Zephyrus

You knew the pressure points by now. You’d studied them—committed them to muscle memory. Knew exactly which seams to tug, which smiles to flash, which casual poses made his breath catch just behind his ribs. Knew how to bait a man who could bench press a building, but who still lost every last ounce of composure when you spread your thighs and looked at him like he was the only man in the world.

.

It started small. Always did. You were so generous offering the strongest metahuman the illusion of a fair fight, giving him a few soft warnings before you pulled the pin.

A message waited for him on the bathroom mirror, scrawled in your red lipstick right across the glass, the curve of each letter playful and practiced. Beside it: a perfect kiss-mark, glossy and shameless.

Have a good day at work, babe. I love you!

A pair of your panties, red mesh, tiny silk hearts stitched along the waistband, was "accidentally" left half‑folded in the sock drawer he opened every morning without fail. You knew that he knew you better than that. You didn’t leave things out by accident. 

None of these breadcrumbs were enough for him to fully wake you as he leaned in to say goodbye before work, but it was enough to make him kiss your lips longer than usual. Slow. Lingering. Like a man already bracing himself for war.

You had an inkling that he barely made it out the door.

.

The first photo went out at 9:14 a.m.

Nothing obscene, just enough. You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, Clark’s flannel unbuttoned and hanging loose from your shoulders, sleeves falling just past your wrists, the red straps of your lingerie cutting neat, precise lines across your skin like you were gift-wrapped: bare legs, bare throat, morning light slipping in through the window, and the corner of your smile just visible in the reflection.

You could picture it perfectly: him at his desk like the perfect employee he always was, blissfully typing away on his keyboard, coffee halfway to his mouth. You could see the exact second his phone lit up. The pause. The way his fingers stilled. His eyes flicking downward. The quiet inhale. The shift in posture. His glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose.

You knew the timing. Knew his tells.

The reply came two minutes later.

Clark: Good morning, my love You're being unfair right now. Beautiful, but unfair. Have a good day!

You smiled. He was always so damn sweet.

At 10:36 a.m., the second photo followed.

Same set. Different angle. The flannel was gone now, leaving nothing between you and the mirror but skin and red lace, cut high on the hips and dipping low between your breasts, the sheer mesh hugging your ribs in a way you knew made his mouth go dry. The satin bow sat tidy at the center of your sternum, a little too innocent for what you intended, tied just tight enough to make him wonder if he’d get it undone with his hands or his teeth.

Your thighs were parted, just a little. This time, you added a caption that gave him no room to breathe:

You: Thinking about how long it’s gonna take you to get this off me. I knotted this pretty tight.

His response came faster than you anticipated.

Clark: Sweetheart, you look incredible, but I’m at work?!

You sent back a heart, and nothing more. Let him sit with it.

At 11:12 a.m., you sent a brief a video this time. Switched it up, because why not?

Silent, unfiltered, back turned to the mirror. Your ass in motion, hips swaying slow. The straps were so thin they might as well have been floss, cutting over your ass as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. One leg bent. Head cropped. Nothing but ass and lace and implication.

He left you on read this time.

Which was telling. Because Clark always responded. Even if just with a heart emoji or a flustered "you’re trouble." If he didn’t? It meant he couldn’t. It meant his hand was clenched so tight around his phone he couldn’t trust himself to type. Meant he’d flushed from throat to cheekbone and ducked into the Planet stairwell to cool off. Or he’d taken a lap around the roof. Around the city. Maybe around the atmosphere.

By 12:17 p.m., his reply finally came, and it was obvious he was unraveling.

The texts were shorter. Less punctuation. The fact that he stopped trying to scold you, and started asking questions instead? Ha!

Clark: did you buy that just for today how long have you been wearing that

You answered with audio.

"Since you left," you murmured, soft, breathy, and barely above a whisper. "Been thinking about you all morning Clark. Been missing you."

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then nothing.

The next few hours were a study in escalation.

A photo of you kneeling on the mattress, back arched, ass up, cleavage spilling down beneath the delicate straps of the set.

A close-up of your fingers grazing your inner thigh, dragging slow, gliding higher, just high enough to hint without showing.

Another voice note, this one needier. A soft, whispered "Clark" said with just enough air, just enough ache, that you could practically feel him falling apart in real time.

By 4:07 p.m., the damn broke. Your poor Clark was done pretending he was okay.

Clark: tryn to focus ur making so difficlit DIFFICULT Please tell me you're waiting for me, honey. Just one more hour.

It wasn't often he truly begged, but that last message was so damn close.

And you, his sweetheart, menace, wife, North Star, had the nerve to read it and not reply.

You waited until 5:02 p.m., letting that last message sit and ache, let Clark stew in it as you took your time setting up what you already knew would end his entire day.

The Kill Shot took longer to record than the others.

You were reclined against the headboard, pillows shoved behind your back, thighs spread wide and unapologetic, red lace pushed damp and dark between them from hours of teasing that had left you tender and buzzing. The phone was propped at the end of the bed, poetically against a careless stack of Clark’s unironed dress shirts.

"See what you do to me, Clark," you sighed softly when you hit record, your hand drifting down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the red lace. You hissed quietly when you touched your already swollen, already too sensitive clit, hips rocking without permission. "I’m so wet, baby. Soaked. All day. Just from teasing you."

Your ring finger circled your clit slowly, deliberately, letting the slick and sound gather. A raspy moan slipped out of you as your back pressed harder into the pillows.

"Hope you’re not mad," you added, breath hitching, almost laughing through it.

You slid one finger inside yourself, then another, the stretch making you gasp as your thighs trembled. Your head tipped back, chest lifting as you tried to make it feel right.

"It’s not the same," you whined, frustration threading your voice honestly now. "It never is without you."

You lifted your free hand into frame then, holding up the bright blue, ridged Superman vibrator. Absurd. Thrilling. Purchased originally as a joke, now deployed with intent.

"I even tried this," you lamented.

When you turned it on, the low buzz filled the room, vibrating straight up your spine. You pressed it to your clit and jolted hard, a broken sound tearing out of you as your hips jerked helplessly.

"Oh—oh God—" You sucked in a breath, fingers curling inside yourself. "It doesn’t—fuck—it still doesn’t touch me like you do."

You dragged it away almost immediately, breath ragged, shaking your head like you were offended by it.

Your fingers thrusted as deep as you could, scissoring, stretching, searching. Ultimately failing.

"They’re not big enough," you babbled, voice going soft and needy now, slick sounds growing louder as you rocked against your hand. "They don’t reach like yours. They don’t—God, Clark, they don’t feel like you."

You brought the vibrator back, pressing it against your clit again while your fingers worked inside you, the buzz climbing as your body arched and your knees drew up, lace biting into your hips. A shaky laugh fell from your mouth, half‑wrecked, half‑desperate.

"This isn’t fair," you whined as you lifted your head, eyes flicking to the camera now, unfocused but locked on him all the same. "You always make it feel so good. Your hands… your mouth…"

You writhed openly, unashamed, thighs trembling, red lace soaked through as you chased something you knew you wouldn’t quite reach.

"It’s not your thickness," you breathed. "Not your heat."

Your fingers slipped out, then back in, curling deeper this time, trying to find that spot he always hit so effortlessly, like your body had been built for his hands alone.

"I need you, Clark," you panted, eyes fluttering. "Need your fingers and your mouth between my legs. Need you telling me to relax—telling me how pretty I look when I fall apart for you."

The vibrator buzzed louder, dragged teasingly once, twice—and then you pulled it away again, breath shuddering.

"And your cock," you added, voice breaking into a whine. "I need you to show me how it’s supposed to feel. Need you to stretch me the way you always do. Need my husband to fill me up because this—"

You gestured helplessly between your thighs, fingers slick and shining, breath uneven. "This isn’t enough. It’s never enough without you."

You lifted your gaze to the camera one last time—wrecked, honest, ruined by want.

"Come home soon, Clark," you whispered, biting your lip.

And then you stopped. Didn’t finish. Wouldn’t dare.

You ended the recording with your chest still heaving and thighs still shaking. You redressed slowly, washed your hands and the toy with care, and hit 'send' as you went to start dinner.

As if nothing at all was about to explode.

.

Twenty minutes later, the apartment was drenched in the scent of garlic and thyme, steam curling from the pot like a love letter in vapor.

Clark's favorite, beef bourguignon, simmered low and rich on the stove, sweet and buttery and slow. You made it only on special occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, nights you wore lingerie beneath an apron and didn’t pretend otherwise.

You stood barefoot, thighs still trembling faintly from earlier, the red lace set damp beneath one of his softest, most lived-in aprons with Kansas Corn Festival logo faded on the front and the fraying strings you always tied in a neat bow at your lower back.

Your lip gloss was fresh. Your hair was a little too tousled, a little too knowingly mussed. You looked like you’d been fucked senseless and then pulled halfway back from the edge. Which was, of course, exactly the truth. Just not by him. Yet.

You stirred the pot once more, slow and thoughtful, then licked the spoon just as a sonic boom tore across the skyline.

The windows rattled.

You didn’t even flinch.

The burner clicked off, and you turned just in time to hear the familiar thud on the balcony. Something weighty and male and exasperated had landed with purpose.

Clark Kent, god among men, paragon of restraint, and utterly fucking done with you, stood just outside, flushed from throat to hairline, chest rising and falling like he was seconds from combusting.

He opened the balcony door too hard. Shut it harder.

You didn’t flinch. You smiled instead.

"Hi, baby!" you greeted sweetly, licking the last of the spoon and setting it down like nothing was melting between your legs. "How was work?"

Clark mouth opened. A strangled sound came out. Nothing formed. He looked like a man who had rehearsed a speech the entire flight over, one with bullet points and moral high ground, and lost all of it the second he saw your bare thighs and dazzling smile.

"You—" he tried, pointing one finger squarely at your chest, not moving.

You tilted your head. "Moi?"

"Honey," he began, dragging a hand down his face, voice pitched somewhere between desperation and disbelief. "One: hi. Work was fine. Two: dinner smells delicious. Three: what you pulled today? That was beyond cruel."

You leaned back slowly, bumping your side against the edge of the kitchen island with a little bounce. He followed without thinking. Close enough to trap. Close enough to breathe you in.

"You liked it," you sang, tugging at one of his belt loops.

"No, I loved it," he ground out, hands already on your waist, gripping just tight enough to send a shiver up your spine. "That’s not the point."

"Oh?" you asked, lashes low, lips pouty. "What’s the point then?"

He huffed. Actually huffed. Then, defeated, he pulled off his glasses and set them carefully on the counter beside you. Pinched the bridge of his nose like he could still slow this trainwreck down with rational thought.

"The point is—" he tried again, swallowing, visibly recalibrating. "I have been trying to be good all day."

"So have I. Guess we both failed."

Clark exhaled, running a hand through his already-ruined hair. Pushed it back only for it to fall limply forward again.

"Sweetheart," he hissed, blue eyes sharp now. "I had to sit in a meeting with Perry after I listened to you moan my name. You—" He pointed again, but his hand dropped halfway, like touching you would end this too fast. "You sent me audio. While I was on lunch with Jimmy. I could barely look him in the eye."

"That sounds like a you problem," you murmured, one leg brushing between his.

His hands tightened on your hips. You gasped.

"And then," he said, lower now, voice going dangerous, "you sent me a video of you—Gosh—spread out across our bed, touching yourself with that silly little toy—"

You shrugged, too pleased with yourself to be sorry.

"Superman didn’t save me this time."

His laugh was broken. Unhinged, like he couldn’t believe you’d just said that. He stepped until the kitchen counter pressed cold against your spine as he crowded into your space, chest brushing yours, arms braced on either side of you like a cage made of heat and muscle and something wild beneath the surface.

There was nowhere to go—not that you’d ever want to—his presence wrapping around you like steam, wrapping around your waist, sliding down your thighs.His breath kissed the curve of your cheek, then your jaw, then lower, his mouth dragging down your throat like he needed to taste how hard your pulse was pounding for him.

"You have any idea what you did to me?" he rasped. 

"You say that like it’s not your favorite thing about me."

A strangled moan escaped him as he leaned closer, forehead touching yours. His cock was already stiff and twitching, the thick press of it unmistakable against your stomach  even though layers of slacks and lace. You gasped, fingers tightening in the soft cotton at his elbows just to stay upright.

"Every second of your video," he growled. "Saying your fingers not being enough—" A long breath. "How empty you still felt. Using the toy."

You shivered. The air between you went heavy.

"Clark—" you warned, already trembling.

"I haven’t even said hello properly," he muttered darkly.

Without warning, he kissed you like a man who’d just run halfway around the world and needed you to catch him. No restraint. No finesse. Just tongue and heat and need, his mouth slanting over yours in wild, open-mouthed hunger, one hand sinking into your toussled hair, the other pressing low on your spine until your bodies aligned, hips flush, your thighs parting on instinct.

You whimpered into it, clawing at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the rush of him finally, finally being here. Being on you.

"Been waiting for this," he whispered, mouth trailing along your jaw, your neck, nipping at the places he knew would make you gasp. Losing my mind since the first photo."

