It was exhausting, trying to prove your humanity to people who benefited from pretending you didn’t have any. So you learned how to move like you belonged to the story they’d written. How to smile on cue. How to keep your face neutral when they asked invasive questions framed as jokes. How to make your anger small and your sadness invisible. And then, years ago, Steve Rogers stepped into your orbit like a quiet inevitability. At first, he was just another agent. Another man in a suit with an earpiece and a posture that said don’t try me. Another shadow at the edge of every room, eyes always scanning, hands always ready but never restless. Another name you weren’t supposed to know, another person you weren’t supposed to become attached to. But Steve wasn’t like the others. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t overcompensate. He didn’t treat you like a delicate thing made of PR and glass. He treated you like a person who deserved to be alive. Which – surprisingly – was rarer than it should have been. You remembered the first day in weird, sharp fragments. The residence hallway smelling like lemon polish and old money. The distant click of heels. The way your father’s chief of staff had said, “Rogers will be your detail lead moving forward.” Like you were being assigned a new password. Steve had been standing by the security office, waiting. Tall, broad-shouldered, blond in a way that looked almost unfair under fluorescent lighting. His suit fit him like armor, not fashion. When he turned his head toward you, his expression was neutral, controlled – professional to the point of being unreadable. But his eyes… His eyes were the kind that didn’t waste time. They took in the things they needed: your posture, your pace, the tension in your shoulders, the fact that you carried your phone like it could explode. The kind of assessment that wasn’t judgment. Just… attention. You held out your hand out of habit. Polished, practiced. Steve looked at it for half a second, then took it firmly – no lingering, no performative gentleness. A grip that said I am here because I am capable. “Ma’am,” he said. You hated that title. It made you sound older than you were, and smaller than you felt. Like a formality could turn you into something manageable. “You can call me–” you started, but the chief of staff cut you off. “Agent Rogers has a protocol.” Steve’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He didn’t contradict his superior. But later, when you’d turned the corner and the hallway had swallowed the staffers and their clipped voices, Steve had walked half a step behind you and said quietly, like he was offering you a piece of truth without permission… “I know your name.” You’d glanced back, surprised. He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. His gaze had stayed on the far end of the corridor, the reflective surfaces, the angles where danger hid. “Then use it,” you’d said, softer. He’d hesitated – barely. A beat long enough to feel like a choice. And then: “Yes.” Not yes to calling you by your name. Yes to respecting that you’d asked. He still didn’t use it right away. But from that moment on, you started noticing the ways he listened. The ways he did not pretend you were made of politics.

Years settle into patterns. Your life had become a long series of structured days: briefings, lunches, galas, board meetings, interviews where every question was a knife wrapped in velvet. A rotating cast of advisers. The ever-present hum of risk. And Steve became part of that hum. He was there before you were fully awake and still there after you were too tired to be anything but honest. He walked with you, drove with you, stood behind you, opened doors and closed them again with the kind of care that made you forget doors could be dangerous. He learned your routines faster than you realized you had them. How you took your coffee: too strong, no sugar, a splash of cream you pretended you didn’t need. How you started fidgeting with rings when you were overstimulated. How you crossed your arms when you were angry even if you were smiling. How you got headaches after long press days and how you tried to hide it because you didn’t want to look weak. Steve learned, too, the difference between public you and private you. Public you: poised, biting, unbothered. Private you: someone who laughed too loudly at stupid jokes when you were exhausted. Someone who sat cross-legged on the floor with a laptop and a hoodie and looked, for a moment, like you could have been anyone’s daughter – not the Vice President’s. And Steve – God, Steve – looked like he’d been built for steadiness. He didn’t talk much. He didn’t offer opinions unless asked. He existed in the space around you like a wall that didn’t suffocate. Like a presence you could lean on without it turning into a debt. Which is how it started. Not with a grand moment. With small things. Quiet things. Professional things that weren’t supposed to mean anything.

“Water.” The first time it happened, you were in the backseat of the armored SUV, stuck in traffic, air conditioning humming, your phone buzzing with messages you didn’t want to read. Steve sat opposite you, facing the rear window, eyes on the tail car. His posture was controlled, shoulders squared, the kind of stillness that came from training. You were halfway through your third coffee of the day, because caffeine was the only thing that made the exhaustion blur into something tolerable. You hadn’t realized you were rubbing your temple until Steve spoke. Just one word. “Water.” You looked up, irritated on reflex. “Excuse me?” Steve didn’t turn. “You’ve had three coffees. No water. Your hands are shaking.” You stared at him for a second, caught between annoyance and something that felt dangerously like being seen. “I’m fine.” Steve’s reflection in the tinted glass didn’t change expression. “Hydration affects cognitive function.” You scoffed. “Are you giving me a biology lesson now?” There was a pause. Then, in the same tone he might have used to identify an exit route, he added, “There’s a bottle in the side compartment.” It was so… ridiculously normal. So careful.

You could have shrugged it off. Could have ignored him. Instead, you reached down, found the bottle, twisted the cap open, and drank – just to shut him up. But halfway through, you realized your throat actually had been dry. That your head felt a fraction clearer. When you lowered the bottle, Steve finally glanced at you. Not long. Not intimate. Just a brief check, like he was confirming something in his mind. Your heart did something stupid in your chest. You looked away first, because you always looked away first. “That better?” he asked, quiet. “…Yes,” you admitted. Steve nodded once, then returned his attention to the window. No smile. No comment. No “you’re welcome.” Which somehow made it worse. Because it meant he wasn’t doing it for praise. He was doing it because he cared. And you told yourself – because you had to – that it didn’t mean anything else.

He kept doing it. Not just the water. Little reminders threaded through your days like hidden stitches. “Eat something,” he’d say when you tried to skip lunch before a meeting. “I will later.” “You said that four hours ago.” He’d offer a protein bar from his jacket pocket like it had always been there, like it wasn’t a decision he’d made because he’d noticed you forgot to take care of yourself when you were stressed. Sometimes he’d set it down near you without speaking. Sometimes he’d just glance at you pointedly until you rolled your eyes and complied. If you got a headache during a press conference, he’d shift, subtly, to block harsher light from hitting your face directly. A slight angle of his body. A fraction of shadow. If you shivered stepping out into cold wind, there would be a coat – his coat – settling over your shoulders before you even processed you were cold. He’d do it without meeting your eyes, like he was afraid of what he might see there. You always tried to hand it back immediately. He always said, “Keep it. You’re shaking.” Not I want you in my coat. Not I like seeing you wrapped in something that smells like me. Nothing romantic. Nothing that could get him in trouble. But it felt intimate anyway. Because he noticed. Because he remembered. Because he anticipated needs you hadn’t even admitted out loud. And you started trusting him in a way that felt both inevitable and terrifying.

The press, of course, noticed too. Not the tenderness. Not the quiet care. They noticed proximity. Angles. Bodies. They noticed the tall, broad-shouldered agent behind you in photographs, the way he always seemed to be there when you turned your head. The way his hand sometimes hovered near your back when you walked down stairs, close enough to catch you but never touching. They wrote pieces about it. Speculation columns. The VP’s Daughter and Her Mysterious Shadow. Is He Just Security? Rumors Swirl Around the VP’s Daughter and Secret Service Agent. You stopped reading them. But you couldn’t stop thinking about them. Because the comments – God, the comments – always came in two flavors. Either you were sleeping with him, using him, exploiting him… Or he was sleeping with you, manipulating you, climbing. And the truth – your truth – was so much softer and so much more dangerous. You weren’t using him. You were falling for him. And you had no idea if he was falling too… or if you were just hungry for a safety you’d never been allowed to have.

The thing was, Steve did not look like a man who belonged in your world. Not because he wasn’t polished. He was. Not because he wasn’t educated. He clearly was. But because there was something about him – something stubborn and honest and heavy – that did not bend easily to the performative cruelty of politics. He didn’t laugh at the jokes your father’s donors made. He didn’t flatter. He didn’t pretend. He was respectful, yes. But he wasn’t… obedient in the way so many men around you were. He didn’t orbit power like it was a sun. He treated it like a responsibility. And you watched him, sometimes, when you were in a crowded room surrounded by people who wanted something from you. Steve would stand a few feet away, scanning the space, jaw tight, eyes sharp. And if you met his gaze across the room, he would look back – steady, unshaken. A silent message passing between you without words. I’m here. I’ve got you. It made you feel seen in a way that was almost painful. Because you’d spent your whole life being watched, but never truly noticed. And Steve Rogers noticed everything. Including, eventually, the way you looked at him.

It wasn’t like you were subtle. Not at first. You tried to be. You tried to keep your face neutral. Tried to speak to him like he was only your guard. Tried to ignore the way your body reacted when he got too close, the way your skin buzzed when his hand briefly steadied your elbow in a crowd. But you weren’t trained for this. You were trained for politics. For smiling through hostility. For navigating rooms full of sharks. You were not trained for a man who treated your wellbeing like it mattered more than your image. The first time you realized you were in trouble, it was stupid. You were sitting in the residence library at midnight, curled up in an armchair with your laptop balanced on your knees, reading briefings you’d already read twice because your anxiety wouldn’t let you sleep. Steve stood by the doorway. Not inside. Never quite inside private spaces unless invited. “Can’t sleep?” he asked. You didn’t look up. “Too much to do.” “That’s not what I asked.” You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then, quietly: “No.” Steve was silent for a moment. Then he stepped closer – one step only. Enough to be in the room, just barely. Like he was crossing a line he’d drawn in his own mind.

He placed a glass of water on the side table beside you. No comment. No lecture. Just… water. You looked up, startled. “You just carry water around like a dad?” Steve’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Gone in an instant. “Drink,” he said. You stared at him, heartbeat tripping. “Why do you care?” The question came out softer than you intended. Steve’s eyes held yours for a heartbeat too long. Then his face closed. Because of course it did. “It’s my job,” he said, voice even. There it was. That wall. That safe, cruel, professional wall. And you nodded, swallowing the disappointment like you’d swallowed everything else your whole life.

“Right,” you murmured. “Your job.” Steve didn’t move. His gaze dropped to your hands, to the way you were picking at the skin around your thumb without realizing. His voice, when it came, was gentler than his words. “Try to sleep,” he said. “You have an early day.” You scoffed lightly. “And if I don’t?” Steve’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked away, then back. “Then I’ll be here,” he said quietly. The words hung between you. Not romantic. Not explicit. But it landed like a promise anyway. And when Steve turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him, you stared at the glass of water on the table and felt your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. Because for the first time in your life, you thought… Maybe I’m not alone.

Steve, on his side, told himself a thousand times to keep it clean. He was the lead on your detail. He was responsible for your safety. He was trained to stay detached, to maintain boundaries, to avoid personal entanglement. He knew what happened when agents crossed lines. Transfers. Investigations. Careers ended. Lives ruined. He also knew what happened when people close to power got hurt. Bodies in the news. Names in press conferences. Grief turned into policy. Steve had seen too much of that kind of loss to risk becoming another variable. So he locked it down. He stayed professional. He kept his voice neutral. He didn’t look at you too long. He didn’t let himself imagine what your mouth would feel like under his, what your hands would do if they didn’t have to be polite. He didn’t let himself imagine you choosing him. Because why would you? You were raised in rooms he would never belong in. You were the kind of woman the world would eat alive for loving the wrong man. And Steve – Steve was only your bodyguard. The word only tasted like ash every time he thought it. Because it wasn’t only. Not to him. Not anymore. But it had to be. So he loved you in quiet, safe ways. Water. Food. A coat. A hand hovering near your back without touching. His body between you and danger. His eyes on every exit. His voice, low in your ear at crowded events: “On your left.” “Step down.” “Hold for one second.” And every time you listened – every time you trusted him without hesitation – something in Steve’s chest tightened. Because trust, to him, was sacred. And you gave it to him like it was easy. Like it didn’t cost you anything. He wondered, sometimes, if you knew what you were doing to him. If you knew that every time you smiled at him – really smiled, private, when no cameras were around – it made him feel like he was standing too close to the edge of something he couldn’t survive.

By the time you hit twenty-five, then twenty-six, then twenty-seven, the world had decided you were old enough that your choices should be judged as strategy. If you dated, it was for optics. If you didn’t date, it was suspicious. If you were seen with anyone, it was a scandal waiting to be framed. You started avoiding relationships entirely, not because you didn’t want love, but because you were tired of being used as someone else’s storyline. And then Steve became your constant. The one man who didn’t ask you to perform. The one man who didn’t want something from you. The one man who – despite his coldness, his distance, his careful professional mask – still made sure you drank water, and went to bed, and weren't cold outside. And you began, slowly, to believe the dangerous thing; that maybe he cared because he cared. Not because he had to. Not because it was protocol. Because you were you. And he was Steve. And somewhere between press conferences and late-night briefings and the soft weight of his coat on your shoulders, you fell in love with him. Quietly. Hopelessly. With a patience born from years of being told to wait. And you told yourself you could live with the ache. You told yourself it was enough, having him close. You told yourself you would never ask for more. But, the thing about lines, is that they don’t stop you from feeling. They just make you bleed when you cross them. And you were already bleeding, even if neither of you wanted to admit it yet.

The day it started to crack didn’t feel dramatic at first. It felt… normal. Normal in the way your life had trained you to accept – calendar packed from dawn to night, every minute accounted for, every movement observed. Normal in the way your body had learned to carry tension like jewelry: polished, invisible from a distance, cutting into the skin if anyone looked too closely. You woke before your alarm because you always did. Not because you wanted to. Because your brain didn’t trust peace enough to stay asleep. The residence was quiet in that early-hour hush, the kind of quiet that belonged to expensive places where even the air seemed trained not to creak. You padded across your bedroom in socked feet, hair twisted up, robe tied too tight because you needed the pressure around your ribs to feel grounded. Your phone lit up with notifications the moment you picked it up. Press briefing moved up. New guest added to the luncheon. Security note: “credible threat chatter” flagged overnight – low specificity, high volume. The kind of message that made your stomach tighten without giving your fear anywhere useful to go. You stared at the screen for a long moment, jaw set. Then you put the phone down and went to brush your teeth like you hadn’t just read the word threat before coffee. In the mirror, you looked like the version of yourself the papers loved: composed, pretty in a sharp way, eyes that didn’t beg. If you tilted your chin right, you could almost look untouchable. You were good at untouchable. And that was the problem, because Steve had seen all the ways you weren’t. He was waiting outside your suite when you opened the door. Always there. Always on time. Always half a step removed from intimacy. Suit pressed, tie straight, earpiece in. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him, but his eyes were already moving – hallway, corner, reflection, door seams. An entire world of threat assessments running behind his calm expression. “Morning,” you said. “Morning,” Steve answered. His gaze flicked to you – just long enough to register you weren’t fully awake, the faint shadows beneath your eyes, the way your shoulders held too much tension. Then he looked away again, like he didn’t trust himself to linger. You walked past him toward the kitchen. He followed, the sound of his steps measured, steady.

The residence smelled like coffee and lemon polish and the faintest trace of last night’s dinner. Somewhere far off, a staffer laughed quietly. A normal morning sound. A human sound. You clung to it like it was proof the world wasn’t always sharp-edged. In the kitchen, you went straight for the coffee machine. It was automatic. You didn’t have to think. You needed that. Steve stopped at the threshold like he always did. You hated the threshold rule more than you’d ever admit. The way he never fully entered your private spaces unless there was a reason. The way he kept his body at the edge of your life, even as his presence filled it. You poured coffee into your mug and took a sip too quickly. It burned your tongue. You winced. Swore under your breath. Steve’s voice came, quiet, from the doorway. “Too hot.” You glanced up, startled. He didn’t sound smug. Just… observant. “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” you muttered. A beat. Then, still calm: “There’s water in the fridge.” You closed your eyes briefly, because there it was again. That infuriating tenderness disguised as instruction. “Steve.” “Yes?” “Are you going to police my hydration today too?” He didn’t move. Didn’t step in. Didn’t soften his posture. But his eyes met yours. “There was a new security note,” he said. “We’ll be out all day. You need to be functioning." The word hit you wrong, like it had in the car before. Functioning. As if you were a system. A machine. A thing that could be calibrated. You swallowed, irritation flashing. “I’m always functioning.” His jaw tightened. Subtle. A crack of something beneath the surface. “Not like this,” he said. “Not when you haven’t slept.” Your grip tightened around the mug. “I slept.” “Two hours,” Steve said. You froze. Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Steve’s gaze flicked toward the corridor – checking, automatically, for anyone else listening. Then back. “Your light was on at two,” he said, voice low. “It went off at four.” Heat rushed to your cheeks. Not embarrassment exactly. Something else. Something too close to intimacy. “You’re watching my lights now?” you snapped. Steve blinked once. “I’m doing my job.” There it was again. That phrase. A shield. A wall. The safe, brutal boundary he used to keep you out. You stared at him, breath shallow. You wanted to say: You don’t watch my lights because it’s your job. You watch my lights because you care. But you didn’t. You never did. Instead, you turned back to the coffee and said, too flatly, “Fine. I’ll drink water.” Steve’s shoulders eased, just slightly. He didn’t thank you. You didn’t look at him. And something – tiny, almost invisible – shifted between you. Not broken. Not yet. But strained.

By eight, you were in the convoy. The armored SUV smelled like leather and faint cologne. The windows were tinted so dark you could barely see the morning outside. It made you feel like you were moving through the world behind glass, untouchable and trapped at the same time. Steve sat across from you, facing the rear. Another agent sat in the front passenger seat. A second vehicle followed behind. You checked your schedule on your phone, thumb scrolling, brain already bracing. Charity luncheon at ten. Elementary school visit at noon. Local hospital wing tour at two. Donor reception at five. Private dinner at eight. Then an early meeting tomorrow with foreign delegates. You stared at the list and felt your spine tighten. “You’re clenching your jaw,” Steve said. You didn’t look up. “I’m fine.” Steve’s voice didn’t change, but something in it sharpened. “Don’t lie to me.” Your thumb stopped moving. You slowly lifted your gaze. Steve’s eyes were on you now – not scanning the window, not checking mirrors. On you. It was rare, having his full attention like that. It felt like standing under direct light. “I’m not lying,” you said, quieter. “I’m managing.” Steve’s jaw flexed. “That’s not the same.” You exhaled through your nose. “You’re really committed to the wellness coach thing today, huh?” A flicker crossed his face – something like amusement, immediately swallowed. The car hit a slight bump and your coffee sloshed. Steve’s hand shot out, fast and controlled, steadying the cup before it spilled. His fingers brushed yours for a fraction of a second. Skin to skin. Heat.

You both froze. The touch was microscopic. Innocent. It still felt like a confession. Steve withdrew his hand as if he’d been burned. His posture went rigid, eyes snapping back to the rear window. You stared at your own hand like it had betrayed you. Your heart was pounding too loud. You cleared your throat. Forced your voice steady. “Thanks.” Steve didn’t answer. He just stared out the window, jaw clenched, like the city outside had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. And you realized – suddenly, sharply – that he wasn’t just professional. He was fighting. Fighting something in himself that wanted too much. And the knowledge made your chest ache with a mix of hope and frustration.

The luncheon was a blur of perfume and polite cruelty. A hotel ballroom, glittering chandeliers, white tablecloths so crisp they felt like a threat. People in expensive suits smiling like knives. You moved through it the way you always did: chin up, shoulders back, voice warm. You let strangers touch your arm, kiss your cheek, call you sweetheart in a tone that made your teeth grind. You laughed at jokes you hated. Steve stayed behind you, always half a step removed. Eyes scanning, body angled to block. At one point, an older donor – a man with a practiced grin and too much confidence – caught your hand and held it a beat too long. “My, my,” he said, loud enough for people nearby to hear. “You’re even prettier in person.” You smiled, because you’d been trained to. “Thank you,” you said. His thumb traced the back of your hand. Too familiar. Steve moved in instantly. Not aggressive, but present – like a door closing. “Sir,” Steve said, voice calm, “we need to keep moving.” The donor’s smile faltered. His gaze flicked to Steve with irritation. “I’m just complimenting her,” the man said. Steve didn’t blink. “We have a schedule.” The donor let go, offended, and muttered something under his breath as you walked away. Your pulse was fast – not from fear, but from the way Steve had stepped in so seamlessly. The way he’d protected you without making a scene. The way his voice had carried a quiet authority that didn’t need force.

When you reached the edge of the room, you turned slightly toward him, lowering your voice. “Thank you.” Steve’s eyes met yours. Brief. Intense. Then his gaze flicked away. “Part of the job,” he said. You flinched, almost imperceptibly. You hated that phrase. You hated how he kept using it like it was the only safe thing he could say. You took a breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. “Not everything is just ‘the job,’ Steve.” His eyes snapped back to yours. For a second, his expression shifted – something raw, something almost pained. Then it closed again. “Focus,” he said quietly. “Please.” The word please was gentle, and it only made you angrier. Because he could be gentle. He just refused to be… open. You looked away, swallowing the bitter thing rising in your throat. “Fine,” you murmured. Steve’s posture eased, but the tension in his jaw didn’t. He’d heard it too. The crack in your voice.

By the time you got to the elementary school, the sky had turned overcast. Wind tugged at your hair, cold enough to sting. Kids swarmed you with paper crafts and sticky fingers and questions that made you smile for real. “How old are you?” one little girl demanded. “Old enough,” you said, laughing. “Do you live in the White House?” a boy asked, eyes wide. “No,” you said. “But I’ve been there.” “Is your dad the President?” another asked. “He’s the Vice President,” you corrected gently. A chorus of woooow followed, like you were a superhero. You knelt to their level, took their drawings with genuine gratitude, let them talk over each other without interruption. Behind you, Steve watched it all. You knew he did, because you could feel him like gravity. Once, you glanced back and caught him looking at you – not scanning for threats, not assessing the crowd. Just… watching you. His expression softened, the hard lines around his mouth easing. His eyes warm in a way you almost never saw. It punched straight through you. For a heartbeat, you forgot the cameras, the agents, the headlines. It felt like you and him in a bubble. Then a teacher moved too close behind you, and Steve’s gaze snapped into focus, professional again. The softness vanished. The bubble popped. And you felt – stupidly – like you’d imagined it. Like your hope was a hallucination born from too many years of loneliness.

In the car afterward, you stared out the tinted window at children waving as the convoy pulled away. Your throat felt tight. You didn’t realize you were quiet until Steve spoke. “You did good back there,” he said. You blinked, turning to him. “It’s just kids.” “It’s not just kids,” Steve replied. His tone was careful, but his eyes were steady. “They see you,” he said quietly. “Not… the headlines.” Something inside you cracked, just a little. You swallowed hard. “Yeah. Well. They don’t know any better yet.” Steve’s jaw clenched. He looked away, then back, as if making a decision. “You’re not what they say,” he said, voice low. “You know that, right?” Your breath caught. Because he didn’t have to say that. Because it wasn’t about threats or schedules. Because it was… personal. Your heart thudded painfully. And your first instinct was to lean into it – to take that tiny offering and hold it. But then Steve’s face tightened, as if he’d realized he’d stepped too far. He straightened, posture snapping back into neutrality. “We’re running late,” he added, brisk. “We need to move.” The moment was gone. Just like that. Your chest burned. You stared at him, hurt sharp and sudden. “Why do you do that?” you asked, voice quiet. Steve didn’t look at you. “Do what?” “Say something… human,” you said, “and then disappear behind the badge.” Steve’s hands tightened once, barely, on his knee. “You’re tired,” he said. “Don’t start.” Your mouth fell open, anger flashing. “I’m not starting,” you snapped. “I’m just–” Just what? Just begging him to admit he cared? Just asking him to stop treating you like a duty and start treating you like someone he wanted? The words jammed in your throat. Steve finally turned his head, eyes hard now. “Focus,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t gentle. It was a command. Your stomach twisted. “Right,” you said, voice brittle. “Focus. Of course.” Steve’s expression tightened, as if you’d done damage he hadn’t intended. The rest of the drive was silent. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful. The kind that grew teeth.

By the time you reached the hospital wing tour, you had a migraine blooming behind your eyes. Everything was too bright, too loud. Flashbulbs. Smiling doctors. Hands shaking yours with gratitude that felt like performance. You did it anyway. You always did. Steve stayed close, closer than usual now. You noticed his hand hover more often near your back. You noticed the way he angled his body to shield you from crowds without touching you, as if touch was the one thing he couldn’t allow himself. And you noticed the way he kept watching you in between scans – watching your face, your breathing, the slight delay before you smiled. You wanted to scream at him: If you see me, then stop acting like you don’t. But you didn’t. Because you were in public. Because you were trained. Because you were tired. At one point, as you moved from one room to another, the world tilted – just slightly. Your vision blurred at the edges. You stopped, swallowing hard. Steve was at your side instantly. His hand found your elbow. Firm. Real. Steadying. “Hey,” he murmured, so low no one else could hear. “Breathe.” You blinked, disoriented. His thumb pressed lightly, once, against your sleeve – anchoring you. “Too much,” Steve said, voice almost… tender. “We can take five.” You stared at him. His face was close. Too close. His eyes were on yours, intense and worried in a way that made your throat tighten. Then, over your shoulder, someone called your name. A photographer. Steve’s expression closed in an instant. His hand dropped away. He stepped back. “Keep moving,” he said, louder, professional. Neutral. And the whiplash of it – warmth to ice in half a second – made your stomach churn. You turned and smiled for the camera because you were very good at pretending. But inside, something was starting to fracture. Not because Steve had been cold. Because he hadn’t been cold first. Because he kept showing you glimpses of something real… then yanking it away like it wasn’t safe for either of you to touch. And you were starting to realize that the distance wasn’t just protocol. It was fear.

By late afternoon, the donor reception loomed like a threat. You stood in your room changing into a sleek dress that made you look exactly like the person the papers wanted you to be: untouchable, expensive, sharp. You stared at yourself in the mirror and felt strangely hollow. A knock sounded at the door. You knew it was Steve. It was always Steve. “Come in,” you called, and immediately regretted it, because he never did unless necessary. The door opened only a crack. Steve’s voice came through. Controlled. Careful. “Five minutes.” Your fingers froze on the clasp of your necklace. “Steve,” you said, impulse winning. “Can you–” Can you what? Come in? Stay? Look at me like you did with the kids? Stop pretending? Your throat tightened. The silence stretched. Steve remained on the other side of the door. Then, softly, “What do you need?” The question – genuine, quiet – hit you in the chest. You swallowed. “I don’t know,” you admitted, voice small. “I’m tired.” There was a pause. Then Steve said, so quietly you almost missed it, “Drink some water.” You let out a breath that sounded too much like a laugh and too much like a sob. “Of course,” you whispered. On the other side of the door, you heard him shift – like he wanted to come closer, like he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t. He never did. The door closed again. And you stared at your reflection, blinking hard. Because you could feel it now, unmistakably. This wasn’t sustainable. Not the trust. Not the feelings. Not the way he kept you safe with his body but refused to let you anywhere near his heart. Something had to give. And you had a terrible feeling it wouldn’t be him. Not until it broke.

The donor reception blurred into one long, glittering performance. A ballroom washed in warm light and expensive perfume. Crystal glasses clinking. People laughing too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny. Your father’s allies orbiting the room like planets, each one trying to get close enough to be seen in the right photograph. You wore your role like armor. Smile. Touch an elbow. Tilt your head. Repeat a name. Make a comment that sounded personal without offering anything real. Steve stayed behind you, as always – half a step, sometimes less when the crowd tightened. He didn’t drink. He didn’t mingle. He didn’t laugh. He was the fixed point in the room, the quiet gravity that kept you upright when everything else felt slippery. You should have been grateful. You were grateful. You were also so tired you could barely hear yourself think. And because you were tired, you noticed more than you usually allowed yourself to notice. You noticed the way Steve’s gaze lingered on your face when you laughed for real. The way his jaw tightened when a donor held your hand too long. The way his shoulders shifted – subtle, automatic – every time someone stepped into your space like you belonged to them. You noticed the things he did without thinking. And you noticed how quickly he shut them down. A donor – a woman in diamonds and sharpened politeness – leaned in close, voice low and syrupy. “You’re doing wonderfully,” she said, fingers brushing the bare skin of your arm. “You must be so proud. Your father is going places.” You smiled. “Thank you.” Her eyes flicked past you to Steve. “And you,” she added, as if you weren’t still standing there, “you must have your hands full.” Steve didn’t even blink. “Ma’am.” The woman’s smile turned sly. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?” she said to you, not to him, like you were girlfriends sharing gossip. Heat crawled up your neck. You forced a laugh, light. “He’s very good at his job.” Steve’s posture went a shade more rigid. You could feel him closing down behind you. Like a door locking. The woman hummed, amused. “Mmm. Of course.” You moved on quickly, because you knew what those comments did. Not just to you – to him. To the fragile, invisible line he’d drawn around your relationship. The line that kept him safe from rumors, safe from accusations, safe from wanting. But the comments stayed under your skin anyway. Because they brushed against a truth you’d been trying not to touch.

By the time you got back to the residence, it was nearly midnight.

You had smiled until your cheeks hurt. You had shaken so many hands your fingers felt numb. Your heels had carved a dull ache into the soles of your feet.

When the convoy pulled into the private drive, you leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes.

