounds insane.”

Clark finally laughed too then, helpless and warm and completely unable to stop himself. The sound bounced between the alley walls as he shook his head, looking down at the ground for a second in disbelief before meeting your eyes again.

And suddenly neither of you could stop smiling.

The tension that had followed both of you for weeks dissolved so naturally it almost felt unreal. The alley somehow seemed smaller now, quieter somehow despite the city noise surrounding it. Intimate in a way Clark wasn’t prepared for.

His hand was still resting gently against your face.

Your fingers still curled softly around his wrist.

Clark looked at you for a long moment before speaking softly. “You know what?”

“What?”

A small smile pulled at his mouth then, warm and almost disbelieving at the same time. “I was right.”

You blinked at him. “About what?”

“You are a superhero.”

The teasing smile on your face faded slightly into something softer as Clark stepped a little closer, his thumb brushing carefully against your cheek again despite the bruise there. The touch was impossibly gentle, and somehow that made the words hit even harder.

“You take care of your brother by yourself. You carry work and bills and hospital visits and all this weight every day, and somehow you still show up smiling like none of it hurts.” His voice lowered quietly, full of something that made your chest ache. “You throw yourself into danger for strangers even though you’re scared and human and breakable. I think that’s a lot braver than flying.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

Nobody had ever looked at your life and called it brave before. People called you responsible. Stubborn. Overworked. Occasionally a disaster. Nurses at the hospital constantly told you to sleep more, and your brother liked to joke that you were secretly a seventy year old woman trapped inside a twenty something year old body. But brave?

Never brave.

Yet Clark stood in front of you looking at you with the same certainty he probably used while telling terrified people everything was going to be alright during disasters. Like he truly meant every word.

“That’s not really the same thing,” you said softly after a moment, trying to laugh it off despite the warmth spreading painfully through your chest. “You literally stop meteors.”

Clark shook his head immediately. “That’s easy.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“For me,” he clarified quickly, his expression turning thoughtful, almost frustrated by his inability to explain himself properly. “I was born like this. Flying, strength, hearing buildings collapse from miles away, none of it feels difficult because it’s just…” He hesitated briefly. “Part of me.”

Your expression softened immediately.

“But you,” Clark continued more quietly, “you’re human.”

Something about the way he said it made your pulse flutter.

Not lesser. Never lesser.

Clark said human like it meant something sacred.

“You get scared anyway and still choose to help people,” he murmured. “You’re exhausted all the time, carrying responsibilities that would crush most people, and you still stop for strangers.” His gaze flickered briefly toward the alley where the teenager had disappeared earlier. “You don’t have powers protecting you.”

You looked down for a second, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity in his voice. “I was a little terrified back there,” you admitted quietly. “I genuinely thought that guy was going to break my nose.”

Clark’s jaw tightened instantly at that. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice low and certain. “He won’t touch you again.”

The protectiveness in his tone sent warmth straight through you, immediate and dangerous. God, you really needed him to stop doing that. Stop sounding so soft and protective while looking at you like you mattered more than anything else around him.

You tried very hard not to think about the fact that one of his hands were still resting carefully against your waist.

“Honestly,” you admitted with a quiet breath of laughter, “I mostly acted before thinking.”

Clark huffed softly. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“It’s a problem.”

“It’s also why that kid got home safe tonight.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly ruined you.

Your eyes lifted back toward him slowly, and suddenly he felt very close again. Close enough that you could see every tiny detail in his face beneath the dim alley light, the soft curl of dark hair near his forehead, the faint shadow along his jaw after a long day, the tiny crease between his brows that only appeared when he worried.

And God, Clark Kent worried about you constantly.

The realization settled warmly into your chest.

Clark looked at you like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with how much he liked you, and maybe that should have scared you more than it did. Instead, it made your entire body feel strangely light.

“You’re laughing,” he said quietly after a moment, sounding almost surprised by it.

You smiled faintly. “So?”

“You don’t do it enough.”

The softness in his voice stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Somewhere along the way your life had become schedules and hospital rooms and bills and exhaustion, and people stopped looking closely enough to notice when you were genuinely happy versus when you were only pretending to be okay.

But Clark noticed.

Of course he did.

He noticed everything about you.

“You notice a lot for someone who claims he wasn’t investigating me,” you murmured.

Clark actually looked embarrassed by that. “I can explain it.”

“You followed me across the city.”

“…in hindsight, that sounds concerning.”

You laughed softly. “In hindsight?”

“I really thought you were secretly fighting crime,” he admitted, the warmth in his voice returning.

“You thought I was Batman, huh?”

A helpless laugh escaped him then, low and unfairly attractive enough to make your stomach twist. The teasing lingered between you for another second before fading naturally into something quieter, softer, the space between you suddenly feeling charged again.

Clark didn’t move.

Neither did you.

His eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, and your heartbeat stuttered immediately at the look on his face. Slowly, carefully, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away, Clark stepped closer.

“You know what the worst part is?” he asked softly.

Your voice came out quieter than intended. “What?”

A faint smile touched his mouth, but there was real vulnerability underneath it now, the kind that made your chest ache. “I think I started liking you before the conspiracy theories.”

A startled laugh escaped you immediately.

“I tried not to,” Clark admitted quietly. “I thought maybe it would make things complicated.”

“You mean because you thought I was secretly fighting crime at night?”

“That was part of it.”

“And the other part?”

Clark looked at you for a long moment before answering, his expression softening into something painfully honest. “Because when I care about people,” he said quietly, “they get hurt.”

Your heart cracked a little at that.

You could hear it then beneath all the teasing and softness. The fear. The loneliness he carried around hidden beneath careful smiles and gentle hands. Clark said it so simply, but it sounded like something he had convinced himself of a very long time ago.

Before you could overthink it, your hand lifted carefully to his face.

Clark went completely still beneath your touch.

“You don’t get to decide other people’s choices for them,” you whispered.

His eyes searched yours carefully.

“I know what you are,” you continued softly, your thumb brushing lightly against his cheek. “And I still…”

The words caught in your throat suddenly.

Still what?

Still wanted him?

Still trusted him?

Still felt your entire chest tighten every time he looked at you?

Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips before lifting back to your eyes again, his voice turning almost unbearably soft. “Still what?”

Your fingers curled slightly against his cheek. “Still think you’re worth knowing.”

Something in Clark’s expression changed after that.

Not dramatically.

Quietly.

Like he had spent so long expecting fear or rejection that simple acceptance hit him harder than anything else could have.

Then, slowly, almost cautiously, his hand slid upward from your waist to rest against your jaw. Warm. Gentle. Careful enough that your breath caught immediately.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.

And God.

Nobody had ever sounded like that asking before.

Like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

You nodded once, barely managing the movement before Clark kissed you carefully at first, tentative like he was afraid pushing too hard might shatter the moment completely. Then your hand slid into his hair and something in him gave way.

The kiss deepened instantly, warm and aching and full of weeks worth of tension neither of you had known what to do with. Clark kissed like he cared too much already, one hand cradling your face while the other tightened carefully at your waist like grounding himself against you.

And maybe the craziest part was that for the first time in a very long while, you didn’t feel exhausted anymore.

You just felt safe.

Safe.

That was the only word your brain could hold onto as Clark kissed you beneath the flickering alley light, one hand cradling your face like something precious while the rest of the world carried on around you unnoticed. You had blood on your lip, bruises already forming beneath your skin, your ribs aching every time you breathed too deeply, and somehow none of it mattered when he touched you like that.

For a few dangerous seconds, you forgot about everything else completely.

The hospital bills waiting on your kitchen counter disappeared. The exhaustion clawing constantly at your bones vanished. The pressure sitting heavy on your chest every waking moment, the schedules and responsibility and fear, all of it faded beneath the warmth of Clark’s mouth against yours.

Maybe that was what made the kiss feel so overwhelming.

Not just because it was Clark.

But because nobody had held you this gently in a very long time.

Your fingers tightened slightly in his hair without thinking, and the soft sound that escaped him nearly ruined you completely. Clark kissed you slower after that, deeper, his thumb brushing carefully along your jaw like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. There was something almost unbearably restrained about him, like he wanted far more than he was allowing himself to take.

Then suddenly he pulled back.

Not far.

Just enough for both of you to breathe.

His forehead rested lightly against yours while you stood there dazed beneath the dim alley light, your glasses crooked from his hands in your hair and your lipstick probably smeared all over his mouth by now. Clark blinked at you once, still looking slightly stunned, and for one quiet second neither of you said anything.

Then you both started laughing.

Soft at first.

Then harder.

Not because anything was particularly funny, but because the entire situation felt completely absurd now that the tension finally snapped. Clark Kent had followed you across Metropolis because he genuinely believed you were secretly a vigilante, accidentally discovered you already knew he was Superman, watched you nearly lose a fight with a broom handle, then kissed you in the middle of an alleyway like this was somehow a normal Tuesday night.

Clark rubbed a hand over his face with a breathless laugh. “Okay,” he murmured. “Wow.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Wow?”

“Sorry,” he admitted, still laughing softly. “I had a much better sentence in my head five seconds ago.”

“I’m sure it was very impressive.”

“It really was.”

You laughed again, but the movement pulled sharply at your ribs this time. The wince escaped before you could hide it, and Clark’s entire expression changed immediately.

The softness melted into concern so quickly it almost startled you.

His eyes scanned over your face again, lingering on the split in your lip, the bruise darkening beneath your cheekbone, the way your arm instinctively wrapped tighter around your side now that the adrenaline was fading.

“You’re hurt,” he said quietly.

You waved him off automatically. “I’m fine.”

Clark gave you a look so deeply unconvinced it almost made you laugh again. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your arms instead, gentler now, almost hesitant like he was afraid of hurting you further.

“We should go to the hospital.”

The immediate groan that left you made him blink.

“Why do I feel like that’s the exact opposite reaction people usually have to hearing that?”

“Because hospitals hate me.”

“I seriously doubt hospitals hate you.”

“You’ve never seen me filling out paperwork.”

Normally that would have made him smile, but Clark’s expression stayed stubbornly concerned. His eyes never left your face.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you argued. “They’re just going to tell me I bruised a rib and charge me eight hundred dollars for breathing near a doctor.”

“You could have a concussion.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I feel fine.”

Clark stared at you in disbelief. “You fought two grown men with a broom.”

“One and a half grown men,” you corrected immediately. “One of them was kinda skinny.”

“You’re joking right now?”

“I cope through humor.”

“That explains a lot actually.”

A faint smile pulled at your mouth, but Clark’s concern only deepened as he watched the exhaustion settle back into your body now that everything was over. Your shoulders had started slumping slightly, your breathing slower now, careful. You leaned subtly against the brick wall behind you for support without even realizing it.

Clark noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

Without thinking, he lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles lightly beneath your eye again, so gentle it made your chest ache.

“So stubborn,” he murmured.

“You literally fly into burning buildings,” you pointed out softly. “I don’t think you get to call other people stubborn.”

“That’s different.”

“That’s exactly what you said about the glasses thing.”

Clark sighed dramatically. “I hate when you use my own arguments against me.”

“You’re going to have a terrible time dating a journalist.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Both of you froze.

Clark’s expression changed slowly, beautifully, the realization settling across his face while warmth spread through your entire body in immediate humiliation.

“Dating?” he repeated carefully.

Heat crawled instantly into your face. “I mean hypothetically.”

“Hm.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t make that sound.”

“What sound?”

“That smug sound.”

Clark laughed softly then, low and warm enough to make your stomach flip all over again. But the amusement faded quickly back into concern as his eyes searched your face.

“Seriously, though,” he said more quietly. “Let me take you to get checked out.”

The sincerity in his voice made it impossible to joke your way around it completely.

Because Clark cared in this overwhelming wholehearted way that made refusal feel almost cruel.

You looked away with a sigh. “I really am okay.”

Clark stayed quiet.

Reluctantly, you glanced back at him. “Probably.”

“Probably.”

“It’s a very optimistic probably.”

“Y/N.”

The way he said your name should genuinely be illegal.

Soft. Patient. Concerned enough that guilt twisted faintly in your chest.

You exhaled slowly. “Fine. Maybe urgent care tomorrow if I still feel awful.”

Clark frowned immediately. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“Tonight.”

“Clark.”

“What if you cracked something?”

“Then I’ll simply suffer dramatically.”

“That’s not a real plan.”

“It’s been my plan for years.”

He stared at you for another long moment before something softer crossed his face suddenly, realization settling quietly into his expression.

“You really don’t take care of yourself enough, do you?”

The disappointment in his voice hit harder than you expected because he wasn’t judging you.

He just sounded sad about it.

Your gaze dropped briefly toward the ground. “There’s not always time.”

Clark’s expression softened instantly, and God, you hated how quickly he understood things you never actually said out loud.

He stepped closer again, one hand settling carefully against your cheek despite the bruise there, his touch impossibly gentle.

“There should be,” he said quietly.

The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest.

For a moment neither of you moved. The city hummed faintly around the alley, distant sirens echoing somewhere far away while Clark looked at you with that same impossible tenderness that made it hard to breathe properly.

Then he sighed softly through his nose like he was losing an argument internally.

“At least let me walk you upstairs.”

You blinked at him. “You want to walk me home?”

Clark looked genuinely baffled by the question. “I followed you across the city and watched you fight people with a broom,” he said. “At this point it feels irresponsible not to.”

“Well, now,” he hummed softly, brushing your hair back from your heavy eyes and kissing the skin between your eyebrows. “What have we here?”

You grumbled softly, head thunking in the valley of his chest. “Mmf,” meaning Shut up.

Clark laughed and kissed down your nose, and he murmured against your skin, breath warm and toothpaste-y. “Don’t be a grump, honey. I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” you frowned, snaking your arms around his middle. A grunt of pleased relief was squished out of you when he hooked his palms under your soft thighs and hoisted you against his chest, letting you coil around him like a limpet. 

Clark knew how you got, what you needed, maybe better than anyone ever had. He could feel the tightness in your back, the cord of your muscles clenching. He rubbed a deep circle into your spine. 

“Tomorrow’s your day off, isn’t it?” he asked, kissing the circular curve of your jaw. 

“Mmf,” you repeated, which meant Yes. 

Clark smiled at your noncommittal response and shifted you onto his hip. He moved to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water. As you rested your head on his shoulder, you saw him reach for some ibuprofen. With a furrowed brow, you huffed, "What's that for?”

“For you,” he grinned, and he took the bottle and glass in one large hand, the other holding you up. Clark slipped out of the kitchen and down the hall. 

