Silly Boots

You heard the front door click open, then the familiar heavy tread of his boots. Bucky was home. A flutter of excitement mixed with the pregnancy hormones already making everything feel heightened. You adjusted the robe, letting it hang loosely open just enough to tease, and waited.

"Baby?" His voice carried down the hall, low and rough from the long day. "You still up?"

"In here," you called softly, turning toward the doorway.

He appeared moments later, still in his dark tactical gear, the straps and holsters making him look every bit the Winter Soldier—except for the way his storm-blue eyes softened the instant they landed on you.

His hand braces against the doorframe, gaze dragging over you slow. Messy bun. Bare feet. The robe, barely hanging on your shoulders. The lace underneath. The curve of your stomach.

You shift a little, suddenly shy under the weight of it. “Hi.”

You turn slightly, letting the robe fall open just a bit more. “What do you think? I, uh… wanted to surprise you.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You can see it in his face—how it hits him. The way his throat works, the way his chest rises a little too fast. Like he’s trying to catch up with something.

“Doll…” it comes out rough. Quiet.

He steps inside, kicks the door shut behind him without looking, shrugging off his jacket and letting it hit the floor. His eyes never leave you.

“Look at you.”

You turn back toward the mirror, giving him the full view. The lace hugs your hips, sheer and soft, the robe framing everything like it was meant to. Your bump sits right there between it all—small, but impossible to ignore now.

“It’s probably silly,” you mumble, smoothing your hands over it. “It’s still early, but… I saw it and thought maybe you’d like how it looks. With the bump and everything.”

“Like it?” his voice breaks a little.

He’s behind you before you even realize, hands settling on your hips, pulling you back against his chest. His heart is racing—you can feel it through his shirt.

“Sweetheart, I’m… fuck. I'm speechless.”

You laugh softly, leaning into him.

His metal hand hovers for a second before resting gently over your stomach, like he’s still in awe that he’s allowed to touch you like this. His other hand brushes the edge of the robe, fingertips barely there.

His head dips, lips grazing your ear while he stares at your reflection.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs. “Seeing you like this… carrying our baby. Wearing something like this just for me?” His thumb moves slow over the curve of your belly. “That little bump… Jesus. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath catches.

“Can’t think straight,” he continues, softer now. “You’ve ruined me, doll. Completely.”

“Good ruined?” you tease, tilting your head back against his shoulder.

He hums, pressing a slow kiss to your neck. “The best kind.”

His hands slide, pushing the robe off your shoulders. It slips down your arms and pools at your feet in a quiet shimmer of green.

“Turn around for me,” he says, gentler than his words usually are. “Let me see you.”

You do, slow.

The lace feels more revealing now, your skin more sensitive under his stare. Your chest rises unevenly, your stomach on full display, no hiding it anymore.

He drops to his knees.

Right there.

Hands framing your hips like it’s instinct.

His face presses against your belly, soft, careful, like he’s afraid to be anything else. His stubble brushes your skin, lips following after in slow, reverent kisses.

“Can’t get over it,” he murmurs against you. “My girl… our baby…”

Your fingers slip into his hair, holding him there.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, kissing the curve again. “Hurts a little, how much.”

His hand slides up, cupping your breast through the lace, thumb brushing your nipple until your breath stutters.

“Everything about you right now…” another kiss to your stomach. “I’m obsessed.”

You barely get a second to recover before he’s standing again, arms wrapping around you, lifting you like it’s nothing. You let out a soft laugh, clinging to him as he carries you to the bed.

He lays you down carefully. Always careful.

His shirt is gone a second later, scars and muscle and warmth as he climbs over you, settling between your thighs without putting any weight on your middle.

His dog tags fall cool against your skin as he kisses you, slow at first, then deeper, like he’s been holding it in since the second he saw you.

“Every day I think you can’t get more beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses, trailing down your jaw, your throat. “Then you go and do something like this.”

His lips brush the top of your belly again, softer now.

“Show up in silk and lace with my baby growing inside you…”

His hand stays there, protective, grounding.

“I’m never recovering from this, sweetheart.”

You arch into him, overwhelmed by what he's doing. The way he looks at you. Like you’re everything.

Like this version of you is his favorite.

“I love you,” he breathes, pressing one more kiss to your stomach before moving lower. “Both of you. So damn much.”