His hand spread low on your ass, tugging you harder against the thick ridge in his slacks. It ground into your clit with every breath, every shift of his hips, and made your knees buckle, a cry caught in your throat as your body begged for more friction, more weight, more.

That heady, perfect mix of power and affection and worship and want coursed through you.

"You’re unreal," he panted between kisses. "You were made to drive me insane, huh?"

A quiet laugh caught in your throat, lips brushing his jaw.

"What’s unreal is this bow," you hummed, tapping your chest, where the ribbon peeked just above the apron’s neckline. "Knotted it way too tight. Think you can get it off, baby?"

His eyes darkened, gaze zeroing in on the apron tied at your back. That innocent cotton thing cinched tight around your waist like some symbol of sweet domesticity. A disguise. A mockery.

He wouldn't take the bait. Not this time.

"No," he said firmly. "Not yet. You’re gonna stay in that pretty little set, sweetheart. The one you spent all day tormenting me in."

You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his voice.

Clark’s gaze dropped to the apron. That innocent cotton thing, cinched around your waist like a mockery of domesticity, as if it hadn’t been hiding the filthiest tease he’d ever seen in his life.

"Though this?" he muttered, fingers curling into the bow behind you, "Is a problem."

Before you could answer, he tugged sharp and hard, and the apron came loose, slipping off your shoulders and crumpling to the floor.

The sight of you underneath?

His breath left him in one long, shattered exhale.

The red fabric shimmered under the kitchen light, clinging damp to your chest, your hips, your thighs, every inch of you hot and glowing and desperate for him. He stared for a long moment, jaw tense, hands twitching at his sides like he was debating whether to worship you or simply scream and combust.

In one fluid, impossible motion, he spun you around to face the counter. Your hands flew out, bracing against the cool granite with a yelp. His body pressed against your back, the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection straining against his trousers, digging into the cleft of your ass through the lace.

"This," he hissed in your ear, one large hand splaying across your stomach, holding you firm against him. "This red lace. It’s been haunting me all day. A glimpse here. A shadow there." His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the intricate pattern over your breast, teasingly tugging on your bow, then sliding down your ribs. "It’s all I could see."

"Clark," you moaned, voice cracking with lust.

"Payback," he whispered, his hands now on your hips, yanking the damp panties down your thighs in one rough pull. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the blistering heat of his palm as he cupped you from behind.

"Still wet?" he leaned over you, mouth to your ear as he buried his fingers in your soaking, messy cunt slowly. "Still aching for me, hon?"

"Y-yeah, been a-all day," you choked out, thighs knocking against the kitchen cabinets with each twitch. "Since the first photo. Since I woke up and ruined my lipstick for you. It's all for you."

A rough sound tore from his throat. Unfastening his belt with a desperate frantic flick, he pushed his slacks and briefs low enough to free himself. The hot weight of his cock pressed against your bare ass, solid and heavy and so real

"See what you do to me, sweetheart?" he growled, echoing the opening line you’d whispered into your last video as he teased the swollen, pre-cum slick head between your puffy folds.

You whimpered, barely able to breathe as the head caught on your clit the same time his teeth nipped the edge of your earlobe.

"F-fuck! That—oh god, that feels—Clark—please, I need it—need you—"

"I know," he whispered, kissing behind your ear. "I’ve got you."

With one powerful, driving thrust that silenced you, he buried himself inside inch by glorious inch.

Your eyes rolled back, feeling every ridge, every vein, every pulsing heat and maddening pressure.

The air left your lungs in a punched-out cry. He filled you, stretched you, exactly as you’d whined about. The difference was profound, overwhelming. It was his heat, his thickness, the perfect, devastating fit of him being enveloped by your quivering, gummy walls.

You felt impossibly full, stretched to a sweet, burning limit, and any remaining coherent thought was knocked clean out of your head.

"G-gosh," he groaned, feeling a new wave of slick coat his length. "You’re so–so tight like this, beautiful. Still fluttering around me—"

You answered by clenching tight, rocking into him slowly. "S-stay right there—just—stay."

He kissed your shoulder, the top of your spine, the back of your neck, mouth open and reverent.

Clark set an increasingly deep, relentless rhythm, pounding you hard up against the kitchen counter. Each drive of his hips slammed you into the cool granite edge, a counterpoint of pleasure and slight pain that made your vision blur. 

His hands gripped your hips, surely leaving faint bruises, holding you in place for his taking. The sounds were filthy—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, your ragged cries, his guttural groans near your ear.

"You like that?" he gritted out, pressing hot kisses on your neck, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You like making me lose it? Making me fly home like a madman?"

"Y-yes! Yes!" you cried, words slurred, hips bucking back into his as your fingers scrambled uselessly over the cool countertop, dinner long forgotten. "Wanted this—wanted you—"

He grunted, one hand slipping down to rub your clit as his thrusts turned punishing, precise. Your body jolted with every snap of his hips, legs shaking, pleasure rising so fast it blurred everything else.

All the while, Clark kissed you, really kissed you, with one hand on your throat as he pulled your face back to his, tongue sliding into your mouth, your moans swallowed between breathless gasps and cracked, whispered I love you's and You drive me crazy's.

Okay, so you ragebaited Clark: masterfully, deliberately, without shame and without mercy.

And now?

Now you were going to spend the rest of the night helping him cool off, one deep, punishing thrust at a time, your body bent beneath his as he finally gave in to everything you’d spent the day dragging out of him.

There are only a few things in the world that could make Clark Kent come undone.

Only a few things that could burn through all that patience and kindness and quiet self-control.

And you in red-laced lingerie had always done it best.

.

Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!

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The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.

You can’t keep doing this to yourself. 

Or, rather, he can’t keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, it’s so much worse when they’re not.

Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbour’s house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.

Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ‘no’, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.

On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.

Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still won’t. 

You’re not really sure what is up with Bucky’s family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.

Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Bucky’s room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your mom’s overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they don’t know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.

It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.

And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one you’re experiencing right now.

It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.

You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - they’re blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.

What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of What’s-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.

You never looked at him the same. 

It’s not for lack of trying.

God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes. 

Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. You’re sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.

But you have graduated now. You’re back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. It’s remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today. 

And you’ve tried everything there is to try. You’ve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.

At Wanda’s recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.

You know it’s a stupid idea. It won’t work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.

The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasn’t ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Bucky’s strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that you’re lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.

You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up. 

Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. You’re just a little floating head above the window sill. He can’t make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.

You’re back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.

He doesn’t need to be here, if he’s being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and there’s not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isn’t exactly a paradise, but it’s not bad either. 

You won’t be here forever, though. He’ll take what he can get in the meantime.

He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard. 

He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull. 

His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions haven’t. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. It’s much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.

You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.

He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your  phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to “stop being such a pain in my ass”, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.

He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.

He’s sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether it’s yours or his, he can’t remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good. 

He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what you’re doing right now. He wonders if you’re on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if you’re wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.

He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.

He imagines Matt as some football player. He can’t picture a face - just some obscure blur - but he’s probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He can’t see you going for someone without good grades. 

Bucky’s grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. It’s probably the only reason he graduated high school.

Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. He’s probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel. 

But that’s a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now he’s thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend? 

Obviously not. But it’s a nice thought.

You probably don’t do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. You’re too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.

He doesn’t even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. You’re arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but he’s also just a man.) 

Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isn’t strictly sexual - in fact, it’s mostly something else - but he’s not sure how to define it. He likes you, except ’like’ doesn’t seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So it’s easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself it’s all he wants.

He has run out of patience. You still haven’t come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.

He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you don’t hear his footsteps and think he’s eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesn’t.

He can’t remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room. 

The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.

He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.

Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesn’t.

This is your diary.

The first entry is from three weeks ago.

22 May I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didn’t want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. It’s not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. I’m just glad it’s over.

I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I don’t. I’m just relieved and feeling awkward. I don’t think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.

Bucky can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.

23 May My family are ditching me. They’re all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I won’t be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.

He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, it’s kind of cute.

Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesn’t quite believe them when they say it’s not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.

23 May Now that I have thought about it, I can’t stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said he’s going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while they’re gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think I’ll die if I have to see him do something like that again. 

Bucky’s grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that he’s done everything else - he had forgotten about that. 

He wasn’t aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word ‘porno’, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.

24 May I might be going insane. I shouldn’t have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think it’s a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers aren’t big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Bucky’s fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.

The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didn’t black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.

25 May This stupid diary isn’t doing shit. It’s making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Bucky’s stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until I’m an inch from passing out. Maybe that’s all I need to get this out of my system.

26 May Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.

Bucky looked so angry. I think that’s why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending he’s my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guy’s name too. 

Bucky hasn’t forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.

28 May Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I haven’t gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-

“Fuck,” he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. He’s not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.

Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isn’t so prissy after all. He’s a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.

He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like he’s won some game that he didn’t even know he was playing. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it. 

You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he can’t help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasn’t finished.

14 June He came around with the lawnmower again. It’s getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-

He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.

-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. I’m so fucking wet. I’m going to have a long, cold shower and tonight I’ll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.

Then and there, Bucky decides that won’t be happening.

You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. He’s probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.

And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.

Except it’s not there. 

You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure they’re not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t carry it in with you. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.

You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except that’s not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your mother’s hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.

You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, don’t let him find it. Please don’t let him find it. 

You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didn’t touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.

Your parents’ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isn’t there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadn’t even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, you’re absolutely certain of. But you’re running out of options.

You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.

Your fingers linger over the wood of Bucky’s bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and it’s untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.

He’s lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesn’t move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. You’re distracted by it momentarily. You didn’t think this would be his sort of thing.

“What’s up?” he asks you, still not looking your way. He didn’t shower. He’s still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.

“Just saying hi,” you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.

He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. “Just saying hi.”

You nod. His smile breaks free then, but it’s not altogether a nice one. “Well, hi,” he says.

“Hi,” you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.

“What’s got you all buggy?” he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. He’s not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didn’t. 

“I’m not buggy.”

“Yeah y’are. You got bugs.”

“You got bugs,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”

He laughs. “Alright, you don’t got bugs. I have bugs ‘cause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?”

Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. “Maybe I just wanna talk to you.”

“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. “So what have you been up to?”

“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. “You know what I’ve been up to. You saw me out there.”

“Duh,” you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.

“Duuuhhh,” he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. “Why’d you ask then, smartass?”

“I meant, like, after that.”

“After I finished the lawn?”

You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.

“Not much. Watched this,” he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. “Did a bit of light reading. What about you?”

Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. “I’ve been in the shower,” you say casually. “What are you reading?”

“Long shower,” he says.

“Well it was an everything-shower,” you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.

“The hell is an everything shower?”

“Don’t be dense. It’s literally in the name. It’s called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.”

His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.

“A-as in,” you stammer. “You do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.”

His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. “Right. That kind of everything.”

Your face heats up. There’s a brief pause. 

“So what are you reading at the mo-”

“Y’know I think you’d like this,” he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You can’t help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.

“Why is that?” you ask.

“There’s this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. She’s been working there five years and she still cries every time. She’s like you.”

“I’m not like that.”

“Yes you are,” he laughs and the sound travels through you. “Remember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?”

You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead. 

“I was sixteen-”

“And if you’re tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say you’re full of shit.”

You look at him resentfully. “Like you’re any tougher. You’re the one who saved him.”

“Well you know I can’t help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. You’re a pretty crier, sweetheart.”

You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and you’re forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though it’s at your expense. You know instinctively that you’ll be failing at your new resolution tonight. 

“Shut up. Don’t be weird,” you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and there’s something in his expression that you don’t like.

“So you said you were reading something?” you say. You’re aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.

“Mhm,” he says, nodding once. The programme can’t be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.

“I didn’t think you liked reading.”

“I have a newfound appreciation for it.” He smiles at the screen and maybe you’re feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise. 

“What are you reading?”

Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.

“Don’t worry about it. ’S’too dirty for you, sweetheart.”

You really fucking hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, don’t let him have the book.

Your voice comes out weak and fractured. “Are you… reading smut?”

He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. “That what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.”

“Bucky,” you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. There’s a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. “What are you reading? Please.”

He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.

You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.

But then you’re rolling forward, hardly aware of what you’re doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually you’re played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re saying.

Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didn’t mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him. 

You suppose it’s better that he’s laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful. 

“Where did you get that?” you bark.

“Your room,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “Interesting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?”

“Fuck you!” you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. “You had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!”

Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch. 

“Like I said,” he says sternly. “Don’t be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re an inch from passing out?”

You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.

“Fuck you,” you say again with considerably less vitriol.

“I will,” he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. “If that’s what you want.”

Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. You’re not sure if he’s messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.

“Got nothing to say now? That’s ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Let’s look.”

He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.

“I came home from college today,” he starts to read, voice low. “Everyone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I don’t know how it’s possible but he’s so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what he’s like in bed. I don’t think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.”

He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.

“You’re goddamn right I do,” he says, smiling as if he’s talking about something totally innocent. “You want me to show you, sweetheart?”

Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. You’re still suspicious. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.

He huffs an impatient sigh. “Don’t go dumb on me already, silly girl.”

He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.

“Why don’t you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.”

You’re not sure what you’re doing, but at this point it’s easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.

