#godmadeaterribleerror

The worship. His strong, warm body turning into only an instrument to bring you pleasure. His hands map your body, his lips brand every inch of skin, his hips drive into your heat until you unravel below him. Your breath stolen and replaced with only weak gasps of his name. Your eyes glazed with drunken lust and relief, because Clark never withholds. He couldn’t. 

Not from you. 

And that’s how it always begins. 

You start it. You always start it. Clark is a sweet man, who will kiss you deeply—until you’re dizzy and aching for him—then walk away like he didn’t just ruin you with so little effort. And then you chase after him, because he can’t just abandon you like that. Not after offering you such sweet, easy temptation. 

All it takes is batting your eyelashes and whining his name. Grabbing his big hand, and pressing your chin to his chest. 

“Please?” You murmur, playing with the collar of his shirt. 

He sighs. “Baby, we went this morning-“

“Yeah, but I want you again.”

“I’m not sure it’s good for- You know. Your sexual health, to have such little rest?” He’s blushing, like he’s not the reason you’re already walking sideways. “How about just until tomorrow? Can you wait until- Tonight?” He drops tomorrow fast, from the pout on your face. “Or- Two hours? Just until your legs feel better, I- I don’t want to break you.”

You blink at him slowly. He’s adorable. Touching your face gently, like you’re some sweet, delicate thing that he—Clark, gentle and kind and lets turn around because I saw a pigeon limping and we should get it to the vet, Clark—is going to ruin you.

For a second, you consider agreeing to wait. Just to spare him the worry. 

Then you tilt your head at him, running your hand up his thick arm, and you can feel it. 

He’s hard again. 

And you’re pretty sure he’ll get over the worry. 

“Okay.” You shrug, and Clark blinks slowly. 

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” You take a step back, smiling wickedly up at him. “I can take care of myself.”

His eyes flash. Darken, as his chest heaves. 

And Clark folds.

Clark always folds. 

And you end up bent over the couch, or pinned to the wall, or writhing on the bed. Clark gives. He gives and gives and gives. Offers you kisses that turn open-mouthed and sloppy, then his grip turns possessive, and his cock drives into you until your toes curl, and you see stars. 

You cum with a broken call of his name. Your arms wrap tight around his neck, and your whole body shakes until it goes limp with release. 

But Clark doesn’t stop. 

He’s a giver. 

And he has so much to give.

You’re already completely consumed by him, when the first orgasm hits. His thick cock, dragging along your walls and pounding into your most sensitive spots. His mouth has left searing marks all over your neck, and his hands will almost certainly be printed on your hips and ass when this is done. 

He clings to you, when he fucks you. Trying to get you as close as possible. And it only adds to the intensity of it all, because you can’t even gasp for air without it smelling of Clark. His sweat, and faded, spicy cologne, and the deeper thing. The smell that’s just Clark. Pure fucking Clark. It fills the hot air around you, lingers on your tongue as you call his name. 

Because it’s intoxicating. It might make you more sensitive. Your fingers dig into his scalp, because after that first orgasm, the smell of him becomes like a drug, and you can’t figure out how to come back down. 

“Clark-“ You whine as he slams back into you, mouth attaching to a soft spot on your neck. “Clark-“

He groans against your skin, the cries only driving him on. His hips start to snap, the hot, wet sound filling the room as your eyes roll back in your head. 

“Clark, Clark-“

You’re starting to chant it, as another orgasm builds tight in your gut. Clark’s thrusts become short and sharp, the pace punishing and perfect. 

This time, you see white, your legs wrapping tight around his waist to try and either pull him closer, or push him away. You’re not really sure, in the haze of your release. 

Clark still doesn’t stop. He works himself up, when he gets like this. His cock keeps slamming into you, his kisses growing rough and frantic. It’s still loving, though. The way he touches you. You’re clawing at his back and almost sobbing with overwhelming pleasure. Your mouth is open in a permanent moan, and your own arousal is running down your ass. 

You press your face into his broad shoulder, just to have something to ground yourself in. Clark grabs one of your hands gently, tangling it in his own. He squeezes lightly, asking a silent question. 

You squeeze back, three times, then hold on so tight you’re worried you’ll break your own fingers. 

Clark groans against your skin, and the tight leash he keeps on himself snaps. 

Nobody has, or ever will, fuck you like this. Like you’re just a ragdoll, and yet simultaneously the most precious thing on earth. Clark slams himself into you so deep you can feel it in your throat, all while his lips wander your skin, murmuring low praise.

“Take it.” He mutters in your ear, breath sending shivers up your spine. “Yeah, yeah, that’s so good, baby, so warm and tight, look so-“ He moans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. “So pretty, you’re so tight and pretty-“

He moans again, and his deep voice rolls pleasure through your whole body. Another, tiny orgasm hits you, making your head spin and legs fall open, having lost all strength to hold on. Clark hauls them back up, and angles them carefully so he’s hitting deeper. 

It’s not about chasing his own pleasure. It’s never about that. If anything, it’s a testament to his will, that he can stay buried so deep inside of you for so long. Can feel you clench and writhe below him, taste you whenever he swallows your cries of his name, and still not empty himself into your poor, soaked and abused cunt. 

He almost loses it, though, when he rises over you. Keeps one hand wrapped over yours, and lets the other one wander your beautiful, limp body. You’re a vision. Eyes hooded and lips swollen, your tits bouncing as he rails you stupid and mouth open in a long, broken call of his name. You shake and swear breathily below him, the type of things that would normally make him stutter and blush, if he wasn’t so wholly focused on fucking you until you forgot your own name. 

And you’re already there. You’re almost floating out of your body, by the time Clark’s thumb finds your clit. His tiny, deliberate rubs send an electric shock through your body, and it seems to set off every nerve in your body. 

You don’t fully come down from this one. You just float through it, saying Clark over and over like a hymn. Distantly, you’re aware of him groaning your name and rutting into your fluttering pussy. 

Heat floods through you, as he collapses over your body. You feel him mixing with you, smearing over your thighs and the curve of your ass. Clark drags himself through a few, last strokes. 

And you come down, as he slides slowly out. 

Taps your clit with the head of his cock, just to watch you spasm.

“Fuck-“ You roll into his chest with a whimper, and he chuckles. 

“Sorry, baby.” He kisses your brow, wrapping massive, muscled arms around your body. “You just look so pretty.” 

You hum, not really able to form full words. Clark rubs his hand up and down your spine, then pauses. 

“Feel good? You-“

“I liked it.” You breathe out against his pecs. “Oh- Oh my god, it was so good. But next time, just- Tell me no.”

He laughs again, rising up. Probably to draw you a bath, because he’s perfect. 

“I’ll try.” He says, tracing his hand lightly over your side. “But you can be pretty demanding, sweetheart. I just rise to the occasion, I guess.”

He looks like he’s been shot. “You do?”

“Yep.” You smile at him, and you didn’t know anyone could be that shade of red. “You’re cute.”

Clark coughs again. “Thanks. Are we- Sweetheart, you don’t have to like it-“

“I know. But I do.”

The elevator dings, and you take his hand. Stand on your toes, as a few other people walk inside. Whisper in his ear. 

“You’ll see.”

His eyes widen, and you laugh. His fingers are almost digging into your hips, for the rest of the day. 

And when you get to bed that night, he’s still nervous. He reminds you about five times that you don’t have do this, and looks more and more embarrassed every time you tell him that you know. And you really don’t care. 

“Baby, I’ll be happy just going down on you, that gets me going too-“

“Clark.” You give him a stern look, running your hand up his thigh, and he swallows. “Do you want me to do this.”

His throat bobs, and he nods. You beam, resting your palm right above his bulge. 

“Then please.” You lean down, sticking your ass in the air, and nuzzle his crotch. “Let me suck you off, baby.” Your lashes flutter, like you’re about to cry. “Please.”

Clark stares at you like he’s seeing an angel, and nods slowly.

You’re saying please so sweetly, your breath hot even through his pants. It’s almost like you’re putting on a little sex show, just for him. 

He’s a man of willpower. Control. 

But there’s nothing he won’t give you. And you seem to really want this, so-

“Yeah.” He rasps. “Yes. You- Shhh-“

He swallows a swear, throwing his head back as you squeeze him. His hips thrust up, erection already hard and forming a heavy tent. You watch him under your lashes, as you slowly undo his belt and slide down his pants, taking his boxers with him. 

You’ve wanted to do this since the first time you so much as made out with him. When he pinned you against a wall, your hands over your head, and you felt him pressing against your thigh. Then you’d seen him for the first time—long and proud and thick—and the desire had only grown. 

So you savor it. 

You lick a long, slow stripe up his shaft, and Clark’s hand shoots into your hair. 

“I- Sorry-“ He tries to let go, but you grab his wrist. Smile coyly up at him, as you wrap your lips around his tip, swirl your tongue around his angry red head. 

Clark lets out a heavy breath, his fingers curling in the sheets and on your scalp as you slowly start to slide down his length. Until he bumps the back of your throat, and you choke slightly. He tastes like real, hard cock, and it’s a fucking drug. It makes your head spin, how big he is. You hope it makes you pass out. 

He tries to yank you up, frantic worry pushing through his clouded lust, and you dig your nails into his thighs. Moan as lewdly as possible, because he’s heavy and hot in your mouth, and you need more. 

“Baby, that’s- This is great, you don’t gotta-“

You whine around him, starting to bob your head up and down, and Clark lets out a loud, uncontrolled moan. You make a sound of pleasure, rolling your hips on the air to show him what it’s doing you, and he pants. 

“Oh my- God-“ His hips thrust up, and that’s more like it. 

He’s letting go. 

You throw everything you have, into the blowjob. Your jaw almost unhinges, to take as much of him as you can, and your hand works his thick base when you can’t take it into your mouth. Whenever you choke on him, you let your fingers dip down to play with his balls, and he makes the most sweetly sinful sound you’ve ever heard. 

Clark seems to be really trying to keep himself under some control. His moans of your name are long and desperate, but his hand is still just resting on your head. You want him to fuck your face, to let him use your mouth as a sheath for his beautiful cock. He works so hard. Puts everyone else first. 

But this is about him.

So you look up at him under hooded eyes, drool slipping from your lips as you bob up and down his cock, and whine. Your hands have moved to just support yourself on his thighs. He’s throbbing, and your spit is mixed with his pre-cum, but there won’t be release until he takes it.

And Clark lets out a low sound of frustration. He thrusts up, and you gag on him again, but before he can stop to worry you’re moving. Snaking a hand between your legs to rub your clit, still watching him with your best, innocent eyes. 

He breathes out your name, and you let your teeth graze against him. He jerks up again, slamming your head down, and a broken, cockdrunk sound you didn’t know you could make escapes your chest. 

“Holy…” Clark’s hand moves, thumb tracing over your cheekbone. “You really- You fuckin’ love this.”

You smile at him, eyes pricking with tears, and you won. 

Clark fully, properly, swore. So you won.

“Can I-“ He pulls your hair lightly, drawing you a little further up, and you hum. Nod around his cock, and fuck your hand between your legs. 

That’s all it takes. Clark nods, sitting up on his elbows to watch you, and starts to properly fuck your face. 

It’s messy. Wet and messy, making you lightheaded and your pussy clench around nothing as he stuffs your mouth. Your lips are swollen, your throat and jaw sore, and your hand on your clit starts to go limp as you put all your energy into breathing through your nose. 

But it’s worth it, for the sight of Clark above you. 

Completely, totally wrecked.

His eyes are blown out with lust, his mouth hanging open in one long, graphic moan of your name. His chest is rising and falling with ragged, short breaths, the thick column of his neck and bare, muscled skin of his body shining with sweat. His hand flexes in the sheets whenever you gag on him. His thrusts up to meet your warm, slick mouth are getting shorter and shorter every moment. 

Low, broken praise of my pretty girl and so- so fuckin’ good escapes him, and can’t seem to tear his gaze from where your lips are wrapped around him. Where he’s jackhammering into your mouth, how you’re uselessly trying to hump the sheets, bunched between your legs. How tears are streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never looked so dazed and happy in your life. 

And he’s throbbing, on your tongue. His thighs tense under your hands, and he grunts your name. 

“Gonna- Baby, I-“

You moan, pressing your face down further, and Clark’s hips slam up, his release spilling down your throat. 

You swallow, best you can. But there’s so much of him, and a little bit of it escapes your lips. You wait until his hand releases its grip on your hair, and pull off with a soft pop. 

Lick your lips clean, and smile up at him. As sweet as you can manage. 

Clark stares at you, an almost animalistic gleam in his eyes as he watches you wipe your chin and smear his own cum on his thumb. 

Take it into your mouth, and suck the same way you just did on his cock. 

“God-“ He groans, dick twitching between his legs. “I feel like you get off on torturing me, sweetheart, you know that?”

You giggle, and pull his hand away. Hold it in yours, as you rest your cheek on his thigh. “Maybe.”

He laughs softly, like he really can’t believe you at all.

Then he looks to where you’re still squirming against the sheets slightly, trying to relieve your own pressure. His eyes flash. 

You sigh, squeezing his hand. “Clark, you don’t-“ “Want to.” He teases, mimicking your tone from earlier. “Come on. Let me at her.” You flush, and this was supposed to be all about him. 

But he’s already getting hard again, just looking at you and begging to touch you. And who ever said there’s too much of a good thing?

“Okay.” You sigh, pushing up on your palms. “But just one.”

Clark hums, dragging you up until you’re straddling his lap. He kisses you slow and deep, groaning as he tastes himself, lingering on your tongue. You whine, and he chuckles.

“No promises.” He murmurs against your lips. “You know I like it.”

It’s one of those warm night that makes everything wet. Sweat sticking under your clothing and hair to your brow. The ground slick with dew and making you trip every five steps. The fog so dense that seeing more than a foot in front of you is nothing short of a miracle. The city buzzing around you, but in nothing more than a hazy, neon glow. 

It’s rarer, in Metropolis, for these kinds of nights to happen. It’s something you’d expect from Gotham, or the upstate country sides. 

But it’s here, and you’re going to punch a brick wall. 

Walking alone is already something that sucks. Everyone tends to let their guard down and fuck around like idiots, thinking that Superman is just going to fall out of the sky and save them.

And he probably will.

But being saved by Superman is always a whole thing. People post a video of the rescues online if they can get one, and then suddenly you’re getting an exhaustive, unwelcome fifteen minutes of fame. The news wants to talk to you. Brands are reaching out to be sponsored by “Superman”—or at least someone who’s touched him, which they think is enough—and people are recreating your rescue as videos for clicks and likes. 

It sounds like a fucking nightmare. At least if you get mugged you only have to talk to insurance. 

And you’re not a helpless baby. You’re prepared, and alert, and lived in Gotham. Once a Poison Ivy burst into apartment, told you that your landlord had been secretly using doing illegal things with energy—either stealing it or using it too much, you hadn’t really been paying attention—and for some reason you had to die about it. 

Compared to that, one person with a gun and shine of desperation in their eyes wasn’t much to be afraid of. 

You’d be fine. 

So you walk home from work every night—a hand tight on your bag and eyes scanning around the dark—and it hasn’t gone wrong yet. 

But you also haven’t had a night like this one. 

And when you hear the click of a gun, from a darker alleyway to your side, you’re more disappointed than anything else. 

“Give- Lady, hey-“ A skinnier kid—with his hair ragged around his face and his fingers shaking slightly—slides out of the dark. “Stop walkin’, and give me your money.” 

You turn with a sigh, tilting your head at him and squinting through the dark. “Just my money?”

The kid blinks at you. “Yes?”

That’s easy then. “Alright.”

“Alright? You’re just-“ The kid frowns. “You’re going to give it to me?”

“Well, what happens if I don’t?”

“I shoot you through the head and take it anyway?”

You give him a pointed look, and the kid scowls, cocking the gun. 

“Are you trying to get smart with me, lady? That what this is? Some fucking mind trick?”

“Me?” You point at yourself in mock innocence, and shrug. “I would never. Do you want the coins as well?”

“I- Yeah.” The kid spits on your feet, and it seems more like a defensive mechanism than anything else. “Yes. Give me everything you’ve fucking got.” Then, as a last afterthought, he adds, “Bitch.”

“Hey.” You frown at him, hand stuck in your purse. “That’s pretty fucking rude. I’m being cooperative.”

The kid stares at you for a second, then shakes himself, raising the gun higher. “You got like a fuckin’ death wish, lady?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Jesus fucking- Stop being a bitch, and just give me your fuckin’-“

You never get to know exactly what the kid wanted you to do, because a lot of things happen at once. 

Superman drops out of the sky, landing between you and the kid. 

You grab your pepper spray out of the bad, using it liberally on the air and stepping off to the side, behind Superman’s back.

The kid fires his gun with a shout of pain as the chemicals hit him, hand blindly following your path behind Superman.

The shot echoes through the alley, making you wince slightly, but the bullet just crumples against Superman’s chest. The kid has ended up shaking and crying on the ground, the pepper spray quickly dissipating into the thick fog, and you sigh, tucking the empty container back into your bag. 

“Alright, buddy.” You step out from behind Superman with a frown, kneeling down at the kid’s side. “Let’s see who you are.”

You roll him over as he whines in pain, and makes a weak attempt to shove you away that you dodge. 

“Hey.” Superman’s voice cuts through the air, and it’s somehow deeper and higher than you thought it would be, all at once. You’ve heard him give interviews, in those on the street videos when someone gets lucky enough to corner him and ask for his favorite soup or whatever. In person, it feels slightly different. 

Less god-like. 

When you look up at him with a frown, he looking between you and the kid like he’s not quite sure what to do. 

“That’s pretty rude, trying to hit someone who’s helping you.” He says, taking a step forward towards the kid. “And you,” he turns, his eyes seeming to shine in the low, misting light as they land on you. “Pepper sprayed me.”

You shrug. “And? You’re fine.”

“You didn’t know I would be fine-“

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” You look back to the kid, who seems to have resorted to just curling into a little ball. “And he shot you, if we’re keeping count.”

“We’re, uh- Not.” Superman clears his throat, and you can hear him walking closer behind you. “You can go, ma’am. I’ll take it from here.”

“I’m okay, thanks.” You keep rolling the kid until he’s on his side, and you can pull out his wallet.

Superman freezes. “Miss, if you’re stealing from him I have to-“

“I’m not stealing from him.” You roll your eyes, and Superman pauses, before muttering-

“It sort of looks like you’re stealing from him.”

You hum, pulling out the thick card of the kid’s driver’s license, and holding it up to the light. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Superman coughs, not taking off into the night to look for more crime, for some reason. You’re not really sure what he’s still doing here at all. 

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, please. This man is in medical distress, and I need to get him to a hospital.”

“Don’t take him to the hospital.” You mutter, and Superman frowns, kneeling down across from you. 

“Listen, I understand that he just did something that caused you distress, but he’s still a person. He deserves the same care as anyone else, even if he’s made mistakes-“

“Yeah, I know that, dummy.” You roll your eyes, dropping the ID back into his wallet. “But this is a fake. And he doesn’t have an insurance card.”

Superman stares at you. “And?”

“He won’t be able to afford the hospital. This Fake ID is shit, he probably can’t even afford the pudding in the hospital cafeteria.” You tuck the man’s wallet back into his pants, then wrap your arms around his torso. “There’s a shelter, three blocks down. He should go there.”

You grunt, trying to drag him up, but you barely get him an inch off the ground before Superman’s jumping in, grabbing the man and pulling him into his arms, bridal style. 

“Three blocks down?” He asks you, and you nod, wiping your hands on your legs. 

“Yeah. Don’t tell them the mugging, though.”

“Why-“

“They’ll legally have to hand him over to the cops after.”

“And you… don’t want them to?”

“No.” You look up at Superman with a tight glare. “Do you?”

He’s not glaring at you. Superman is looking at you with an open, almost curious expression, his head titled to the side and lips in a strange sort of pout. 

It hits you a little like lightning, how he does look like only a man—he’s got all the fearless humans have—but there’s something more. His skin is clear, posture perfect, and in the glow of the streetlamps, there’s a strange sort of angelic halo around his body. 

And he’s handsome. 

You’ve seen photos. You watch the news. You’ve been at work and listened to the interns fawn about how hot Superman is, and how they hope they need help because they’d love to be saved by him, but it’s just different in person. Striking, a little mind numbing, and making your skin buzz because he’s staring at you. 

You wish he’d stop. It’s making you dizzy. 

“No.” He says softly. “I don’t.”

“Alright then.” You cross your arms, raising your chin at him. He doesn’t just get to make you feel gooey with his eyes. “We’re in agreement.”

Superman chuckles, and that just makes your face heat more. “Yeah, I guess we are. Would you like an escort home, ma’am?”

“A- What?”

“May I walk you home.” He holds your gaze, and you might be about to burst into flames. “We can drop this man off together. I don’t think it’s that safe for you to be walking alone at night, even in a city as nice as ours.”

You swallow. “I have pepper spray.”

“You have empty pepper spray. That can will be useless, and I think you know that.”

“Well, I-“ You scowl, adjusting your jacket and standing up a little. He’s so fucking tall. It’s hard to intimidate someone so stupidly tall. “I don’t live very far. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Superman.”

He blinks at you, opening and closing his mouth once, then bows his head. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

Part of you wants him to stop calling you ma’am. You’re not a fucking ma’am, even if the gentleness and respect in his voice is making you feel even more lightheaded. 

So you turn on your heels, and march out of the alley like nothing ever happened at all.

But you can still feel it. 

Superman’s gaze. 

When you glance over your shoulder—because you’re an idiot—he’s watching you walk away, the fog almost seeming to part just long enough for your eyes to connect, before he vanishes into the dark.

———

“You can’t say that.” One of your co-workers mutters, crossing out something on the paper before looking up at you with a sigh of your name. “You know you can’t say that. Last time Ms. Lane had to stop you from saying it. Do you know how bad it has to be for her to do that?”

You shrug, rocking the chair the chair your foot is resting on back and forth. “That’s not my fault, I didn’t make her.”

“You’re dodging the question.” Your coworker gives you a flat look, and you just smile in return.

“I’ve never dodged a question in my life.”

She sighs your name again, and shakes her head. “Just- don’t say it. We’ll get sued into the next century, you know that, and Luther doesn’t fuck around-“

“I don’t fuck around.” You mutter, spinning your pen in your hands. “And you know we’d win if we tried. It’s not defamation if it’s true, and his reputation is already so damaged he’d have no proof that my remarks caused his stocks to tank lower than hell-“

“Just don’t say it. Please.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I won’t say the factually correct thing about how Luther is such a pathetic man-baby he’s been keeping a harem of ex-girlfriends, and everything he says about Superman is just what’s true about himself, he just can’t see it because whenever he looking in the mirror because he only sees the glare of his bald head.”

Your coworker sighs, right as the door pushes open. “Thank you for not saying it.” 

“Listen, I’m so sorry I’m late.” A large, dark haired man with glasses and sharp jawline drops across from you, chair spinning as he gives you an apologetic look. “I just lost track of the time, thought this floor was the next floor, and- Gosh, I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

You frown at him, opening your mouth, but your words die as he stares at you. He’s acting like he’s looking at a ghost, with wide eyes and a startled flinch. He’s still holding his briefcase, grip white-knuckled, and your frown deepens. 

Your co-worker clears her throat, and the man’s attention shoots away from a second. 

It leaves you oddly cold. 

“We haven’t been waiting long at all, Mr. Kent.” She gives the man a sweet smile, and he returns it in a second. “You actually just gave us enough time to finish our briefing.”

“Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He looks to you with another nervous expression, pushing his glasses up his nose, and your frown deepens. “Are you ready then, miss?”

“She’s all yours.” Your co-worker beams, shooting to her feet, and right before she leaves the conference room, you get a firm glare and a mouthed don’t fucking say it. 

You ignore her. You’re not going to say it. And if you do, it will be naturally in the conversation, wherever it may come up.

The man is fumbling, across the table. Pulling out his notebook and laptop with clumsy hands, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, shooting you an nervous look every few moments, as if you’re going to jump across the table and bite him or something. 

You lean forward, tilting your head, and he sits up straight. 

“It’s nice to meet you, miss-“

“You’re not Lois.” You say, voice flat, and his ears turn red. 

“Lois is, uh- She’s busy.”

“Busy?”

“Sick.” He mutters, pushing up his glasses again. “She caught something, in that bad weather we’ve been having. She’s very sorry she can’t make it, though.” He gives you a small, charming smile. “Gave me a whole speech about how you’re her favorite, and if I mess this up, she’ll strangle me.”

You hum, scanning over him wordlessly. It’s a strategy that works with almost everyone, staying silent until they get uncomfortable and blurt something. Something that, usually, tells you enough about them to sketch out a picture that lets you color in the lines how you want. When you’d used it on Lois, she’d stared back at you before asking if you were trying to intimidate her. When you’d met the Boravian president, he’d asked if they’d sent a mute to interview him and make him look like some sort of fool. 

This man—Kent, your co-worker had called him—is just staring at you right back. Not uncomfortably, but silently. He’s fiddling with his pen and holding your gaze, waiting for you to break the silence. 

You never break the silence. That’s losing. 

Kent doesn’t seem like he’s trying to win, though. He just seems like he’s trying to be polite. 

And after about five minutes of staring at each other in silence, he clears his throat, and frowns at you. 

“Do you want some water? Or to call Lois? She can vouch for me, I promise.” He chuckles. “Actually, she’ll probably say I’m an okay journalist, and that I’m asking the questions she wrote.” He pauses, then holds up his notepad. “I am asking the questions she wrote. If that makes this better.”

It doesn’t.

But now you know what Kent is like. 

Polite, gentle, kind. 

You can work with that.

“I’m good, thank you.” You give him a sweet, slightly mocking smile, and he returns it with the same charming grin from before. 

It’s throwing you off. You can’t be cool and collected and sharp, here. With Lois it’s like sparring. 

With Kent, it’s just making you feel like a bitch. 

“Great, then are we ready to- Oh shoot, Wait-“ He reaches back into his bag, then pulls out a tape recorder with a sheepish grin. “Almost forgot. Gosh, Lois would’ve killed me.” He places the recorder between you, and gives you another nervous grin. “Now, are you ready to get started?”

You nod, and he hits the record button. You’re silent as he rattles off the date and time, who you are—top human right lawyer, heavily involved in negotiations with the United Sates government about aide to Jarhanpur and immigration protections of Jarhanpurian refugees—and who he is. 

Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet, sitting down for a conversation about the recent developments with Lex Luther using surveillance technology to tip off Immigration authorities about illegal refugees. 

He gives you another handsome smile, before he asks the first question. You just stare at him. He doesn’t get to use his pretty face to throw you off your game. 

“So,” he glances down at his notepad, then back to you. “You’re suing the United States government for unconstitutional detainment of Jarhanpurian journalist, claiming they were both complicit in and knowingly funded the unlawful imprisonment that goes against their first amendment right to free press. Is this correct?”

You nod. “Yes, Mr. Kent, it is.”

“Great. Um-“ He flips his notepad, squinting at the words. “The United States had claimed that they had no knowledge of Luther’s methods, and says that they never once paid him to contain a private American citizen. They also stated that, if they did use Luther to hold someone, they were not aware that their funding for his research was helping him to contain people for other countries. So…” He gives you another nervous smile. “What do you say to that?”

“I say that the government is not known for being truthful about their dealings, Mr. Kent.” You raise your brows at him. “At the very least, we know they paid to have Luther contain Superman. That alone indicates that they were aware of the security of his pocket dimension. And I also happen to have several victims of the holding, all legal immigrants from Jarhanpur who were critics of Boravia, who were kept in Luther’s harem jail.”

Kent frowns at you. “Harem jail?”

Shit. “There have been allegations that he used it imprison ex-girlfriends.”

“So you…” Kent’s lips twitch. “Call it a harem jail?”

“Yep.” You give him a challenging look. “And?”