The SUV was quiet except for the low murmur of radio traffic.

Steve sat across from you, still facing the rear, still scanning. As if the day hadn’t ended. As if danger didn’t respect your schedule.

You opened your eyes and found him watching you instead of the window.

Just for a second.

His gaze was steady, but there was something in it now – tiredness, maybe. Or concern. Or something deeper he refused to name.

Your throat tightened.

“Steve,” you said softly, before you could stop yourself.

His eyes sharpened. “Yeah?”

The single syllable felt intimate in a way it shouldn’t have.

You swallowed. Your fingers twisted in your lap.

“Do you ever…” You hesitated, words stuck behind your teeth. “Do you ever get tired of pretending you don’t care?”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was packed with everything he refused to say.

Steve’s face went blank in an instant. The mask sliding into place so smoothly it made you want to scream.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

Your breath came out shaky. You hated it.

“Sure,” you muttered, turning your gaze to the window, because looking at him was too much.

The SUV stopped. Doors opened. Night air rushed in.

“Home,” the agent in front said.

Steve moved first, stepping out, scanning the driveway, the shadows, the perimeter.

You followed, the cold air biting at your exposed arms.

Steve’s coat appeared behind you – hovering, then settling over your shoulders. Heavy, warm, smelling faintly of him.

Your heart lurched.

You turned, startled.

Steve’s eyes were on the horizon, not on you. Like he couldn’t allow himself to watch your reaction.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

“Cold,” he replied, like that explained everything.

You wanted to grab his sleeve. Pull him close. Force him to look at you and admit the truth.

Instead, you walked inside.

Because you were tired.

Because you were trained.

Because you didn’t know how to do this without breaking something.

You went straight to your office.

Not because you wanted to work.

Because you needed somewhere to put the restless energy under your skin. Somewhere to drown the ache with emails and schedules and lists.

Your office was dim, lit only by the desk lamp. The familiar scent of paper and leather and faint vanilla from the candle you never lit because open flames were not allowed. The world reduced to quiet.

You kicked off your shoes and sat down.

For a while, you let yourself pretend you were just another woman with too much work and a headache.

For a while, it almost worked.

Then your phone buzzed again: another message from staff. Another adjustment. Another demand.

You stared at the screen until the words blurred.

And without thinking, you typed back an answer. Efficient. Polite. Professional.

Just like Steve.

That thought hit like a slap.

You dropped your phone on the desk and pressed your fingers to your eyes.

You were not supposed to be thinking about him like this. You were not supposed to be measuring your life against the quiet space he occupied in it.

But you couldn’t stop.

Because he was everywhere.

Even when he wasn’t.

When you finally left your office, the residence hallway was quiet. Most of the staff had gone to bed. The security lights cast soft pools of gold across the polished floor.

You expected to see Steve stationed nearby, like he always was at night.

He wasn’t.

For a second, your stomach tightened with something like panic.

Then you heard voices – low, controlled – coming from around the corner near the security station.

You slowed.

Not because you meant to eavesdrop.

Because you recognized his voice.

Steve was speaking the way he spoke to other agents – calm, factual, stripped of warmth. The tone he used when he wasn’t talking to you.

And you realized with sudden clarity that you’d almost never heard him speak about you.

Not in that context.

Not in that voice.

You stopped in the shadow of a doorway, heart thudding.

“–she’s been under significant pressure,” Steve was saying. “It’s impacting her routine.”

Another voice answered, muffled. “Any behavioral flags?”

Steve hesitated only a fraction.

“No,” he said. “Nothing beyond expected parameters.”

You felt your breath catch.

“Expected parameters?” the other agent repeated.

Steve’s answer came smoothly, without hesitation.

“She’s compliant,” he said. “Stubborn, but manageable.”

Your blood went cold.

Compliant.

Manageable.

Words you’d heard your whole life in different forms. Words used by staffers and advisers when they thought you couldn’t hear them. Words used by men who saw you as a problem to control, not a person to understand.

Your fingers curled hard around the edge of the doorway.

The other voice said something you didn’t catch. Steve replied, sharper now.

“She’s not the primary,” he said. “The Vice President is the primary. Her proximity makes her a high-value target. We mitigate that risk.”

Mitigate.

Risk.

Target.

Primary.

Your throat tightened until it hurt.

You knew – logically – that this was how security worked. You knew Steve had to speak this language. You knew it wasn’t personal.

But hearing it – hearing him reduce you to a set of variables – felt like being shoved out into the cold without warning.

Because you’d trusted him with the parts of yourself you didn’t show anyone.

You’d trusted him because he felt different.

And now, in two sentences, he sounded exactly like the world.

The other agent asked, “You still comfortable with the detail?”

Steve answered immediately.

“Yes,” he said. “I can handle her.”

Handle her.

Like you were a situation.

A problem.

A thing.

Your chest tightened so violently you felt dizzy.

You stepped back without meaning to.

Your heel clipped the edge of a console table.

The sound was small – barely a knock.

It might as well have been a gunshot.

The voices cut off instantly.

Footsteps.

And then Steve rounded the corner.

He saw you.

For half a second, his eyes widened – just slightly. A crack in the mask.

Then his expression smoothed back into professionalism like nothing had happened.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he asked, calm.

The casualness almost broke you.

You stared at him, the world narrowing down to the space between your bodies.

“I’m compliant?” you said, voice quiet.

Steve’s face tightened. His gaze flicked toward the security station, toward the other agent, then back.

“You heard part of a–”

“I’m manageable?” you continued, the words tasting like blood.

Steve took a step toward you. “Listen–”

“You can handle me?” Your voice rose, sharp. “Is that what I am now? Something you handle?”

His jaw flexed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” you demanded.

Steve’s eyes held yours, and for a second you saw something in them – regret, maybe. Or panic.

But he didn’t reach for you.

He didn’t soften.

He didn’t say your name.

He stayed behind the badge.

“I was speaking in operational terms,” he said, voice controlled. “It’s not personal.”

The words landed like a betrayal.

Not because they were cruel.

Because they were safe.

Because they were the exact kind of answer that let him avoid the thing you needed him to say.

You shook your head slowly, disbelief making your vision blur.

“You–” Your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it. “You were the only person I thought I could trust.”

Silence.

Absolute.

Steve’s face drained of color.

For the first time in years, his composure slipped – just enough to show the man underneath. The man who looked like he’d been punched.

He swallowed hard.

“You can trust me,” he said, and the words sounded desperate.

You laughed once, broken. “Can I? Because it sounds like I’m just a file to you.”

“You’re not,” Steve said, stepping closer now. “You’re not a file.”

“Then what am I, Steve?” you demanded, and your voice shook with it. “What am I to you?”

He froze.

And you saw it – the moment where truth rose to his mouth and he forced it back down.

Because he couldn’t say it.

Because he wouldn’t.

Because he was afraid.

The pause lasted only a second.

It felt like a year.

Steve’s eyes dropped briefly to the floor, then lifted back up – shuttered.

“We need to get you back to your room,” he said, voice turning firm. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

It wasn’t an answer.

It was a command.

And something in you snapped.

“No,” you said, voice low.

Steve blinked. “No?”

“I’m not going back to my room,” you said, breathing hard. “I’m going out.”

Steve’s posture hardened instantly. Protective mode. Authority.

“No,” he repeated. “Not without security.”

You stared at him, heart hammering.

“Without security,” you echoed, bitter. “You mean without you.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

“Why?” you demanded. “So you can handle me?”

Steve flinched.

“That’s not fair.”

“You don’t get to tell me what’s fair,” you snapped. “You don’t get to treat me like a risk assessment and then act like you’re the one protecting me from getting hurt.”

His eyes flashed. “I am protecting you.”

“From what?” you shot back. “From the world? Or from you?”

The question hung between you like smoke.

Steve’s breathing went shallow.

His voice came out low, strained.

“Go to your room,” he said. “Please.”

The please was the only crack of humanity in it.

It didn’t fix anything.

It made it worse.

Because it proved he knew you were breaking – and he was still choosing the badge over you.

You swallowed hard, forcing your chin up.

“I trusted you,” you said, quieter now. “I trusted you with everything. And you just– you just proved you’re like all of them.”

Steve’s eyes glistened for a fraction of a second.

Then he locked it down again.

“I’m not,” he said.

But he didn’t say what he was.

And you couldn’t stay in that space anymore.

You turned sharply and started walking down the hall.

“Stop,” Steve called, voice firm.

You didn’t.

His footsteps came after you, fast and controlled.

“Stop,” he repeated, closer.

You spun around, fury burning through the hurt.

“What?” you snapped. “What are you going to do? Give me an order? Drag me back to my room? Call me manageable again?”

Steve froze, as if you’d struck him.

For a heartbeat, his eyes looked naked.

Then his face set.

“That’s not what this is,” he said.

“Then what is it?” you demanded, voice breaking. “Because I can’t keep doing this, Steve. I can’t keep being… this thing you guard and monitor and handle while you pretend you don’t care.”

Steve’s mouth opened.

Closed.

His hands flexed at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to reach for you.

He didn’t.

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he said finally.

The words were meant to be comforting.

They weren’t.

They were the same words he’d always used.

The same shield.

You stared at him, chest heaving.

Then, very softly, you said the most honest thing you’d said all day, “I don’t feel safe with you right now.”

Steve’s face went still.

Like something in him stopped working.

You didn’t wait.

You turned and walked away, faster this time, heading toward the front entrance.

Steve followed, immediate.

“You can’t leave,” he said, voice tight.

You didn’t look back. “Watch me.”

“You’re angry,” he said. “You’re not thinking.”

“I’m thinking clearer than I have in months,” you shot back, and your throat burned. “I’m not your soldier, Steve. I’m not your assignment. I’m not your primary or your secondary or your risk factor.”

His footsteps slowed for half a second.

Like the words hit.

Then he surged forward again.

“Please,” he said again, lower now, almost… pleading. “Don’t do this.”

You stopped at the door and turned.

Your eyes met his.

For a second, everything else fell away – politics, security, rumors.

It was just you and him.

You stared at his face – the tight jaw, the controlled breathing, the eyes that looked like they held a storm behind them.

“You don’t get to ask me for anything,” you whispered. “Not after what I heard.”

Steve swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you said it,” you replied, voice shaking. “And you didn’t even hesitate.”

His gaze dropped, shame flashing.

Then, almost inaudible, “I did hesitate.”

You blinked, thrown.

Steve lifted his eyes to yours again, rawness flickering.

“For a second,” he admitted. “And then I remembered what I’m supposed to be.”

The words should have been honest.

They should have been enough.

They weren’t.

Because what he was “supposed to be” was the exact thing that was breaking you.

You reached for the doorknob.

Steve’s hand moved – fast – then stopped short, hovering, not touching.

A restrained instinct.

A leash he held on himself.

You stared at the space between his hand and yours, that fraction of distance that had defined your entire relationship.

Then you opened the door.

Cold air rushed in.

You stepped out into the night.

And you left him behind, standing in the doorway like a man who’d just watched the one person he loved walk straight into danger – because he’d been too afraid to call it love.

Cold air hit you like a slap the moment you stepped outside.

The residence grounds were quiet at this hour – too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every crunch of gravel sound obscene, every rustle of leaves feel like a whisper meant for someone else’s ears. The security lights cast pale pools across manicured hedges and stone paths, turning the world into a series of bright islands and dark gaps.

You kept walking anyway.

You didn’t let yourself hesitate, because if you did, you might turn around.

And if you turned around, you might see Steve standing in the doorway with that expression you’d just glimpsed – raw, wounded, terrified – and it would make you weak.

You couldn’t afford weak.

Not tonight.

Not when the one person you’d trusted to see you as human had just reduced you to a set of terms.

Compliant. Manageable.

Your hands were shaking as you crossed the drive.

You fumbled for your keys and hated how loud they sounded. Hated how small your body felt under the open sky, exposed and stupidly vulnerable without the usual wall of agents and protocol around you.

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

You had walked out on security because you felt unsafe with him – because you felt betrayed – yet your skin prickled with awareness now, every nerve screaming danger like it hadn’t in months.

A car engine idled in the distance. A dog barked once, far away. Somewhere, a security camera rotated with a soft mechanical whirr.

You reached your car and yanked the door open.

The interior smelled faintly of leather and the vanilla air freshener you’d bought on impulse weeks ago, trying to make it feel less like another controlled space.

You sat behind the wheel.

And for a moment – just one – your hands hovered above the ignition as your chest heaved, breath caught like you’d been running.

The tears didn’t fall yet.

They gathered, hot and humiliating, burning behind your eyes.

You blinked hard.

No.

Not here.

Not now.

You shoved the key into the ignition.

The engine turned over with a low purr.

You backed out too fast, tires crunching over gravel, and headed toward the gate.

Your phone buzzed.

You didn’t look at it.

You didn’t need to.

You knew exactly who it was.

Inside the residence, Steve stood frozen in the doorway like he’d been nailed there. He watched your taillights cut through the darkness and felt something in his chest collapse. His training screamed at him. Protocol demanded immediate action. You were leaving the secure perimeter without your detail. You were angry, emotional, impulsive – high risk on every axis. He should have moved. Should have called it in. Should have sent another unit, activated the contingency plan, locked the gate if necessary. He did none of it. Because for one nauseating second, all he could see was your face when you said it. You were the only person I thought I could trust. It had landed in him like a bullet. The truth was – he had known you trusted him. He’d felt it every time you stepped exactly where he guided you without looking. Every time you followed his quiet “left” or “step down.” Every time you let him stand close without flinching. He’d carried that trust like it was something fragile, something he didn’t deserve. And then, tonight, he’d treated it like… language. He’d talked about you like a file. He’d let his operational brain choose words that were safe, detached, professional – words he would never say to your face. And you had heard them. He’d been caught. Not lying. Being exactly what he’d forced himself to be. A bodyguard. Only a bodyguard. And the cost of that, suddenly, was you walking out into the night without him. Steve’s hands clenched hard enough that his knuckles went white. His radio crackled in his ear. A voice asked a question. Another voice called his name. He didn’t answer. He was staring at the empty driveway like he could will you back. He couldn’t. Then his instincts finally snapped into place – too late, too desperate. He reached for his phone.

Your phone buzzed again.

Then again.

And again.

You kept your eyes on the road.

The city outside the residence grounds was sleeping – streetlights casting long reflections on wet asphalt, storefronts dark, occasional cars drifting past like ghosts.

You drove without a destination.

Because it wasn’t about going somewhere.

It was about being gone.

Being out of the residence, out of the camera angles, out of Steve’s orbit.

Being somewhere where you could breathe without feeling like you were being evaluated.

The buzzing stopped.

A second later, the screen lit up with a call.

STEVE.

Your throat tightened so hard it hurt.

You stared at the name until the call went to voicemail.

Immediately, another came through.

You let it ring too.

Your hands were trembling on the steering wheel.

Your chest felt tight, like your ribs were strapped down.

The anger was still there – hot, sharp – underneath everything.

But now it mixed with something else. Something sick and heavy.

Guilt.

Because you knew leaving was dangerous.

You knew he wasn’t calling because he wanted to win an argument.

He was calling because his entire job – his entire identity – was keeping you alive.

And you had just ripped that away from him.

A tiny part of you whispered: He deserved it.

Another part whispered: You’re being reckless.

You clenched your jaw.

You turned the volume of your radio up just to drown out your own thoughts.

At the first red light, you finally looked down at your phone.

Eight missed calls. Five new messages.

You didn’t open them.

You couldn’t.

If you read his words, you might cave. You might turn around.

And you weren’t ready to do that.

Because if you turned around, you’d have to face the truth: that you still wanted him. That despite everything, your heart still leaned toward him like a compass.

And wanting him felt humiliating right now.

You exhaled shakily, staring at the red light.

Your reflection stared back from the windshield – eyes too bright, face pale.

You looked like a woman who had finally realized the one safe thing she’d clung to wasn’t safe after all.

The light turned green.

You drove on.

You ended up in a quiet neighborhood near the river – one of the few places in the city that didn’t feel like it belonged to anyone important. Rows of trees, dark water, a narrow road that curved along the edge like a secret.

You pulled over and parked.

Your hands stayed on the wheel for a long moment.

Then you let your forehead fall forward until it rested against your knuckles.

And the tears came.

Silent. Angry. Ugly.

You weren’t crying because Steve had done something unforgivable.

You were crying because he had proven something you had spent your whole life fighting against; that even the kindest men still saw you as a thing attached to power.

A risk.

A duty.

A problem to manage.

You dragged in a shaky breath, wiping at your cheeks with the sleeve of your coat – Steve’s coat – still around your shoulders like a cruel joke.

You should have taken it off.

You couldn’t.

It smelled like him.

Warm, clean, familiar.

Safe.

And that made you hate him more.

Your phone buzzed again.

A new message.

You glanced down despite yourself.

Please. Tell me where you are.

Your throat tightened.

You stared at the screen until your vision blurred.

Then you locked your phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

No.

Not yet.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

The city stayed quiet.

Your breathing steadied.

The anger cooled into something aching.

And underneath it all, a dangerous thought kept creeping in, He sounded panicked.

Not professionally urgent.

Panicked.

He’d looked like he’d been losing something when you walked out.

And maybe – maybe – he had.

Maybe this hadn’t been easy for him either.

Maybe he’d been holding himself back for so long that the only way he knew to survive was to put you in a box labeled “client” and “assignment” and “manageable” – because if he admitted what you were to him, he would want too much.

You swallowed hard, hands tightening on the steering wheel again.

It didn’t excuse it.

But it made the hurt feel… complicated.

You hated complicated.

You lived in complicated.

You wanted, just once, something simple.

Something honest.

You wanted him to look at you and say I love you.

Not It’s my job.

Not Focus.

Not Go to your room.

Your stomach twisted.

You should go back.

You knew you should.

If not for Steve, then for yourself.

If there was another threat, if there was some idiot with a camera, if someone recognized your car…

You inhaled, shaky.

Fine.

You’d go back.

You’d go back on your terms.

You reached for your phone.

Another buzz interrupted you.

This time, it wasn’t Steve.

It was your father’s chief of staff.

You stared at the name, dread sliding down your spine.

You answered before you could think.

“What?” you said, voice rough.

“Where are you?” the chief of staff demanded immediately. No greeting. No softness. “We got an alert you left the residence.”

Of course you did.

Of course they knew.

Of course your life was monitored even when you tried to run.

“I’m fine,” you snapped.

“You are not fine,” the chief of staff shot back. “You are the Vice President’s daughter. There are protocols–”

“Don’t,” you hissed. “Don’t talk to me about protocols.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, more careful: “Agent Rogers is losing his mind.”

Your chest tightened despite yourself.

“He shouldn’t,” you said, cold.

“He’s trying to locate you,” the chief of staff continued. “He’s activated–”

“Tell him to stop,” you said, voice shaking. “Tell him I’m not– I’m not his file.”

Silence.

Then, “You need to return.”

“I will,” you said, jaw clenched. “Soon.”

“Where are you?”

You looked out at the river, dark and indifferent, and felt the exhaustion settle in your bones.

“I’m in my car,” you said. “That’s all you get.”

You ended the call with your father’s chief of staff with your pulse still in your throat.

The quiet in the car felt wrong now – too thin, too exposed. Like the night had been holding its breath with you, waiting to see what you’d do next.

You stared at your phone, screen dark. The urge to call Steve rose again, sharp and guilty, and you swallowed it down like you’d swallowed everything else tonight.

Not yet.

You couldn’t deal with his voice. Not when it might crack you open.

You pulled in a slow breath, wiped the heel of your hand across your cheek, and forced your fingers to stop trembling.

Fine.

You’d go back.

Not because he deserved it.

Because you did.

You started the engine. The familiar vibration under your palms steadied you a fraction – something solid, something you could control.

Headlights cut a clean path through the dark as you eased out of your spot and merged back onto the road.

The city was quiet at this hour, streetlights painting wet asphalt in pale gold. Storefronts were shuttered. The river disappeared behind you, black and indifferent.

You drove carefully. Too carefully, maybe – every mirror checked twice, every intersection approached with the cautious patience of someone who’d grown up being told the world was dangerous.

Your phone buzzed once.

You didn’t look.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened anyway.

Just get home. Just get back inside the perimeter. Just breathe.

A few streets later, you came up on a traffic light.

It was green.

Clear. Simple. Permission.

You rolled through, the tires humming softly over the painted lines.

And then – movement.

A blur from your right, too fast, too wrong.

You had just enough time to register headlights cutting across the intersection at an angle that made no sense.

Red for them.

Green for you.

Your stomach dropped, reflex screaming.

You jerked the wheel left on instinct – useless, too late.

The impact hit the passenger side with a brutal, grinding crash.

Metal screamed.

Glass shuddered.

The whole car lurched sideways as if a giant hand had grabbed it and thrown it.

Your body snapped against the seatbelt, the strap biting across your chest. Your head whipped – not hard enough to injure, but hard enough to steal your breath.

The world turned into noise and spin.

The car rotated – once, twice – tires skidding, the road becoming a smear of light and shadow outside the windshield. Streetlights strobed past in dizzy flashes. Your hands clenched the wheel like it was the only thing keeping you anchored to reality.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

A final jolt.

Silence – thick, ringing silence – punctured by the ticking of your engine and the distant hiss of another car idling wrong.

Your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs.

You sat frozen, both hands still locked around the steering wheel, breath trapped halfway in your lungs.

For a second you didn’t move because you didn’t trust your body to obey you.

Then you blinked.

Once. Twice.

Your vision steadied.

You looked down at yourself automatically – arms, chest, legs.

No blood.

No sharp pain.

Just the violent aftershock trembling through your muscles, the ghost of impact still vibrating in your bones.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Your hands finally loosened their death grip on the wheel.

The passenger side was caved in enough that you could hear the faint crackle of stressed metal cooling. Your side mirror was hanging at an angle, reflecting only dark sky. The air smelled like burned rubber and something electrical.

You turned your head slowly, checking the passenger seat on instinct.

Outside, somewhere nearby, a horn blared once, then cut off.

Your phone had slid into the footwell. The screen was lit with a web of missed calls and notifications, but your eyes couldn’t focus on the words yet.

You swallowed again, throat tight, and stared through the windshield at the traffic light still glowing green, indifferent.

You had done everything right.

You had had the right of way.

You had been careful.

And still…

Your breath hitched, anger and fear tangling together, hot and ugly.

The door handles rattled as someone outside stumbled, footsteps unsteady on the pavement. A slurred voice floated through the night, too loud.

“Oh– oh shit–”

Drunk.

You could hear it immediately in the loose way the words fell apart.

You didn’t open the door.

You didn’t even think about it.

You just sat there, shaking, safe only because you were unhurt and alone in the car.

And because somewhere, in the back of your mind, the brutal truth cut through the adrenaline like ice.

You had left the perimeter.

You had left your detail.

You had left Steve.

Your hands found your phone without you fully deciding to. You dragged it up from the footwell with trembling fingers, thumb hovering over his name like it had been carved into memory.

Your throat tightened so hard it hurt.

Not yet, you thought.

Then you looked at the crushed passenger side again, and your pulse stuttered.

Your thumb hovered over Steve’s name for half a second again.

Muscle memory. Instinct. The person your body still wanted to reach for even when your pride was bleeding.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to move past it.

Not Steve.

Not yet.

Your screen was smeared with your fingerprints when you unlocked it – hands still shaking, heart still thundering. You scrolled, fast, past recent calls, past missed notifications, until you found the number you needed.

SAM WILSON.

You hit call.

It rang once.

Twice.

He picked up on the third, voice already alert, like he never truly slept when you were off-perimeter.

“Wilson,” he said.

“Sam,” you breathed, and your voice came out thinner than you wanted. You cleared your throat, forcing the words into shape. “It’s me. I– I’ve had an accident.”

The pause on the line wasn’t silence. It was Sam’s brain switching gears.

“Okay,” he said immediately, calm in a way that wrapped around you like a blanket. “Okay. You hurt?”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I’m shaken but I’m not hurt. I think– I think the seatbelt did its job.”

“Good. Stay with me.” His tone tightened, professional now. “Where are you?”

You swallowed, eyes flicking around the intersection. The street sign. The traffic light still green for the direction you’d been going. A storefront on the corner – dark, but the name was visible under the streetlamp.

“I’m at–” your voice wobbled, and you hated it. You sucked in a breath. “I’m at the intersection of– hold on.”

You leaned forward carefully to see better, neck stiff, and read the signs out loud. Then you glanced at your navigation screen and rattled off the nearest cross street again, more clearly.

Sam didn’t interrupt once.

“Okay,” he said when you finished. “I’ve got it. I’m pinging it now. Stay in the car. Doors locked?”

“Yes,” you said, breath shaky. “Yes, they’re locked.”

“Good. Seatbelt still on?”

You looked down like you needed proof. The strap cut diagonally across your chest, taut.

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Keep it on for now.” You could hear him moving – keys, maybe, the rustle of fabric, the controlled urgency of someone already in motion. “Tell me what happened.”

You stared at the crushed passenger side, the way the metal had folded in on itself like paper. Your stomach rolled.

“I went through a green light,” you said, voice tight. “And someone– someone ran the red. They hit me on the passenger side. I spun– my car spun around.”

“Any airbags deploy?”

“No.”

“Any smoke? Fuel smell?”

“No smoke,” you said, sniffing automatically. “Just… rubber. And like… hot metal.”

“Okay.” Sam’s voice stayed steady, anchored. “Is the other driver still there?”

You looked through the windshield. In the periphery, you saw movement – someone staggering near a car stopped awkwardly by the curb. They seemed more interested in their own bumper than in you.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “He’s here. He… he’s not steady.”

A beat.

“Drunk?” Sam asked, already knowing.

“Sounds like it.”

“Alright.” Sam exhaled, sharp. “Listen to me. Do not engage. Do not roll down the window. If he approaches your car, you call me out loud and you honk the horn. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Another pause, shorter this time. Then, “I’ve dispatched a unit and I’ve got EMS en route. Ambulance is on the way.”

The words hit you in the chest with a strange combination of relief and humiliation.

An ambulance. Over a minor crash. Over you.

But you didn’t argue.

Your hands were still shaking too much to pretend you were fine.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“I’m going to stay on the line,” Sam said. “Talk to me… you hear me, right?”

A shaky laugh tried to escape you and died halfway.

“I hear you.”

“Good.” His voice softened a fraction – still professional, but warmer. “You did the right thing calling. You’re not alone, alright?”

Your throat tightened again, hot this time.

Because you hadn’t wanted to feel alone.

Not when you left. Not when you drove away. Not when you tried to punish Steve with absence.

You swallowed hard, blinking fast.

“Sam,” you said quietly, “can you– can you tell Rogers not to–”

You stopped yourself.

Because you didn’t even know what you wanted.

Not to come? Not to blame himself? Not to show up looking like stone and make you feel small?

Sam’s tone stayed neutral, but there was a gentle edge to it, like he already understood where this was going.

“Not to what?” he asked.

You stared at the dark street beyond your windshield, listening to the ticking of your engine like a countdown.

“…Nothing,” you whispered finally. “Forget it.”

Sam didn’t push. He just let the silence breathe, filling it with his steady presence.

“Alright,” he said. “Ambulance is about five minutes out. You’re doing great. Just stay put.”

You tightened your grip on the phone, knuckles white.

Outside, the drunk driver’s voice carried again, louder – complaining, swearing, blaming the universe.

You ignored him.

You kept your eyes forward.

You focused on Sam’s voice, on the fact that help was coming, on the fact that you were unhurt.

And on the bitter, unavoidable thought you couldn’t quite shove away:

If Steve found out you’d been hit – if he heard you were in an ambulance – he would come like gravity.

And you weren’t sure you were ready for what would happen when he arrived.

Sam didn’t waste a second. He lowered the phone from his ear, already moving, already making the next call as he walked, jaw set. Steve picked up fast – too fast, like he’d been holding his phone in his hand. “Wilson,” Steve said, voice tight. “It’s me,” Sam answered. No preamble. “She’s been in a car accident.” Silence – sharp, immediate. Then Steve’s voice came through, controlled but dangerously strained. “Is she hurt?” “She says she’s not injured,” Sam replied, already filtering information the way they were trained to. “Passenger-side impact, vehicle spun. EMS is on scene, they’re getting her out now.” Steve exhaled hard, a sound that wasn’t quite a breath. “Where?” Sam rattled off the coordinates and the nearest cross streets. “Ambulance is en route to the hospital for a check-up. Standard protocol. I’ve got units moving.” Steve didn’t respond for a beat. Sam could hear it anyway: the shift. The snap into motion. The way Steve’s mind would already be mapping routes, calculating time, rewriting the night around one single priority. “Which hospital?” Steve asked, voice low. “Nearest trauma-capable facility,” Sam said. “They’ll confirm destination in a minute, but it’s likely–” He named it. “Okay,” Steve said, and that single word was steel. “I’m going.” Sam kept his tone even. “Rogers–” “I’m going,” Steve repeated, sharper now, and the professionalism in it didn’t hide the undercurrent. Not to Sam. Not after years on the same details, reading each other’s tells. Sam paused, then chose his next words carefully. “She didn’t call you,” he said quietly. “She called me.” Silence again. Then Steve’s voice, rougher: “I know.” Sam sighed through his nose. “Get to the hospital. Don’t make it worse.” “I won’t,” Steve said – too fast, too certain, like he needed to believe it. Sam could already hear movement on Steve’s end: a door opening, footsteps, the clipped efficiency of a man heading into the night with purpose. As Sam ended the call, he glanced back toward the outside of the residence. He watched for a second longer than he needed to. Then he turned away, because there were protocols to run, reports to file, and a vice-presidential detail that had just gone from tense to volatile. And because, somewhere behind all of it, he could already picture Steve Rogers walking into that hospital with his mask on, and praying it wouldn’t crack at the worst possible moment.