And he means it.

You can feel it in every touch after that—every kiss, every whispered praise, every careful, reverent moment. Like he’s memorizing you this way. Like he’s never going to get enough.

And maybe he won’t.

Because the way he looks at you now?

Completely, helplessly gone.

He did it like he was admitting to a terrible flaw instead of looking at you with those beautiful blue eyes and telling you he wanted you all the fucking time.

“I’m not exactly normal about… sex,” he’d said, thumb dragging over your wrist. “The serum changed things. Stamina. Appetite. Um… drive.”

Your mouth had twitched into a smile. “Appetite?”

His ears had gone pink, but he held your stare. “Yeah.”

You had looked him up and down, shameless enough to make his teeth clench.

“Hm,” you’d said. “We’ll see about that.”

Bucky had been so sure. He really thought the serum meant that he’d have to tone it down. 

Then, after months of being friends with benefits, he learned what you were like when you were in a relationship. 

You might have an even higher sex drive.

You’re not exactly louder about it. Sometimes you were sweet. Domestic and barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, humming into your coffee like you hadn’t dragged him in bed three times yesterday.

But then you’d look at him over the rim of your mug.

That look.

Bucky would recognise the mischief in your eyes low in his stomach before you even opened your mouth.

“Buck,” you’d say, soft and sweet.

And he’d groan like a man already defeated.

“Again?” he asked once, voice rough, half laughing into the crook of your neck while you climbed into his lap like the answer was obvious.

You blinked at him, looking at him with innocent eyes and bare thighs bracketing his hips. “Is that a no?”

His hands tightened on your waist so fast it gave him away.

“No,” he said immediately. “No, of course it’s not a no.”

You smiled, smug and pretty, and rocked down against him until his head tipped back against the couch.

Bucky had been tortured, frozen, shot at, thrown through walls.

Nothing humbled him like you wanting him.

You got him messy. Everyone thought Bucky Barnes was disciplined, but you got him undone.

You got his mouth open. You got his hair ruined. You got his metal hand gripping the couch hard enough to make the frame creak while his flesh hand slid between your legs and found you already soaked for him.

“Jesus,” he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hummed, pleased, rolling your hips against him. “I thought you had enhanced stamina.”

His laugh came out broken. “I do.”

“Then keep up.”

His eyes went dark.

“Yeah?” he murmured, and the next second he had you under him, your back pressed into the cushions, his body heavy between your thighs. “That what you want?”

You reached down, wrapped your hand around him and watched his eyes nearly roll back. 

Every time, that was your favourite part.

That ruined, hungry look when he pushed inside you and had to pause like he was praying for control he didn’t have. Not that you even wanted it.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You smiled against his mouth, moving around him just to feel the shudder move through his whole body.

“Still think the serum makes you special?”

Bucky groaned, dropping his forehead to yours.

Then he started moving.

Slow at first, because he was still your Bucky, because your pleasure was a mission he intended to complete with military precision. But then you hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and the sound he made was almost inhuman.

“You’re greedy,” he said, kissing your jaw, your throat, and the corner of your mouth.

“You love it.”

His hips snapped forward harder, and you gasped.

His mouth brushed your ear.

“Fuck,” he admitted, voice low. “I do.”

Boy did he love being wrong about your sex drive. 

He loved that you wanted him past the point of reason. He loved that you could make a super soldier sweat, make his thighs shake, make him press his face into your neck and laugh breathlessly.

He loved dragging you into bed after dinner because he had looked at you too long. Loved waking up to your mouth on his throat and your hand sliding beneath the waistband of his sweats. Loved the mornings where he ended up late because you had tugged him back by the chain of his dog tags and whispered, “One more.”

One more was never one more. Bucky learned that quickly. Not that he would have it any other way.

And every single time, he pretended to complain. He’d groan your name, call you trouble, tell you that you were going to get him fired from the new avengers, as if they could ever afford to fire him.

Still, his hands would already be on your waist, his mouth already open against your skin.

He would already be hard again, heavy and flushed between your thighs, because the truth was embarrassingly simple:

Bucky thought he had a high sex drive. Then he met yours. 

He realised, very quickly, that he had been outmatched.

—

He shouldn’t have lingered. Should’ve kept walking.