“Nothing.” He looks down at his paper again, ears red. “Just sort of graphic, I think.”

“Graphic-“

“But funny.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass again. “I think it’s funny.”

There’s a fuzzy, warm feeling, over your skin. You don’t fucking appreciate it. “Oh. Thanks.”

He grins. “No problem. Uh- Right. There we were-“

Kent keeps asking you Lois’ questions, and while he doesn’t really have the edge that works you both up until she asks a hard hitter and you knock it out of the park, he’s not the worst to work with. He doesn’t fuck up the questions. He asks a few follow ups about crime rates and the responsibility of the United States to regulate business’. He even asks a pretty good question about the ethics Luther using federal funding when he’s a billionaire, and seems to have come up with it himself. 

He’s certainly better than almost any male journalist you’ve worked with. He doesn’t talk over you, or question your qualifications, or do anything but listen and nod like you’re saying something fascinating. You’re really not. You’re using words that are too big and talking too fast and discussing the constitution, one of the most boring topics of conversation. 

But he’s still looking at you as if you’re doing Circe de Solie tricks in this bland little conference room. 

He laughs at a few of your jokes, and it makes you buzz again. 

At one point, you go to the bathroom, and when you get back he’s gotten you both cups.

You lean over it, then look back up to Kent. “What’s this?”

“Uh- Water?” He glances down at the cup, then you. “I figured after going to the bathroom, you might need to stay hydrated.”

That’s such a strangely fucking good thing to do. It’s making your heart beat too fast. “And if I say I just took a shit?”

Kent blinks. “I can get you a snack?”

You snort, and that seems to make him relax again. His shoulder slump and his eyes fucking sparkle like a cartoon character, when you take a sip of his water. 

He’s like a fucking puppy turned into a human. You might be able to see his tail wagging. 

“Alright, Kent.” You set the water down. “Let’s keep-“

“Clark.” He says suddenly, wincing to himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you but- Clark is alright. You can call me Clark.”

You stare at him, and he turns a little red. 

“It’s my first name.”

“Yeah, I figured out that one myself.” 

“Oh. Okay. Good.” He looks back down to his notepad, adjusting his tie like it’s burning him through the suit. “So- Next question is- Oh this is a good one. I mean, it’s rougher, but Lois told me you’re… Uh-“ He turns red again. “Never mind-“

“No.” You cut him off, leaning forward. “You don’t get to say Lois called me something then not tell me. What.”

He won’t look you in the eyes. “Just that you’re a little bit of a masochist. And that you were going to be… vulgar enough to make me blush.”

You laugh, soft and through your nose, and Clark looks at you nervously. “That’s it?”

“Uh- Yeah?”

“That’s nothing,” you wave him off, leaning back in your chair. “I thought you were going to say she called me a cunt or something.”

Clark gapes at you. “Gosh, no, she adores you. Told me she’d strangle me, if I messed it up-“

“I know.” 

He frowns. “How?”

“You told me earlier.”

“Oh. I did, didn’t I. Darn it.” He gives you another nervous smile. “Sorry about that. Did I tell you about how she also said she’d dump boiling soup on me? And that it was the soup I made her.”

You smile, and it feels a little too wide and toothy, but Clark doesn’t move away. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well, she did. And I don’t think she’d ever call you a- That. You don’t seem like one at all?”

You raise your brows. “I don’t?”

“No, you seem like a… Ah- A really lovely lady.”

It’s hard not to laugh at that, even if Clark looks genuinely confused by your reaction.

“Okay, Kent-“

“Clark.” He corrects with a mumble, eyes bright and almost curious on yours, and now you feel warm. 

“Clark.” You keep it together. He does not get to fuck you up. “What’s the good questions.”

“Right. Sorry, um-“ His eyes dart down to the notepad. “A lot of people are worried that by letting Jarhanpurian citizens and journalists into the country, we’re taking away jobs away from American’s and giving these immigrants shelter when they only bring danger. What would you like to say, to American’s who believe that?”

“That our country is built on the backs of immigrants.” You answer smoothly. “And the idea that they only bring danger is a frighteningly xenophobic myth that’s simply easy to believe. Lex Luther is an American citizen, and he nearly split Metropolis in half. Superman is, in all essence of the law, an illegal immigrant, and he’s saved countless lives. It’s the person, not their origin or government, who decides what they are. And the Jarhanpurian refugees have come here to be the good, strong and kind people they want to be. It is our job to protect them, and so far, we are the ones who have failed.”

Clark stares at you for a long, strange moment as your answer hangs in the air. For a second, you think he’s going to argue, or offer a counter question. 

Instead he just clears his throat, turns off the recorder, and smiles at you. 

“Thank you for talking to me,” he says your name with a warm smile, and the air feeling strangely light, when you take his hand. 

It’s big and warm. 

You have to bit your tongue as he smiles, because it’s making you want to smile back.

And when Clark walks away after a few more formal pleasantries, you’re just standing in the center of the room. He’s said your name in a deep, rich way that made your heart skip and breath hitch. He’d grinned and you’d felt warm, like a fucking idiot. Your goddamn knees feel sort of weak, because you’d been able to feel his heat from across the table. 

Or that’s just still in you. Burning up from where your hands had connected, and through your whole body. 

It’s a good thing you’ll probably never have to see him again. 

You never want to feel that soft and dizzy, for a long, long time.

———

There’s a thud on the pavement behind you, and you don’t think before you react.

Your hand shoots into your purse, wrapping around your pepper spray, and you turn on your heels. 

Right before you spray it, a big hand wraps around your wrist, and Superman takes the can from you with a small frown. 

“Sorry.” He lets go of your wrist. “You just got it replaced, and I didn’t want you to use it for no reason. I’ve heard those things are expensive.”

They are. 

You still scowl at him. 

“Are you stalking me?”

He blinks, eyes widening. “No, I’m not. Swear on it. Superman’s honor.”

He places a hand over his heart with a grin, and you frown at him. 

“It’s scouts honor.”

“I was never a scout, miss.” He gives you a small grin. “I don’t want to dishonor their badge.”

“Their scout badge?”

He nods, and you huff in amusement, shoving the pepper spray into your purse.

“Sure. Why not.”

“Well, those boys work very hard-“

“Most of them are rich kids whose parents can afford scouts.” You say dryly, and Superman frowns at the air. 

“Huh. I suppose you’re right about that.”

 “I know I’m right about it.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, frowning at him. “If you’re not stalking me, what are you doing here.”

“I’m… checking on you.” He gives you a bright, charming grin. “Just making sure you’re holding up well, after last week. Seeing if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

“To help me.” You narrow your eyes, and he keeps grinning. 

“I think so. Doesn’t seem to be anyone else.”

You hum, staring at him, and he just stares right back. 

It’s too long, that it takes him to break. And he breaks just like Clark Kent did, yesterday. Not with a nervous expression or uncomfortable shift. 

Just with worry. Which makes you feel fuzzy. 

Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t handle doing this twice. 

“Are you feeling safe, walking home? Would you want- Maybe have a driver?”

“Could you get me a driver?”

“No.” He gives you another smile, and now you feel gooey. “But I could walk you home. To make you feel safe.”

“Hm.” You raise your chin, and he quickly adds. “Do you do that for everyone whose muggings you crash?”

“I mean, normally people call it saving.” He frowns, and you scoff. 

“You didn’t save me. I was fine.”

“No- I mean, yes, you were, but I still helped.”

“How?”

Superman blinks at you. “I carried the guy. He’s okay, by the way, in case you were worried-“

“I wasn’t.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “I checked on him in the morning.”

“Oh. Good. Of course you did.”

Of course you did. 

He says it like it’s a fact. He doesn’t even fucking know you. 

“What does that mean-“

“Do you want me to walk- Sorry.” Superman sighs as you speak over each other, bowing his head. “You first.”

You stare at him, scanning over handsome features in the dark, and there’s something. It’s scratching at the back of your head, and it doesn’t have a voice yet, but it’s there. He’s being too kind, it’s odd. And he’s making your head feel a little light, and maybe you need to call the Metropolis facilities department, because there must be something in the water if you’re feeling this way twice in a week. 

“Are you actually going to walk me home?” You ask, trying to make your voice venomous, the kind of predator’s warning that makes people back away and leave you to keep walking, alone in the dark.

If you succeed, it doesn’t seem to work on Superman. 

“If you want me to, yes, I will.” He smiles at you, and it seems to light up the whole street. 

You can’t look at it too long. Your knees will start to feel weak. 

“Alright. Fine.” You turn on your heels, not looking back. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s- Okay. Let’s go.” Superman echoes your words, quickly catching up to walk at your side. 

You walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s the kind of silence that leaks. That makes everything else feel bigger and quieter, until your breathing is shallower and your skin is prickling, and if there’s not something to fill up the creaks and horns of the night, you’re going to lose your fucking mind. 

Superman isn’t even doing anything to make it worse. He’s just walking at a respectful distance next to you, looking around the streets like it’s all the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, and you want to punch him in the face.

“Is this all you do?” You blurt, and he looks at you with a curious expression.

“No? I mean, sometimes I fly-“

“Not walk.” You sigh, looking back out into the night. “Like- Aren’t there robberies and murders for you to be stopping?”

He pauses, tilts his head, then clicks his tongue. “I can’t hear any, no.”

“Can’t hear any.” You mutter under your breath, and he shrugs. 

“Well, I have super senses, including hearing, and-“

“I know about the hearing, Supes. I just think it’s ridiculous.”

Superman blinks at you. “I- Ridiculous seems like a strong word-“

“It’s just- It’s not ridiculous. Well, it is, but-“ You sigh, glaring down at your nails like it’s their fault you’re fucking up your words around the pretty alien. “It’s crazy. To be able to hear a robbery across the city.”

“I can’t control it-“

“I know.” You shrug. “It’s just hard to imagine. I think it would overwhelm me, and I’d put a screwdriver through my head.”

“Oh.” Superman chuckles, and it’s a deep, low sound that feels like it fucking rolls through the night, and vibrates in your chest. “It can get overwhelming, I suppose. It’s just how I always am. Always have been.” He pauses, and you can feel his attention. “For me, not being to hear everything sounds terrifying.”

You hum. “Have you ever heard people have like- The loudest fucking sex?”

He coughs, and when you look over, his ears seem a little red. “Yes, but- I’ve sort of learned to tune out the grosser things.”

“Right.” You pause, then frown at him. “Do you poop?”

“Do I poop?”

“You’re Kryptonian, I don’t know how your bodily functions work.”

“They’re mostly similar to humans.” He says, amusement obvious in his voice. “Almost entirely similar, actually.”

You nod, looking back ahead. “So you do poop.”

“Yes. I poop.”

“Fascinating. I have a reporter friend.” You grin to yourself. “I’m going to sell that fact to her for a million dollars.”

Superman laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Something tells me she won’t be interested in that scoop.”

There’s a long beat, and you look back to see him grinning at you, wide and proud. 

You groan. 

“That’s fucking horrible.”

“You smiled-“

“I did not-“

“Yes, you did. I saw it. It was on your face, and it was a smile.”

“On my face is where all smiles happen- And it wasn’t a smile.” You glare at him, stopping in your tracks. “That was an awful joke. Zero out of ten.”

Superman mock flinches. “Ouch. That low?”

“Yeah. You should be sent to space jail.” You glance behind you. “And- This is me.”

“Oh.” He looks at the building, then back to you. “And you’re not just pretending it’s your building because of what just happened?”

That time, you do actually smile. “No, I’m not.”

He nods, then gives you another one of those knee-weakening smiles. “Well then, have a good night…”

There’s a long silence, and you never told him your fucking name. 

You do, with your arms crossed over your chest, and he echoes it back. 

Your stupid heart skips. 

And he waits for you to go inside, before he takes off. Waits all the way until you’re in your apartment, and you lean out the window to wave at him mockingly, because he can hear you. He knows you’re inside. 

He waves, grins at you, and shoots off into the night 

You stand stupidly at the window, for a moment. 

It’s just bad luck, twice in one week. Kent and Superman, making your breath hitch and body warm. It probably really is just something in the water. 

So you close the curtains, and just pray this isn’t the kind of thing that comes in threes.

———

Someone shouts your name, and you’re not fast enough to dive behind the potted plant and make them think you pulled a magic trick.

You don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s too early to speak, too public to have to play nice about everything, too loud to do anything but press yourself against the wall of the little cafe and drink your coffee. 

They haven’t even gotten your muffin yet. 

You just want your fucking muffin. 

Instead you have to just stare at the floor, hoping your lack of acknowledgment will make whoever knows you here think you have headphones in or something. 

It almost works. 

The person says your name again, then pauses. “I think she can’t hear me?”

“I, uh- I’m not sure.” Another voice—this one sending warm little shivers through your body, and Jesus Christ not again—mutters, a little lower than the first. “I think she just doesn’t want to be bothered, Jimmy.”

“Really? No, I think she can’t hear me.” Jimmy repeats your name, touching your shoulder lightly, and now you have to pretend you never heard him in the first place. 

You look up with what had to be a horribly fake expression of surprise, your fingers curling on your coffee cup. “Oh. Hi, Jimmy, when did you get here?”

Fuck, that’s such a bad fucking lie. Somehow, Jimmy, with his million-dollar toothy grin and sweet freckled face, is buying it. 

The guy standing over his shoulder, who gave you those stupid shivers, looks a little less convinced. Mostly nervous, like he’s caught the lie but doesn’t really want to fucking do anything about it. 

And the good news is, these things don’t come in threes. 

The bad news is, they come in two that just keep fucking popping up in your life. Like tall, hot weeds with puppy faces and deep voices and probably abs, given how he’s filling out that shirt. 

You stare at Clark Kent. 

He stares back at you, face a little red and mouth hanging slightly open. 

“Hi.” You say, voice a little blanker and awestruck than you wanted—it doesn’t crack, but it does have a breathlessness that you don’t really fucking appreciate—and his smile is small, but genuine. 

Which is really fucking annoying. 

“Hey. I, uh- I like your pants.” He pushes his glass up his nose, still smiling at you, and Jimmy groans. 

“Jesus, Clark, we gotta work on your compliments, Buddy.” He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, he was raised in a barn. He only knows how to flirt with like, cows. I’m working on it.”

Clark turns a shade of red that’s almost impressive, right as your face heats, and before either of you can protest, Jimmy’s pushing on.

“We have so much to catch up on, I was going to ask Lois to have you come out with us, but then she went and got herself sick. Which was really annoying because I had to deal with Clark’s twenty questions about interviewing, something he’s supposed to already know how to do.”

“I don’t usually do high profile people.” Clark mumbles, and Jimmy gives him a flat look. 

“You interview Superman, dude.”

“Well, uh- That’s different? He’s a chill guy, all he does is like, save squirrels, that’s different than law stuff.” He grins at you again, and it’s still charming and attractive and dumb. “Your stuff is smarter. Above the Superman league.”

You can’t stop from smiling back. It’s not fair, how he does that. Maybe he’s a secretly meta with the ability to make people smile. 

“That’s a little better, buddy.” Jimmy claps Clark back on the back, and it somehow manages to make the tower of a man stumble slightly. “See, my classes are working! Soon we’re going to have you on these streets, picking up ladies left and right.”

Clark sighs, shooting you a nervous look. “Jimmy, I’ve told you I don’t- That’s not what I’m trying to-“  

“You don’t have to try, Clark. I mean,” he says your name, and it can’t take this long to get you a muffin. “Look at this face. I know I’d kiss it-“

“How do you get your interviews with Superman?” You raise your voice over Jimmy—this really isn’t a conversation you want to have right now—and Clark stares at you.

“What, uh- What do you mean? I just- We’ve built a relationship, that’s it-“

“Like how do you find him.” You keep our voice steady and bored. “Does he just appear on the street next to you? Or have, like- A key to your apartment?”

Jimmy snorts. “I don’t think Clark is dating Superman, if that’s what you’re getting out. Our guy is way out of that Kryptonian’s league. 

Clark blushes again “Well, I- Uh- I don’t think that’s true-“

“Do you call for him? Does he have a phone number?” You keep pushing, and Clark shakes his head. 

“No- I mean- Yes-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “He doesn’t have a phone number, but I just sort of call for him, and he hears me and shows up.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Oh, cool. Can I be there next time you call for him?”

“Well- He doesn’t like other people being there. For security. One at a time.”

You frown. “He’s bulletproof, why does he need security?”

Clark stares at you. “That’s- A really good question. I’ll be sure to ask him next time.”

There’s a long silence, as you and Clark stare at each other, ended only by the barista calling your name for your muffin. 

You promise Jimmy that you’ll go out for drinks with him, before you walk away. 

You can feel Clark’s warm, curious stare, all the way until you walk outside. 

And it might be branded on you, because you feel it a long while after as well. 

———

“Superman?”

You call up to the sky, and you’re met with only whistling wind and the distance sound of car horns.

“Superman!” You raise your voice, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop the chill of the wind, and still nothing. 

You’re alone. You’re calling him, like Clark does. And unless he’s already forgotten you, he has to be at least curious what you’re doing on the roof, calling his name. 

But there’s nothing. Not even a whoosh or streak of red in the distance, showing you that he’s busy or circling around you like a bird or something.

“Superman, can you please-“ You sigh. This is so fucking stupid. “Can you come here, please?”

Silence. 

You walk slowly to the edge of the roof, frowning out over the city skyline, and nothing’s even attacking right now. It’s not like he has a fucking day job to be occupied with, he’s Superman. 

And it’s pretty fucking rude that he’ll show up for Clark and not you.

Your gaze slowly falls down, to the people rushing past on the pavement below you, smaller than ants. And you have an idea. It’s bad idea, and he’ll probably be really pissed at you, but it’s also an effective idea.

You drum your fingers on the railing, trying to weigh how important this is. In the grand scheme of the universe, not worth throwing yourself off a building for. In terms of all the people relying on you to win this case, absolutely worth throwing yourself off a building. And it’s not like you’ll die. Superman will save you. 

“Please don’t do that.”

You whip around, squeaking in surprise, and stumble a step back. There’s a split second where your balance is gone, and you’re falling backwards, and God, that was a horrible idea and now you’re going to die because you’re a dramatic idiot- 

But there’s a whoosh. 

And a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly upright before you can topple off the edge. 

Superman grins down at you, keeping you pressed against him, and your hands somehow ended up flat on his chest. He feels strong, under the suit. And you’re really not cold anymore, because he’s like a person fucking furnace. 

A furnace with a nice smile and kind eyes and a little curl falling over his forehead that makes him look like an old movie star. 

You’re staring at him. Your heart is going to fast, and there’s the buzzing feeling again, and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your balance by yourself. His proximity is making you drunk, and it’s not fair-

“Who’s stalking who now?” He says, voice rumbling through your chest, and you flush. 

“Shut up.” You push him away, and he releases you in second. 

His hand lingers on your forearm. To help you get upright. 

Only to help you get upright. Nothing else. 

He does not get to turn you into a fucking idiot, any more than he already has. 

“I need to talk to you.” Arms cross over your chest. Chin raised. Voice firm. You’re going to win this conversation. 

Superman just nods, still smiling. “Yeah, I think I figured that out myself. You know, you really don’t have to jump off a roof, I was on my way.”

Shit. “I wasn’t-“

“I think you were, but if you say you weren’t, okay. I believe you.”

“Well- I wasn’t.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, still fucking smiling, and he needs to stop being so kind. It’s making you feel more things you don’t have time for. “What did you need me for, so badly you weren’t going to jump off a roof?”

You flush. “I want to ask you questions. About being an immigrant.”

He raises his brows. “Oh? Like what?”

“Your experience. What it feels like not having a home to return to, or being divorced from the governmental ideals of your home. What you’re grateful for, what you’re not grateful. What you wish would change, what you think America needs to improve on. Why you stay here, when you of all people could feasibly go anywhere in the world.” 

Superman blinks. “Well, for the last one, this is my home. And it’s not perfect, but I have no wish to be anywhere else.”

“I know that. But a lot of other people are in similar shoes, and having Superman echo their thoughts and sentiments would be good to hear. Plus you hold a lot of public sway.”

“I didn’t know you were a journalist,” he says your name with small laugh, and you shrug. 

“It’s testimony. Are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to jump off the roof.”

“I’ll answer them. They’re smart questions, and anything to help people in my position. But…” Superman pauses, watching you with a strange expression, then lets out a long breath. “You never need to jump off a roof for my attention.”

It’s like he punched you in the fucking gut. You blink, pressing your lips in a tight line as your heart stumbles and your breath becomes shallow, the heat moving down to your lower gut. He can’t just say things like that while looking at you and being so kind. You’re not going to jump off the roof, you’re going to do something stupider, like trying to kiss Superman on his pretty, full mouth that says such sweet things. 

You need to calm the fuck down. You’ve met him three times, and this is nothing more than a professional interview.

You can’t kiss Superman. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You drawl, pulling out your phone to record. 

He just nods, and takes a step forward. If you wanted to, you could reach out and poke his chest. There’s heat, radiating off his body again. 

Calm the fuck down. 

You’re not going to make a habit of calling for him. If this goes well, you’ll have everything you need from Superman, and you can go back to living a quiet, long, focused life. 

Alone. 

Without any stupid, kind puppy-men making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’d like to let everything crumble down and just be warm. 

———

You turn the corner too fast. Slam right into a large, broad chest with a squeak.

A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly to your feet. There’s a strangely familiar feeling to it, that your slightly addled brain—a little from shame, a little from drinking—can’t quite place. 

Then you look up, and it would be nice to burst into flames, or melt into the ground. 

Clark Kent is blinking down at you, and he looks almost unfairly good in a suit. You don’t know why a journalist works out so much—and he doesn’t seem like the type to be a gym rat—but his muscles are almost pushing out of his dress shirt, and you can feel them under your fingers where you’ve grabbed his shirt, and why are his eyes so blue. 

“Hi.” He says your name, glancing down to where your bodies are pressed together, before back to you with a small blush. “You look nice.”

You do look nice. You spent three hours today, making sure you looked nice for the fancy gala. At least five people have told you that you look nice since you got here, because you’d put so much fucking effort into it, it’s a little impossible not to notice. 

For some reason, it wasn’t the appreciative look from Bruce Wayne and smirk—his hand brushing over your lower back and eyes hooded with desire—that got your to feel like you were glowing. 

It’s Clark, and his stupid, honey-like voice that’s getting under your skin. You look nice. He thinks you look nice. Enough to say it so truly, as if it’s just a fact of the universe. With a gentle element of kindness, like he’s acknowledging all that work it took you to get here. 

With his red ears, like you look so nice it’s doing something to him. 

Which isn’t fair.

“You look nice, as well.” You manage to get out, and he grins. 

“Thanks. I mean, it’s nothing really. Less expectations for me, I think.” He helps you to your feet, before taking a carefully step back. “I’m not giving the big speech tonight.”

“Oh, well- Yeah.” You try to smile back. It’s too easy. “Do you think you could, though? In my place?”

Clark laughs, and there it goes again. Making you feel like you’re fucking shining. “I would, but I don’t think I can trick people into thinking I’m you.”

“Not with that attitude you can’t.”

“I think it’s a little more than the attitude. I don’t have your gravity.” He gives you another small smile, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, he’s holding out your champagne flute. “I caught this, by the way. But- If you’re giving your speech, maybe go easy?” He blushes, shaking his head. “Not that I’m telling you what to do. You- If this is like, your process. Do your process.”

You blink at him, then the champagne. You’re not sure how the fuck he caught it and you, without spilling a single drop. 

And when you take it back, you’re fingers brush, and fucking electrically shoots through your whole body. 

You down the rest of the champagne in one swig, and Clark gapes at you.

“It is my process.” You mumble, carefully wiping your chin. “It’s called get buzzed so I forget people are looking at me.”

Clark chuckles, glancing at your glass. “Do you, uh- Do you want me not to look at you? While you’re talking? If that helps?”

“Yes. Close your eyes for the whole speech.” You sigh, spinning the flute between your fingers, and Clark nods. 

“Okay. But- I think you’re going to great no matter what. You’re good at talking and- Um- Captivating.”

Melting is back on the table. You feel a little dizzy. “Captivating?”

Clark nods, fidgeting with his tie. “I mean, you’re passionate. Makes me- And, uh, everyone else- Makes us like listening to you.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”

This is too nice. You’re going to fly out of your skin if you don’t shift it. And Clark is opening his mouth, probably so say something else that’s sweet, so you blurt the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Do you have any pets?”

“Uh-“ Clark blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Not really, no. My cousin has a dog that I watch sometimes, but that’s about it.”

You nod, looking down to your shoes. Looking him in the eyes feels dangerous. “Is it a cute dog?”

“Yeah, but he’s also….” Clark pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Rowdy. Do you have any pets?”

“No.” 

“Oh. Okay. Um- Do you like pets.” 

“Of course I like pets.” You frown at him. “My apartment just doesn’t allow them, so- I mean, I guess I sort of do have a cat, but she lives with my mom.”

Clark’s face lights up slightly. “You have a mom?”

“Yes? Most people do, I think, even if it’s just like a donor-“

“No, I meant like- Do you get to see her a lot?” He clears his throat, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like, does she live in the city?”

“No, but- She’s not far.” You pause, and either the drinks or Clark’s presence are loosening your tongue, because you add, “I’m from Gotham. And I’ve told her to come here like- A lot. But she doesn’t want to leave home.”

“Oh.” Clark nods. “That makes sense. Not her refusing to leave but- I mean, that makes sense as well, it is her home, and I don’t think you could drag my parents from their farm. But they don’t live in Gotham, they’re in, uh- Kansas. I’m from Kansas. And you’re from Gotham. Which is what makes sense.”

You stare at him, and he coughs, giving you a smaller, slightly ashamed smile. It’s impossibly fucking endearing. 

“It makes sense that I’m from Gotham?” You finally say, and he nods. 

“You’re tough.”

That makes you flush. Which isn’t fair. “What’s your cousin’s dog’s name?”

“Kr- Oco.”

You frown. “Kroco?”

“Coco.” He says quickly, taking a small step forward. “What about your cat?”

“Godzilla.”

Clark laughs again. “That’s a good name.”

“Thank you.” You’re smiling again, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at your shoes. “I came up with it.”

“I bet you did.”

You don’t get to know what that means. You want to. So fucking bad. You want to understand why Clark is saying so many nice things and why he’s so handsome and why he’s still talking to you. At no point has he tried to end the conversation and escape. He just kept grinning and talking and saying nice things, right up until one of your co-workers comes up behind you and drags you away for the speech.

And when you’re giving it, it’s impossibly easy to find Clark in the crowd. 

Towards the back, somehow shining to through the glare of the spotlights. 

Eyes squeezed shut the whole time.

———

You have the willpower of a sheep on cocaine.

Already easy to herd. 

Very easily baited by more cocaine. 

Cocaine being a handsome superhero, who you haven’t been able to shake since you shouted for him on a roof.

It started the night after the Gala. You’d walked home you with skirt hiked up and jewelry left upstairs in your office—because you’re not a fucking idiot—and Superman had dropped out of the sky with his stupid smile. 

“Do I need to wait for you to get mugged again, to say you shouldn’t walk alone at night?”

You’d laughed softly, and kept walking right past him. “Are you going to let me get mugged?”

“No, that’s why I’m here now. Offering my escort services to ladies in need.”

That had gotten you to stop. You’d had to. 

You’d started laughing so hard that if you didn’t, you would have fucking fallen over. 

Superman had stared at you with a bemused smile, taking a half-step forward, like he was worried you’d been hit with something. 

He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, still giggling.

“God, that- That’s-“ You’d snorted, and he’d reached for you carefully. 

“Are you-“

“I’m fine, dude, that’s just- I can’t believe people thought you have a harem.”

He’d frowned. “Well, I don’t-“

“Yeah, I know.” You’d laughed again, and he’d frowned.

“I’m sorry, I just- I’m not quite sure what the joke is.”

You’d drawn back up, giving him an amused look. “What do you think an escort service is?”