The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and antiseptic.

The paramedic kept asking you questions in a calm voice that didn’t match the way your heart was trying to climb out of your chest.

“Any nausea?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“Just… pressure.”

“Neck pain?”

“Yes.”

“Rate it, from one to ten.”

You stared at the ceiling of the ambulance, trying to attach numbers to sensations you couldn’t name. Your body didn’t feel like it belonged to you right now. It felt like a suit you’d been forced into – tight in all the wrong places, buzzing with adrenaline.

“Four,” you managed, because four sounded reasonable. Because you were still trying to be reasonable even now. Even when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Your phone sat on the bench beside you, screen cracked at the corner where it had hit the floor of your car. It kept lighting up with notifications you couldn’t read fast enough.

Calls you didn’t answer.

Messages you didn’t open.

Because one name kept appearing, over and over, like a pulse.

STEVE

The paramedic noticed. “Family?”

You swallowed. “No.”

They didn’t push. They just nodded and tightened the strap on the blood pressure cuff around your arm.

The fabric bit into your skin.

The restraint of it – gentle, clinical – made your throat tighten.

Not because it hurt.

Because it reminded you how quickly control disappeared when something went wrong.

You stared at the ceiling again and forced yourself to breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

You’d done this before – panic attacks in bathrooms during campaign events, hyperventilating in the back of cars after debates, hands pressed to your ribs while you tried to look normal.

Steve had been there for some of them.

Not close.

Never too close.

But there – outside the stall, outside the door, voice low and steady: Count with me.

And now he wasn’t here.

Not yet.

And the absence was a weight.

The paramedic’s radio crackled. “ETA three minutes.”

Your stomach twisted.

Part of you wanted Steve to show up.

Part of you wanted to lock the hospital doors and never see him again.

Both parts felt like they belonged to you.

Both parts felt like betrayal.

He arrived before you did.

Which shouldn’t have been possible.

But Steve Rogers didn’t do “impossible” the way most people meant it.

When the ambulance doors opened at the ER entrance, cold night air rushed in along with bright fluorescent light. The world became too loud – voices, footsteps, wheels squeaking, the sharp beep of a monitor being rolled past.

And then you saw him.

Steve stood just beyond the threshold where the paramedics would hand you off, jacket thrown over his suit like he’d dressed in seconds, hair not quite perfect, eyes wild in a way you’d never seen before.

He looked… wrong.

Not unprofessional. Not sloppy. Just… undone.

Like whatever mask he wore for the world hadn’t snapped fully back into place.

His gaze locked on you.

And you watched – actually watched – the moment his face changed when he confirmed you were alive.

Relief hit first. Sharp, almost violent.

Then fear.

Then something that looked dangerously close to pain.

He moved forward.

Not with the careful half-step behind you. Not with the measured pace of a man staying in his lane.

He moved like a man who had been held back too long.

“Sir,” one of the paramedics greeted him automatically, then corrected themselves when they recognized him. “Agent Rogers. She’s stable. Minor collision. Possible whiplash. No loss of consciousness.”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off you.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low and raw.

It wasn’t the polite question he’d asked you a thousand times during events. It wasn’t operational.

It sounded like he needed the answer to breathe.

“I’m fine,” you said, and your voice came out hoarse. “It’s minor.”

Steve’s jaw clenched.

His gaze dropped to the strap over your chest, the way your hands trembled against the blanket.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“Adrenaline,” you muttered.

Steve’s throat bobbed.

He looked like he wanted to say something else.

He didn’t.

He turned sharply to the nurse approaching with a clipboard.

“I need a room,” Steve said, voice snapping into authority. “Private. Now.”

The nurse blinked. “Sir, we triage–”

“She’s the Vice President’s daughter,” Steve said, controlled but edged with threat. “And you will triage her, yes. In a room. Not in a hallway.”

The nurse’s eyes widened. She nodded quickly and gestured down the corridor.

“Room three,” she said.

Steve walked alongside the gurney as they wheeled you in.

Too close.

Too present.

Your chest tightened with something sharp.

You stared straight up at the ceiling tiles and refused to look at him.

Because if you looked at him, you might soften.

And you couldn’t afford softness. Not yet.

Not when his voice had called you manageable.

Not when you’d walked out and he’d let you go.

Not when you’d needed him and he’d been a job description.

Room three smelled like disinfectant and paper. The lights were harsh, unforgiving. Everything was white and metallic and designed to make people feel small.

They transferred you onto the hospital bed. Wrapped a blood pressure cuff around your arm. Put a pulse ox on your finger.

The beeping started – steady, irritating, constant.

A nurse asked you questions.

Name, date of birth, allergies.

You answered automatically, like you were reciting a script.

Steve stood near the door.

Not at the threshold this time.

Inside the room.

Like the rules had shifted, and he either didn’t care or couldn’t remember them.

His presence pressed on you, heavy and familiar.

You kept your eyes on the wall.

A doctor came in and did a quick exam: checked your pupils, pressed gently along your neck, asked you to move your head.

You winced.

“Likely cervical strain,” the doctor said. “Whiplash. We’ll do imaging to be safe, given the mechanism. But it looks minor.”

“Good,” Steve said.

The doctor glanced at him. “Family?”

Steve opened his mouth.

You beat him to it, voice flat. “Security.”

Something in Steve’s face flickered.

The doctor nodded like that made sense in your world, then left.

The nurse adjusted the bed. “We’ll get you to imaging in a few minutes.”

Then she left too.

And suddenly it was just you.

And Steve.

And the fluorescent hum.

The silence spread between you like a pool of cold water.

You stared at the wall, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Steve didn’t speak at first.

You could hear him breathing.

Too fast.

Too controlled.

Like he was trying to wrestle his body back into discipline.

Finally, his voice came quietly.

“Why didn’t you tell me where you were?”

You laughed once, bitter. “Because I didn’t want you to come.”

Steve flinched.

You turned your head just enough to see him in your peripheral vision.

He looked like he’d been punched again.

His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles pale.

“I didn’t let you go,” he said, voice strained.

You blinked. “You literally watched me leave.”

Steve swallowed hard. “I didn’t stop you.”

“Right,” you said coldly. “Because it wasn’t personal.”

Steve’s eyes closed briefly, as if he could physically feel your words.

When he opened them again, his gaze was on the floor.

“I should’ve followed you,” he admitted, voice low. “I should’ve… I should’ve handled it differently.”

Handled.

The word made your stomach twist.

You sat up slightly, careful of your neck, and looked at him fully now.

“Don’t,” you said.

Steve looked up, startled.

“Don’t use that word,” you said, voice shaking now. “Not here.”

His face tightened. “I didn’t mean–”

“I know what you meant,” you cut in, breathing hard. “That’s the problem. I know exactly what you mean.”

Silence.

Steve took a step toward the bed.

Then stopped, like there was an invisible line he couldn’t cross.

He hovered there, stranded between what he’d always been and whatever this was becoming.

“I was scared,” he said, and the admission came out like it cost him.

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“Of what?” you asked.

Steve’s jaw flexed. His gaze lifted to yours, and for the first time tonight, you saw it – the thing he’d been hiding.

Not indifference.

Fear.

Real, human fear.

“Of losing you,” he said simply.

Your chest tightened painfully.

You scoffed, because if you didn’t, you might cry. “Funny way of showing it.”

Steve’s shoulders sank a fraction.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “I know.”

He stepped closer again, slower this time, like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt.

He stopped at the side of the bed.

Not touching you.

Just… near.

“I heard you,” Steve said quietly.

Your throat tightened. “Heard me?”

“In the hallway,” he clarified. His voice cracked on the last word. “When you said… I was the only person you thought you could trust.”

Your stomach dropped.

You looked away quickly, throat burning.

Steve’s voice continued, softer now. “I’ve replayed it about a thousand times since you left.”

You swallowed. “Good.”

The word was cruel.

You couldn’t stop it.

Steve flinched, but he didn’t retreat.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, like he was making a choice.

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he said.

You snapped your gaze back. “Don’t start. Don’t you dare make this about–”

“Not because you can’t take care of yourself,” Steve cut in quickly, urgent. “You can. You always do. That’s not what I mean.”

His hands flexed, then stilled.

His voice lowered.

“I mean you shouldn’t have been alone because I should’ve been there. Because I made you feel like you couldn’t call me.”

Your mouth opened.

No words came out.

Your chest hurt.

Because yes.

Because that was exactly it.

You’d wanted to call him the moment your stomach started twisting in the car. The moment you pulled over. The moment the other car sent yours on the side.

You hadn’t.

Because hearing him speak about you like a file had made you feel stupid for ever believing he was different.

Steve took a shaky breath.

“I used the wrong language,” he said, and the apology in it wasn’t pretty or polished. It was raw. “I know I did. I– I talk like that in briefings because it keeps things clean. It keeps me… separate.”

You stared at him. “Separate from what?”

Steve’s eyes held yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“From you,” he whispered.

The words hit like heat.

“You think talking about me like I’m not a person keeps you separate?” you demanded, and anger flared again, sharp and protective. “That’s what you chose?”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t want to want you.”

The sentence landed in the room with a thud.

Your breath caught.

Steve’s eyes looked almost haunted.

“I didn’t,” he repeated, like confession was something he had to force out. “Because wanting you means… I’m not objective. Wanting you means I make mistakes. Wanting you means I cross lines I can’t uncross.”

You stared at him, heart hammering so hard you felt it in your throat.

“And you think I don’t know what that feels like?” you whispered.

Steve blinked. “What?”

You swallowed hard, voice shaking with it.

“I live in a world where every relationship is strategic,” you said. “Where people don’t touch me unless it benefits them. Where I have to second-guess every smile. Every compliment. Every invitation.”

Your eyes burned.

“And you,” you continued, voice cracking, “you were the first person who didn’t feel like that.”

Steve went very still.

Your throat tightened until it hurt.

“I trusted you,” you said again, quieter now. “Because you were steady. Because you were honest. Because you didn’t want anything from me.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“And then I heard you reduce me to ‘compliant’ and ‘manageable’ and ‘parameters’ like you were talking about a malfunctioning device.”

Steve’s face twisted, agony flashing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You stared at him, tears threatening.

“You don’t get to be sorry,” you said, voice thin. “Not if you’re going to keep hiding behind your job when it matters.”

Steve’s hands trembled.

You watched it.

Watched the tiny shake he couldn’t control.

That scared you more than the accident.

Because Steve didn’t lose control.

Not like this.

He looked at you like you were something he’d almost lost and didn’t know how to survive it.

“I’m done hiding,” Steve said suddenly.

The words startled you.

You blinked. “What?”

Steve swallowed hard. His voice was rough, like he’d been swallowing glass.

“I’m done hiding behind it,” he clarified, and his eyes flickered to the door as if he was afraid someone might hear. “Because tonight… tonight I realized something.”

You didn’t speak.

You barely breathed.

Steve’s gaze locked on yours.

“If you had been hurt,” he said, voice shaking now, “if you had been lying in that car and I wasn’t there–”

His throat bobbed. His jaw clenched hard.

“I wouldn’t have survived it,” he finished, almost inaudible.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Steve,” you whispered.

He flinched at his own name coming from your mouth. Like it undid him.

He exhaled, slow and shaky.

“I love you,” he said.

The words were quiet.

Not dramatic.

Not romantic in the movie sense.

Just… honest.

And it felt like the room tilted again, except this time it wasn’t dizziness.

It was your heart trying to decide whether to leap or protect itself.

You stared at him, tears spilling now despite your best effort.

“You don’t–” you started, then stopped, because you didn’t even know what you wanted to say.

Steve looked terrified suddenly, like he’d jumped off a cliff.

“I know I shouldn’t,” he said quickly, voice urgent. “I know it’s not appropriate. I know I’m– I’m your bodyguard, and you’re– you’re–”

“The Vice President’s daughter,” you finished, bitter.

Steve shook his head sharply. “You’re you.”

His eyes shone.

“You’re the woman who remembers the names of every staffer in this house,” he said, voice breaking. “You’re the woman who sits on the floor with a laptop because chairs make you feel trapped. You’re the woman who drinks too much coffee and forgets to eat when you’re stressed, and then pretends you’re fine.”

His voice softened, wrecked.

“You’re the woman I’ve been trying not to fall in love with since the first year.”

Your breath hitched.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your mouth, shaking.

Steve’s hands lifted slightly, hesitated, then lowered again – still not touching you.

Like he still didn’t think he was allowed.

“Why?” you whispered through tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Steve’s eyes closed briefly.

“Because I’m not supposed to want you,” he admitted. “Because the second I admit it, everything changes. Your father finds out. The press finds out. The Service finds out. And then you lose your detail lead, and I lose–”

He swallowed, voice rough. “I lose you.”

You stared at him. “You think keeping me at arm’s length keeps you from losing me?”

Steve’s jaw clenched. His eyes opened, meeting yours.

“I thought it would hurt less,” he whispered.

The honesty of it made your chest ache.

“But hearing you say you trusted me–” He shook his head, voice breaking. “Hearing you say I was the only person… and then watching you leave…”

His breath shuddered.

“I realized I’d already lost you anyway,” he finished.

Silence filled the room.

The monitor beeped steadily, indifferent.

Outside, footsteps passed in the hallway.

And inside, you stared at Steve Rogers – this man who had guarded you with his body for years but had been too afraid to guard you with his truth.

You wiped at your cheeks, angry at the wetness.

“I don’t want grand gestures,” you whispered.

Steve swallowed. “Okay.”

“I don’t want… promises you can’t keep,” you added, voice trembling.

“I won’t,” he said immediately.

You stared at him, throat tight.

“What I want,” you said slowly, “is for you to stop treating your feelings like a liability.”

Steve’s eyes softened, pain and hope tangled together.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted, barely audible.

You inhaled shakily.

“Then learn,” you whispered.

Steve flinched as if the word struck him.

You held his gaze, steady despite the tears.

“And if you’re going to say you love me,” you added, voice fierce now, “then don’t say it because you’re scared. Say it because you mean it.”

Steve’s throat bobbed.

“I mean it,” he whispered.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t hide behind the badge when he said it.

He didn’t move to touch you.

But his eyes looked like hands anyway – careful, reverent, trembling with restraint.

A knock sounded at the door.

A nurse peeked in. “We’re ready to take you to imaging.”

You blinked, dazed.

Steve’s gaze flicked to the nurse, then back to you.

“I’m staying,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a protocol.

It was a choice.

And as they started to wheel your bed out of the room, Steve walked beside you – close, unflinching – his hand hovering near the rail like he was finally allowing himself to be something other than your shadow.

Not just your bodyguard.

Not tonight.

Imaging took longer than it should have. Not because anything was wrong – your scans came back clean, your neck pain labeled as a strain, the kind that would ache for a few days and then fade into memory – but because hospitals were built on waiting. Built on bright lights and paperwork and the quiet, grinding erosion of control. You lay still while machines whirred. You answered questions with a numb voice. You nodded at nurses and let them fuss with straps and angles and warnings. Through all of it, Steve stayed close. Not in the hovering, disciplined way he usually did. In a way that made the air around you feel… anchored. He walked beside your gurney, one hand near the rail like he couldn’t quite let himself grip it, like touch was still a language he was learning to speak without flinching. When a nurse asked him to wait outside the imaging room, he did – immediately, without argument – yet you could feel him on the other side of the door, a steady presence refusing to leave. And every time the door opened again, he was there. Eyes on you first. Not scanning the corridor. Not checking exits. You. It was unnerving. It was also, in some helpless part of you, exactly what you’d wanted for years. When they finally wheeled you back into room three, your body felt heavy with exhaustion. The adrenaline had burnt itself out, leaving only soreness and a hollow ache behind your ribs. They settled you into the bed again, adjusted the pillow, handed you a cup of water and a small packet of painkillers with the kind of practiced kindness that made you feel even more fragile.

“Take these with food when you can,” the nurse said. “You’ll likely feel stiff tomorrow.” You nodded. She glanced at Steve – who was still by the door, posture taut, eyes too intent. “Anything else?” she asked. Steve answered before you could. “Low light if possible. Quiet. She needs rest.” The nurse gave a quick, sympathetic smile and dimmed the overheads. Then she left. The door clicked shut. And you were alone again. With him. In a softer room now, the harsh white cut down to a gentle hum. Shadows pooled in the corners. The monitor beeped steadily. You stared at the cup of water in your hands like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Because looking at Steve felt like standing too close to a fire. “You should drink,” Steve said quietly. You let out a short, tired breath that might have been a laugh if your throat didn’t hurt. “Of course,” you murmured, and took a sip because you didn’t want to fight over water in a hospital bed. Steve didn’t smile, but something eased in his shoulders anyway – as if seeing you do something simple and safe was enough to keep him from falling apart. You hated how much that mattered to him. You hated how much it mattered to you. A long silence stretched. Then, Steve spoke again, voice low. “I should have told you years ago.” You didn’t look up. “Told me what?” “You know what,” he said, and the words carried a rawness that made your chest tighten. You swallowed. Your fingers tightened around the cup. “Say it anyway,” you whispered. Steve’s inhale was shaky. “That it wasn’t just the job.” Your throat burned. You stared at the water. “But it was, though.” Steve went very still. “It started as the job,” you continued, voice quiet but sharp. “You were assigned to me. You followed protocols. You did what you were trained to do.” You finally lifted your eyes. “And somewhere along the way,” you said, “you forgot you were dealing with an actual person.” Steve flinched like the words physically hit him. His hands clenched once, then relaxed as he forced them open again. “I didn’t forget,” he said hoarsely. “I… I did the opposite. I saw you too clearly.” You stared at him. Steve’s eyes shone in the dim light, not with tears spilling – Steve didn’t spill easily – but with something strained, too bright.

“And it scared the hell out of me,” he admitted. The honesty landed differently now. Less like a confession meant to stop you from leaving. More like a truth he couldn’t carry alone anymore. He took a step forward, slow. He stopped by the chair at your bedside like he wasn’t sure he’d earned it. “Can I?” he asked quietly, gesturing to the chair. The question – permission – undid something tight in your chest. You nodded once. Steve sat down carefully, like the chair might break, like the floor beneath him might. His knees angled toward you. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing, betraying the tension he was holding back. For a moment, neither of you spoke. And then you whispered, “I heard you.” Steve’s jaw clenched. “I know,” he murmured. “No,” you said, voice trembling. “I mean… I heard you for years. In the little things.” Steve’s gaze lifted to you, startled. “You can’t spend years reminding someone to drink water, or to eat, or to sleep, and then act surprised when they fall in love with you,” you said, and your laugh broke halfway through because it hurt too much to say it out loud. Steve’s eyes widened, then softened in a way that made your throat close. “I didn’t think…” he started. “You didn’t think I would love you back?” you finished, bitter. Steve’s throat bobbed. “I didn’t think I deserved it,” he admitted, barely audible. Silence hit again, heavy and intimate. You looked away quickly, blinking hard. “And tonight,” you said, voice quieter, “you made me feel stupid for trusting you. For… for letting you be that close.” Steve’s shoulders sank. “I know,” he whispered. You turned your head sharply, anger flaring again because it was easier than softness. “No, you don’t,” you snapped. “Do you know what it’s like to grow up with everyone wanting something from you? Everyone touching you like you’re– like you’re currency? Do you know what it feels like to finally let one person in and then hear them talk about you like you’re a set of parameters?” Steve’s face twisted with pain. “No,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t. Not like you do.” He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on yours like he couldn’t look away even if it destroyed him.

“But I know what it feels like to be terrified of wanting something you don’t think you’re allowed to have,” he added. Your breath hitched. Steve’s hands lifted slightly, then fell again. “I made myself talk like that,” he said, and the shame in it was palpable. “I trained my mouth to use operational words because if I didn’t– if I let myself think of you as… you– then I would start making choices that weren’t clean.” You stared at him. “What choices?” you whispered. Steve’s jaw flexed. He looked like he hated himself for what he was about to say. “I would start wanting to pull you away from rooms you’re supposed to stand in,” he said quietly. “I would start wanting to take your phone out of your hand and tell every person who thinks they own you to go to hell.” His voice grew lower, dangerous in its sincerity. “I would start wanting to put my hands on you in ways that have nothing to do with security.” Heat crawled up your neck. Your pulse spiked. Steve noticed – of course he did – and his face tightened. He looked away for the first time, like he didn’t trust his own eyes. “And then what?” you asked, voice shaking. Steve’s laugh was broken, humorless. “Then I lose my job,” he said. “I get pulled off your detail. Your father finds out. The press finds out. And you get shredded for it.” He looked back at you. “And you deserve better than being someone’s scandal.” Your throat tightened. “Don’t decide what I deserve,” you whispered. Steve’s gaze held yours, steady. “I’m not deciding,” he said, voice softer. “I’m… admitting why I was scared.” You exhaled shakily. The room felt too small. Your skin felt too sensitive. The air between you felt charged. You swallowed hard. “And what are you going to do about it?” you asked. Steve blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” You stared at him, exhaustion stripping you down to blunt honesty. “You told me you love me,” you said. “Okay. Now what? Are you going to go back to being cold in the morning? Are you going to put the mask back on and pretend tonight didn’t happen?” Steve’s face went pale. “No,” he said immediately, too fast. “No.” You held his gaze, not letting him hide. “Then what,” you repeated, voice firm despite the tremor. “Because I can’t go back to half-truths, Steve. I can’t do this if you’re going to punish me for feeling something.” Steve’s breath shuddered. He stared at you for a long moment – like he was measuring the distance between his fear and your honesty. Then he nodded once, small but decisive. “I’m not going to punish you,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going to pretend.” He swallowed, jaw tight. “But I also won’t lie to you,” he added. “This is complicated. There are consequences.”

“I know,” you whispered. Steve’s gaze flicked over your face, lingering. “And you still want–” He stopped, like the words hurt. “You still want me?” Your throat tightened. You wanted to say no out of pride. You wanted to say yes out of truth. You settled on the only thing you could say without breaking. “I want you to be honest,” you whispered. Steve’s eyes softened. “Okay,” he said. “Honest.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “I love you,” he repeated, slower this time, like he was building something careful. “I have for a long time. And I hate that I let fear make me cruel.” Your breath caught. Steve’s voice lowered. “When I talked about you like that, it wasn’t because I don’t see you,” he said. “It was because I see you too much, and I didn’t know how to keep myself from wanting to–” He stopped, jaw tightening. “From wanting to be yours,” he finished, almost inaudible. The words landed in your chest like a weight and a balm at the same time. You stared at him, pulse racing. “And what does that mean?” you whispered. Steve swallowed. His eyes didn’t waver. “It means I’m going to ask for a transfer,” he said. You blinked, startled. “What?” Steve nodded once, grim. “I can’t keep protecting you while I’m lying to you,” he said. “And I can’t keep wanting you while pretending I don’t.” Your stomach dropped. A sharp pain flared – not in your neck, in your chest. “You’re leaving,” you whispered. Steve flinched immediately. “No.” “That’s what that is,” you snapped, panic rising. “That’s you leaving because it’s easier than–” “It’s not easier,” Steve cut in, voice rough. “It’s the opposite.” His hands clenched hard, then relaxed as he forced himself to breathe. “I’m trying to do this without destroying you,” he said. Your eyes burned. “And what if I don’t want to be protected from getting destroyed?” you whispered. “What if I want to choose?” Steve’s face twisted, a mix of pain and something like relief.

“You do,” he said softly. “You get to choose. That’s… that’s why I’m telling you now. Not hiding it.” You stared at him, heart pounding. “Okay,” you said, voice shaky. “Then here’s my choice.” Steve went still, eyes locked on yours. You swallowed hard. “I don’t want you gone,” you whispered. “I don’t want you to run because you’re scared. And I don’t want you to stay if you’re going to keep carving yourself into pieces to fit the job.” Your voice cracked. “I want… something real,” you finished. “Even if it’s messy.” Steve’s breath shuddered. For a second, his eyes looked wet. Then he nodded, slow. “Okay,” he whispered. “Real.” He hesitated, then lifted his hand slightly, palm open on the edge of the bed – not touching you, just offering. The gesture was small. It felt enormous. You stared at his hand for a long moment, heart hammering. Then you placed your fingers into his. Steve’s entire body went still, like he’d been shocked. His grip was gentle. Careful. Like he was holding something precious and breakable. You exhaled shakily. “Still afraid?” you whispered. Steve’s mouth twitched, a small, sad smile. “Terrified.” You squeezed his hand once, a silent answer. “Good,” you murmured. “Then at least you’re honest.” Steve let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his lungs for years. He didn’t pull you closer. He didn’t try to kiss you. He just held your hand like it was a promise he didn’t want to break. After a moment, you whispered, “I’m sorry I left.” Steve’s jaw clenched.

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he said, voice thick. “I know,” you admitted. “I was angry.” Steve’s gaze dropped to your joined hands. “You had every right,” he said quietly. “And I… I should’ve earned that trust better.” Your throat tightened. “And for what it’s worth,” you whispered, “I didn’t leave because I wanted to hurt you.” Steve’s eyes flicked up. “Why did you?” You swallowed. “Because I was scared that if I stayed,” you said, voice trembling, “I’d forgive you too fast. And I’d go back to pretending the ache was enough.” Steve stared at you like the honesty gutted him. “It’s not enough,” he said, voice low. “No,” you agreed. “It’s not.” Silence fell again, but it was different now. Not teeth. Not cold. Just… quiet. Steve’s thumb moved once, barely, over your knuckles. A tentative stroke, like he was testing whether he was allowed. You didn’t pull away. Steve’s breath hitched softly. “Can I stay?” he asked. You blinked. “You’re supposed to.” He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “Not as your detail lead,” he murmured. “Not as protocol. As… me.” Your chest tightened. You swallowed, then nodded once. “Yes,” you whispered. “Stay.” Steve’s shoulders sagged in relief so visible it startled you. Like that single word loosened something he’d been carrying in every muscle. He shifted the chair closer to the bed and sat again, still holding your hand. The minutes stretched. Your eyelids grew heavy. The pain in your neck throbbed dull and persistent. Steve stayed awake beside you, gaze fixed on your face like he was memorizing you. At some point, you murmured, half-asleep, “Hydration check, Agent Rogers?” Steve’s soft huff of laughter warmed the room. “Drink some water,” he whispered. You smiled faintly, eyes closed. “And Steve?” you murmured. “Yeah,” he answered immediately. Your voice was sleepy, but the truth in it was clear. “If you ever talk about me like I’m a file again,” you said, “I’ll make you regret it.” Steve’s thumb stroked your knuckles again, gentle. “I won’t,” he promised. “Not ever.” You breathed out, letting yourself sink into the pillow. “Okay,” you whispered. Steve’s voice followed you into the edge of sleep, steady and soft. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. This time, it didn’t sound like a job. It sounded like a vow.

Two months later, the residence felt different.

Not because the hallways had changed – same polished floors, same quiet hum of security systems, same framed photos of handshakes and flags and history. Not because the cameras had disappeared – they hadn’t. They never would.

It felt different because you had changed.

And because Steve had, too.

The fight with your father in the days after the accident had been the kind of argument that left bruises you couldn’t photograph. It had started with protocol and reputation, with phrases like inappropriate and unacceptable risk, with your father’s voice cutting through the living room like a gavel.

It had ended when you finally snapped and said, shaking, “I nearly died because I stopped believing I could call the one person who actually sees me.”

You didn’t remember everything that happened after that. Just flashes: your father’s face going pale. His hands tightening on the back of a chair. The moment his anger faltered – not into softness, not immediately, but into something far more telling.

Fear.

Because he’d seen you shaken before. He’d seen you tired. He’d seen you irritated.

He had not seen you broken.

Not like that.

Not with your voice cracking on the truth.

And when he realized that this wasn’t a crush or rebellion or tabloid fodder – that this was you clinging to the only thing that had ever felt steady in a life built on shifting ground – something in him had shifted.

The next morning, your father had knocked on your door without staff, without advisors, without the press team lurking like vultures.

He’d stood there, looking older than you’d ever allowed yourself to notice.

“I don’t like it,” he’d said plainly. “I don’t like the risk. I don’t like what it means for you.”

You’d crossed your arms, braced for battle.

Then he’d added, quieter, almost reluctant, “But I like you being alive more.”

And after that, it had been… not easy, never easy, but possible.

Your father had stopped trying to control the narrative like it was the only thing that mattered. He’d stopped treating your feelings like a liability to be mitigated. He’d started – slowly, awkwardly – treating you like an adult whose choices might actually be about something other than optics.

And Steve…

Steve had stopped living at the threshold.

He still wore his suit. Still carried the earpiece. Still watched crowds like a hawk watches the horizon.