“I want him so bad. I think I’ll die if I don’t have him. The orgasms I’m giving myself aren’t enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. I’ll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. I’m going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.” 

Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.

“Fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.

Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.

You’re in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined. 

If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?

He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. You’re already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. You’re high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.

“You ready to admit it yet? That you want me?”

“I want you,” you breathe. It’s almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.

You feel his smile spreading against your own face. “I know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”

Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.

He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesn’t fumble even remotely with the clasp.

Once you’re bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.

A moan slips out at the sensation. So that’s what that should feel like.

“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you. 

“Want you too. Wanted you since we were kids.”

You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.

“Since when?”

“Just fuckin’ told you,” he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. It’s a distraction tactic.

“No but when? What age?” Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. You’re soaked through.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.

“Yes it does. Tell me,” you say. Because you’re muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - you’re stubborn.

He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. You’re not.

“Was sweet on you when I was ten,” he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.

“Isn’t that when we first-”

“Yes.”

The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still haven’t lost your head completely.

“You’ve liked me since we first met as little kids?”

He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so you’re on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.

“Can you shut the hell up for two seconds?” he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Tryna do something here.”

You laugh at him, but it doesn’t last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - you’re struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.

He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. “You see how fucking desperate you are?” he asks. “Barely touched you and look how you’re reacting. Nobody’s ever touched you right, have they?”

You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. It’s almost predatory.

“Poor thing,” he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. “I can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait ‘till I get my cock in you.”

The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didn’t quite cover it.

None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?

He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.

“Y’feel so fucking tight,” he grunts, eyes on your lips. “This what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.

“Yes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.”

“For how long?” he demands.

“I- what?” you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.

“How long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?”

Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you don’t answer him, he will stop again. And that’s a lousy deal. 

“A long time,” you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Should’ve told me. Wouldn’t have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Would’ve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldn’t have had the time to write in that silly little book. Would’ve put you in your place.”

“Put me in my place?” you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you can’t concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasn’t so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.

“Yeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well I’ll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when they’re home.”

There’s something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. You’re not sure if you’ve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.

Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even make a show of it - he’s not even trying to make you watch him. He’s just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.

When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but you’re not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.

He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.

You’re still a little mad at him over that boorish ‘putting you in your place’ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.

He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and it’s not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didn’t think it would be this pretty. You didn’t even know a cock could be pretty.

It’s huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. It’s very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. “Feelin’ shy?” 

Your mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know how much…” you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. You’ve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?

“Y’don’t know if it’ll fit?” he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.

“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to break you. Not this time, anyway.”

Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.

“What the hell, Bucky? Don’t-”

He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. “I know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. I’ll let you play with it as much as you want. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?”

You’re back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.

He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.

“Good girl,” he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. “My good girl You’re so sweet when you’re doing what I tell you to. Wish I’d known I could shut you up like this.”

You’re trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, it’s just turning you on more.

Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. “Condom,” you gasp. “In my room.”

Bucky laughs against your neck. “You think I’m wearin’ a rubber with you?”

“Wha- yes?” 

“Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart, I know you’re on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.”

“What were you doing in my-”

“I’m clean, just got checked. And I’m willing to bet you’ve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.”

You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and you’re squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You don’t say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.

“Yeah?” he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. “You gonna let me skip the rubber?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just stop fucking around Bucky. Please.”

He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. It’s leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.

“Such a good girl,” he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. He’s thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if he’s trying to comfort you, but it’s still coming across slightly patronising. “Letting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.”

You’re loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. It’s starting to feel good - more than good. But he’s still not in all the way. You have no idea how you’re going to take him.

His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.

“This what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?” he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this. 

He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. “Answer.”

“Yes,” you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. “Pictured you every time.”

He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. You’re filled to the brim with him. “I know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.”

Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. It’s creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. It’s all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you can’t help but love.

“It’s okay, angel. I’m no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.”

Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where you’re taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.

He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. “Always been such a crybaby. You’re so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.”

It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.

“I know, baby. It’s so much, isn’t it? I know,” he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. It’s not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You can’t work out exactly what you’re feeling, and you know that now isn’t the time to figure it out anyway.

Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You can’t stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when he’s still pretending he hasn’t lost an ounce of control. 

“Stop with those fuckin’ eyes,” he grunts, catching your gaze. You’re still teary-eyed and pouty. “Gonna make me lose it early.”

The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.

“Turn around,” he bites out.

With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You don’t disobey a man at either point.

You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you don’t feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.

When you finally do feel his touch, it’s his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.

“What you whining for now?” he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.

“Put it back in,” you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. You’re no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. You’re too far gone.

He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. “You need it that bad?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

He laughs low. “Still so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?”

You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.

“That’s it,” he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. “Knew you’d take my cock like this. Knew you’d feel this good, just didn’t think you’d be this fucking dirty.”

“Fuck, Bucky, I need you,” you moan. You’re obscurely aware of the fact that you’ll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. “Needed you so bad.”

“Yeah?” he grunts. “Why don’t you tell me what you needed so bad?”

Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. “I- no, Bucky, I can’t-”

“Let me help you out.”

His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. You’re still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.

“Read.”

Your head spins back, even though you can’t see him from this angle. He can’t be serious. 

One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.

Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.

“Matt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!”-

Bucky’s hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.

“- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until I’m dripping with his…”

You can’t go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and you’re already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.

“Jesus, you have a thing for this shit? That’s real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. You’re the only one who is gonna take it from now on.”

You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. He’s panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you can’t do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.

“Aw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Can’t help but give you what you want. You want my cum?”

You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.

“Fuck, yeah you do,” he growls. “Such a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.”

With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.

A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. It’s either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.

You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.

You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but you’re sure you’re likely giving as good as you’re getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what you’re saying.

Bucky wasn’t lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. You’re sensitive and sore, but there’s something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises it’s making are obscene.

Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.

“Uh huh” you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.

You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna break me,” you say sardonically. 

He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. “Might have gotten carried away.”

You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesn’t work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.

“You really meant that?” you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. “About wanting me since we were kids?”

“Hell yeah,” he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. “I was so crazy about you when we were kids. Can’t believe you didn’t know.”

“How could I know? You were always so mean to me.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means in kid-language.”

“You still are. Sometimes.”

He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. “Old habits.”

You nod, but you’re still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago. 

“I’m sorry for reading your diary,” he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t regret it, because I don’t know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.”

It’s so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. He’s looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe it’s the two orgasms.

You still don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. “Just wait ‘till I get my tongue on you.”

You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.

Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.”

a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs

🏷 bucky taglist: @dolcesaints @marina468 @avgdestitute @tw1sters @dxnsgrl @thegirlwhowaited5everok @pjo4life1939 @otheliesstuff @domitaylorsversion @simplemind-simplematter @love-stucky @queen-acdc @epiphanyrogers @monicasposh @daddysbitchybaby @yearninglustfully @starr-jazz @las-galletas @thatesqcrush @mathcat345 @openlyluckyartisan @buckmybarnes @atsumubabe @annoyingrebelsoul

Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted. 

Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes are screaming do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.

Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend’s body has been betraying him for a while: knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.

Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.

Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.

The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park—technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes—to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor. 

The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.

When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.

The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”

“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought. 

“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.

Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere." 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”

He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.

“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.

“Mh-mh.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”

Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms. 

“You’re freezing, sweetheart.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”

You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.” 

“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”

You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”

He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”

“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.

“Still... she looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.

“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”

“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.

“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”

“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… just wanted to get a head start.”

He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”

You sigh. “Buck—”

“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”

You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame. 

Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”

You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes—yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again in your presence. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.

He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile. 

You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams. 

Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint. 

Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning. 

Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice—the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another. 

Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech: the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work. 

Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You also walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you. 

Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along. 

Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… you smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing. 

Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.

But sometimes… sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done.

You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.

And Bucky wants—selfishly, desperately—to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.

With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.

With him, you don’t need to think ahead.

He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.

You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to.

He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It calls for you. It rattles through him like something alive that needs to breath.

Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder. 

Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up. 

Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.

He only knows there’s never been an end.

Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.

You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him—and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.

Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.

You have never kissed him on the lips, though.

Bucky thinks about that more than he should.

He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.

He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.

He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.

Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.

He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.

Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.

And sometimes... it’s just unbearable. 

You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It’s just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little grin of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.

The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.

Bucky has imagined telling you.

It never gets far.

In his head, the words sound steady, confident. 

But you’d blink, go quiet… look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.

So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses—Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.

From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace. 

Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie—you are the only one allowed to do that. 

You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.

So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes. 

But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs. It sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class. It blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.

He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you’re both left wheezing.

With him, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it. Because Bucky has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.

Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.

But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.

Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile into the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.

“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.

“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”

Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.”

Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.

“James seriously, I have to finish—”

“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter.

“You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”

You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.

“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”

Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.

“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.

And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.

Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”

“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his tender attention.

“I know. I know, sweetheart.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… irresistible when you let yourself go.”

“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.

You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way. 

“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”

You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”

“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”

“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.

“They look at you.”

“They look at everyone.”

“Not like they look at you, baby.”

There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.

“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the night. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m a concerned citizen.”

You lift your head just enough to squint at him. 

“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.

You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mh. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.” 

You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway. 

“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.

You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.

He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head. 

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good—too good.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer.

You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this—he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.

Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.

“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, mh?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”

You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.

“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.

“Careful.” You snicker.

“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”

“You almost tripped over the air.”

“Well, the air started it.”

He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual. 

“There,” he hums. “Contained.”

His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”

You go rigid at that. “James.”

“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.

“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”

“It’s a masterpiece.”

“It’s almost three hours long.”

“It’s cinema.”

“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky.”

He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”

“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”

“You loved it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”

He gasps softly. “How dare you!”

You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”

At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.

“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you’ve already watched, and rated, with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”

“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes—”

“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.

“Fine, baby.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”

“You cried during the docking scene.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s just... well done.”

After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so you can see as well, then shifts again so your body is draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.

“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.

“Mh.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”

“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”

Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.

Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.

When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.

“Still cold?”

“No.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You shivered.”

“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.

You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs—soft and low—then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”

Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can’t help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds. 

He lets it go on longer than he should.

His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.

“What is it?”

“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.

“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”

At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud.

“I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”

His jaw tightens.

“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You’ve already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”

“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”

Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.

“I can help you.”

The words leave him before he can fully consider them.

You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”

“What?”

“No.”

“Why—”

“You have your own stuff to do—”

Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It sounded like it.”

“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant, I can help you not think about it.”

You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”

That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin. 

His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and warm, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the cruelest of dreams. Your mouth on his, your skin bare. His shirt was drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sun split through the curtains and hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He quietly jerked off in the shower, ears red and stomach flipping with shame as he only saw you behind his closed eyelids, but the ache is always there. It never goes away.

His eyes close briefly.

This is not the time.

But the words sit at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.

“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something stimulating enough that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”

“Like what?”

His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can’t believe he’s really going to say it.

He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… sex?”

It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and tossed it between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.

You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback. 

“I didn’t mean it like—” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a...” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”

You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.

“I just meant,” he tries again, cautious now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re—We’ve always been—I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… us.”

The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.

Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.

“It’s been a long time.” You quietly admit.

He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.

“What?”

You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.

“Since... the last time I had sex.”

His stomach drops.

“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.

You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”

The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.

His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”

You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... years ago.”

You swallow. “I know.”

“You haven’t—” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.

You shake your head, biting your bottom lip.

His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent so many nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.

But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.

“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… sex would help.”

He swallows, nodding sharply. “It might.”

You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”

It’s not a question.

Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.

“Recently?” You perk up.

He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”

You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.

“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or—or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”

Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.

“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.

“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”

“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.

“You are everything to me too.” 

The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes—too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit—catch that instantly.

“Should we do it?” You ask, almost daring.

Bucky hesitates—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer just for one night.

“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just...” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”

Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.

Just a clean slate of neutrality.

The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.

Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.

“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Even the name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now. 

She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently.

She’s contemplating if this will change things between you two.

She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it.

She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.

Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I’m—”

“James.”

He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.

“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it—”

His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.

You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.

Your sigh sounds like it’s been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”

His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.

“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”

You hold his gaze. “And then?”

“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”

You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.

“I won’t hate it.”

That confidence nearly unravels him.

“So… can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.

At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. The feeling of his thumb gently brushing along your jaw makes you shiver, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment into his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.

You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that simple motion nearly stops his heart. 

Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact—a question posed in motion. It’s the most tender of kisses, meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest. 

Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.

His other hand hesitantly reaches your waist, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.

Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, still careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust. And your hair is caught through his fingers as he tilts your head slightly, to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this—this closeness, this softness—is real.

Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.

Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Can I... Can I kiss you again, angel?”

Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. The way he tilts his head is automatic, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours, trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding himself together at the thought of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs. 

His hands finally gather the courage to move, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.

“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.

“I’m—” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... to come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.” 

Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your stomach flutter. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”

“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question. 

“What do you do when you’re alone, baby?” 

“I have… toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.

“Show me.” 

“You—You want to watch me while I…?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.

His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”

“But—”

Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t, elicits a boyish laugh out of him. 

“Then let me help you.”

There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.

“Okay.” You whisper.

“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.

“Where are they?”

“Um, second drawer of the nightstand.”

Once the box is opened, Bucky’s mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow. 