Instead, his enhanced hearing picked up every hitch in your breathing, every soft whimper. Your voice, usually so steady in the field, was wrecked.

“…please, Bucky… fuck, yes—harder…”

His name.

In that tone.

Heat slammed into him like a freight train. He froze, fingers curling at his side.

Through the narrow gap, the blue glow of your laptop screen painted the room. You were on your bed, sheets tangled around your legs, one hand between your thighs and the other gripping your phone like a lifeline. The audio from whatever you were watching—or reading—filtered faintly: a low, gritty voice murmuring filthy praise.

But it wasn’t just any voice.

It sounded suspiciously like someone had spliced together clips of his voice.

The realization hit low in his gut.

You moaned again, hips rolling desperately.

“Good girl… that’s it, take it for me…”

Bucky’s breath caught.

You were getting off to him.

Not just him—the way he spoke, the quiet commands he gave during missions. The subtle dominance that slipped out when he corrected your stance in training or hauled you out of danger. The praise kink you kept buried so deep he’d never suspected.

Until now.

He should leave. He knew that.

But the soldier in him—the part that still cataloged every advantage—locked the moment in place.

You wanted this. Craved being told you were good, being guided, being taken by that voice.

By him.

Bucky backed away silently, heart hammering.

He didn’t sleep much that night.

---

The next morning in the training room, he tested the waters.

You were already there, stretching in leggings and a cropped tank, earbuds in as you warmed up. Bucky entered like nothing had changed, but everything had.

He wore a black compression shirt that clung to his shoulders and left the metal arm bare—something he usually covered more around you.

“Morning, doll,” he rumbled, voice pitched deliberately low.

The same timbre you’d played on loop last night.

You startled, yanking one earbud out. “Hey, Buck. Didn’t hear you come in.”

He stepped closer than necessary, crowding your space under the pretense of spotting you on the pull-up bar. “Need a hand?”

You nodded, jumping up.

His flesh hand steadied your waist—warm, firm.

As you pulled yourself up, he murmured right by your ear, “That’s it. Good girl. Keep your form tight.”

Your arms nearly gave out mid-rep.

You dropped, cheeks flaming, but he caught you easily against his chest, arms wrapping around your back.

“Easy,” he soothed, that same velvet-rough voice. “You’re doing so well. Always so strong for me.”

The praise landed like a spark on dry tinder.

You swallowed hard, eyes flicking to his before darting away. “Thanks,” you managed.

He didn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushed your lower back, just above the waistband of your leggings. “You push yourself hard. I notice. Makes me proud.”

The effect was immediate—your pupils dilated, breath shallow.

Bucky filed it away with ruthless precision.

---

It escalated over the week.

In the kitchen, while you reached for a mug on the top shelf, he appeared behind you. Chest brushing your back, his arm extending effortlessly to grab it.

“Here you go, sweetheart. Always reaching for things you shouldn’t. Let me take care of that.”

His breath ghosted your neck.

You shivered visibly.

During a briefing, when you offered a solid tactical insight, Steve nodded approval—but Bucky leaned in, voice low enough for only you.

“Smart girl. Knew you’d see it. You always do what’s best for the team.”

Your pen snapped in your grip.

He found excuses to touch you more.

A hand on your shoulder after a successful drill.

“Perfect execution. Good girl.”

Each time, delivered in that quiet, commanding tone you’d clearly fantasized about.

Each time, you melted a little further—flustered, thighs pressing together, avoiding his gaze but never pulling away.

Bucky told himself it was just advantage. Information used strategically.

But the truth was darker, hotter:

He wanted you squirming for him.

Wanted to be the one who finally gave you what that secret audio never could.

---

Friday night, the compound was nearly empty.

Most of the team was out on a low-stakes mission. You were in the gym again, pounding the heavy bag like it owed you money. Sweat glistened on your skin, hair sticking to your neck.

Bucky watched from the doorway for a long moment before entering.

“Rough day?”

You paused, chest heaving. “Just… restless.”

He circled you slowly, metal arm gleaming under the lights. “C’mere. Let me help.”

Before you could protest, he positioned himself behind the bag, holding it steady.

“Hit it. Hard as you want. I’ve got you.”

You struck.

He absorbed the impact without flinching.

“Again. Good. Just like that.”