But he didn’t hover like an outsider anymore.

He entered rooms without acting like his feet were on hot coals.

He sat beside you on the couch, close enough that your shoulders touched.

He slept in your bed on the nights you needed him to – actually slept, not just “stood guard” with his heart beating too loud.

He learned how to split himself in two without tearing.

Agent Rogers, when cameras were pointed at you.

Steve, when you were alone and your hands were shaking for reasons that had nothing to do with threats.

He got better at it every day.

So did you.

Tonight, the residence library glowed with warm lamp light. Rain tapped softly against the windows, turning the glass into a blurred watercolor of city lights. You sat at the desk in your usual way – laptop open, shoulders tense, hair pinned back because it got in your face when you worked. A mug of cold tea sat forgotten to your left. Your inbox was a battlefield. Steve had been in and out for the last hour – brief phone call in the corridor, a quiet check with another agent, a glance at the monitors. He’d left you to it, because you’d asked for space. But “space” didn’t mean “disappear.” And Steve had learned the difference. The chair creaked behind you. You didn’t look up immediately. You were halfway through rewriting a statement, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat. Then Steve’s voice came, calm and unarguable. “Okay,” he said. You paused, fingers hovering over the keys. “Okay what?” “Okay, you’re done,” Steve replied. You blinked, finally turning your head. He was standing in the doorway – except he wasn’t lingering at it. He was in the room, fully, like he belonged there. One hand braced on the doorframe, the other holding a glass of water that caught the lamplight. His expression was familiar: that composed steadiness that could handle a motorcade and a riot and a screaming donor. But his eyes were pure Steve – soft, attentive, affectionate in a way that never quite stopped making your chest ache. “You’ve been staring at that screen for two hours,” he said. “Without a break.” You frowned. “That’s not true.” Steve’s mouth twitched. “You haven’t blinked since the last time I walked past.” “That’s an exaggeration.” “It’s not,” he said, stepping closer. “Drink.” He held the water out to you. You took it automatically, because you always did now – because somewhere along the way, the act stopped feeling like being managed and started feeling like being cared for. And the fact that you didn’t fight it anymore made something warm unfurl in your chest. You raised the glass and took a drink. Steve watched, quiet, like he could finally breathe again. You swallowed and set the glass down. Then you smiled – small, genuine. “It’s kind of funny,” you said. Steve lifted a brow. “What is?” “You still do it,” you murmured. “The water thing.” His expression softened. “I’m going to do it until you’re eighty.” You huffed a laugh. “Bold of you to assume I’ll live that long.” Steve’s gaze sharpened instantly. “Don’t.” The single word wasn’t harsh. It was protective. Immediate. The edge of fear still living in him, even months later. You held his gaze for a beat, then nodded, gentling. “Okay,” you said quietly. “Okay.” Steve’s shoulders eased. He reached past you and closed the laptop with one smooth motion. You made a protest noise. “Hey–” Steve leaned down, close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. “That,” he said softly, “is not a request.” You stared up at him, lips parting despite yourself. His eyes dipped to your mouth for a fraction of a second.

Then, like he remembered himself, he straightened – half a step back, the tiniest return to professional composure. “You need a break,” he said. “A real one.” Your pulse thrummed. “Are you telling me this as my bodyguard,” you asked, voice light, “or as my boyfriend?” Steve’s mouth twitched again. A smile he didn’t fully let himself wear in public. “Both,” he admitted. You hummed thoughtfully and reached for the glass again, taking another sip just to watch his gaze follow the movement. Like he couldn’t help it. When you set it down, you turned in your chair fully to face him. Steve stood there, arms relaxed, posture steady. A man who could be dangerous to anyone else. A man who was gentle with you like gentleness was a sacred duty. “Okay,” you said. Steve blinked. “Okay?” “You want me to take a break,” you said. “Fine.” You reached for the edge of his tie. Not tugging yet. Just touching it. Steve’s breath caught – subtle, but you heard it. You always heard it now. His eyes darkened, a flicker of heat behind the calm. “Sweetheart,” he warned, voice low. You smiled. “That sounded like boyfriend.” “It was,” Steve admitted, swallowing. You hooked your fingers into his collar and pulled him down toward you – decisive, unapologetic. Steve’s hands hovered for a beat, as if he still had to ask permission. Then he remembered: you’d told him to be real. So he let himself. He kissed you. Not like a man trying to prove something. Like a man coming home. Warm, firm, careful at first – then deeper when your hand slid behind his neck and you made a quiet sound against his mouth that melted the last of his restraint. His palm cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed to touch you to believe you were here. The kiss wasn’t frantic. It was grounding. It tasted like water and rain and the soft sweetness of safety. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours. His voice was a whisper. “Better?” You exhaled, breath shaky with a laugh. “Much.” Steve’s mouth curved, finally, into a real smile. He pressed a smaller kiss to your lips – gentler, almost playful – then straightened and glanced at the closed laptop like it was a defeated enemy. “You’re taking a break,” he said again. You tipped your head. “Or what?” Steve’s eyes warmed. “Or I’ll carry you out of this room.” You arched a brow. “That sounds like an abuse of power.” “It’s an abuse of concern,” he corrected smoothly. You laughed, the sound soft in the lamplight. Steve leaned down and kissed your forehead – quick, tender – then held his hand out to you. “Come on,” he said. “Five minutes away from the screen. That’s all I’m asking.” You looked at his hand. At the steadiness of it. At the way he offered without demanding. You took it. “Five minutes,” you agreed. Steve’s thumb stroked your knuckles once, like punctuation. “And,” he added, voice quiet, “I’m proud of you.” Your throat tightened. “Steve–” “I know,” he murmured, squeezing gently. “No more work talk. Just… let me take care of you for a minute.” You nodded, swallowing past the sudden burn in your chest. As he led you away from the desk, you glanced back at your laptop and realized something startling. For the first time in a long time, stepping away didn’t feel like losing control. It felt like being held.

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Smallville in the summer is a far cry from your ideal vacation. The closest airport is two hours away and you’re greeted by the sight of a building that looks like it barely functions and hasn’t been upgraded since the Middle Ages. You had been cramped into a small airplane that you’re convinced does not have all of its nuts and bolts considering how much it rattled (you don’t want to think about the strange tilt of the wings). It takes you a full hour to get your suitcase from baggage claim that has no air conditioning; mind you, it’s because there is no overhead compartment, so they forced you to check your carry-on into cargo (an equally cramped space).

To make matters worse, Kara’s work forced her to delay her trip by one day which means you’re already locked in to arriving a full day earlier than everyone else, thinking that you’d get to spend some quality time with her after being separated for nearly an entire year (it’s been a rough year for both of you).

“How am I supposed to get to your house?” You had asked — more like whined after she told you the bad news.

She sounded even more upset than you. “Don’t worry, Clark will be there!”

Your heart had leapt to your throat at the thought.

Now, you’re faced with this incredibly difficult, exceedingly troubling situation. Said situation is basically being stuck in a car for two hours with Clark Kent.

Clark Kent stands at over six feet tall, sticking out like a sore — but stupidly delicious — thumb outside the airport. He’s in a pair of denim jeans and a t-shirt that appears to be fighting to keep its threads intact around his bicep. His long frame is leaning against a rusty red pickup truck.

The moment you push the doors open to step outside, his eyes spot you. Brilliant, bejeweled blue even from this distance. He covers that distance in no time with his ridiculously long legs, barely breathless as your name falls from his lips.

“It’s been a while,” he beams softly. His hand immediately commandeers your suitcase like the caveman-gentleman that he is. “How was your flight?”

You shudder at the sound of the tumbling cogs still echoing in your ear. “Terrifying,” you mutter, “how do you even fit in those tiny planes?”

The question sounds foolish now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Forget I asked.”

His smile is shy and sheepish as he blinks down at you. “Perks of the job, I guess.”

“I hardly think being an unpaid superhero should count as a job. Otherwise, I’d be reporting… someone to the Department of Labor for withheld wages.”

Then he laughs and the sound is buoyant and clear in this empty parking lot. You feel it spark warmth, tingling to your fingertips.

Girl, get a grip.

You fan yourself a little under the pretense of the disgusting heat. At least the air is cooler out here than inside that sauna. Your bare legs that stretch out from under your shorts certainly appreciate the kiss of the wind. You’re able to breathe a little easier despite the humidity.

An act that is short-lived when you notice how his gaze flickers to your exposed skin.

Clearing his throat, Clark stops when he reaches his truck. He carefully lifts your bag to the bed of his truck and straps it down. You eye it suspiciously.

His lips twitch with the threat of amusement. “It’s not going to fly out. Promise. Flat roads from here on out.”

“Don’t mean to be rude but might be faster if you just flew both of us back to your home,” you suggest with a raised eyebrow.

It would make it easier for you too to avoid being trapped with him for a full hundred and twenty minutes in a car with nowhere to go.

Clark chuckles as he swings open the passenger seat for you, even going as far as to offer you a hand to help you climb the height of the vehicle. You almost imagine the ghost of his hand pushing you up by your ass, but that’s just distasteful dreaming.

“I’d rather keep our mayor in the dark about how Superman had landed and was raised in Smallville. I don’t think that’s the kind of marketing the other guy would be interested in.”

“The other guy is really only popular in Metropolis so maybe he could use a bit of a boost from a bumfuck small town.”

He laughs again and you have to stomp on those ridiculous little flutters.

The drive is peaceful. With both hands on the wheel, Clark taps his finger against the leather to the rhythm of some pop song crackling through the speakers. He makes small talk to fill the silence. He asks you about life, about your job, about the tiny apartment you’ve been trying to furnish for the last few months. Cordial. Polite. Safe. All conversational topics that are reasonable for two friends.

That is, until he asks whether you’re seeing anyone.

It should be a normal question to ask a friend. Hell, even a stranger. But you know Clark better than that and you know the underlying curiosity underneath.

Heat creeps up your neck again. You feel as if you’re back in that cursed airport as you find your voice to respond to him. “No, not seeing anyone right now.”

He doesn’t even look at you when the corners of his lips tip up into a pleased smile. You knew what he was asking — and you basically gave him the green light. He takes your confirmation as permission.

His right hand slides off the wheel and lands on your thigh. His very large palm stretching across your leg.

You swallow thickly.

“This okay?” His voice is soft. Genuine worry laced into his question.

Instead of verbalizing your response, you only manage a nod as you prop an elbow on the door. Your face turns towards the deserted road outside to hide your embarrassment. To hide the racing of your heart. The anticipation bubbling beneath your veins.

It doesn’t take him long for his hand to slide higher and higher until you feel his fingers toying with the button on your pants. Deft fingers that pop it open easily. It’s terribly sexy how good he is at that.

He reaches down your pants, fingers skimming over the thin fabric of your panties until he finds your clothed slit. A delighted hum slips past the seam of his lips when he finds you already damp. His fingers trace along your sensitive lips, featherlight, but you’re eager enough that you find your hips jerking upwards in search of his touch.

Your chest rises and falls with the breath that hitches in your throat. “Are we really doing this already?” You rasp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to prevent the moan from escaping.

You hate how responsive you are to him. How your body’s been trained to respond to him. That familiar touch eliciting those familiar sparks of electricity. No matter how many times he’s done this, how many times you’ve fallen apart in his hands, you’re no less receptive than the first time.

Clark chances a glance your way and simply murmurs, “Missed touching you.”

A whimper actually does crawl its way out of your throat this time. How are you supposed to say no to that? You let your legs fall open, hips lifting off the seat just enough so he can tug your pants a little lower, sneak his fingers in even deeper. He applies a little bit more pressure on your slit, you can feel your panties soaking up your juices.

“So wet already, honey,” he whispers.

Honey. The first time Clark used that pet name on you, you’d told him absolutely not. However, like everything else he’s done, you’ve grown used to it. Your insides turn gooey when he uses that sweet little nickname. Something so syrupy when he’s doing something oh so filthy.

“It’s been a while,” you mutter under your breath.

“Were you waiting for me?”

At that, you can’t help the defensive scoff that spits out of your mouth. “No.”

Maybe.

“When was the last time someone touched you?”

You don’t want to answer that. It’s an embarrassing answer — one that you fear will inflate his ego too much.

Unfortunately, your non-answer is answer enough.

“Been a while,” he echoes your earlier sentiment.

“Don’t get too full of yourself.”

“Why? Didn’t find anyone you liked these past few months?”

You press your lips together. The day that you admit you can’t seem to finish with anyone else, not when you’ve already had a taste — or ten — of Clark, is the day this world comes to an end. Not even Superman can pry this information out of you.

“No,” you answer easily.

Clark’s thumb presses down on your clit and you immediately jolt forward with a groan. His fingers tug the gusset of your panties to the side as he slides his fingers easily along your slick folds. He moans when he finds how quickly you coat his fingers.

“Me too,” Clark admits. “Haven’t been — gosh, you’re dripping — haven’t been with anyone since, you know, last time.” Whether it’s to save you from your own confession or Clark is just being his honest self, you don’t know. Still, you appreciate the thought.

Your face warms again with his words and maybe any other time, you would have the self-control or decency to stop him. However, in that moment, when you’re pent up from your frustrating flight and months of reaching your orgasm only by your fingers alone, you can’t help but appreciate his fingers on you.

You slide down a little further on your seat, granting him access to finally push his fingers inside you. Thick, long fingers that curl that delicious flash of friction in your pulsing cunt.

It’s criminal how good he is at this. At sex in general, really. You know that it’s partly attributed to his superpowers. Clark knows the rhythm of your heartbeat like it’s his own. It’s how he knows exactly when whatever he’s doing is working on you. How he’s learned what your body loves, what makes it burn. He can hear how your heart rate skyrockets when he slides his fingers deeper, when he does a slow drag out to pull a moan from your chest. He knows when he’s doing a good job, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t enjoy hearing you admit how much you want him out loud anyway.

He takes some sick satisfaction in making you ask for it.

“What do you want? Tell me.”

“You know what.”

“I need you to use your words, honey.”

Curse whoever ever said Clark is the good boy next door, the one who buys you flowers and opens your door. He does all that and can be so sweetly condescending in the sexiest way possible. While you’re usually irritated by any form of male patronization, there’s something about the way Clark does it.

Like he’s doing it for you because he knows you like it.

“Fuck me with your fingers, Clark,” you gasp as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you.

Your vision of the road is a blurry mess, greens and browns melting together as your eyes roll to the back. Your head slams against the chair as your hands curl around his wrist. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, keeps stroking you with his fingers like it’s his purpose.

His eyes dart between the road and you, conflicted now that he’s started this game that he has to finish. He drinks you in, the sight of your neck stretching out as you tip your head back, as your hips lift to chase his fingers.

“I can’t— I’ll finish you when we get back. I need to drive—”

“Pull over.”

“What?” He balks.

“Pull over somewhere,” you pant, tightening your grip around his wrist to keep him there. You roll your hips to rut against his hand. The ball of his palm pressing against your clit as he finger fucks you until your brain is turned to mush. “Clark, please.”

You swear you hear him curse before he takes a turn down an abandoned dirt path. He uses his hand covered in your slick to put the car into park and, before he can utter anything, you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and climbing over to his seat, straddling his thick thighs.

Clark’s eyes widen, pupils blowing up as he looks at you. He groans almost painfully. “I’m so hard. I’ve been thinking about this all night.”

“All night?”

He eagerly nods as he helps you shimmy out of your shorts, leaving you in your drenched panties on top of him. “Knew Kara and the others were coming later. I couldn’t stop thinking about having you like this. Or at home. Wherever you’ll let me have you. Missed this pussy of yours.”

Your heart slams against your chest as your cunt traitorously throbs with the kind of desperation that would be concerning to feminism. “Yeah? Did you jerk yourself off thinking about me, Clark? Hope you kept your voice down so your parents wouldn’t hear you stroking this fat cock of yours to the thought of my cunt.”

“You—” he growls, “Sometimes I wish I could just slide myself down your throat to stop you from saying such filthy things.”

A smirk curls on your lips. “You like me filthy. You like me dripping all over you.”

Your fingers fumble with his pants this time, hurriedly yanking the fabric down to free his cock for your access. You’re quick to position yourself on top of him, tip hot red and angry dipping into your entrance. Your slick is already rolling down his length when Clark’s hand squeezes your hip.

“C-condom?” He asks. The reluctance in his voice is obvious. It’s not that he won’t fuck you without one. It’s that he doesn’t want to.

“I’m clean, are you?”

Clark nods and his expression morphs into parted lips and blue eyes blown wide as you sink on him. With your hands planted on his broad shoulders, you begin to ride him — slowly at first as you adjust to his size again.

He’s big. Too big sometimes. You’re lucky with how wet you are right now that the slide eases the burn of the stretch. His thick cock has your pussy tightening in resistance, but you keep going, all the way until he’s buried deep inside you.

“Feels so good,” he moans, “you’re always so tight, but you always make it fit, don’t you? You take my cock so well.”

Your pussy clamps down around him, your pace faltering with his words.

“Look at her. She’s swallowing me right up. She’s greedy, always taking me all the way in,” Clark coos as he watches his cock disappear into you over again, each time you burrow him deeper and deeper inside you. “My favorite pussy. She’s so pretty taking me in like this.”

You lean back and place your hands on his thighs as you roll your hips to drive him in deeper. “Fuck, Clark. Every time I see you, feels like you've gotten bigger.”

“No, honey, it’s just because your pussy tightens up,” he chuckles, fingers brushing your hips. “She just has to get used to me again. I’ll stretch you out, don’t worry. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.”

“Play with my tits,” you rasp. “Want your hands on my tits.”

You know what you’re doing. This is both for you and him. You’ve always loved seeing how big his hands are, how they cover your breasts entirely. How he can be both delicate and rough when he toys with your nipples.

His fingers unbutton your shirt slowly and, the more he does, the wider his eyes go.

Clark lets out a moan when he sees your nipples in the open air. “No bra?” He squeaks. “You went through TSA like this?”

Your lips tip up into a smirk. “Don’t worry, nobody gave me a pat down.”

“Better not have,” he growls low, “these are mine.”

Your pussy and heart flutter with his possessive declaration. You nearly bite out a snappy retort, asking him since when am I yours but the words fizzle out behind your ribs when Clark grabs your hips and begins to earnestly fuck up into you. He’s careful not to hurt you, but tests your limits with how hard he’s gripping you. You’re sure to bruise but these kinds of marks, he knows you don’t mind. You like when he stakes his claim.

His head dips to take one nipple into his mouth, one of his hands rising along your torso, thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he lifts it slightly. His tongue circles the peaked bud, hot and wet until you’re throwing your head back in ecstasy. He nibbles lightly on the sensitive skin, enough to draw out another whine from your throat.

“So pretty. You’re always so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Pussy feels like heaven. So tight around my cock, honey. All mine. Tell me your pussy is all mine.”

You gasp when Clark thrusts up particularly hard, keen eyes searching yours. Swallowing, you hold on to the last thread of your pride as you resist the urge to cave into him.

“Come on, tell me. I won’t let you cum if you don’t say it.”

“Clark,” you whimper, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean,” he murmurs, “just want you to tell me that this pussy is mine. That nobody else has touched it. That nobody else will ever touch it.”

It’s a terrifying admission, even in the heat of the moment. Deep in your gut, you know that no one else will ever feel as good as Clark. No one else will ever get you to finish the same way he does. Fireworks and heat streaking across your skin.

But you give in to him so he will give in to you.

“My pussy’s yours,” you cry out.

“Say it again.”

“My pussy’s yours. Only yours.”

“No one else can touch it. You’re always saving this pretty, tight pussy for me.”

“Fuck, it’s yours, Clark. Please, please, fuck— hnng, need to— I want to cum, please.”

Clark groans as he angles his hips just right so that he’s fucking into that delicious spot inside of you over and over again until you can’t find it in you to think or even breathe. The gasp is wrangled from your throat as he rips the orgasm straight from under you, your back arching as your fingers dig into his shoulders, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your body shudders against him as you feel him spill inside you, warmth painting your walls as he jerks a few more times.

You slump forward, forehead against his shoulder as he continues to cum inside you. You can feel the cum leaking from where you’re joined, too much for you to keep inside yourself. It trickles down your thighs, dripping onto Clark’s jeans as evidence of your little tryst.

A giggle slips past your lips as you sigh against him.

His clean hand (he knows you have a thing against it otherwise) reaches up to stroke your head as he turns to press his lips on your temple. “What’re you laughing about?” He mumbles against your skin.

“Just— this. We really couldn’t wait to find a bed to fuck.”

His chest rumbles with his laugh. “Well, my ma and pa are home too so we wouldn’t have had a chance until tonight.” He pauses, then says, “And we both know you can’t keep your voice down.”

You launch yourself back with a glare, hand weakly swatting his chest. “Hey, speak for yourself. If I sucked your dick, you’d be crying and begging for me to stop because you can’t handle it.”

“That’s just because I want to cum inside you instead of your mouth.”

Your cunt pulses around him, squeezing. Traitor.

“You like that, don’t you?” He grins easily.

“Whatever,” you mutter. Wincing, you extract yourself from him and feel more of his cum leaking from between your puffy pussy.

Before you can move back to the passenger seat, Clark sits you down on his lap. His hand settles on your inner thigh, thumb pressing against your swollen pussy lips to open you up to him. He watches as his cum dribbles out of your cunt, before he uses his fingers to fuck them back into you.

“Don’t want to waste it,” he smiles boyishly.

This fucker.

“You’re the worst.”

“You won’t be saying that when I tell you I’ve figured out the many other stops we can have along the way — you know, if you wanted a second or third round.”

You’re warm to the tips of your ears. “You’re insatiable.”

“It’s been a while,” he chuckles.

Clark’s parents greet you with a good dose of midwestern charm, followed by a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and Earl Grey tea. He regards you with mild amusement as you glance at him in alarm when his mother wraps you in a massive hug, telling you that she feels as if you’re one of her own.

“Oh, I’ve heard so much about you from Kara and Clark! It’s such a joy to finally meet you, honey. Come on in. Are you hungry? Did you want to clean up first? I’ve got some extra towels in Kara’s room for you. Clark, be a dear and show her around, will you? I just need to pull out the cinnamon loaf from the oven.”

It’s like a tornado, a whirlwind of movement all at once. A very pleasant tornado. Clark ends up giving you the comprehensive tour of the farmhouse. The Kent house looks fully lived in — well-worn vintage furniture with stitched florals, family photos dotting the walls and shelves to show any guest how loved the two Kent kids are, and touches of an old-fashioned home with typical cliché quotes hanging in frames or sewn onto throw pillows.

Clark blushes when you stare a little too long at the live, laugh, love painted onto a piece of wood above the toilet. “Ma loves that kind of thing. She buys a new one almost every time she goes into town.”

“Wish I had known, I could’ve gotten her another one for her collection,” you grin. “It’s sweet, Clark. Very charming.”

His smile softens slightly as he guides you to Kara’s room. “I’ll let you get settled in then. I have to help pa out with a few things, but let me know if you need anything. You have my number.”

Kara’s room is similar to the one she had in college. Posters of her favorite rock bands, pink wallpaper painted over with abstract murals that you find all too familiar. There’s a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room with frilly pink sheets that you doubt she picked herself. For the next hour, you unpack all your belongings, finding yourself dreading stepping outside and facing the music.

You had met Kara in college, freshman year, and the two of you were bonded for life. It started with a snooty remark from another student, and you and Kara had intervened at the same time, finding your sister-in-arms on day one. Two of you were similar in that you were both bull-headed, a little bit temperamental, but fiercely loyal. You loved her the moment you met her.

Sophomore year found the two of you unsurprisingly rooming together. The two of you were truly inseparable then. You thought you knew everything about her. That was until she said—

“My brother needs to come by,” she groans.

“You have a brother?”

That was when you were introduced to Clark Kent. Before you even met him, you had a strong inkling that you wouldn’t be a big fan of the guy. He was a year older than Kara but he was in a frat. Not that there’s anything wrong with participating in social activities on campus, but Greek life? Yes, you had formed your own preconceived notions about him.

So when Clark finally “swung by” to pick up one of his jackets while Kara was gone, you were caught off guard by the sight of this bumbling six-foot-four-mess who kept fidgeting with his thick-rimmed glasses. Clark, with his nervous smile and constant shifting, was a complete antithesis to Kara who had a permanent scowl and a sharp tongue.

Then you started seeing him everywhere on campus. You’ve seen him around before but now you can’t stop noticing him. He’s the mop of curls trying to shrink himself at the front of your English literature classroom, he’s the light laughter ringing across the dining hall, he’s the designated driver who physically gathered up the drunkards and piled them into the group’s car to send them home at the end of the night.

But he’s also the guy who’s always surrounded by some of the frattiest guys on campus and the guy who’s constantly swarmed by women grabbing at his biceps and running their hands down his chest.

“Your brother’s a bit of a player, huh?” You pointed out once to Kara, your eagle eyes focused across the room on Clark, who was humoring Bonnie from psychology as she yapped his ear off.

He didn’t seem to mind, laughing at whatever she was saying, which had her beaming.

Kara turned around, eyes following yours as you witnessed the atrocity that was Bonnie straight up flattening her manicured palm on his left tit. “Who? Clark?” She snorted, “The furthest. You can’t see it but that man is plotting the most polite escape route. Give it a second.”

Sure enough, the moment his eyes landed on you, they burned a brighter blue. He said something to Bonnie that had her pouting, turning to look at your table, before he made a beeline in your direction, sliding into the empty seat next to you.

“What happened with Bonnie?” You cocked an eyebrow.

“You know her?” Clark raised one right back. “She was, uh, talking about the frat’s winter gala thing.” His face distorted in a wince. “Asked me if I had a date.”

“Oh, while groping you?” Kara snickered.

Clark threw her a look. “Be nice. She meant well.”

“She meant she wanted your dick,” Kara noted then winced, “I don’t know why I just said that. I take it back. I don’t want to know about your sex life.”

His neck flushed a deep red as his eyes darted toward you for a brief second before he whipped his gaze away with a cough. “Anyways, I didn’t want to lead her on. So I told her I was already going with someone else.”

“Well, now you have to show up with a date,” Kara noted.

“Yeah.” Clark scratched the back of his ear then flicked his gaze towards you again. “Funny story.”

Dread sank into your gut. “Clark, no.”

“I’m sorry,” he flinched, “but she wanted to know who and I saw you and obviously I couldn’t say Kara so… here we are.”

“I have to go to your frat’s winter gala? Over my dead body.”

“It’ll be fun! Drinks and food. I’ll cover your ticket, obviously,” Clark pleaded. His blue eyes were shining in a way that made you melt. It was hard to say no to Clark Kent.

That was how you ended up as Clark’s date. That was how you ended up meeting your first ex in college. A fratboy of all people but he won you over with his sense of humor and charming smile. That was how you ended up with the most devastating heartbreak with a breakup that lasted all of one second over a text.

That was how you ended up swearing off relationships forever.

That was how you ended up in Clark Kent’s bed the summer you graduated college. One time turned to two turned to fucking on the kitchen counter while the others were asleep upstairs on your group’s annual trip. This “summer fling” became a recurring, annual rendezvous. As long as the two of you were single, you somehow always ended up in each other’s beds — or any other viable surfaces.

However, what was made very clear from the very beginning was that you were not looking for a serious relationship whatsoever. The last thing you needed was to get your heart broken again when you promised to focus on your career.

So this arrangement works.

You’re brought out of your reverie when a knock sounds on your door. Clark pops his head in, curls damp and glasses sliding down his nose again. He’s a little pink when he catches you midway through changing into a comfy t-shirt. A smirk curls on your lips. Even after seeing you naked all this time and talking like a fucking porn star during sex, Clark still blushes whenever he unintentionally catches you in a… compromising position.

“Um, ma wanted me to tell you to come down whenever you’re ready. We usually eat dinner as a family. If that’s okay with you.”

You finish shoving your arms through your shirt before bending down to reach for a pair of shorts. You hear the hitch of his breath behind you. Smirking, you slowly roll yourself back up. “Like what you see, Kent?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbles under his breath. Your eyes fall to his sweats where he’s currently adjusting his not-so-little problem. “I can be quick. And quiet. If you want to.”

A laugh rises from your chest. “Keep it in your pants. I don’t want to be late for my first dinner with your parents.”

With a slightly disappointed sigh, he nods and guides you downstairs.

Dinner is as you expected — delicious food with a side of chaos. While Clark’s dad keeps mostly to himself, nodding along to whatever his wife is saying or whispering with Clark, his mother peppers you with endless questions about your life, your job, and your relationship with her children. “I’m so sorry we’re only meeting now! I hear so much about you from both of them. It’s such a shame.”

“I hope Kara only has good things to say,” you tease.

“Oh, Kara adores you but Clark also won’t stop talking about you.”

That catches you by surprise and you shift your attention to Clark with a curious look. “Is that so?”

There’s that pink again. Endearingly embarrassed. “Oh, yes,” his mom gushes, “tells me all the time what a sweetheart you are and how smart you are, how he enjoys watch—”

“Ma, how about some more mashed potatoes, hm?” Clark distracts her, offering a massive dollop of her potatoes. “How about you tell me what’s going on with the kitchen sink? Thought you wanted me to take a look.”