His brain stops. Just… fully refuses to work.

It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach. 

A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too... 

Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.

But it’s yours.

And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his—

And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… disrespectful.

“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?” 

“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if embarrassed. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.

“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves just slightly.

You nod, certain but coyly.

Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a sweet kiss on the corner of your mouth first.

“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.

He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.

“What about here, mh?”

You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.

His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.

“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.

Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.

“Here?” 

You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw. 

“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”

That only makes it worse.

You shake your head slightly, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond. 

“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want me to hear your sweet sounds?”

He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.

“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.

Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.

“Mh, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, and Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.

“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.

“Careful, doll.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… in a way you won’t forget.”

Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.

“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.

“And here?”

A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.

“And what about here, angel?”

Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.

His lips... kissing your clothed pussy.

Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”

Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.

“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.

“The toys.” 

“It—It depends if—” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood—Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.

“Mh?” He barely acknowledges you.

“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.

“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.

Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks instantly heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile, kissing you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager dance.

“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for. 

“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”

Oh.

You feel your eyes widen, jaw going slack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets and never come out. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your nub. Your slick seeps through, turning the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.

Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs. 

“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky’s head shoots up, hands clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You then wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent room.

You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at the faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you consider the sensation for a short moment, before pressing the button again. 

“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit.

“Can I—” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could come right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always. 

“Ah—yes, yes please!” Your eyes fall shut.

“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift unconsciously. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, darkened eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.

“Open your eyes, baby. Let me look at you, c’mon.”

The command is soft but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him. 

“Good girl.” The proud praise elicits a whimper out of you before you can swallow it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions. 

Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist in attempt to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindly into the pleasure.  

“Feels so good, right?”

Your eyes drift over his face, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the perfect line of his nose, the smug curve of his smile, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly beautiful. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking open, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, when the pull in your chest finally bursts and you can only surrender to its force.

“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting. 

“Say it again. My name.” His voice is suddenly deeper, you can see his throat bobbing.

“Bucky.” You moan, raw and louder this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames. 

“Good girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.

Yes, a good girl. His. 

“Wanna hear you say my name like that all the time.” He groans. “Why don’t you show me how good she can take this little toy of yours?”

You twitch, aching with the desperate need to put the dildo back, to indulge in the cruel vibrations until you fall over the edge. Yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding it inside your soaking core. 

“Shit.”

You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.” 

“I’m right here, okay?” He grits out, exhaling harshly as his gaze traces your body. “C’mon baby, put on a show for me.” 

Thrusting harder, your eyes roll back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation. 

“Good girl.”

All of a sudden, Bucky’s hands, warm and so familiar yet new as they explore your bare sides, glide under your sweater, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom. 

“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as he looks in your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down. 

His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, then moving down to leave soft pecks on the swell of your breasts that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs brush your nipples so gently, indulging in every little gasp, but it’s not long before his lips close around a hard peak, both nipples receiving sweet suckles that gradually turn meaner. 

“Why were you hiding these pretty tits from me, doll mh?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up. 

“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw. His fingers keep your mouth open, only for a globe of his spit to land your tongue.

“Swallow.” 

Gasping, you quickly follow his order, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. It only makes your core throb painfully.

“Beautiful.” 

“Bucky please.” 

“Please what? Need words, angel.”

Your mouth opens and closes pathetically a few times, before you can string a proper sentence together. “I want—fuck—I need you.” You eventually whimper out. 

The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your stomach. “Good girl. Wanna see you come once around it, watch you moan and gush as you beg for me to touch you. And then I’ll make you leak for days.” His lips attach to your neck and collarbone, his rough words muffled by your soft skin.

You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, docile to his orders and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you. 

Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs twitching impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That’s it. It’s been so long since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my princess needs me to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”

“Only you, Bucky. Only you can do it.” You whisper.

His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”

Nodding enthusiastically, the sound clawing out of your throat is pitiful. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, this feels like a cruel punishment. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.

“Bucky.” You wail, squeezing his wrist.

He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress at the warmth of his skin, yet your chin wobbles pathetically. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.”

“I need—can I touch it, please?”

Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk, the urgent worry disappearing at once. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit?”

“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I—I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

His eyes widen, Adam’s apple bobbing. His whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”

You quickly slap your hand against your pussy, glancing up at him to find him licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into its coveted prey.

“Sweet girl, you like being rough with your pretty pussy?”

At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.

“Then slap it for me.”

You swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp smack. The shock of the impact makes your body jolt, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.

“Fuck!” Your pussy is so tender, yet the slap only spurs you closer to the edge. 

“Again.” 

You smack your flesh harder, gasping at the delicious sting. Alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks, you are not sure you’ll be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you around. 

“Just like that, don’t stop.” Humming thoughtfully—his cock hot and painfully hard, still trapped in the confines of his underwear—Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery. 

“You’re doing so well for me. One day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pussy, I promise.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His fingers smush your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?” 

“Please.” 

“So fucking sweet.” He growls. “Go on.”

Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “’M so close.”

Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “Beautiful… so, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”

You nod enthusiastically.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He coos. “C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”

“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you bring the toy back on your clit, the knot in your belly ready to snap violently. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors hearing you.

“Fuck! I’m coming—Bucky!”

“Let go, doll. You have been such a good girl for me. Make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”

The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps. You are at your pleasure’s mercy, your thighs trembling and your aching pussy clenching helplessly around nothing.

“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect, so good for me. Love you so damn much, angel.”

The toy ends up dumped somewhere on the bed as your entire focus shifts on your breathing, your head flopping back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.

Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers leisurely running from your clit down to your entrance. 

Your reaction is immediate as your body lurches. “Bucky.” 

He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your core, his breath sending shivers down your spine.

As Bucky lazily flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, your body suddenly feels like it is going to implode. A strangled gasp falls from your lips when he slips a finger in, his mouth moving to thoroughly savor every drop of arousal from your previous release on your inner things.

Bucky decides then to busy himself with your clit again, and your body stiffens. 

“Bucky! Sensitive!” You choke out, a hand shooting down to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.

“‘S okay, I’ve got you, sweet girl.” With a mumble, he slips another finger in, making you cry out.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare, your scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving him wild. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.

Your mind and body are both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers stretching you so deliciously. 

His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like a beast, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single brush of the mattress against his cock. 

He pulls away with a wet squelch, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “Make a mess on my face” He rumbles, chest heaving. “Wanna taste you every day on my tongue.” His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds. 

His fingers strategically curl up, massaging that sweet spot of yours, leaving you teetering on the edge of sublime release. His arms shake with pent-up desire, still, Bucky makes sure to take his time with your trembling body.

“I’m gonna—fuck, please please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts. 

“Give it to me, doll. Use me.” 

You obey, literally humping his face. “‘M gonna come.” You sob, hips frantically driving into his face. “Jamie!” His tongue abuses the poor nub while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth, soaking his stubble. 

“Breathe, angel.” Slowly retracting his fingers, his eyes study your face, your inner thighs burning raw from the way he rubbed his facial hair all over your core. He brings his fingers to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean as he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.

“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.

“One more.” Bucky kisses you.

“What?” You squeak out, still dazed yet blinking at him more awake than ever. 

“One more, baby.” He implores, his hand soothing along the curve of your hip as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”

Before your lips can part around an incredulous laugh, a weight settles between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as his length is gradually coated in your slick. 

Thick, long, with veins running along the flushed skin.

“Shit.” He grits out, mouth watering at the sight of the mess you are making on his cock.

“I’m gonna come inside you, sweetheart. Ask me for it, ask me for my cum.”

“Please, Bucky.” You swallow back a whine, nails digging into his skin. “Make me yours.”

He shushes your blabbering gently, cupping your cheek. “Look at me.” He orders, your vision blurry from all the unshed tears. “I’m here, pretty girl. Just a little more patience and we’ll watch it leak out of you because it’s too much for you to keep inside.” The reverence in his blue eyes makes you shiver as he takes in your pleading gaze. The way his thumb traces your lower lip, so tenderly and hypnotizing, has him unconsciously leaning forward, until your mouths join in a slow dance.

Your name comes out of his mouth in a low murmur against your lips. “Thank you for letting me have you like this.”

You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and staring down at you as if you are the missing piece of himself he was searching for all along, you can’t ignore it anymore.

“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down for another kiss—hard and desperate and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.

With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, brought to his knees by three simple words.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of this. Of you. I can’t pretend anymore now that I know what it feels like to have you in my arms, knowing that you’re mine...” Bucky swallows, eyes falling down on your chest before tentatively lifting up to meet yours.

You have never seen him like this. Hesitant. Never around you.

“You are mine, right?”

“Always have.” You breathe out, and with a broken groan, he takes your face in his hands, kissing any part he can reach: from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, latching onto a nipple. Moaning, you indulge in his warm tongue taking care of both nubs as his length slowly humps your wet folds. 

“You feel it, angel? This is what you do to me.” He murmurs, humming at your nod. “Such a good girl.”

“Your good girl.”

That earns you a feral kiss. “I have to be inside you.” Bucky pants as your lips messily meet once again. “Now. I can’t take it anymore, need to feel you—Christ.” You break with a sharp cry when his tip encounters some resistance as it finally breeches your hole.

“Slowly sweetheart, look at her opening up so beautifully for me, you—” Bucky abruptly grunts as you clench incredibly tight. Maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat. “You need to relax for me, or else I’m gonna finish embarrassingly fast, angel.” A strained chuckle bleeds through his gritted teeth.

“Can’t. You’re so big.” You squeal mindlessly, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.

“I know.” His lips briefly press to your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so well. God, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the tip inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands clinging onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.

“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling so sensitive you feel like you are going to burst into flames.

Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then bends your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, satisfied as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle making your eyes cross.

“Oh shit! Bucky!” Your nails leave crescent marks into his skin, toes curling.

He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in the way your eyes squeeze shut, or how your hole snuggles his cock deeper when his tip brushes just right against your walls. At some point, his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to flick and rub your puffy clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clench again.

“There she is.” He growls. “Fuck, it feels so good.” His thrusts turn animalistic.

“I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy.”

The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision. His muscled arms keep you safe and still for him to play with, his chest pressed against your bouncing breasts so your sensitive nipples are rubbed raw. 

“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” His voice breaks when your pussy tightens.

It’s too much—his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering about whatever pops into his head. 

And you? You can just take it. You scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close, legs shaky and hips trying to rock back into his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body freezes, before pleasure ripples through you like pure electricity. Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the clear liquid squirting out of you and making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can.

You squirm uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock.

“Jesus Christ, fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Wish I could keep you here and make you squirt on my cock every day for the rest of my life. You’re gonna make me come so hard.” He pants, voice bordering on a snarl and features scrunched up. “’S coming, take it all, doll—fuck!”

His cum spurts on your walls to claim you fully, cock throbbing, making him groan in utter relief. At some point, some spills out and down his thick length, mixing with your creamy mess on the bed and on your ass. You decide to not acknowledge it, too embarrassed by what you have done. 

Bucky ends up collapsing over you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for so long.

You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet—and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax—so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewls when he finally reaches your mouth.

Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.

“Hey.” He clears his throat, voice hoarse.

Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try to answer, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”

You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.

“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”

A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel you trembling with the last threads of adrenaline leaving you. He holds you tighter, hums a random, almost inaudible melody against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks. 

It feels like an eternity passes before Bucky finally cradles your face in his hands, looking a little more lucid.

“We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole. 

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.

“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”

Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment, it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble.

Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall—tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars at night, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, small touches, and secrets suddenly all converge in this single moment.

His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest. 

“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”

And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.

He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.

And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.

You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.

“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”

You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”

“No, because I’m not a-“

“Fucking pussy.”

You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.

“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.

“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.

“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”

“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.

Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”

“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“

Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.

He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.

But he’s not.

“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”

You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.

He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.

“You have.” You’d breathed.

And you’d really believed it.

But then he’d just… Left.

You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.

There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.

But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.

You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.

“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.

He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.

“You talking to me?”

“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”

The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.

“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”

“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“

“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“

“You said that already.”

You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”

His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.

Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.

In the store, you’d hadn’t  been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.

He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.

And he’d laughed.

That night, he’d just laughed.

“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”

“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”

The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.

He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.

“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.

He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.

“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.

He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“

“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”

“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”

You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.

“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.

“Why shouldn’t I.”

“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“

“And why should I trust that?”

He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.

“I swear I won’t.”

“Promises mean nothing.”

“My promises mean something-“

“Not to me, they don’t.”

He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.

The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.

He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.

“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”

And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.

“What the fuck-“

“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”

“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“

“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“

“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“

“I am not going to shoot you-“

“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“

“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.

And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.

But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.

Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.

“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.

Ben had followed.

And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.

Then it had been gone.

Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.

So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.

It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.

And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.

Now, you’re careful.

After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.

Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.

No one could know who you are. What you were to him.

Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.

Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.

Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.

But still.

You’d hoped he would.

“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.

And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.

“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.

“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.

“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“

“You liked Paddington 2-“

“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”

You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.

“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”

And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.

“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.

Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.

“You got no idea.”

And you wish you had.

You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.

If you had, he might still be next to you today.