The praise flowed naturally now, laced with intent.

You hit harder, frustration bleeding into each punch. After a dozen, you were panting, leaning into the bag.

Bucky stepped around it, crowding you against the wall instead.

One hand braced beside your head, the other tilting your chin up.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes met his, wide and dark.

“You’ve been wound tight all week,” he murmured, voice dropping into that exact register from your late-night fantasies. “Working so hard. Being so good for everyone. But you don’t have to carry it alone, doll. Let me take some of that weight.”

His thumb traced your jaw.

“You’re allowed to need things. To want things. And if you want me to tell you how fucking perfect you are while I give them to you… all you gotta do is say it.”

Your breath hitched audibly. “Bucky…”

He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“That’s right. Say my name just like that. I heard how pretty it sounds when you’re desperate for me.”

The confession hung between you—shocking, electric.

Your face burned, but you didn’t deny it.

Couldn’t.

“I—I didn’t mean for you to—”

“Shh.”

His fingers skimmed down your side, pinning your hip lightly to the wall.

“I’m not mad. Been driving me crazy too, knowing what you need. How wet you get just from a little praise. From me calling you my good girl.”

A broken sound escaped you.

Your hands fisted in his shirt.

Bucky’s smile was slow, predatory—but his eyes held something softer.

“We’re not there yet. Not until you tell me you want this—for real, not just in the dark. But I’m done pretending I don’t know. Done pretending I don’t want to ruin you for anyone else.”

He stepped back just enough to give you air, but the promise lingered in the charged space between you.

“Think about it. I’ll be in my room. Door unlocked.”

“JESUS. I do NOT want to think about that.” It was just so easy to get her riled up. And way too much fun. You cackled loudly.

Steve spun around from his place behind the counter, looking into the window. “Do you think maybe one of you would actually like to come out here and, I dunno, work?” Ooh, somebody was getting grumpy. You wouldn’t mind fucking the attitude right out of him.

Robin rolled her eyes, flipping him the bird. You slid out of your chair and walked around the counter, sidling up to Steve with an exaggerated southern drawl. “How ever can I make it up to you, sugar? Ice cream?” You offered him the remains of your break room snack.

“I guess,” he grinned, fingers lighting grazing yours as he accepted the bowl, sending a warm buzz up your spine. He dug in ravenously, like only a teenage boy would. Even at eighteen, he hadn’t grown out of the habit.

“You got a little something,” you gestured to an invisible spot in the general vicinity of his face.

“Where?” he asked, his brows furrowed. 

“Riiiight…” you trailed off, reaching into the bowl, “...there,” you finished, tapping a dollop of ice cream on the tip of his perfectly straight nose.

His jaw dropped, shock evident across his features. You gave him a playful smirk. You had him right where you wanted him. It was a challenge, played coyly, that said ‘And what are you gonna do about it, pretty boy?’ If the girls of Hawkins wouldn’t give him the time of day, wasn’t that just more opportunity for you?

He reached into the bowl, scooping a handful of ice cream and waving his vanilla-covered fingers at you. You backed away, giggling and shrieking the whole time. “Steeeeeeeve, noooo!”

His eyes flashed, a predator stalking his prey. He caged you in and…God, weren’t his eyes pretty? Big and shiny and expressive. Hazel up close. You caught a whiff of expensive cologne he probably couldn’t afford to buy anymore on his Scoops Ahoy paycheck.

And then you felt it: his hand swiping across the side of your face, down your jaw, freezing and sticky. You gasped with an open-mouthed smile and smacked him. “Asshole!”

He cocked his head. “What’s that? You want some more?”

“Don’t you dare.” An empty threat if you’d ever made one.

He lunged at you with another handful. You reached out to block his hand, maybe give him another little smack. Too late. He was already painting your lips with ice cream. Smug bastard. Smug, hot bastard. You looked him dead in the eye, grabbed his hand, and worked his ring and middle finger into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them and pulling off with a pop.

His jaw went slack, pupils dilated, hand frozen mere centimeters from your mouth. Suddenly, the air-conditioned ice cream parlor felt like it was 100 degrees and neither of you seemed to remember what was so funny just a couple short minutes ago. 

He cleared his throat and pulled his hand away like he’d been burned. “Do you want like…a napkin? Sorry. I just–napkin?”