His mother is successfully distracted when she instead begins to fuss over everything wrong with the farmhouse. His father tries to reassure Clark that he’s got it under control and that he should just enjoy his vacation. Clark only nods along, partially listening. You know the look he has when part of his mind is far away from the conversation.

You can’t help but wonder what his mom was going to say.

After dinner, you insist that his parents get some rest while you and Clark do the dishes. It’s a back and forth for a bit, debating on whether guests should be doing chores, debating on whether you’re guests at all. Thankfully, you win when Clark manages to urge them out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, Clark is the actual winner when he also pushes you out of there for you to get cleaned up

You do a full scrubdown, washing away all the grease from the flight. The water is warm on your skin, much needed after a long day. You almost slide yourself into Kara’s mattress to sleep when you realize Clark missed one part of his tour.

So you tiptoe down the hall, careful not to wake the Kents with the creaking beneath your footsteps as you sneak into Clark’s room, closing the door behind you.

He has a towel wrapped around his waist, chiseled, bare chest on full display, as he frowns at his phone. He looks up, fumbling with the device when he sees you. His arms quickly go to cover his stomach and his legs, as if he’s at risk of exposing an ankle to a Victorian lady.

You roll your eyes. He clears his throat. “What’re you doing here?”

“You never showed me your room, I wanted to see if you had anything embarrassing in here. Like Superman plushies or something. Or your old porn collection. Maybe a Playboy or two.”

“I don’t… have any of those,” Clark says, pink to his ears.

“Sure, you’re telling me if I look in that drawer over there that I won’t find a couple of risque magazines?” You begin drifting in that direction and Clark is immediately in your path. You’re face-to-face with his pecs.

“Take my word for it.”

Sighing, you cave and instead wander around the rest of the room. It’s a quaint room. Small bed that you’re not even sure would fit him. Two small bookshelves with some reference volumes and novels you’ve heard him talk about before. Giant poster of the Mighty Crabjoys who Clark insists is very punk rock. Then there are a few trophies for a spelling bee, debate club, and a science fair — none for his athleticism, because you know for sure Clark would never use his gifted powers for selfish purposes. His desk has an ancient monitor that looks like a stack of brick and more books — comic books, more novels, and CDs (no doubt of the Mighty Crabjoys).

It’s simple and sweet. Kind of like him.

While you’re busy absorbing every inch of his bedroom, Clark has crept up behind you. His arms wind around your waist, lips pasting on your neck. You instinctively tilt your head, a moan bubbling up your throat. “Clark, your parents are down the hall,” you murmur.

“I can be quiet. I’ll make sure you are too,” he whispers as his hands begin to wander. One to cover your mouth and the other going between your legs. “I’ll make you feel good, honey.”

And that he does.

Your second day in Smallville starts off early. And warm. Incredibly, horribly warm. Your eyes flutter open to the wide expanse of creamy skin. Creamy skin on a very, very wide chest. Grunting, you try to push against him, to get his hefty arm off you, but he doesn’t even budge.

Clark grumbles quietly, tucking you deeper into his chest. “Sleep.”

“Clark,” you whisper-yell, “come on. I gotta get back to the room.”

“You’re already in a room,” he mumbles.

You peek up only to find him still with his eyes closed. “Your parents—”

As if on cue, your worst nightmare plays out in real time. You hear the creak first. You try not to panic, praying that it’s someone walking away from the door rather than towards it. But then you hear the knob twist. You feel Clark stiffen in real time, his entire body going taut like a board as his eyes slam open. The two of you don’t move fast enough; in fact, your legs are still tangled together when the door swings inwards.

“Clark, honey—” his mom’s words die out, undoubtedly when her eyes land on not one but two bodies in the very tiny bed that barely fits her son. Clark holds you in closer, tugging the blanket higher to cover your bare back. Your shirt is abandoned somewhere in the room — along with your underwear that hopefully isn’t visible to his poor mother’s eyes. Thankfully, you’re not facing the door, so you don’t have to subject yourself to whatever disappointed face she’s making. “What in the—”

“Ma! Why didn’t you knock first?” Clark coughs, sliding up only to bury you deeper under the blanket.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to have company at this hour, Clark.” There’s a sternness to her words that sends shivers snaking up your spine.

Not even a full twenty-four hours and you’ve managed to ruin your entire reputation with his mom. But if you could just explain this, then maybe—

“We’re engaged, Ma. Alright. We’re engaged!”

What the ever-loving fuck—

“Engaged?” Her tone has shifted significantly, delight clinging to every letter. “Oh my, oh goodness, what wonderful news! I want to say I didn’t see it coming but I did! My boy did talk about you all the time so it’s not much of a surprise.”

“I do not, Ma,” Clark retorts quickly.

She barely pays him any mind. “I have to tell your pa. This is exciting news! My first son! Engaged!” Then she’s scampering out of the room and Clark can only call out, “I’m your only son, Ma!”

The moment she’s out of earshot, your hands immediately fly.

“Ow! Ow! Stop that! Come on, stop it!” Clark flinches as you continue to barrage him with smacks from all angles. Not that it actually hurts. His hands immediately whip out to pin you down, his body hovering over yours. Your chest rises with every heaving breath while Clark just frowns at you, probably concerned that you’ve hurt yourself in your fruitless attempt to hurt him. “Are you done?”

Even in this situation, you can feel that familiar heat stirring between your legs. Clark’s handsome face above you, his one hand pinning you down, the other one on your hip, his stupid, big, beefy chest in front of your face. You hate it.

Unfortunately, this means Clark picks up on your heartbeat, the way your blood rushes beneath your skin at the sight of him.

His lips tip up. “Good?”

“Why in the hell would you tell your mom that we’re engaged?”

“I love my ma. Wonderful woman. Loves everyone dearly. Love is love, she believes in. She’s all about love.”

“So you tell her we’re engaged?"

Clark sighs, “Even with all that, she is very much still an old-fashioned woman from the Midwest. She would not approve of me… bedding a woman outside of wedlock. She would never forgive me if she knew what I’ve been doing.”

Or who he’s been doing — you.

“Oh my god, Clark.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Because you don’t want your mom to know that you stick our dick inside girls before marriage, you drag me into this and act like we’re getting married?”

Clark frowns, lips pinching together disapprovingly. “Girl. One girl. You. And yes, I panicked, I’m sorry. It’ll just be for this trip, alright. We’ll… explain it all away after.”

Another protest sits on the tip of your tongue, but the look on his face reduces you into a puddle. A puddle that molds according to whatever container Clark pours you into. 

“Fine, okay, but what are we going to tell Kara? Or Lois and Jimmy when they arrive?”

He opens his mouth then promptly closes it. Thought so.

“We should think fast because I know for a fact Kara’s supposed to come in anytime now—”

Then you hear the screech, followed by the hurried footsteps, followed by the door once again banging open against the wall with the brute force of her strength. You’re surprised it’s still on its hinges.

And there she is.

“What the hell, dude? You’re engaged to him?”

Clark gives the two of you some space; that is, after he kicks Kara out long enough for the two of you to be decent.

This is the first time the two of you have ever woken up together.

In the years you’ve slept together, the countless nights you’ve spent in a pile of messy limbs, this is the first time.

The awkwardness that follows hangs heavy in the air.

“I’ll, um, I’ll give you time with Kara. I’m going to calm my parents down first, tell them not to overwhelm you. I’ll see you later?”

He says it like a question, like he isn’t sure if you would even see him again after this incident. And you know that it’s mainly his fault but you should’ve also been more careful. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you snuck in, you knew what you were looking for when you went to find him last night.

“Yes, Clark, I’ll see you later.”

Mild relief sinks into his features as he nods and exits the room.

It takes a bit of time to get Kara to stop hyperventilating or talking for even a second for you to get a word in. She’s still reeling at the fact that she saw her best friend and her brother in bed. Together. Naked. She may have also attempted to rinse her eyes with bleach.

After talking her off the ledge, you finally give her the basic answers.

“Yes, I’ve been fucking your brother.”

“No, we’re not dating.”

“No, Kara, how would we be actually engaged if we weren’t dating?”

Lois and Jimmy arrive shortly after and you thankfully get some reprieve from Clark when he goes to pick them up. Fortunately, Clark gives them the quick SparkNotes version of what transpired this morning. Unfortunately, you have to do the full run-down to once again emphasize that you are not actually engaged to Clark Kent. 

Dinner is only an awkward affair for the people in the know. Clark’s parents remain blissfully ignorant, instead focusing on gushing about how thrilled they are that Clark has found somebody.

“You’re the first girl he’s ever brought home. It’s only right that you’re his fiancée! Now, I want to hear it from both of you — when did this all start? How did you know you were in love?”

Kara chokes on her chicken. Lois and Jimmy share wary looks. You shoot her a dirty look. Clark coughs, eyes sliding over to you for a nanosecond before returning to his mom. “Love at first sight when I saw her that first time.” Clark should be an actor, he sounds terribly convincing.

All you can say is “same.”

Clark kicks you under the table and you have to swallow your yelp. A dirty glare his way does nothing to deter him when he gives you a look that insists you give his mom an “actual” answer. 

You wrack your brain. Beyond the good sex, Clark has mostly existed in your periphery. He’s Kara’s brother. Lois’ best friend. Jimmy’s partner in crime.

But he’s always been just Clark to you.

You just happened to be smart enough to put two and two together on him and Big Blue and, for some reason, that brought you closer. 

But if you were to pick a point in which you could were to fall for Clark Kent, it would be that.

“I think it was around the same time. A first year was struggling through orientation week. First week jitters. Clark was an orientation leader at the time. He didn’t have to but he stuck with that kid almost that entire week. Saw him invite the kid to join for lunches with his friends, encourage him to make friends. It was sweet.”

Mrs. Kent looks absolutely awed. She whispers about how endearing that is.

However, all you can feel is the weight of Clark’s gaze on you. Steady, heavy. You risk a glance up. 

His eyes are soft, a little misty if you squint. Lips with a slight up curve. 

“I don’t know if I remember you back then.”

Heat kisses your cheeks. “That was before we were introduced.”

“You knew me?”

“Hard for you to not stand out as a six-foot non-football player.” 

Clark chuckles.

“That’s so very romantic, dear. I’m so glad to hear,” his mom coos, “now all of you off to bed. It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it? So much good news! And you two should stay together — future newlyweds!”

You choke the same time Kara protests. “But she’s rooming with me!”

Needless to say, Kara doesn’t win this fight and, while Lois gives you a sympathetic look as she enters Kara’s room, you’re suddenly being shoved back into Clark’s room. The same room that got you into this mess to begin with. 

“Clark, we need to get our stories straight if we want to be convincing.” 

“Hmm, sure.”

“We need to talk about when we started dating and when you proposed — not to mention how you proposed! And the details matter, you know, so we should— are you even listening?”

Clark hums again, clearly not listening. “Sure, yeah. We should talk about it.”

He’s taking one step towards you then another and another until the back of your knees hit the bed. “Clark,” you warn, “talk.”

He ducks his head, brushing his lips against yours. His proximity is intoxicating. What were you saying again? Something about talking.

“Fell in love with me before you even knew me, huh? That’s cute,” he murmurs in a breath that you sharply inhale. 

You bite back your embarrassment. “It’s just a story.”

“But you—” kiss “—noticed—” kiss “—me.” 

“It was just, um, I was only, mmm, answering…” Your words trail off as Clark navigates his mouth south along your neck, laying you down on his bed, as he drops to his knees, hands parting your legs. “Clark, we need— ah.”

“Did so good today, honey,” Clark mutters, pressing wet kisses up your bare inner thigh. His teeth nip at your skin. “Now, let me take good care of you tonight.”

Your body is still sore and tingling when you wake up the next morning. When you stretch your hand over, you find the other side of the bed cool. 

You pad out through the creaky front door to find three of your friends enjoying the crisp, unpolluted air of Smallville with cups of coffee, ones that Lois doesn’t have to douse with a whole can of sugar. Clark is still nowhere to be seen. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Kara yawns. 

“Morning,” you mumble quietly. “Has anyone seen Clark?”

“He’s helping out at the barn,” Lois answers first, eyeing you with a strange twinkle in her eye. “Better yet, how about you tell us how long you and Clark plan on being engaged? Are we invited to the wedding?”

You give her a look. “If I ever get married, please know I’ve been kidnapped and cloned.”

“Is it really so bad?”

Cocking an eyebrow at her, you ask, “You of all people are saying that? Miss Independent?”

“Hey, I am voluntarily a solitary creature.”

“That’s because she bites the head off anyone who tries to approach her,” Jimmy chimes in, then turns back to you, “Clark’s not a bad pick. You know, if you were to get married.”

“No, he’s not,” you mutter — and it’s a truth that just slips out. 

When you look up, Kara’s got her eyes narrowed at you but Lois — she’s got a curious yet strangely warm look in her gaze. It’s not an expression that you expect to see from her. 

And Jimmy, well, he’s still half dizzy over the fact that you and Clark are fucking. 

“I need to talk to him, we need to get our stories straight,” you clear your throat, glance wandering over to the barn some distance away. 

“You guys still haven’t discussed that?”

“No, I tried talking to him last night but we got—” The ghost of Clark’s curls between your legs, soft strands tickling your inner thighs. The hot, wet drag of his tongue between your folds. His muffled moans, nose glistening.

“You taste like nectar from the gods.”

“I don’t wanna know!” Kara yelps, slapping her hands over her ears. “I see your face and I don’t wanna hear it. While I enjoy hearing about your sexual encounters, I don’t want to hear about my brother’s.”

You cough again, ignoring the warmth that’s flooded your cheeks. “Right, anyway, I’ll go look for him.” 

While you’ve never experienced country living, you imagine this is close to what it’s like. The unappetizing aroma of manure, the constant croaking of nature, and the sight of Clark Kent in overalls.

Nothing but overalls. 

Shining golden skin. Not a single drop of sweat. Curls mussed up only from the heat, but his breathing is stable even as he lifts bags of soil on his shoulder. Hundreds of pounds. Biceps flexing, veins taut. 

Fuck.

“You’re awake,” he brightens when he sees you, dropping the bags off to the side. “How’d you sleep?”

Your brain short-circuits when he dusts his hands off. Now that there are no bags in the way, you can see everything. Broad, round shoulders. The curves of his arms. Lines running down the length of his forearm, you can practically taste the texture on your tongue. When his overalls shift just right, you get a glimpse of his dusky nipple that you’re desperately needing to wrap your lips around. 

All you can picture is how good it would be to put your hands on his shoulders, bolstering you up while he presses up against you. 

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking.” 

Clark’s in front of you. His fingers curving around the back of your neck, thumb on your jaw to tilt your face up. His usually bright blue eyes are dark, pupils swallowing his irises. 

“We should—” your breath hitches as his thumb goes down, pressing down on your pulse point on your neck. It jumps. You know he feels it.

“I can hear your heart racing,” Clark murmurs. “I like hearing it. I like knowing what you like — and you like my hand on you.”

“Clark, please,” you rasp. 

“What do you need?” 

“You.”

“How do you want me?”

You swallow, the image so vivid in your mind, like it’s a memory. “Holding me up.” You barely get the words out when Clark wrangles your legs around him, holding you up firmly with one arm as his other hand touches your cheek. 

“What now?”

“I want you. Inside.”

“I can do that,” he smiles, leaning down to suckle lightly on your neck. “Anything else?”

“Must I tell you everything?” You grunt.

“I know what you want. I just like hearing you ask for it.”

With your lips pursed in defiance, you cross your arms over your chest. “If you ask me one more time—” 

A yelp is wrenched from your throat when he finally (finally) brushes his thumb over your sensitive nipple peaking through the thin cotton of your shirt.

He gropes you gently, somehow manhandling you in a way that makes you feel desirable rather than disgusting. His blue eyes are shadowed, drinking in the way you shiver with every tug, every pinch.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs to the wind. 

Clark tugs the shirt over your head, leaving you completely topless. Your arms immediately wind around your body in embarrassment, but he moves faster to extract them and deliver you a chiding look.

You’re sheepish when you tell him, “Someone might see us.”

“Mhmm, let them. I’m taking care of my fiancée.” His lips tug into an amused smirk when you roll your eyes. “Don’t be a brat.”

“Please, you like brats.”

“You know me so well.”

He dives forward and takes your tits into your mouth, showering them with cautious but delicious attention. His tongue is hot on your skin. You throw your head back as he drags his lips across your neck. 

With swift hands, your shorts join your shirt in the pile of hay and Clark has unbuttoned his overalls to fall at his hips. His mouth stays on you the entire time — sweet and spicy at the same time. 

Greedy hands lift you slightly higher, only to position you right above his straining cock. The vein in his neck jumps as he grits his teeth.

Clark eases you onto his cock, moving you up and down along his length like a toy, like you’re his personal fleshlight. Your pussy stretches around him, soaking his cock until you’re a whining mess. 

“‘M gonna need you to keep it down,” he grunts quietly, neck flushed red as he bites down his own moan. 

On cue, and as if to prove a point, a moan crawls up your throat. Clark’s hand flies up to slap over your face. Large palm over your mouth, your eyes wide at him. A whimper slides up your throat at the stern, scolding expression on his face. 

“Honey, what did I just say?”

Your pussy clenches around him. His words are almost demeaning, but the gentleness with which they are delivered has you shivering and melting into his touch. “S-sorry,” you stutter pathetically, “I‘m sorry.”

“I know,” he whispers, “I know, but I need you to be quiet, okay. I don’t need my parents coming out and seeing us like this. They might make us marry on the spot.”

Heat spreads throughout every nerve in your body at his comment. It’s a joke, you know it is, but the idea of Clark claiming you as his with his cock buried inside you, painting you in bridal white inside out, has you tightening around him. 

“Is that what you want?” Clark murmurs softly, his blue eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that has your fingers tingling. 

“No,” you scoff a little too quickly.

“Could put you in a dress. Marry you in this barn right now. Afterwards, I’ll take you outside against the walls while my family’s in here celebrating us. We’ll consummate our marriage.”

The image is painted so vividly in the back of your mind. You in a simple dress, hiked up, Clark fucking you into oblivion against the walls outside. Good god. 

“I can feel her tightening around me, honey,” Clark chuckles. “She likes the idea.”

“Stop being silly,” you clear your throat, “you gonna fuck me properly or what?”

He mutters something about your mouth before fucking you in earnest once more. His thrusts are sloppy but no less powerful, his desire leaks through his stuttered hips, the uneven staccato of his breaths. 

Pleasure builds and twists, coiling tight inside your stomach as Clark’s grip remains firm on you. Moans continue to pour from your lips like prayers to the god before you. He slides his hand up your throat again, squeezing gently, before bypassing it and covering your mouth once more. 

“Gonna need you to keep quiet, okay. I love hearing your pretty moans but I can’t share that with anyone else. Can’t have my parents coming out here and seeing you like this. I can’t have them thinking you’re a filthy little minx, spreading your legs for me anytime, anywhere.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as another groan chases your tongue. His name is muffled behind his hand and you gasp for breath when Clark gives you some room to inhale.

“She feels so good around me. So tight. She’s been waiting for me all morning. Greedy thing, isn’t she? Fed her so much last night and she still wants more.”

“C-Clark, please. Shit. Oh fuck.”

“So good to me. I have so much to give her, she knows that, doesn’t she? That’s why you came looking for me. Wanted one more time even after last night. Maybe I’ll taste myself on you later.”

Jesus Christ. This man has a way of making you picture the most deliciously repulsive images in your mind. Him cumming inside you, his face between your legs, licking you clean until there’s no trace of him left. Maybe even coming back up and kissing you. The taste of him tangled in your tongues.

Clark’s hands tighten. His grunts shorten. His pleas desperate.

Before long, you’re coming apart in his hands, Clark tightens his hold around your jaw to muffle the sound of your cries as he spills inside you. He buries his own moans into your neck as he presses you deeper against the wooden beam. With how hard he fucked you, you’re surprised this barn is still standing. You had felt the pillar rattling behind you.

He huffs a breath before leaning backwards. His hand reaches up to brush away the sweat-dampened strands of your hair from your face. “Are you okay? Did I go too hard?”

Even after years of this arrangement, Clark is always so careful. You know he holds back his strength when he’s screwing your brains out. He could go a lot harder and sometimes you wonder what it would feel like for his patience to snap, for him to fuck you with no abandon. 

You don’t think you’ll survive that.

But you also think you would deliriously enjoy that. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Clark murmurs, “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you swiftly say, “just— nothing.” Warmth floods your cheeks again. You’ve only just finished getting your brains turned to mush and here you are thinking about how much harder he could go. 

“You’re thinking about something.”

“I’m thinking how we should really get our stories straight.”

Clark regards you thoughtfully, a contemplative expression carved into the creases on his forehead. Then he presses into you more, cock pushing back in. You can hear the squish of his cum inside you, an indecent little sound in the quiet of the morning. 

“Okay, do you wanna talk now?”

“Clark,” you deadpan.

“What?”

Your cheeks are hot again. “Obviously not like this.” 

“Alright, later then.”

Clark doesn’t look the least bit remorseful, lips stretched into a wide grin. He’s much too gleeful for a man who’s foiled your plans to be responsible again — with his dick. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Instead of spending the day puttering around the farm and watching Clark do manual labor in nothing but overalls (which isn’t necessarily the worst way to kill time), the Kents propose going to the fair that’s in town.

Clark insists that his parents could use his help while he’s around.

They insist that he should spend time with his fiancée.

The five of you pile into Clark’s truck; to avoid suspicion, you ride up front with him, throwing his parents a tight smile as you wave at them as the car treks down the dirt path. The three of them are bickering about something related to agriculture in the backseat while you — you find yourself once again distracted by Clark who looks far too good driving.

Sometimes, you think you need to get your brain rewired for being too easily stimulated by the sight of him. It’s like your brain is wired to tune into him, to every little detail from the way his eyes crinkle, how his lips pucker when he whistles, or that one vein along his arm that jumps every time he turns the wheel.

Your plan backfires when you stare at him a little too long, trying to think of how you could get the two of you to talk to get your stories aligned, and Clark ends up noticing how your eyes never stray too far from him. The corners of his lips tip up, pleased, then his free hand slides over your thigh once more.

It doesn’t do anything. It just stays there. A grounding presence.

The back of your neck warms and you blame it on the mid-morning sun.

The fair is nothing too crazy, you didn’t expect anything grand from a small town near Smallville. It’s more like a community event, with faces familiar to the Kents dotting the crowd. A small market lines the entry area, selling all sorts of trinkets and knick-knacks. Clark bumps your shoulder with his arm as you walk down the path.

“Don’t you like those things? You wanna take a look?”

You cock an eyebrow. “I do like them, how do you know that?”

“I see them all over your apartment,” he shrugs, “especially the flowery-looking ones.” You’ve started collecting miniature toys and figurines with flowers on them. Since you can’t seem to keep plants alive, your little addiction to buying the most useless pieces of paperweight is fulfilled by the replacement of real live decor.

“Oh. Yes, well, I have too many now so I don’t think I should even look at them. Otherwise, I’ll be tempted to buy.”

Beyond that, the fair opens up to game booths — your classic ring toss, darts, and shooting a water ducky — and attractions like pony riding, a petting zoo, and so on and so forth. It’s cute. It’s quaint. Nothing like what you see in the big cities. In fact, big cities have no carnivals like these. So maybe you’re a teensy bit excited. 

“Wanna play?” Clark smiles at the obvious enthusiasm on your face. 

Before you can answer, a shrill voice calls out to Clark. Well, it’s not really shrill, it actually sounds rather sweet — like the tinkling of bells — but you see the source of that sound and you feel an irritating itch in your chest.

“Willow! I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Oh, so he knows her. That ugly part inside of you wonders if he also has the same arrangement with her. But no, she seems nice. Like the girl next door. The kind of girl you marry — and not with a fake engagement. 

They chat for a little bit and you’re on the sidelines watching them. Kara nudges you by your side. “We’re going to try the dunk tank. Jimmy has agreed to be dunked as long as we can aim. Wanna come?”

Your gaze flicks over to Clark for a second but find that he’s still eagerly chatting with this girl, so you put on your biggest smile and turn back to your best friend. 

“Let’s do it.”

The four of you busy yourselves with the various games. Lois manages to dunk Jimmy four times. Jimmy then proceeds to win a free t-shirt to change into from the ring toss. Kara absolutely destroys Lois at basketball and you absolutely annihilate all of them at darts (pub nights are coming in handy after all). 

You’re having a great time — a wonderful time — until you realize that Clark still hasn’t caught up. Every time you look over in search of him, he’s there helping a new person. First, it’s the old lady with her bags of groceries. Then it’s the little boy with his cat in the tree. Next, it’s the farmer who needs to unload his van of dozens of boxes. 

And then it’s that girl — Willow, was it? — who is apparently a florist and is setting up the most beautiful little booth in the market. 

It’s thoughtful, it’s kind. That’s who Clark is. But then you see him laughing and smiling and just being Clark and all you can feel is pissed. He’s here for you — all of you — so why is he busying himself with others? It’s incredibly selfish and guilt gnaws at your chest. 

So you bite down that terrible feeling and instead focus on the others. You’re fine with this. It’s not as if you have anything with Clark, really. You’re friends who happen to fuck every summer. That’s all. 

Maybe Clark is simply looking for something more long-term.

Your eyes wander to Lois. You’ve always thought that they would be a thing. Two incredibly smart people who work together, who have great chemistry. You know that Clark respects and adores her deeply, as evidenced by how much he talks about her. It seemed to be a matter of time.

Your anger doesn’t ease. Instead, you channel that rage into this shooting game. Clark has only just shown up, standing next to Kara with his gaze on you, a dopey smile in place. 

You hit the target dead center again and again and again. 

“That’s the first time today! You’ve got quite the skills, miss.” The guy at the booth says, both impressed and terrified. “You can pick any prize you want from the top.”

Clark whistles with his fingers and grins. “Good job, that was incredible.”

You hate yourself for immediately blooming with excitement at the compliment, especially when he’s left this group to tend to other people. How pathetic can you be?

The next words out of your mouth are not your best moment. 

“Well, seeing as my fiancé is too busy to get me anything.”

You can see the moment your jab lands and the smile wipes off his face, replaced by a look of sheer surprise. You turn on your heel and make your way to the next game, teddy bear tucked safely in your arms.

It’s not that you’re immature. You’re not. You’re an adult. But it doesn’t mean that you can’t be a teensy bit petty.

Every time Clark tries to come close to you, you’re linking arms with Kara and traipsing off. When he calls your name, you pretend not to hear by cheering for Lois as she slams a hammer down on a strength-based game. 

It’s an exhausting endeavor and you’re this close to giving up. Plus, the heat isn’t exactly letting up and you’re starting to feel a little woozy. 

So when Clark approaches you again, you almost cave and lean on his broad frame for support.

“Hungry?” He asks carefully as his long legs finally catch up to you alone.

Your stubbornness nearly denies him once more but your stomach wins out when it growls. Loud. 

Clark doesn’t tease you; he simply takes your hand and whisks you away to the little makeshift food court. He sits you down and begins going from stall to stall, collecting one dish after another until you’ve got a spread in front of you.

It’s all your favorite things — or similar ones that he thinks you’ll enjoy; he would be right.

You’re too busy stuffing your face to notice Clark wringing his fingers in front of you, fidgeting as he tries to get your attention. 

“What?” You finally ask when you peer up after his nth time repositioning himself, shrinking so he would be in your line of sight. 

“Can you tell me why you’re sulking?”

“I’m not sulking.”

He gives you a look. 

“I’m not! I don’t care who you spend your time with.”

“Who?” Clark perks up, irises bright with curiosity.

Shit. You and your big mouth. Now you’ve gone ahead and given away too much, so you clamp your lips shut and shake your head. You shut down his every attempt to pry by focusing on eating instead.

He only seems to relent when he thinks he’s pushed hard enough, but, knowing Clark, he isn’t going to let the matter slide so easily. 

You continue your day unscathed for the most part. You cling close to Kara who doesn’t seem to mind that you’re sticking to her instead of her brother. Of course, she shoots you questioning looks but the shake of your head prevents her from pushing. 

You’re in the middle of cheering for Lois and Kara when a cloud of pink appears before you. You blink at it before you trace back the source of the dessert. Unsurprisingly, Clark stands at the other end of the cotton candy.

“You like this, don’t you?”

You mentioned once that you’ve always liked cotton candies. It’s all sugar, but that childish part in you relishes the way the fluffy treat melts on your tongue. 

“I do, thank you,” you confirm, ripping apart a piece before popping it in your mouth. The strands dissolve into syrup on your tongue.

Clark looks at you expectantly, a tinge of anxiety in the slight fold of his brows. “Good?”

“Good,” you smile at him.

Perhaps you’ve been too hard on him today. He’s being a good neighbor and you’re giving him shit for talking to someone else.

The two of you aren’t exclusive. That’s the whole point of this arrangement. If he happened to find someone that he wants to actually date seriously, then you’d let him go. 

Somehow, the thought makes your stomach churn. 

“I got you something else.”

You look up at him and he digs around in his shirt pocket and pulls out a thin silver band. A crystal sits in the middle of it, sparkling no less brightly than a diamond. It’s simple, it’s sweet. It’s characteristically you. 