Superman had blinked. “I’m going to walk you home.”

“Wrong. You handsome, sweet alien, that is so wrong.”

He’d—impossibly—stood a little taller. “Handsome?”

Shit. “Yeah, pretty boy. You’ve got a nice face.” You’d doubled down like it was nothing, and it had seemed to be an effective strategy. “You know that. People make thirst edits of you on the internet.”

“They do?” 

“Oh.” You’d beamed at him. “I have so much to show you.”

And every night after that, he’d walked you home. It’s an effective system. You show him the online form that’s dedicated to trying to convince to actually form a Harem, and he gets to make sure you’re never mugged. You wave to him from the window—which is far too romantic, yet you can’t stop doing it—and then he grins at you, and blasts up, up, and away. There are a few nights that he misses, but there’s always a sticky note on your fire escape saying dragon trying to burn down the harbor, see you tomorrow, with a little smiley face. 

You’re keeping them in your nightstand. And it’s not like anyone is going to find them anyway, so that’s not pathetic. 

But it might make you a bad person. 

Because you’re putting them right next to the other thing in your nightstand. 

The second dose of cocaine. 

Clark won’t stop popping up either. And it doesn’t start in the same seeking you out way that it does with Superman, but it builds faster. Into something more. Something bigger than you might be able to handle. 

It starts shows up for drinks, with Lois and Jimmy. Which should be nothing. 

But the universe is out to get you. So it’s everything. 

“I’m so glad he didn’t scare you off.” Lois said with a dramatic sigh, setting down her beer. “You’re my favorite person to interview.”

Jimmy had frowned. “Why, because you don’t get to interview a lot of women?”

“No, Jimmy, I interview plenty of women. It’s just- The unfortunate thing about most of the women in power right now is-“

“They’re all fucking cunts.” You’d finished for her, and Clark and Jimmy had choked on their beers with impressive comedic timing. “Which is mostly an unfortunate byproduct of the system. It’s hard to be in a significant position of power and be a good person.”

“I don’t know.” Clark had frowned. “I mean, there must be a lot of pressure. And I’m sure they’re not happy with compromising their morals, it just- It must be hard.”

Lois had shrugged. “Or they’re all just cunts.”

“That’s- Seems like a harsh word-“

“Once I was at a congress hearing.” You’d said dryly, and Clark had looked at you with his full, unwavering attention. It had made you more drunk than the beer. “And one of the congresswomen asked why I was betraying American women by supporting bringing such violent rapists into our country. Her husband isn’t allowed within a hundred yards of schools.”

“Oh.” Clark had frowned. “Well, I hope she realizes she can divorce him. Or- Maybe something will get her to turn around? Like an- Intervention?”

Lois had snorted. “What, from God?”

“No, not God, but- I don’t know.” He’d looked at you, his tone so fucking sincere. “I’m sorry she said that to you.”

You’d had to look down to hide your flush. “It’s okay. Happens.”

Clark had frowned, like it shouldn’t. 

But you hadn’t scared him off. 

He’d come to another night of drinks. Then another. Then five more, until Jimmy got sick and Lois had an article due, and it was just you and him, sitting across from a booth so small your knees bumped, and hands brushed with every gesture. 

“So, why journalism?” You’d asked. “You don’t seem to have the same passion for it that Lois does.”

He’d chuckled, pushing up his glasses. “No, I guess I don’t. And I don’t know, I like talking to people. Hearing their stories. Nice, stable career, you know?”

You’d opened your mouth, but barely spoken before Clark has shaken his head. 

“Wait, you probably don’t know, do you. You’re passionate about everything you do.”

“I- Yeah. I am.” You’d swallowed, and he’d kept saying those things like they were obvious. Looking at you like you’re fascinating. Like he could see right through you, and whatever was in there, he liked. “I mean, I like what I do, but I do it because I want to do more.”

Clark had nodded, taking a slow drink of his beer. “Bigger ambitions, huh?”

“Yeah. Do you just-“ You’d frowned. “Not have those?”

“I hate to break it to you,” he’d said your name with a small grin. “Most people don’t. Almost all the folks I know aren’t necessarily happy with what they got, but they’re not lookin’ to make the Earth spin clockwise.”

You’d blinked at him. “What?”

“Sorry, that’s just- Something my Pa says.” He’d blushed, looking down to the table. “I’m trying to say it’s admirable. To want to change things and actually, uh- Do it.”

“Thanks.” You’d whispered, and he’d grinned. 

“No problem. Mind if I guess your ambition?”

Normally, you would’ve minded. But it was Clark. And you’d sort of been desperate to know what he thought of you. “Be my guest.”

“President. Or- Actually.” He’d examined you, slowly and with an element of light, playful amusement that had made you giggle. “United Nations, but maybe still Congress?”

You’d laughed, shaking your head, and Clark had raised his brows.

“Am I close?”

“Maybe.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you take a drink. “But I’d rather eat glass than go into politics.”

“Ah, right. Sorry.” He’d grinned. “Just got caught up in the idea of you showing that rude congress woman what a good person looks like.”

Your grip had tightened on your bottle. “You think I’m a good person?”

“Yeah.” He’d shrugged. “Of course.”

Of course. 

You let the conversation keep going. Clark had told you about some game he and Jimmy went to, and how he’s pretty sure Jimmy’s sick because a supermodel was slobbering over him all afternoon. You’d told him about how you’d won a big litigation about your case, and smiled at your fingers when he’d made a big, happy deal about it. And the night had flashed by until it was almost two in the morning, and you’d been kicked out the bar.

And Clark had asked if you wanted him to walk you home, and you’d said no. 

Not because you hadn’t. 

But you’d wanted to see Superman. 

Because you aren’t a good person.

That night, Superman had landed on the sidewalk next to you, and you’d smiled at your fingers. 

“You’re late.”

“Sorry,” he’d fallen into pace so fast beside you. “Got busy.”

“If people need saving-“

“No, I was just talking to someone important.”

You’d hummed. “Oh? Can you tell me, or is it classified super business?”

He’d laughed. It had been a few months, and it wasn’t making your heart skip any less. “Super business, I’m afraid. Actually, I have a question for you.

“I might have an answer.”

“Alright, well- If you could be a meta, like me-“

You’d mock gasped. “You’re a meta? Why did you tell me?”

“Very funny.” His voice had been flat, but you’d been able to hear the amusement, and it had made you shine. “I just want to know what kind of powers you’d want to have.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m curious, is that not allowed?”

“No.” You’d squinted at him in the dark, he’d stared right back, and your heart had skipped a beat. Shit. “It’s allowed. But it’s suspicious.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less suspicious in the future.” 

“Thank you.” You’d paused, thinking about his question, and you’d been walking closers and closer lately. Almost as close as you’d been to Clark, in the bar. 

And you’re a horrible person. 

“I think I’d like to be able to speak any language.” You’d told Superman, speaking slowly. “But like, any language. Plants and computers and animals, too. Understand and talk to all of them. If it’s communication, I’d be able to do it.”

“Ah. That’s one of the best ones I’ve heard.” Superman had smiled at you in the dark, and you hadn’t even needed to ask. “I might know someone who’d like his power to be knowing the weather.”

“Knowing the weather, like-“

“Just a weatherman. With total accuracy.” Superman had smiled to himself. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it makes him happy.”

You’d kept walking, and talking, and laughing until you reached your apartment. Then you’d waved to him from your window, and he’d vanished back into the night. 

The next day, there had been a knock on your door. You’d opened it to find Clark, shifting on his feet with a book in his hands and a nervous smile.

You’d frowned at him. “How do you know where I live.”

“Oh, uh- I-“ He’d cleared his throat, something like alarm flashing over his face. “You’re not going to like it. I, um- I sort of stole your contact from Lois. And she had it, so- Now I have it.”

He’d been beet red, and you might have pushed it if he didn’t look like he was about to make himself pass out. 

So you’d just nodded, watching him carefully. “And… Why are you here?”

He’d let out a sharp breath, holding up the book. “Just want to give you this. I don’t know if you have time to take care of a plant- You’re so busy I’m guessing you don’t- Which isn’t bad, but-“

“Clark-“

“They’re pressed flowers.” He’d said quickly, opening the book for you to see. “My Ma taught me how to make them. To celebrate winning your case.”

You’d stared between him and the flowers, your eyes starting to sting because that was so fucking sweet, and you want to sink teeth and claws into his pretty face, or maybe just let him tear you apart, or- 

Just keep growing. Up and up, into whatever kinder, softer thing Clark is made of.

That had terrified you. 

“I- I won a litigation of my case.” You’d whispered, voice breaking, and Clark had shrugged.

“Still worth celebrating.” He’d said softly, and that had felt like a dose. You never wanted him to go too far, where you wouldn’t be able to find him. 

You’d put his flowers in your bedside drawer. And the sticky notes Superman’s been leaving keep building up.

Bar night after bar night, you lose track of time with Clark, because you don’t want him to go, but you still let Superman walk you home. 

You stare at the flowers and notes in your drawer, and you might be forgetting how to not smile at either of them. 

And worst of all, you don’t really want to remember at all.

———

The world is spinning. 

And you giggle to yourself, because the world is always spinning. Always going round and round and right back to where it started, but a million miles away, and now you can just feel it. 

Either because of the many, many drinks you’d slammed down in an attempt to soften some sort of self-sharpening edge, or because of Clark’s proximity. 

“Oh, gosh.” He catches you around the waist, as you walk up the stairs, and you giggle again. “Let’s slow down, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Aw.” You smile, wiggling around to face him. “You care about me.”

Clark frowns. “You know I care about you. I don’t think I’ve made that a secret- Woah-“

You fall forwards, right into him, and press your face into his neck. 

“You smell good.” You mumble. “Like… rain.”

Clark pauses, hand splayed on your back. “Is that good?”

“I like it.” You whisper, fingers curling on his sleeves. “This jacket is nice.”

“I mean, it’s alright.” He frowns at the jacket, then you. “Do you want it?”

You nod, mostly because your drunken, addled brain isn’t connecting one and one to mean two. 

Clark had asked if you wanted it. You’d been staring at where his button up was slightly undone, as if you’ve never seen bare skin before.

Yes, you want him. So bad it’s making your stomach flip, although that might just been the liquor. 

It’s a heavy, crushing disappointment like titanium, when he just props you carefully against the stairwell wall, and helps you into his jacket. You pout at the floor, trying to savor how it’s warm and smells like him, but now you’re chasing a painting of a ghost that’s haunting you from a foot away. 

You turn, pout deepening, and try to march up the stairs by yourself. 

You trip, because the world is spinning and you don’t have any balance. 

Clark catches you, because the world is spinning and he’s Clark, so it’s just one of those things that happens. 

You fall. He’s there, strong with an arm around your waist.

This time though, he picks you up with a small grunt. 

Something distant and vigilant in your head is wondering why he grunted picking you up but never while carrying you up four flights of stairs. 

It’s drowned out by how warm he is, and how much you want him. 

“Why do people call them guns?” You mumble to yourself, poking his biceps, and Clark frowns. 

“Well, if you asked my Pa, he’d make some joke about them being lady killers, then say that we shouldn’t be killin’ ladies. Should be treating them well.” He chuckles, and you stare up at him because in the florescent light of the hallway, he somehow looks like an angel. 

“I like it when you talk about your parents.” 

Someone needs to put a muzzle on you, before you say anything else truthful and dangerous. 

But stupid, perfect Clark always wants to hear what you’ve got to say. 

“Why?”

“I dunno,” you play with the folds of his collar, as he sets you down on your couch. “Makes you seem real.”

Clark’s brows furrow. “Do you no think I’m real.”

“I think.” You grab the lapels of his shirt, yanking him down to your eye level. “That you are too good.”

“…To be real?”

“Yes.” To be yours. “And no. Can you tell me your cow’s name again.”

“Bessie. What do you think I’m too good for, if it’s not being real-“

“Shhhhhhh.” You press a finger to his lips, frowning out your window. “Oh. No.”

Clark tenses. “What’s wrong.”

“I can’t tell him I’m busy.” You whisper, tears starting to sting at your eyes, and Clark reaches up to carefully brush them away.

“Tell who, sweetheart. I can, uh- I try to pass on a message. If this guy is important to you.”

You don’t understand the frown in his voice. “No. You can’t find him. It’s Superman.” You whisper the last part, and Clark blinks. 

The world is starting to get fuzzy. Everything feels heavy, and it would be nice to maybe go to sleep. 

But Clark says your name, so you slump forward into him as your body demands that you listen.

“You- Um- You know Superman?”

“Yeah.” You mumble against him, pulling his jacket a little tighter. “Walks me home. Why I don’t go with you.”

“Oh.” Clark pauses. “And you’d rather have him? Walk you home, I mean?”

“I dunno. But don’t worry.” You yawn, the world slowly falling down into black. “He’s not real either.” 

———

It had hit you, with the splitting headache of a hangover. You’d stared at yourself in the mirror, and been unable to get it together expect to form one conclusion. 

You love Clark. 

And you open the drawer, and see the flowers and the sticky notes, and know that he deserves far better. Not you. 

Never you. 

Someone good like him. Who does it so easily, and trusts like he does—with everything in him—and can hold his heart in both their hands. 

You can’t.

Because you might be a really bad person. 

Leaning over the roof of your apartment, breath fogging up the air, you wait. For an answer, that only one person can offer you, even if he doesn’t know. 

You’re not sure if either of them know. It would make it a lot easier if one didn’t, and was just friendly.

Or if one felt nothing, and you’d been reading too much into it all. 

That would split you in fucking half. But that feels like it’s going to happen no matter what. 

At least if neither of them want you, you’ll have both pieces to stitch yourself back together. 

But first, you need to know.

“Do I need to tell you not to jump?” Superman says from behind you. “Or are you just trying to talk to me again?”

You smile into the dark, voice a little too soft. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“Okay.” You can hear the frown in his voice “And were you going to jump?” 

“No.”

“You know, that time I actually believe you.”

You turn to look at him in the dark, and it never fails to stop your heart, when he smiles at you. You thought you’d get past it. Get used to how it seems to light up the dark.’

But there it is. 

The little skip that you get high on now, because it means he’s looking at you, and there’s never been anything better. 

Or maybe just one thing better. 

Or the same. 

Jesus. You look away, bowing your head to stare at your hands, and Superman clears his throat. 

“Are you feeling okay?” There’s a beat. “Anything I can help with?”

“No. Nothing you can-“ You sigh. “Can I just ask you something?”

“Always.” 

You run your fingers over the rough rock of the roof wall, keeping your eyes fixed on everything below. There are shadows moving down there, people walking the streets alone through the dark. That’s where you belong, not up here. Not where the sun would hit you, golden and bright, when it breaks the horizon. 

Superman mutters your name, and a warmth heats over your skin. 

You push it out, before you can think better. 

“Do you think I have bigger ambitions?”

He’s silent for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”

“Like- With my life. I- I know someone who’s happy with everything he has, he- He knows everything he wants to be, and-“ You swallow, your voice starting to hurt. “I don’t know if I am.”

“Is it your job? Or someone doing something-“

“No, it’s me.” You turn to look at him, pressing your lips tight together, because you won’t cry. “I’m doing too much and I- It’s still not enough, and I- I don’t- I don’t know where I’m going. I feel like I’ve been in the same orbit for so, so long and it was fine but now it isn’t and- I don’t- I’m tired.” Your voice cracks, and Superman takes a small step forward. “I’m barely doing anything, and I’m so tired, and I don’t want to be tired anymore but I don’t know how to- I’ve never-“

Your voice dies, because it’s cracking and if you don’t pull it the fuck together soon, you’re going to cry. 

Superman moves forward in a blink. Wraps his arms around you, and cradles your head to his chest as the tears start to silently roll. 

He just holds you in the dark for so long, and there must be better things for him to be doing, but he’s not trying to move. It’s not until you’re breathing him in at a steady pace, that he loosens his grip enough for you to push back. 

And when you do, he holds your face between his hands, wiping the tears slowly from your eyes. 

“I think you do enough.” He murmurs, and you sniff. “Don’t argue with me about this one. You do. You tell me about work, and you do good things. Thing most people are afraid to, because you don’t seem to have that setting. Whatever rest you want, you deserve, because you,” he says your name, his gaze locked onto yours. “Do more than most anyone I know.”

You wipe your nose with your sleeve, mumbling into the cloth. “Everyone you know probably penguins or something, with where you live.”

“In the Arctic?” He laughs softly, attention on you still so affectionate and tender. “Yeah, I guess I know a few penguins. They’re good guys. One of them got me an icicle for my promotion.”

You frown at him. “Your promotion? You have a boss?”

“I’m my boss. I gave the promotion to myself.”

“That’s so stupid.” You smile at his shoes, and he slowly tips your gaze back up, right onto his. 

“Yeah, but it made you laugh. I’d say it was worth it.”

You take a long, deep breath, and it’s too easy to get lost in him. In this moment. You don’t want to get swept away in it. 

So you press your face to his neck, and just breathe.

He smells a little like rain. Feels a little like a home. 

And it’s not a question anymore. You have your answer. 

You know. 

———

You’re clinging to the walls of the room. Gripping your glass like a lifeline and scanning over the crowd, trying to calculate when it’s going to thin out. 

When you’re going to be able to escape. 

It’s not life or death. You just really don’t want to be here. At the big, important event Metropolis is throwing for the new Bavarian president. You’re not sure if they’re trying to make amends—or a new plan—but you know you’re only here so they can say you’re here. So in the morning they can talk about how they have nothing to hide, and how the tattered relationship of Boravia and Jarhanpur are healing, all because of America. 

You’d told your boss that going was a stupid idea. 

He said you had to, or he’d replace you on the Jarhanpurian refugee case. 

So now you’re standing on the edge of the party, watching it move around you, and trying not to think about anything at all. 

If you think about things, you think about ways out of here. Ways like sneaking up to the roof, and asking Superman to get you out. If you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about how the buffet table has the exact type of bread rolls Clark likes, because he’s told you about them multiple times. 

No matter what, you end up feeling like you want to cry. And you don’t, because you’re a fucking professional, but fuck if you don’t want to. 

It’s mostly just lonely. You had a plus one, but you can’t bring yourself to ask Clark if this is anything—not when you’re sort of always looking out the window—and you ended up going alone. 

That’s probably how this is going to end anyway. 

Might as well get in some fucking practice. 

Someone calls your name from across the room, and you brace for the impact of some Boravian diplomat about to berate you or an ambassador who’s going to make stunted conversation trying to convince you that you’re a bad person. You don’t need them to do that—you’re already so fucking good at doing it yourself—so they’re just going to be wasting everyone’s time. 

But it’s not a cruel, taunting diplomat.

It’s Jimmy, pulling a nervous looking Clark behind him. 

“Hey!” Jimmy stops right in front of you, and it takes a Herculean amount of effort to look at him and not Clark. “Why are you here, I thought they’d be trying to stop you from knowing this is even happening.” 

“I think it’s a weird chess move.” You turn your glass in your hands, and measure out the perfect amount of time to wait before you look up and give Clark a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He responds so quickly, he looks a little surprised with himself. “I- Uh- Are you at least liking the food?”

“It’s fine.” You shrug. “They have the bread rolls you like.”

Clark blushes, fidgeting with his tie. “I know, we- Uh- We’ve been here a bit-“

“Clark ate a whole basket of them.” Jimmy tells you, and you can’t stop your soft laugh. “Then he got upset because he thought he might have taken them away from everyone else-“

“But I didn’t.” Clark jumps in quickly. “They put another basket out- I can go get you one. Do you want one?”

You don’t give a fuck about bread rolls. “Yes, please.”

Clark stands a little taller now that he’s got a mission, and smiles at you before he vanishes into the crowd. He’s left you tapping your nails on your champagne glass, giving Jimmy a tight smile. 

“What are you guys doing here?” You ask, and Jimmy shrugs. 

“Lois wants this and the protests about this covered. She decided to do the protests, gave me the event. I,” he holds up a press badge. “Am working.”

“You and Clark?”

“He’s interested in this kind of thing.”

“He is?” You frown at the crowd, and Jimmy nods. 

“Guess he doesn’t talk about it with you. Invasions and genocide aren’t romantic at all.”

Your heart moves into your throat. “They aren’t- What-“

“Hey, has he asked you his power question yet?” Jimmy cuts you off, mostly looking out at the crowd, and you frown. 

“His what?”

“Past few months he’s been asking like, everyone we know what power they’d want as a meta.” Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets, giving you a curious expression. “Started when he was talking to Lois about if she thought Superman being able to hear everything is weird. Then he asked her what power she would want, then he asked me, then he called his parents or something- I don’t know what’s up it, but it’s a pretty good question.”

“It… is.” You frown, and there’s that thing in the back of your head. The one that had been drowned out by liquor, then pain, but now how nothing but noise around it. And it’s getting louder. “What’s Clark’s answer?”

“Um- I don’t think he’s actually said.” Jimmy shrugs, then gives you a winning grin. “But I’d know the weather. If you want to know.”

“You’d know the weather.”

“Yeah, like a weatherman, but I’m always right.”

“That’s pointless, Jimmy.”

“To you, maybe. I would figure out how to turn it into a fortune.”

You open and close your mouth, the something in your head getting louder, but it doesn’t turn into words before Clark reappears through the crowd, holding two of the not small bread rolls in one hand.  

“I got them.” He says you name, and your stupid stomach does a happy, traitorous little flip. “Here, I got you butter as well, in case you want to use that.”

He shoves the rolls into your hands, holding your gaze, and your fingers brush. He’s standing so close, he doesn’t need to be this close, but you never want him to move away-

“Clark,” Jimmy mock gasps. “Did you get two so she could give you one?”

“I- No, of course not-“

“I’m just teasing you, man.” Jimmy claps him on the back, scanning out over the crowd. “Alright, I gotta go do my job, or Lois is gonna crucify me.”

Clark wrinkles his nose. “I think that’s a little dramatic-“

“It’s not dramatic enough, and you know it.” Jimmy grins between you and Clark. “Be safe, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You want to grab him, before he disappears into the crowd. Not because you don’t want to be alone with Clark, but because you do. More than almost anything. So you need a buffer, before you do something stupid. 

But Jimmy vanishes, and you have to stuff a bread roll into your mouth to occupy it. Clark just stands next to, still far too close, making your head fucking spin. 

He clears his throat, voice low enough that only you can hear, and you might be leaning into his gravity. 

“You must hate this.” He mutters, and you swallow. 

“I don’t like it.” You mumble, and—because now there’s no bread to block your sappy feelings from spilling out of your mouth—add, “It’s better now, though.”

Clark raises his brows. “Yeah?”

You nod, shoving the second bread roll into your mouth, and Clark won’t stop looking at you. Like you’re the sunrise, as your cheeks push out like a chipmunk and your lipstick smudges slightly. 

Even his voice has a kind of soft reverence, when he speaks. “Do you like them? The bread rolls.”

“They’re good,” you try to say through the mouthful, but it comes out more of a wordless grumble, and you stare at Clark for a moment before you both start laughing. 

It shatters whatever strange tension had just bene in the air. Everything flows smoother, as you talk about the food and drinks and how made up this whole thing is. Clark compliments your dress and you’ve never felt warmer. You think you could go out into the dead, winter night and still feel this warm. 

The air is getting lighter and lighter. You might be in danger of floating away.

“So,” you give him a curious look, and he mirrors it. 

“So?”

“Jimmy says you’re interested in all these events.”

“Oh. Well- I guess I am, yeah.” He’s watching you carefully, words slower than usual. “I just like to know what’s going on in the world. Part of my job, right?”

You hum. “Aren’t most of your articles about Superman?”

He coughs. “Yeah, well, he’s interested in this too. You know how everything went down, with Boravia. He likes to keep tabs on it. And I like to know what I’m probably going to talk to him about.”

The thing is starting to ring in your ears. “How often do you talk to him?”

“I don’t know, every few nights?” Clark smiles, but it’s more taut than usual. Almost nervous. “How often is too often?”

He’s saying it like it’s a joke. 

You’re not sure it is. 

“I mean, you talk to him. He’s a great guy to talk to. Right?” He gives you a strange look, and you sigh.

“He is, yeah. But I don’t interview him.”

“Yes you- I mean, you interviewed him for your case, right?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, narrowing your eyes, and Clark coughs. 

“Well, I don’t get why it’s a big thing, right. I’m interested in things. He’s interested in things. You’re interested in things. And- Yeah. We’re all interested in the same things, and we talk about them, and- I mean, he must have mentioned to you as some point how he talks to me all the time. Mutual friend.” He pauses. “I’ve told him about you.”

You tilt your head at him, lips pressed tight together. “You have.”

“Yeah? I mean, after we talk shop, sometimes he asks how life is, and- I’ve told him about you, and he- He also really likes you-“

“You really like me?”

Clark’s ears go red, and you feel a little guilty—you’re sort of treating him like a hostile witness—but the thing in your head is so fucking close to piecing itself together, you just need to push a little more.

“Yeah, I like you.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass. “But- Superman does to. You’re the best, and- We talk about you all the time.”

You just keep staring at him, because that should make you feel sick. The two men you love, talking about you without you there, when you don’t even know which one you’d want forever. 

But it’s just making you suspicious. Because there’s something so slightly fucking off. 

“Superman has never once mentioned you, Clark.” You say carefully, and  he winces. 

“Ouch. I mean, all is fair in- You know-“

“Love and war?” You finish, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more nervous. “Which part of this is which?”

He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and right before you’re about to find the words, the world finds them for you. 

Clark’s head shoots up, drawing up to his full height, and pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks over the crowd. And there’s this smallest fucking shift in all your thoughts, as if a veil is being lifted. 

They have the same fucking face. 

You don’t know how you missed it, but they have the same fucking face. 

Your mouth barely opens to tell him that you know, before the first gunshots ring through the air. Clark grabs you around your waist, and the world turns into a rushing, cold blur. You’re not even sure what’s happening, besides your arms wrapping around his neck and the air being knocked from your lungs. 

Then you’re outside, in the freezing cold. Clark steadies you with wide eyes, pulling off his jacket and dumping it into your hands. 

“Put this on and go home.” He mutters, words so fast you almost don’t catch them. “Take a cab, don’t walk. I’ll pay for it, I just- I can’t go with you tonight- I’m sorry-“

You gape at him. “Go with- Clark, what the fuck-“

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and shoots off into the night. 

Flies off into the night. 

Leaving you alone, on the cold street, with his jacket strangled in your hands and the world upside down. 

———

You’re pacing outside his door. You have been for almost an hour, waiting for him to get home. 

He’ll have to be back soon. It’s past five, you don’t think he has plans tonight, and even if he doesn’t he’d probably have to stop back home to get something.

It’s okay. 

You can wait. 

You have the week off, because your boss feels back for putting you in the middle of a terrorist attack. When he’d told you, he’d looked at you like he expected you to protest. 

Normally, you would have. Slowing down wasn’t the thing to do, not when you were so close to the finish line—even if it kept moving further and further away—and a single faltered step or second to breathe might lead to you falling so far behind. 

But this isn’t a normal week. 

And Superman said you deserve some rest, so you’re listening to him. 

It’s just that rest might not mean the same thing to you that it meant to him. Rest meant answers. Rest meant three days combing over older Superman reports, and drawing out a timeline of Clark’s life to see if things lined up, and writing down everything either of them have ever said to you, to see what lined up. 

And it did. 

Of course it did. It all falls together an avalanche, leaving you standing in to rubble and looking to the sky and wondering how you ever fucking missed it. 

He says your name, and you turn to see Clark staring at you from down the hall, grip white-knuckled on his bag. 

“Clark.” Your voice sounds faraway and cool. You don’t want to be a bitch to him. 

You don’t know how else to be. 

“Are you alright?” He takes a half-step forward, and you wrap your arms around your stomach. Of course he’s just worried about you. Asshole. “I wanted to come check on you, I promise. There’s just been a lot to deal with, and- I wasn’t sure if…” He clears his throat, watching you nervously as you just stare at him. “You’d want to see me?”