“Yes, napkin. Thanks.” But your eyes were locked on him, the way he was fighting the blush creeping up his neck, the way he shook his shoulders out as he walked into the back.

He came back with a wet paper towel, offering it to you meekly. Your voice dropped to barely above a whisper, forcing him to lean in. “You made the mess. Clean it up.” 

You tilted your head up, giving him easier access to the scene of the crime. His hands trembled as he gently wiped the remainder of the ice cream with the paper towel.

He couldn’t help but notice the faint blush across your cheeks, the delicate features that adorned your face. Perfect, full lips now coated obscenely in white. Lips that he couldn’t help but picture wrapped around his–fuck. No. He told himself to think of something else. Anything. Baseball cards, grandma, the stupid Scoops Ahoy uniform…your Scoops Ahoy uniform, perfectly hugging every curve. Annnd now he was picturing you naked. Shit.

“You’re gonna get me fired,” he blurted out.

You batted your eyelashes at him and pitched your voice just a tad higher. “How come? I was playing nice.”

“‘Cause you’re a troublemaker.” You snuck a peek at the now very-obvious semi he was sporting. What you wouldn’t give to see it in all its glory.

“Well, if you’re looking for more trouble…or, you know, a little relief…you know where to find me.” And with that, you flounced away, swinging your hips freely, leaving him to ache in his cute little uniform shorts.

***

You were on your knees, locked in the employee bathroom, face to face with Steve’s bare lower half, his briefs and shorts carelessly bunched up at his ankles. And damn if he wasn’t even better than your imagination. Long and thick, the swollen tip an angry pink. You could almost feel the ache in your jaw before you even opened it.

“Damn.” And it came out shakier than you expected. 

He smiled coyly. “Yeah?”

“Steve.”

He just laughed. You flicked the hem of his shirt up, peppering kisses below his navel, moving to his hip, then his inner thigh. His hungry eyes followed your every move, his cock painfully hard and leaking with precum. You took him in your hand, swiped your thumb over the weeping slit at the tip, and spread his arousal generously over his length. His breath hitched. “Oh my God.”

You grinned. Then finally, mercifully, you took him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head, hand stroking what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. You were immediately overwhelmed by the heady taste. He groaned, low in his throat. “Shit, that’s good.” “Yeah? You like that?” you asked, tapping it on your tongue a couple times, before enveloping it with your warm, wet mouth again.

His hands fluttered helplessly at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them. You took both and shoved them haphazardly into your hair. “S’okay?” he slurred.

“Yeah, it’s okay. I like to choke on it,” you smirked up at him. At that, his cock twitched hard. You just giggled and took him deeper until you could feel him touching the back of your throat. The weight of his hands felt heavy on your head, not pushing, just resting, allowing you to take control. The fact alone had your core dripping with arousal.

Spit bubbled at the corners of your mouth. Messy. Obscene. You looked up at him through your lashes at your head bobbed quicker. Deeper. Fucking your throat with his cock now. Nose touching his pelvis, gagging on it.

He screwed his eyes shut. “Fucking hell. You keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”

“So don’t.”

You grazed your teeth gently down the shaft. He shivered. “Too much?” you asked, looking up carefully.

“Uh-uh.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I bite it?”

He nodded frantically with wide eyes. You gently sunk your teeth into his meaty length from the side, stroking him near the head, fingers tracing around his slit again. His breathing was getting more frantic. You licked a stripe up the underside, fondling his balls as you went back to deepthroating him.

He was babbling nonsense now. “So good–fuck. I’m so close…keep doing that. Don’t fucking stop. Yeah, there’s my little cockslut. Good girl.” He was so close you could feel him twitching violently, sending a fresh wave of arousal through you. You were so fucking desperate for friction on your throbbing pussy.

“Fuckfuckfuck, I’m gonna cum–” You hummed around him. A long, low vibration. He clenched suddenly, shooting hot ropes of cum down your throat. Enough to fill your mouth too. Salty, thick, and a little bit sweet. You swallowed some and let the remains of it sit on your tongue.

“Have you ever tasted yourself before?” you asked, curling your tongue to hold it in your mouth. He shook his head slowly. “Do you want to?” He nodded, eyes darkening.