“It’s nothing extravagant but you wear silver jewelry, right? I think this should fit.” Then Clark is taking your left hand and sliding the promise over your ring finger. The band sits perfectly snug. The crystal catches light and twinkles like it’s winking at you. 

For all your pouting, Clark seems to know the perfect remedy. 

“Just, you know, until the trip is over,” he adds nervously. “If that’s okay with you.”

You bring your hand up, watching as the ring glimmers underneath the afternoon sun. Your lips tip up in a small smile. 

“Yeah, that’s okay with me.”

“And, if it’s any reassurance,” Clark adds, quieter, low enough that the others can’t hear — eyes trained solely on you, sharp and honest, “I only have eyes for you.”

Your heart beats against your ribs. Heat frames your face at the same time he smiles softly at you. 

You don’t respond, but that’s answer enough.

The chill beneath your fingertips rouses you from sleep. When your eyes flutter open, Clark’s big, warm body is nowhere to be found. You remember falling asleep cuddled up to a living, breathing heater and now you’re shivering as you tug on an extra sweater. Your footsteps are quiet as you pad out into the hallway in search of him, navigating through the darkness until your eyes land on him, bathed in the moonlight on the bench outside.

Clark turns before the door even swings open. He must’ve heard you.

“You’re up early — or late,” he notes.

“So are you, what’re you doing awake?”

“Couldn’t really sleep, you?”

“Must’ve been all the cotton candy,” you say as you slide into the seat next to him.

The midnight air in Smallville is brisk, you’re beginning to regret not throwing on an extra layer. Clark senses your shivers and immediately scooches closer towards you, draping his flannel over your shoulders and tucking you in close. The draw of his warmth is too tempting to resist and you end up nuzzling into his shoulder.

“Could’ve stayed inside,” you flag quietly.

“The fresh air helps me think. Plus, it’s nice to take advantage of this away from Metropolis. Breathing in fumes doesn’t seem conducive to my health.”

“Good thing your only weakness is extinct,” you tease, bumping shoulders gently.

Clark smiles at you, soft and knowing. “It’s not my only weakness.”

You raise an eyebrow but he doesn’t elaborate, so you don’t press. Instead, you ask him what’s plaguing his mind.

“My parents,” he begins, “I worry about them. They’re getting older, things with the farm aren’t easy and we’re not in a position to hire any extra hands.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking if I should move back.”

Your heart plummets, all amusement evaporating. You don’t know why you’re so disappointed by the thought. Although you don’t live in Metropolis, although you don’t see Clark very often, you’re only a city away, and even then, he still feels light-years away. “Move back?”

“Here to Smallville. I’m not sure yet.”

Your throat is tight when you attempt a joke, “What? And leave your fiancée behind?”

Clark’s lips curl. “Never. I’ll take you with me.”

Oh. Your chest warms. “What makes you think I’d go with you?”

“I’d just have to convince you,” he whispers, tilting his head to press his forehead against yours. His next words are soft, but they have your heart pressing against your ribcage. “And I can be very persuasive.”

A giggle falls from your lips. Clark shrinks himself, bending himself at a slightly odd angle to accommodate your height as you lean your head on his shoulder. The quiet moon is company you don’t want to humor tonight and Clark seems to agree when he rises to his feet and offers his hand.

The two of you drift back into his bedroom. Light still spills across his hardwood floors that whine below his heavy footfalls. But Clark shields you from the stark brightness, engulfing you in a comfortable night against his chest.

When you tip your face up, he’s already looking down at you. For a moment, he only searches your eyes. Looking for something you’re not sure you can provide.

However, he seems to find whatever it is he wanted when he leans down and slides his mouth over yours.

The kiss is soft. Slow. None of the usual heat and messiness that leads to hours of tangled legs and sweaty limbs. This one is patient, it’s kind. Clark tastes like tea and sugar, the kind of concoction that lulls you slowly back to sleep.

Before your consciousness slips away again, Clark murmurs a promise of sweet dreams.

You think you may already have that.

This farmlife experience is much more taxing than you expect. Hours of Harvest Moon on your old game consoles do nothing to prepare you for the ache between your fingers and the soreness of your shoulders. However, you suck it up and keep going because there’s no greater sight than Clark who delights in showing you the ropes.

You’ve fought off chickens all morning to feed them and take their eggs for breakfast. You’ve milked cows, delicate fingers wrapped around the hefty udders until you fill a whole pail. You’re grooming the horses and trying not to get your hair chewed out.

Again, it’s all worth it when you see Clark beam at you like the morning sun.

His eyes also keep wandering to your finger where he has already pointed out — “You’re wearing the ring.”

You blame the fever on your neck on the sun that’s barely risen. “I thought it would be best to wear it so your parents don’t get suspicious.”

The two of you do end up talking, agreeing on points in time that align for your supposed romantic development. It isn’t a hard task, not when you actually do remember those moments when you felt your strongest attraction towards Clark. The first time you slept together was redesigned as your first date. The arrangement of your… arrangement was reconfigured into a conversation about official labels.

Clark is close to your side, arms brushing as the two of you make your way back to the house. The basket of eggs hangs from Clark’s hand as his other one shifts to the small of your back — it hovers, present, but doesn’t touch.

He’s telling you a story from his days of youth and you’re throwing your head back in laughter. The emotions come easy here — honest in the early hours of dawn when it’s only you and him.

When you arrive at the house, you two spot Lois already nursing a steaming coffee mug in her hands. Her eyes dart between the two of you carefully, curious — almost calculating. Her lips quirk upwards at the sight and you’re almost shy by her response.

Unfortunately, Clark’s reaction has you stiffening. He clears his throat and takes a step out to the side. Away from you. Distance. You try not to let your hurt show but it feels as if there’s a giant stone sitting in the pit of your stomach that’s weighing you down, slowing your steps.

“What’s going on?” Clark asks, brows puckered.

It’s your turn to regard the two of them. Clark has always been comfortable with Lois. Kara’s teased him before for having a crush on her; perhaps that feeling still lingers. Worse yet, perhaps those feelings have only strengthened.

Once again, you reckon with the fact that Clark Kent is not yours. You have no right to be jealous, to feel possessive over a man who doesn’t belong to you. You were the one who put your foot down and swore off any actual romantic relationships, and Clark was never an exception.

If Clark wanted Lois — and if, by some luck, Lois wanted Clark back, who were you to stand in the way of true love?

So you force a smile and shake your head. “Nothing. I’m going to get cleaned up. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait—”

But you’re already turning on your heel and heading back inside the house.

+ sam: tumblr hit me with the block limit for the full fic so i figured this is a good separation point while i edit the second half!! happy ending i promise <33

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602

In truth, hate and lust are really two sides of the same coin. Or is that love? Billy really doesn’t believe that love can just happen. He understands attraction. Love is a rare bedfellow and one he probably won't meet again.

He loved his dead wife. He loved his brother. 

He doesn’t love you. He’s certain of that. 

Still, he finds himself blinded when you blink up at him and murmur: kill me.

***

He had wanted to choke you out. He had wanted to crush your invincible windpipe with his bare hands.

“Do it,” you challenge. “Kill me." You cock your head. "That must be what you want seeing as you just broke my damn door."

There’s your very own Disneyland commercial playing on the television behind them. You're smiling blindly in some neon monstrosity and he thinks of plastic. He wonders if he should haul you out into the sunlight to see if you’ll melt. His adorable Barbie. His supe pet.

Make sure you take advantage of the California Resident Discount! I know I will!

“You don’t even live in California,” he mutters as his eyes flicker between the television and the very real you staring up at him. 

“It’s a script,” you explain flatly. “I read it. I don’t ask.”

He can’t quite recall why he came here in the first place. MM had told him that you’d stopped helping them out, feeding the boys information without an explanation. He’d gotten pissed, to say the least.

Temp V is screaming on highways through his veins. He feels it twist his guts and wrap steel over his lungs. His brain is throbbing with a repetitive drumbeat. He admires the roundness of your pretty skull. He could break it. He could smash it right on this table and it would take a few tries, but it would shatter eventually.

“Why are you here, Butcher?” you finally ask. The fight leaves you as soon as you realize he isn’t playing his part. 

He scans your apartment with its stainless steel and velvet pillows. It’s a nice fucking place and he’s never asked why you didn’t live in the Vought Tower.

“You stopped.” His fingers itch and he curls them into fists, stabbing his blunt nails into his palm until it hurts. His skin is hard as diamonds and it won’t budge or give way. He cannot bleed. “Why’d you quit?”

You don’t look surprised. You simply shrug your shoulders.

“That’s not quite good enough, love.”

“It’s not your business.”

“Then humor me,” he returns. “I’m curious why Vought’s princess who hates her fucking shiny Vought life would be out all of a sudden. We were making progress, I thought.”

You grimace, brow furrowing as you duck his gaze. 

“Did he threaten you?” he suddenly presses. Had Homelander figured it out?

“No,” you snap before throwing your hands up. “I’m fucking scared…that’s it. I’m really fucking scared.”

He blinks at you, surprised. That…hadn’t occurred to him. You wrap your arms around yourself protectively, shifting on your feet like you want to be anywhere but there. It suddenly occurs to Billy how young you are. Vought paints you in that suggestive, pin-up light. Right now, you’re in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Thick, wool socks. 

He steps forward and cradles your cheek. It’s a strange move on his part. He’s not sure why he does it. Maybe, he can’t quite shake that protective mantle. Maybe, he is desperate to save someone after he had failed Becca and his brother. 

“You won’t die,” he says evenly, tracing your face with a softer regard than he thought he was capable of. 

You hook your fingers into the lapels of his coat. Your mouth parts. The air in the room circulates hot and cold and then blisters and the V hurts, but it allows him the ability to hear the rough pace of your heartbeat. “What are you doing?” Your tone is quiet, slightly concerned. He hauls you closer to him and he really intends to blame it on the drug in his system. It’s making him hard and dizzy and he wants to rescue you in this small, meaningless way. 

“Would it help?” he urges as his lips ghost over yours, as he tips your chin up with the crook of his finger. 

How did he get here? How did it change?

“Okay,” you reply. 

He’s only a little rough about it. He lifts you onto a table, dirtied hands opening your legs. He shoves your sweats to your ankles before he’s throwing you knees over his shoulder and then he really tastes you. It’s as he thought. The brief glint of salt underneath the familiar tang of pussy. Sweat and sweetness.

He enjoys every part of it. The band of his arm across your belly and his tongue wiggling inside your cunt. When he fucks you, it’s the same. Breathy, whimpering cries with every pump of his hips. The squeak and shudder of the wood table. Your face bright and damp as you clutch onto anything you can. 

At first, he is led to believe you were part of the little coup that sent him to the Soviet pigs. The possibility fucking hurts. It hurts worse than anything they could have done to him in that lab. After all, you’d been there since Normandy. 

A young, pretty nurse pumped full of V to be his counterpart.

I’m the damn Bride of Frankenstein. 

You’re beautiful, baby doll. 

But the years morphed into a revolving door, and they’d fight or fuck or both. They’d leave each other for long periods of time while still maintaining the facade that they were fated. He bedded movie stars and pin-ups. He lived in the Hollywood Hills, doing quaaludes and having orgies.

You had a threesome with Brando and Dean. Newman. Gable. 

They were perfect hero cut-outs from “The Greatest Generation.” Vought demanded that they play “Leave it to Beaver,” “I Love Lucy,” and “The Way We Fucking Were.” 

Soldier Boy and Black Magnolia. 

Others joined the team. Others came and went. Another movie or poster. Another guest-star appearance. A home in Malibu. Cocaine-fueled hate-sex. Herogasm. Cuba. Vietnam. The Cold War. D.A.R.E. commercials. 

He gets with Crimson Countess to piss you off. He pretends they’ll settle down. He rubs it in your face because he doesn’t know how else to possess you. He can’t cuff you. He can’t wrap his arms around you and keep you under him. 

Still - it’s you he dreams of in Russia.

***

He seeks you out first. His grief is a living thing. It pulses inside him. It blinds him. It isn’t anger. It is a debilitating sadness that you would do this to him. You never came.

I prayed for you. I prayed for you every second of every hour.

He finds you in your New York penthouse. You’re completely the same. Not a single wrinkle. Not a hair out of place. You’re wearing tight jeans and a t-shirt with not a stitch of make-up. Gone are the bell-bottoms and the shoulder pads and the slinky, beaded gowns.

“Mags,” he says and you drop your glass. 

It’s the look on your face that does it. It’s that twisted expression of disbelief and then tears and then joy. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper before lunging at him. Initially, he thinks you’re trying to attack him, but instead, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. You tuck your face under his jaw. “Ben.”

With his hand fitted to the nape of your neck and your heart pounding relentlessly in beat with his own, he realizes that you hadn’t known.

“I felt you,” you murmur as the both of them slide to the floor. Your mouth tastes like vodka, his hand cradles the back of your skull as he lays you down. He’s rarely ever been gentle with you. He does it now. “I-I felt you out there. I begged Vought to look…I tried to get the others, and no one…no one wanted to help me.”

"I'm here," he states adamantly, hovering above you, his breath puffing against your cheek. I'm here. He repeats the phrase in the swiss-cheese, fried meat of his brain as if he is convincing himself, as well.

He kisses you frantically, his lips opening over yours, his tongue sliding along the roof of your mouth. You fist his hair. You start crying again. “I searched for you for years.”

The mantra is now a prayer of sorts as you gaze up at him with that familiar starlet expression. Sandra Fucking Dee.

I tried…I really tried…Ben.

“I believe you,” He parts your thighs with his body. He rips your jeans. He sucks marks into your neck and holds you close to him. Your eyelashes flutter and his mouth worships you - does everything he had done in his dreams. He latches to your nipple, wetting it with his tongue, teasing it with his teeth. 

“Fuck,” he rumbles. “I missed these tits.”

You laugh, punching him in the shoulder. “You haven’t changed.”

He glances up at as he releases your puffy, slick nipple with a pop. “You haven’t either.” He strokes your face sweetly, his finger smoothing the skin of your cheek. “You haven’t aged a day…fucking gorgeous as ever.”

Your head falls back on the floor with a thump. “I missed you.”

He sits back on his heels so he can pull the shredded remains of your jeans down your legs. He forces your thighs open before shoving his face crudely against your panty-covered pussy. He inhales and your hips cant against his face. “Shit…shit…I fucking missed this, too. Best damn pussy I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating.” He nuzzles against your belly as he grins up at you. “...and fucking.”

You roll your eyes. “So you missed my tits and my cunt. Your tone is ruthlessly flat. “Wonderful.”

“No,” he protests, shaking his head as climbs back up your body and kisses you again. “Of course, I missed you.” He kisses your nose. “Dreamt of you.” He kisses your chin - your lips. “I thought of you when they pumped me full of fucking poison.” His voice grows thick despite himself. He clenches his jaw as he is plagued by those terrible memories; something hot builds in his chest before he tamps it down. He breathes deep and tilts his head, eyes raking down your face that is still damp with tears. “You were the only thing that made it bearable.”

With that confession, the air between them changes. The space grows molten, the tension bulldozed by a longing that aches.

Wordlessly, your hands find his belt as he grips your underwear and splits it with a curl of his finger. You grasp him roughly, and he hisses at the familiar pressure of your touch. You know him inside and out. You know every damn insecurity he had. You know all of his lies and half-truths and hopes that had long since decayed. You know about his father.

When he strokes you between your legs, you’re already soaked. It isn't surprising. No one ever got as wet as you. Your supple, power-upped body blossoming with vitality. Your cells regrowing in seconds, inches, everywhere at once. He could not get you out of his system. Their lives were tangled. They were born together. They were molded together. 

Fuck me, Ben. Please - I can’t breathe without you. 

That’s the ecstasy, doll.

Maybe a little.

When he pushes into you, he groans. He hasn’t felt a slick, hot cunt like this in a long damn time. You’re tight as a fist and he’s always been enhanced in that department. He draws all the way out before shoving himself back in, punching you up the floor. Your back scrapes the carpet. Your nails bite into his shoulders.

It’s an erotic sight. Your t-shirt split in two. Your bra rucked under your tits. He’s still in his armor as he pins you beneath him. His pants are bunched around his thighs, no doubt chafing your skin with each snap of his hips.

He swallows your moan, tongue dipping and stroking as he kisses you fiercely. His pace is punishing and possessive. He grabs your wrist, smacking it against the floor so violently that the wood cracks into shards. Your bones creak under his strength, but you smile. You angle yourself to meet him thrust for thrust. Your legs are hooked around his waist and he just might blow his load at the sound of your cunt squelching on the fat length of his dick. 

“Jesus,” he husks. “You’re a wet little thing.”  

“For you,” You comb your fingers through his hair as your walls pulse and spasm around him. “Only you.”

That’s a lie. He’s sure of it. 

Still - it makes him feel better.

He slithers his hand down between them, resting his palm above your cunt. “How deep am I getting, baby doll?”

“It almost hurts,” you mewl, your teeth glittering like a predator’s. “Fuck - you’re splitting me in half.”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. 

He slides his hand lower, tracing the area where your puffy cunt is stretched around his cock. He likes it. He likes to feel how he can ruin you - open you up. He wants to see. He draws back, bracing his weight on his forearms, lifting himself higher and dropping his head to stare at where he’s disappearing inside you. You look small as you take it. His cock and the hair at his groin are visibly shiny with you. 

“Shit, baby,” he grunts. “Need me to make you come, yeah?”

You nod, your mouth parting around a uhuhuh with every thrust. He smirks, pulling out of you and flipping you onto your hands and knees. He spanks you hard enough to leave a seconds-long bruise before he’s sinking back into your fucked-open pussy. His hand moves between your legs, fingertips circling your perky little clit as you shove back against him. You clench, a whine erupting from your throat as he coaxes you to orgasm. Your back arches and he chuckles, fucking you fiercely - palm flattening to your shoulder blades to push you down, so he has your ass in the air. 

“Jesus-fuck-shit-fucking-fuck,” His pace rolls into something messy, his hips stuttering against your thighs, and then it’s over. He’s filling you up with a decades-long pent-up load and you accept it beautifully. He watches as it oozes out of you. He traces it - pushes some back in like he could mark you. You shiver, spreading your legs more for him.

His heart hurts.

You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. No matter who else has been in your bed - it’s always been me just as I’ve been yours.

***

He lies next to you on the floor, his pants around his knees. His flaccid dick out as he curls his arm around your shoulders, letting you rest your cheek against his chest. 

He wants some coke. He wants a bottle of terrible whisky.

But he wants revenge more.

“What happened to the others?” he finally asks. 

You snort. “I left Payback after I was told you died. I hated myself for so long for not going on that Nicaragua mission.” You trace a circle over his hip, sighing. “Thought I could have saved you. Fucking Countess rubbed it in my face - acted like you’d sacrificed yourself for her or some shit.”

He tightens his grip on your shoulders before dropping a kiss on the crown of your head. “You had to know that wasn’t true…we…we were more than that. Crimson was a distraction.”

“We were fighting then,” you remind him. “I can’t even remember what it was about - something ridiculous. I was mad. You were mad. We didn’t talk for months, and then you died.”

Anger really begins to build inside him. Fury. They had lied to you. They had made you doubt him. They had made you unhappy. He was, admittedly, a fucking asshole, but he did love you. You were it. 

“They betrayed me,” he reveals. “I don’t have the details, but I have bits of information. They fucked me - sold me to the Russians.”

Under his arm, you go rigid before suddenly lifting yourself up on your elbows. You look down at him - your eyes narrowed to slits. It gives him a shiver. “Excuse me?”

He tells you everything he remembers: the attack that has come back to him in flashes, being subdued by his team, the Russians, the torture, the cold tomb that kept him in a state of delirium. 

Your expression is a bright with emotion. It morphs from disgusted to horrified to distraught as you digest the story he gives you.

After a long, agonizing silence, you swallow thickly. You wipe the tears out of your eyes before your lips split into a lethal smile. “I have their locations…I have resources. We can find them.”

“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“

You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.

But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.

He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.

You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.

Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.

“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.

“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”

It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.

She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.

But interesting people have interesting friends.

Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there. 

Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.

Most of them treated you like that.

Bucky didn’t.

Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.

Only one of those things was true.

Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.

He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.

His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.

Might’ve been.

If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.

By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.

He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.

And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.

You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.

There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.

The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.

“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.

“I was invited.”

“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“

“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“

“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”

That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.

“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“

“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”

Bucky scowls. “The car-“

“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”

“I am not acting like a dog-“

Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“

“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“

“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.

Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.

“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.

You smile at her. “I always do.”

You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.

One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.

It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.

“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.

“I- What?”

“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”

“That’s- It’s fine-“

“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.

“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”

You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.

It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.

For Nat.

Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.

He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.

Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.

He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-

“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”

You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“

“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”

You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-

“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-

“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.

“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”

Nat snorts. “From who?”

“Sam.”

“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.

“Tony’s mentioned it too-“

“They’re both idiots.”

“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“

“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”

You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.

“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”

At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.

The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.

“Nice dress.”

Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.

“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.

“You scared me-“

“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“

“I am not jumpy-“

“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.

The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-

“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.

“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.

“You also called me a rabbit.”

“Called you a bunny-“

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.

Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.

You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.

When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do. 

You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.

“Damn, you took those like a champ.”

You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.

“You see that, Buck-“

“Yeah. I saw it.”

Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.

You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.

Another drink might.

You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.

Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.

A fourth shot might be needed.

You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.

Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.

Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.

Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.

You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.

Everything except Bucky.

Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.

It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.

You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.

He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.

“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.

“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.

“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.

You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.

Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.

His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.

Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.

That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.

Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.

Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.

“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”

“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.

“Best guess.”

You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.

“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.

“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.

“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.

You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.

But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.

Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.

You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.

He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him. 

Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.

“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.

They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.

“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”

You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“

“Car will be warm.”

“But we don’t have a car-“

“We’re taking Nat’s.”

You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“

“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”

“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.

“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”

Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.

Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-

“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”

You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”

“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.

Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.

Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.

You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.

His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.

When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.

“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.

You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.

Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”

“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.

You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.

“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”

Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.

He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.

Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.

“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.

“Numbers?”

“Phone numbers.”

“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.

“You gonna call any of them?”

“Any of who?”

Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.

“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”

Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.

“Why?”

They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”

“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”

You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.

He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.

Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.

The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”

You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.

He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys  from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.

“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”

Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”

You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.

“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”

You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.

Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.  

“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“

You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.

But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.

It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.

He does.

He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.

“It’s your fault, you know.”

Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”

“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.

He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.

Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.

It’s still all his fault.

“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.

“All of it.”

Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.

But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-

“I love you.”

Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.

It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.

“What?”

His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.

“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”

He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.

Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.

“I’m here?”

“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.

“But you love me.”

“Mhm.”

“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“

“Because you never do anything.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“

“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“

“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.

“You don’t get to know.”

“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“

“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.

Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“

“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.

Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.

“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”

Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“

He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.

He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.

“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”

You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.

“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.

His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.

“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.

He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.

You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.

Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-

You told him you loved him.

That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.

You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.

He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.

You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.

When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.

You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.

If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.

Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.

That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.  

But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for  him to act like that at all.

It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.

The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.

But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.

“Where’d you- Hi.”

Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.

“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.

You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.

“How’d you know I was up?”

“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”

“Did you-“

“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”

You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.

“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”

You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.

Bucky leans closer.

“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“

“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.

Mistake.

He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.

“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”

“You’re being a dick-“

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“I- You-“

“You love it.”

You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.

“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.

Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”

Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.

“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”

Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.

He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.

“Yes.” You breathe.

Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”

“Bucky…”

“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.

He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.

You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.

“Do you love me?”

His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.

“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.

You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.

“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”

Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.

His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.

“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.

Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.

Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.

You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.

“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”

You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.

“Bucky-“

“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”

“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.

He hums. “You think about me a lot?”

Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.

“Careful, baby-“

“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“

Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.

It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.

He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.

“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.

“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.

He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.

“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”

You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“

“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“

“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“

He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”

“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.

“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”

“But-“

“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”

You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“

“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”

You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.

There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.

But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.

You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”

Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.

“Prove it.”

Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”

You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.

“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”

“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“

“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“

You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.

His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.

The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.

You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.

The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.

Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.

He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”

“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.

“You’re a big girl. Use words.”

You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.

“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.

“And?”

“And?”

“You what?”

You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”

You stick out your tongue, and he hums.

“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”

“My manners are fine-“

“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.

“I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.

He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you.

“You really still got that vibrator?”

You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling. 

“Grab it.”

You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.

He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.

You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”

You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.

“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”

Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.

“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.

“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.

Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.

“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.

You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”

“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”

“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”

“What’s-“

A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.

“Bucky, wait-“

“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.

“God, fuck-“

“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”

You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”

“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”

Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.

“Bucky- Holy shit-“

He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.

You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.

“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.

You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.

“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”

You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.

“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”

You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.

“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.

But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.

“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”

Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.

“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”

Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.

“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”

You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.

“Shit- You can’t just-“

He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep. 

“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’  show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“

The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.

He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.

When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.

He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.

Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.

But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.

“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”

You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.

Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.

You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.

“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”

You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.

“Say it.”

When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.

“No.”

“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.

You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.

“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”

You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.

He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.

“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“

You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.

He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.

“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.

He recovers fast.

“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”

You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.

“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”

He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.

You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.

“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”

You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.

“Words.”

“Bucky…”

“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”

“Can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”

You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.

“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“

He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“

“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“

“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.

It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again. 

“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“

You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.

“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“

You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.

It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-

You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.

“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.

His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.

His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.

Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.

“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.

“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.

You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.

“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“

“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.

Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.

“What?”

“I- I love you- Oh.”

He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.

“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“

It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.

“I- I love you- Oh my god-“

Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.

“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“

He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.

Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.

“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“

From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.

Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.

It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.

He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.

You get there all on your own.  

Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.

Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.

“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.

“Shut up.”

He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.

“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.

There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.

“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.

“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.

“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”

You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”

Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “

“And were you any better?”

He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”

“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”

You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.

Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.

“Good.”

“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”

You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.

“You’re a gremlin.”

“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.

“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”

You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.

“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”

Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.

“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.

You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.

And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.

Everyone knows that Bucky hates you. 

It’s not something he hides, and if he’s trying to, he’s not doing it well. He leaves every room you enter, slipping out with a scowl and not a single word. If there’s a meeting, he sits so far across the table that it’s like he thinks you’re carrying the plague. Once he had to stand next to you in the back of a transport truck, and he spent the whole trip making a face like he was about to vomit. 

You try to ignore it. There’s not much else you can do. It’s not like you haven’t spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what you did to him. If it’s just your general face that he can’t stand, or your personality, of if you did something to deeply offend him the first time you met, and now you have no shot at even a friendship. 

You don’t think you did. There hadn’t been a bump in the elevator, or a misunderstanding in the lobby, or some time a while ago where you’d been in the same Subway car, and sneezed on him. You’d know by now, because you’ve replayed every single subway ride you’ve ever taken over and over in your head, looking for a flash of Bucky’s face. There, on the street, in a coffee shop or some random building where you might have told him to go fuck himself, and forgotten entirely. 

It seems unlikely. You don’t have a habit of telling people to go fuck themselves. 

That’s the whole reason you have this job in the first place. 

You’re the nice one. The diversity hire, who’s only there because she knows how to smile and not look like someone holding a gun to her head. You don’t run into conflict, and you always stick to the plan, and you don’t even like to leave a dirty dish in the sink for later, because you don’t want to force someone else to clean up after you. Let alone your grumpy, brooding roommates. 

It’s painfully stark, the difference between them and you. It’s only grown more apparent, as time has passed. You run training with Yelena, and she has to give you time outs every time you apologize for punching her in the face. You’ll eat dinner on the night that Ava cooks, tell her that it’s good—it’s not amazing, but it’s food, and you know she worked hard on it—and she’ll look at you like you just announced you were blowing your brains out after dessert. John has taken to covering your mouth with a hand during meetings, because you always try to offer motivation or sympathy with the targets, and none of them care about that. 

“You are weird little bird,” Alexei once told you, frowning at you from across the room. 

You’d laughed softly, folding the corner of your book between your fingers. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You smile.”

“You smile.”

“I am complex man. I live full of happiness and anger. You are only happiness.” He’d narrowed his eyes. “Is there silent anger, brimming below songbird’s surface?”

“Don’t call her that.” Bucky had muttered, and you’d blinked. You hadn’t even realized he’d entered the room. 

He’d walked over to the bookshelf, hands in his jacket pockets, not sparing you a single glance. Alexei had scoffed. 

“Bucky Barnes, I am doing investigation. This is serious business, do not mock-“

“I’ll mock, Alexei, when you’re doing something pointless. There’s nothing to investigate.” He’d grabbed a book, and turned to Alexei, his back firmly to you. “She’s clean. We’ve checked.”

He’d walked out without another word, and you’d bitten on your lower lip until you tasted blood. Of course it hadn’t been a real defense. Bucky doesn’t care enough about you to defend you. He just didn’t want Alexei to waste his time on something as pointless as you. 

So you know, that Bucky hates you. And he has no secret reason, because it’s just you. The rest of them got used to you after a few months, and even like you know. Yelena doesn’t bitch about the breaks, and lets you hold her guinea pig as long as you let her hold your crows. Ava sits with you while she reads, and doesn’t roll her eyes at every single thing you say. John once called you not entirely useless, which is John for incredibly important and useful.