“My head does kinda hurt.”

“Oh, not for that, lovie.”

You didn’t protest as he carried you to the bedroom, and in fact, you luxuriated as he cradled you onto the mattress, snaking his hands under your top.

“You missed me more than you’re letting on,” he teased as he gently nudged your shirt up over your tummy, leaving wet lip prints up the expanse of flesh. “I can smell it.”

“Don’t be weird,” you grumbled, cheeks growing rosier by the second. 

“I can’t help it. You get this, like, sweet smell,” he chuckled, sniffing your side and tickling the soft divot of your waist where it met itself. “Hard to explain.”

“Don’t talk about pheromones right now.”

“Fine, grumpy.”

You exhaled softly as Clark kissed your ribs, all the way up to the crook of your arm. You scrunched your nose. “Hey– haven’t showered since last night,”

“What did I just say about how you smell?”

“You are… so weird.”

When his fingers dug into your waist again, you giggled and swatted lightly at his hair. He wrestled you down with a blissful grin and climbed up beside you, drawing you into his chest like a teddy bear. As he finally settled, you felt his warm breath against your neck, the passage of it from his nostrils to the sensitive skin behind your ear. His hands caressed your navel.

“I don’t know if I’ve got the energy for it tonight,” you sighed softly, nuzzling your face in the pillows. 

“But you want to…?” Clark whispered, smile curling against your shoulder, teeth nipping like a puppy at the skin. 

Through a sleepy chuckle, you mumbled, “I always want to.”

“I can do all the work.”

“That’s not really fair,” you frowned. You always felt guilty when he got between your legs. You were prone to falling asleep if he tired you out, and he would be left to fend for himself. 

“I was planning on participating.”

You blushed against cotton. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. Just lay there, honey. Let me get these off…”

You felt his warm, calloused palms slide deliciously down your sides, like he was reacquainting himself with a shape he knew well. His thumbs slipped under the band of your work slacks and shimmied them gently down to reveal the copious amount of thigh swaddled beneath, and he memorized those shapes and dips, too. You lifted a hand to reach back and feel his hair, and a few gentle smooches found the inside of your wrist as he drew you as close as he could. Clark smoothed his hand from your elbow to your fingers, lacing them with his own, and he murmured into the shell of your ear, “Okay if I get inside?”

You nodded lethargically, practically lulled to sleep already by the slow and thoughtful motion of his touch. You whined under your breath when you felt him roll away, probably to grab protection from the bedside drawer, but the warmth was replaced quickly. 

“You sure you wanna–”

“Baby, nothing in the world would make me happier than putting you to sleep like this,” Clark assured, lips assessing the side of your neck. 

There was some shuffling, some soft noises of a hand slipping into the wide fly of boxers, some positioning of your hips. You closed your eyes and curled into the pillows as Clark stripped your panties away, and a guttural sigh of relief pressed your lungs as he lifted your leg and simply sunk inside. No foreplay, nothing. You didn’t need it– you were on the verge of dripping. As his hand slid down to cup your mound, he could sense the faint pulsing, almost as if you had a second heartbeat. Whatever had made your day tiring was not aided by what must have been a perpetual (and frustrating) desire for him. You could be quite insatiable when you were in a mood… grumpiness is to horniness as Clark is to happiness. Functionally inseparable, in laymen’s terms. 

“You feel so good, bunny….”

 A soft, breathy whimper fell from Clark’s needy mouth as he let your leg fall. He wrapped around you from the back like a grateful snake, hips rocking into you in long, slow strokes. A full withdrawal, a deep reentry. Tandem sighs floated in the air of the room as he surrounded himself with the warmth of you and pressed the pads of his fingers gently over your sensitive nub, drawing little mindless shapes, never pushing hard. His voice was like a dream tune at the base of your mind. 

“I’ve got you, just like that, be good and let me take care of you…”

It felt like every nerve ending in your body was being cauterized, snuffed out and replaced with a lightheaded, fluffy feeling; no worries, no cares, just the low, pooling pleasure in your gut as Clark stuffed you, laid you out and touched you like you needed. Like you deserved, he’d wager. His gorgeous girl, always so drained from her job. So in need of coming home to someone who can melt her mind to bits and absolve her of that burden. The arm pinned under your head bent at the elbow to offer you fingertips, which upon a gentle prod at your lips, slipped habitually into your mouth– tongue sliding happily against the salty skin, numbing you further.

“My pretty girl, oh, look at you… I missed you so much, missed this feeling…”

You felt so good that Clark had no issue just dragging it out, on and on, slotting himself deep inside your walls as you sucked on his fingers. He was happy to feel the spongy tissue, the head of his cock petting the cervix, the manner in which you constricted and twisted around him like a body made to perform. His lashes fluttered against the sunkissed skin of his cheeks, mouth parted dumbly, inhaling the condensation of your skin while pleasure fogged his brain. 

“God, bunny, I– I’m not gonna last long if you keep squeezing me like that…”

You whimpered softly, clawing the pillow as you laid on your side and took it the way he asked you to, too tired to rock your hips back and too warm to protest. He rubbed, thrusted, moaned into your shoulder blade, a dedicated servant to the altar of your impending sleep. 

“Baby, are you close?”

In the usual fashion, your mouth confirmed around his digits: “Mmf!”

“Oh, yeah, okay… okay, honey, just let it happen… jeez, I’m right there with you, don’t move, right there, I just– I– ah!”

You felt him shudder the second your walls seized, the orgasm slow and revelatory as a dream. You could feel the warm balloon inflating inside you, and you almost wished you told him not to wear a condom, just so you could feel the stickiness spreading deep, permeating, catching little possibilities for fun. Clark, on the other hand, held onto you hungrily, chest rising and falling as if he’d fought a war, flushed and panting like a wreck. It didn’t take much for him– he loved you so much that just a tiny fuck like this was enough to tap him out.

With heavy eyelids and lead limbs, you sunk further into the mattress, catching your breath. Clark tried to gently slide himself out, but your hand clenched the sheets and you mumbled half-coherently, “No…”

“Don’t worry, I’m just grabbing the water.”

He watched how your face twisted at the idea of being empty, and a crooked smile overtook his expression. After craning backward to grab the medicine and glass he’d planned before, he nuzzled back in behind you, a willing big spoon, and gently tucked himself right back into the oversensitive heat between your shaky legs. “Shh, okay, okay. Open.”

Your lips parted easily, and he popped the two pills in and guided some water to help you wash them down. He swiped the dribble at the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“Good. You just sleep, baby.”

“Jus’ for a minute… we gotta get cleaned up, though…”

Clark wheezed a sugary laugh and kissed your ear, knowing full well you wouldn’t move an inch. He didn’t want you to. He’d just wait for you to sleep, and he’d clean you off then. But he said, “Sure, baby, just for a minute,” to make you content.

When a friend of friend was looking for an apartment and your best friend had just cleared her room and moved in with her boyfriend, you accepted to meet the man because he had rave reviews. A cup of coffee was enough to know he didn’t have a mean bone in his body and Clark Kent moved into your apartment the following week. That had been over a year ago and you’d learned that god had created that man to be your person. Clark wasn’t only the perfect tenant, clean, tidy and could cook, but he was a great friend. A confidant. A man who would go with you to the movies to see a foreign film or a man who would play Monopoly with your niece when she came over.

You were suspicious of Clark hiding something a month in, coming home really late at night without you hearing the door open, disappearing and returning with cuts on his face, weirdly strong and fit when you didn’t see him eat a vegetable or talk about ‘gains’. He broke two months in and spat out his secret.

“Well, maybe they want Superman. Not Clark.”

“Oh, c’mon. You get hearts drawn on your coffee cups, girls stare at you everywhere. Even the neighbor comes by to drop ‘extra cookies’ coincidentally only when you’re home.” You cornered him in his well worn humility and lack of ego. Clark thought everyone was just as nice as he was just because.

“Mrs Jackson is just nice.”

“Sure, okay.” You laughed, rolling your eyes and looking away from him.

“Why are you asking, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I just think I care a lot, even though it probably doesn’t look like it. I just want people to think I’m- y’know.” You started chewing on the sides of your nails, peeling off every loose piece of skin you could as if you were nervous.

“You don’t think people do?”

“I mean, I haven’t been asked out in forever. I may be a born again virgin.” You joked, Clark laughing. Beetle stood up from his sun soaking and moved behind you two under the shadow. He’d be back under the sun in five minutes. Clark now thought back and supposed you’d actually never been out like that since he’d known you. You’d barely even mentioned a man, once a high school boyfriend and maybe twice someone you called ‘the imbecile’. He never really noticed, mostly glad he didn’t even worry about some asshole treating you wrong or you going to see some dodgy dude that may murder you.

“That doesn’t mean that no one finds you attractive.”

“Well, at least not enough. I don’t know why I care, honestly. Whatever. I just think it would help me out, I’d feel a little more… human. Maybe get a reason to leave the house. Okay, home? The dog’s gonna get too hot. Aren’t you, my baby, my love? Come here, snuggles.” You mumbled as dog walked towards you with his tail wagging uncontrollably. You kissed his furry head a couple of times before leashing him back up. Clark nodded, shoving his book back into your tote you’d do so graciously offered to bring.

The walk through the park was quiet between you two but you stared at the people who walked past you and you found something attractive in most. You could see the redeeming qualities in most people. You and Clark found a middle ground between each other like that. He found everyone beautiful and with the power to do good if they tried. He believed in everyone, loved everything. You weren’t so sure about that, but you also tried to find the silver lining and the humanity that gave your patience. In your job, an ice cream parlour you managed with your aunt, people sucked. They were mean, intense, loud and entitled. But you also found the patience and empathy to keep being kind, discount the fallen scoop, add the extra cherry. You hoped people felt the same way about you.

“You got any plans later, supes?” You asked as you walked into the house, loosening the dogs collar to let him roam freely and pulling out your phone.

“Uh, I was gonna work a little bit.

“Oh, will Lois be here then?” You asked and Clark cringed. That very obvious courting that he had tried the past few months had come to an abrupt stop when Jimmy pointed out that Lois wasn’t only not interested in him, she wasn’t interested in men at all.

“No. She gets distracted with Beetle and just pets him the whole time.” He said, which was partly true. Lois did find herself working on the floor next to couch while she caressed the dog's belly. You smiled and nodded, moving to take off your sweater.

“Alright. Then do you mind keeping an eye on puppy?”

“Sure. You going out?” He asked, trying not to pry or bring to your attention the dog was 8 and hardly a puppy.

“Yeah, Kate from my yoga class invited me out and I think I should go.”

“Should?”

“I mean, yeah. See if I can get that attention I’ve been craving. If it’s not too much to ask. Reckon you’re probably sick of me, right?” You joked, shoving your hands in the back pockets of your jeans and inadvertently pushing your chest out, making Clark’s mouth go dry. He cleared his throat, crossing his arms out in front of him.

“I’m not. I love hanging out with you.” You smiled and nodded, going into your room with your dog following behind and leaving him alone in the living room. Clark’s mind had been a little foggy the last month. At the same time the realization of Lois’ lack of interest reared its head on Clark’s brain, he noticed he suddenly found you more interesting. He’d always been drawn. Liked the way you looked, smiled, smelled, cooked him the best chicken noodle soup he’d ever has (‘don’t tell my Ma I said that’ he said, as if you had her on speed dial) and helped him clean a wound even though he assured you he didn’t need it. He liked when you wore the red top and he liked when you wore skirts.

But of course, like a moron, he’d convinced himself it was normal appreciation for the female gender. He had always liked girls, really liked them. But after you showed him pictures of your weekend in California where you looked all warm and with much less layers than usual, something shifted. He just noticed you much more. How your chest looked under your pyjamas, how your soft hands around his jaw felt when you cleaned him, how when you laughed, he could almost imagine how you’d sound moaning. Clark mostly tried to push it away; you were sort of his landlord for god’s sake. But he just wondered what it’d be like. To have you withering with pleasure under his mouth, how warm you’d be around his fingers, how wet could you get for his cock. He just lets himself want you, want you bad, and wonder.

He was just a good friend. He worries. That’s what he said to himself as he walked down the street, dog shaking his tail as he thought he was just getting treated with one extra walk today, and he followed the image of you as he walked closer to the bar you were in. Clark had tried to listen to you, unconsciously of course, 15 minutes ago but heard nothing ever since. Not a peep from you. So he worried. Of course he did. Why would you be quiet when you’d gone to meet people? Where was your friend? Had no one impressed you? Or were you silenced? Okay, the last one was less than likely. But still, he just wanted to check you were fine.

He would go, look into the bar and check on you and go back home. That’d be it. So when he walked up to the bar he could hear you closer to, he pressed his head to the glass softly to look in. His eyes narrowed, under the white lights there was little less visibility. He passed the people, groups, couples dancing and grinding, a bachelorette party and in a table on the corner there you were. As he had guessed, you were quiet. Your finger was running around the rim of the glass, picking up the sugar on it and then licking the tip. You then took a sip and licked the glass again, pink tongue on full display making him wonder how it would contrast against his co- okay, he needed a cold shower.

You were alone, hair you had done for half an hour now a little frizzy and lipgloss faded against your drink. He could see you were upset, it showed on your chubbed up cheeks and small pout. He scanned the room again and noticed a man who was sitting on a stool was looking at you. Clark focused harder, he heard his heart beating fast. As if he was planning something. Clark’s eyes drifted back to you, and you had stood up, fixing your blouse before turning around and locking eyes with him. You squinted and frowned, Clark’s breath catching in his throat and he turned around as if he could pretend he wasn’t there.

“Clark? Beetle! Hi, baby.” You baby talked your dog as he jumped and placed his two front legs on your thighs.

“Hey. What are you two doing here?” You looked back up at Clark whose lips were pressed together. He pretended to think for a second, watching your grin grow by the second.

“Y’know, just a little walk.”

“At 11 pm? You never take him out.”

“I do! He just looks at me like I’m going to give him away all the time, so I feel bad and we end up at Pet-smart buying him a bone.” You laughed, kneeling to wrap your arms around your dog.

“Were you spying on me, Clark?” He laughed and rolled his eyes as if he found your accusation hilarious, but he looked down at you and saw you were nothing but amused.

“I-I was just checking in on you, and you were quiet, so I got worried and wanted to make sure you were fine. Don't evict me. Why were you alone? Where’s your friend?” He finally asked, looking back into the bar and the half-drunk glass you’d left behind.