You broke a cup.   

The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.

Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.

I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.

That he had been everything.

You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.

And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.

Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.

It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.

There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.

This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.

No.

This is new.

Which means Ben- He’s alive.

He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.

He left you.

It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.

He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.

You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.

He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.

Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.

And then he left.

Just left.

Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.

But not back with you.

Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.

He didn’t come back.

Ben couldn’t fucking find you.

He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.

Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here. 

But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.

He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.

Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.  

It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.

Although he had always listened.

But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.

His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.

Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.

He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.

And then you’d smiled at him.

He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.

There were things to be angry about now, though.

You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.

Hollow.

Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.

Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.

If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.

And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.

He just had to find you first.

Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.

All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.

The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.

“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“

“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.

“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“

He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“

“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”

“Yes. Yes- Sir-“

“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.

He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.

“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”

Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.

“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”

Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”

“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.

Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.

You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.

And Ben had known. 

“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.

That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.

Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.

You still worked there. You weren’t gone.

Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.

“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”

Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”

Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.

He had to go find you.

You get home, and you feel like nothing.

It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.

You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.

Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.

You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.

You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.

You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.

This is just always going to hurt.

“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”

You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.

Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.

“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”

You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.

Or you’d just pass right through thin air.

And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.

You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.

Then he left.

And you’re not anyone’s anymore.

Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.

“Ben?” You whisper.

A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.

“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”

He takes a step forward.

You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.

Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.

You shrink away.

“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.

“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“

He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut. 

Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.

You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.

“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.

He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.

Ben sees you. You can see him.

And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…

“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”

Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.

“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”

“You left.”

And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.

“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”

Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.

“I saw you on TV.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“

“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”

The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.

“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“

“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“

“You left.” 

“No, I didn’t-“

“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.

It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.

“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“

Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.

Weak.

“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”

Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.

But Ben doesn’t leave.

He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.

His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.

Still calls it yours.

“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”

You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.

“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”

Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.

Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.

“Why should I believe you?”

Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.

Just focused.

“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“

“Swear it?”

Ben nods, and you tilt your head.

“You swore you’d come back.”

“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”

You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.

“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”

Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.

“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

“Prove that you are.”

A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.

You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.

“Be- Ben-“

He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.

“Ben-“

“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”

God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.

Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.

He doesn’t even come up for air.

“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“

He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest. 

“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.

“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”

“I- Ooooh-“

You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.

“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”

“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“

“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”

You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“

“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”

Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.

“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“

“You- Benjamin-“

“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”

The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.

“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”

“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.

Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.

“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”

“Ben-“

“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”

Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.

“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”

“Mmmh.”

“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.

“Ben-“

“Say it.”

“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“

Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.

It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.

“How- How big is your dick?”

He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.

“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”

You pout slightly. “I am being good.”

Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.

“Ben-“

“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“

“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“

You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

Then you realize.

Shit.

“Ben, I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.

“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“

Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.

“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“

He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.

Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.

“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”

His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.

“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”

You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.

“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“

“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”

“Oh- Okay.”

You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.

“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.

You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“

You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.

“Good girl.”

The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.

He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.

Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.

“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”

Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”

And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.

You still might cry.

Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway. 

“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“

“I love you.”

You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.

Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.

You both will.

“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“

You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.

Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.

Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.

“Say it again.” He mutters.

“I love you.”

You offer it easily. It’s his to have.

And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.

It means he’s on a fucking mission.

“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”

You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.

“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”

“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.

It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.

“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”

You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.

“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.

Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.

“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”

“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.

His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.

“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“

He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.

“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.

He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.

Another warning.

“That’s- Fuck-“

He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.

“More, Ben, more-“

A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.

He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.

Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.

You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.

And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.

Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.

Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.

Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.

Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.

“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.

“Be- Ben-“

“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”

Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.

Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.

And again, Ben stops.

You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.

“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“

He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.

“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“

Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.

But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.

Take it. He’d said.

You don’t think you have a choice.

“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.

The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.

“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”

You glare at him, and he just grins.

“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”

He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.

“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”

Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.

And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.

“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”

You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”

He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.

“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”

You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.

Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.

But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.

“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”

He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.

Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.

“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”

You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”

“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.

“Ben- Oooooh-“

He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.

“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“

You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”

You had a smart, sharp retort.

It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.

Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.

“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.

“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”

You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.

Ben laughs, prowling up over you.

“You’re fucking drooling.”

“You’re pretty.”

“I am not fucking pretty.”

“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”

He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”

“You are a show pony.”

That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.

“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“

You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.

That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.

You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.

Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.

“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”

You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”

A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.

“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”

His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.

“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”

Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.

“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”

You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.

“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”

He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.

“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“

He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.

“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“

Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.

It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.

“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“

You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.

Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.

“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”

You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.

After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.

Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.

You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.

You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.

He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.

“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.

No pants. Unhelpful.

“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”

“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”

“I am not slobbering-“

“Yeah, you fucking are.”

You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.

“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re not my boss-“

“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”

You blink at him.

And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.

“You love me?” You whisper.

He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.

“Of course I do-“

“Say it.”

He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“

“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.

This time, it’s going to work.

“Please?” You add.

Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.

You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.

“I love you.” He grunts.

You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.

Meant to remind you that you have time.

“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.

“You’re real lucky-“

“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.

He always lets you. Because he loves you.

“I am.”

✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

It's like every other night, you're straddled over his lap, legs on the other side of him. His hands are on your hips, more as a placeholder. Because you're in control. You're holding his jaw with both your palms, pressing your weight onto him while your lips are notched with his. You feel him twitch beneath you when your tongue slides into his mouth. His hand wanders up your back, the other, rested around your hips. It takes a few more licks that you feel him attempt to pull back. But you hold him tight. Biting on his lower lips, enough for it to sting. You feel him groan in your mouth, a slight tremble on his fingers. But nothing more.

You're fully feeling his hard cock poke your ass through his slacks, and you take the opportunity to grind down on him. Your saliva is coated around his mouth, and his yours. It's not until you suck on his tongue that he fully pulls away from you with force. Pupils dilated, panting. It's clear, that you've flicked a switch in him.

He doesn't tear his lips away from you after that. Not even when he's turned you over onto the couch, your belly rested on a embroidered cushion. His lips are on you. Sloppy, chasing kissing at the corners of your lips. It's wet and sticky the way your mouth connects, evident by the string of saliva that follows when they part. Clark has your jaw held up with his palm, while he bullies his thick cock into your weeping cunt.

He'd swallow all your moans, letting you drool around his fingers when he's nosing the nape of your neck. When he spits in your mouth, testing, you fucking smile. He physically feels his brain circuit when you stick your tongue out for him in a half broken smile, wanting & waiting. Looking at him cheeky and sweet. Clark holds back flooding your pussy with his cum right then. So he opts to suck on your tongue, lips, jaw all while he fucks you into the couch.

as soon as he saw those pretty eyes bore into his, he felt the heat in his chest spread out throughout his entire body. he shifted uncomfortably because of the raging boner he had and licked his lips in what seemed to be dehydration.

and his mind recognized it, recognized you—the groove of your walk, the sound your thighs rubbing together with each step, the familiar beating of your heart, and if he listened close enough, he could even hear the sound of your pussy lips–

"hey, clark," you waved at him and he stopped breathing, clenching his jaw tightly to conceal the ungodly sound that was currently clawing at his lips, ready to escape.

you noticed something was wrong with your beloved, and set a hand on his chest. his usually rock solid skin felt softer and incredibly warmer. when you moved to the right, you could feel his larger heart beating atleast ten times faster than it usually would.

"what's wron..." you trailed off when he grabbed your hand—tightly—and gave you a crooked smile as his eyebrows bent and pinched together. "p-please, dear, go away b-before i–" another spark of heat, "j-just go." and with that, he let you go, disappearing into the men's bathroom and leaving you there, confused and concerned.

it was only hours later, in the evening, that you saw clark again.

you were simply getting up to reheat your food before something—someone—crashed through your living room wall, knocking you down with it.

a strong hand wrapped around your head before you could knock it on the ground and before you knew it, a very familiar pair of lips came locking onto yours, kissing you deeply into his palm.

he pulled away to give you a moment to breath as he dipped down into you neck, licking and sucking. "c-clark what has... what has gotten into you?" you barely manage to breath, the dust and smoke of the broken wall was making it hard to inhale (and see clark at all), aswell as the weight of his body on yours.

"i don't- I dunno, I..." he kept licking your skin like a dog, your taste giving him some kind of sexual gratification. "all day I've been... my body felt so... so freakin' warm and just– I felt like all I needed was you... I couldn't even focus on anything i kept..." he was curiously out of breath, like the effort of simply speaking to you while holding back the urge to fuck your brains out was too much for him.

"...I kept smelling you and- and hearing you... and– jesus, I just.. want you so bad, darlin'.." he licked his way back up to your lips, nibbling on your bottom one softly. "clark," you finally managed to say, the dust settling. "tell me what you need." your hair ran up his back and into his hair, scratching his scalp which nearly made his eyes roll back.

"you. I need you, c-can I have you? please?" and the way he's just asking makes you want to give him everything he could ever ask for.

so you do.

as soon as you let out a soft "yes," he became a totally different kryptonian.

and that's how you ended up with your back arching away from the dining table, shoulders pressed against the cold surface by clark himself to keep you from slipping away at each mean thrust of his hips.

it's been, what, 4 orgasms? neither of you knew and honestly, neither of you cared—matter of fact, you both stopped caring when he finished inside for the first time and it happened.

the hooks.

"i- I wanna..." he swallows sharply, "I wanna feel it again, d-dont you, sweet thing? i-it felt so good, right? right." the both of you nodded dumbly at eachother and he smiled, terrifyingly so.

clark kent looked feral. his eyes were as hectic as his hands, moving everywhere. he wanted to see you, to feel you, to give in to you. he was inside you and yet he wanted more. he wanted you to be his—more than you already were.

"stuffin' you full so that- oh, god, yes— so that you can carry my kids... so that everyone will know you're– m-mine... mine, mine." he squeezed your breast, his gaze zeroing onto the oddly shaped (thanks to his buds) bulge on your stomach before his hand followed, caressing his cock through your skin and twitching every time the buds were stimulated.

it felt perfect, truly. he felt like you were made for him. the gummy texture of your walls fit perfectly with his buds as each of them grazed the crevices of your rugae every time his hips bumped into yours.

"c-clark, I don't... I'm gonna— i- i cant-" he presses down onto the bulge which makes you scream, "y-yes you can, baby, please- one more, just one more- i– please, sweetie, gosh, I love you so much!" his speech quickly became incoherent—a sign of his impending orgasm.

another tell-tale sign is, of course, the hardening of his buds. they were so strong that they halted his movement, burying him deep inside you while hooking onto your ridges. "o-oh my god–" you gasped, feeling the vein on his cock rubbing against your g-spot. "t-too much– I'm- I'm too full, clark!" and he shakes his head, chuckling lowly.

"n-no you're not baby! i-i can see it! you still... you can still handle more..." he starts to look more and more pained with each word, his body aching for release. "p-please.. pleasepleaseplease–- take it, baby, take it... please, it hurts... y-you're gonna be good f'me right? gonna be good and take it?" fuck, it was intoxicating. everything was. his speech, his smell, the feeling of his alien dick literally hooking inside you to cum deep in your womb...

"please..." was all you could mutter, but he understood. his body understood.

his release was cataclysmic. the buds settled slightly deeper into your crevices, allowing him to shoot into you with bullseye precision. "h-holy– oh my‐" he couldn't even speak. his breath came out in short pants and he looked up, as if begging some higher being to release him from this seemingly everlasting ache.

upon feeling his warm cum painting your insides, and hearing him mumble "g'nna make you a mommy... you're gonna look s-so pretty with my– hhnnng... my kid inside y-youu...", you orgasmed aswell. you walls clenched and rubbed against the now soft buds on his dick, pressing down onto his shaft which has his stomach clenching and caving, almost folding the kryptonian in half.

in the midst of it all, you swear you saw his eyes glow red for a moment, but he quickly blinked that away. his eyes flickered back to your face, and then back to you pelvis, before he threw his head back again with a groan.

"y-you're... shoot.." he's barely catching his breath, "you're not... full enough.." and he resumes his thrusting which makes you give up on looking at him, eyes lazily rolling back.

your entire body relaxed and went limp, allowing him to use you as he pleased.

"wanna make you a mommy... and you're not full enough."

you were right, after all.

those buds are, in fact, useful for breeding.

You used to taunt Steve for this kind of thing during training runs and team building events, and he’d tease you right back. That boyish smile would give way to something a bit more wicked and an unnamed heat would pool low in your stomach at his crack in composure. You had been sure he was only days away from asking you out - some very proper invitation to the pictures with an assurance that he would drop you back by a reasonable hour, most likely. But then you got a promotion and came under his leadership.

He moves through missions like he’s got some do-gooder checklist in his head, and you can feel him watching every corner you cut. He doesn’t have to say a word (though he often does); the disapproval is baked into the air between you. Whatever spark had been building between the two of you got buried somewhere between all his rules and all the ways you’d break them.

A side-mission from Fury here, a refusal to wait for backup there - and suddenly you two are enemies. Or adversaries, at the least

You remind him frequently, in the throes of fiery screaming matches that make the rest of the team avert their eyes, that this is the way SHIELD trained you. He is the one going against the grain, not you. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him because his trusty moral compass never points him wrong, it would seem. 