“Really?” You raise your chin. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you, Clark?”

“Um...” He glances around the hallway. “Why don’t you tell me, and we can see if we have the same reasons?”

“No, I think you should tell me first.”

“It’s just- I don’t think I should, because what if our reasons aren’t the same and mine sounds crazy-“

“Is your reason that I know?” You snap, narrowing your eyes. “Because I know.”

Clark stares at you for a long, wired moment, then lets out a long, defeated breath. “Can we do this inside, please?”

You nod, and step off to the side so he can open the door. Clark gives you another one of his small, nervous smiles as he brushes past you, and it doesn’t feel any different from before. When he’d sat too close to you at the bar. 

Or stood to close, on the street. 

That’s the worst part of it. Is not you’re not angry, or bitter, or heartbroken. You just feel stranded. Like you’re hanging over a pit and trying to work out if it’s worth falling, or trying to claw your way back out. 

Because if you’re right—and you are—you could have something. Everything. What you’ve spent so much time on, convince yourself that it really wasn’t going to matter. 

But once you have it, it’s real. Something you can lose. Something you can fuck up or neglect or break. 

It’s a good thing. 

Clark—taking your jacket because he’s a stupid gentleman and brushing warm hands on your upper arm—is a good thing. He’s the good thing, the one that everyone looks to for hope, that everyone wants. The god among men, who leaves you little sticky notes and fumbles all his words and makes you trust his every compliment because he always says them like they’re just obvious truths. 

And you can’t figure out how to hold that in your hands, even if you get to use both. 

You don’t know how to wrap your head around the idea that you could just have something good.

“So.” Clark takes a step back, as if he’s trying to offer you space. “You, uh- You know.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“And I’m guessing you figured it out after…” He trails off, and you sigh. 

“After you flew me outside, then took off like a rocket? Yeah, Clark, that kind of gave it away.”

He frowns. “You didn’t know before?”

“I had a theory.” You mumble, and his brows furrow. 

“But you didn’t know.”

You shake your head, and he groans.

“Darn it, I- I was really sure you knew. Wouldn’t have done that if- Shoot-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, hugging yourself tighter, and he freezes. “Am I right?”

“Uh-“

“Are you Superman?”

“I-“ He lets out a slow breath, and nods. “Yeah.” 

Clark seems to lock your gaze to his as he reaches up, and slowly pulls off his glasses. 

It’s such a small shift. He stands a little taller, even as his features remain nervous and weary, and his face seems to almost shift. It’s the same face—you know, logically, that’s it’s the same face—but it’s like your head couldn’t fully connect the two into one, couldn’t hold them at the same time. 

But you can now.

And your mouth falls open as Superman stares at you with an almost fearful expression. 

“I- How?”

“The glasses?” He glances down to them with a frown. “Well, they’re hypnoglasses, so-“

“No, I mean- How did I not know?” You take a step back, shaking your head. “I- I talked to you every day and every night and it took me months to put it together, and that was only after I realized- Fuck-“

“Don’t- Wait-“ Clark takes a large step forward, arms twitching like he wants to reach for you. “The glasses make sure you don’t know, that’s the point of them, and it’s not like I told you-“

“Why?” Your voice is rising, and you take another step back. “Why are you telling me now, why- Why did you keep coming to me as Superman when I was talking to you as Clark, why- Which one of you is the real one-“

“Both. Both are real, there wasn’t- I’ve always been both- And I just wanted, I guess any reason to talk to you, so I sort off just indulged both, and-“ He takes another step forward, and you take another one back. “Can you please stop walking away? I know that you’re mad at me, and I- I understand, but- Please, just listen-“

“Why didn’t you hate me?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, everything rising so fast up your throat like an eruption, and Clark freezes. 

“I couldn’t hate you.”

You shake your head, your back hitting the wall. “No, I- I was talking to both you and- You at the same time, and- I was-“ You cut yourself off, pressing further back, and Clark takes a smaller step forward.

“Are you worried that I was jealous of myself?”

You nod weakly, and Clark sighs.

“No,” he says your name, voice firm, and takes another step. “I mean- No. I mean, I thought about it. Which one would make you happier. But I kept finding that you were always happy, and I- I thought maybe if I told you, you’d be happy. And we could laugh about it, and you’d say something- Uh-“ He stops, barely a foot away. “I mean, it’s kind of stupid now.”

“What?” You whisper, and Clark frowns.

“Do you really want me to say it?”

You nod, and he runs a hand over his face.

“Just maybe- Like- I love you either way. Both ways. I want you both ways, and wow, what a great way this worked out, that I get to love both of you, because you’re the same person. How convenient.” His ears are a little red, and he mumbles. “Most of it was just going to be you saying you love me.”

You swallow. “How do you know I love you?”

“I- uh- I don’t? I mean, I do have a reason, but it might be not- Sound. And if I’m wrong, that’s fine and we can forget the whole thing, but-” He takes a half-step forward. “Your heart. It goes really fast, when I’m near you, and, uh-“ He coughs, eyes darting down your body. “I can- Sometimes- Not that I’m trying to, but it just- It happens, and I can’t control it-“

“Clark-“

“I can smell you.” He mumbles, and your eyes widen. “So- I know there’s something. Might be wrong about love, though.” He looks at you under hooded eyes, and your face might be burning. “Am I wrong?”

You want to tell him that he’s not wrong. To tell him that he’s not wrong, that you’ve loved him for longer than you care to say aloud, and fell for both version because it was him. It wasn’t just a craving not to be alone anymore, it was him. Your heart moved in the same rhythm because it was playing the same song. Love for Clark. 

But you don’t want to mess it up. Say it wrong. Open your mouth and just start crying, because it’s so sweet and embarrassing all at once. 

So you just push out, in barely a breath. “Do you want to be wrong?”

“No.” He answers so fast, and your nails dig into your sides. 

“And- What would you have said?” You blink at him slowly, choosing every word so carefully. “In your… dream scenario?”

“That I love you, too.” He takes another step forward, and you don’t flinch away. There’s nowhere to run anyway. No reason to. “That I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time, because I don’t like lying to you but- I just wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure?” You frown. “What, that I wouldn’t- Turn you in?”

Clark’s eyes widen. “What? Gosh no, I- I just wanted to check that you felt the same and that- I don’t know, it would be worth it. Not that you’re not worth it. That me telling you would just- End in nothing. That I wouldn’t be putting you in that danger just to have gotten caught up in my feelings.”

You swallow, scanning over his open, handsome features. He means every word he says. He always does. 

And you have to ask. 

“Is it worth it?” 

Clark nods, giving you a small grin. “Yeah. I’d say it is.”

You nod, staring at each other in the dark, and the moment maybe drags on for a million years. Or only a second. It doesn’t matter, because you’re here. With Clark standing over you, one of his arms braced next to your head and the other slowly, lightly tracing up your arm. And he loves you. 

So you could waste away, and it would feel like you were drowning in daylight the whole time. 

“Can I kiss you.” Clark whispers, and you nod. 

“Yes, please.”

His hand trails up, sending shivers through your body and making your knees weak, and ends up resting on your face. He stares at you with such open affection and reverence, it’s going to put you in danger of crying again. 

When he dips down, he just brush a soft, warm kiss over your cheek, and you grab a fistful of his shirt. 

“Sorry.” He tries to lean back, eyes wide. “I- Uh- I should’ve asked you what you wanted, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“Clark.” You hold his panicked gaze, feeling his muscles flex as his breathing grows heavy. “I want you. Just- Touch me.”

His eyes dart down to your lips, voice hoarse. “Touch you?”

You nod, and his throat bobs. 

“How much?”

“All of it.” You try to sound commanding, but it’s just sort of coming off needy. 

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“All of it.” He echoes, and slowly leans down to ghost his lips over you. It makes your whole body light up, just from such a light touch, and you try to yank him down but he’s stronger. Doesn’t even budge an inch.

“Clark-“

“Are you sure you can take all of it?” He murmurs, lips still brushing over yours, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a question of pure, true concern. “I mean, we can try, but if you want to stop, during any of it, you can just tell me and I’m never going to take it personally. Okay?”

You stare at him, and Jesus, you might be about to fall over just from that. He’s so close. He can’t be this close and just do nothing.

“Can you, uh- Just say that you want it, please?” Clark looks a little worried, his thumb tracing over your lower lip, and you smile. 

“I want it.” You give him a small smirk. “Please.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes flashing with something dark, and his voice drops to an octave you’ve never even heard it before. 

“Alright.” He murmurs, and you suddenly realize exactly how pinned you are between him and the wall. “Whatever you want, baby.”

You barely get a second to process what that means, before Clark’s pulling you up into a long, deep, hot kiss. It’s consuming. Sets of every nerve in your body with how carefully he moves, how deliberately he holds you. How you feel both weightless and burning, in his arms and under his attention. His mouth works quickly against yours, like he’s been starved for it, all as his hands find a respectful place to rest on your body—under your thigh and around your back—and seems to be carefully holding back his weight over you. 

It unravels you so fast. Lights a fire in your gut and makes your legs spread. Your hips grind for more friction, broken sounds of need falling from your lips. Clark dips down to kiss your neck and shoulders, and you yank on his hair when his hand on the back of your thigh slowly starts to rub higher and higher. 

“Clark- Oh-“ You gasp as his knee pushes up between your thighs, and start to fuck yourself desperately against him. “God, please-“

“I know.” He mumbles, pressing a soft kiss over your lips. “I’ve got you, I’ll make it feel good, just-“ He grabs your hips, starting to drag them as a slightly different, rougher angle, and your head falls back with a moan. “There you go.”

His voice is gentle and deep in your ear, and he keeps kissing you almost anywhere he can reach, as you keep chasing release against him. 

A loud, broken whine falls from your lips when he pulls away, right before your release. 

“Sorry.” Clark kisses you again, groaning when you try to bite on his lower lip. “Just give me a moment, baby don’t want to do it here, and- Come on-“

He scoops you fully into his arms, bridal style, and you squeak as the air rushes past you. There’s barely a moment to register what’s happening before you’re flat on your back in a soft bed, and Clark is kissing you into the mattress.

His bed. 

You’re in his bed. 

But somehow, everything that’s happening feels like yours. 

Clark is so sweet. With everything he does, he’s just good and sweet, and it’s going to drive you out of your mind. He asks again, before taking off your clothing, and when you nod feverishly, he kisses you again with a smile on his lips. 

“You’re so pretty.” His hand rests carefully in your hair, and he pushes the kiss a little deeper. “You’re going to look even prettier when you cum, sweetheart, probably like a painting.”

You flush, a small moan escaping your lips, because somehow Clark just saying something like cum is dirtier talk than anything you’ve heard in your life. 

He catches it. Of course he is. 

He’s paying such good attention to you, rubbing a hand on your hips and letting you grind up against his bulge. Every few moments, his hand will trail up your side right as the need in pussy starts to unbearably ache, and it will offer a brief respite that just falls into more need. 

It’s like he’s trying to learn everything, with almost nothing. 

And worst of all, it’s working. 

Clark leans up, watching you with a curious expression. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Your mouth falls open, his words rushing straight into your dripping cunt, and Clark’s nostrils flare. 

“Yeah?” He leans down, the hand on your waist slowly moving to draw big circles on your hips. “Do you like it when I say dirty things?” He says your name, voice still so gentle, and you like to sink into the sheets forever. 

“Maybe.” You whisper, trying not to squirm as his hand moves slowly between your legs, rubbing against your inner thighs without ever touching where so you desperately need him. “But- I you don’t want to-“

Clark leans down, silencing you with a deep, hot kiss, and devouring your moan as his palm finally presses against your cunt. 

He groans over you, starting to rub it back and forth at such a tortuous pace, and your mouth falls open in a long plea. 

“Oh my god- Please- I- I can’t- I need more-“

“Relax, baby. I’ll give you more.” He mutters, and when you try to wiggle below him, all it takes a deeper press of his palm, and you’re trapped. “I’ll give you anything, don’t worry about me.”

You hum, and his words are like a drug. You don’t have to worry. You can just relax, because Clark says to, and he doesn’t say anything that isn’t true. 

“Do you like your clothing?” He kisses a spot below your ear, words rolling through your body, and you barely shake your head before you hear the rip. 

There’s not even a second to feel cold, before all of Clark’s heat is over you. He seems to have taken his clothing with yours—cock pressing against your pussy, back strong beneath your hands as you try to map out his body—and you’re so quickly lost in the feeling of just being close to him. Kisses over your face as he ruts against you and holds you with such care.

You’re going to implode, though, if he doesn’t touch you properly. And you’re about to start begging when suddenly Clark is pulling you both upright, so you’re falling over his chest and sat in his lap. 

Clark grunts, as you writhe above him, and your eyes flick down. 

You might be drooling. He’s palming himself with strict, controlled movements, his face pressed into your neck as he sucks dark marks on your throat. 

“Is it…” You trail off, words broken up by a moan as Clark finds a sensitive spot. “Do- Is that part of Kryptonian- Fuck-“

Your back arches, as Clark’s hand moves to your dripping pussy, slowly sliding two fingers inside and crooking them right against that deep, hyper-sensitive spot. 

“Don’t know.” He mumbles. “Never checked. Shit, you’re so soft, and-“ He grunts as you clench around his finger. “I’m going to wreck you, sweetheart, going to play this sweet pussy until it’s soaking my cock-“

“Clark-“ You whine. “Fucking- Don’t just say that-“

“Why not?” He smiles against your skin, starting to kiss his way back over your face. “You like it, don’t you. Want it all.” He pulls his finger out, and before you can grab his wrist, he spanks your pussy. Just once, lightly, not enough to cause more than a sting. But enough to make you yelp a prayer of his name. 

“Oh- I-“ You go limp as he does it again, and you meet his hooded, arduous gaze with a soft whine. “Yes, Clark, God-“

He just keeps watching you. Grinding and rolling above him as he traces his thumb around your clit, then drags his fingers through your dripping folds.

He brings you arousal, gathered on his fingers, up to his mouth. 

Licks it clean, with a low, guttural sound from his chest. 

“So damn good.” He mutters, before pressing his thumb lightly to your mouth. “I swear I don’t think you’re real sometimes, sweetheart, you’re so- God-“ 

He groans as you suck on his thumb, moaning at the taste of your own need for him, and Clark drags you into a long, rough kiss. Falls flat on his back and starts to jerk his hips up into you, cock brushing torterously on your clit. 

“Clark.” Your fingers scratch at his chest. “Please-“

“Right. Uh- C’mon.” He grabs your ass, shifting you so that he can see your puffy, soaked cunt, and nods to himself. “That’s good, yeah- Hold on, baby. Relax.”

You nod, but no amount of sweet words could’ve prepared you for this. How fucking good it feels as he lifts you up like it’s nothing, and slowly drags you down onto his cock. He’s splitting you open and moaning as he does it, looking up at you like you’re an angel while filling you up so good you can’t remember your own name. 

He gives you a long moment to adjust, both your breathes ragged, an almost growling noise escaping his lips when you flutter around him. 

You pout down at him, trying to drag yourself back and forth for a little friction, and that’s all it takes to get Clark moving. 

He’s not going to let you do this yourself. He holds you by your hips and guides you back and forth on his cock, hitting every single spot inside of you, rutting up every few moments to kiss your cervix, and- Fuck-

“God, yes-“ You moan, throwing your head back as your dragged right up to the edge. “Clark- Yes, fuck- Feel so fucking big-“

He groans your name. “Don’t- If you keep talking I’m gonna- Fuck-“

“What?” You giggle breathily, and Clarks hands are going to leave bruises on you in the morning. It’s still not feeling him enough. “Fill me up? Fuck me stupid?”

Clark groans, twitching inside of you. “God, you got fuckin’ how much I- I wanna-“

“You said you’d give me everything.” You whisper, looking at him with your best glossy, needy eye. “I want all of you, Clark, please- Make me feel it, show me how much you- Oh-“

He flips you like you’re nothing, drawing out fully before slamming back in, and swallows the scream of his name with a harsh kiss. 

“I’ll make you feel it, pretty girl.” He mutters, setting a rough, unforgiving pace. “Love you so much, I wanted to go slow, but- You want to get cockdrunk, don’t you. Want to stop using that big brain and just feel good.” 

You moan, already so close to the edge. “Clark, please-“

“I told you, baby.” The kiss he gives you is almost taunting, with how he’s wrecking your cunt. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

And he does. 

Clark fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every kiss on your lips and face and neck seem made to brand you, and his hand worship your body with such care, but every touch is firm and certain. He maps your body with his hands and thrusts into you with such borderline fervor, you don’t think you’re ever going to feel anything but Clark again. It’s the only word you know. The prayer that falls from your lips, over and over until you’re shaking and burning like a live-wire, desperate for just some release. 

Before you can even beg for it, Clark’s thumb finds your clit, and starts to rub it at an inhuman speed. 

“Cum for me, darling.” He almost growls in your ear. “Show me how good it feels, fucking say my name-“

You scream, just as he wanted to, and almost white-out as your orgasm wrecks through your body. Your pussy squeezes around Clark, overwhelmed and dripping with his perfect abuse of your pleasure, and he moans in your ear as he cums. You might have passed out for a second, from the feeling of him holding you so tight, fucking you through both your orgasms and muttering your name, over and over as you float down. 

He helps you clean up. Of course he does. Uses a warm cloth on the mess between your thighs, before carrying you to the bathroom. Starts the shower as you pee, then coaxes you into the warm shower, because you’re going to be sore in the morning. 

You have to convince him to get in with you. You’re pretty sure trying not to make assumptions, or take advantage of you. 

So ask him if you can stay, and try not to feel too big when he nods eagerly. 

But you have him. 

All of him. 

And you’ve maybe never felt more peaceful than when you’re folded back in his arms, just resting in his bed. 

“Was that good?” He mutters in your ear, and it’s not fair. How perfect he is. 

You nod weakly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, did you-“

“It was amazing.” He turns his head to kiss your cheek, warm breath fanning over your cheek as he laughs. “Probably should’ve told you sooner, if this is what it got me.”

“Maybe.” You whisper. “But we’re still here, right?”

“Yeah.” Clark hums. “And I- I think I’m just happy I get to love you at all.”

You push on his chest to look at him, and when he smiles, you smile right back. 

“I’m happy, too. And I- I do love you.” You lean down, letting your nose bump against his. “So much.”

Clark grins, pulling you down into a full, slow and lazy kiss, and you bask in it. The warmth on his body, and the light, happy feeling in your chest. Sinking deeper and deeper in, making you know that you don’t really need to see through the dark of Clark’s room. 

You have him. 

And that makes everything clear.

He’s sitting in his office, looking perfect. 

That’s where he usually is. In his pressed suit, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his hair tucked slightly behind his ears because none of his aides can convince him to cut it, and you won’t bother to try. 

You know he hates this. The formality of it all, the glass between himself and his staffers, the little pin they give him to show off that he was in the military, before turning around and rejecting his bills. But this got his parents off his back—which, as you’ve frequently reminded him, is an insane reason to run for congress—and he gets to take his lunches whenever he wants. 

Which is great for you. 

Because now you get to have lunch together every day. 

The secretary nods when you flash her your guest badge, and gives you a simpering smile. You don’t understand why she hates you, why she always tries to stop you from going in under the guise of security. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to ask Bucky, because he’d go and talk to her about it, and you really don’t want to be hovering in the background for that conversation. 

Maybe it’s because you take up a whole half-hour of Bucky’s attention, and it’s the most valuable currency in the world. 

You can’t blame the secretary for wanting to keep it to herself, best she can. You’ve gone to drastic lengths to do the same, the least embarrassing being sitting next to him in every single lecture during your college days, and the most being the time you dedicated a whole two weeks to convincing him to mostly work from Brooklyn instead of DC, just so you wouldn’t have to see him less. 

At least your scheme worked, is all you can think as you feel the secretary glaring daggers at your back. You know why her skirts are so short, and blouses are so low-cut. And she’s got a really nice body. You’re sure she’d be batting better results, if she’d just be nice to people who visit Bucky. 

He is just a man, and he’s got the eyes to see her black lacy bra. 

He also cares about his friends more than anyone you’ve ever met. 

And he never misses the venom with which she speaks to you. Curt greetings of your name, needless questions about why you’re here, and scowls at you when she thinks you can’t see. 

“I need to talk to her about it, don’t I.” He mutters as a greeting, frowning out the glass doors, and you sigh. 

“She’s just doing her job, Buck-“

“Well, she’s not that good at it. And this is the third time I’ve caught her lookin’ like she wants to kill you-“

“You know why she’s doing that, right?” You drop at his desk, sliding the sandwich you brought him across the desk. 

Bucky’s eyes flick to you, his brows raised. “God, don’t say it again-“

“She wants to fuck you.” You say it in a sing-song voice, because it hides the bitterness on your tongue. “She dreams about you calling her into your office and saying get on the couch, doll-“

He snorts. “That supposed to be me?”

You nod, taking a large bite of your own sandwich and grinning at him. Bucky just shakes his head with a chuckle, unwrapping the tinfoil around his lunch.

“I don’t talk like that-“

“Yeah, you do-“

“Chew and swallow, sweetheart.” He gives you a dry look as you speak through a mouthful, and you roll your eyes at him. “Jesus, I’m pretty sure someone raised you in a fuckin’ barn.”

You swallow dramatically, and stick your tongue out at him. “I’ve been groomed for high society, Sergeant. That’s why they didn’t give me any napkins at the deli, they trust me without them.”

Bucky sighs, leaning forward to frown in the paper bag. “You forgot the napkins?”

“Nuh uh, weren’t you just listening to what I said-“

“Yeah, and I know you.” He leans back with an amused look. “You’re hurtin’ yourself more than me, sweetheart. You got somethin’, right there.”

He points to your nose, and you scrunch it, trying to lick it off. Bucky watches you for a few moments before shaking his head again, and reaching over the desk. 

The moment his thumb brushes your nose, you go still. 

His touch always fucking does that. It doesn’t matter if it’s passing you a pencil in college, sitting next to you in your first apartment, or resting his fingers over yours on the subway, when he helped you figure out the commute to work. Bucky’s always been able to shut you down and light you up like no one else has. Like you’re not sure anyone else ever will. 

He leans back, and licks the bit of sauce off his thumb. It makes your breath hitch, and gaze drop down to your lap. You don’t know why he does those kinds of things around you, when it means nothing. Maybe he’s practicing for other women, maybe he’s just not thinking about it, or maybe he knows that you’re in love with him and is just toying with you. 

No. 

There’s no way he knows. 

And even if he did, he’d never be that cruel. He’d reject you softly, then pull back until your feelings fade. Because he’s a good man, who volunteers for fund drives and helps old ladies carry their groceries and makes you share your location when you walk home at night—not necessarily with him, but you’ve never suggested anyone else, and some small part of you likes knowing that he might be looking at his phone and worrying about you—because he’d go full John Wick if something happened to you. 

Which only makes you love him more. 

Only reminds you that he has no idea what he does to you. What he’s always done to you. 

What no one else has managed to replicate, to the point that it’s become a problem. 

You can’t love anyone that’s not Bucky Barnes. You can’t think of wanting anyone that’s not him, either. You can’t move on from something you’ve never had at all, and it’s not fair to yourself to keep waiting to see if he turns around and finally sees you. 

He won’t. 

Bucky’s already seen you, and he’s decided you fit very well in the friend category. Best friend category, even. Which is more than you could’ve hoped for, given he was this pretty, perfect, untouchable god in college, and you were just you.

You’re still just you.

You’ve always been you, no matter how you try to be something else. 

Someone who could look shiny and pretty on the arm of a congressman. Someone who could bend down low enough to show off Her lacy cleavage, and flutter her eyelashes at her hot boss. Someone whose bravado isn’t just a show you know everyone can see right through.

Bucky likes you how you are. You know he does. 

But he just likes you. 

You’re done waiting for it to turn into something else. It won’t. And you don’t want to attend his wedding in however many years, playing the role of the drunken, lovesick and jealous woman that his bride didn’t want to invite.

So you had a plan, when you walked into the office. And no matter how Bucky smiles at you or cleans your face with his infernal, rough and big fingers, you’re going to go through with it. 

“Barnes.” You lean forward, making your words firm and sharp.

He raises his brows. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Sure. But if it’s getting you early access to the kittens in the shelters again, I told you I’m not in-charge of that-“

“No, it’s not that-“

“Okay, good, because I swear I looked into it for you, but I’m not an emperor-“

“Good. You’d be a bad one. Can I-“

He frowns. “Why would I be a bad emperor?”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

“I mean, I agree with you.” He leans over the desk, holding your gaze. “But I wanna know why you think I’d be bad at it.”

“Because you don’t like parties, Buck. And people would spend all day saying stupid things to you.”

“People say stupid things to me now-“

“James.” You give him a pleading look. You spent all morning building up the confidence for this, and you’re about to lose it. 

Bucky, by some miracle, just sighs and nods. “Sorry. But,” he gives you a small grin. “You’d make a good empress.”

You flush. He’s not being helpful, smiling at you and looking better every moment. Staring at you while he takes a large bite of his sandwich. 

The words, for a moment, get caught in your throat as you watch him. You’re never going to do better than Bucky. If you ask for what you want, you’re going to have to learn how to. 

You just have to spit it out. Like vomit, sickening and vile when you force it up, but once it’s gone, you’ll feel better. 

All you have to do is say it, and you’ll start getting better- 

Bucky says your name, his voice a little lower, like he’s worried.

He does really care about you. Even if it’s not the way you care about him. 

Goddammit. 

“Can I have one of your friend’s phone numbers?” You blurt, and Bucky sits up. Just blinks at you for a moment, like he doesn’t understand the words you just said, then clears his throat.  

“What, to like- Help with somethin’?”

In a way, yeah. “No, um- To go out with.”

“On… a date.”

You nod, picking at the skin of your nails, and Bucky is still just staring at you. 

“Is there one you want?” He asks, voice low, and you shake your head.  

“No, I was- Uh-“ God, your face is on fire. This was a horrible idea. “I was kind of just going to let you choose?”

Bucky’s silent for another, long moment, and you can hear the tick, tick, tick of his watch. 

You got him that watch. As a celebration, when he got into office. He’d hugged you so tight you can still sort of feel it. Kissed your cheek. You’d lain in bed for three hours that night, just touching where his lips had brushed and grinding into your sheets. 

It’s best not to think about it. 

“You want me.” Bucky says slowly, and your eyes snap up.

“No, I just-“

“To pick one of my friends. For you to go on a date with.” 

You let out a heavy breath. Bucky’s staring a little blankly at the air, and you’re not even sure he heard your panicked protests. “Yes, please.”

“For somethin’ serious?” His eyes focus slightly, narrowing on yours. “Or just sex?”

Your nails dig into your palms as you start to feel like you’re on fire. He doesn’t know. He has no way of knowing.

That you’ve been too caught up in your stupid, romantic little fantasy where he brings you flowers and confesses his love on his knees before fucking you stupid. That you’ve been waiting for him, like an idiot, because some foolish little part of you wants it to be perfect, and it really never gets more perfect than Bucky.

Bucky knows you didn’t really have dates in high school, and he’s been around for all of your weak attempts to go on dates since then. He’s been next to you when you get asked out at a bar. You’ve told him all about dating apps, and singles nights, and blind setups from friends. 

But you never go past the funny stories and details. 

You never tell him that even for the ones who don’t end up disgusting you, it never goes further than a few kisses. 

It’s never gone further than a few kisses. 

Because you’ve been saving further for Bucky. Whenever you’ve pictured a first time, since the very moment you laid eyes on him, it’s always been Bucky above you. His voice in your ear, his hands roaming your body, his touch lighting you on fire. 

You can’t keep waiting. And he doesn’t know. 

He’s protective of his friends. That’s all his question is. 

So you give him a nervous smile, and shrug. “Something serious?”