“Didn’t really work out like I wanted it to. She’s making out with some girl in the back.” You said, shrugging and motioning to the room and Clark sighed.

“I’m sorry, darling. Anyone who doesn’t see how great you are, how beautiful you are is doomed beyond repair. Really, human scum. I wouldn’t save them from a falling bridge.” You laughed slightly and stood, swallowing up a tear that was threatening to fall minutes before from your sorrow-filled eyes. Clark Kent, Mr. Everyone is good and kind, thought that people who didn’t like you were scum. That was the best result you could get out of this failed night.

“Thank you.” You mumbled before pulling you into his arms comfortably, he hugged you tightly and sweet, kissing the top of your head. You sniffled for a while against his chest, not really crying but just drowned in an absolute pity party. You hadn’t even particularly tried to engage or seem approachable. You hid behind your friend and then sat on the corner without making eye contact. It was mostly your fault. But it was hard, being approachable was a requisite for, y’know, being approached.

“Wanna go ho-“

“Hey! I noticed you left this in there.” The guy who Clark noticed had been eyeing you up came out running from the bar, holding in his hand a gold tube. Your lipgloss.

“Oh! Thank you so much. You’re very detail oriented.” You said, taking it into your hand and giving him a thankful smile. You put it on as a reflex, squeezing the sticky liquid out of the tube and immediately making your lips brownish and glossy.

“Yeah, I was hoping you hadn’t left.” He said, putting his hands on his hips. You nodded, putting the tube in your purse.

“I don’t think this color is good with my complexion so it would have been wasted.” He joked, and you did laugh. He smiled bigger when he saw you laugh.

“Well, thanks either way. You’re very kind.”

“Sure, yeah. Are you leaving?” He asked, licking his lips as he watched you and your eyes opened, looking down at the dog rubbing against your leg. You were clueless, Clark thought. That man was giving more signs than a green light and you thought he was just being friendly.

“Yeah, can’t stay with this dude in there.” The man glanced down and smiled, nodding and waving before moving away to the door, one last look to you before leaving behind the entryway. You smacked your lips and sighed, motioning for the leash of the dog.

“Home, then?”

“Are you good?” Clark asked, sitting at the edge of your bed as you removed your jewelry.

“Yeah. Don’t worry. I just… wish I was sexy. To someone at least. Kind of think about it a lot. But yeah.” You shrugged, stepping into your bathroom and starting to let your hair loose. Clark nodded, bitting his lips between his teeth as he looked at you. God, how could you not have a million suitors at all times? You were the best thing he’d seen in a while, being around you felt like what he would imagine was being inside an apple pie. Not only because you were warm and smelled like apples and cinnamon, but because it was comforting and oddly relaxing, swooshing around sweetness and a hit of tart from the granny smith, covered by a wall of perfectly worked dough.

Clark stood up and debated saying anything. He didn’t want to ruin everything, make the situation awkward between you two. But he would die if he didn’t let you know he wanted you. How could you move around not convinced of how priceless you are?

“Uh, look. I don’t wanna make anything uncomfortable so tell me if I’m overstepping but, Jesus. I can’t believe you have a mirror and can see yourself and still don’t know how attractive you are.” You looked up and peered at him through the mirror, squinting at Clark as if trying to decipher the purpose of his words.

“Well, that doesn’t mean I’m sexy to people.” You still responded and Clark was careful of not letting out the exasperated whine that was tickling his tongue.

“Okay, but you are. I swear. You just don’t notice.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do! That guy was hitting on you.” You frowned.

“He was giving me my lipgloss, not a bouquet.”

“It was the vibe. He was giving an interested vibe.”

“That’s not a thing, Clark.” You laughed at him slightly, turning around to face him. Clark laughed too, putting down the hands he’d been using to punctuate his words and caging you between them, leaning on the counter beside your hips.

“Honey, I swear. I’m a guy, I know what it looks like. You’ve got to believe you are wanted and hot and all those things you think you’re not.”

“I just don’t feel it.” You defended, staring into his eyes and not backing down from the argument. Clark sighed, chest contracting to take a deep breath and get ready for what was about to slip out of his mouth.

“I find you very, very attractive. You’re hot. Sexy. Beautiful. I mean, look at yourself. C’mon.” Your cheeks were so hot now you could probably bake a cookie on top of them. Clark turned you around by the shoulders, making you stare at yourself and him.

“Look at your face, your lips, your eyes. Your hips, thighs, all your torso. You’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. So desirable. Trust me, you’re hard to resist.” You had a bit of a smirk, because even if you didn’t see what he was seeing, it still moved your ground to think Clark could see those things in you. He was the most impressive man you’ve met and he was honest, he wouldn’t bullshit you.

“You’re not just saying it to make me feel better?” You whispered with a small smile, trying to make it sound light and not like a question full of fear.

“Darling, I wouldn’t lie to you. You’re all that and more. I was almost glad you didn’t see that guy flirting because I don’t want you to be with anyone.”

“Anyone?”

“Other than me.” He responded firm and sure, you swore he could hear the way your heart had caught a strange, fast rhythm. You continued looking up, seeing Clark lean down to place his head on top of your shoulder.

“Can I show you how much I want you?” He asked, one leaving the counter to press against your hip. You jumped at the contact, merely nodding when Clark smiled and started by bringing his mouth to your neck, making you jump once again. You were honestly so touch starved, even just his breath did something. You were also shameless. This beautiful man wanted to do something with you? Hell yeah. So you turned around, wrapping your arms around his neck to bring him closer. Clark smiled like he was proud, like he wanted you to react.

“That’s my girl. Don’t be shy, not with me. Gonna let me kiss you? Make you feel good?” You smiled and motioned him closer, he twisted his head slightly to get the easiest access to you, placing two fingers underneath your chin and motioning it upwards. He smiled once more at you, pupils blown and practically panting for a taste of you. You’d let him have it.

Clark’s mouth felt different than you thought it would. Sure, he was big and strong but he was also awkward and almost too sweet to function, so this confidence, sure stride of his lips and tongue hard begging for entrance was surely a surprise. His hand moved down to your waist, squeezing at the fat before pressing his hips to yours, guiding your body closer to him. You followed his lead, feeling the press of his growing boner against your mount. It made you giddy.

“Jeez, can’t believe I haven’t done this yet. You taste like freaking honey.” Clark mumbled when you finally left his mouth to take a breather, mouth wide open to continue breathing him in. You smirked, licking your lips and yes, there was still a taste of honey from the rim of sugar of your Paloma.

“My drink had a honey sugar rim.” Oh, he noticed.

“Nah, I think that’s just you.” You giggled as he tried to press his lips back on yours but settled on the surrounding of your lips, corners and chin. His hands moved down to the space between the small of your back and your ass cheeks.

“Can I go lower?”

“Anything you want.” You responded like a reflex, hungry for his affection. He immediately started kneeding the fat on your buttocks with firm but gentle hands. You moaned into his mouth, not because the movement felt good but because his hands on you were making you feral. After a minute his mouth left yours, kissing desperately your neck and exposed skin of your collarbones. His finger started pulling the fabric of your skirt, bunching it up around your hips. Once he secured it up, he used his knee to spread your legs apart. He pushed it against your clothed slit, pulling a gasp from your mouth. Thank god you had the decency to wear reasonable underwear just in case you managed to gather some attention at the bar. You almost wore granny panties.

“Can I take it off?”

“What?”

“Everything. Starting to with your skirt and underwear, though.” You couldn’t possible blush harder. You bit your lip and nodded, watching Clark pull the zipper and let the material fall down, teasingly sneaking his hand under the crotch of your underwear, touching up the wet skin there before pulling down that fabric too, leaving your lower half bare to him. He pushed the clothes further away, dropping to his knees in front of her.

“Gosh, you smell so good, let me just… yeah, like that.” Clark said as he lifted your knee over his shoulder, getting more access from the weird position you guys had resumed to in the bathroom. He could take you to your bed, sure, but this was spur of the moment and hot and he had plans for you right now. He gave you one last look, making sure you were still in this but by the way your pussy was glistening with humidity, and your pulsating heart could be felt from here, you were in it. He first used his thumb and index finger to push your lips apart, exposing the lonely, beautiful skin of your vulva to him. Clark let out a shaky sigh, because darn it, he also was touch starved. Between moving in and Superman and thinking about Lois he hadn’t particularly gotten any in a long time. What if he’d forgotten how to do it? How to touch a woman?

“Clark, are you just gonna stare?” You teased softly, a tiny giggle leaving your mouth and bringing him back to earth.

“Sorry, just… enchanted.”

“Shut up.” You laughed and he did shut up, pressing one single kiss to your pubic bone, on top of the hair there, before licking up a stripe from your entrance to your clit, making you gasp.

“Yeah, you taste like honey.” Clark said before properly diving in, one hand moving to your ass to pull you closer as your hands looked for balance on the counter. His mouth enveloped your skin, sucking up like it was some sort of soft serve ice cream that was melting and he needed to get every drop of the sweetness into his senses. He then started to kitten lick at your clit, tongue swirling over the hardened bud because he needed to build you up, you deserved it. You deserved everything.

“Oh, fuck.” You whined as his tongue proded into your entrance, pressing the muscle against your skin and just keeping it there, letting you feel the texture and the pulsating of his heart that was present now on his focusing tongue. He moved again, lapping at the precious sap that flooded your pussy as soon as he moved. You didn’t taste like pure honey, no, it’s physically impossible. But there was something sweet, addictive, so human and feminine that tingled his senses.

He went back to your clit, taking it into his mouth and sucking it, a shocked moan leaving your mouth at the sensation. It had been too fucking long.

“Want you to cum for me,” Clark said between tonguing your swollen nerves, “You’re too hot to not be treated well, I can do it. I’ll treat you right. I'll give you everything.” With no space for a response, he went back to doing what he knew would push you off the edge with the suction he was providing. You pressed against the counter, your heel pressing to his back deliciously while he thought that if he just maybe pressed his dick against your leg, he’d cum easily. That’s how excited and hot for you he was.

“God, Clark, just like that. You’re so good at that- oh.” You whined, as he prodded one finger into your entrance and tickled at that one spongy spot inside you he would try to look at of his eyes weren’t closed in bliss and focus. You wouldn’t be long, you knew that when your hips started to involuntarily grind against his face. He looked up at you and your head was thrown back, and he wanted to see you. He slapped your thigh with his free hand, calling for your attention and you looked down, watching him suckle onto your clit with unmovable desire. His blue eyes almost darkened by the size of his pupils did it, you stuttered out a moan as he continued sucking you and pressing inside you when you came. He slowed down, knowing not to press too much, but continued licking you until you reached and separated his head from you.

“Jesus, Clark.” You laughed, he smiled and pressed one last kiss to your pussy, a promise to see her as soon as he could, and stood up. You searched for his mouth fast, hands moving down to try and touch him through his pants.

“You-you don’t have to. This is about you.” He promised and you rolled your eyes, finally coping a feel of what you had disrespectfully stared at many times before. You’d never said anything, much less acted on it, but you would sometimes drool when he came into your room early in the morning to show you some stupid video and had his morning wood visible through his plaid pyjama pants. Clark was beautiful and sweet, of course you had a small crush on him. It didn’t help that he looked like a Superhero. Even before you knew he was one, you were sure he was straight out of a comic book some nerd would have unopened on a shrine in his bedroom.

“You wanna give me everything but you won’t get inside me? Awful rude.” You baited him, making him bite his lip and roll his eyes, grinding down onto your hand as you moved to pull his shirt off. He was even better up close. You ran your hands down his chest and rested at the hem of his pants, kissing down his neck.

“Please, wanna take care of you. Let me out.” Clark’s words were orders, you pushed his pants and underwear down, his cock jumping free and making you gasp. You should’ve known his size would be proportional, but it was still a punch to the gut to see that perfect dick had been in your house for a year and you had no idea.

“Don’t worry, it’ll fit. Turn around for me, baby.” You turned around and presented yourself to him, ass slightly pushed out for his access. He smiled big and smug, taking his cock into his hand and pumping it a couple of times.

“Want me, sweetheart?”

“More than anything. Fuck me.” Clark hissed when you responded as he coated his tip in your fresh slick, positioned on your hole before pushing in. One slow but complete thrust had him inside you fully, touching your cervix as you got used to the size and closed your eyes, he soothed your hips and held them tight.

“Move.” He really didn’t need to be told twice, moving forward and back, fucking you at a delicious, perfect pace. Every time he crawled back in, he touched every centimetre of your walls, with the final push making you whine every single thrust.

“Open your eyes, angel. Watch yourself.” You did, but honestly, you saw him. His mouth was open and red; the silver chain he wore was pendulous with his hips attacking you. You could really get used to it. The mirror was starting fog up slightly from the warmth and sweat of your bodies, but you could still see the obscene scene that was unfolding. Your own private show, of your beautiful roommate who has crossed into a very complicated area to console you. God, you really hoped it wasn’t consolation. But by the way Clark looked absolutely lost, whipped and entranced, you really doubted it.

“You’re so pretty, so sexy. Look at how good you’re taking it. You’re a dream. Never doubt that.” Clark praised, switching between looking at your face through the mirror and the meeting of your bodies, his cock disappearing between your cheeks with every thrust. You said nothing, just kept looking as he brought one hand up to rub your clit, middle finger playing rough and unfair with you as the stimulation became so much for the second time. Clark was about to cum; he needed the sweet release of your pussy tightening around him before letting himself go. He wanted you to finish first. You squeezed, swallowing him in because you wanted to keep him inside. He’d comply.

“I’m- I’m gonna cum. You want me to pull out?” He warned, you shook your head as if he was suggesting something preposterous.

“No, stay inside, Clark. In me, please.” It was like a command, he immediately started to spill that hot, abundant cum onto your walls, filling you to the brim with him and only him. Just like he wanted. He brought one hand over your stomach, the fat there and kept going until he pressed it to the valley of your breasts to feel your heart beating fast. It came from the sex, sure, but it was also the absolute thrill of having this man show you love, tenderness, desperation and disrespecting you a tiny bit to have you just how he wanted. He kissed your temple, looking at your relaxed face in the mirror. Two intense orgasms will do that to you.