Things have gotten so bad by now that you think Steve, patient and tolerant as he is, might have even considered requesting that you be transferred if you weren’t so damn good at your job. 

And you are good. That can’t be denied.

But there’s something about working with Steve that makes you great. When you’re not at each other’s throats.

You move around each other on missions as if performing choreography that only you two have rehearsed. You’ve saved his ass more times than he has ever acknowledged or thanked you for, but he has done the same for you. You have a deep understanding of how he works, mind and body. He keeps his moves varied as a rule, but you have learned to read the minute shift in his centre of gravity before he strikes, the smallest drop in his hips that means he’s about to duck, the tightening of his frame before he lunges. Equally, you know when he’s running multiple scenarios behind his eyes, when he’s processing angles before he commits.

It makes you his best possible partner on the field and the biggest pain in his ass in training.

“You’re up,” Steve mutters to you while Sam limps to the corner of the room, grumbling something about how next time Steve needs to stop dragging this shit out before he gets a leg cramp.

You haul yourself up slowly, moving to the centre of the gym with exaggerated languor just to piss him off, rolling your shoulders as you go. His sweat is making his white t-shirt entirely transparent, the thin fabric sticking to his defined pectorals and torso. He shakes his head, spraying sweat over the mat. It should be kind of gross, really, so you’re a bit disgusted by how hot it is. You see his jaw tick with impatience, and you begin to stretch your calves, too.

“You couldn’t have done this while you were waiting?”

“And risk seizing up again while you played with your food?”

“Just because I don’t use full force, it doesn’t mean I’m ‘playing with my food’,” he says, frowning at you in that disappointed-teacher way of his “Every time you all fight a super soldier, it makes you better. I use more force every time.”

You say nothing, only because you’re cautious about baiting him too much ahead of the ass-whooping you’re about to get. You roll your shoulders one more time, looking up at him.

“Let’s go.”

Steve lunges, coming at you hard and fast. A blur of muscle flies past your eye-line, fist cutting into the air where your jaw had been just half a second before. The force of it sends a gust that moves wisps of your hair and the speed of your dodge sends your boots skidding across the mat. You raise an astounded eyebrow at him and he shrugs with a tight smile. 

On days like this, when his restraint is frayed and he is too irritated to be sanctimonious, you are reminded that he can be a little bit fun.

When you slide by his guard again, your eyes catch his for a fraction of a second before he lands a surprise hit to your abdomen that pummels the wind right out of your pipes. You groan but stop yourself from bowling over right into his knee that comes shooting up for you. You see him bear left and you glide away in the opposite direction.

“Testy today,” you say, but you can’t hit the patronising tone you are aiming for. Your voice comes out scratchy from the knock you took. He says nothing but leaps at you again.

You lean back and dodge the hit but go sprawling to the floor. Before he can pin you, you sweep a foot under his. It’s not enough to knock him in itself but he blunders for a bit and with one more kick, you send him to his ass. You get a foot in his side and hear Sam hoot in delight as he clears out of the training room with the remaining agents.

Steve’s on his feet in a flash, but by then, so are you. There’s a glimmer of something on his face, like surprise or maybe excitement. You try not to get too arrogant.

And it’s a good thing you don’t. Because after five minutes of hits and dodges, he has you on the ropes again. You’re giving it as good as you’re getting but you don’t have his stamina or pain tolerance. You can feel your equilibrium slipping, movements getting sloppy. You’re over-balancing, tumbling instead of landing.

There’s something about the current between the two of you today that makes you want to win in a way you never do with Steve. You had never even really seen it as a competition before, safe in the conclusion that he and all his serum-amplified testosterone will have you beat eventually. It was always a matter of if, rather than when.

But Steve is coming at you properly today, not pulling his punches (as much), not giving you the space to recover before he’s on you again like a hound on fresh blood and it’s making a sort of swooping adrenaline sing in your blood. 

You don’t think too much about it, sweeping behind his back and hooking a leg over his. The serum means you don’t have enough strength to bring him down, but the confusion makes him stumble. With two hands on his shoulders, you climb his broad frame, boots digging into flesh, hands ploughing through his hair. He reaches a hand back to peel you off with bruising strength, but you have an iron clasp. His fingers dig into your t-shirt with almost enough force to pull it clean off.

You eventually reach the peak of him with immense difficulty. You are able to lock your thighs around his broad neck and curl your knee around his throat, squeezing hard. It’s not enough. His hands are pulling at your legs, but he’s not tapping out. You can only hold this grip for a matter of seconds, before your muscles loosen, and Steve will have your tired body pinned.

Impulsively, you dive backwards, head swooping down towards the floor. The force of it sends Steve flying back with you and you vaguely feel three taps - a victory - against your thigh before you both hit the floor. 

You crash hard on your back. Your head takes a small bump to the mat and black dots dance behind your eyes for just a second, but your ass and shoulder blades take the brunt of it. It’s far from the worst injury you’ve received in training, but it’s been a while since you’ve received more than a hit. You take a few deep breaths to centre yourself, groaning once air returns to your body. Only then do you realise that Steve’s head is planted firmly on your lower stomach, neck still pressed up between your thighs. You scramble away with what you hope is a collected suavity, all bones and muscles shrieking in opposition to the sudden movement. 

When Steve spins around, you know you’re in for it.

“What the hell was that?” he spits, picking himself up from the floor. His eyes are blazing, hands on his hips while he looks down at you where you are sprawled out on the mat. You close your eyes and let out a long, deliberate sigh - precisely the response you know will drive him crazy.

“That was me winning, Steve,” you say, ignoring your groaning limbs to pull yourself up. He does not offer you a hand up.

“No,” he said, voice strained and thick with irritation. “That was you trying to get yourself killed. Are you insane? You could have a concussion.”

“I know a concussion from a small bump,” you say, brushing him off with a limp hand. You move over to get your water, trying not to stagger. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“This is your problem, you know that? You always think you know best and everyone else is just dramatic or not seeing your vision, or whatever it is. You’re a good agent, but that’s not enough. You’re going to get yourself killed some day and it won’t be some great, heroic gesture like you probably think. It will be something stupid like this.”

His speech might have made a mark on you if it had been the first time you had heard it. As it stands, you just roll your eyes and take a sip from your bottle to look busy. The water mixes with blood from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. It tastes bitter and metallic going down.

“God, you’re-”

You glance warily at Steve, wondering whether he is about to curse at you for the first time since that mission in Moscow. He swallows it. “You don’t listen.”

You shrug with a smile, watching his face go from a blushing red to a deep crimson. His eyes narrow and he spins around, broad back tensing as he storms out of the gym.

“Steve?”

He stops, twisting ever-so-slightly.

“You not gonna congratulate me on my first ever win?”

You think he might have given you the finger if he was anyone but himself.

You do end up grumbling your way over to the med bay eventually, but only because Steve threatens to suspend you from any further missions. You turn out to not have a concussion so you feel perfectly justified in scowling at him days later from across the quinjet the whole way to the shipyard two states away.

The air is warm despite the February frost splotched on the grass below. The hour is getting late; the setting sun turns the lakes and rivers a deep orangey red.

You hadn’t expected Steve to bow down or apologise, but you did expect him to ignore you. Instead, he’s watching you with a detached curiosity, like you’re some rare lab specimen or an interesting insect. 

“I know you’re not seriously mad at me for sending you to the med bay,” he says. “Because that would be insane.”

“They did a whole medical evaluation, Steve,” you snap at him. “I was in there well over an hour. All for fuckin’ nothing because I’m healthy as a horse, apparently.”

“Well you missed your last mandatory check-up. So you’re welcome,” he says, his lips stretching into a handsome little smirk.

You frown. You are usually the one provoking him and you’re not overly fond of how it feels to be on the receiving end. You can feel Steve’s eyes on you, heady and pleased. He’s leaning back with his arms crossed, lofty thighs spread open with an abnormal arrogance. One that would not be on display if the rest of the team were with you.

You can fully appreciate his size from this angle, the fabric of his t-shirt straining against his biceps, his wide shoulders holding strong like an impenetrable wall of muscle and brawn. He looks particularly good when he smiles - even if it’s at your expense. He could have passed for a Gladiator, or some Greek god in another universe - the kind whose likeness would be captured in marble for future generations to marvel at and admire. It wracks you how unfair it is that he can be so irritating but still look like that. 

Have you thought about him bending you over? Sure. Many a time. But you still can’t stand the guy.

“You still seeing that guy in R&D? Uh- Mark, or whatever.”

You give him a side-glance. Steve doesn’t forget anyone’s name. He is the kind of guy to be introduced to a hundred-man team and be asking Lucy for a debrief and thanking Jim for the coffee the very next day. You think he might be on a first-name basis with everyone he’s ever met. So you know that he knows his name his Mike.

“No,” you mumble. “We broke up last month.”

“Why?”

“None of your business, Rogers,” you say. You’re trying to appear unbothered, but you’re a little rattled. Your teeth are grinding. “What about you? Any dates recently?”

“A couple.”

“And how were they?”

“Good.”

You scoff. “You talk this much with them? Your chattiness might scare them off.”

“The ladies I take on dates might not have the same preferences as you, you know,” he says with a raised eyebrow. Your lips twitch at that term - ‘ladies’. How old-school.

“No, I’m sure they love one-word answers and taciturn grumbles.”

“I’ve had no complaints.”

Your mouth opens and closes stupidly. The shells of your ears prickle with heat as Steve just grins wider, shifting his hips to lean further back. He looks so goddamn cocky, so punchable. You wish you could take a picture and show him to all those trainees you had heard refer to him as a ‘golden retriever’. He seems more like a Mastiff to you; huge, stubborn, impossible to deal with.

You purse your lips together, eyes dropping to his army dog tags. The chain droops down his tanned, fabric-clad chest, the tags sitting neatly in the deep groove between his pectoral muscles. 

“Why did you and Mike break up?”

Your cheek twitches up. “So you do know his name.”

“Tell me.”

You turn your gaze away from him to watch the sun set out the window, even if it makes your retinae burn. “My fault, mostly. I don’t really, uh- know how to do it.”

“What? Relationships?”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m not used to having to let someone know when I’ll be home or making sure I have time for them between back-to-back missions. I blame my career choice.”

“Maybe you just didn’t care enough.”

Your eyes snap back over to him, eyebrows shooting straight to your hairline. “What?”

“I’m just saying. It’s not your career choice. Lots of people in this line of work have relationships that they prioritise.”

“What, you’re suddenly Dr Phil or something? It’s not like you know the ins and outs so don’t-”

“Dr Phil?” A cute little line forms between his brows.

“He was this-” You pause, heaving a frustrated breath out your nose. “You know what? Never mind.”

“My point is,” Steve continues. “I think you would want to do all those things for someone you cared enough about, even when it’s difficult. It wouldn’t be some tick-the-box.”

All traces of arrogance are gone from Steve’s expression, only genuine interest remaining as he scans your face like he’s trying to solve some puzzle. It makes you uncomfortable - you would prefer for him to laugh at you or lecture you.

“I could be dating Brad Pitt and I still would not care enough to answer a text about what’s for dinner when I’m busy.”

He frowns. “Who is Brad Pitt?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The walk to the shipyard is quiet. Silent, if not for the steady scratch of Steve’s boots grinding against the gravel. The hum of the quinjet dulls the farther you walk.

You may not particularly like Steve, but you appreciate him at times like these. You couldn't be more perfect mission partners for each other if you tried. The way you fall into your posts quickly and seamlessly, giving each other the space and silence to focus on preparing for the mission while also trusting that you will speak up if the situation calls for it. 

Your methods and routines are practically identical. It’s almost a shame that the moment things break open, that quiet alignment shatters.

Steve holds a fist up, signalling you to stop. You do, falling in behind him. You’re not sure what he’s hearing, but you trust him implicitly when he makes the motion for you to duck behind a flatbed truck. You press yourself against the cool metal and Steve plunges in after you, his warm chest and stomach caging you. Hardly a second later, you hear what he had - a door clanging open, boisterous voices spilling out, all speaking over each other in Russian.

Steve meets your eyes, gives you a silent signal and you nod, moving out from behind the truck as silently as a deer and blending into the night. You weave through the shipping containers with practiced alacrity. You don’t need to look to know Steve is right behind you; you can feel him.

You split angles without having to speak. Steve covers the high runways while you sweep the lower lanes between cargo. The night has cooled and the wind is vicious now, needling the hulls of the half-empty freighters and blowing the hook block of the crane overhead until it swings like an unsteady pendulum over the flooded pier. Steve is keeping close. His hot breath feels sharp on your neck against the biting wind. 

You get within five hundred feet of the main electrical substation before you’re spotted. A pair of guards open fire from the building behind you, spraying an uncoordinated bouquet of bullets in your direction. You find cover effortlessly and huff with humour at the sloppy execution. They had just revealed that they are aware of your presence without allowing you to get close enough for a good shot.

“Idiots,” Steve mutters, as if he’s genuinely disappointed. You smile up at him, almost expecting him to say something about how he expected better from them.