Alexei made you a—rather poorly constructed, but very sweet—cake for your last birthday, and insisted everyone buy you at least one gift. They all put a shocking amount of effort into it as well, and it had been clear that you weren’t just Valentina’s happy, pretty invader anymore. 

Even Bucky had gotten you something, and you’d pretended it meant something. That it hadn’t just been because Alexei threatened to rip out his spine if he didn’t. 

It had just been a jacket. Thick and warm, shoved into your hands like he couldn’t let go of it fast enough. 

“You get cold.” He’d grunted. “On missions.”

 “I- I don’t-“

“Yes, you do. Your fingers shake, and your heart picks up. It’s dangerous.” He’d nodded to the jacket. “Wear that.”

You’d swallowed, as he’d walked away. 

And you do. Wear it. You’re the exact kind of over-emotional and pathetic fool he thinks you are, so you wear it on every mission, and look at Bucky to see if he’s noticed. 

He never has. 

The rest of them love you, but Bucky doesn’t. There doesn’t seem to be much you can do about it, but you don’t give up. You’re still nice to him, and it’s only a little in the pathetic hope that he might look at you one day and realize that he was wrong. Until then, you cling to the fact that the rest of them like you. That it was a long, natural curve to get there—given how you got here, and what you are—but they all genuinely like you. 

Of the team, Bob gets on with you the best. None of them question why—they likely assume you both just don’t like fighting—but you eat breakfast together every day, do the crossword puzzle, and go out for walks at least twice a week. 

You’ve seen Bucky glaring at you, when you get back. He might think you’re wasting time, or putting you both in danger by just going outside as superheroes. As if he doesn’t know that if anyone is least likely to be in danger of an attack, it’s you and Bob. Like you didn’t have your fucking GPS’ on the whole time, and he’s not your boss anyway.

“You’re going to catch a cold, if you keep goin’ out there.” He’d grunted once, as you’d made tea in the kitchen after. 

“That’s- Not actually how colds world.” You’d mumbled. “And I don’t get sick anyway.”

“Hm.” He might have been looking at you. You weren’t going to dignify it with a glance, because you’d see the loathing in his eyes, and your heart might split down your chest. 

He’d just walked away. You’d stood in the kitchen for about five minutes after, head bowed, taking deep breaths through your nose. 

Everyone loved you. 

It was the in your nature, quite literally, to have everyone love you. That’s why you’re here. Not to whine about your own problems, not to burden people with your pain, but to be the lighthouse. Your powers and sweetness smooth over the violence and anger of the team. Your presence calms down press events, because none of them are ever mean to you. If there’s hand to hand combat you’re entirely, hopelessly useless, but no one even throws a punch at you, so it’s not a problem. 

You’ve wondered if that’s why Bucky hates you. Because he thinks you’re messing with his brain, and he’s had enough of that for a lifetime. 

But you’ve told them. You turn it on and off, and you never use it on people you’re close to. 

Maybe Bucky didn’t believe you.

It doesn’t matter. He still hates you. 

And it hurts more, than if anyone else did. 

Because you’re an idiot, and you’ve had a crush on him since you were in fucking middle school. You watched all the Howling Commandos documentaries in history, and stared dreamily at him in the grainy footage. You’d liked his smile, and his loyalty, and his general, pretty face. When the news about Hydra, then Sokovia had broken, you’d had some friends mock you about your old man crush was a war criminal. When he’d been pardoned and ended up on the news with Captain America, you’d watch the footage maybe a little longer than you needed to. 

You’d never wanted to meet him. 

You’d never wanted to be a superhero in the first place. But college was fucking expensive, and the job market was shit, and you’d needed money fast. Valentina had offered it, as long as you used your powers. 

That was something you hadn’t wanted to do either. You didn’t want to do most things. Didn’t want to go places people could hurt you. Places you could mess up, or disappoint someone, or be seen. 

And this has been your greatest dream and worst nightmare. 

Everyone can see you. You’re in the public eye every day, and held up like a shiny diamond to be admired. 

They all love you. Last month a magazine ran a s hit piece about the New Avengers, and still called you The Princess, because you were all smiles and sweet words, lovely to look at and talk to, but not worth much in a fight. Compared to what they said about everyone else—calling John the Prince, because no one took him seriously, and he was a foolish ass for thinking they did, and Bucky The King, because he used fear from his past to enforce the New Avengers and their status now—they might as well have sent you flowers. 

People had even been mad online, that they’d ever say something mean about you. 

Bucky had heard that in the damage control meeting, and snorted. 

Your heart had turned to fractured, tiny piece of glass that cut at your stomach and hands. You’d felt sick, and hadn’t been able to do much for the rest of the day, as his cruel little snort played over and over in your head. 

He’d been your foolish dream, since you were a kid. You’d never wanted to meet him. 

Because exactly what you thought would happen, did. 

He hates you. 

Bucky Barnes hates you. 

And he doesn’t even care enough about you to do it behind your back.

 “I don’t want anyone arguing with me about this one.” He says in the jet, and you don’t bother to look up from your feet. 

You know he’s looking at you. You can feel it. And you don’t argue with him, not like the rest of them do. You just offer some ideas for how to improve the plan, or point out holes in his idea with polite words. He always looks at you like you spat up vomit on his suit. 

So you don’t say anything. 

That’s your goal for this mission. Be as nothing to Bucky as possible. Don’t let his glowers and cold words loop in your head for hours after, making you feel like you’re even less than you already know you are. Don’t think about if he’s looking at you, don’t try to be his friend, don’t indulge the fantasy of his attention. 

Any attention. Even if he’s sneering that you’re an insufferable brat who needs to be coddled, it would be attention. Even if he touched you with anger in his hands and hatred in his eyes, at least he’d be touching you. 

You’ve realized, that him hating you isn’t doing anything to make your crush on his go away. If anything, it’s making the whole situation worse, because apathy is harder to indulge than the idea of him slamming you against the wall and fucking you until all his frustration feels eased. 

Which is the exact type of thought you’re not supposed to be having. 

So you just keep staring at your hands. Bucky clears his throat, like he’s waiting for something, and you don’t give him the satisfaction.

He moves on. 

“I got us a connection with a mercenary in the area, who’s been hunting these people down for years. We’re working together, so everyone is going to be civil with him. Right?”

Ava raises her hand next to you. “What are we calling civil?”

“I don’t know. Use your judgement. Or- Actually-" Bucky sighs. “No name callin’, no yellin’, and- Try to act like you’re a damn adult for two days. Can we do that?”

“You name call all the time, Bucky-“

“I’m the oldest, Walker. I’ve earned it.”

John rolls his eyes, and Yelena jumps in. 

“Can we pheromone him?” She looks to you. “Can you pheromone him?”

“Um-“ You flush, your eyes instinctively shooting to Bucky. 

His jaw is clenched, hands braced on his hips, and glaring at you with the usual silent disgust. You swallow, heat crawling over your skin. You can’t tell if it’s shame, or just the usual hunger for him. It doesn’t really matter anyway.

“I technically can.” You mumble, ripping your gaze away from Bucky. “If we need it. But- Bucky says he’s on our side. I don’t think I need to, right?”

You look to Bucky again. His nostrils flare, the fury on his face almost leaking into the air. 

“Right.” He grunts, glare moving to Yelena. He launches into a longer brief, about the drug ring you’re going after, the agents details, but you don’t hear most of it. You’re too busy staring at the floor, hiding the tears brimming in your eyes. 

Useless.

You can’t even make a choice by yourself. Fucking useless. 

When you land, you’re first out of the jet. Your arms wrap tight around your stomach, head down, not glancing back to check if Bucky’s venomous glare is still trained on you. If it is, that’s fine. It’s fine. You’re fine, because it’s nothing new, nothing you didn’t expect, nothing you’re not just going to have to grow the fuck up about and get over- 

You’re too lost in your own self-pity to see where you’re going. 

You slam right into someone’s chest.

“Woah!” A deep voice laughs, big hands grabbing your shoulders and steadying you against a firm body. You squeak, trying to back up, but the hands just tighten. “Hey, are you-“

“She’s fine.” Bucky’s snaps from behind you, and whoever’s grabbing you stills.

“Barnes, you look like shit-“

“Six hour flight. We all look like shit. Let her go.” The man releases you, and you stumble back a few paces. Into Bucky’s chest. 

He grabs your upper arm, and your breath hitches pathetically. It’s the metal hand, and it’s solid and firm through your jacket, and your head starts to race with images of it running down your thighs with that same tight grip, sending shivers up your spine and molding you exactly how he’d want you-

He doesn’t want you. 

Bucky’s hand flexes like he can’t bear to touch you, and he moves you off to the side. You swallow down the shame. He doesn’t get the satisfaction, doesn’t get to see how he’s slowly fucking killing you. 

“What’s wrong with her?” The new man asks, and Bucky grunts.

“Told you. Long flight.”

You bite your lower lip, fingers curling on your side. If he didn’t just hate you, this might be considered cruel. It might be cruel anyway. But your skin is still burning where he touched it. And your heart still skips a beat when he says your name. 

“This is Mulder. Mulder, this is-“ “I know who this is.” Mulder cuts Bucky off with your name, and you blink up at him in surprise.

He’s not bad to look at. Same dark hair as Bucky, just beardless and a little more of a haircut. His eyes are blue as well, if not a little more gray. He’s got a strong jaw. Thick build, and a friendly smile. 

That’s directed at you. You return it tenitivly, and he laughs.

“Wow. You’re even prettier in person, sweetheart.”

You flush, standing a little taller. “Oh, um- Thank you?” “No problem. You’re my favorite, you know.” He winks, still grinning. “I like these assholes just fine, but you? Very excited to work together.” “I’m- Me too.” You offer, and Mulder opens his mouth—maybe to compliment you again, which you’re not sure you can emotionally handle right now—but Bucky cuts him off. “We have time for talking later, Mulder. You bring the car?” Mulder rolls his eyes. “Course I brought the car, Barnes. You think I’m a damn idiot.” Bucky doesn’t answer. When you risk a glance over, he’s looking at Mulder with a coldness in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Even when he glares at you, there’s some heat in the hatred. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of fire will smoke you out, like he hates you so much it’s making him recoil and physically tense at your mere existence.  He’s tensed as he glares at Mulder, too. 

But rigid. Not a live wire set to snap. Something deeper, and less forgiving, that seems to be making his tongue sharper and words clipped. 

“You live in these… Woods?” Yelena asks as Mulder piles you into his truck, and he shrugs.  “No, just been here for years, trying to catch these bastards. They’re slick, keep figuring out how to avoid me, I’ve chased them half across the world. Who knew they’d be holed up in the backyard of my damn operation.” He chuckles, glancing over to Bucky. “But that’s how Hydra stayed underground, wasn’t it? Plain sight?” Bucky grunts. “Don’t know. Wasn’t exactly invited to all the strategy meetings.” Mulder laughs again, and you frown. Bucky doesn’t like to talk about his time in Hydra with anyone. And laughing about it makes your gut prickle wrong, your tongue aching to jump in and say something about how it’s not really anyone’s business anyway, let alone Mulder’s to comment about. But Mudler continues before you can. 

Probably for the best. 

The last time you defended Bucky at a press event, he didn’t look at you for a week. 

“We’re going to have to head into the city for a few days. Trace these asshole to their exact base, play it careful. I’ll send some of you in first, they know I’m looking for them. ‘Course, they’ll be thrilled to see me, but I’m trying to play it humble. Makes the attention I do give all the more exciting.” Mulder winks at you, and you flush. 

Bucky didn’t mention if this man had powers. If that comment was just a coincidence, of if he’d known what you’ve been thinking about Bucky. If he’s a mind-reader, that’s going to be a real problem. You don’t know how to guard against a mind reader, and all your thoughts are pathetic, and what if he tells Bucky about them- 

“How you know Bucky Barnes?” Alexei jumps in, staring at Mulder with almost open affection. “You go to pretty assassin school together? You take super solider serum?” “Nope.” Mulder laughs again. He does that a lot. “I worked with Wilson, a while ago. Back when he was just a normal guy like me. Trained in Shield, left to figure out where my life is going after the fall. I admire the enhanced, though. You’ve gotta be a good person, to go through that change and come out the other side a good person.”

Bucky, Ava, and John all tense across the Van, Alexei puffs out his chest, and you just shrink into yourself. 

Mulder says your name, still wearing that charming smile. “You especially, with what you can do? A worse person would abuse that.” “I- I don’t-“ “She barely uses it.” Bucky grunts, and your nails dig into your side.  “Wow, Barnes. Didn’t know you spoke for her.” Bucky works his jaw, and you really don’t understand what’s going on with him. He’s the one who said to play nice. 

The least you can do is try and play nice for him. 

“He’s right, Mulder.” You mumble. “It’s kind of- For emergencies only.” “Again. Admirable.” Mulder grins at you in the mirror. “And you can call me Jack.” You nod, still smiling, and glance back to Bucky. His face has settled into an almost unreadable stone mask. 

Almost. You’ve spent so much time silently staring at him that you can read. 

He’s furious.

You haven’t even started the job yet, and Bucky looks like he’s about to rip someone’s spine out. You don’t understand why—no one’s messed up, Mulder seems like a bit of an ass, but no more than the rest of you, and you haven’t done anything to piss him off yet—but you’re not foolish enough to ask. 

You just let out a slow breath, and tip your head back against the rattling wall of the truck. 

The mission is going to be long. 

And you’re going to be caught in the center of it, just trying to keep your head above water around Bucky, and be a little fucking useful to the team. 

To Mulder.

Because even if he’s an ass, you’re his favorite. And that makes the hair on your arms stand up, because what if you disappoint him. What if, when this is done, he decides that you’re not at all worth what you seem to be on paper. 

That, at least, is something you can try to prevent. You’ve already lost Bucky—though you know you never had him in the first place—so you don’t need to waste the mission worrying about if he’s seeing you. It’s going to be all about Mudler. 

“Jack,” he reminds you again, as you unload equipment in his makeshift base of a motel room. “You can call me Jack, sweetheart.”

You won’t mess this up. 

“Okay.” You smile at him. “Jack.”

He grins right back, and across the room, there’s a loud crack as something breaks. 

“Fuck, Bucky!” John shouts, and you look up to see him gaping at the mess of a computer on the floor. “What the hell, why did you-“ “It was weak.” Bucky grunts, and you can feel his glare on you again. “Just fuckin’ snapped when I picked it up. Not my fault.” Mulder laughs, giving Bucky another lazy grin. “Well, don’t go breaking any of my other shit. I might start to take offense.”

“Noted.” Bucky grunts.  He doesn’t even crack a smile. 

And you’ve seen him be grumpy on missions before. It’s almost his default setting, to act like a dad with a pack of unruly children who refuse to be house trained. But this is different. He looks like he’s seconds away from either breaking his own jaw, or slamming his fist into the wall. 

The next few days are spent gathering intel about the operation, taking what Jack already has and blending it with anything the rest of you can find. Alexei translates some Russian documents, because every time he’s thrown into a field like this he just ends up getting drunk with the gang members. Yelena and John track down a few of the inner circle members. Bucky and Ava grab them and drag some information out with questionable methods, before dumping them in the snow. You and Jack track down a few of the known bases, as well as some of Jack’s informants, and get whatever you can. 

“You should do your thing.” Jack mutters in your ear. He’s taken to standing rather close behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. 

You don’t mind it. It’s just a little strange. “I don’t do my thing unless it’s an emergency.” You remind him softly, and he shrugs. 

“If you don’t do it, I’ll never get to see it, and we might have to be on this case for weeks.”

“Jack…” You sigh—this isn’t the first time he’s tried to make you do it, and it probably won’t be the last—but he shakes his head, cutting you off smoothly. 

“Actually,” his lips brush your ear, and you swallow. “Don’t do it. I want to stay on this case together.” 

You weren’t going to do it in the first place. But there’s not really any good response to that, so you just hum and laugh weakly. The man you were waiting for walks through the door, and you’re saved from the conversation.

When you get back to the motel room, Jack runs the team through what the man told you. And for once, Bucky isn’t glaring at you. He’s glaring at Jack.

He’s been glaring at Jack a lot. 

“We should reshuffle teams.” He grunts after a week, and Ava mock pouts. 

“Aw, you’re sick of me already, Barnes?” 

“No.” He snaps. “I just think it’s bad to stick to the same pattern on a mission like this. They’ll pick up on it.”

“Good point.” Jack nods, and Bucky shoots him such a withering glare you’re shocked it doesn’t actually kill him. “But it might be even better if we move into teams of three and four.”

Bucky opens his mouth, still glowering, but John cuts in first. “Can I be with you two? If Yelena keeps shit-talking me in Russian, I’m actually going to punch her.” Yelena snorts. “Walker, you could not lay a single little finger on me-“ “You wanna fuckin’ bet-“

“Hey.” Bucky snaps, and they both fall silent. “The hell did I say on the jet?” “Not to insult him.” Yelena nods to Jack. “There was nothing about each other.” “Yeah, Yelena’s right, we can fight, that’s our right as teammates-“ “John. Shut up.” Bucky rubs a hand over his face, letting out a low, long groan. 

His eyes flick to you, then away just as fast. He lets out a heavy breath like someone’s physically hurting him. 

“Fine. Whatever. John, you’re with them. Yelena, me and Ava.”

John grins, marching over to your side and raising his hand for a high five. You give it awkwardly, Jack a little more enthusiastically, and John flips off Bucky’s scowl. 

“Suck it, Team Loser. We’re going to grab those dipshits first.” You sigh, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Not a competition, John.”

He rolls his eyes, grumbling something about how it could be, but drops it fast.  Bucky keeps glaring at you. You bite down the pain of it, same as always. 

There’s still a job to do. Jack still likes you enough to want you on his team. You won’t mess that up. 

The next few days pass in a blur. You’re closing in on the gang, Bucky’s still acting like everyone is insulting his mother to his face, and Jack hasn’t stopped trying to get you to use your powers. 

He just wants to see it, is what he says, over and over. Even John jumped to your defense at one point, but Jack just laughed again, and said that John’s luck enough to be around you all the time. He just gets this moment.

“Unless you want more.” He smirks at you, and you flush.  John groans. “Jesus, no wonder Bucky hasn’t been sleeping.” 

“Bucky hasn’t been what?” Your eyes shoot away from Jack, and John just shrugs. 

“We’ve been bunking together. And Alexei, but I’ve tuned him out, he snores like a fucking monster truck-“ “No, I- I know that. Why isn’t Bucky sleeping?”

“Oh. ‘Cause.” John waves a hand, then moves on down the hallway. You open your mouth to call after him, but Jack stops you with a hand splayed on your lower back. 

“Don’t worry about Barnes, sweetheart. I know how he can be.” 

You frown at him. Bucky can be a dick, but you can all be a dick. And he’s got a lot on his shoulders, and a lot of shadows behind him. It’s amazing he’s standing at all, let alone still fighting. He’s earned being a little bit of an ass, even if it rips your heart out of your chest every single time. 

“Bucky-“ “Come on.” Jack cuts you off, rubbing his hand up and down your spine. “Let’s go find this ass. So you can do the thing.” 

You smile at him weakly. You won’t do the thing. But Jack, also, doesn’t seem willing to give up on asking you.  It’s almost three weeks, when you finally have a solid lead. Three weeks of Bucky looking like he wants to shoot someone and Jack being stuck to your side, before you finally have an ending in sight. There’s a bunker in the mountains, that should have all the evidence you need to bring the gang down. 

You have one day, before a snowstorm blows in, and it becomes inaccessible for months. So you’ll move out in the morning, and spend the night doing what you do before every big move on a mission. 

Drinking. 

It’s a tradition they started before you joined. It’s time honored and well-kept, to the point that you’re pretty sure Alexei would throw actual tantrum if anyone forgot. You find somewhere with a pool table, a jukebox, and liquor. Everyone drinks until the room is spinning, and you’re all giggling and forgetting about your problems. The morning seems a million miles away, and the pain seems even further. It’s not drinking to celebrate. It’s drinking so that if tomorrow goes wrong, at least you were alive tonight. 

Then you’re up at the crack of dawn, and you finish the job. 

Usually, you spend the evening next to Yelena, having whatever she puts in front of you, giggling at stupid jokes, and pretending you’re not staring at Bucky’s handsome profile down the bar. He usually sits with Alexei or Walker, silent and annoyed by the whole thing, but slowly loosening up over the night. He’ll go play darts or chat with the bartender. If she’s lucky, he’ll be in a good enough mood to give some random girl a little attention, and you’ll go to the bathroom with your mouth tasting like bile. 

You’ll splash your face, remind yourself that he hates you and you have no right to be bitter about this, and try not to look at him for the rest of the night. Which usually means dancing, trying to learn how to play pool—it’s been two years, you’re nowhere close, no matter how much John yells at you—and turning in the moment you spot Bucky’s random girl sitting on his lap. 

But tonight, there’s no girl. A few of them have walked up to him, and he’s flat out ignored them. You feel a little bad for them, as they storm back to their friends. You understand, more than they could ever imagine, what it feels like. The sour sting of Bucky’s rejection, that feels like an open, infected wound. At least their’s will heal. You just keep poking at yours, until your guts are spilled all over the floor, and you can’t be bothered to pick them up.

You really are trying, not to look at him. To pay attention to what’s in front of you, because there’s no point. Bucky hates pity, even more than he hates you, and combining the two isn’t going to do anyone any favors. But he looks so sad. Still angry and hostile, but with a slump to his shoulders that tugs on your heart. Maybe now, if you just extended a slim, delicate olive branch—just an offer to listen, that will snap in half and take you with it—he’d accept it. 

That’s all you can think about. Yelena’s sliding drinks in front of you, and Jack is cooing in your ear, but you can’t see or hear anything but Bucky. His gloved hand is turning the glass, his gaze trained on the movement of the water inside. His chest heaves, jaw ticking and mouth setting in a thin line. Jack says your name, but it sounds far away, so you just hum in acknowledgment. 

“You’re gorgeous.” He murmurs in your ear, and you tilt your head at Bucky.  He’s oddly tense. Like he’s bracing for a fight. 

“And you smell like sugar.” Jack is still talking. Bucky’s stopped turning his glass, his head bowing lower than before. “Look like an angel. Do we know if God is real, yet? Did he send you?” “I dunno.” You mumble. Bucky’s spine just stiffened. Maybe there’s danger, and he just doesn’t want to worry anyone. 

Jack plays with a strand of your hair. “If you’re not an angel, you’re a siren. I mean,” he laughs. “Cheap joke. That’s your code-name. But shit, you really nailed it. So smart, too.” “She didn’t come up with her name.” Yelena says, some distance away. “Valentina did. She doesn’t like being called it, either.” “Hm. She doesn’t like using her powers, doesn’t like her codename.” Jack laughs. “Maybe she should retire. Come live with me, sweetheart, you’ll never have to worry about anything again.” You can hear Yelena respond something sharp, but you don’t really hear it. 

A new, brave girl approached Bucky. He’d looked her up and down slowly, expression almost unreadable. The same stone mask from before, but just a little heavier. 

He’s tired. 

And he looks to you. For a split second, Bucky’s eyes lock with yours. You stare at him, leaning a little further forward. Jack is still playing with your hair, and you can feel his hand slide up your spine. 

That pure coldness flashes through Bucky’s gaze, and he looks back to the girl. 

Smiles at her. 

He never smiles at you. 

“I’m going to bed.” You tell no one particular. You don’t want to keep drinking. You’ll just start crying. 

Jack volunteers to go with you. He keeps his hand on your back, as he walks you out of the bar. You can feel Bucky staring daggers at your back as you leave. 

You’re able to hide your tears, in the sting of the cold wind. If Jack suspects they’re anything else, he doesn’t say anything. He’s mostly just babbling about how long he’s been working on this, and what he wants to do after, and what he likes doing with his free time.

 “Do you like Vegas? You must be fun in Vegas.” “I’ve never been to Vegas.” You mumble, wiping your nose on your jacket. It’s the jacket Bucky gave you. 

Your throat hurts. He’s a good man. He’s a strong, good man who sits with Bob when he doesn’t feel well, and mocks John relentlessly but has his back in fights. He helps Ava with her suit upgrades, gives Yelena advice, and indulges all of Alexei’s stories about the Good Old Days, even throwing in a few extra facts if he’s in a good mood. 

It’s just you. 

You’re the only one who he treats like this. 

So, somehow, it must be your fault. 

“What the hell is up with Barnes anyway?” Jack says, and suddenly your brain decides to pay attention.  “He’s under a lot of stress.” You mumble, and Jack rolls his eyes. 

“We all are. You know, last time I met him he wasn’t like this, he must not have gotten laid in a year.”

You make a face, but don’t say anything. Jack rubs your back, sighing dramatically. “He’s such a damn ass to you, sweetheart. Can’t stand it. You deserve better than that.” You might. You probably do. You’ve told your heart that over and over, but it doesn’t seem to be willing to hear it. The rhythm of its beat falls in line with Bucky’s name. 

You’re starting to hate yourself for it. 

Jack doesn’t need to know that, so you only hum. 

“Have you tried your thing on him?” He asks, and your body recoils. 

You stumble away, eyes wide in disgust as a foul, sickening taste creeps up your throat. 

“No- I- No.” You shake your head frantically. “I would never- I don’t use it for anything like that, I’ve never used it for that, and I- Bucky isn’t- How could you say that?” “He’s just such a dick to you,” Jack says your name, taking a large step forward. Pressing you back against the wall. “Come on, you’ve at least thought of it-“ “No, I- I would never-“

“You don’t have to lie, it’s just me-“ “I’m not lying-“

“Sweetheart.” Jack coos, taking another step forward, leaving your back pressed against wall. “It’s not wrong, to have thought about it. I would have thought it. But I also,” he reaches up, tracing a hand over your cheek, and you shrink back into your body. “Would never be so mean to something as pretty as you.” 

You swallow, tears still burning at your eyes. Jack’s breath smells like liquor, fanning over your face, and it’s making the room feel like it’s flipping and spinning. Not in the pleasant, dizzying way that Bucky’s body near yours does. 

This feels wrong. 

“Can you please back up?” You whisper, and Jack chuckles.  “Why would I do that, sweetheart.” The tears slide down your cheeks. “Please?”

Jack shakes his head, his lips brushing over yours. You try to lean back, but there’s only the wall. 

You close your eyes. He did want to see it. He begged to. 

“Jack.” Your voice slips into the other one. The sweet, musical one that’s almost floats through the air. Less of a voice. More of a call. “Can you please back up?”

He’s frozen for a moment. You don’t dare to breathe, in case it breaks the spell. 

Then he vanishes. His hands near your head, his smell, his lips and the sticky, suffocating heat of his body. You pull your eyes open, and let out a shaking breath. 

He’s just standing. Face entirely void of himself. Nothing more than a puppet. 

You hug yourself tight, voice almost cracking as you speak again. “Walk away. And- Please don’t speak to me or look for me, until the morning.”

Jack nods slowly, and turns away. His eyes stare at the floor, and he almost glides down the hallway, away from your room.  

You swallow, and slip into your room without another word. It feels like there’s a thin layer of grime over your skin, but no matter how you rub at it in the shower, it doesn’t go away. You sink to the floor, pressing your face into your knees, and cry in the safety of the burning water. If the veil it offers, to mask the sound of your sobs, to hide you in the steam. 

You don’t know how long you just sit there. You know when you go to bed, you’re still sniffling. 

And when you fall asleep, it’s like the tide dragging you under. 

Impossibly pain in your chest. A feeling like you can’t breathe, as you fold yourself into the cushion. 

Then just black. And a long, heavy sleep. 

Bucky didn’t count himself a good man. 

It wasn’t just that he’d done bad things, and he’d done… A lot of bad things. The kind of bad things that people, apparently, made documentaries about. The kind of bad things he shouldn’t be forgiven for, no matter what Sam used to say about it not really being him who did it. 

It had been his hands. His body. 

His mind, that had caved to the programming. That hadn’t fought back against Hydra, and let them use him as a weapon. 

He might not have chosen to do the things, but he still did them. And it didn’t matter anyway. 

He still wasn’t a good man. 

It wasn’t about only his actions. It wasn’t about everything he did to repent, and how people now looked at him like he was a hero, when he knew the truth. That he was tricking them, and if they saw the ugly beast under the surface—the part of him that was barely better than an animal—they’d shoot him in the goddamn skull. 

Because he thought things. Craved things. Was hungry for things he had no right to desire. 

One thing. 

Really, it was just one thing, that drove him out of his mind every fucking night. That made him glare at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to drill it into his stupid head that he was barely more than a mutt, and had no right to ask for something so priceless. 

Her. 

Bucky wanted Her.

He had to right to even want anything at all. Wanting Her felt like a crime. 

She was made of soft things he’d long lost to the bottom of the ocean, swept smooth and empty with the water of time. She had the kind of shine Bucky had only ever been able to dull, and the kind of gentleness that did go well with biting guard dogs. Bucky was a weapon. She was stained glass, casting the light soft and gentle through his life. He’d been gone the moment Valentina had showed them the picture of the new hire. 

Then She’d walked into the room, smiling and bright eyed, and Bucky had known. 