"Bed?" He asked and you smiled, nodding as he slowly pulled out from inside you and kissed your back, the freckle on your shoulder he was delighted to see up close and not from the times your shirts slipped from their place. He helped you get a tissue to wipe away the cum spilling out of your pussy, a sinful, beautiful river of translucent white running down onto your thighs. He stepped away and picked up his clothes, pulling on his underwear and walking to his room, throwing the other clothes on the bed to go back to yours quickly. He didn't want to risk you changing your mind (idiot, why would you ever?). When he came back, you had already pulled the sheets to get beneath them. You motioned for him to get in the other side, and he happily obliged.

"You're gonna let me take you out on a date tomorrow, beautiful?" He asked, settling and pulling you against his chest.

"Sure."

"And make you cum on my cock in the morning."

"Sure." He smiled, kissing your forehead as he felt Beetle coming up into the bed to cuddle besides you, effectively pushing you closer to Clark. Thank goodness for your clingy pet. He sighed in absolute comfort and bliss, feeling you press a couple kisses to his bare chest and squeeze on leg between his. He could absolutely get used to this.

Fear is what you feel when you think about relationship. Pain when you think about love. And Tears when you think about partner.

Being in relationship with bucky has been a breeze. At least till now. He's always mindful of what he says. Always gentle with you. Never shouting or yelling. Never ignorant of your feelings.

But that's not where your mind goes when you look at the broken watch in your hand. The one that Steve gave him for his birthday two years ago. His favorite.

You don't know how it happened. One second you were cleaning your shared bedroom, humming a little tune as you go and the next second, his watch slips from your hands.

Delicate glass shattering to pieces. Your heart leapt into your throat. Dread settling low in your stomach and suddenly you weren't there anymore.

You were 11 again. Hiding in the closet of your small bedroom. Door left slightly ajar. The view blurred from your tears but, images flowing in freely from where you were peeping from your closet.

The broken camera was still lying on the kitchen counter. As you saw your mom getting lashed out at for the death of an inanimate object.

You remember closing your eyes hearing the sound of your dad yelling, of your mom crying. The sound of objects being thrown off. The sound of hitting and slapping and…..

“No no no no. Please. Not again” You don't know when you started crying. But your hands begin to shake at the reminder, breaths come in heavy every second that passes.

You don't hear the door open or the footsteps that follow, bringing bucky to the room you're standing in, clutching the broken watch like it's a fragile piece of art.

He doesn't know you're spiraling. He just sees you standing in the room, holding something, with your back facing him. He comes closer and winds his arms around you, hugging your back. “Hey sweetheart” he says with a kiss to your cheek.

Your body tenses, grip tightening on the shards of watch in your hand. Only when bucky sees a drop of blood fall to the floor does he pull away in horror.

He moves around to face you. Horrified when he sees your palms dig into glass shards. “Baby, you're hurting yourself” he pries the watch away from your grip, placing it on the nightstand without so much as looking at it.

No, he's looking at you. At your worried, tear streaked face and your bloodied hands. He gently guides you to the bathroom, washing the blood off in the sink with tenderness you don't quite register.

You're too busy spiraling, replaying every fight you ever witnessed between your parents to realize him slowly removing the glass stuck on your palms before bandaging them.

He's not scolding. Not saying a word. Just occasionally blowing on the wound when he thinks it hurts.

The silence makes it worse. It makes you think he's mad. You wait. You wait for him to lash out at you, to yell and throw things around. To hit you.

“I'm sorry.” It's barely a whisper. If not for his super soldier hearing, bucky would've missed it. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. It just slipped and I couldn't-” You stop yourself from going further, afraid you'd make him angrier.

Fear has blinded all your senses. You can't see that he doesn't give a damn about the watch. You can't see the way his eyes are glassy from seeing you bleed.

“No baby. Its okay. I'm not mad. It just a wa-” He raises his hand to cup your face. But you flinch back hard before he can touch you. Your back meets the wall harshly and your head slams into the cabinet before you fall to your butt.

“I'm sorry please. It'll never happen again” you mutter hiding your face in your hands and bringing your knees to your chest in an attempt to make yourself as small as possible.

Bucky reaches for you again “Oh my love, I'd never be mad at you for breaking a watch.”

You recoil from his touch. Scared. Cowering like a hurt animal who's too afraid to trust again. Tears flow freely from your eyes. Breaths coming out labored.

Bucky can't comprehend what's going on. But he knows the signs of trauma and PTSD when he sees them. They're too familiar for him to ignore.

He realized it in the way your body tensed when he hugged you. How zoned out you were when he was bandaging your hand and the fear in your eyes when you thought he was gonna hit you.

“Honey”. He tries again only for you to curl in on yourself further.

“Please” You whimper “please don't hit me, please. I can't- I'm not strong like you. I can't take it.” you sob

Bucky doesn't know what to do. He's never seen you like this. He's always known you as the sweet, kind, shy person that you are.

Never once did he imagine you to be holding so much pain inside of the tender heart he so dearly loved.

He wanted nothing but the best for you. To pour into this relationship, all the love caged inside him for 70 years.

It broke his heart. The pain of seeing you like this was worse than the time he spent in hydra. He didn't know what to do.

He wanted to touch you but he was afraid of making it worse. You were hyperventilating now. He couldn't risk making you spiral further.

So he does what he knows best. Being there when things go wrong. He thinks that maybe when nothing else works. Being present can help. It did for him.

You'd been with him through countless nightmares. Now he wasn't gonna give up on you when all you needed was a little love and comfort.

He slides in close beside you. Not quite touching. Just whispering sweet words for you to realize that you weren't alone. That he would never, even in his wildest dreams, hurt you in any way.

“I'm never going to hurt you sweetie.” He couldn't imagine anyone going through pain like that. Least of all you. You didn't deserve it. Then again when has the world ever been kind to those who hold pure hearts.

“I'm here, my love. I've got you.” It's like a cruel cosmic joke really. That the tenderest of hearts have to swallow the worst kind of pain. That innocence has to be replaced with coming of age through casual cruelty.

“It's gonna be okay baby.” His words slowly start to register themselves in your brain as the memories of your past fade away leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Take your time honey. I'll be here.” you look at him. Breath slowly settling. Arms and legs still numb. But the haze on your senses finally leaving.

You see him look at you, and in his eyes, you don't find anger or disappointment. You find love and concern. You will your hand to move towards him and that's all the permission he needs.

He pulls you into his lap, tucking your face in his neck and resting his chin on top of your head. He's peppering kisses on your hair as you cling to him, burrowing into his chest like you can't get close enough.

The waterworks start again as more images comes to surface. Only this time you don't panic because you are in the safest place you know. In his arms. “Shh baby, it's okay. Let it out.” He comforts.

His shirt has a wet patch on the front from your tears but he doesn't move you. He just cradles you like a fussy toddler. His hand slowly goes to the back of your head, checking for injuries.

His hand finds the spot and you wince, sure enough there's a huge bump there from how hard you hit your head on the cabinet.

He stands up slowly, lifting you with him as he goes, without jostling you too much. He crosses the bathroom and sits down on the bed with you on his lap.

He kisses your temple, holding you close in an attempt to comfort you.

Your mind is still spiraling. Not quite settled. Still hell bent on opening the locked boxes of memories from the darkest corners of your mind. The memories swing by your eyes like scenes on a film screen.

You remember the morning after. How none of them would meet your eye. How they'd pretend you didn't exist. That they weren't aware of the scene that they played out in front of you yester-night.

How they'd avoid kissing you goodbye as if that'd erase what you saw last night. It never made sense to you. Why were you the one being punished when they were mad at each other.

Maybe they didn't know that you saw them. Maybe they were really unaware that you were too afraid to come out of the closet on nights like those. Or that you cried yourself to sleep on the memory of their fights even when they weren't fighting that day.

But they never checked in. Not after the fight. Or the next day or the days that followed. If they had, they'd have found out that you weren't afraid of monsters under your bed but of the people who were supposed to chase those monsters away.

That you still slept in the closets when nightmares haunted you. That your body would tense at every loud sound you heard. That maybe they were the reasons you hated fireworks so much, the anticipation and the noise of blasting a firecracker was too much for your little body to handle.

You cling to bucky harder. Tighter. Looking at him to make sure he's still there. “I'm here” he says as if he can read your mind.

He rocks you slowly. Kissing your head occasionally and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. He doesn't ask what happened. He doesn't force you to explain why you had a panic attack suddenly. He doesn't mention the broken watch.

That's not his priority. He just wants to make sure you're fine. How could he be mad at you for breaking a watch. He can buy 20 of those if one breaks but where will he find another you?

His body shudders at the thought. He wants to know what made you spiral to be able to make sure that he doesn't accidentally trigger you in future.

But he won't force you to let it out. He'll wait until you're ready to unpack it yourself. God knows there are things from his time at hydra, he still can't say out loud.

He gently slips you off his lap “just a minute honey. I'll be back.” You look like a lost puppy, not letting go of his hand. “I'm just gonna get the ice pack baby, it'll only take a minute” you let him go reluctantly.

And when he's back with the ice pack, you crawl into his lap again, curling like a kitten. He huffs out a surprised laugh before his arms come around you again. Cocooning you close.

He presses the ice pack on the back of your head, apologizing as you wince. You stay like that until the ice pack is warm. He doesn't let go, not even for a second.

And when you look up at him, he smiles, kisses your nose and says, “Go to sleep, sweetheart, you'll feel better” when he sees the reluctance in your eyes, he continues “I’ll be here. Not going anywhere.” you breathe a sigh of relief at that.

He places his palm on your eyes, prompting you to close them as he hums the tune of some old lullaby. You close your eyes, eventually, drenched in love and basking in warmth of the person you call home.

And with his hand rubbing comforting circles on your back and his lips pressing chaste kisses on your skin. You know that you don't ever have to hide in the closet anymore. You can just run into his arms instead.

credit of the divider goes to the owner

Tag list : @redstarleftarm

You were completely mesmerized by the video playing on the screen. The image of a large and strong muscular figure rutted his hips up into the silicone, slick with his precum and lube—the poor toy looking like it was on the verge of tearing apart in his large hands. 

After stumbling across the account Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917, you were immediately hooked. 

He never showed his face, but you didn’t need to know what he looked like to be entranced. His grunts and moans were engraved in your mind like a song you knew by heart. You were enthralled by the sight of his broad, sweat-slicked back, every movement etched into your memory. The sheer length and size of him held you captive, hypnotized. You had memorized the rhythm of his patterns right before he came, you knew it like the back of your hand. 

His moans would rise slightly higher in pitch. His breathing would get heavier. He’d curse and grunt out, “fuck, fuck.” or “shit, fuck.” 

And then it happens. 

With one final thrust, he filled his toys to the brim with his cum, always thick and a creamy pearlescent white. 

You had one hand tucked in your panties, rubbing at your clit as you came just in time with him. You tossed your head back against the pillow, panting and sweating from the aftermath of your self-lovemaking. 

You withdrew your hand, catching your breath as the aftershocks of your orgasm faded. Moving lazily, you wiped your fingers clean before reaching for your phone. Just as always, you began typing out a comment—first in line the moment his new video drops. 

Pleasure_Ring: Great video as always! It made me feel really really good! I can’t wait to see the next!! 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Thanks, baby. I’m glad you enjoyed it. That one was for you.

A minute passed by and another notification popped up on the bottom right of your screen, but this time, it was a direct message.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I just read your comment. You’re always so supportive. I wish you were here. I’d be fucking you instead of this flimsy toy. 

Your face flushed after reading his message. He was always so quick to respond, and although he was pretty responsive to other commenters too, you couldn’t help but feel like his replies to you were always a bit more personal than the rest. 

Pleasure_Ring: I really wish I was there too! But I admit, I’m a little scared just thinking about it haha. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing… 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Scared? How come? 

Pleasure_Ring: I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex before. 

Most people would find it pathetic to be flirting through a porn site. Even more would say it’s worse to be tangled in a para-social attachment to one of the biggest stars online.

And sure, maybe they're right. You were hooked on the mysterious man with the ridiculous username. But this was your ritual, your private indulgence, the part of yourself you never let anyone else see. Besides, you knew it would never be more than flirtatious comments flashing across a screen. 

Men like him always had plenty of women waiting in their inbox.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: A virgin, huh? That’s cute. What’s a sweet little thing like you doing watching videos like mine?

Pleasure_Ring: Because yours are the only ones that actually satisfy me. Any woman would be lucky to spend even one night with you.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart… I don’t think you could handle a night with me.

Your heart thumps faster in your chest at his response. As much as you wished you could stay up and keep chatting, reality always kicked in. You had responsibilities, so conversations with him were usually cut off after midnight. 

Pleasure_Ring: I don’t think I could either… but I’d still like to try for you.

Pleasure_Ring: It’s getting late, and I’ve got a shift in a few hours. Have a great night, Bucky. And thank you for another wonderful video. <3

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: So soon, doll? I was just starting to enjoy our little chat.

You stared at the screen, tempted to type something back to keep the conversation going. Glancing at the clock, you let out a reluctant sigh. 

You logged off before you could second-guess yourself, because you knew that if you responded, you’d be up for hours. 

And when Bucky refreshed the page, impatiently waiting for a response, your username was already gray and your status was offline. 

Bucky laid back in his chair, finishing the last line of the description before hitting upload. He has never been great with captions—or usernames, for that matter… but lately, his descriptions weren’t just filler text to satisfy his fans. They were subtle messages, written only for you.

Need my pleasure ring to come help me out instead. Getting tired of using my hands and toys. Enjoy.

Once everything looked right, he clicked post. Same ritual, same time. Every three days.

The moment his upload went live, he sat up straight in his chair. The glow of the monitor lit his dark room, his eyes glued to the screen. Eleven minutes—that’s how long the video ran. By his calculations, you should already be online and commenting in twelve. 

Two minutes in, he refreshed. Another two more minutes, he refreshed again. Over and over, because he knew. He knew you’d be the first one there in his comment section without fail. 

You always were.

At this point, it’s been well past eleven minutes with zero notifications. In Bucky’s eyes, this was more than enough time for you to receive the notification, watch the video, and send a comment or a message like you usually do. 

So why the hell weren’t you doing it? 

He dedicated this video to you, goddammit. Actually—he dedicated all of his videos to you. But this one especially was planned, recorded, performed with you in mind. And yet, your account still showed offline.

He pumped himself for the first half of the video—his face nuzzled into the softness of his pillow. His groans and grunts were muffled as he fisted himself, his leaking tip grazing against the smooth fabric of his bed sheet, leaving a wet stain every time he grounded and bucked his hips. 

Then about halfway through, he reached for the clear silicone toy. He positioned the camera against the headboard, sitting up straight as he started fucking himself with the toy—the clear silicone squelching and spreading wider as he rutted into it like an animal. 