“Huh.” He frowns. “Didn’t know you were lookin’ for that.”

“I, um- I just started.” You tug at the hem of your shirt, watching him carefully. He’s oddly still. You’re a little concerned. “Buck, if you’re not- I mean, if you don’t think any of them would like me-“

“No.” Bucky grunts, giving you a firm look. “They all- They would love you.”

You flush. You don’t want them to love you. 

Don’t think about it. 

“Oh- Okay. So can I have a number? Just for one date, then I’ll leave it alone.”

“Yeah, just-“ Bucky sighs, leaning back in his chair and running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, what’s goin’ on?”

“I’m… asking for your friend’s number?” Your stomach twists. “Bucky, are you feeling okay, do we need to go-“

“No, that wasn’t- It’s not a memory thing.” His throat bobs, and he won’t stop fucking staring at you. It’s not helping you get over him faster. “I’m just tryin’ to understand.”

“Okay, good.” You pause. “Understand what?”

He gives you a strange look. “You don’t date, sweetheart. Not really. Did somethin’ happen?”

“I- I date-“

“No, you don’t. You just- Never mind.” He lets out a heavy breath. “Are you serious? About wanting to go out?”

“Yes.” You lean forward, trying to drag confidence from the pit of your stomach. “Can I have Steve, please?”

Bucky makes a face. “No. He’s like my brother-“ His lip curls. “No.”

“Well, how about Stark?”

“You’d hate Stark.”

“You hate Stark. I like money.”

“Yeah?” He gives you an amused look. “You just tryin’ to gold dig?”

“Maybe.” You cross your arms. “Or I’m just hoping that my true love is also rich. It would solve a lot of problems.”

Bucky’s gaze softens slightly. “Sweetheart, if you need money, I can-“

“No, James. I’ve told you no.”

“It wouldn’t be an issue, just for your rent-“

“I’m fine.”

“I just wanna help you-“

“And you can do that.” You give him a firm look. “By setting me up on a date with one of your friends.”

Bucky scowls, and lets out a long, labored sigh. Like this is physically hurting him. The idea of you, in any sort of romantic situation with someone he cares about, is just that impossible to think about.

Another thing you really don’t want to think about.

“Fine.” He mutters suddenly, and you sit up.

“Really? You’ll help?”

“Yeah, I’ll help. We’ll get you a date, doll. Whatever you want. But,” his voice turns firm, before you can even process the weight with which he said whatever you want. “Not any of my friends.”

You frown. “Why not-

“Cause.”

“That’s not a reason, Bucky-“

“The reason doesn’t matter. Do you want my help or not?”

You sigh. There’s not really another choice. “Yeah. I do.”

“Alright then.” Bucky watches you carefully, still almost impossibly still. “We’ll go out this weekend, and- I know a few decent guys.”

“Decent?”

“Good guys.” He mutters, and it sounds like he hates the words. “They’re good guys, we just aren’t that close. They’ll be into you, swear it.”

You nod slowly, and this went about as well as you could have hoped. “Bucky?”

He grunts your name, and you offer him a small smile. 

“Thank you.”

“‘Course.” He mutters. “Anything.”

His attention never once wavers from you, even as his phone starts to ring. And he’s so pretty. Lips too full and pink, even in a tight line. Hair soft looking, beard neatly trimmed, eyes so blue. 

You’ve had too many dreams about getting lost in them. 

They aren’t dreams that will just fade, either. They’re like a routine. You go to bed, and think of Bucky to fall asleep. Fantasize about him through the night. Daydream about him until you crawl back into bed, and repeat it all over again.

Which is why you have to do this. Having someone else will force your thoughts away from Bucky, and what can never be. 

“You should get that.” You whisper, and he nods. 

“Probably, yeah. And you gotta get back to work.”

“I do.” You try to make your voice light, because the air of the room feels oddly hot and heavy. “Have fun with her.”

You tilt your head back, to where you can feel his secretary glowering at you. She had a call for him. You’re being distracting, and hogging him. 

You can’t manage to feel bad about it at all. Not when you turn to leave, and it’s your name that he calls. 

“You know I’d never do that, right?” His eyes flick to his secretary. “That’s not… She can keep dreamin’ or whatever. But I’m not interested.”

“Yeah. I know.” You hold your bag a little tighter. “I mean, you’re seeing someone, right? Mary… Monica?”

“Macy.” He mutters, and you bite on your inner cheek.

Better not to think about-

“But she broke up with me.” 

You blink at him, and the phone call goes silent. There’s an odd weight in his eyes, and you hadn’t known things with Macy were that serious. At least, not serious enough for him to look like someone just shot his dog.  

“Oh, Buck. I’m so sorry, why would she-“

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs, and you frown. 

“But-“

“She just saw some things she couldn’t ignore. That’s it.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and the phone starts to ring again.

“Bucky-“

“I’m good, sweetheart. She wasn’t wrong about anything. Just-“ He sighs, still staring at you. “Something I gotta work on. It was for the best.”

You nod, but still murmur, “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” He blinks slowly, mouth curving in an odd, weighted smile. “So am I. See you tomorrow, doll.”

“See you tomorrow,” you echo, and force yourself to turn.

Bucky has a job to do. 

You have a Bucky to get over. 

This is the best way to keep him without driving yourself insane. 

He hadn’t been as eager to help as you thought he’d be. 

It’s better not to think about it. 

This is all for the best. 

———

Bucky is a horrible matchmaker. Truly awful. Almost impressively so. 

It usually takes effort, to be this fucking bad at something. Especially for James fucking Barnes, who’s good at every damn thing he does. You’ve seen him fix cars and paint decent flowers, and his voice isn’t amazing but it’s good, and he can dance and cook and tell jokes and speak four languages.

You’ve never seen Bucky be bad at anything in his life. 

But Jesus fucking Christ, he’s dogshit at this. 

“How was Michael?” He asks you, sprawled on your couch when you get home.

“Um…” You drop your keys in the bowl by your door, pinching your brow as you try to think of kind words. “He’s… interesting. A lot of opinions, and- Some very interesting interests-“

Bucky drawls your name, still looking at the TV. “You said interesting three times.”

“Because he’s very interesting.” You snap. “Where did you find him, again?”

“Another friend.”

“One of yours-“

“Nah, I asked Stark about any single friends he had.” His voice lowers slightly. “You said you wanted someone rich.”

“You’re rich.” You mutter under your breath, and Bucky looks at you so fast you’re shocked he doesn’t break his neck.

“You didn’t ask for me, doll.” 

You flush, looking down to your shoes. “Very funny.” You mutter. “I’m saying rich doesn’t have to equate psycho, Barnes.”

Bucky grunts. “I thought he was interesting.”

“He was.” You kick one shoe off a little too hard. It flies across the room and lands near Bucky’s feet. 

“So what’s the problem?” Bucky leans down, grabbing your shoe and holding it out. “Last guy was too boring, this one too interesting? Are you the fuckin’ pea princess?”

“The princess and the ea.” You grab your boot with a glare. “And the last guy spent fifty minutes talking about golf. I wanted to shoot myself.”

“Don’t do that, doll, I’d miss you too much-“

“Well, then, you shouldn’t send me on dates with men who might want to hunt me!”

Bucky blinks at you for a moment, his fist curling on his lap. “What?”

“I don’t know, he just gave, like- Creepy stalker vibes. He asked my blood type and body fat, Bucky.” You drop on the couch next to him, glaring at the TV. “He wanted to know how fast I could run.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Bucky’s voice is so low you almost don’t hear it. “You ain’t seein’ him again.”

“No, I’m not. But thank you, for introducing me to him in the first place.”

“I didn’t mean to-“ Bucky sighs, and you see him tip his head back in your periphery. “I trusted Stark, okay? I won’t do that again.”

“Whatever.” You grumble, pulling your knees up to your chest. “This was a stupid idea anyway, Bucky. I can just die alone, it’s fine-“

“You’re not gonna die alone,” he mutters your name, and you can feel his gaze. “I... Goddamnit- I got one more guy for you. We were shipped out together, he moved here a few months ago, and- Hey, he’s got both his arms.” Bucky grins at you. “He’s like a better me.”

You frown, keeping your gaze fixed ahead. There’s no better Bucky. It’s just him, being everything you love and a little more after that, and distractions. 

“What’s his name.”

“Jake. He’s workin’ in construction right now.” There’s a pause, then- “I hooked him up with it.”

You hug yourself a little tighter. Bucky got him a job. He owes Bucky a favor. 

Which is, apparently, needed for someone to go on a date with you. 

“I’ll ask him if he’s free this weekend.” Bucky mutters. “And I’ll give him your number, so you can ignore him if you want.”

That makes your mouth twitch. “Thanks.”

“‘Course. Anything.” 

He sighs, and it’s the same words he’s been saying whenever you talk about it. Almost robotic. 

You wonder if he dreads saying them, almost as much as you dread hearing them. 

Because it’s not anything. 

It’s everything, but what you want. What you can’t have. 

Bucky’s arm stays over your shoulders, as you watch TV on the couch. You don’t ever want him to be replaced by anyone else. You don’t want better Bucky. 

You just want Bucky.

Better not to think about it. 

You don’t really have that many options. 

You’ll take what you can get. 

———

Jake isn’t a better Bucky. He’s like a remodel, or second edition, or faded imprint of him. Which is a cruel thing to think of a person, but you can’t help it. 

He sent you the first text. I hear we got a friend, trying to push us together. 

You’d blinked at the screen, then carefully typed back, We may. Are you Jake?

Guilty. You the pretty girl Barnes is trying to pawn off?

You’d frowned at that, trying to think of what you could possibly respond, when Jake sent another message. 

He shouldn’t be trying that hard. Unless you’re not real.

Unless I’m not real

You sound too good to be true, darling. 

That had earned a small smile. Yeah? Bucky sort of sold you pretty high, as well. 

Doubt it was as high as he sold you.

And your smile had grown. Not the wide, carefree one you get with Bucky, but a real smile. Which, right now, is sort of all you can ask for. 

You spent the whole week, texting with Jake. At work, on the subway, at home in bed. 

The only time you don’t is when you’re eating lunch with Bucky. You can’t even think about him, because the moment you walk into his office, the whole universe narrows down to Bucky. It always has. You’re pretty sure it always will. 

Just Bucky, frowning at the papers on his desk but smiling when he sees you. His tie a little askew, and his hair messy, like he’s been touching it all day.

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m good.” He grins at you. “Happy you’re here.”

You flush. He can’t just say stuff like that, it’s not fair. “Happy to be here. You obviously needed me.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, taking his sandwich. “How’s that?”

“You look like shit, James.”

He laughs, loud and full, and it makes your heart kick into a drum. “And you look lovely, doll.”

“I slept last night.”

“So did I.”

“Bucky-“

He says your name back with an eye roll. “I’m good, sweetheart. I’m always good.”

You sigh. “We both know that’s not true-“

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll sleep tomorrow night.” 

“Tomorrow?” You glare at him. “Sleep tonight, Barnes-“

“No, tonight is movie night. I got the popcorn.” 

You flush. Movie night. You forgot about movie night. 

“Bucky, um-“ You set down your sandwich, fiddling with the cuffs of your sleeve. “I actually… can’t go to movie night.” 

He just looks at you, holding his sandwich. He looks like he’s trying to strangle it, even as his voice remains calm. “Why not?”

“I, um- I have a date.” 

“Ah.” His tone is impossible to read. It’s going to drive you insane. “Thought that didn’t go anywhere.”

“We’ve just been talking.” You mumble. “I can reschedule-“

“No. Go on your date.” He gives you a tight smile, and it’s not Bucky’s normal smile. That goes all the way to his eyes. 

This smile looks pained. Too wide. Too quick, without even a huffed laugh. 

Better not to think about it. 

But that’s all you do.

You go out with Jake, and all you can think about is Bucky.  

Jake has an accent, but it’s a little sharp around the edges compared to Bucky’s drawl. He pays for your meal, but doesn’t open the door for you, like Bucky has always done. He stands with you on the street, but when you tell him you’re walking home, he just asks if you have pepper spray, then calls himself an Uber.

But he’s sweet. 

He laughed at your jokes. He called you pretty. He kept his hands in respectful places, but still touched you. Light fingers on your wrist, a cautious hand on your waist when he kissed your cheek goodnight.

“Can we do this again?” He asks, and something in you panics. 

You’ve never made it past the dinner date. Not to actually do things that might lead to—or kill the chance of—other things. 

“Um, yeah. Yes. That would be nice.” You sound insane. “I would… like that a lot.”

“Great.” Jake grins at you as his car pulls up. “Get home safe, and text me when you’re free?”

“I will.” You give him a nervous smile, pulling at the cuffs of your shirt. “Goodnight, Jake.”

His car pulls away, and you just sway on the curb. 

Too real. This is getting too real, and you don’t know how to handle it. The air feels thin, and your skin is getting hot, and every time a car passes by it’s like the headlights are focused on you. Welcoming everyone to laugh at the girl who gets dizzy over brushing hands and secret smiles. Who’s freaking out because the date she went on might lead to sex, but it’s going to be the wrong sex, with the wrong person, when the right person never even wanted her in the first place.

You should Google how to do this. The dating thing. Maybe ask a friend.

Do anything but call Bucky, because the whole fucking point of this is to get over him. 

It’s like trying to scale Everest with only a thin piece of string.

You need him, because he has a habit of just making it all better. Of saying the right thing, or offering a solution, or making a dry joke that turns the world into something less heavy. 

The phone rings only twice, before he picks up. 

“You alright, doll? Tell me where you are, and I can come and-“

“I’m just walking home, Buck. I’m okay.” You take a deep breath, and Bucky lets out an audible sigh. 

“Good. Did, uh-“ He coughs. “How was it. The thing.”

“It was good.” It was okay. Not you, so just okay. “He wants to go out again.”

“Do you?” 

“Do I-“

“Wanna go out again.” Bucky’s voice is oddly heavy. “With him.”

No. “Yeah. I do.” 

“Okay. Congrats. You callin’ to thank me, or something?”

“No. I mean, yes, thank you, but- There’s another thing. And it’s actually pretty dumb, so-“

Bucky says your name sternly over the phone, and you swallow. 

“I’ve sort of never… I haven’t- I’ve never been on a second date before.” You say it quickly, like the speed can somehow mask what you’re saying. 

Look at how fucking sexy I am, Bucky. I’ve never been on two dates, and I’m having a panic attack about it. Do you want to fuck me now?

“Oh.” Is all he says, and you can’t read that tone. Why the fuck can’t you read that tone. 

It’s not judgment. It’s not disgust. It’s just low and strange and without his face, there’s no way you’re going to be able to figure out what he’s thinking-

“Do you wanna practice?”

You trip over your feet. “I, um- What?”

“Practice,” he says your name gently, and you’re pressing the phone so close to your ear the speaker vibrates with his every word. “Just a trial run. So you know what people do.”

“I know what people do on dates.” You grumble, and Bucky scoffs. “James, I do-“

“Then you don’t need my help, do you?”

You scowl. “Are you actually trying to help? Or just making fun of me.”

Bucky drawls your name. “When have I ever made this kinda fun of you?”

“So incredibly often-“

“I’m being serious, sweetheart.” He says, and you close your mouth. “If you wanna do this, I will.”

Fuck. “To help?” 

“Yeah. Sure.”

You frown at the air, trying to breathe through your nose. A fake date, so you can go on a real date, specifically to get over Bucky. 

He offered. 

It’s a horrible, horrible idea, but Bucky offered. 

So you say yes.

———

“You didn’t have to do this.” You mutter, and Bucky shrugs. 

“Yeah, I did. I’m tryin’ to set your standard high, sweetheart.” He holds out the flowers with a small grin. “Expect nothin’ but the best.”

You smile despite yourself, and the fucking pain he doesn’t even know he’s putting you in. 

Showing up at your doorstep. 

With flowers. And a grin that could maybe move a goddamn mountain, looking at you like he’s seen the sky and you’re the only star in it worth watching. Like you fucking matter to him, in some way more than a friend he’s doing a favor. 

A huge favor.

Goddamnit, there is cruelty to his kindness. 

There’s a price that he won’t have to pay, for what you already know this is going to do to you. 

Bucky took his whole Friday night for this, for you. He seriously planned a date he’s not even going to get sex from, with someone he sees every day. 

You do matter to him. You know you matter to him. 

You’d like to matter enough that he didn’t have to play pretend with you. 

That this was just reality, or that you didn’t care at all. 

There would be nothing bitter to this, if you just didn’t care that he got your favorite flowers. If you hadn’t been buzzing for this all afternoon, only for him to arrive right on time, dressed casually but well and ringing your doorbell as if he doesn’t have a key to your apartment.

Nothing but the best, he says. 

You have it now. 

It’s impossible not to think about it. About the what-ifs. Play all the little games in your head, where you map out exactly how this could go. Paint a picture of you and Bucky kissing in a photo booth, shoot the scene of him putting his arm around your shoulders and whispering a secret in your ear, pull the puppets into holding onto each other in the dark, long after the night is over. 

Most of them run the same story. 

You’ve put more effort into how you look right now than you did on the actual dates. But that’s needed, for you to swing the door open, and for it to properly hit Bucky. There are supposed to be lights and swelling music, flowers and glitter and moon eyes, as he really sees you for the first time. It’s what would set everything in motion. Bucky sees you, falls in love with you—slowly, over the whole night—and then you both laugh about this fifty years on the porch of your shared house.

Instead, you opened the door and Bucky just smiled, and showed you the flowers. If he scanned over your body or felt fireworks, he doesn’t show it. 

He just fucking smiles at you. And continues to be so painfully perfect.

“We should go, I got a whole day planned out for us.”

“Really?” You hold the flowers too tight. You might be about to crush them. 

“Nah, but I want to beat the traffic. C’mon, doll.”

He holds a hand out, and you raise the flowers pathetically. “Um- I have to-“

“Right.” Bucky nods, his hand faltering slightly. “I’ll wait.”

And he does. He waits, still offers you his arm—but not his hand, which is fine, because it’s not a real date so you can’t expect anything at all—and walks you out of the building to his- 

“No bike?” You say, and Bucky shrugs, opening the door to his car.

“I know you don’t like it. Not very high standards of me to put you on a death trap.”

You sigh. “I don’t think they’re death traps, Buck, I just think you’ve had enough injury for one lifetime-“

“And I think I’m maxed out. Someone somewhere had to owe me some luck.” Bucky gives you a firm look as you open your mouth. “I’m not makin’ you ride it, sweetheart.”

You stick your tongue out at him, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky grins. 

“There’s my girl.”

He just closes the door after that. Walks around the hood of the car and hops in the driver’s seat with another small grin. 

As if he didn’t just stop your heart in your fucking chest. 

And he doesn’t stop doing that, all fucking day. 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.” You mutter a little later, knees propped on the dashboard, and Bucky chuckles. 

“We still on the motorcycle thing?”

“We’re not on it, Bucky, I just don’t think you’re made of steel-“

“You’d be wrong.” He shrugs, fingers tapping on the wheel. “I do so many steroids, I’m basically a superhero at this point.”

“But you’re not.” You mutter, picking at your nails, and he lets out a long sigh. 

Reaches over the console and takes your hand, squeezing it gently with a small grin. 

“Does it help if I say that my security team’s been makin’ me do it less?”

You look up at him, chewing on your lower lip. “They have?”

Bucky nods, glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes before looking back to the road.

“You don’t gotta worry about me, sweetheart. I got people I pay for that.”

You swallow, and it’s a stupid thing to say, but it’s falling from your lips before you can stop it. “Am I allowed to worry about you for free?”

He lets out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. You can do whatever you want with me, doll.”

You flush, looking back out the window. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, is all it is. He’s comfortable with you, he basically sees you as a sister, it’s not even flirting so much as it’s reassurance. A reminder that he’s not going back to the army, that there are people who make sure the Bucky that fell out of a second-story window in college isn’t allowed to make every single choice about what’s safe. 

He’d been drunk. He thought he was Michelangelo, that he’d invented wings. 

He hadn’t.

It’s amazing it took him going to the army to lose an arm. You’ve heard all the stories about him and Steve as kids, and how he was always jumping in front of fists aimed at the scrawny kid who thought heart was a valid way to win a fight. But you have a feeling that—just like after the Michelangelo incident—he’d spend more time making sure Steve was okay than he was. Bucky didn’t think he was invincible. 

He just cared more about how the people around him weren’t. 

Cares more about reassuring you that he will be okay, than trying to argue. You’ve been through enough together of him to know that you might not have valid reason to worry—Bucky’s careful on the bike, but he was careful in the army as well—but he’s still going to tell you it’s okay. 

Dry jokes and teasing only go up to when you’re genuinely worried, because Bucky cares about you. 

That’s why he said that. 

You can do whatever you want with me.

For comfort. 

But there’s no reason for him to keep holding your hand.

Best not to think about it. 

He parks at Coney Island, and you huff a soft laugh. You should have guessed.

“I feel special.” You tell him, as he helps you out of the car—he’s just a boy raised well, it doesn’t mean anything—and he frowns.

“Why’d you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

He opens his mouth, then shakes his head. “Never mind. You got everything?”

You nod, and try not to dwell on how quickly—how certainly—Bucky takes your hand. Not your arm. Your hand.

It shouldn’t make you feel dizzy, just to hold hands. It doesn’t bode well for actually, finally having sex. But you squeeze Bucky’s hand—probably too tight—and he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t give any sign that this is making him feel gooey and kept as well—like you’re melting while being held together all at once—because there’s no reason for it to. 

“You take all your dates here, Barnes?” You joke lightly, trying to remind yourself how to speak, and he just shrugs. 

“Nah.”

You pause. That didn’t sound like a joke. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He keeps looking at the crowd, but squeezes your hand gently.

He doesn’t offer another answer. 

Through the whole day, he only seems to offer more and more questions that make your head spin. 

It’s really impossible not to think about it. Not when Bucky’s right here with you, and he seems to shine brighter than the glare of the sun in your eyes. 

“Why didn’t you bring sunglasses?” Bucky mutters your name while you wait in some line, and you shrug. 

“I didn’t think I’d need them, Buck-“

“We’re at the beach-“

“You didn’t tell me we were going to the beach.”

Bucky pauses. “No. I did.”

“James, you said be ready at 11 and then dress however you want.”

“Oh.” He winces slightly, then gives you a small grin. It’s really impossible to stay mad at him. “Sorry.”

“You sound it.” You grumble—mostly for the show of it—and turn back to face the line. 

Bucky tosses his arm over your shoulders, and it takes a lot of willpower not to let your knees give out. 

He leans down, to whisper in your ear. He might be trying to kill you. 

“I am sorry, doll.” He reaches around to grab your chin, gently guiding your gaze onto his. 

And his eyes are so fucking blue. In the sunlight, it looks like he’s trapped the sky inside of him. 

That’s what being around him feels like, sometimes. His presence covers you, natural but demanding, not trying to be big, but impossible to be smaller. 

Maybe he did trap the sky. 

Maybe you’re just so in love with him it’s making you insane. 

“Bucky.” You whisper, and he grins at you. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“Is this guy botherin’ you?” He nods up to the sun, and you snort, looking away from him with a flush. 

“That’s so stupid-“

“Yeah, but you like it.” He laughs, drawing back up to his full height and—by some small grace—missing the way your breath hitches slightly. “I’ll buy you sunglasses after.”

“No, you don’t have to-“

“I want to.” He guides you forward, another step in the line. “I told you. Nothin’ but the best.”

For you. 

Nothing but the best for you. 

He’s not actually dating you. It’s something you have to remind yourself of, over and over, through the whole day. Bucky would always hold your hand on a roller coaster, because he’s not a guy to just let you be afraid. He’d always pay for your food—he’s got the money—and he knew what to get you because you’re friends. Just friends. 

Going on a fake date. 

Nothing feels fake about it. 

It’s getting hard to remember that it is fake. 

And Bucky’s not really fucking helping. 

“You want the bear, or the- What the hell is that?”

“Pokémon.” You mumble, fidgeting with the cuff of your sleeve. “We’ve talked about them, Bucky. You said they were cute but weird.”

“I was right.” He mutters, hands braced on his hips as he assesses the stuffed prizes. “You want one?”

“You don’t have to-“

“We’ve been over this, sweetheart.” He drawls, giving you a firm look. “Want to.”

You wrinkle your nose. “You suck.”

“Yeah, I’m the worst for winning you a stuffed… turtle?”

“Squirtle.” You sigh. “And, I’d, um- I’d like-“

Bucky smirks. “Take your time, baby.”

“I just want a bear, please.” You blurt it, the baby making your heart kickstart. “Just a bear.”

Bucky nods, looking over to the animals. The bear is the smallest prize. Barely the size of your forearm, skinny and a little scraggly looking. You chose it because he won’t have to try and win it. He was a sniper. He’s got a good arm, and he can use it once to get you the stupid, ugly bear, because this isn’t a real date.

“Alright.” He mutters, pulling out his wallet with an unsettling look of determination in his eyes. “I can get a bear.”

You stand off to the side as he approaches the booth, and realize very quickly the mistake you’ve made. 

There are two bears. Yours is the ugly one. 

And a massive, fluffy one that you’re not sure Bucky is going to be able to carry. The one that requires a perfect score, and sits like a holy grail at the top of the shelf. Pristine. Untouchable. More of a white whale than an actual prize. 

But no one can ever accuse Bucky Barnes of backing down from a challenge he thinks he’ll win. 

And he was a sniper.

“There you go.” He grins at you, chest puffed with pride and eyes sparkling, as he passes the beast into your arms. “Got you the bear, sweetheart.”

You glare at him, and he’s standing so close. The bear is the only thing separating your bodies, and he leans down over its head, leaving your faces only inches apart. 

“I feel like you purposefully misinterpreted my request.” You whisper, and his smile grows. 

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

 “James-“

“Maybe I found a loophole.” He shrugs, and before you know what’s happening, he’s pressing a small kiss to the tip of your nose. “But what have I been tellin’ you?”

You swallow, and it takes a second to remember how to speak. “Nothing but the best.”

“Good girl.” 

You just gape at him, leaning slightly forward, but he started it. You can’t be blamed for falling into his gravity, you can’t be blamed for any of this. For the way he’d let you have some of his ice cream, the cleaned off the corner of your lip with his thumb. For the sunglasses on your face sliding too far down your nose, and Bucky pushing them back up all day with a single finger and smile. For the way your hand keeps just attaching to his, because he took yours first. 

And now his eyes flick down for a moment, tongue darting over his lips. 

You can’t be blamed. You’re not thinking about it, the single spot where Bucky’s lips brushed making it impossible to think anything, so you can’t be blamed for whatever’s about to happen- 

Bucky draws up. His hand finds your waist and squeezes, but he clears his throat and looks over your head. 

Back to the crowd. 

Like nothing happened at all. 

“It’s gettin’ late.” He grunts, and his voice is a little rougher than a moment before. “Ready to go?”

You nod, because you’re pretty sure if you open your mouth you’ll whine his name. 

Bucky gives you a slight look of concern, but doesn’t push it. Just takes your hand, and starts to guide you back through the crowd. 

He insists on carrying the bear back to the car, and it hangs in front of him like a massive riot shield. Helping you get through the crowd, allowing your body to press close to his to remain behind it. 

And close to Bucky.

On the ride back he puts his jacket on his lap because it’s getting warm, but still holds your hand in the car. He carries the bear up to your apartment, like the stupid, sweet man he is. 

He refuses to come inside. 

He makes you practice rejecting him three times. 

“Bucky, this is dumb-“

“Nope.” He has his hands on his hips, and a stern look on his face. “That’s not a good rejection. You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”

“You don’t have feelings, you’re a fake scenario man-“

“Ouch. Now you’re really hurin’ them-“

“James.” You glare at him, hugging yourself tight. “There’s no reason for me to do this.”

“Yeah, there is. No puttin’ out on the second date."