He wanted Her on his arm during events, smiling mostly at him instead of the cameras—Her real smile, not the well-polished, overdone one she gave the photographers—then hanging off his body as they drank and whispered in the corner. She’d sit next to him on missions, his hand on Her thigh and her foot bumping his under the table. They’d hold hands and… Do whatever modern couples did. Go for walks and eat food. Not dancing, because he’d seen where people danced now and it was pretty damn loud, but maybe just sitting in the living room together. His legs over Her’s, Her head on his chest, talking about nothing at all. 

And he’d have Her in his bed. Fantasies of Her lips on his, bodies pressed tight together and whispers soft and teasing, it was what he thought of in the shower. In his own big, lonelier bed as he groaned Her name to the dark. 

Bucky wanted Her like he wanted to touch the sky, when he was a boy. 

So much he dreamed about it. 

Impossibly, and desperately, and knowing fully well that if he ever did, he’d never want to go back down to Earth. 

Bucky was never going to want anything as bad. 

And under no fucking circumstances should he be allowed to have Her. 

He set distances. Made boundaries, less to keep Her away and more to keep himself at bay. Whenever he accidentally touched Her, she’d mold into him, and he’d have to rip his hand away like it was burning. If he didn’t, it might mold into Her, and he’d never let go. Or worse, She’d rip herself away, and he’d have to remember what it was like to touch Her, then lose Her. 

It was a fate he could tolerate, to watch from afar. But holding Her, having all that sweetness in his hands then letting it slip through his fingers, he’d never forgive himself. He saw how soft She got, how deeply she took everything, how much She glowed under praise. He wouldn’t be able to live with breaking Her heart, because she’d shatter. Hell, She pouted to herself when Yelena so much as told her she misinterpreted some intel. Her actually crying, and Bucky being the cause of it, that might destroy him. 

And he wasn’t being arrogant. He wasn’t blind. He saw how desperately she smiled at him, heard the extra light in Her voice when she spoke to him, basked in the extra attention she gave him, because it was a sliver of Heaven he got to steal, and keep all to himself.  But She didn’t know what she was doing. She was young, She’d develop feelings, and they’d pass once She found someone better. 

Then Bucky would just sit here. Alone in the dark, torturing himself with what could have been. 

At least they’d be friends. Bucky could live with friends. He tried to be nice to Her—even if he hadn’t been sure how to do that, in at least a decade—and made sure to give Her respectable friend distance and words. He bit down every inappropriate or slightly wanting comment on his tongue. 

It was most of them. 

Almost all his thoughts around Her had slowly become that he wanted and needed Her, that she was beautiful and kind and maybe the best person he’d ever met, and they were lucky to have Her on the team, powers or not. 

He didn’t want to send mixed signals. Didn’t want to get Her confused about what he could give Her, because it wasn’t much. 

One day, She’d find someone who could give her everything, and Bucky would just be Her friend. 

He’d been ready for that.  He hadn’t thought it would happen this fast. 

Jack’s eyes had glinted, when they’d stepped off the jet. Bucky had known that look. He saw it in the mirror, every damn morning. And She’d smiled at Jack. Stuck with him the whole fucking mission. Bucky had felt like he was going to drive himself out of his goddamn mind. 

She wasn’t his. He had no fucking claim to Her. It was his own damn fault, that She hadn’t been talking to him at the bar. The he hadn’t been the one touching Her, wasn’t the one who walked Her out. 

Knowing that hadn’t stopped the creeping rage and disgust with himself. The ice-like, almost painful hated of Jack, festering into a vileness that curled his fists. 

At one point, it had gotten so intolerable that he’d suggested they switch up the teams. He could put himself with Her. Steal just a little bit more of Her attention. 

She’d been drawing away from him a little big before the mission as well. Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d done, but She hadn’t even been looking at him. He’d wanted to ask, to fix it, to do anything that would make things go back to normal. He might’ve asked the night they landed, if it wasn’t for fucking Jack. 

And now they might be in Her room. 

Which Bucky was fine with. They were adults. She was smart, and could make Her own choices, and he didn’t deserve Her anyway. 

He still lingered outside Her room for hours, thinking about going in. Shouting his love to Her shocked face, then watching Her turn away from Jack and run into his arms. 

The last part was just in his head. There was no way She’d do anything but throw him out of his ass, after he waited so long to tell Her. 

If Jack was what She wanted, she deserved to be happy. 

Bucky still didn’t sleep that night, his mind racing with the idea of someone else touching Her. Having Her, how he wanted. 

Jack wouldn’t treat Her as well as Bucky would. He’d treat Her like a Queen. 

Then lose Her. That kind of closeness was always something he lost. 

He had to haul himself out of bed in the morning. He didn’t want to see Her and Jack standing next to each other. Didn’t to live in the world that was coming, where Her pretty eyes glazed right over him, like he was nothing more than a potted plant. 

It was only to desire to get the hell out of this job, that got him moving. 

But when he got to the group, She wasn’t there. 

Not just late. 

Missing. 

Jack was there. When asked, he just shrugged. Bucky narrowed his eyes—the man had been fawning over Her last night, he’d had Her on his arm, and she was pretty damn hard to lose sight of—but Yelena just sighed and stomped off to go grab Her. 

 They waited awkwardly, shifting on their feet. 

“Storm’s coming.” Walker muttered, and Bucky shot him a glare. “What? I’m just saying, we should be heading out-“ “No.” Bucky grunted. “Team first, John.” Walker sighed, and gave him a flat look. Somehow he was the only person who knew. About a month into Her being on the team, Walker had cornered him and asked what the hell his problem was with Her. He didn’t let up, until Bucky shouted that he might have some feelings for Her. 

He’d, shockingly, kept the secret. 

That didn’t stop the silent mocking and pointed looks. Bucky had learned to ignore them. 

“She does not feeling well.” Yelena announced, storming back into the room. “She wants to stay here.”

Bucky frowned. “She looked fine last night.” “You were across the bar, Bucky Barnes. You could not tell.” Yelena grabbed her baton, moving on before Bucky could protest. “We have to beat the storm. She will wait, but I left her gun. In case someone tries to mess with her, she can-“ Yelena made a mock gun sound, and Bucky’s frown only deepened. She never missed a mission. Once he’d been forced to bench Her, because she had a fever and was trying to join the field work. Even then, She’d talked him into surveillance and intel. 

It was probably a good thing Yelena had checked on Her. Bucky would’ve caved to damn near anything She told him, long as it didn’t put her in danger. 

But She’d volunteered to stay. 

It didn’t sit right. Bucky didn’t have a choice but to let it happen—the wind was picking up, the sky turning gray—but it kept turning, in his skull. 

He knew almost everything about Her, because he listened and watched and memorized Her like a song he wanted stuck in his head forever. He knew that She loved animals, and got cold fast, and enjoyed those romance movies but always liked books better. She didn’t like to feel useless, so he tried to remind Her of things she did after missions, and she liked learning so he’d throw in suggestions for how she could improve.

She never used Her powers, even if they could let Her take over the world in an afternoon. 

And She never just sat out a mission. Especially not one that would be really damn useful to have Her for. 

“Would be useful, for songbird to be here.” Alexei echoed Bucky’s thoughts, dragged the guard they’d knocked out over to the thumbprint pad. “Her song, soothe angriest man.”

Bucky grunted an agreement, but Jack- 

Jack scoffed. And rolled his eyes. 

Bucky wasn’t the only one who caught it. Yelena’s eyes narrowed as well. 

“What was that?” Jack waved her off. “What was what?” “That face. The one that you just made.” Yelena mimicked it. “What was this?”

“Oh. Nothing.” “No, it was something. Say what.” Yelena wasn’t suggesting. She was ordering. And it was hard, to be stupid enough to defy her. 

“It’s not a big deal. Just,” Jack said Her name, and Bucky’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like the tone, like She wasn’t something holy, gracing their tongues. 

“What about her?” His voice was lower than he wanted it to be. The fury felt like it was boiling over inside of him. 

“Nothing. She’s- I don’t know, why all make such a big deal about her, when she’s such a bitch.” Bucky saw red. Jack was still talking.  “I mean, she used her powers on me last night.” Jack looked around between them, lips curled in disgust. “Isn’t that fucked up?” He expected sympathy. Bucky could read that, all over his ugly, about to be flattened face. 

But Bucky knew Her. They all did. 

She didn’t use her powers on people. 

Not unless she was forced to. 

For a moment, Bucky wasn’t thinking. His body was reacting, without needing his mind to command it. His fist flew up, and collided with Jack’s jaw. There was a sickening crack sound, as the man fell to the ground, but no one lunged to help him. 

Bucky turned. The red behind his eyes was turning white, turning from wrath into worry. She was just alone, after what Jack had done. No one there to take care of Her, no one she trusted to talk to. 

He’d would be there. Damn the mission, the rest of the time could work it out themselves, then leave Jack to be buried in the fast-falling snow. 

Bucky was going to be there for Her. 

It had gotten so cold, so fast.  You’d been lying in bed, when Yelena came to check on you. You’d mumbled that you didn’t feel like doing much today, and she’d let it go. She knew you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t really feel horrible. You’d gotten an awkward pat on the head, a feel better, and she’d left you to wallow alone. 

You’d twisted. Turned. Stared at the ceiling, then been unable to keep your eyes open to see your own body and flipped over. Your tears stained the pillow, so you flipped that over too, and the blankets on your body were suffocating but still couldn’t be heavy enough to make you feel safe and warm. 

Slowly, as the day stretches on, everything gets darker. Not just in your head, spinning around the hallway last night—Jack, Bucky’s apathy and cold stares, everything that had been bending all week set to snap any fucking second—but literally. It was 9am, when you had to turn a lamp on to see. There wasn’t any sunlight leaking through the curtains, and when you forced yourself up to shuffle over and check the windows, the world was gray. 

It was snowing. Snowing so heavily, you couldn’t see anything but the flurry an inch outside the glass. There was a chill on your face, just from being near the glass, and your fingers shook as you closed the curtains again. 

The team had left hours ago. The bunker was only an hour away, and if they did their jobs well, they’d be fine. 

There might be fifty percent chance they’re already dead. 

You drag out your personal computer, and turn on the local news to keep an eye for avalanches. You even keep your phone face up as you huddle in your blankets, in case they need to message you. 

The tears are still falling randomly and heavily, freezing on your cheeks like snowflakes and coming from a hollow in your chest. 

A part of you had expected that, from Jack. You hadn’t wanted to, when he’d been so nice to you, but people fascinated by your powers rarely seemed to care for you. For the weight of it on your shoulders, never able to understand that you weren’t just making people to do something.

You were stripping them down to puppet. 

You watched the person fade from their eyes, and become just a doll for you to move around. You could never bare it. The first time it happened, completely on accident, you hadn’t spoken for a week out of fear you’d do it again.

So you hate him for it. Hate Jack, for forcing you to use it, and hate yourself for not being able to find another way out. You could’ve said please again, could’ve shoved him, could’ve screamed. There’s no promise it would have worked—it probably wouldn’t have—but at least you would’ve tried harder.

He wasn’t doing something good. 

There’s an itch and crawl over your bones, because you did something worse.

This is why Bucky doesn’t want you. What you are. Deep in your core below the smiles and lies, you’re just a something Bucky would never want to touch, and you’re going to turn into a forgotten, hollow shell trapped in the cold, frozen in your own body and alone. 

You gather the sheets closer, pulling them up to cover your face. The news is nothing but a muffled mumble in the background, and your fingers are still shaking. 

Your phone buzzes, but it’s not Yelena. It’s a notification from the motel, informing you that the power has gone out and the heater is broken. They’re lighting a fire in the lobby. You can’t bring your legs to pick up and carry you out of bed. 

The sun is gone behind the storm, and time passes like snow melting. Slow and fast all at once, building up and up and up until you’re unable to move or dig yourself out. The skin under your nails is the wrong shade, and when you flip your camera on, so are your lips. You’re shaking under the layers, but it’s nothing to warm you up, and when you dig your fingers into your own sides, they’re like icicles. Maybe you’re still crying. Maybe your eyes froze, and you’re never going to be able to cry again. It doesn’t really matter because you can’t feel anything but that hollowness. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been more alone in your life. 

And your eyes are hooded and fluttering, when there’s bang on your door. 

Bucky’s voice calls your name, and a whine leaves your throat that’s too small to be heard. Maybe he wouldn’t even hear it if you screamed. You’re sure your voice would crack like ice, and he doesn’t even like you anyway. You’re not sure what he’s doing here at all. 

He calls your name again. He sounds urgent. 

Maybe you’re just dreaming. You’ve certainly had dreams like this before, where he swoops in and declares that he secretly loved you the whole time, and you laugh and kiss on a giant, floating pink cloud.

It’s more likely a nightmare. He’s going to storm in and turn to a monster, snarling and sneering about how useless and cancerous and wrong you are. 

He’s shouting now, and any second his voice with turn to a growl. You burrow further under the covers, another weak whine leaving your throat. 

Bucky slams against the door, and you cower. You’re too cold to even brace yourself, but at least you know you can still cry. 

It breaks open, and you’ve never heard Bucky use that tone before. It’s broken and desperate, strange for a man who can’t bear to look at you. He may think you’re dead, and is just upset nature got to you first.

He says your name again, and you feel strong arms wrap around you. He could just be trying to choke you out anyway or going to dump you out in the snow to preserve your body, because there’s no other reason for him to be lifting you up- 

“You’re- Why the hell are you so cold-“ He swears under his breath, and you feel the mattress dip down. 

He’s sitting. 

That can’t be right. 

“Can you say something, doll? Anything so I know you’re hearin’ me, ‘cause-“ A warm hand brushes over your brown, then lingers near your mouth. “You’re breathing. Shit, you’re breathing, but- Say something. Please.”

He asks so nicely. You pull a deep, ragged groan from your chest, and you feel him tense around you.

“Alright, that’s- Good. Can work with that.” He seems to mostly be talking to himself. “Basic hypothermia, nothin’ that’ll kill you. Not if I’m here, and- Gonna kill that ass, I swear- There are some tall building that don’t have very good safety nets, and- ‘m sorry about this, sweetheart.”

You want to frown and ask what—what could possibly be making Bucky sound frantic—but you can’t feel your tongue enough to move it. There are shuffling noises, and he disappears from your side. You curl further into yourself, trying both to dredge up a plea for his return, and shove it down so you don’t make a fool of yourself. 

Then suddenly, you’re cold, so so cold, so cold you think it’s going to drag you under something you can’t get out of-

And you’re warm.

The warm comes slower. You can hear muttered apologies, and shocks of warmth on your skin. You feel bare, and even colder, then there’s nothing but heat. 

It’s pure heat wrapping around you, tangling between your legs and dragging over your arms and spine. 

“Arm’s got a heater in it.” Bucky mutters, his voice somewhere near your head. “Wakanda, huh?”

There’s a dry chuckle, and your brain is slow to understand what’s happening. It’s dragging through the draft of the wind, the cold pushing back against you, and sometimes you’ll almost connect something, then the strings will fly out of your hands. 

But you get warmer and warmer, and there’s a pleasant sound that’s deep and vibrates near your chest, and- 

Bucky. 

Bucky’s in your bed. Stripped down, and holding you. You’re stripped, to nothing but your underwear, and in Bucky’s arms. 

He’s heating you up.

And this is a different kind of heat. It’s uneasy, staining shame for him having to do this for you. Shame and twisting guilt, for how you like it. You really have dreamed about this, and you’ve held sheets at night to pretend they’re the shape of his body, but it’s nothing compared to the real this. To the dips and curves of his chest near your cheek, the strength of his thighs and rippling arms around you. 

There’s shame for how the heat is pooling, slowly but steadily, near your stomach. It feeds the shame, and something in you likes the embarrassment—at least it means you have Bucky’s attention—and that just makes you more shameful, and it feeds into itself like a raging wildfire. 

You can speak again. You’re afraid to. 

You might moan. 

At last, breaking the silence, you pull the soft words from the hollow in your chest. 

“You came back.”

Bucky stops humming, then sighs heavily. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Jack. Knew he made you use your powers. Wanted to check on you.”

You frown against his skin. That doesn’t make sense. “Check… On me?”

Bucky grunts. “Make sure he didn’t hurt you.”

“He couldn’t-“

He says your name sternly, and your words die fast. “We both know you don’t just use your powers. Whatever he did to make you-“ Bucky cuts himself off, his voice straining oddly. “Are you alright.”

“Yeah.” You breathe out, voice still hung with confusion. “I- I’m okay.”

Bucky makes a low sound, and it rolls through your whole body. Between your legs. 

You shift against him, trying to relieve some friction. He holds you tighter. He smells good, like pine trees and something warm that’s just Bucky, and it’s intoxicating. You manage to twist so that you’re facing away from him, because being this close to him and keeping yourself from moaning—whenever his hand dips too low on your back, or his thigh flexes too close to your core—is almost impossible. 

“I punched him.” Bucky breaks the long silence.

“Who?”

“Jack.”

You swallow on a lump in your throat. That wants that to mean something, when you know it doesn’t. “You didn’t have to do that-“

“I did.” He grunts, and your lips press in a tight line.

“And then you… came back?”

He sighs, breath warm near your ear. Nods.

“Why?”

“I told you.” Bucky sounds heavy. It’s nothing compared to the weight of him on your ribs, over your heart. 

“No, I-” Your voice wavers. “Why for me? You- You don’t even like me.”

Bucky stills completely. His hands splay against you, branding your skin, and you can hear him lick his lips near your ear.

“What are you talkin’ about?” His voice is oddly rough, and you frown at the air.

“You- You don’t like me. Which is- It’s fine, you don’t have to, but-“

“I like you.” 

You blink, at the harshness of his words. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do, we’re-“ His voice is getting lower, like he’s trying to convince himself. “We’re friends.”

“No, we’re not?”

“Do you… Not like me?”

It’s so painful, the way the end of his sentence drops off. Hesitant. Unsure.

You really don’t understand what’s happening.

“I- I don’t-“ You’re stammering, heat flooding your cheeks. “That’s not- You don’t like me, so I-“

“Doll, I-“

“You don’t like me,” your voice is rising. It’s not helpful, to have his bare body so close to yours for him. “You don’t, you- You’re always glaring at me, and we don’t hang out-“

“We sit in the kitchen together-“

“Yeah, but- You never talk to me!”

Bucky’s fingers are digging into your sides. “Yes.” He grunts. “I do.”

“Only when you tell me how I fucked up a mission-“

“I’m givin’ you tips, and- Fuck-“ His voice caves a little again, until it’s only a rasp. “Do you really not think I like you?”

He sounds hurt. As if you did something wrong, you always do something wrong to him, and- 

You’re crying again. The tears stream silently down your cheeks, and you can’t stop yourself from turning your face into Bucky’s shoulder to hide it. Everything is still so cold, and there’s confusion and dread building in your stomach that you’ve twisted something all wrong, and he’s so warm and safe. 

His hand flies to the back of your head, and he rolls over you, shielding you from the worlds. A metal thumb comes to your cheek, wiping the tears then trying to angle your chin up. 

“This isn’t- Shit- Can you look at me?” Bucky says your name, and you try to twist away. “No, don’t- I don’t hate you. I don’t. I- Fuck, I’m not good at this, but- Look at me-“

Something hotter enters his voice, and your eyes snap up to his. Bucky looks at you with such open relief, you’re not sure you didn’t die. 

“Bucky…” You breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “I- I’m sorry, you-“

“Don’t.” He grunts. “Don’t, I’m not- You never gotta apologize. Not to me.”

You shake your head, because that doesn’t make any sense, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“I like you, doll.” He murmurs, dropping his brow against yours. Like something impossible to hold is on his shoulders. “I like you. Always liked you, I- Fuck, I used to be good at this-“ 

He stares at you like you’re something priceless. You feel exposed, completely Bucky’s with nothing to show for it, and he’s looking at you like you’re priceless. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. His voice is so deep, you can almost feel it in your chest.

“I like you.” He mutters, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “I like you, please.”

Something in you snaps, at the pure, open vulnerability in his voice. At how fragile you feel, and how if his heat doesn’t melt you, it will mend you together. You surge up without thinking. 

Press your lips against his, harsh and fast. The timing is all wrong, and it’s nothing but a bumping of nose and smashing of lips. He doesn’t kiss you back, until the very last second, when you’re already pulling away. 

He dives down after you, then recoils. 

Glaring down at you, an expression identical to what you’ve seen so many times on his face. 

The only difference is his mouth hanging open. And his heartbeat, under your hand. 

Fast. 

He stares at you. You stare back, tears pricking back at your eyes, and- 

Bucky almost falls over you. And this kiss is just as sloppy as the first, but it’s anything but awkward. Bucky kisses you like he’s trying to tell you something, that nothing but his body can say. His hands wander, as his lips move relentlessly against yours. He angles his head, deepening the kiss, and all the built-up heat floods you like a wildfire. 

Your arms fly around his neck, as you kiss him back. Bucky groans, doubling his force, and you’re pinned between him and mattress. Your legs glide apart to accommodate his space, and you shiver as his metal hand finds the base of your spine, pushing you up into the muscle of his torso. 

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gasp, and he growls against your mouth. “Oh- Oh my-“

Your hips roll, because it’s too much to bear. How much you need him, how consuming he is, how happy you’d be to drown if it’s under him. Your legs drag wider, and Bucky starts a warpath down your throat, lips burning every bit of skin he can find. 

Your back arches into him, your fingers flying to his hair. It’s wet and messy, a painful pleasure when you try to chase him but find nothing. His teeth graze your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine.  

“Please, fuck-“ You writhe below him, unable to keep still as he works you like an instrument. “More- I, I need you, so bad, Bucky, please-“

He crashes back up, kissing you until your toes curl and your head spins. 

“You are…” He pulls your head back, deepening the kiss. “Fuckin’ beautiful. You really didn’t know, did you doll. Just what you were doin’ to me, how much I wanted-“ He pulls your lip between his teeth, and you moan openly. “This.”

There’s a force, behind his kiss and his touch. It’s demanding, and you’re more than willing to give. 

Your legs are spread as wide as they can go, your hips humping up into Bucky’s body. His warmer hand slams down, right over your barely clothed core, pressing it back down into the bed. 

“Don’t do that. I’ve been tryin’ to keep it together, but if you-“ He groans, as he feels the damp spot on your panties. “Fuck, you- You’re-“

“Bucky,” you sound downright pathetic, lashes fluttering as you try to plea with him. “Need you-“

“No, you don’t-“

“Yes, I do.” Your voice breaks in a sob. He can’t just do this, then not give you more. He must really hate you, for him to torture you like that-

Bucky cuts your thoughts off with another, softer kiss. It’s impossibly sweet, making your heart flutter and a sigh escape your lips.

“Don’t cry, babydoll.” Bucky murmurs. “Nothin’ here to cry about.”

You disagree. “Please.” You whisper, holding his hooded gaze, and his tongue flicks over his lips. 

His hand presses harder, and a ruined moan escapes your lips. 

“James…”

You don’t know what makes you say it. But Bucky’s reaction is immediate. His breath catches, his eyes flashing, there’s almost a predatory focus on his face. He drags two fingers, slowly over the wet spot.

You shudder below him, moaning again, and his nostrils flare. 

“Say it again.” His words are firm, and you obey freely.

“James, please-“

Bucky kisses you again, cutting off your words into a moan. But this time, he builds up. His fingers apply a little more pressure, his palm rubbing back and forth against your clit. His tongue slides against yours, as he drags your underwear to the side, and teases his fingers over your pussy lips. 

You squirm below him, and he doesn’t break the kiss. 

“Be patient, pretty girl. Waited years.” He dips into your wetness, gathering it up before smearing it on your clit. “Gonna take my time.”

All you can do is scratch at his back and shoulders, trying to urge him on. Bucky just chuckles, rolling around your clit before moving back down, and notching his fingers right at your entrance. You aren’t strong enough, to move against him and pull him inside. Just blunt nails graze you, and your eyes roll back in your head. 

Then suddenly, he’s gone. 

It’s a split second, where your eyes fly open and you almost choke him, in an attempt to stop him from leaving. 

But he’s not even trying to. 

He’s just switching hands. 

The metal, now cool and biting against your skin, spanks your pussy lightly, and you go limp below him. 

“I’ve got you, doll.” He mutters against your lips, his eyes trained between your bodies. On where his hand is resting against your cunt. “So wet, for me. ’S for me?”

He glances up, and smirks when you nod. 

“I know.” He plants a mockingly sweet kiss on your lips. “Always knew, just thought you saw it. How much I dreamed about this, you and your pretty fuckin’ pussy-“

He slides a finger into you, and you clench tight around him, still managing to stare up at him and cling to his every word. He groans, as he pushes further in. Presses his cheek against yours, his breath hot on your ear. 

“Relax.”

You try to. You close your eyes, and let his body ease you down. Eventually you get it, and your body goes limp. You breathe heavy through your nose, as Bucky pushes his finger fully into you. Starts to pump it slowly, letting you feel him work open your walls, hitting that deep spot inside of you every time with ease. 

Bucky groans. “Knew you’d take me so good. Fuckin’- could smell when you got wet, smelled like candy, made me feel like a dog. I would’ve gotten on my knees for you, doll, but I like you like this, too.” He pushes up over you, finger picking up pace. Grins at your open, wanting expression, your arms wrapping around your stomach. “Wrecked on my fingers. Soakin’ the sheets,” he reaches up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “So damn needy, and mine.”

You moan, and Bucky smirks. His fingers pick up pace, and it makes you feel like you’re going to burst into starlight.

“Say it,” he grunts, and the glare is back. 

Not a glare of hate, you realize in your lustful haze. 

A glare of hunger. Desire.

And something dangerously close to adoration. 

“I- Bucky, fuck-“

“Say you’re mine,” he lowers himself back down, his lips brushing yours. “Please.”

He asked so nicely again. “I- I’m yours-“ You whimper, his thumb flicking against your clit. “I’m yours, Bucky, I’m-“

You moan into his mouth, as he kisses you open and desperate.

“I can’t believe you think I could hate you.” He mutters against your lips, and you swallow. 

“James-“

“Who the hell could hate something so beautiful?”

That does it. 

Heat rushes through you, and your vision swims as you cum hard enough to light you on fire. When you float back down, Bucky is still over you. His metal hand is stroking your thigh, and it’s so quickly clear. 

That’s not enough. 

He must see it on your face, because his brows raise. There’s the glare again. 

And a tension in his body, like he’s trying to hold himself back. 

“You need more, babydoll?” He mutters, searching your face. “You want-“

“Yes.” You moan, and you’ve never seen Bucky move so fast in your life.

He sheds his underwear like they were burning him, and in the split second you see him, your mouth falls open. He’s beautiful, but thick, and you don’t know if you can take it. 

Bucky makes it easy. He mutters a quick check about birth control, tapping his head on your clit. You nod, and he kisses your forehead, breathing raggedly as he slides into your dripping cunt. 

“Fuck…” He moans, fingers finding your clit to stop you from fluttering around him. “’S…  So good-“

Whatever suave words he had before are gone. Bucky bottoms out, and sits inside of you, chest heaving as he gives you a second to adjust. 

And when he starts moving, it’s controlled. Careful, pulling far out of you before slamming back in, his eyes fixed on the way your body reacts. He rolls his hips, grabs your legs and hikes it up, hitting a sweet, deeper angle that makes you see stars. 

A broken James falls out of your lips. 

And he snaps. 

Bucky grabs your hands, from around your body, and pins them over your head. His hips start to drill into you, his cock slamming against every deep and sensitive part inside of you. You can only blink up at him, too cock-drunk to speak, sparks seeming to fly up your spine as he fucks you into a wrecked, blissed-out oblivion. 

He’s trying to talk to you, broken praise falling from his lips, but it all comes out in feral sounds. You’ve never seen him like this, his brow pinched and lips parted, body flushed and movements sharp and wild. Almost nothing he says makes much sense, and every single grunt seems to mean the same exact thing that’s lost in the friction of your bodies.

Then his mouth lands over yours, his thrusts turning short and desperate. You’re so close, seconds from tipping over the edge, and- 

“Love you,” he chokes out your name, taking a deep breath as he ruts into your g-spot. “Love you so much.”

You cum around him, arching off the bed from the full force of it. Bucky groans, swallowing your every cry of his name with his mouth, and pulls out with a groan. 

He fists himself, the head of him still tapping against your clit, and he moans your name as he paints your thighs and abdomen white. 

Bucky leans down, the kisses sweet again. Soft. 

Taking time. 

You’re too boneless to do much but return them, one hand moving up to cup his face. He grabs it, and kisses the inside of your wrist. Stands and grabs a towel from your bathroom, cleaning between your thighs in a comfortable silence. You feel like you’re floating, somewhere higher than heaven. Your head is empty, except for his touch. 

You only really know two things.

It’s so cold, while he’s gone. 

But warm again, when he slides into bed at your side. 

Safe, and warm, and loved. 

“I don’t,” he mutters in your ear, voice still rough. “Hate you.”

You smile at the air, rolling over to press your face into his chest. 

“Okay.” You hum, wrapping your arms around his chest. “I believe you.”

And as he kisses your hairline, lips soft and delicate, you really do.