“Fuck, yes baby,” he groaned in the video. “S’fucking good, taking all this cock in your tight little virgin pussy.” He said. 

And God was that line especially meant for you. 

It was a damn good video—he was so fucking proud of himself. Which only made it harder for Bucky to understand why your account still showed offline.

With an annoyed sigh, he propped his elbow on the desk, chin resting in his palm, and refreshed one more time for good measure. When nothing changed, he clicked on your profile and began to lurk.

For all the attention you gave him, your account was practically a ghost. No videos. No profile picture. No caption. No name. You were only following one account—his. And you had one follower, too… also him.

Bucky never followed anyone else. 

He scrolled down a bit, and his eyes widened at what he saw on the screen. 

Your account was linked to your social media profiles—your Instagram and TikTok.

In order to create an account, you had to attach a phone number or email address. During sign-up, there was also the option to link your social media—tied to that same phone number or email—a small popup buried among the usual flood of terms, agreements, and permission requests that appeared in sequence.

So either you let it slip past you, your finger tapping carelessly just to get it out of the way.

Or… you wanted him to find you.

The cursor hovered over the link. Bucky sucked in a breath, clicking on your Instagram. When the screen finally loaded, his eyes immediately widened and his heart skipped a beat. Your profile was public. Your name was right at the top, and there you were in your profile picture—smiling, front and center.

Aside from his secret porn account, Bucky didn’t do social media. He couldn’t be bothered figuring out how it works, but he knew enough to recognize that Instagram was all about pictures and videos. And that was exactly what he needed.

Finally, he could see you.

His number one fan. His pleasure ring. 

He scrolled down, coming across a mix of photos. Selfies, your eyes bright and innocent with a sheepish smile. Food. Didn’t care. Landmarks. Didn't care. Pictures of family and friends—he only looked for you. 

There were beach shots, carefree and playful, your body posted in a skimpy bikini glowing in the sunlight. 

His breath caught in his throat. His pants grew tighter. He shifted in his seat, trying to adjust the growing pressure between his legs. He leaned closer as he looked through every picture, careful not to accidentally leave a like in his wake. 

“Damn, baby,” he muttered, staring at your pictures, unable to tear his eyes away. 

He scrolled down, saving every single image that displayed your face and your body—each one feeling like a treasure.

All the pictures of you were seemingly innocent. Even in your bikini shots, you weren’t trying to show off. You didn’t jut your hips out or pose provocatively. Your pictures weren’t screaming for attention. 

It was cute. 

But it just made him want more. Need more. He would’ve loved to see you bend over just a little bit. Maybe even press your arms together to accentuate your cleavage.

God. He would’ve loved to see that. 

His dick throbbed in his pants as he scrolled further down your Instagram. More selfies of you just meant more photos in his special folder. With one hand rubbing himself steadily and the other on the mouse, he hovered over your TikTok link next. 

Once your page loaded, he felt his heart drop in his stomach. 

There were only two videos, both of them being with your friends. It was some stupid trend you were doing—Bucky never understood the whole appeal of trends—but you were dancing to them, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest as he watched, captivated. 

Your dancing was… pretty bad to say the least. Actually, it was awful. 

But Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away because he got a full view of your body. Every movement of your body, even the clumsy dance steps, had him entranced. The rhythm was completely off, but it didn’t matter. It was the way you moved, the curve of your body in each frame. 

His cock was completely hard, poking and straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. He was palming himself for so long, his warm hand rubbing up and down against his throbbing clothed shaft—he didn’t even realize the precum leaking through his pants until his fingers grazed against it. 

“Shit,” he grunted. 

There was something about watching you—his once mysterious, loyal viewer and commenter—right here, in his monitor. Dancing. Your body on display, completely unaware, yet captivating in every move.

He grabbed the hem of his sweatpants and brought it down to his thighs, freeing his cock from the suffocating fabric. His hand encircled around his shaft, his grip tightening just slightly as he began pumping himself. He dragged his thumb over the wetness of his tip, smearing it over the head. 

Bucky let out a low groan, his breathing growing heavy as he fucked his hand to the sight of you. With the other hand, he kept switching through your photos, moving faster as his cock throbbed helplessly in his grip. 

He grunted and groaned, staring at his monitor with half-lidded eyes as he stroked himself. He stopped at another picture of you, a top down selfie with a low cut blouse. Your eyes—wide and innocent, batting up at the camera, the curve of your breast straining against the shirt. 

A low moan rumbled from his chest at the sight. His hands moved faster and eagerly against his cock, precum leaking down from the tip to his shaft as he pumped and worked his throbbing dick. 

“Fuck, baby. I want to cum all over that pretty face,” he breathed. “Gonna paint your face and tits with my seed—shit.” 

Everything was overwhelming his senses right now. Your pure and clueless eyes, the way your lips—soft and plump—curved up into a smile. 

Everything about you screamed ‘innocent.’ 

And the best part of it all, was that you were a fucking virgin. A helpless, clueless, little virgin. Perfectly ripe for the picking.

His cock throbbed hot and heavy in his hand, each pulse bringing him closer. He could hardly believe it—your social media, left wide open, public and linked straight to your account. Like an invitation. 

Like you wanted him to see.

His fist worked faster, the slick sounds of his own hand echoing in the dark room. He was right there, teetering at the edge, when another one of your videos caught his eye. A casual clip, nothing special—just you laughing with your friends, the camera panning across a storefront in the background.

His heart lurched in his chest. He knew that place.

He blinked hard, his other hand flying to the mouse as he replayed the clip, pausing on the sign. His pulse roared in his ears. That store was only a few streets away. Which meant…

You were here. In his town.

“Fuck—” 

The word ripped out of him as his body jerked. His cock erupted in his fist, hot streams spilling over his knuckles and thigh as he shook, riding the wave of release harder than he had in years. Harder than he had in any of his videos. The excitement, the discovery, the sudden nearness of you—it all came crashing into him, tearing his orgasm from the very pit of his stomach.

He slumped back against his chair, chest heaving, eyes still glued to the frozen frame of your smiling face. 

You weren’t just his number one fan anymore. Fuck, you were real. You were so close, and now, he knew exactly where to find you. 

He was still catching his breath when he switched tabs, his cock softening in his hand as he scrolled deeper through your pictures. Every shot held him captive. Was this how you felt when you watched his videos—entranced, unable to look away?

A few minutes had gone by when he heard a ping! sound from his other tab. He switched over, and there you were. Your account, blank as ever, no profile picture, no name, but now a message glowing at the bottom of the screen.

Pleasure_Ring: Loved your new video! It was amazing as always. I can’t believe your toy isn’t broken yet!

He felt his heart stutter in his chest. A needy grin curled at the corner of his lips. You were late to his video, but that’s okay. He had your videos and pictures to keep him at bay for now. His fingers darted across the keyboard, replying almost too quickly. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Glad you liked it, doll. Took you longer than usual to show up tonight.

His fingers hovered over the keys, debating if he wanted to send this next message or not.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Had me wondering if you forgot about me. 

You took longer than usual to respond, and even though he was coming down from his post-release haze, his heart was still pounding anxiously in his chest.

Pleasure_Ring is typing… 

Pleasure_Ring: I know! I’m sorry. I got distracted cooking dinner. 

Pleasure_Ring: But I could never forget about you, Bucky. 

His grip on the mouse tightened, and he felt his cock twitching again. God, he loved when you said—typed—his name. But the longer he stared at your words, the more restless he felt. He needed more. 

He needed you.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Dinner, huh? You had me worried there for a second. You’re usually the first one here. Couldn’t stand the thought of you forgetting me.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You know… I don’t even know your name. What should I call you, sweetheart?

He already knew it, of course. 

He could say it out loud, taste it on his tongue right now if he wanted. But he wanted you to give it to him. To hand it over willingly. 

He saw you typing, then stopping. Typing again, then stopping. The little dots taunted him, making his jaw clench. He hated this. He hated playing the waiting game—especially now that he knew you were just a few minutes away, living in the same town as him.

Pleasure_Ring: Do I really need to tell you my name? I kinda like being your little secret. <3

Pleasure_Ring: Besides… I think you like calling me doll, don’t you?

Bucky’s brow twitched in mild frustration, his cock throbbing in his lap again as his eyes traced your text over and over. You were a teasing little minx—taunting him, torturing him. He knew you were obsessed with him just as much as he was with you, so why the hell were you playing so damn hard to get?

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. Don’t be like that. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You touch yourself to my videos every night, and yet you can’t even share your name? Don’t make me beg for it. 

He dragged in a sharp breath as he waited for your reply, his hand lazily stroking his half-hard cock while he leaned back in his chair, tension swimming through every vein.

Pleasure_Ring: You’re so silly, Bucky. 

Pleasure_Ring: Why ruin the mystery? I kind of like it this way… just you and me, no names needed. <3 

His cock was rock-hard again, straining for a second round. He wrapped his fist around it as he split his screen in two—one tab open to a photo of you smiling sweetly, the other to your chat box on the site. His strokes were slow, shudders slipping past his lips as he teased the sensitive flesh. Every pulse in his palm matched the flick of his gaze between your face and your words.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You won’t give me your name, but I bet you’d spread your legs wide and let me fuck you like the needy little slut you really are.

He was playing a dangerous game with that message. It was too direct, maybe even a little mean. He might even risk scaring you away. 

But with your picture staring back at him, soft and innocent, how the hell was he supposed to hold back? 

Pleasure_Ring is typing… 

Pleasure_Ring: I would do anything you’d want me to if you were here. 

His heart stopped. His cock throbbed violently as the words sank in, repeating it in his mind like a prayer. A sweet little virgin like you, so naive, so unknowing, willing to let a man like him do anything to you?

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have said that. 

He couldn’t hold back anymore. He stroked himself faster, pressure coiling hot at the base as he pumped his length with desperate need. Groans tore from his chest, hips jerking up into his fist as pleasure overtook him.

In his mind, it wasn’t just his hand—it was you. You on his bed, camera capturing every angle as you wrapped those innocent lips around his cock. You moaning, trembling, surrendering that precious virginity to a filthy porn star like him.

Pleasure_Ring: Maybe. But I really would do anything you’d ask me to.

And fuck, you lived in the same town as him. You actually lived in the same town as him. 

It would be so easy to find you. To claim you. To stuff your tight, untouched little holes full of him until you were stretched and dripping, used just like one of his toys.

The thought alone was enough to make him come a second time. With his head tilted back, a low growl-like moan escaped his throat. His hips stuttered wildly as his release tore through him in sharp waves of pleasure, hot seed spilling over his fist until his hand was a sticky, soiled mess.

He slumped back in his chair, breath ragged as he wiped himself clean with hurried, clumsy hands. His fingertips grazed the keyboard, already halfway through typing his next message. 

He couldn’t let the moment die, he didn’t want to lose you just yet. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing… 

But then your text bubble popped up first.

Pleasure_Ring: It’s late, so I’ll be going to sleep now. I’m sorry our conversation got cut short. But thank you again for your video! I’m already looking forward to the next one! <3 Nighty night, Bucky!

And just like that, your status flickered gray. Offline. Gone.

His hand froze over the keys.

What? 

That’s it? 

You showed up online extremely late, give him a few teasing words that leave him aching, and just… log off? 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. You can’t leave like that. Aren’t you having fun? 

He knew you were offline, yet he sent the message anyway—clinging to the hope that maybe your status would flicker green and you’d answer him right away, being his number one fan and all. 

A minute passed. Then another. And another.

He sat there, staring at the empty chat box, his foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor. When it finally sank in that you weren’t coming back, he closed the porn tab with a long and disappointing sigh. Dozens of comments waited for him on his latest video, begging for his attention—but he didn’t care. He couldn’t be bothered.

All he wanted was you. 

Your picture still glowed on his other monitor, your smile taunting him. He pulled his pants back on, leaning forward as his mind spun. You were so close—he could feel it. And with your account still open, still public, still inviting, he knew he wouldn’t stop.

He would find you.

And once he did, you would be his.

It had been three days since you last commented on his videos. Three days without your little messages, without your sweet words that fueled him through the long and lonely nights. 

Bucky was restless. 

He kept checking your account, refreshing the page, waiting for that familiar username that was dedicated to him to pop up in his notifications list again. But instead, you were busy elsewhere. 

Your Instagram was suddenly so active. Story after story, pictures of food, photos of crowded streets, little story clips of you laughing with friends. They were all innocent things, but to him, they were breadcrumbs. 

He looked closely at the background in your stories, taking screenshots and zooming in on shop signs and store logos. Most of these were ones he recognized. He compared timestamps, piecing together your routine slowly.

Each update you shared felt like you were inviting him in, pulling him closer without even realizing. 

And no—he wouldn’t call himself a stalker. Sure, he scrolled through all your socials, jerked off to your pictures, learned your full name, the area you lived in, who you spent time with. 

But that wasn’t stalking.

That was devotion. 

He was your number one fan. Just like you were his.

Your cart wobbled against the tiled floor as you turned into the produce aisle. Today was your weekly grocery restock. The store was busy, noisy, and packed with people trying to weave in and out of each other’s way. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and snapped a quick picture of the cotton candy grapes piled high in their cartons. 

They were your favorite, and this was the only grocery store near your area that carried them. 

Try these! They taste just like cotton candy! 

You added the caption and posted it to your story, sliding your phone back into your bag before moving on. A few minutes later, as you rounded the corner towards checkout, someone brushed past your shoulder.

You glanced up, and a man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low, achingly familiar. “Didn’t see you there.” 

You smiled politely, brushing it off. “No worries.” 

You went back to your cart, but for some reason, your gaze lingered on him for just a second longer. There was something… familiar about the way he carried himself, about the way his words came out and how he looked.

You shook the thought off and pushed the cart forward, but you didn’t get very far when he stepped behind you, resting a gentle yet heavy hand on your shoulder. 

You glanced over and paused. The same man was staring at you, his eyes locked on yours with a look like that feels unsettling. You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. 

“Uh… can I help you?”

His jaw tightened, his grip on your shoulder pressing just a little harder.

“...Pleasure ring?” 

Those words rang back in your ears like a loud bell. Your eyes went wide and you felt like your heart dropped in your stomach. Your gaze darted quickly around the aisle, checking to make sure no one else was close enough to hear. 

“I—I’m sorry? What did you just say?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” 

The longer you stare at this man, the realization hits you all at once. The thickness of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders. The sheer size of him, impossible to mistake. You’ve seen this frame before—night after night, on a glowing screen.