You easily dodge their fire as you advance leisurely and safely, winding in and out from behind shipping containers. You decide that you’re not in the mood to go at it with Steve today, so you take his lead even if it’s significantly slower than how you would choose to do this yourself. You don’t worry about the shots that get too close - whatever you can’t dodge, Steve fends off with his shield.

You are out of the gunmen’s range when you make it to the ladder that leads up to the platform you need to get to, but you have no doubt they are headed your way. You go first, taking your gun from its holster, aiming it upwards, and heaving yourself onto the ladder. The iron bars are slick with seawater and heavy fuel oil; you have to grip tight so you don’t slip. 

You’re making careful progress up the ladder with Steve behind you, eyes pointed upwards for any sign of unwanted company. The metal feels slithery beneath your fingers and it takes you an extra few seconds to climb each step. It’s shuddering under each step and you wonder vacantly whether Steve’s weight will make it collapse.

You don’t have much time to prepare for the gunman that approaches above you. Your fingers are still clumsily fidgeting, trying to aim your gun while also grasping the slippy bar of metal. You get your shots off at the same time; yours hits, his does not.

What it does do, though, is make you dodge. Your body bears left, foot skidding on a rung of the ladder and suddenly you’re slipping downward, stomach swooping as your body collides with Steve’s.

He scarcely reacts, catching you with one arm, using little to no exertion. His fingers clamp around your waist, steadying you. For a fraction of a second you both freeze - your breath catching, his jaw tensing, bodies flush together, faces inches apart. Every hard plane of his body is pressed up against you. There is a throbbing warmth low in your stomach.

“You good?” he asks, breathy and deep.

“Move,” you say, voice tight, shaking out of his grasp and climbing up once more. He sighs and mutters something under his breath but you can’t make it out. Your heart is galloping, your pulse thundering in your ears.

You barrel over the platform, and go running towards the tower just as another guard reaches the door, attempting to get to the breaker panel before you have the chance to disable it. He locks the door behind him but Steve kicks it in with a crash. You slide low, sweeping the guard’s legs. Steve disarms him before he can even hit the floor. 

There’s no need for discussion as you both fall into your respective roles. The room is oppressively grey and layered with multiple wires, but you find your way to the breaker panel. You work on planting the shutdown device on the primary switchgear while Steve holds off reinforcements, laying enough suppressive fire to keep three guards pinned behind a forklift.

You’re more aware of his presence than usual while you work. He sits like some nagging instinct in your head, telling you to look. You know if you do, all you will see is his back, a heavy fortification of muscle and hard lines and sweat. You don’t need that kind of distraction. Your nerves are already fried from the uncomfortable consciousness of how his body felt pressed tight against yours.

You step back, watching the disruptor activate and the power shut down around you with a whining drone. The grey space becomes black and for just a split-second, yourself and Steve stand alone in the dark, no sounds pervading the room except your laboured breaths. The street lamps outside have extinguished - the bullets outside pause while the gunmen assess their situation.

Steve moves, shattering the stillness. He grips your wrist and pads quietly out the door, taking full advantage of the blackness to make a discreet getaway. You grab your wrist violently out of his grip but you follow him silently. You can’t see anything very well, but you think he might roll his eyes.

The shipyard is drowned in darkness, the only light the thin silver sheen of rain on metal. You move with Steve between the towering containers, keeping low. Every small sound seems deafening now - the clink of a loose cable swaying in the wind, even your own breaths.

A pair of guards drift close, their flashlights slicing through the blackout. You flatten against the cold steel wall, willing yourself still as the beams skim past, bright enough to catch the rivets beside your cheek. When the voices fade, Steve breaks across an open stretch at a quick, silent sprint. You follow. 

You’re not sure why you do it. It’s usually Steve’s job to scan the high ground. His serum-enhanced eyesight can catch movement long before you can. But Steve is preoccupied with sweeping for guards on ground level, so you do it instead out of pure intuition. And you see it: a sharp, unmoving glint on the crane platform above.

Your pulse spikes.

There’s a shooter. 

You had caught sight of him too late to find cover. You are out in the open. You can’t see the shooter well, but you know who their target will be and it’s not you. Steve is too far ahead to be able to warn him in any sufficient way.

In a moment of complete and utter instinct, and maybe more than a little stupidity, you raise your gun and shoot. You miss. 

The shooter turns their attention to you now. You fire another, miss again. 

The hit slams into your shoulder so hard, it immediately steals your breath. You stagger forward, fingers going numb. The gun drops from your clasp.

You try to breathe, but the pain is sharp and choking. Your vision wavers from blood loss and the sheer, overwhelming burn tearing through you. Steve’s gun cracks somewhere to your left but the sound bends around the pain, distant and warped. You can’t lift your arm. You can’t even unclench your jaw.

You wait to feel the blood clot around your wound but it’s slow and reluctant. You hold on for one more second, and then blackness swallows you.

The only thing that you’re aware of when you open your eyes is the pain. Not the cold, harsh light of the hospital. Not your family and team members that sit around you, looking morosely at the floor and bouncing their legs. Not even that Steve is absent.

For some length of time that feels very long, you exist in that state; slinking in and out of consciousness. But the pain never disappears, not even the bouts of darkness. In those moments of oblivion, the pain goes behind a cloud, but it always returns with a violence. You get to know this in a vague sort of way, feeling dumbly grateful when the pain is at bay but never being so naive as to think yourself free of it.

Although you will later find out it is only two days, it feels like a small eternity before you can clear the film that feels like scum from your throat and croak anything out. You must not be of fully sound mind yet or maybe the painkillers are making you loopy, because the first thing you say to the room, crammed with familiar faces, is; “Steve?”

You’re assured by someone - Maria? Natasha? - that he got you out. That he’s ok.

And then that grey cloud descends once again. The pain and the haze return.

It’s not that you care that Steve doesn’t come to visit. 

It turns out that your wound is just a through-and-through shot to the top of your shoulder. One centimetre in any direction and the bullet might have lodged itself firmly into your neck or paralysed your arm for good. The area is packed densely with muscles and nerves so you are wreaked with pain, but as it stands, it did no permanent damage.

So, really, there is no need for him to visit. And you definitely don’t care. You just think it’s bad leadership is all. You would have showed up for him if the roles were reversed, no matter how much of a pest he is. Would have sent a card. Even a text, at the very fucking least. 

You leave the hospital after the dullest week of your life. You hadn’t, until that point, realised how tangled your life purpose is with your career. You feel rabid after just a day or two of consciousness, restricted to your bed with no files to review, no cases to crack open. Just you, a few beat-up novels you had been meaning to get around to reading, and whoever decides to drop by to see how you were doing.

Maria lets you know that you are required to take another two weeks of leave before returning to work. Standard policy. Your requests to be forwarded files related to your ongoing cases are rejected. You can’t even enter the building to go to the gym.

In the absence of anything better to do, you watch films back-to-back. Try some recipes you had earmarked. Visit the new museum that had opened in the next block over. Wait to hear from family, friends and colleagues. But not Steve. You’re definitely not waiting to hear from Steve. 

You’re not usually great for following orders but you follow the doctor’s instructions closer than you have abided by anything in your entire life. By the time you return to HQ, the pain in your shoulder has flattened to a dull ache and you have formed a resolution to try to find some sort of hobby outside of work. You had no idea your real life is that grim.

Maria meets you with a distant smile at reception.

“Welcome back,” she says pleasantly, turning to walk with you through the building. Quiet conversation, the rustling of paper and the heavy clicks of agents suiting up covers the space you walk through. “We’ll do a mini induction and then I’ll let you get to it.”

Maria’s office is pristine. The door clicks shut behind you, muting all murmured voices outside. Everything looks recently straightened, recently dusted, recently organised. Sticky notes, task lists and cables are perfectly spaced out into their correct positions. The files stacked on the shelves are bound and appear to be in alphabetical order. You picture your home office space with a dim sort of shame as you sit down in front of her.

“How is your shoulder?” she asks without much interest.

“Much better, thank you. Should be able to get back out there now.”

She opens a cabinet in her desk and pulls a bloated yellow file. “That won’t be possible. We have made the decision to transfer you to another team. You’ll need a few weeks to catch up on the ongoing cases.”

“Another- what?”

Your brain is whirring, trying to catch up with what Maria just said. She doesn’t reply, just watches you buffer.

“You’re really taking me off the team on my first day back? Am I being punished for getting shot?”

“Not punished, no,” she assures you patiently. “You’re not being demoted, your day-to-day won’t even change very much but you’ll be working under Romanoff now. It was just decided that you would be a better fit somewhere else.”

“Decided by who?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

“By the leadership team,” she replies diplomatically.

Your gaze narrows on her but she is unperturbed. The sound of the seconds ticking by on the clock are suddenly deafening. You’re engaging in a sort of silent stand-off with her and you’re certainly not winning. 

“Where is he?” you ask at last.

“On assignment.”

“When will he be back?”

She smiles at you tightly and you realise she can no longer tell you. You’re not on his team anymore.

A wild instinct runs through you; you feel you might be a few seconds away from stomping your feet like a child, shouting at her that it’s not fair! and he started it! 

Instead, you huff out a harsh breath and snatch the file up from the desk. 

The hour is late and night is spilling through the windows. Yourself and Nat are the only ones left in the room; maybe the only ones left in the building. She lounges against the opposite row of lockers, boot propped up, grinning like you hadn’t just run a mission that by all rights should’ve ended in a four-page incident report and at least one formal reprimand.

“We are a match made in heaven,” she says with a dreamy sigh.

You snort. “Tell that to the clean-up team.”

“Let them file a complaint,” Nat says, waving a dismissive hand. “Clean exit, no casualties, minimal property damage. Made decent time too.”

“Mm.”

It had gone well. Better than well. Nat works like you do - zippy, instinctive, a little unhinged when the situation calls for it. There had been no questioning glances when you made a split-second decision, no screaming matches in lieu of a debrief. Your third mission back was a big fat success. You should be overjoyed.

But as you wipe the shower-water from your skin and peel your top on, all you can summon is a hot, directionless anger. Or, maybe not entirely directionless.

Because for the most part, you can direct it towards Steve. Your shoulder has mostly recovered with only a mild stiffness left to show for it but you’re still suffering from a wounded pride. The fact that he didn't bother to check up on you and requested a transfer after you quite literally risked your life for him is bad enough. But he’s been a ghost to you in the three weeks since you returned to work. 

That first week, he had been on assignment in Hungary. You had gone on a hunt for him as soon as word got around that he was back, but he was nowhere to be found. All his usual conference rooms were vacant and he had clearly started training elsewhere. You have not been able to track him down in the weeks since and you have no doubt in your mind that his sole intention is to avoid you.

Because he feels guilty for what had happened? Or maybe because he doesn’t want to have to thank you? You’re not sure. But you’re pissed.

And not just at him either. At yourself too. 

Because, alongside that anger, there’s an uncomfortable hollowness tugging at you. You bring it with you everywhere you go. It weighs you down like a chain. He won’t vacate your brain no matter what you do and you can’t quite deny that maybe you might miss him. Just a little.

The anger is not the worst of it; it’s that other thing - the tiny, shameful spark fluttering under your ribs when Natasha lets you rove free instead of testing you, challenging you, making you better. It’s the way your life feels just a bit emptier without someone to tease and provoke.

And it’s humiliating, because - seriously? How original. You really had to go and join the queue of people pining after the tall, hot, golden-boy with perfect manners and stupidly earnest eyes and muscles so perfect that only scientists could have sculpted them. Brilliant. Groundbreaking. As if you don’t already hate him enough without adding that to the mix.

“I was gonna drag you for a drink but the energy you’re giving off right now is rancid,” Nat says, walking towards you with her towel in hand. She snaps it at you but you jump out of the way before she can make contact. “You’re so pissy all the time since you got transferred.”

“I’m not pissy,” you snap, obscurely aware that you’re proving her point.

“Why do you even care? You and Rogers fight like dogs. You never wanted to be part of his team in the first place.”

You’re purposely avoiding her gaze, but you know the exact look that Nat is giving you based on her tone alone and you hate it with a burning passion.

“I don’t care. It’s just not fair, but it’s whatever.”

She sighs, picking up her duffle bag and flinging it over her shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you to whatever this is,” she says, waving her hand vaguely in your direction. “Get eight hours tonight and try to come back less cranky.”

She walks out, hips swinging, and you wait another moment or two before following suit. 

HQ feels different at this time of night. The overhead lights seem a shade too bright without bodies moving through them and your footsteps sound sharper against the floor. The whir of a printer on standby and the buzz of a monitor stand out more. Clean, white light is shining on empty desks. 

There is a weight on you as your make your way through the carpeted corridors, passing empty offices and meeting rooms. Nat is right - you are pissy. You’re so goddamn angry and mortifyingly upset, crucifying yourself with mental images and memories you would do anything to be rid of. You had always been mildly curious about those feelings that you observed in movies, the ones all your friends used to rave about when they met someone they fell head over heels for. You have dated, have even been in a few serious relationships. But you always knew there was a big gap between what you had witnessed and what you had experienced.

You wish someone had told you how stupidly painful and embarrassing it could be. You would have tried harder to steer clear of it.