You flush. “Bucky-“

“No, I know, you don’t wanna talk about that with me.” He makes a slight face, his voice oddly low. “But anyone who can’t wait for you doesn’t deserve you. So unless you and John are having soulmate sparks, you’re gonna have to reject him.”

“We’re not having-“ You cut yourself off, blinking at him. “Jake. His name is Jake.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. “Right. I forgot.”

“You introduced us-“

“Are you gettin’ my point?” He says, sounding oddly urgent. “Don’t settle. You’re worth more than that.”

You snort. “Yeah, as evident by my countless suitors.”

Bucky sighs your name, making another strange face. “Just tell me you’ll be careful?”

There’s something real, in his voice. 

But there’s been something real, underlining this whole day.

Best not to think about it. 

“I’ll be careful, Bucky.” You smile at him, and his shoulders slump slightly. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.” He mutters, watching you carefully. “You have fun?”

“Yeah.” You really did. 

“Good. You, uh-“ He clears his throat, taking a large step back. “You looked real nice. All day. Gorgeous.” He nods to himself, and looks like he’s going to continue.

But he doesn’t. 

He just mumbles a goodnight, and walks away. Leaving you standing in your doorway, swaying slightly as you float in his words. 

Gorgeous.

It’s all you can hear.

And no matter how much you remind yourself not to, you can’t stop thinking about it. Any of it. Bucky’s closeness, and how he smelled a little like mint and rain. His hand in yours, his lips on your nose, his full attention. All yours, without you even having to ask. 

The night passes, so painfully slow. You keep seeing his eyes, just as always, and your fingers wander between your thighs with a sigh of his name. 

It’s nothing new. 

It chases you into the daylight, and through your whole date with Jake. He takes you bowling, and your fingers brush, and he buys you food and sits right next to you, but all you can do is think about it.  

About Bucky, and his lips on your nose. How he’d looked at you. 

If it, any of it, was real. 

If it’s allowed to matter, if it was. 

You try to shove it down. Try to focus on Jake, and bowling, and getting over Bucky.

But you get back to your apartment, tell Jake he can come up after the next date—just like Bucky told you to—and walk through your door to see the bear. 

He didn’t have to do that. Any of it. 

But he did. 

You have another date, next week. Jake is sweet. 

You’ve never felt less over Bucky Barnes in your whole life. 

And you have no idea where to go from here. 

———

You’ve been seeing Jake more and more. Two dates turn into three. Three turns into four. He kisses you for the first time outside your apartment, but you tell him not to come in again. 

Once you cross that barrier, it’s no longer just something fun. Something to kill an afternoon or evening. Jake will kiss you a little harder, and his hands will start to wander, and you’ll have to make a choice. 

Is this how you want it to happen. 

Is Jake who you want it to happen with. 

No.

Because he’s still not Bucky. 

Jake is sweet. You’re repeating it over and over, because it’s sort of all that keeps you answering his texts. Not because there’s anything wrong with him, but because sweet means safe. Sweet means you could probably confess to him that you’ve never really done anything, and he’d treat you well. Be gentle. Not judge. 

But sweet also means there’s not that much edge to your conversations. Sweet means no sparks.

He holds your hand, and it doesn’t fit that well. 

He kisses your cheek, as he brings you drinks from the bar, and it’s just sweet. Nothing more. 

There’s no desire to turn your face, nothing going airy in your head and molten in your lower stomach. You’re relaxed in the booth, legs crossed out of habit, not to try and chase off an aching need. 

“You look pretty.” Jake smiles at you, sliding into the booth. “Like a fairy.”

Gorgeous. “Thank you. Not too bad yourself.” You hold your glass up for him, and he clinks it with a grin. 

“Seriously, you’re like the hottest person here.” He leans closer, lips brushing lightly over yours. “Every guy wishes they were me right now. I can feel them glaring.”

You laugh softly, even as your skin starts to itch. “I think you might be exaggerating.”

“No. I mean, I’m so fucking serious. You got the kinda face that starts a war.” Jake grins, and you feel sort of sticky. Like his compliments, as nice as they are, are hot and tar-like on your skin. “I should go thank Barnes, for letting me take a shot.”

“A shot?” You take a long drink, and Jake laughs. 

“Oh, yeah. He had people lining up to get with you, honey. I don’t know how I got to the front of the queue with him, but I’m glad I did.” He brushes hair out of your face, and you wish he wouldn’t. He’s not great at it, and now it’s sticking to your lips. “How was your day.”

“Alright.” You shrug. “Just a day, except for like, one thing with my boss. How about you?”

“Amazing, now.” He grins. “I might have to go thank Barnes now.”

You flush at just the sound of his name—if Jake says it one more time, you might explode—and take another sip. “I think it’ll have to wait until morning.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Jake sighs. “Don’t want to bother him on his date.”

The drink catches in your throat, coming out in a sputtering cough. “Bucky- What?”

“He’s at the bar.” Jake angles his thumb, frowning. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah, um- I’m good. Great.” You try to crane your neck around Jake’s sweet face. “Where is he?”

“I dunno, with his girl. You want a napkin.”

“No, I’m- Yes.” You blink at Jake, still looking concerned. “A napkin would be good, please.”

Jake nods, standing back up, and the moment he’s gone you sit on your knees. Scan over the crowded bar with a frantic focus, because Bucky’s not here. He can’t be. He’s allowed to go on dates—you can’t think of one, good reason he wouldn’t be, or at least one that isn’t made of empty claims and a green feeling, festering in your heart—but he didn’t tell you he had one.

He doesn’t have to do that either. But he usually does. So Jake must have just seen some other guy with soft hair, brilliant eyes, and a metal arm.

Or it’s Bucky. 

Standing at the bar with some redhead. Soft hand holding a drink, metal elbow propped on the bar. 

Laughing. 

You feel sick.

It’s not like you didn’t know he gets around. That’s one of the reasons you’ve known you’d never be good enough for him. You’d be a disappointment, compared to the model who’s batting her lashes and biting her lip right now. Who he’s looking at like he’s missed her his whole life. Who says something that makes him throw his head back, and shake his head as he takes another drink. 

You can’t look away from it. From how she touches his shoulder so lightly to how she says something that makes his ears red and head shake. How smoothly their conversation flows between sincerity and joy. 

And you wonder what it looks like when you talk to Bucky. 

If you’re even in a corner of his mind right now, when he’s possessed your every thought for maybe your whole life. 

“Here you go.” Jake returns, holding out the napkins, and you give him a small smile.

“Thanks, babe.”

“No problem. Gotta help my girl.”

He sits back in the booth, and your stomach turns.

“Your girl, huh?” You try to say it casually, even as you taste bile on your tongue. 

Jake seems to buy it. “Yep. I mean,” he winks at you. “Once you let me into that magic apartment of yours.”

Fuck. “Jake, I- I told you I want to take it slow-“

“I know. And I can hold on. I got a hand.”

Your eyes widen. Again, he doesn’t see it. 

“But I’d like to just, like, see where you live.” He gives you a sweet smile. “We can just watch a movie. I’ll make dinner.”

A movie and dinner. Sweet. 

You don’t want to, don’t want to let Jake into your space, don’t want him to start making your blankets and couch cushions smell like him instead of Bucky. 

But Bucky’s at the bar. And he didn’t seem all that worried about wearing the shirt you got him to flirt with his redhead. 

Which is exactly why you have to say yes. 

“Okay.” You smile at Jake, and it feels plastic, but he doesn’t see. He never sees. “Tonight?”

“Right now.” Jake grabs your arm, and you giggle nervously as he pulls you up.

“Wow, we’re eager-“

“I’ve been hoping for this all month, honey. Let’s go.”

You laugh, and try to just feel this. Wanted. If Jake has nothing else for you, at least he wants you. 

But you could swear you feel something prickling on the back of your neck, as he pulls you out the door. And because you can’t help it, you look back to see Bucky and his redhead. 

They’re behind you.

If you’re going to get over him, and his bears and kindness and handsome face, you have to stop looking back. 

Hopefully, one day, you’ll figure out how.

———

He won’t let you. 

Bucky won’t let you stop looking back.

It’s all you thought about that night. With Jake right next to you, his thumb drawing circles on your arm as you watched some movie, you stared at the bear and thought about Bucky at the bar. If he’d win his redhead a bear. If he’d bring her to Coney Island at all. When Jake kissed you goodnight, you wonder if Bucky kisses his redhead this chastely. When you crawled into bed, you made yourself sick with thoughts of what Bucky could be doing right now. If his redhead keeps the dominant aura she had in the bar, and straddles him. Makes him beg. 

If he wouldn’t want you, because you’re not sure you can do that kind of work. You don’t want Bucky to beg. 

You just want him to look at you like you’re the most important thing in the world. To call you good girl again, because that’s been spinning around your head since he said it.

And it wanders between your thighs, with fingers that aren’t rough and big. 

Bucky’s name falls between your lips, as a phantom of his voice just whispers in your ear. 

Good girl. Nothing but the best. Whatever you want. 

He’s torturing you, and he’s not even in the room.

He won’t let you go, even when he doesn’t know you belong to him in the first place. 

You waste the day, shuffling around your apartment and doing busy work. Text with Jake. Do the dishes. Wash your couch cushions, because they smell like smoke and beer now. Call Jake. Get groceries. Schedule a date. 

It all just blurs together, into nothing, right up until Bucky calls. 

You almost drop your phone, trying to pick up. 

This getting over him thing is going fucking great. 

“Hey,” you sound too breathless. You need to calm the fuck down. “Hi, Bucky. What’s up?”

“Nothin’. Just had a question for you.” He pauses. “Now a bad time?”

You glance at your computer, where you’re supposed to be buying tickets to go out with Jake. “No, it’s good.”

“Alright, great.” Bucky sighs. “Look, I wasn’t bein’ creepy, and I’m real sorry about this, but- I saw you. Last night. With Jack.”

“Jake. And yeah.” You swallow. “I saw you with your date.”

“My- Oh, no.” Bucky laughs, and you blink at the air. “That wasn’t my date, she was just an old friend. I’ve told you about Nat, right? She and her sister came over from Russia in high school, she’s been on and off with like, everyone but me.”

“Oh.” Your face might be burning. “Sorry, I, um- I guess I should’ve said hi.”

“Nah, it’s better you didn’t. Not because I wouldn’t want you to,” he adds quickly, because he knows you too fucking well for it to be fair. “But ‘cause I’m the sorry one.”

You frown at the air. “Bucky-“

“You don’t have to say yes. I won’t be hurt if you do. But,” he lets out a heavy sigh. “Nat saw me lookin’ at you. And she figured out who you are, and wanted to meet you. I talked her out of bothering you and Jace, but she sorta doesn’t let up once she wants something. And I know you’re not a huge party person, but I’m having one tonight. Bunch of old friends, all in town for once. At my place cause it’s the biggest. If you wanna come, you’re welcome.” 

Fuck.

This isn’t going to help you stop looking back, but he was looking at you. And his friends want to meet you. And God, he won’t just let you get over him, even when he’s barely doing anything at all.

“Do you… Want me to?” You whisper, and she chuckles.

“Doll, you know I want you here all the time. But my friends are a lot-“

“Okay.” Fuck. “I’ll do it.”

Bucky lets out a long sigh of relief. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You look at the computer. The tickets were supposed to be for tomorrow. 

“See you then, Bucky. Do I need to bring anything-“

“Nope. You’re all I need.”

———

You’ve heard a lot about Bucky’s friends. A lot. You know they all grew up together, playing sports and in clubs and going to dances. That almost everyone but Bucky left the city for college—even Steve, heading abroad because he wanted to meet as many people as possible, know everything about the world and do that semester abroad housebuilding that turned him into a tank of a man—but they’ve all kept in close touch. You know all their names. You’ve met a few of them in passing—Steve fully once, when he’d been visiting home for thanksgiving and Bucky had invited you along—but never all of them at once. 

It’s intimidating, to shift on your feet at his door and wait for someone to answer. To pray it’s Bucky, so they don’t ask who the random girl is. 

You have a key to his place. You could just walk in. 

You wait anyway. 

Bucky pulls open the door with a wide grin, then groans your name.

“I told you not to bring anything-“

“It’s just a drink!” You protest, holding it to your chest like a stuffed animal. “Just take it, Bucky-“

“Of course I’m gonna take it.” He reaches out, and your fingers brush as you pass him the bottle. “But I’m payin’ you back for it.”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

He says your name in a teasing tone, grabbing your hand with a wide, carefree grin. 

“Stop standin’ outside like you don’t belong in here. Everyone’s been waiting to meet you.”

You flush, as he pulls you inside. And you’re sure he must be exaggerating, because you can see the slight hint of red on his cheeks that means he’s been drinking. Bucky tends to be dramatic, when he drinks. To lose every filter, and just laugh and say what he thinks. Once he told you he’d be able to pick up a car, and you got to watch him grunt and squat on the curb for twenty minutes, before flopping on the pavement and groaning that they made them heavier.

Nobody’s been waiting for you. You’re barely ever waiting for you. 

Bucky waits for you. He pauses, when you hang up your jacket, still grinning at you in the low light of the hall. 

“What?” You ask, and he shrugs, his hand lingering on your hip. 

The touch is possessive. Like he’s touching you just to touch you.

He doesn’t seem to know he’s doing it.

“You look good.” He hums, taking a large step closer. “You smell good.”

It’s a lot of work, to look him in the eyes when he’s this close. You might drown in them.

“You’re drunk.” You whisper, and his grin just widens.

“Only on you, babydoll.” 

Your eyes widen, mouth falling open, and someone calls Bucky’s name from his living room.

“C’mon,” he moves you right in front of him, your back pressed to his chest, and you lean back to keep gaping at him. “The people are waitin’ for their princess.”

It’s hard to think of anything to say to that. It’s hard to think of anything to say all night. 

Because Bucky stays this close, and his proximity is a drug. 

It doesn’t help that he wasn’t lying. 

Everyone, for some fucking reason, knows exactly who you are. Says your name like they’re greeting an old friend, shakes your hand as if they’re being introduced to the president. And the whole time Bucky just stands right behind you. Laughs and holds your hip and drinks. 

His friends know all about you. Tony asks about your job. Wanda asks about your mom. Clint hands you your favorite snack when he corners you and Bucky, as if it’s something he’d been hoping to do all night. 

Steve gives you a kind smile, and that, at least, is what you expected. 

Sam keeps looking at you as if he’s seen a unicorn. 

“So, this is her, huh?” Sam—with the exact same smirk and annoyingly knowing expression Bucky described him as having—drawls your name. “I was startin’ to think she was made up, Buck. But look at her.” He raises his glass with a grin. “Real!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but still chuckles. “Y’know, I showed you pictures. And Stevie isn’t that good at photoshop.”

“I alright at photoshop.” Steve frowns. “I made that poster, to help with your campaign.”

“Yeah, and he didn’t use it.” Sam scoffs, giving you a look of amusement. “Did you see that one, kid?”

You swallow. You can be a part of this conversation. 

It’s better than just standing, half in Bucky’s arms, trying to work out why everyone knows so much. 

“Was it the one with the raccoon? And bold letters?”

Sam beams. “You have seen it! Trust the Barnes to keep out animals under control!”

He bursts out laughing as Bucky snorts, and Steve sighs. 

You give him a small smile. “I liked it. I told him to use it, actually.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. I know it wasn’t my best.”

“Yeah, but she thought it was.” Bucky squeezes your hip lightly, and your hand flies to his forearm. “She thought you were a damn genius for that one. When my team shot it down, she took a poster and hung it on her fridge.”

“Really?” Steve grins at you. “Did you like the other one?”

You nod. “The one of Bucky as a ten-year-old, wearing the superhero costume?”

“He’ll protect our streets.” Sam snickers. “I’m tellin’ you, Buck, I only think you won ‘cause you didn’t use that one. Everyone wanted sexy, rugged James as their rep, not cute-kid Bucky.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Stop sayin’ I only won ‘cause I’m hot, Sam-“

“Why? That’s why I voted for you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He takes another drink, still grinning. “And we did use the superhero one, Wilson.”

“I know, I just try to pretend you didn’t.” Sam sighs, looking at you again. “You got that one on your fridge?”

You flush. You haven’t let go of Bucky’s arm. 

He hasn’t tried to move it. 

“No.” You smile softly. “But his Mom showed me another photo of that costume, and I made a shirt out of it. I wore it to his swearing-in ceremony.”

Bucky groans, but Sam and Steve burst out laughing. 

They like you. 

Bucky’s friends like you, and they’re treating you like you’re actually someone worth knowing. Like you’re not just Bucky’s college friend. 

Even Bucky sort of isn’t treating you like he’s just your college friend. 

He always gets touchy when he’s drunk, as well. But his arm goes around your shoulder, and his lips only brush your neck when he slumps over you. 

Usually. 

Tonight, his hands are almost everywhere. His mouth doesn’t brush you at all, but it’s because he’s standing so tall behind you. So close. His metal arm is wrapped around your stomach, after a few more drinks. You can feel every bit of muscle, every rise and fall of his chest. Almost his heartbeat, if you turn your head just right. 

It’s too much. You feel like you’re being teased, like he’s pulling you apart just for fun when you’re about to lose your fucking mind. 

You need air. You to need not get lost in him, because he’s just drunk, and this means everything to you, but he’ll forget in the morning. 

When you twist out of his hold to go to the bathroom, he lets you. But his arm reaches out, holding your hand until you’re all the way out of reach. 

You need to learn not to look back. 

It’s not going that well. 

The bathroom is a small reprieve. You breathe, and fix your hair, and glare at yourself in the mirror. It’s just nothing. You’re his friend, and he’s introducing you to everyone, which is why he hasn’t left your side all night despite seeing you almost every day. He’s drunk, which is why he’s so touchy. He’s not thinking about this—about what he’s doing to you—so you shouldn’t think about it either.

You have Jake. And a date with him tomorrow, and he’s actually kissing you and going out with you, instead of just being weird.

Think about Jake.

You barely make it a foot out of the bathroom, before someone is saying your name, and it’s impossible to think about Jake. 

The redhead from the bar—Nat, Bucky called her—is grinning at you from the shadows. 

“Wow, you’re even more out of his league up close.”

You blink. “What?”

“Nothing.” Her voice is smooth, like honey. 

Bucky said they’ve never slept together. You have no right to care if they do. 

But she’s looking at you like she’s sizing you up. Like you’re her prey, and she’s debating whether it’s even worth eating you at all. 

“I’m Natasha.” She hums, and you swallow.

“I know. Bucky, um- He told me.”

She nods. You’re not sure she ever blinks. “How was the rest of your date?” 

“It was okay. How were your drinks?”

Her lips twitch. “Good. The guy you were with. Cute. Jacob?”

“Just Jake.” You mumble. “And, yeah. He’s sweet.”

She nods again. “Do you love him?” 

“I- I don’t-“ Because you can never fucking help it, your eyes flick to the end of the hall. To where Bucky is waiting, somewhere back in the crowd. “I don’t know, we’ve only been together for like, a month-“

“Oh.” Natasha nods, and she looks like she’s solving a puzzle you can’t even see. “That makes sense.”

“It does?” 

“Yep.” She smiles at you. “That’s when Bucky started acting like a kicked puppy.” She laughs to herself, and before you can even process that, she keeps talking. “You know, I was there. When he woke up after the incident. It was me and Steve, the two people he’s known the longest. And you know who he asked for first?”

You shake your head, and her eyes glitter. 

“No, you do.” She touches your arm gently, starting to walk past you, back into the hall. “Think about it.”

Then, she’s gone. 

You almost glide through the party. Back to Bucky’s side. 

You’re not supposed to think about it.

You can’t stop thinking about it. 

None of this was a good idea, because you can’t stop thinking about it. Not when Bucky’s whole face seems to light up at the sight of you, and he pulls you right back into his side. Not through the whole night, as he almost shows you off to his friends. Talks you up while holding you like you’ve seen him hold kittens and expensive, first-edition Lord of the Rings books. 

When you see Nat again—Bucky introducing you with a proud grin and long speech about how good you are at your job—she just smiles at you, and engages in a normal, non-cryptic conversation. 

Like she knows she’s done her job. Done it too well. 

The crowd eventually thins, until it’s only you and Bucky left, and you’re never going to be able to think about anything else again. 

Bucky pulls you out onto his fire escape, and pouts when you take the drink out of his hands.

“I don’t want you trying to fly, Buck.” You murmur, dropping in on the windowsill, and he grins.

“You care about me.”

“Of course I care about you. Bucky-“ You squeak as he pulls you into a tight, almost suffocating hug. “Bucky, what’s wrong-“

“Nothin’.” He mutters, pressing his face to the top of your head. “You smell nice. Glad you came.”

“Of course I came. You asked me to.”

“Yeah, but I was thinkin’ you’d be busy. With Jake.”

You laugh slightly, but it’s more out of confusion than anything else. You don’t understand why he’s saying Jake like that. As if it’s a curse. 

“Or work.” Bucky’s still muttering to himself, and he pulls back suddenly. “How’s your boss. Is he still givin’ you shit? Cause I can bring a bill to the floor that no one should be mean to you. Ever.”

“I- I don’t think that would make it to the floor, Bucky.” 

“It could. I’d make it.” He leans back down, pressing his face into your neck. “I’d just have to show them how pretty you are, and they’d all be goin’ that’s a good idea, Barnes. No one should be mean to her.”

“Okay. C’mon.” You slowly guide him down, until you’re sitting on the stairs. “Bucky, how much did you drink?”

“Normal amount.” He shrugs, leaning back from your neck, but not fully. 

Your noses are still bumping. 

His breath is warm on your face, and his hand is pressed on your thigh. Not trying to start anything, but lighting you on fire. 

Just seeming to hold you, for the sake of holding you. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Bucky murmurs, and you swallow. 

“Bucky…” 

“I know.” He sighs, dropping his brow against yours. “Too late. ‘M too late.”

“I-“

“But you are beautiful.” He reaches up, lightly tracing your cheeks, and your mouth falls open. “I think you could end every war. If they saw you smile. So,” he yawns, arms falling around you as his eyes flutter. “Remember that.”

Bucky passes out in your arms, half folded over your lap and holding you tight. 

And you’re never going to be able to forget it. 

You just sit here, for a while. Run your fingers through Bucky’s hair. Listen to the horns on the streets below, watch the flashing lights of the city.

Think about it, Natasha seems to whisper in your ear. Do you love him. 

You don’t love Jake. That’s never even really been on the table. 

But this man, in front of you, looking at you like you’re all the stars in the sky, yet still just the brightest one that guides him home, is so easy to love. He’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

This, right here, is all you’ve ever fucking wanted. 

And it’s still not even yours. 

———

You break it off with Jake quietly. 

A nice dinner. You pay, because there’s a worm of guilt, eating at your gut for how you treated him. He’s a nice guy, really, but he’s not Bucky. And that’s not his fault. 

No one can be. 

“It’s because of Barnes, isn’t it.” He says as you wait for his cab outside, and you freeze. 

“I, um- I don’t-“

“It’s okay.” He gives you a small smile. “I mean, that’s why I was so shocked he even asked. I remember him showing us all your photos, during our tour. I thought that with everything, he’d go back and marry you or something.” Jake chuckles. “Then he’s asking me if I want to take you out, and I thought he was going to give himself a fucking stroke. I counted myself lucky just to have the chance.”

You swallow, your voice soft. “The chance?”

Jake nods, eyes fixed on yours. “To take what Barnes is too much of a pussy to grab, when it’s right damn in front of him.”

“Bucky’s not-“

“Yeah, he is. But it’s alright.” Jake shrugs, hands in his pocket. “You sorta are, too.”

He leaves you gaping on the road, and you’re not even sure if he was trying to hurt you. He didn’t say that like he was. He said it—just like everything else—sweetly. 

But it still stings. 

Mostly because he’s right. 

You’re a coward. 

You never told him you were in love with him. Not in college. Not when he got shipped out. Not when he came back, or when he struggled to readjust, or when he ran for office and won. You’re always just there, and you can never bring yourself to leave. 

But you can’t bring yourself to change, either. 

You don’t tell Bucky you broke up with Jake. You don’t ask him what he meant on the balcony. You don’t do anything but think about it, and keep going to lunch like nothing happened at all. His secretary glares at you, and you smile. You give Bucky the same sandwich as always, sit in the same chair, and bask in his attention. 

“Hey, uh-“ Bucky clears his throat, frowning at his sandwich. “How’s it goin’? With Jake.”

You laugh softly, and Bucky gives you a confused look. 

“That… Uh- Good?”

“No. It’s just funny you only remember his name after we’ve broken up.”

He freezes, and a little bit of lettuce falls out of his mouth. “You broke up? Did- He didn’t fuckin’-“

“I broke up with him.” You give Bucky a small smile. “Down, boy.”

“Yeah, alright.” He slumps in his chair, still watching you carefully. “Was he not treatin’ you right?”

“No, he was fine. I just, um-“ I’m in love with you, and that made it impossible. “I wasn’t ready, yet.”

You’re not sure you ever will be. 

Jake was right. You’re a fucking coward. 

And Bucky is just sitting there. Frowning at you, silent and watchful. You raise your brows at him in a silent challenge, and he sets down his sandwich with a sigh. 

“You’re just not a big relationship person, huh.” He wipes his chin with his sleeve, and you frown. 

“No, I just- No. And, James-“ You reach up, pulling his arm away. “Don’t do that, it’s a nice shirt.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He drops his arm, still watching you. “And it’s okay if you aren’t. Was just wondering, ‘cause, well.” His brow draws slightly. “I mean, I’ve known you forever, and you only ever do the one-night thing.”

“I…” You blink at him, his words slow to sink in, and sudden to hit. “I what?”

“Nothin’ wrong with that either!” Bucky sits up, voice slightly panicked. “Men do it all the time-“

“You do it, Bucky-“

He snorts. “Sweetheart, I haven’t done it since college. That’s just- Not what I’m lookin’ for.”

The world is spinning too fast. 

You don’t have time to stop the words from falling out of your mouth.

“What are you looking for?”

Bucky makes a low sound of amusement. “Something serious.” 

“Oh.” You look down to your fingers. It’s too hard to look him in the eyes. “That’s- I didn’t know that.”

“You never asked.”

He says it so simply. Like it’s something you should have known about, when he never shared it. When he’s the one who said about you-

“I haven’t done it ever, Bucky.” You mumble, picking at your nails, and he grunts. 

“Well, you tried with Jake-“

“No.” You shake your head, still looking down. “I haven’t done one-nights. I- I haven’t done anything.”

Bucky’s silent. And it’s not a big deal. Just another conversation between best friends. Some honestly, that you’re used to sharing so freely with him. Nothing at all. 

But his voice is hoarse, when he speaks. And you don’t have to look up to know how he’s watching you. 

With pure, hot, undivided attention. 

“Anything?” He echoes. “Like… One-nights?”

“Or two nights.” You mumble. “Or- Afternoons. Or anything.”

Bucky coughs. “What about, uh- Parties-“

“Nothing, Bucky. I’ve never-“

“Anything.” He finishes, and you nod. 

It starts to spill out, before you can stop it. 

“I just- I was trying to find someone. That’s why I asked. I wanted to get it over with, get someone to take care of it, and I trusted you.”

“You trusted me.” Bucky rasps, and your nails dig into your palms.

“Yeah. I did. I knew you’d give me someone, um- Good.”

“Someone good.” He echoes. “Cause you’ve never had anyone. And you trusted me.”

You nod, and Bucky continues.

“To find you someone to sleep with? Or date and sleep with.”

“Both.” You flush. “I, um- I wanted it to mean something, I think.”

Another moment of silence. “And you trusted me.”

“I trust you, Bucky, I don’t know why that’s something you’re- It’s not that big a deal-“

“No, it’s not. Plenty of people are virgins, doll-“

“Don’t- Bucky, you don’t have to-“

“I’m tryin’ to understand why you didn’t just ask me.”