You leaned in slightly, whisper-yelling, “You’re Lord of The Rings nineteen-seventeen? You’re Bucky?” 

The ridiculous username felt even more absurd now that it left your lips.

He didn’t even look around or even seemed to care about his alter ego being mentioned outloud. All he cared about right now was having you, right in front of him. 

“...You haven’t been watching my videos,” Bucky said instead. His thumb brushed once across your shoulder, subtle but possessive. “Are you okay?”

The words should have sounded caring, but instead they struck you like an accusation. Your pulse quickened, panic rising up your throat. 

He was watching you that closely? 

He noticed? 

How did he even find you here? 

“I—uh—yeah, I’ve just been… busy,” you muttered. 

You knew you should step back and pull away from his touch. This man was stalking you. Yet, your body betrayed you. The deep rasp of his voice sent a warm sensation trickling down your spine, curling in the pit of your stomach. 

Creeped out or not, your body remembered him. It remembered his moans, his growls, the way he spoke dirty to the camera like he was speaking only to you. 

“I’ve missed you in my comments,” he continued, his hand moving from your shoulder to the ends of your hair, twirling it with his fingers. “I’ve missed our cute little chats… haven’t you?” 

You sucked in a breath. 

The loud chatter of customers and grocery carts dimmed into the background noise. You should pull away, God you should pull away—but your body swayed just slightly towards him instead. 

“Y-yeah,” your voice was soft and shaky. “I… I do too.” 

The moment the words left your mouth, your stomach curled with dread. Yet, your body didn’t match your fear. Your chest was rising and falling faster, your thighs pressing together instinctively. You hated the way a tiny spark of excitement flickered inside you when he stepped closer. 

Bucky’s mouth curled into a faint smirk, like he knows your own body is betraying you. He gave your strand of hair a gentle, teasing tug before letting it fall. 

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his eyes tracing every curve on your face, studying you, taking you in. 

You pressed your lips together, you stared back at him, captivated. He never showed his face in his videos—only his body, hands, and voice. You had always wondered what the man behind the camera looked like, and now here he was, inches away. He was unbelievably handsome. His gaze was intense. His voice was magnetic. You couldn’t look away, even if you tried.

“Are you nervous?” 

You blinked at him. “What?” 

A small chuckle escaped his lips, his hand lifted up to your cheek, cupping it softly and making your skin tingle. 

“You teased me in your texts,” he reminded you, his voice deep. “Told me you’d let me do anything to you if I was with you.” His thumb brushed your cheek softly, almost soothing. 

“How true does that still ring?” 

Your eyes darted nervously around the aisle. A few people passed by with carts, sparing you both brief, casual glances. To them, it probably looked like nothing more than a man grocery shopping with his girlfriend, caressing her cheek tenderly.

But you knew better.

“I…” your lip trembled nervously. “I-It’s still true…” 

His mouth curved into a slow, smug smile, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you—how easily your knees wanted to give beneath you. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “My number one fan.”

You felt your stomach tighten. Every inch of your skin felt hot under his gaze. This was dangerous—you knew it. You were untouched, inexperienced, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice reached your ears, only made the ache between your legs grow heavier.

“How ‘bout we go back to your place,” he leaned in slightly, voice getting lower and dangerous, “and you do your grocery shopping later?” 

Your heart felt like it could burst out of your chest. You glanced down at your cart, the cotton candy grapes you’d been so excited to buy, and then back up at him. The way he held you, the way his eyes burned into yours, the very offer you’ve been secretly dreaming of despite your nerves…

It made the idea of staying here feel like hell. 

“Okay,” you breathed out. “Yeah, let’s… let’s go back to my place.” 

A small, approved hum escaped his lips. He pulled his hand away from your cheek and trailed his hand down to your bare arm, down to your hands—interlocking his fingers with yours. 

“Lead the way, princess.” 

This was wrong. So dangerously, undeniably wrong. But you had spent countless nights dreaming about this man, the pornstar with the ridiculous username, and now he was right here, holding your hand.

He led you out of the store with a smile on his face, already looking proud to have you by his side even though you guys just met. 

“I can’t wait to see your place, princess,” he murmured smoothly, stopping just outside the sliding doors. His gaze dropped down to you, quiet and expectant, waiting for you to take the lead.

“There are so many things I want to do to you.”

By the time you reached your front door, your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest. 

Your hands trembled so badly you could barely fit the key into the lock. Bucky stood behind you, his presence comforting yet demanding as he waited for you to open the door. 

The door finally opened, and you felt an insane wave of embarrassment as soon as he stepped inside. Your apartment wasn’t exactly ready for company. You had shoes littered near the door, laundry draped over the arm of the couch, your desk drowning in clutter.

He looked around and let out a low and amused hum. 

This was a terrible idea, inviting a stranger into your home. You’ve never done this before. But he’s not technically that much of a stranger if you two have been talking online for months now… right? 

“Show me your bedroom, sweetheart,” he said, his tone gentle but leaving no room for disobedience.

When he sensed your hesitation, his chin tilted subtly toward the hallway, like he already knew exactly where your bedroom was. That smug smile never left his lips.

“Go on.” 

You swallowed hard and turned toward the hallway, each step feeling heavy and anxious. You were nervous, extremely nervous. But the excitement of having a man in your home, this man you’d been secretly attracted to for months, sent a shiver of arousal down your spine.

You led him down the hallway, his footsteps heavy behind you. Pausing at your door, you glanced back over your shoulder. His smile widened, eyes glinting.

“You gettin’ shy, doll?” 

Your cheeks burned, and with a shaky exhale you pushed the door open.

Embarrassment hit instantly. The bed was undone, white sheets tangled in a mess, with clothes scattered lazily across the mattress. He stood in the doorway, his silence madly deafening while you stood there nervously with your hands clasped behind your back, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, he stepped forward, the corner of his mouth curving upward.

“I like your room, princess,” he said smoothly. He stepped up to the edge of your bed, his fingers dragging lightly across the wrinkles in your blanket.

“Is there where you watch my videos?” he asked. “Do you touch yourself right here, in this bed?” 

“I—I… do sometimes,” you confessed. You pointed your finger toward the desktop in the corner of the room. “Sometimes I watch… on my laptop.” 

His head turned to follow your finger, a smile tugging at his lips. He strode toward the desk, fingers grazing over the surface.

“Yeah? This is where you chat with me?” his fingertips trailed slowly across the top, pausing over the chair. “You sit here, spread those pretty legs on this chair, and put your fingers in that tiny little pussy of yours?”

You fiddled with your fingers, too flustered to meet his gaze. “Y-yes…”

He came back to you, steps steady and eyes locked on your face. When he reached you, he took one of your hands, gently prying it from the other, holding it in his much larger one. His palm stroked against yours, tender in contrast to his words. Then he lifted your hand slowly, pressing  a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes half-lidded and dark.

“How did you find me?” you asked softly. 

He exhaled, rubbing soft circles against your skin. “You stopped commenting on my videos. You stopped chatting with me. And I know it was only a few days…” his voice went softer, “…but doll, I missed you.”

Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest, your face hot and warm. The ache between your thighs pulsed with every word he spoke.

“I missed you so damn much. Couldn’t stop thinking about you…” he continued, pressing another kiss to your hand, then brushing your knuckles along the slight stubble of his jaw. “I couldn’t help it. I started looking through your account.”

You sucked in a breath, looking up at him as he continued.

“Your account was blank. No name. No picture. Nothing.” His voice dropped lower. “But your social media was linked, all public and left wide open.” His smile deepened, almost smug as he leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours. 

“You wanted me to see them, didn’t you?”

His voice was so raspy and so hungry, it made your whole body shiver. You couldn’t trust your voice, especially not when you were so afraid it would crack and betray how timid, how inexperienced you really were. 

“I-I… didn’t know—”

“Oh, but you did,” he cut you off, one hand still intertwined with yours, the other cupping your cheek. “You wanted me to find you. I bet you hoped I’d click, hoped I’d follow the trail…” 

He spoke so confidently and so sure of himself—but the truth was something else entirely. You didn’t realize that your social media was tied to your account and you didn’t bother to check. You had only made that account to interact with Bucky’s videos only. 

You should have been afraid. The way he tracked you down, the way he admitted to stalking your socials—it should have terrified you.

But it didn’t.

It only made your body burn with excitement, your core clenching with a hunger that only he can satisfy. 

“You teasing little slut,” he murmured, his voice growing rough. “But you’re not a slut, are you? You’re a virgin—isn’t that right?” 

You nodded. “I-I am…” 

“And you’d still do anything for me? Anything at all?”

You paused for a moment. You knew exactly what he meant. He hadn’t followed you home for small talk. 

Your body screamed yes, aching for him, but your mind shook with hesitation. You've seen his videos. You knew how rough he could be. How brutal his thrusts looked, how the silicone toys bent and threatened to snap beneath his strength. The way his grip tightened until his muscles flexed and strained—it was terrifying, yet intoxicating. 

Could you really take him? You weren’t sure. 

But God, you wanted to try.

So you nodded.

An approved and low growl escaped his lips. He leaned closer, pausing right before your lips. 

“There are so many fucking things I want to do to you, princess,” he rasped. “First, I’m going to kiss you—then I’ll teach you how to really please a man. And after that…” his mouth curved into a wicked smile, “I’ll show you how a man properly pleases his woman. You understand?”

“O-okay.” 

His lips pressed against yours. 

It started off soft, patient, exploratory—until his hunger took over. The kiss deepened, his mouth grew reckless, his tongue desperate. His hands roamed greedily, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. He broke away only to tug at your clothes, then immediately slammed his lips back against yours like he couldn’t resist you. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned into your mouth. “You taste exactly like I imagined—maybe even better. Shit.” 

Bucky was getting harder by the second, but truthfully, he’d been aching since the moment he laid eyes on you in the store. But now, with you trembling in his arms, he finally had you. 

He caught your hand in his, guiding it down until your palm pressed against the thick bulge straining against his jeans, you shuddered at the contact. Your fingers started moving without you thinking, rubbing against him in small, and timid strokes.

He let out a low chuckle. “Look at you, baby. You want it so bad, don’t you?” 

Your breath hitched, and you could only nod, meek and shy. 

He moved your hand along his clothed length, forcing you to feel every ridge of him. His lip caught between his teeth as he let out a hiss of pleasure. He was so hard for you—so desperate—that he started to feel himself leaking just from the friction of your trembling palm.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, ripping your hand away from his crotch. 

You blinked up at him, startled and confused.

He reached in the back of his jean pocket, pulling out a small camcorder. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes were dark. 

“Baby,” he rasped, voice needy. “I want to record this. I want to see you undress for me… capture every second of it.” His fingers trembled as he flipped the device open, eyes half-lidded, fixated on you like a starving man.

“Bucky…”

“What do you say, baby?” he pressed, taking a slow step forward.

You bit your bottom lip, nerves tying your stomach in knots. You weren’t ready for this—not at all. But the thought of being behind Bucky’s lens, of being admired and captured the same way you had admired him through his videos, made your skin warm with anticipation. 

He grabbed your hand gently. “I won’t upload it,” he promised. “This one’s just for me—to keep, to look back on. Think you can give me that, doll?”

His words were soft yet strained with a lust and desire that he was desperately trying to hold back. The ache between your legs pulsed harder with every word, and deep down, you already knew you couldn’t say no.

“…Okay,” you whispered. “I want to be put on display for you, Bucky. I want to be yours.”

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “That’s my girl.”

He nodded toward the bed. “Stay there, at the edge. Watch me.”

You stood frozen, captivated, as he began to strip down. Shirt, jeans, everything—gone in moments, until his bare and large body stretched against your sheets and rested against the headboard. With one hand, he steadied the camcorder, and with the other, he reached for himself slowly.

“Take your clothes off,” he ordered, the red recording light blinking as the camera pointed straight at you. “I want every second of this. Give me a show, baby.”

Heat climbed your chest and neck as you began lifting your shirt, pulling it over your head. You glanced at him—and your knees nearly buckled. He was already stroking himself, precum glistening at the flushed tip, his chest heaving with each desperate pump.

“Good girl.” 

You pushed your pants down, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your bra and panties. Your hands fidgeted nervously at your sides—not knowing what to do with them next.

“D-do you… want me to keep going?”

A dark chuckle slipped from his lips, almost mocking. “Oh, baby. You’re fucking adorable, you know that?” his hand pumped slow and hard, his cock twitching under his touch. “Yes. Keep going. Take it all off, nice and slow for me…”

Your fingers trembled as they hooked around the strap of your bra, sliding it off your shoulders before unclasping it. The straps fell loose, and you let it slip from your hands. The cool air rushed against your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. 

“Panties, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “Get rid of ‘em.”

Slowly, you eased them down your legs, stepping out of them until you stood completely bare before him. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, trying to hide yourself.

Bucky’s mouth curved into a smug grin. “Don’t you dare hide from me. You’re too pretty to cover up.”

Your arms dropped hesitantly at your sides, and his grin only widened.

“Good girl,” he rasped. He shifted against the headboard, spreading his legs wider, the thick length of his cock pulsing as his fist pumped it. “Now crawl to me, princess.”

“C-crawl..?” 

His eyes darkened, his hand tightening around himself. “That’s right. On your hands and knees. Crawl over here like the sweet little virgin you are.”

Your breath caught, and for a second you thought you wouldn’t be able to move at all. But his hungry stare made your body obey before your mind could catch up. You climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly, and lowered yourself onto your hands and knees. 

Slowly, you crawled toward him, the soft sheets brushing against your bare skin, your heart beating fast in your chest. 

Bucky let out a low and approving growl, the camcorder following your every move. 

“That’s it, baby… fuck—” he groaned. “You look so perfect like this. Like you were made to kneel for me.” 

You swallowed hard as you approached him, staring at his cock—thick and hard, flushed at the tip. Your lips parted as you let out a soft gasp—the sheer size of him made your throat go dry. 

“Have you ever had a dick in your mouth, baby?” he asked. 

You can only shake your head no. 

He let go of himself, his free hand sliding into your hair, guiding you closer to his lap. “Open that pretty mouth for me, doll,” he coaxed. “I want to be the first man you taste.” 

How could something that big possibly fit in your mouth? His grip kept you steady, urging you forward. 

“There you go,” he smirked, watching your nervous little breaths. “God, you’re trembling. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll teach you exactly how to do it. All you gotta do is listen to me.”