He helped you up and you fisted your hands into the front of his uniform shirt, pulling him in for a kiss. It was hot and messy, sharing his cum like it was something sacred. “Fuck…that was hot,” he whispered, breathing still ragged. He was so lightheaded he needed a minute to recover.

“Your turn,” he murmured, redressing himself carelessly and sinking to his knees. He made quick work of your uniform shorts, rubbing the wet spot in your panties and kissing your clothed slit, tongue peeking out to kitten lick you.

“Can I?” he asked, looking up for approval. You nodded, chest already heaving, and with that, he pulled your panties off in one swift motion and lifted one of your legs over his shoulder. 

“Holy shit. She’s so pretty. And dripping. All this for me?” He traced the wetness between your legs with his thumb, holding your pussy lips open to see your hole. He couldn’t wait to make it clench. He blew the tiniest bit of cool air on your pussy, sending a shiver through you.

“Ste–eve, don’t tease me.”

“Gotta tell me what you want then, pretty girl.”

“Fuck. Your mouth.”

He breathed you in deeply. “Fuck, you smell so good.” Then, licking a broad, flat stripe up your slit, he added, “Taste so sweet too.” His tongue circled around your twitching clit, then back through your velvety petals. He sucked one of the lips into his mouth, then the other. He flicked his tongue over your entrance, feeling you shudder again and again. He brought his tongue to a point and began shallowly thrusting into your pussy. You took a fistful of his hair, alternating between pulling and lightly scratching his scalp.

“Feels so good.” “Yeah? You want more?” he asked, his voice sending vibrations through your pussy.

“Please.”

He brought his middle finger to your core, dragging it through the wetness and plunging easily into your hole. “You like that?”

“More…moremoremore please.” You were breathing hard now. He added a second finger, scissoring you open. You didn’t even really need him to. You were so turned on it was barely a stretch. Felt fucking good too. He curled his fingers into that spongy spot on your front wall, earning a cry from you. And just having him so close, touching you, focused on your pleasure, left you teetering on the brink of an orgasm.

You brought your fingers down to your clit while he worked his fingers inside you. He swatted your hand away, replacing it with his thumb. His middle and ring finger thrust into your clenching hole with reckless abandon, squelching obscenely while his thumb rubbed quick, tight circles on your clit. The pressure built in your fluttering pussy while you chanted his name like a prayer. “Steve, Steve….ugh, fuck. Steve, Steve mmmmm…”

“Yeah, that’s it. Squeeze my fingers. Just like that.” And just like that, you were tumbling over the edge, orgasm crashing over you in white hot waves. You moaned loudly, rocking and grinding through it, walls pulsating with each wave until finally the aftershocks were small enough that you could open your eyes and catch your breath. He pulled his fingers out slowly, careful not to overstimulate you, and sucked them clean.

“Holy shit,” you breathed out, hands still tangled in his hair.

“Holy shit?” he grinned.

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.” He was absolutely beaming now as he helped you back into your underwear and uniform shorts with great care. You couldn’t help but admire him in your post-orgasm haze, the planes and long lines of his body. And his skin. Jesus, he was almost glowing. You wondered what his dick would feel like inside of you, dragging against your velvety walls until you were writing beneath him. Maybe on a bed, even. You hadn’t even fucked the guy and you were already greedy for him. You needed to cool down. Maybe with more ice cream.

Throttling yourself back to reality, you whispered, “You think Robin will notice how long we’ve been gone for?”

“Robin took like, a forty minute break. It’s okay for her to actually do something, you know.” You both laughed.

“I just don’t wanna get caught at work. That’s like, so embarrassing.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, fiiine. I guess we have to go back out and work now.” As he unlocked the bathroom door and slipped out, he turned back to you. Quieter, more vulnerable. Almost shy. “Can I um…can I take you out? Like maybe to the fair on Friday?”

“Like a date?”

“...yes? I mean, unless this was like a one-time thing and you’re not interested. Or you’re just interested in sex. Which is cool too…” He was furiously blushing. The guy that just came down your throat and had you unraveling above him was suddenly bashful. And the sheer sweetness of it made your stomach flip.

“No, yeah. I’m–I’m interested.”

“In sex or in me?” He was teasing now.

“Both.”

He tapped his finger to his temple, nodding slowly. “Good to know. Then…it’s a date, pretty girl.”