Your heart stumbles. Flips inside out, then back again. Your gaze shoots up, because you have to see if he’s joking, but he’s not. You’ve never seen Bucky look more serious in his life.

“What?” You whisper, and his throat bobs. 

“Just date me,” he says your name softly. “I’ve been in love with you forever, I’ve fuckin’ hated having to set you up and just- Not care, but- Just date me. You trust me, and if you’re just looking for someone to take care of it I can, but- Me.” He leans forward, and you’re not sure you’re breathing. “Date me. We can’t forget this forever if you don’t wanna, but- I want to. Please.” He says your name, voice low and rough. “I want to, so bad. Just be with me.”

For once, you can’t think. You can only look at Bucky, and try to work out if this is real. 

It must be. You can feel the heat. The electricity. Smell Bucky’s cologne.  

It’s real. 

“When?” Your question is only a breath, and he lets out a humorless laugh. 

“First time I saw you.”

“Same.”

Bucky blinks, then his eyes widen. “Are you-“

“Are you?”

“Yeah, I- Of course I am-“

“Then yes.”

His face splits into a wide grin. “Yes?”

You nod slowly, and say the only thing you ever could. “Yes.”

———

“Relax.” He mutters, and your fingers dig into his scalp. 

You can’t relax. You’ve spent too many nights dreaming of this, too many lovely dates and days of flowers waiting for it, too much time planning it out to the last detail, and-

Bucky kisses a soft spot on your neck, his tongue flicking over sensitive skin. You pull on his hair with a soft gasp, and he groans. 

“Relax, babydoll-“

“Can’t.” You gasp, back arching off the bed. 

His hand has found a comfortable home, right between your legs. His metal palm is resting right over you cunt, rubbing back and forth until you’re soaked through your panties. Your head is spinning. Bucky’s bare-chested and powerful above you, and he promised tonight, so there’s not fucking way you’re going to be able to relax. 

Because he made you wait. 

Bucky kissed you stupid in his office—made a whole show out of it, when he walked you out—and spent three weeks taking you out and promising soon. 

That if you wanted it to mean something, he couldn’t rush it. 

Only the best, for my girl.

You’ve pouted at him. Whined that as long as it’s Bucky, touching you and pulling you apart, that’s it. All you want. 

But he held onto his romantic night idea. Kissed your cheek and lips and neck, did everything but what you’d been waiting so fucking long for. 

And now you’re lying on his bed. And his hand is between your legs. 

He can tell you to relax all he fucking wants, there’s no way you’re going to be able to- 

Bucky murmurs your name in your ear, voice low and commanding. “I’m tellin’ you, relax.”

You twist to glare at him. “I’m telling you, James, I-“

He shoves your panties aside, thumb circling around your clit and one broad finger sliding into your cunt. 

Your mouth falls open in a shameless moan, and he captures the sound in a sloppy kiss. 

“So wet.” He mutters against your lips, and you spread your legs wider with a whine. “And needy. Sweet girl, you got somethin’ you want?”

“Yes.” You roll your hips, trying to fuck yourself on his finger. “You, Bucky, want- Want you-“

“You got me.” Another, softer kiss. “Always got me, doll.”

He starts to pump his finger in and out, at a slow torturous pace. His thumb still doesn’t fully hit your clit, but he moves slightly back on his knees. Attaches his mouth to one of your nipples, sucking and flicking his tongue as a second finger slides in. Your breathing starts to come shorter and shorter, and you’re shamelessly grinding onto his hand. 

The softer one—the one that had been tracing your lips, then holding your waist—slides over your abdomen and pins you down. Bucky sits fully back on his knees, giving you a stern look. 

“You gotta re-“

“Don’t-“ You whine, writhing in the sheets as his finger stills inside of you. “Don’t tell me to relax, Bucky- I- I need it, you know I need it, please-“

You’re on the brink of tears, but you’re on fire. Every nerve is lit up, you’re already molten putty for him to play with, you need him. He knows you need him. 

And there’s love in his eyes. Real, deep love that you’re falling into like crashing through the stars. It’s shining, as you pout up at him and try to squirm below him. 

So much love. 

Not an ounce of sympathy. 

“Hold still.” He warns softly, thumb resuming it’s slow circles, and you flutter around his fingers. “Baby, we talked about this, I can do it how you want, or-“

“How I want.” You force yourself to stop moving, but god, it’s hard. 

But so is Bucky. You can see the outline of him, pressing through his sweats. Making your mouth water, and pussy clench again. 

Bucky raises his brows, and you flush.

“That- that one was a mistake-“

“Hm.” He just keeps looking at you. Like you’re something beautiful. 

Some artwork, that he’s entirely ready to ruin.

But still, his voice becomes a little softer. “Sweetheart, if you’re not ready-“

“I’m ready.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, giving him a pleading look. “Please. I’m ready, I- I want all of it. You.”

He hums. “And I told you-“

“I know. I still want it-“

“Yeah, you want it.” He sighs, thumb finally pressing right over your clit. A high, strangled whimper leaves your throat, but you somehow manage to keep still. 

“Bucky-“

“You want it hard.” He drawls, tracing the hand on your stomach up your sides. You shiver, and he smirks. “But you’re so sensitive, babydoll.”

“But, that-“ You flush, gaping up at him a little uselessly. “That’s good, right?”

He chuckles. “For me. But sweet girl, you’re walkin’ a big walk,” he leans down, letting his lips brush over yours. “For someone who can’t even take my fingers in her pretty little pussy.”

You gasp, and he presses the thumb on your clit a little harder.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” His eyes are dark on yours, voice low. “You don’t want me to fuck you like you get all pretty when I say I’m going to fuck you. That I’m so hard for you it’s hurtin’?”

“Oh- Oh my god.” Your hands shoot up to grab his shoulders, and his fingers start to pump again. 

“There she is.” He trails soft kisses on your neck, even as his fingers hit a pace that’s like a drill. “Yeah, keep singin’, doll. It feel good?”

You nod, back arching off the mattress. “So- So good, Bucky, yes-“

“You think you can take my cock?” He hums and you squeak. 

It’s one thing to dream about it. One thing to imagine it, over and over. 

Another to feel it. Hear him. Have his metal fingers moving inside you, hitting a deep spot while his thumb plays with your clit. 

It’s a new kind of high. A vulnerable, nervous, embarrassing high. 

And Bucky isn’t having it. He leans up, fingers never breaking pace, and grabs your gaze. Forces your hooded, glazed eyes onto his sharp, darkened ones. 

“Answer me, pretty girl.” 

You make an incoherent sound, and he picks up his pace. 

“With words.”

“I- I can-“ Your words fall into a moan, as he starts to rub inside of you. “I can take it-“

“Good girl.” Bucky pulls out his fingers, and laughs softly when you whine at the loss. “Babydoll, if you’re coming, it’s on my cock.”

Oh. 

 You can live with that. 

Bucky rises back up on his knees. Pulls himself out of his sweats slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. And he’s big. Bigger than you thought, even with the size of his bulge in the jeans. You swallow, wrapping your arms around your body, but he just laughs softly.  

“No.” He strokes himself slowly, moving your arms to be pinned over your head. “Keep lookin’ at me, sweet girl. Wanna watch you feel it.”

You nod weakly, and you couldn’t look away if you tried. He’s got you exactly where he wants you. 

Exactly where you want to be. 

Bucky slides his cock between the soaked lips of your pussy, the head of him bumping your clit. You make soft sounds with every wet sound and touch, but he doesn’t hurry up. Just watches you with that darkened affection, cooing your name when you start to whimper. 

“Even that feelin’ like too much, doll?”

“I- I just- Oh.” You moan as he slaps his cock against you, a pleasurable little shudder racking your body. “Bucky-“

“That’s my name.” He murmurs, watching himself rub against you. “Save it for when I’m fuckin’ you, pretty baby.”

He has to stop the pet names, the teasing, the low, taunting voice. It’s making you fucking dizzy, which isn’t fucking fair. You’re already wound so tight. Every already feels so good it’s like you’re about to fly out of your body.  

“Can- Can you please just-“ You take a ragged breath as he bumps over your entrance. “I need it, I need it, Bucky, I can’t take it-“

“Shh.” He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, and you might have been about to cry. “Can you relax for me, my sweet girl?”

You nod, and it’s not like you have much of a choice. Not when Bucky keeps kissing you so gently, and you go limp as he notches himself against your cunt.

“Breathe.” He mutters, and you obey blindly. 

It was a good order. 

All the air is knocked from your lungs as Bucky slides home. 

You can feel him everywhere. The hardness, the perfect stretch that makes those tears start to fall, the pure fucking glory of Bucky Barnes, bottoming out so deep inside of you he might be in your throat. You make a strangled plea of his name, and he kisses you all over your face, still inside of you. 

“It’s okay, doll, takes some time.” He kisses the corner of your mouth with a smile, and you wrap your arms around his neck. 

You hadn’t even realized he let your wrists go. You just want to be closer. 

And slowly, the pain of the intrusion starts to morph. Turns into white-hot pleasure, from the sensation of fullness. From the hunger for more. 

“Bucky.” You mumble in his ear, wiggling slightly below him. “Move, please.”

He rises up, attention still soft. “Yeah?”

You nod, and he lets out a heavy breath. Leans down to kiss you so lovingly, you almost forget that he’s buried deep in your pussy. 

Almost. 

Then he starts to move. 

Bucky starts slow. Holding you like glass, pulling out then slowly driving back in. Making you feel all of it. The drag of his cock, the heat of his lips all over your skin, the press of his balls against your ass. His hands wander shamelessly, seemingly focused on feeling as much of you as possible. 

“Feel so good, sweet girl.” He drawls as he palms your breasts, kneads your hips, rubs at your waist. “So fuckin’ tight and warm, dripping on my cock. So good.”

It’s all making you lightheaded, and building the heat in your core, but it’s so gentle. You can feel the tension in his shoulders, as he holds himself back. 

“Oh, fuck.” He mutters, squeezing your ass as he angles it a little up. Hits a little deeper.

You squeak, nails digging into his shoulders, and Bucky chuckles. 

“Yeah, that’s it, babydoll. Takin’ this cock so well.” He kisses you, deep and heavy. “So fuckin’ pretty. My best girl.”

The praise goes right to your head and cunt. 

Suddenly, it’s not enough. 

“Bucky.” You mumble, tugging at his hair for attention. 

He draws up quickly, concern all over his face. “What, what’s wrong-“

“Not enough.” You grab his hand, holding it to his chest and grinding into his cock. “More. Please.”

It takes him a second to get it. 

You can see the exact moment he does. 

“Goddamnit.” He rasps, hips jerking slightly. “You- Sweetheart, I don’t wanna-“

“Please.” You repeat, giving him your best, poutiest look. “Harder, Bucky. I- I need it.”

He blinks at you slowly, then nods. 

He’s the one who said whatever you want. And this is what you fucking want. 

There’s one more, soft kiss. A reminder, that this is still something sacred. Then Bucky draws up, one hand lightly resting on your waist, and draws almost fully out. 

You don’t get to even register what’s happening before he’s slamming back in, and the loudest moan you’ve ever heard falls from your lips. 

Bucky’s eyes flash, and he repeats the motion. You look up at him in a cockdrunk gaze, and for once, you’re not thinking about anything. 

It feels too good to think. Bucky’s too much to think. 

And he’s looking at you like he’s found heaven. His hand on your waist tight enough to leave a bruise, the other one pinning your hip to the bed. 

“Good?” He rasps out, and you nod.

There are only two words you remember. 

Bucky. 

More. 

And you don’t even have to beg for them, because he gives them to you both at once. 

Bucky leans down, kissing you with teeth and spit and want, then starts to fuck you like a man possessed. 

It’s fucking paradise. He pounds into your cunt until it’s aching and on fire, everything in your body dangling right over the edge of some great fall. He grunts with every thrust, skin slapping against skin and the bed creaking. His kisses start to roam, but remain open-mouthed and starved. 

It’s too much. It’s not enough. You reach up for him, and he grabs your hands and puts them back over your head. You call his name in a broken, heady plea, and he just makes an animalistic noise and fucks you hard. 

“Bucky-“ He hits that deep, sensitive spot inside of you, and you moan. “Bucky-“

He groans your name, and he looks like a god above you. Sculpted chest and massive arms, handsome face slack with his own pleasure, eyes fixed on you with such reverence and disrespect. The black and gold of his arm shines in the dark. Every time he kisses your cervix, you flutter around him, and he makes the most sinful sound you’ve ever heard.

Bucky’s thrusts start to grow a little less measured, and you’re all but a broken, fucked out mess below him. So impossibly sensitive to every touch—even just his thumb, rubbing small circles on your wrist—yet unable to find that release. 

A low, desperate sound rumbles through Bucky’s chest, and he’s rutting into you so fast you’re reduced to nothing but a slack mess below him. He slides in and out without resistance, you can feel your arousal dripping down onto your ass, and you’re so close- 

“Let go, babydoll.” He grunts, spitting onto his free fingers and starting to rub your swollen clit. “C’mon, cum for me-“

You see white, when your orgasm hits, and you scream his name so loud your voice goes hoarse. 

Bucky makes a feral noise of your name, as he keeps fucking you through it. And you’re barely floating down when he pulls out, slaps your clit with his cock, and cums all over your stomach. Sticky and possessive and hot.

So fucking hot.

A soft breath escapes your lips, and Bucky reaches down with a gentle hand. Brushes your hair out of your face, and kisses the tip of your nose. 

“That it?” He murmurs, and you know he’s already thinking about the after. All the cleaning he told you he’d take care of, because he just wanted you to worry about feeling good. 

He’s so fucking perfect, it makes you giggle. 

Bucky frowns. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.” You hum, pulling him down into a long, safe, certain kiss. “That was it.”

There are all kinds of these events. Valentina drags the team around to parade like her own person diamonds, and you make sure the diamonds don’t stab or shoot anyone while being paraded.

You’ve already confiscated three guns, two knifes, and John’s shield—which you told him not to bring five fucking times—and you haven’t even seen Yelena or Bob yet.

Bucky, of course, is making your life stupidly easy. He’s smuggled no weapons—although you look at his arms, and his chest, and he’s the weapon, and that shouldn’t make you feel so fuzzy—and he’d been waiting obediently for you to come in, hands on his hips and a small smile on his face.

“You look nice.” He offers, and you laugh.

“The handler at the zoo does need to look presentable for the show.”

Bucky’s lips twitch a little higher, and you point your pen at his neck.

“Tie.”

He grunts, and gets to work in a second. The tie was fine. He’s just too perfect, and you needed to find something wrong for your sanity.

“Are you just hovering?” He asks, watching you carefully, and you shrug.

“I’m wherever the night needs me to be.”

“Hm.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he turns back to the mirror. “None of us like these things, you know.”

“I don’t like them either-“

“And sometimes.” He drawls. “They make us feel like meat-“

“Bucky.” You say firmly, and he meets your gaze in the mirror.

Drawls your name, an amused smirk on his face.

Your heart does a stupid little fumble, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Hard, to stop yourself from drooling.

The only person who must know about your… situation is Valentina. You don’t know how she knows. What she thinks of it. But she must be punishing you for being such a fool by making Bucky look like that.

Edible. The suit is too tight on his arms, perfectly fit on his torso, his hair long and soft and his eyes glimmering with teasing light, and you feel a little dizzy-  

Bucky says your name, sounding a little more concerned this time.

You pinch your wrist behind your back—fucking get it together—and stand a little taller.

“I’ve talked to her.” You say lightly, glancing over your shoulder to check no one’s in the hall. “I can’t try again too soon, she’ll get angry.”

Bucky grunts. “Let her be angry-“

“No. Not-“ You take a steadying breath. “Angry, angry. Like If  you can’t get them in line, I can start looking for someone who will.”

You echo Valentina’s words, a thin chill running up your spine. Bucky’s gone still, his hands hovering at his tie, and you wonder if he cares.

If the threat means nothing to him where it means the whole universe to you.

You need this job. You’ve worked for it, you survived brutal application process, the training period where the New Avengers were treating you like a rotten au pair they wanted to drive out of the house, the public scrutiny and surprising amount of foul press about your body, your hair, your personality and relationships.

Valentina threatens to fire you every month. You think it’s her way of saying she likes you.

But you’d gotten close to the team. They tell you their problems like you’re going to wave a magic wand and fix them, and you haven’t helped yourself by actually doing that.

From their point of view, they go to you and complain about something trivial. Alexei wants more missions in snowy areas, they remind him of Great Mother Russia. John needs everyone to stop calling his hat stupid. Ava thinks the tea in the kitchen tastes like ass, and would like it corrected, please.

Usually, you have to tell them to say please. The only ones who always say please are Bob and Bucky, and they barely ask for anything anyway.

But if you get that please, you wave a magic wand.

You research until you uncover a drug cartel in northmost Alaska for Alexei. You make threats and ambush column writers on the street for John, even run a fucking propaganda campaign to make his dumb beret come back in style. You rewrite a whole contract with the tea company for Ava, and barely get a thank you in return.

But you’re not magic. And even if you were, there’s one wish your magic wand can’t grant.

Changing Valentina’s mind.

Bucky had asked you to talk to her about the events. He asked because they send him for the big request, like he’s their fucking dad or something.

And you tried. You did.

Valentina said no. And her threat wasn’t a playful, look at how amazing I am for hiring you joke. It was real.

She won’t bend on it. And now you look at Bucky hopelessly, begging him to understand.

“I can try again in a few months.” You mumble, shifting on your feet. “But- Not now.”

“No, it’s fine. They’ll survive, but-“ Bucky frowns, turning around from the mirror. “Are you okay?”

You blink at him, a lump building in your throat. Something is stinging behind your eyes, your head spinning, and you nod weakly.

Bucky says your name, taking a step forward.

You take a step back.

You are not a damsel or foolish civilian girl for him to comfort. You are a grown woman, who can handle being in trouble with her boss alone. Bucky’s reaching out like he’s going to try and catch you, his eyes so strangely soft, and your stomach does a flip.

You don’t need his pity.

You don’t need him.

“I’m fine, James.” You snip, and Bucky’s hand freezes. “Fix your tie.”

“I- Uh-“ He glances down. “Already did?”

You shrug, raising your chin. “Then fix it again.”

You turn on your heels before he can say anything else, and march out of the dressing room.

It’s one of the rules you have for yourself. You’re not supposed to be alone with him. Not for more than ten minutes. Your hands get all sweaty, and he sees right through you, and it jeopardizes everything.

You can’t be in love with Bucky. You are, but you can’t be.

It puts your job at risk, and your job is your life. It’s getting you out of college debt, it gives you health insurance, it paid for your parent’s house and your sibling’s college, and soon it’s going to pay for you to have a home, which is almost unheard of in your generation.

Loving Bucky is a distraction. A pipe dream through a straw, flimsy and pointless. You will not risk your fucking life just so that the pretty, sweet, strong man will like you back.

Your dumb body and heart get all giddy in his presence, but you know better. You are better.

Love like this—mind numbing, world moving love—is for schoolgirls. You’re stronger.

Bucky does not need to be privy to the fact that you love him. He’s lucky he knows you like him. If you loved him a little less, you might’ve been able to pretend you didn’t care about his existence at all.

You’d tried that, when you felt the love start to bloom. There had been a whole week, where you ignored him entirely.

It had made you sick. Literally. You’d lost sleep and stopped eating, your thoughts entirely devoted to just missing him—his dry humor, his smile, his small, silent acts of kindness and his face, oh his face—and it had gotten so bad you’d called out with the flu by Friday.

Then you went to the doctor. And you didn’t have the flu. You just missed Bucky.

He’d visited you on Saturday, while you lay in your bed like some Shakespearian heroine, lamenting and tormented by your devotion. He brought you soup, his Ma’s recipe, because he hates you.

“Can I ask you something?” He’d said while you devoured the soup straight from the container, your stomach deciding to cooperate in his presence.

You’d hummed around a noddle, and his lips had twitched.

In the light, he’d been looking at you like you mattered to him. Like you were cute.

Bucky’s hand had flexed on the mattress, as you blinked up at him. He’d looked away, tongue darting over his lips, and spoken low words.

“Did I do somethin’ to you?”

You’d choked on a noodle. “What?”

“Just- before you got sick. We hadn’t been talking.” He’d sighed. “You left the room, when I walked in. And if I did somethin’, that make you uncomfortable or whatever, I’m sorry.”

That had been the moment. The out. If you were smart, you would’ve told him you needed space, or that he did make you uncomfortable, and it was best if you just didn’t speak for a while.

But he’d looked so sad. Almost nervous, his lips in a tight line and a flush on his ears.

So you’d shaken your head.

Because you’re weak, and so in love with him it’s pathetic, and if he asked you’d open up the sky with your bare hands, no please required.

“No. We’re okay.” You’d offered him a small smile. “Just really wasn’t feeling well.”

Bucky had nodded, and grinned. The kind of grin that lit up in his eyes and make your whole chest sing with delight. You made him happy. You made him smile.

“Alright. Good.” He’d kissed your sweaty brow, and lightning had sparked through your body.

You’d leaned into the touch, just barely.

Bucky, by a small mercy, hadn’t noticed at all.

“Feel better, doll.” He’d said before he left, his tone something close to tender and hopeful.

You had within the hour.

It had been the  last straw.,

You were in love with him. There was no outrunning it or stomping it down. But you don’t stay alone with him for too long. You don’t give him special treatment. You tell no one, and deny any accusations.

Jealousy isn’t allowed. He’s not yours to be possessive over.

That doesn’t stop the sting, as you watch him talk to some rich lady across the room. She’s dressed like a bird, all feathers, her lips more like a beak, long nails like talons. You fight off a sour expression, when she reaches up to brush something from his shoulder.

There’s nothing there. You pressed his suit, and he’s a clean man.

You could rip her talons off her fingers and feed them to her. That would be a nice lesson.

That you’re not allowed to teach.

He’s not yours.

You turn back to the bar, taking a heavy breath through your nose and ordering another drink. The only upside of these parties is that you’re allowed to get wasted. You’ve got the team trained on good behavior, the worst that happens anymore is Alexei trying to grab the band’s microphone so he can tell a story. You can handle that drunk or sober.

Right now, it’s going to need to be drunk. When you turn back to watch the party, Bucky’s still talking to the bird.

You down your glass in one gulp, and push off the bar. You won’t fall into this trap. It’s not her fault she got his attention. Not his fault he’s entertaining it.

It is entirely your fault, for daring to look and letting your heart tell you he’d stay silently loyal to a love he doesn’t even feel in return.

You glide through the crowd, putting as much distance as you can between yourself and them. You can get through this. You’ve done it a million times before, and you’ll do it a million times again.

“You’re allowed to have fun at these, you know?”

You sigh, giving Yelena a flat look.

She materialized at your side. You’ve gotten used to it.

“I am having fun.”

That gets an amused smirk. “You look like someone kicked your puppy.”

“I’m tired-“

“We are all tired. That is why we drink.” She clinks her glass against yours. “But you are sad drunk. Be happy drunk.”

“I’m trying.” You grumble under your breath, taking another large swig, and Yelena laughs.

“You know what your problem is?”

“No.”

“You are angrier than Barnes at joy.” She points Bucky out in the crowd, and you bite your tongue until it bleeds.

You never lost track of him in the crowd. You don’t think you could if you tried. But it still feels like you’re being ripped open, to see that he’s letting the bird touch him. She’s tracing her finger over his tie, tilting her head and smiling like a wolf ready to eat him alive, and you’re going to fucking throw up-

“At least he is letting loose.” Yelena hums, and you force your face back into an indifferent mask. “Even if it is with a woman dressed like a duckling.”

You choke on your drink, covering your mouth with your hand. Yelena looks up at you with delight in her eyes, watching you try to wipe the bit of champagne that escaped your lips.

“She laughs! I have never seen you laugh, it is weird. Disturbing-“

“Shut up.” You mutter, wiping the last drops from your cheek. “You’ve heard me laugh before.”

“Have I? I think I would remember the witch experiencing joy.”

“I am not a witch-“

“You are magic and mean.”

“I’m not mean-“

“Not to us.” Yelena shrugs, grabbing some cheese off a wandering server. “But to everyone else. Bucky Barnes says you tried to talk to Valentia about these dummy parties.”

You swallow. “I did, but- Yelena-“

“It is okay. He says you tried, and though he is untrustworthy fool, I believe him.”

You nod, taking the cheese Yelena’s offering you, then frown. “Bucky’s not untrustworthy-“

“No. About most things.” She takes her cheese in one bite, speaking through the mouthful. “He will not be going home with duck-woman tonight. We will see you in the morning?”

“You’ll see me in an hour, I’m going back to the Watchtower with you-“

“Hm. No you are not.” Yelena smiles knowingly. “Turn on your location. It is safer.”

You gape at her, unable to get another word in before she’s walking away. You don’t know why you’re surprised she knows. Of course she does. She’s Yelena.

But it makes your fingers curl on your glass, your eyes darting back to Bucky and the duck.

She’s draped herself over him, cooing and batting her eyelashes. He’s barely looking at her at all.

Bucky’s scanning over the room, a tight frown on his face. Then, for a split second, your eyes meet.

You rip your gaze away, downing what little was left of your champagne. Yelena was right.

There’s no way you’re going home tonight.

Some would call it unhealthy. You call it a survival technique.

“Another one?” The bartender asks you as you return, nodding to your empty glass.

You smile and giggle, leaning over the counter, making your voice all airy and high. “You remember me?”

The bartender’s smiler widens, and you twirl your hair.

He’s nothing bad to look at. Rich skin and deep, gentle eyes. Nice, thick arms. Short hair. Smells like some thick, amber cologne that won’t give you a migraine.

He’ll do just fine.

By the time he’s done, you’ll still be thinking about Bucky. You’ll probably picture him, as this sweet bartender fucks you like an animal. You’ve gotten good at not calling Bucky’s name, too, so you can probably squeeze out two or three rounds.

It’s a band-aid on some internal bleeding. It’s a show that fixes nothing, but at least the illusion makes everyone else see what you need them to.

You don’t care about Bucky at all.

And you certainly don’t look for him one more time before the bartender takes you home.  

The bartender is the latest in a long, long line. It’s nothing you’re ashamed of, nothing you bother to hide.

Even if only Yelena will say it, the rest of the team certainly knows. Fuck, even Valentina and Mel know. Last summer you went to a conference, and Mel joked that you’ll tear your way though half the crowd before midnight.

“Do you think I’m some kind of slutty Cinderella?” You’d joked, and she’d smiled.

“Is it bad if I say yes?”

You’d laughed it off, and you know those kinds of jokes are supposed to hurt, but it’s barely even a paper cut. You know why you sleep around, and if people think you’re just a whoreing man-eater, there’s more power and mystique than being a starry-eyed, lovelorn idiot over one old man.

The system works. You fuck around, and no one even thinks you might be interested in romance.

In a life with Bucky, where you roll over and he’s always on the other side of the bed. Where morning sex is slow and loving, drizzled in honey and adoration, rather than just one more quick fuck before you march out the door.

He’d be soft. Gentle. You’ve seen how he handles fragile object, how he arranges everything so meticulously and touches everything he finds important with such care.

You’d like to be something he finds important. You’d like to be the most important thing in his life. His doll, smiling at him and leaning your chin on his shoulder, listening to all his problems and sitting in his lap to whine about your own. Finding yourself under him in bed with your arms pinned up, giggling while he kisses all over your neck then gasping when he moves to your breasts.

That’s the move Bartender pulled last night. And it felt fine. Nice enough. You’d moaned a little louder than you needed to—only slightly over-performing—but you really hadn’t hated it. Hadn’t hated him.

Eventually, you’d  gotten sick of it and flipped him over. Pinned his hands and rode his cock until you came with a tiny, pleasant shiver, then jerked him off until he stained your tits.

“Call me later?” Bartender asks, and you give him a sweet smile, looking up from your shoes.

“Sure. Bye!”