“Stick out that tongue—yeah, just like that. Such a good girl.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth before pressing down on your lower lip, opening you wider. “Mm, look at you. Never done this before, huh?”

You shook your head, embarrassed, but he only chuckled.

“Of course not. My innocent little fan, saving herself for me,” he guided you closer until the blunt tip of his cock brushed your tongue, smearing precum across it. The taste was strange, salty and thick, and you whimpered softly at the unfamiliar sensation.

His laugh was low and condescending, but not cruel. “That’s it, baby. Don’t pout so cutely like that… only makes it harder for me to hold back.”

He stroked your hair, petting you like you were some pet while his hips gave a subtle roll forward, testing you. 

“Just wrap those lips around me nice and slow. I want to see that sweet virgin mouth stuffed full of cock for the first time.”

Your lips closed timidly around him, sealing over the tip as your tongue flicked against it, tasting more of that salty, musky flavor. Your jaw ached instantly, but the way he groaned, deep and guttural, made you shiver with pride.

“There you go,” he praised, fingers tightening in your hair. “God, look at you. My perfect little virgin, already learning how to please me.”

You tried to sink further, taking more of him in, but the sheer thickness made your throat tighten. You gagged softly, tears threatening to well in your eyes, and pulled back with a desperate little gasp.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb brushing your damp cheek. “That was good, baby. So fucking good. Just relax your jaw, take it slow. You’ve got such a tiny mouth—I didn’t expect you to take all of me your first try.”

His hand guided you down again, inch by inch, your lips stretching around him as drool began to slick your chin. He hissed through his teeth, head falling back against the headboard.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. God, you don’t even know how sweet you look right now, doll. Choking on my cock like you were made for it.”

You felt his cock pulse on your tongue, thick veins throbbing against the roof of your mouth. 

“Fuck—baby—” he growled, his breathing ragged as his cock twitched violently. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum down your throat—”

Suddenly, his hand yanked you back, pulling your mouth off him with a wet pop. You gasped, spit stringing between your lips and his swollen tip, confused and dazed.

“W-what…?”

“Not yet,” he panted, his hand flying to his cock and holding it still, trying to calm himself down. 

His chest heaved, his eyes glazed and hungry as he stared at your flushed, ruined face. “Not wasting my first load on your mouth, princess. I’ve been waiting too long for you.”

“Bucky…” 

He leaned forward, thumb smearing your spit across your swollen lips. “No… I’m gonna be the first man to cum inside this virgin cunt.”

He adjusted the camera in his hands, sitting up straighter. “Lay down,” he ordered, nodding toward the mattress. “Face down, ass up.”

His words were so filthy and vulgar—it made your face burn—but still, you obeyed. Lowering yourself onto shaky arms, you crawled forward and eased your chest against the mattress. Your cheek pressed into the sheets as you raised your ass for him, baring yourself under his gaze.

The arch felt awkward, your back straining from holding the position. But the low, hungry sound that escaped from his chest sent a shiver of pride racing through you. You pushed yourself even higher, desperate to please him.

“Look at you. My shy little virgin, already posing like a whore for me,” the sound of the camcorder’s little beep made your body tense—he was recording this, capturing you in such a vulnerable position.

The mattress dipped as he shuffled closer, his large palm running over the curve of your ass. You gasped, burying your face into the sheets in embarrassment.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, squeezing the soft flesh in his hand. “You nervous, baby?”

You nodded weakly, voice muffled against the pillow. “Y-Yeah…”

“Mmm, but you’re already being so sweet for me,” he rasped, his thumb gently pressing against your wet, slit folds. “Your pretty little cunt is weeping just for me, sweetheart.” 

You let out a soft gasp, the camcorder beeped again as he adjusted it to get a better view. His grin widened with hunger. 

“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll take care of you. Gonna stretch this virgin pussy nice and slow… and make you put on the sweetest show for my camera.”

He teased your pussy, thumb rubbing over your entrance and his finger rubbing against your clit. You were already so wet—embarrassingly so.

“God, baby… you’re dripping,” he groaned, the camcorder beeping softly as he angled it lower. “All this for me?”

You whimpered into the sheets, trembling as he shifted his hand and pressed a finger, testing your tightness before slowly sinking inside. 

You gasped louder, your whole body jolting forward against the mattress even though it was just his finger. “B-Bucky!” 

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning close. “Just my finger. Gotta test this tight little pussy before I give you more.”

He moved slowly, letting you adjust to his finger as you writhed against the sheets, your walls already fluttering helplessly around him. He slowly eased another finger inside, drawing out a desperate moan from you. 

“So tight,” he groaned so low, almost like he was talking to himself. “So fucking tight—baby. Can’t wait to put my cock inside you…” 

When he finally slipped his finger free, you sagged against the bed in relief—but then you felt him shifting behind you. The camcorder beeped again, and the feel of his heavy, thick cock pressed against your entrance—hot and throbbing.

You suddenly remembered how his toys would stretch helplessly around his thickness—literally on the verge of tearing. Your eyes widened. You weren’t sure if you could take him fully. 

“B-Bucky…” your stomach started twisting with nerves. “You’re too big… I don’t think I can—” 

“You can, baby,” he interrupted softly, steadying himself with a hand at your hip. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

He pushed forward before you could say anything. The thick tip pushed past your virgin walls. You cried out at the burn, your hands gripping the sheets.

“I know, I know,” he soothed, though his voice shook with restraint. “I’m sorry, doll. I’m so big, I know—but you’re doing so fucking good for me.” 

The stretch hurt, but it also made a strange heat bloom low in your belly.

He kissed the back of your shoulder, keeping himself still while you trembled beneath him. “Breathe for me, princess. Let me in nice and slow… I promise—it’s gonna feel so good.”

Your fingers clawed at the sheets as you let out a high, broken moan.

“Shhh, that’s it, baby,” Bucky rasped, his voice thick with both lust and control. “My sweet little virgin… finally getting split open by a real cock.”

You shook your head against the mattress, gasping. “B-Bucky—it’s too big, I can’t—I can’t take it—”

He hushed you softly, his hand sliding from your hip to rub comforting circles against your trembling waist. 

“Yes you can, doll. You’re made for this—you’ve been watching my videos every night. Studying me. Practicing with your pretty little fingers and wishing it was me, isn’t that right?” His cock inched deeper, slow but relentless, his breath hitching at the unbearable tightness of you.

“That’s my girl,” he encouraged, pressing kisses along your bare shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Ruinin’ this sweet little virgin pussy nice and slow…” 

A sharp moan escaped you as he sank another inch inside, your body trembling around him.

“God… you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he groaned, teeth grazing your shoulder as he adjusted the camera with one hand, angling it to capture the stretch of his cock sliding in and out of you. The red light blinked, recording every second of your first time.

“Such a sweet little thing,” he moaned, condescending but tender. “Crying on my cock like you don’t love it—but listen to yourself, baby. You’re moaning like a slut already!”

Another desperate cry left your lips, and he groaned low in his throat. You adjusted your hips slightly, moving your back a bit to try and get comfortable. The slight movement made his hard cock pulse and throb inside you uncontrollably—the sensation unbearable. 

“Oh, fuck—” he cursed, his breath catching. “Fuck. If you keep moving like that, doll… shit, I’m not gonna last.”

You shuffled your hips back, desperate for more, for him, even though the stretch burned.

“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan. “You’re so big… too big… f-feels so good…”

That praise alone made him groan, his head dropping to your shoulder as his cock twitched inside your tight heat. His hand squeezed your waist, trying to stay in control, trying to savor it, but every little shuffle of your hips threatened to undo him completely.

“Fuck, doll,” he grunted. “You keep saying that—calling me big while you wiggle on my cock so cutely… I’m gonna lose it.”

You moaned again, arching your back to push into him, the words tumbling out between gasps. “Want you, Bucky… wanna take you all… please, you’re so big, fill me up, please…”

That was it.

A sharp growl ripped from his chest as he tossed the camcorder aside, the device landing forgotten on the sheets somewhere. Both his hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he gritted out, voice laced with hunger. “You asked for it.”

With one rough, needy thrust, he drove himself all the way inside, stuffing you full until his hips were flush against your ass. The sudden fullness made you cry out, your walls clamping down on him so tight it pulled another curse from his lips.

“Jesus Christ—this tight little virgin pussy’s gonna kill me,” he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips possessively. “You feel that, doll? That’s me—every fucking inch of me—buried inside you.”

Your cry broke into a helpless moan as he bottomed out, the stretch almost unbearable, but your body clung to him desperately. The way your cunt spasmed around his cock made Bucky curse low and vicious.

“Fuck—look at you,” he growled against your ear, pulling back only to slam in again, harder. “Taking me so deep, squeezing the life outta me. My sweet little virgin, getting ruined on my cock.”

“Bucky—ah—s’too much—” you whimpered, though your hips still rocked back to meet him.

His laugh was dark, breathless. “Too much, huh? Then why’s this greedy little pussy dripping all over me? You’re lovin’ it, doll. You’re lovin’ how I’m stretchin’ you out.” 

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, every inch of you unraveling under his relentless pace. He held your hips so hard you knew he’d leave bruises, pounding into you like he wanted to brand himself inside your body.

“Good girl—fuck, you’re my good girl,” his hips moving rougher and sloppier. “Fuck. So much better than the videos, huh?” 

“Oh my god,” you cursed, your face pushed up against the pillow. “I… can’t—gonna… gonna cum—” your walls fluttered and clenched down on him so tightly as you let your release take over you. 

“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—” he snarled, hips snapping erratically as he buried himself to the hilt. “Fuck, fuck! Shit… fuck.” His cock pulsed deep inside you, and with a final shuddering thrust he spilled into you, filling you full with hot, warm and thick seed. 

The room was filled with the sound of your ragged moans and his guttural curses, both of you trembling through the aftershocks.

Bucky slumped forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips brushing the side of your damp and sweaty neck. “That’s it… that’s my girl. Took me so good.”

You were still trembling, your body sensitive and aching, when Bucky finally eased himself out of you with a slow, careful pull. You whined softly at the loss, burying your face into the sheets.

“Easy, doll,” he hushed, his voice husky but gentle. His big hands smoothed over your hips, down your thighs, rubbing away the tension he’d left behind. “You did so good for me. I’m so proud of you.”

You turned your head slightly, catching his smug little grin as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your damp temple.

“Messy bed, messy girl,” he teased lowly, though his tone held nothing but warmth. He brushed your hair back from your flushed face and tucked it gently behind your ear. “Knew you were my number one fan for a reason.”

Despite your exhaustion, a shy laugh escaped you, your chest fluttering at his words. 

“You’re… so full of yourself,” you mumbled weakly. “H-how did I do…?” 

“You did so fucking good, sweetheart. Shit, I remember when I was a virgin too, baby,” he chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I was a whimpering, sensitive mess. But fuck, I had so much fun ruining you.” 

Your face flushed hot, nuzzling your nose in his chest out of embarrassment. 

He laughed softly, holding you tighter. “Get some rest, princess. We’ll go back for your groceries later.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh again, small and breathless, before your eyes fluttered shut, comforted by his large hands on your waist and the warmth of his body wrapped around yours.

Days passed, and Bucky kept his promise. The video never showed up online. 

He went back to posting his weekly content, but this time, there was something different. In one of his recent uploads, a faint audio clip played in the background as he stroked himself for the camera.

Your moans.

His grunts.

He never showed the footage on screen, but the audio was enough. Enough for you to recognize yourself, enough to leave you trembling in your chair, your fingers buried between your thighs. The thought of him getting off to your body, your sounds, over and over—it made you fall apart embarrassingly fast.

You slumped back in your chair now, thighs trembling, breath uneven as you dragged your hand away from your thighs. For a moment you just sat there, dazed, staring at the frozen video frame on your laptop.

Then a notification blinked in the corner of the screen. 

You clicked it.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Hey, doll. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Can’t stop watching that little video we made. But I dropped the camera right before I got to stuff your pussy full of my cum.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: How about we try filming another one? 

“Buck,” Sam says, eyebrow raised. “You know she’s not gonna disappear if you let go for five minutes, right?”

Bucky frowns like that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Why would I let go?”

You snort softly, not even looking up. You’re used to it—used to him always touching you, always orbiting you like you’re the center of his gravity. His hand slides higher, fingertips pressing just beneath the hem of your shorts, and he leans down, brushing his mouth against your temple without breaking eye contact with Sam.

“See?” Sam mutters to Steve. “Sickening.”

Steve just shrugs, smiling into his coffee. “Let him be. He’s happy.”

Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Bucky is gone for you.

It shows up in little things first—like the way he automatically reaches for your hand when you walk anywhere together, fingers lacing tight, like he needs the contact. The way he always sits you on his lap instead of beside him, no matter who’s around. The way he kisses you hello like he hasn’t seen you in weeks, even if you were in the next room five minutes ago.

But it’s more than that.

It’s the way he watches you.

Like you hung the damn moon.

“You’re staring again,” you murmur one night, curled up on the couch with him, your legs draped across his lap.

Bucky hums, unashamed, eyes tracing your face like he’s committing every inch to memory. “Yeah.”

“Why?” you tease, tilting your head.

He shrugs, but his hand slides up your calf, slow and deliberate, fingers squeezing gently. “’Cause I like looking at you.”

Your cheeks warm, but you don’t look away. “You always like looking at me.”

“Yeah,” he repeats, softer this time, like it means something deeper. “Always.”

And he does.

God, he does.

So when the conversation happens, it’s not exactly surprising—but it still hits you right in the chest.

You’re lying in bed, half asleep, tracing lazy patterns over the skin of his chest while he plays with your hair, gently untangling strands between his fingers.

“You know,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, “you’re kind of ridiculous.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah? How’s that?”

“You’d do anything for me,” you say, like it’s a fact. “It’s… a lot.”

There’s no judgment in your tone, just soft wonder. But Bucky still goes still beneath you.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I would.”

You prop your chin on his chest, peering up at him. “Anything?”

His gaze drops to you instantly, intense and steady, like the answer is carved into him.

“Anything,” he repeats.

You study him for a second, searching for hesitation, for doubt—there isn’t any. Just that unwavering certainty that’s so uniquely him it makes your chest ache.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

Bucky’s thumb brushes over your cheek, slow and reverent. “You ask me for something, I’m giving it to you. No questions.”

You smile a little, teasing again to lighten the weight of it. “That’s dangerous, Barnes.”

“Not for you,” he murmurs.

You don’t realize how literal he is until later.

---

The first time he proves it, it’s stupid.

You mention, offhandedly, that you’ve been craving this specific dessert from a bakery across the city—something you haven’t had in years. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re already half asleep when you say it, voice drowsy and unfocused.

“Miss those little chocolate things,” you mumble into his shoulder. “With the caramel… remember?”

Bucky hums, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Yeah, I remember.”

You forget about it.

Of course you do.

Until you wake up a couple hours later, cold and alone in bed.

Panic flares for half a second—until you hear the front door click open.

You sit up, blinking in the dim light, just as Bucky walks in, hair tousled, jacket thrown over a t-shirt, a small paper box in his hand.

“Hey,” he says softly, like this is normal.

You stare at him. “Where did you go?”

He sets the box on the nightstand, opening it carefully. Inside are the exact pastries you mentioned—perfect, untouched, like he hand-delivered a memory.

“You said you wanted these,” he shrugs.

“Bucky,” you breathe, stunned. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

“You drove across the city—for dessert?”

His brow furrows, confused by your tone, like he doesn’t understand why this is surprising. “You wanted it.”

Something in your chest twists, tight and overwhelming.

“That’s not the point,” you whisper.

He pauses, studying your face, and then his expression softens when he sees it—how much it means to you.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

Your eyes sting a little as you reach for him, pulling him down into the bed, your hands cupping his face. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips, smiling faintly. “But you got your pastries.”

You kiss him, slow and deep, tasting the night air on his mouth.

---

The second time isn’t small.

It’s a mission gone sideways, a situation that escalates too fast, too dangerously. You’re pinned down, separated from the team, comm crackling with static.

“Bucky, don’t—” you start, trying to warn him, trying to keep him back.

But he’s already moving.

“Hold on,” he growls into the comm, voice sharp and unyielding. “I’m coming.”

“Bucky, it’s not safe—”

“Don’t care,” he snaps.

And he doesn’t.

Not when it comes to you.

He cuts through everything in his path—soldiers, debris, chaos—like it’s nothing, like the only thing that exists is getting to you. When he finally reaches you, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands immediately on your face, your shoulders, checking for injuries—

“Are you okay?” he demands, voice rough.

You nod, breath shaky. “I’m fine.”

He exhales like he’s been holding it the entire time, pressing his forehead to yours for a split second before pulling back, eyes blazing.

“Don’t ever tell me not to come for you,” he says, low and fierce. “You hear me?”

Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”

“I meant it,” he cuts in, softer now, but no less intense. “Anything. That includes this.”

You swallow, your hands finding his, squeezing tight.

“Okay,” you whisper.

---

The third time, it’s quiet.

You’re back home, safe, curled into his side while a movie plays in the background. His fingers trace lazy circles on your arm, grounding, steady.

“You really mean it, don’t you?” you murmur.

Bucky glances down at you. “Mean what?”

“Anything,” you say softly.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he replies.

Your chest aches in that same overwhelming way, but this time it’s warm, steady, certain.

You shift closer, pressing your face into his neck, breathing him in. “Good.”

His arm tightens around you instantly, pulling you flush against him like it’s instinct.

“Why’s that?” he asks.

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Because I’d do anything for you too.”

For once, Bucky’s the one who looks a little stunned.

“Hey,” Bucky says immediately.

Too sharp.

Too fast.

Your shoulders jerk violently.

His stomach drops.

“Sorry,” he says, softer now. “Sorry, doll. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You don’t answer.

That’s what scares him.

You always answer.

Even anxious, even exhausted, even spiralling—you answer.

Usually with a joke. Usually with something self-deprecating and wry and designed to make everyone else comfortable while you quietly unravel inside your own skin.

But now you’re breathing too fast.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor.

And Bucky realizes with cold certainty:

Oh.

Oh, this is bad.

He’s seen panic attacks before. Hell, he’s had enough of them himself. But yours always look different than his. Quieter. Like you’re trying to contain the catastrophe internally so it doesn’t inconvenience anyone else.

“Can you look at me?” he asks carefully.

Nothing.

He crouches slowly several feet away, metal hand deliberately visible, movements gentle.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s okay.”

Broken ceramic litters the floor between you both.

You whisper something he can’t hear.

“What was that?”

Your voice cracks.

“Everything feels wrong.”

Jesus Christ.

That sentence nearly tears him in half.

Because he knows that feeling.

The horrible skin-tight sensation of existing incorrectly. Like your bones are full of bees. Like every thought in your head is moving too fast and too loud and none of them can be stopped.

Bucky swallows hard.

“What do you need?”

“I don’t know.”

You sound ashamed of it.

Like not knowing is somehow a personal failure.

His chest aches.

“Okay,” he says again. “That’s alright too.”

Your breathing gets worse.

Shorter.

Faster.

Your fingers dig into your sleeves hard enough he worries you’ll bruise.

Bucky looks around the kitchen helplessly.

He knows combat. Extraction. Interrogation. Trauma. Survival.

But this?

You falling apart in front of him while he desperately tries to figure out how to help?

It scares him more than most things.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

You shake your head immediately.

“No? Okay. Okay.”

Think.

Think.

Usually when you’re anxious, you like warmth. Blankets. Hoodies. Pressure against your chest.

Pressure.

His eyes flick downward thoughtfully.

“Can I try something?”

You laugh once.

It sounds awful.

“Depends how weird it is.”

His mouth twitches despite everything.

“Probably pretty weird.”

You finally look at him then, eyes glassy and overwhelmed.

“Fine.”

He moves carefully around the broken ceramic before lowering himself to sit beside you against the cabinets.

For a second he hesitates.

This could go horribly.

But then he remembers the way you curl under every blanket in the compound during storms. The way you once admitted sleeping better when Alpine sprawled over your ribs like a furry paperweight.

So Bucky exhales once and says:

“C’mere.”

You blink at him.

“What?”

“Just trust me.”

Which you do.

That’s the dangerous thing.

You always do.

You shift toward him uncertainly, and before he can overthink it, Bucky pulls you gently sideways until your back rests against his chest.

Then he wraps one arm around your middle.

And slowly—carefully—leans enough weight against you that you’re partially pinned beneath him.

Not crushing.

Just heavy.

Solid.

Warm.

The effect is immediate.

Your breathing stutters.

Then slows.

Bucky freezes.

You go still beneath him.

“…oh,” you whisper.

His heartbeat trips.

“Too much?”

“No.”

Another breath.

Slower this time.

“No, that’s—”

Your shoulders finally unclench for the first time since he walked into the kitchen.

“Oh my god.”

Bucky stares at the side of your face.

“You okay?”

“You’re heavy.”

“I’m aware.”

“No,” you say weakly. “I mean—good heavy.”

Something inside him softens so violently it nearly hurts.

Carefully, cautiously, he shifts a little more weight against you.

Your eyes flutter shut.

And then—

Then you melt.

There’s no other word for it.

The tension leaves you in visible increments, your body gradually surrendering under the pressure of his weight and warmth. Your breathing evens out. Your death grip on your sleeves loosens.

Bucky can practically feel your nervous system recalibrating beneath him.

“What kind of sorcery is this?” you murmur.

He huffs a quiet laugh.

“Dunno. Maybe you’re broken.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“You’re calmer.”

“…unfortunately true.”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself.

And because you can’t see his face pressed near your hair, you miss the terrifying realization blooming in his chest.

He likes taking care of you.

Too much.

In ways that feel dangerous.

Because this—holding you down gently against his chest at two in the morning while your breathing evens out—feels more intimate than half the things he’s done with actual girlfriends.

That should concern him more than it does.

Instead, he tightens his arm around you slightly and says softly:

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Don’t move.”

His heart does something deeply embarrassing.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not intentionally at first.

Neither of you discuss it.

But a week later, after a disastrous mission briefing leaves you overwhelmed and shaky, Bucky finds you curled miserably into the corner of the common room couch.

He takes one look at you.

“You spiralling?”

“Maybe.”

“Move over.”

You snort tiredly.

“There is literally no room.”

“I’ll make room.”

And somehow he does.

The others walk in to discover you pinned beneath the bulk of the Winter Soldier like a hostage being gently comforted.

Sam stops dead.

“…what the hell am I looking at?”

Without opening your eyes, you answer:

“Medical treatment.”

Bucky feels you relax further when he settles more weight across you.

Sam stares.

“You’re using Barnes as an emotional support sandbag?”

“Yes.”

“…and this works?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat.

Then Sam points accusingly at Bucky.

“You look way too pleased about this.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Bucky ignores him.

Mostly because Sam’s right.

The horrifying truth is that Bucky likes this arrangement so much it’s becoming a problem.

He likes when you seek him out now.

Likes the sleepy, “Buck?” you murmur from doorways when your anxiety gets bad.

Likes how trusting you are with him.

Likes the way you immediately soften once he presses close.

And he especially likes the fact you never seem afraid of him.

Not of his metal arm.

Not of his size.

Not of the sheer physical reality of him.

You just curl beneath him willingly like he’s safety instead of danger.

It ruins him slowly.

The worst part is how domestic it becomes.

You’re both pathetic enough not to notice immediately.

It starts with movies.

You’re anxious after a rough therapy session, so Bucky sprawls partially on top of you on the couch while some terrible reality baking show plays in the background.

Then it becomes routine.

You reading while he rests against you.

You napping underneath him.

Your legs tangled together while Alpine sleeps smugly on Bucky’s back like she approves of the arrangement.

One night Natasha walks into the living room, sees the position you’re both in, and physically backs out again.

“Nope,” she says immediately.

You blink sleepily from beneath Bucky’s chest.

“What?”

“I’m giving you both privacy to deal with…” she gestures vaguely, “…whatever this is.”

Bucky frowns.

“We’re watching TV.”

Natasha stares at him.

“You’re lying on top of her.”

“To help her anxiety.”

“Mhm.”

“That’s literally all this is.”

Natasha looks directly at you.

“Are you aware he’s in love with you?”

Bucky nearly chokes to death.

You burst into startled laughter.

“What?”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Men are exhausting.”

Then she leaves before either of you can recover.

The silence afterward is catastrophic.

Bucky can feel heat crawling up his neck.

You clear your throat awkwardly beneath him.

“Well.”

“Nat talks too much.”

“Yeah.”

Another silence.

Then quietly:

“You’re not in love with me, right?”

And there it is.

The moment.

The opening.

The place where honesty could exist.

Bucky should tell you.

He should.

Instead he says, “You’d know if I was.”

It’s a lie.

A terrible one.

Because he is so violently in love with you it feels like organ failure sometimes.

He loves your laugh.

Your stubbornness.

The way you ramble when tired.

The way you pretend your anxiety makes you difficult to love while offering everyone else endless patience and gentleness.

He loves how you trust him with your softest parts.

He loves you so much it scares him.

But you relax at his answer.

And somehow that feels worse.

“Oh good,” you murmur.

His chest aches.

“Yeah.”

You smile faintly beneath him.

“Because that would make this complicated.”

Bucky stares at the ceiling all night afterward unable to breathe properly.

Things get worse after the nightmare.

Not his.

Yours.

Bucky wakes around three in the morning because someone is pounding on his door hard enough to shake the frame.

He’s moving before he’s fully awake.

When he opens it, you’re standing there shaking.

Not crying.

Which is somehow worse.

Your face looks pale and distant and terrified in a way that spikes immediate panic through him.

“Hey,” he says sharply. “Hey, what happened?”

“I can’t calm down.”

Your voice trembles violently.

“I tried—I tried everything and I can’t—”

“C’mere.”

You practically fall into him.

Bucky catches you automatically, metal arm bracing your back while your fingers clutch desperately at his shirt.

Your heartbeat is terrifying.

Way too fast.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

You bury your face against his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I woke you up.”

“I don’t care.”

And he means it.

He’d wake up for you every night for the rest of his life if it helped.

The realization lands hard enough to nearly stagger him.

Before he can think too deeply about that deeply alarming truth, he guides you toward the bed.

“Lay down.”

You obey immediately, exhausted and overwhelmed.

Bucky climbs in beside you without hesitation.

Then carefully—carefully—he settles partially over you, broad chest against yours, one heavy thigh between yours, arms caging you safely beneath him.

The second his weight settles, you exhale shakily.

“There you are,” he whispers.

Your eyes close.

“There you are.”

The room goes quiet except for your breathing gradually slowing beneath him.

Bucky should move once you calm down.

Instead he stays.

Because you’re warm beneath him.

Because your fingers are curled loosely in his shirt.

Because every instinct in his body screams protect protect protect.

And because he’s hopelessly, catastrophically gone for you.

You fall asleep first.

Bucky knows because your grip loosens and your face softens against his shoulder.

He should leave then.

Instead he remains exactly where he is for nearly an hour staring into the dark.

He brushes hair away from your face carefully.

God.

He loves you.

He loves you so much.

And he’s completely fucked.

You realize the truth accidentally.

Which feels fitting.

It happens during a mission debrief after a rough extraction goes sideways.

Nothing catastrophic.

But enough to leave everyone frayed.

You’re wound tight all evening afterward, anxiety clawing under your skin while the team argues over tactical mistakes.

Eventually you stand abruptly.

“I need five minutes.”

Bucky’s up instantly.

“I’ll come with you.”

You don’t even question it anymore.

That should probably concern both of you.

The hallway outside the conference room is quiet.

You lean heavily against the wall, pressing your palms into your eyes.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“For what?”

“I’m being annoying.”

Bucky’s expression hardens immediately.

“You’re not.”

“I’m literally one inconvenience away from imploding.”

“So?”

You laugh weakly.

“So normal people don’t require human compression therapy to function.”

His face softens.

“Hey.”

You look at him.

And Bucky says very carefully:

“There is nothing wrong with needing comfort.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes you.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“You always know how to help.”

The words hit him hard.

Too hard.

Because he does.

He knows your breathing patterns now. Your tells. The difference between stress and genuine panic. He knows exactly how much pressure helps. Exactly where to hold you.

Like your bodies learned each other instinctively.

Your eyes drift across his face.

And suddenly—

Suddenly you see it.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Enough to notice the unbearable tenderness in his expression.

Enough to notice how carefully he handles you.

Enough to realize no one looks at someone they don’t love like that.

Your breath catches.

Oh.

Oh.

Bucky notices immediately.

“What?”

You stare at him.

“You are.”

His entire body stills.

“What?”

“You’re in love with me.”

The silence that follows feels enormous.

Bucky looks almost cornered.

Like you’ve found something he desperately wanted hidden.