“Wait, you don’t have my number-“

You’re already out the door. Fixing the straps of your dress as you walk down the hall, calling your ride without a glance back.

Nobody says anything when you get back to the tower. Alexei high fives you, but that’s the only reaction at all.

Bucky isn’t there, though.

Why isn’t Bucky there.

“Where’s Barnes?” You say, causally as possible, and John grumbles.

“Thought being the keeper was your job, not ours-“

“He’s in the gym.” Ava drawls over John. “He’s been there all morning.”

You nod, grabbing your coffee, and mutter that you’re going to go get changed. You’re not going to check on him wearing the clothing. He’s not your top priority.

That’s the whole illusion.

You take a long, hot shower, and the Bartender really was good, but you’re still aching.

You’re thinking about Bucky.

About him in they gym all morning. How even a super soldier gets sweaty after a while, even if he doesn’t lose stamina. How he’s going to be panting and grunting, his hair stuck to his brow and neck, maybe his shirt will be off and you’ll get to see his broad, thick chest-

Your fingers had wandered between your thighs, and you’ve pressed yourself back up against the wall. Angled your hips up, your legs spread shamelessly wide, short moans falling from your lips as the water pelted against your clit. You slide two fingers in and out of your pussy, picturing Bucky in the shower with you.

“Needy fuckin’ baby.” He’d murmur in your ear, body folded over yours. “You’d be soaked without the water, wouldn’t you. Ready for me when I so much as look at you, my perfect little slut-“

You moan him name into the shower, and the Bucky in your head chuckles.

He’d graze his lips over your jaw, crook his thick fingers deep inside your weeping cunt, start to brutally rub on that gummy, sensitive spot. You’d call his name again and he’d kiss you, rough and deep, and your legs would give out as you came all over his hand-

You slump down to the floor, turning your head to avoid the fall of the water. Your clit throbs, your body still shaking, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

Fantasies help too. The tend you over, stop you from doing something stupid.

But they can be dangerous too. Because you get dressed and go to find Bucky—which is normal, because it’s your job—and find him twice the mess you pictured.

He’s shirtless alright. Shirtless and wearing loose shorts. There’s a feralness, to the way he’s punching the bags, a wild glint in his eyes and his hair flying around his face. He hasn’t even bothered to put it up, and with how his chest is heaving, he’s been at this a while.

All morning. Ava said.

You swallow the drool, letting your eyes rake over his flexing muscles, his shining skin, his sharp, clenched jaw. Christ, how you’d like all that brutal attention turned on you. He could throw you around like that punching bag, rearrange your guts and grab you until you bruised, just as long as he kissed the bruises after.

You’re supposed to be doing your job.

Just for today, you let yourself stare for more than a second before dragging yourself together and clearing your throat.

Bucky catches his punching bag, turning to you immediately. You smile at him, and his jaw flexes.

“You’re home.”

“Obviously.” You shrug, glancing at the bag. “Ava says you’ve been here all morning.”

He grunts, releasing the bag and slowly pulling off his gloves.

Bucky never wears gloves. Not when it’s just a workout. You’re surprised the bag isn’t broken.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He mutters, and you frown.

“Nightmares? I can get another appointment with Dr. Indira-“

“No. The meds are fine. Just-“ He sighs, giving you an unreadable look. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You blink at him, tilting your head slightly. Bucky’s spent years getting back to a tolerable sleep schedule. You helped with every appointment, with every new med and strategy. It took months to get right, and if it’s not working anymore-

“I’m fine.” Bucky repeats firmly, and you scowl.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Could hear you thinking, doll.”

You stick your tongue out, digging your nails into your arm. “Shut up.”

He chuckles dryly, unhooking the bag from the ceiling. “You back for the day?”

“I’m always back for the day, it’s my job-“

“You weren’t doin’ your job last night. Maybe you’re seein’ the guy again.”

You flush at that, turning your chin up to hide it. When Bucky turns to look at you, you glare at him, and his mouth twitches.

He raises his brows in silent challenge. You can’t help yourself. It’s Bucky giving you the bait.

“I don’t see people twice. You know that.”

He snorts. “Yeah. I do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“Nothin’. I’m agreeing with you-“

“You didn’t say it like you were agreeing with me.” You snap. “You said it- You- Yeah. I do.”

You drop your voice to mimic his sardonic, dismissive tone, and Bucky gives you a look of almost mocking delight.

“You’re not good at impressions, are you?”

“I’m not- You just said it like an asshole-“

“You think I’m an asshole?”

“I think you’re like an asshole.” You sneer, and Bucky’s grin widens.

You don’t know what’s gotten into him this morning. You’ve been sleeping around for almost two years now. If he had a problem with it, he’s never so much as glared at you after.

He’s barely even looked at you. Everyone else teases or lets it go, but Bucky doesn’t even turn your way. Because you’re nothing but a friend to him, just like he’s supposed to be to you.

But now he’s taking a large step forward, looking at you with a strange glint in his eyes that makes your heartrate jumpstart. You take heavy breaths through your nose, trying to keep it together. You can keep it together.

Even with Bucky towering over you, all muscle and intense, blue eyes, you have to keep it together.

“That hurts my feelings, doll.” He mutters, leaning slightly down.

You’re not touching, but you can feel the heat rolling off his body. It’s almost an aesthetic, making your head empty and mouth hang slightly open.

Keep it together.

“Then stop being like an asshole.” You manage to snap. “And I’ll stop hurting your feelings.”

He laughs again, a low, deep sound that lights a fire in your gut. “Wouldn’t it be nice, if it were that damn easy.”

You blink at him, for once completely lost in the conversation. “What?”

“Nothin’.” He shrugs, leaning in a little closer.

His breath is warm and minty on your face. He takes up your whole vision, demanding every ounce of your attention, and all you can try to do is keep your breathing steady. Bucky’s eyes rake over your body like an inspection, landing near your throat.

On a hickey, you’d forgotten to cover with makeup.

You open your mouth to make a lame excuse, but he’s already moving.

Bucky reaches up his metal hand, and drags his thumb over the mark. Over your collarbone, then your sternum, then your neck. His touch is feather light and taunting. Your breath catches, your eyes fluttering against your will. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping fully around your throat. Your body reacts like a magnet, leaning into the touch.

He drags his attention back to your slack, hopeless face, your parted lips and glossy eyes.

His hand is just resting on your throat. His tongue darts over his lips, but you can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Why he’s doing this to you, when he’s never once looked at you like he is now.

Like you’re something tantalizing he needs to taste.

Like he’s hanging onto himself by a thread, and isn’t sure if his grip will slip before the string just snaps.

You try to say his name, to make him realize what he’s doing. How close he’s gotten, how your knees are threatening to give, if he doesn’t look away now. But it just comes out a shaky exhale, and Bucky looks hungrier.

Bucky doesn’t do this kind of thing. Not to you. He’s your friend—you cling so desperately to the fact that at least he’s your friend, at least he doesn’t hate or desire you, at least you’re the only one being broken—but now his breath is fanning over your flushed  face, his eyes blown out like he’s just as stranded in the dark as you are, his fingers digging into the nape of your neck like he’s trying to leave a mark.

All you’d have to do is lean a little forward and your lips would meet. Every secret fantasy—in the dead of night, until the shower so even the walls don’t hear your shame—would be real.

You can’t let this be real.

Bucky’s eyes flick down to your lips. His nostrils flare, moving slightly forward until your knees and chests bump.

With every bit of resolve you’ve got, you move a hand up to his chest.

He goes rigid. Frozen like he’s waiting for you to shove him or drag him closer. Your fingers curl in the cloth of his shirt, as his grip slackens on your neck.

“Bucky…” You whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for.

He makes the hard choice for you.

Bucky lets go of you, stumbling back as if repelled. He frowns, blinks at you once, then just… leaves.

Walks out of the gym without another glance in your direction, swaying and stranded in the room.

Alone. Just like you wanted.

The air around you so, so cold.

You don’t stop thinking about it.

A week passes. Work resumes like normal, and Bucky behaves as if nothing happened at all.

Technically it wasn’t anything. Nothing HR would care about, at least. In a workplace of assassins and mercenaries, getting choked is more of a don’t be such a fucking pussy thing.

Which isn’t amazing legally. But Bucky didn’t hurt you. If you’d shoved him, you’re sure he would’ve let go.

But you hadn’t shoved him. He’d just stared at you with that look—the one now seared into your memory, that makes your thighs press together and thoughts work overtime—then left.

On missions he’s treating you the same as ever. Small grins and low, sarcastic jokes that make you both smile. Once in the kitchen he taps your shoulder and passes you tea without a word. John walks in a second later, shouting about how he wants a better parking spot—which is ridiculous, you don’t have parking spots, it’s a limited garage with two hundred parking spots and like eight people who use them—and Bucky puts a firm hand on your shoulder before you can stand up and start fixing it.

“Make him ask.” He mutters, low enough for only you to hear. “You gotta start makin’ them say please.”

You snort, breaking off a piece of your muffin. “You ever teach a toddler raised by wolves manners?”

He frowns. “Children don’t get raised by wolves-“

“They do in stories.”

“What stories-“

“The Jungle Book. Phineas and Ferb, but- Those are ocelots.”

Bucky hums, tongue flicking over his lip. “Y’know I met an ocelot once-“

“You met an ocelot-“

“In 19… 86?”

You snort. “Old man.”

“Shut up.” He nudges your knee with his, and the whole world stops for a second. “But yeah, I met one. Reminds me of someone.”

“Yeah?” You give him an expectant look, and he smirks.

“Walker.”

You giggle.

Like a fucking ditzy idiot, you giggle, and John cuts off his rant to look at you like you just vomited.

“What was that sound.”

“She laughed, John.” Bucky says dryly, taking a long drink of his coffee, and John frowns.

“No, I’ve heard her laugh, she laughs like a swamp witch-“

Your mouth falls open. “I do not-“

“Yes, you do, it’s all-“

“Walker.” Bucky grunts, giving John a silent, firm glare.

John scowls. “Whatever. Stop flirting with her so she can fix my damn parking spot.”

You flush, the usual biting tactic not working at all. Beside you, Bucky doesn’t even talk. He excuses himself as soon as John starts asking why Yelena’s scooter even needs a spot over his bike, leaving the space next to you just as empty and cold as before.

He probably just didn’t want to listen to John. You don’t either, you’re just being paid a disgusting amount of money that depends on going to Yelena and buying her five cakes in exchange for her moving her scooter five feet to the left.

Bucky might’ve already forgotten about the gym. Everything would be easier if he did. No complex conversations or dynamic. Just your livelihood safe, and Bucky not thinking about you.

Which is fine. Everything, as always, is perfectly fine.

You go out that weekend. There’s a club several blocks over where you know the bartenders and you usually get free drinks. You just need to not be in the tower. To not be near him, and remember that you are, in fact, capable of surviving silent love.

“You’re dressed up.” Bucky mutters as you stand at the elevator, and you laugh.

“Look at you, being observational.”

You only get a grunt in return.

“I won’t be out late,” you sound like a fucking mom, sliding on your heels and giving instructions about how to care for four grown adults. “Bob might forget where his meds are, in the new spot-“

“Top right cabinet.” Bucky mutters, and you nod.

“Don’t let Yelena drink coffee past seven, she’ll be up all night. Switch her to tea. If Alexei is looking for me, tell him I rented all the movies on the TV, and tell John I ordered his gun part-“

“We’ve got an event tomorrow.” Bucky says suddenly. “Save the seals. In Philly. We gotta leave early-“

“No, we don’t.” You grab your bag, not looking him in the eyes.

That always makes you want to stay. Forgetting Bucky—the point of this whole thing—is impossible when you look in his stupid, beautiful eyes.

“I got us out of it.” You tuck your phone in your bag, rolling out a crink in your neck. “And it was Save the Sea Lions.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. You usually don’t let yourself look back, but then he says your name.

“What time are you gonna be home?”

You swallow. His eyes are shining on yours. There’s a pull in your chest, that hurts to ignore.

But you’re good at it. And if you drink enough, you won’t be able to feel it at all.

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Don’t wait up.”

You turn and walk away. He can’t be allowed to call you back. You’d always return to his side.

The night is just as awful as you expect. You drink too much, and find someone with blue eyes that can artificially feed the love ringing in your ears. It’s under the beat of every song, and on the tip of your tongue as they fuck you into a mattress.

You leave long before dawn, and far after midnight. Call a car and fix your hair in the backseat, like anything matters at all.

When the elevator dings, you touch the wall to keep yourself walking steady.

There’s a lamp on, in the living area. You poke your head in to check it’s not Bob.

It’s not.

It’s Bucky.

He looks you up and down, taking in the disaster like it’s a book. You smile at him. He doesn’t smile back.

His eyes land on a hickey near your jaw. His tongue flick, his brows knit.

And you thought you were good. That even after the gym, you were good.

But Bucky stares at you like you’re nothing. Not gutter trash or a buzzing fly.

Just thin air he’s trying to look right through.

He turns off the light, and walks past you again. Your shoulders brush, and the world shakes.

And you’re alone again. Which isn’t the end of the world.

Your heart is doing this strange, boiling roll about how it is the end of the world. Burning and howling like you’re flaying it alive, when it is perfectly fine.

Everything, even as your chest starts to absorb that cold, hollow space, is fine.

It’s not fine on the roof.

Everything is all in it’s perfect place, and then… the roof.

You go up there to listen to the city. To lean over the edge and watch the lights blink, and wonder if you’re really this small. It’s where you get dramatic, and listen music and pretend you’re important. Where you cry when you need it, your tears carried away in the wind. Where you whine to the sky about how much you love Bucky, and how pathetic it is, then go back inside and go about your business.

It’s a good thing you hadn’t quite gotten to that last stage yet, when you heard the door close behind you.

That’s where everything started to crumble apart.

Bucky says your name, and you glance over your shoulder, not hiding your surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” He shrugs, holding up his phone. “Called three times.”

“Oh. No service-“

“Yeah, figured that out.” He stops at your side, leaning over the wall. “But you’re here.”

“I’m here.” You pause. “Where did you think I was?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you need something-“

“Not really.”

“Bucky-“

“Just wanted to know where you were.” He mutters, glaring out at the city. “Didn’t know that was a crime.”

You don’t have anything to say to that. You try, opening and closing your mouth, but everything you can think of is mean. You don’t like being mean to Bucky, not when something in the air feels raw. Looking at his shoulders, it’s like he’s about to snap. You want to help. To make it better for him.

For this, you’re not sure how.

“You like it up here?” He asks, and you nod.

“I- I like seeing the people.”

“Course you do.” He mutters, dragging his gaze up to the sky.

“Wha-“

“There used to be more stars.” He cuts you off, brows knitting tight. “You woulda liked that too.”

You stare at him. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was drunk. “I like the stars now just fine. All three of them.”

That gets a low laugh, even if he shakes his head. “Nah. In the 40s, it was different. You woulda loved that.”

“The 40s? Where I would’ve been property-“

“Not that part, but- The sky. The water was cleaner, the air-“ He sighs, looking back down to the city. “Never mind. Forget it.”

You swallow, trying to make your voice softer. “Do you ever want to go back?”

“To the 40s?” He snorts. “Fuck no. There are just- Some things. That I think that you would’ve liked.”

“Oh.” You watch his jaw clench in the dark, fidgeting with your fingers. “What would Yelena have liked?”

Bucky shrugs. “I dunno.”

You blink, lost for words again. Bucky takes over the silence first.

“You really never see any of them twice?”

“Any- Huh?”

“Your… people.” He clarifies, a bitter look on his face. You frown.

“My hookups?”

He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No? I don’t even get their names.”

“But you fuck them?”

“Oh- Um-“ You flush, looking back out to the city. “Yeah?”

“Hm. Seems unsafe.”

“I share my location with Yelena, and I’m pretty sure Valentina put an implant in me, so I think I’m safe.”

It’s a joke. Bucky doesn’t laugh. “Why don’t you bother to date ‘em?”

You feel his gaze burning into you. It’s hard to speak in an even voice. “I- I don’t know-“

“They gotta have something for your attention.” He mutters, but it sounds like it’s mostly to himself. “The hell are they doing that isn’t up to your bar? What is up to your bar?”

It’s impossible not to look at him now. His gaze is demanding, and your heart starts to flutter under the attention.

“Why do you care?” You try to snap. It sounds weak.

Bucky chuckles to himself. “Why do I care, doll? You got the fix for everything.” He leans a little forward.

Your lips are inches away. His forearm is pressed against yours, and the sky is so big over your head but it’s all narrowing down.

It’s Bucky. Just Bucky. So close, closer than before, close like he wants to be touched. Like that could be allowed.

His eyes shining on yours in the dark.

His voice, deep and mocking and enchanting you like a bee to flowers.

“What’s my fix for this?” He looks back to your lips, his tongue flicking out. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do, ‘cause I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind.”

You stare at him, voice small. “Bucky, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“I know.” He sighs. “Just- Tell me no.”

“No-“

He reaches up, thumb brushing over your lips, and your whole head goes quiet.

“Tell me to walk.” He mutters, gaze dragging back to yours. “Now. Please.”

You should. If your brain was working, it would’ve given him what he wanted.

But every thought but Bucky has left the building. And now it’s just your heart, singing his name.

You kiss him. It’s a movement like a wave, rising up until your lips are comfortably pressed together, every movement so natural you’d think you’d kissed a million times before.

Bucky cups your face, return every bit of passion in a second. You melt into him, your bodies moving like you were made for this, the heat spreading from his touch and taste straight to your core.

You grind forward, and Bucky moans your name.

It flips a switch. You’re not just a flame, kindled and alight in his arms.

You’re not supposed to do this.

You pull back, and Bucky freezes. You open your mouth, trying to find an apology, to beg him to convince you that this is a good idea.

But Bucky just lets you go.

You both stare at each other. You take a small step closer, asking him to catch you.

It’s not fine. You can’t breathe, if he walks away. You’re supposed to be stronger than that, but the world is going to fucking end, if Bucky leaves you here alone again.

“Why.” He rasps, and you shake your head.

“Bucky-“

“If you’re not- If this isn’t what I’ve been reading-“

“No, it’s-“

“You kissed me-“

“I know-“

“And you-“

“I know!” You scream, taking a stumbling step back. “I know, Bucky, I know- I just can’t!”

“Can’t what?” He takes a step forward. “Just tell me you’re not interested, I told you I’d walk-“

“But-“ Your hands wring, unsure what to do if they’re not allowed to touch him. “I don’t want you to walk.”

“But you shoved me-“

“I know.” You whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky just stares at you, and you bow your head, hugging your chest tight. He’s going to walk. This time, he’s going to walk away-

“Can you give me the reason?” He mutters, and when you risk a look up, he’s hunched into himself like a kicked puppy. “I mean- I can try and help work it out, maybe change something-“

“No, it’s not-“ You swallow. “You don’t need to change anything Bucky.” Tears prick at your eyes. “You’re perfect.”

He nods, then mutters, “But you don’t want me.”

“I just- It’s-“ You take a shaking breath, looking up to the sky before you speak. “I’m negotiable, okay. I worked really hard to get where I am, and I- I’m not like you. Valentina can find another version of me, who doesn’t fall in love with her superheroes, and then everything- everything- That I have worked for is gone.”

You give him a pleading look, begging him to understand.

Bucky looks like you shot him. You don’t realize why until it’s too late.

“You love me?” His voice is rough, and your heart drops to your stomach.

“I- That’s- That wasn’t my point-“

“But you do-“

“I’m trying to say I shouldn’t-“

“But you do.” He mutters. He says it like it’s a miracle, and not your greatest curse. “You love me.”

“Well, don’t fucking say it like that.” You snap. “Of course I- You’re you.”

“And you’re you.” He counters, taking a step forward.

Your legs can’t seem to will themselves to step back. “Yeah. That’s my whole point-“

“It’s allowed.” He mutters, and you blink.

“What?”

“Us. Dating.” His eyes might be searing into your soul. “I checked.”

“Oh- Okay.” You frown slightly. “Why did you check?”

“Because.” Bucky’s hovering over you again. Both of you clear under the open sky, the heat from his body radiating onto yours, his hand slowly rising up to trace your waste. You want to murmur his name, but you can’t remember how words work.

Again, it’s all just Bucky.

“I can’t survive another hour.” He mutters, tracing a hand over your face. “Pretending I don’t need you like oxygen.”

Your mouth falls open. Bucky presses closer.

“It kills me, doll. Bein’ your friend kills me, ‘cause I’m lucky you’re just nice enough to pretend we’re better than a pack of feral animals with muscles and powers, but then you’re strong and kind and always so goddamn pretty, and I’m your friend but you’re my whole damn world.”

“Bucky-“

“I don’t ask you for anything.” He mutters, leaning down until your lips brush. “’Cause there’s nothing I want from you that I got any right to have. I want all your smiles, doll. Those cute snorts and glares, when you’re sad and hide it like it’s not making the whole place feel wrong, when you’re getting lost and you need someone to hold onto, hold onto me. Anything you need, I’d get. Anything. I’ll even let you keep fucking around with all that asses that can’t keep you satisfied for more than a night, if that’s what you need. But,” he drops his brow against yours, voice thick. “I want your mornings. Please.”

You can’t think enough to speak. If you do, you’ll break the moment and you want it to last forever.

“We can keep it secret.” He’s sinking down. Getting on his knees. “Or if Valentina threatens to sack you, I’ll threaten to walk. Just-“

“Bucky.” You whisper, because there’s only one answer you can give.

He stares at you desperately, your fingers combing through his hair. You’re tired of being alone.

And his body, pressed against yours is so warm.

“Okay.” You whisper, and his throat bobs.

“Okay?”

You nod, and smile.

Bucky smiles back.

And you’re under open sky, but you don’t really care who knows.

You fall into him, just as he rises into you. And this is even better than the kiss. This is hungry. Urgent and made of a fever you’re finally just letting sweep you away.

Bucky grabs at your hips, one arm sliding around your back as the other cradles the back of your head. Your arms wrap around his neck, your leg hiking up to his hip, and your kisses are urgent and sloppy. Open mouths pressed over each other, tongues tangled together with moans, Bucky’s hand dropping to your ass as your nails dig into his neck.

He squeezes, and you can’t stop the moan. Your fingers scramble to tangle in his hair, and he grunts at the pull, picking you fully up off the ground.

He’s getting hard, against your core. You grind down, trailing kisses over his jaw and trying to spur him into action.

Bucky moans in your ear, squeezing your ass again.

“Doll, you’re startin’ something-“

“Good.” You whisper, nipping at his throat. “Want it. Want it so bad, Bucky, wanted you forever-“

He groans, grabbing your jaw and slamming your lips back together. You make a high noise of delight, grinding faster and faster, the fractured pressure winding you tight like an electrical coil about to snap.

Bucky stumbles blindly back to the door, his mouth never fully leaving yours. His grip on you is possessive, and he stops every few feet, to kiss you deeper, squeezing your ass again. His hand slips further down, his fingers brushing over your core through your pants, and you whine into his mouth.

You barely make it into the stairwell.

Bucky kicks the door closed behind you, pauses for a split second, then whirls around and pins you against the wall. You start to pull at his shirt, but he’s got a single mind.

His mouth slots over yours, swallowing every single breath and gasp of his name. One hand grabs your wrists, pinning them over your head, and the other starts to tease down your body. Over your collarbone, up and down your sides, under your shirt to palm your breasts.

“Bucky…” You whine against his lips, and he only grunts, pinching at your nipple. “No- No teasing-“

“’M not teasing.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, dragging his hand back down to your waist. “I’m takin’ my time, doll. There’s a difference.”

“It- It just feels-“ Stars spark behind your eyes, when he switches to the other nipple. “God, Bucky-“

“Feels what?” He mocks, leaning back just enough to watch your expression. “Gonna use your words like a good girl.”

You try to snap back, but Bucky pinches the sensitive bud and your mouth falls stupidly open. Your breathing is coming short and fast, your head spinning with desire, and Bucky’s just playing with you like his favorite toy.

But God, being his favorite anything is paradise.

When he’s done with your breasts, your short breathless pleas for more completely ignored, he starts to kiss you again.

You just think he wants to taste your moan, when he finally shoves down your pants.

“Fuck.” He groans, dragging his fingers between your pussy lips, your head falling back against the door with a squeak. “You’re soaked. You always walk around this soaked for me, baby? Always wondering when I’ll finally be the one to take care of this pretty fuckin’ mess, fuck you so dumb you can’t even remember how to stand?”

You nod, straining at his hold on your wrists. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, bare to his whims and exposed, but you need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, for the cool, metal fingers brushing teasing touches over your clit to just get inside of you, to let the release boiling over inside of you explode. They way you’re reacting to his light touches, you’d think you were a blushing virgin. You certainly feel like one.

You want to touch him. You need to touch him-

“Hey.” He spanks your pussy, and your whole body rushes with heat. “Asked you a question-“

“Yes.” You moan, giving him your best, doe-eyed stare. “Please, Bucky, fill me, I- I need it- Need you-“

That does it for him. He groans, and two fingers tease at your entrance. Bucky watches your reaction carefully, your legs spreading in offering, eyes still soft and pleading on his.

“Bet you’re gonna taste good.” He mutters, smearing your arousal all over your pussy, knuckles grazing your clit. “Think when I’m done with this, I’ll sit you on my face. Let you ride it until I’m drowning in it. You can touch me all you want, like that. But I’m not lettin’ you up until you’re begging.”

Bucky slides one finger in, slow and taunting. You squeeze around him, and he groans.

“Goddamnit, babydoll, you’re perfect.” He kisses all over your face, your lust glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter with desire. “My pretty girl, mine-“

Another finger. Then a third. He starts to pump slowly, and you make a sound like his name.

“I know.” Bucky kisses your cheek, the pace picking up. “I know, but you’re takin’ it so good. Jesus, look at you.”

He yanks his hand out, spanking your pussy before shoving them back in, and you scream with pleasure.

“This fucking dumb on my hand, you’re gonna be drooling on my cock. I’ll fuck that smart head empty, keep you all pretty and relaxed in my bed for a month-“

You moan again, dropping your brow against his, and Bucky chuckles.

“Oh, you fuckin’ like that. Like the idea of bein’ nothing but a pretty slut for me, spending every day being fed and stuffed full of cock. You can put in your mouth, doll, take it how ever you want. Touch yourself  in front of me, jerk me off, just get on your hands and knees and I’ll take you, just spank your pretty fuckin’ ass until you’re begging for me to fuck you-“

His fingers are drilling into your cunt now, the wet sounds echoing through the stairwell. He’s going faster than a machine, abusing your pussy until it’s fluttering and dripping down your thighs, slamming against that deep spot and driving you right up to the edge. When he chuckles the sound rolls through you, and when his cold thumb starts to rub furious circles on your clit, you open your mouth in a silent scream.

“That’s it, baby, there you go. All relaxed and happy.” He kisses you gently, and you whine.

Bucky smirks, twisting his fingers as his pace hits an impossible, skin-slapping high.

“Come for me.” He mutters in your ear, thumb working your clit into a frenzy. “Give it to me, baby, c’mon-“

Your release hits your with a scream. Your body goes limp as the stimulation turns into a blinding rush of pleasure, your pussy clenching wildly around Bucky’s fingers and a hot, wet gushing sound hitting your ears as your grind onto his hand.

Bucky pulls out slowly, keeping your hands above your head.

Then he cleans his fingers, holding your gaze the whole time.

Your hips buck, your fingers itching to hold onto more than just his wrist, and he grins. Leans down to kiss you sweetly, his lips tasting of your own arousal and making the heat in you spark up even faster than before.

“My room?” He mutters, and you nod.

“It’s closer.”

He hums, drawing back just enough to look you in the eyes. “And you’re staying the night?”

There’s the weight in his words. The silent promise, that he’s asking for.

It’s so easy to make it. There will be things to deal with, in the morning.

You’d rather deal with them, having Bucky at your side.

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I am.”