You almost think that you’re imagining the picture of Steve in the meeting room to your right, framed by the semi-frosted window in the door. For just a split-second, you think it might be another one of those humiliating daydreams. But no - he’s burning the midnight oil; his neck is craned over a file, a small lamp pouring light over his handsome features.

You’re not one to question your instincts. You hurl the door open with an aggression that has Steve’s head snapping up in shock, pen falling from his hand, mouth parting. You listen to the door tumble closed before you realise dimly that you have no idea what to say to him. You’re floundering a little, but you keep your expression steady.

He breaks the silence first.

“You’re here late.”

“Just wrapped an assignment with Nat,” you say, hand on hip. “Turns out we make a pretty solid team. It’s refreshing.”

His jaw ticks, but he gives nothing else away. He looks back to his papers, as if dismissing you. “Glad to hear it.”

That’s it? That’s really all he’s giving you?

You can feel fiery heat crawling up your neck and you try to stop the furious shake in your hands. Composure is becoming more difficult to maintain and you know that you’re about a second away from bursting but his gall is astounding. He really has nothing else to say? After everything?

“You got me kicked off the team.”

“You didn’t get kicked off anything,” he sighs, leaning back in his seat. His eyes are travelling your form warily, like he isn’t quite sure where you’re going with this. “You got transferred.”

“Yeah, transferred out of the team.”

“I thought you would be happy,” he says wryly. “You were always complaining about having to work with me. I think you even said you’d rather work with Natasha a few times.”

“I am happy!” It comes out as a bark. You’re embarrassed by your petulance even though you can’t cork it. You know that you’re acting like a child. Steve’s lips are creaking upwards, his eyes lit up in amusement.

You clear your throat. “I am happy,” you repeat, in a low, controlled voice this time around. “It just feels a bit ungrateful is all.”

The way Steve’s poise breaks, superior grin twisting itself into a snarl, is hugely satisfying. You are self-aware enough to know that you’re being hugely immature, but it just feels so good to drag him down to your level. 

“You think I should be grateful that you almost got yourself killed on a mission?” he snaps, standing up from the meeting room table and walking towards you. You meet him half-way, until you are inches from each other. Your neck stiffens with how it bends up to meet his enraged eyes. Your body is humming with this familiar rhythm, as if fighting with Steve is the only thing that makes you feel alive.

“Well, I got shot saving you, so yes - I would say that’s a pretty good reason to be grateful,” you snap back, eyes narrow.

“Don’t be dense.” His voice is tight and poisonous in a way you have rarely ever heard before. “That was a really fuckin’ stupid decision and you know it. You took a bullet for the super-soldier with accelerated regenerative healing and a vibranium shield. Does that sound like a good decision to you?”

He sounds more furious than you have ever heard him in your life - and you have made him mad more times than you can count. He had cursed at you. He hasn’t done that since Moscow.

“I knew what I was doing,” you spit back with equal fury. “That shooter had all the time in the world to get into position; they would have been aiming for your head and they would have hit their mark, too because you weren’t paying enough attention to raise your shield. I knew that pulling them over in my direction meant that they would shoot me but they would have less time to aim. Just because you think I’m stupid doesn’t mean I am, you jerk.”

He is struck dumb momentarily, brows furrowing and lips pursing in thought. You are close enough to see the twitch of his mouth, to feel his disgruntled puffs of breath against your skin. Contentment slithers up your spine. Seconds tick by in silence; Steve pensive and stoic, you smug and satisfied. You have won this round and decide to go out with a bang.

“But I guess I should be thanking you because I have a new team lead now who trusts my judgement and doesn’t pick a fight every five minutes. So thank you. And go to hell.”

You turn on your heel, already halfway into your stride, and his hand shoots out so fast it must be instinct - large, calloused fingers closing around your arm before you’re even finished the pivot.

There is a second where he just glares hard. His blue eyes eat up every inch of your face. 

And then your body meets his chest and his lips are instantly on yours in a heady explosion of fire - it’s a violent, fervid thing and you surprise yourself with how quickly you return his passion. You had imagined this moment in the last few weeks - in all your dirtiest daydreams, you made him sweat it out a bit, even beg. But maybe you can make him beg later - you had missed him too much to turn him away now.

Your lips move like it’s another one of your fights, faces pressed against each other in a messy battle of lips, tongues and teeth. His hands travel to your hips and pull you flush against him while you fist his crisp blue shirt, folding wrinkles into the perfectly ironed fabric. 

Your feet leave the ground as he lifts you with irritating strength, pushing you onto the meeting room table and settling himself between your legs. His sheer power - the way he can lift you like you’re absolutely nothing - makes heat pool in your tummy, something stirring low. You’re pushing your lips against his fiercely, channeling all the pent up anger from the past number of weeks.

He isn’t gentle. He’s rabid as a stray dog. His fingers grasp harshly onto your hips with bruising strength. Despite the fact that you’re already pressed up against him, he tugs you tighter to his body, like close is not close enough. You can feel the large swell of his cock against your thigh, hard as a rock, and you have to stop yourself from adjusting your position and grinding down on him. You’re eager enough to do it, but he can't know that.

Your hands travel around his chest and shoulders, fingers delving into every curve of muscle there. He feels so big and broad against your touch and it turns you on so much that it almost pisses you off.

“You’re such a dick,” you gasp, the sound muffled against his lips.

“I know,” he says back between kissing, his mouth not moving from yours.

“Didn’t even visit me in the hospital.”

“I know.”

“I hate you,” you say, aiming for a sharp tone. It comes out breathy. He’s still kissing at your mouth, lips moving wildly - out of sync and jumbled.

“Shut up,” he grunts, hand going to your lower back and pushing your pelvis forward so you grind against him. An embarrassing whine rips itself from your throat as pleasure sparks through you, lighting up your body. You grind down again, addicted to the feeling, and Steve groans against your lips, hips jerking up.

It prompts something filthy; the two of you still fully clothed, bucking and grinding against each other like feral animals. There is a delicious throbbing in your core, your entire body crying out for more of him. His left hand is still on your hip, encouraging your body to continue grounding down against his hard cock through layers of cotton, but his right hand moves up to grab your jaw with a possessive force. You are giving it back to him too, hands clutching and grasping at him with a brutality.

He pulls away to lift your top over your head, eyes levelled at you with a burning intensity. His pretty blues are darker now, less earnest.

“Steve, we’re in the office,” you object, fingers reaching out to grab it back. He tosses it to the floor before you can.

“Don’t care,” he says, reattaching his lips to yours, fingers crawling to the waistband of your trousers. “Gonna fuck you right here.”

Your stomach clenches. It’s a strange role reversal. You’re not accustomed to being the one who stops and thinks about things before acting - that’s always Steve’s remit. You should be concerned that his perfectly constructed control has been tossed out the window, but it only makes you more excited. You know that there is something dangerous deep underneath each layer of restraint that Steve exercises. You have always known you’re better at digging it out than anyone else in this world. When you do, it’s a beautiful thing.

How can you do anything but give in?

Steve’s fingers play with the button of your jeans, popping it open with an effortless tug before he slides them down your legs along with your shoes. You’re left in just your underwear, splayed open before a fully-clothed Steve Rogers like you’re some sort of offering. He watches you with dark eyes, something between worship and hunger enveloping his features.

His eyes zero in on your bra-clad breasts. “Take it off,” he says, voice strained, and you reach up with urgency to unclip it, tossing it carelessly somewhere across the table.

“Suddenly so good at taking orders.” His hand reaches up to palm your breast, the other playing with the waistband of your panties. Your body arches to his touch involuntarily. “Should have done this months ago. Might have made you behave.”

He can probably tell you’re about to say something snarky, because his lips meet yours ferociously yet again and what would have been a rude retort turns into a moan when his thumb presses down on you over your panties.

Steve pulls away, eyes catching yours with surprise before dropping down to your core, covered in a thin layer of now-transparent fabric. “You’re soaked through,” he breathes, awe colouring his tone. “See how wet you are for me?”

Hot humiliation floods your face. “Fuck you.”

He gives you a slow smirk, eyes glinting. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, leaving them glossy and shiny, and you realise he enjoys this as much as you do. His head dips down, lips just brushing over your neck, breath caressing your skin, before he’s lathering kisses there. He hooks his fingers over your underwear and yanks it down aggressively. You watch it cascade down your legs pathetically, chest heaving with the pressure of his lips under your ear and his fingers sliding down your stomach torturously slow. 

His fingers just graze over your wet heat and your blood is singing in your veins. You feel overpowered by him in the most mouth-watering way; his large frame trapping you, caging you in. He presses two fingers in, harsh and sudden, and you gasp.

“You get so turned on fighting with me, don’t you sweetheart? I knew it. Knew you were getting all wet every time I raised my voice at you. You pretend you don’t like me but you love when I boss you around.”

You want to slap him, but he’s right. And you consider that if you do, he will stop. His fingers are so big and calloused inside you and it simply feels too good to ever stop. You’re breaking into a sweat while he pumps in and out of you, your slick spilling onto his perfectly tailored work slacks while your walls clench around him.

When his other hand reaches down to grind down on your clit with vigorous strokes, a burst of white-hot pleasure works its way through you, licking up your spine. You pull hard at his hair, looking for anything to anchor yourself and hear him hiss a moan against your neck. The sound makes you clench around him and his fingers pump into you with renewed roughness in response.

You’re absolutely ruined. He has turned you into a complete wreck. You can no longer deny how badly you want him nor how much you need this; you don’t even try anymore. Your hips are wiggling down, trying to take him deeper. You have lost all semblance of shame, too taken up by the pleasure that his fingers are delivering you.

“Look how desperate you are,” he says, eyes caught where he is filling you. You don’t want to look down, shame working its cruel way through you at his taunting, but he grasps your jaw, tilting your head downwards. His fingers are warm and wet with your slick.

His two fingers are enough to stretch you out - they almost look too big for your hole. You shudder at the sight of them sliding in and out, knowing his cock will stretch you out all the more. Steve’s staring at your pussy like a man who is starving.

His fingers pull out from your heat quite suddenly. You’re hazy and confused until he lowers to his knees on the ground in front of where you are perched on the table. Your eyes connect in a moment of explosive intensity. His pupils are blown wide and when yours begin to flutter shut, he pinches your thigh gently in warning. You are forced to stare while he lowers his face between your thighs, eyes gleaming.

“Gotta taste you,” he says, almost to himself, and then that stupid fucking mouth that pisses you off so much every single day meets your cunt.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is unintentional and would be entirely mortifying if you were thinking straight. Your head falls back, eyes shutting. He pinches your thigh again, harder this time. 

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You eyes spring back open, twitching as you fight the instinct to squeeze them shut. He holds your gaze captive while licking a messy stripe up your folds. You can feel sweat collecting at the top of your forehead at the sensation. He is ravenous and unrelenting, sucking on your clit before soothing it with soft kisses. Exploring your folds with his lips. Dipping his tongue inside and gently nipping, testing your limits. 

He’s eating you out in a way you never have been before; it’s not some repetitive flick of the tongue against the clit, picked up from porn and designed to make you cum as fast as possible so he can get the hell up and get his own rocks off. Steve is learning you, watching your expression closely to see what makes your breath catch. You feel him grin against your pussy as a moan slips out reluctantly when he drags his teeth over the hood of your clit, offsetting the pleasure with the tiniest bit of pain. He groans when you lose control and your eyes roll back in your skull.

He pulls back just a few inches and you watch him spit a thick glob of saliva straight onto your cunt. He’s still holding intense eyee-contact with you when he runs his fingers through your slit, mixing your wetness with his own. It’s sliding down through your ass and onto the table, reminding you exactly where you are. The fact that you are doing this in a meeting room in your place of work makes it seem even dirtier. 

He shoves two fingers back into you without warning and your hips buck. He continues to mouth at your clit in the most beautiful patterns and you truly feel like he is doing this purely for himself, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.

He sucks hard, sliding your clit into his mouth and you’re not in control of the words or sounds that spill out of you. You’re telling him how amazing you feel and how fucking good he’s eating you, but you realise you might have fucked up because you can just feel his arrogance. It’s pissing you off. You need to remedy it quick.

“Maybe I should keep you down here like this all the time, Steve. What do you think? Can’t bitch at me when your mouth is busy. And you’re just so good at it too.”

You can feel the smug smile melt into something more sinister. His eyes grow darker, but he never moves them from yours. He continues to lap at you, but his mouth is more aggressive now - a stormy sort of warning. You ignore it. 

“Bet you’d let me put you on your knees after every mission if I wanted.” Your voice is coming out a bit too breathy for the sort of control you’re aiming for, but you continue regardless. “Keep you there for hours if I need to.”

Steve is standing up faster than you can register, a rough scowl painting his face. “Fucking brat,” he grunts, voice low. Your pride does not allow you to complain about how close you were to coming on his tongue.

He’s unbuttoning his shirt with rapidity and you get the message, part terrified and part exhilarated by what’s to come. You go to work on his belt in the meantime, clumsy fingers frantically unbuckling so you can yank his trousers down his legs. 

Steve shrugs out of the sleeves of his shirt, you almost groan. It is just so utterly unfair. It’s not like you’ve never seen him in this state before - missions sometimes require you both change clothes in less-than-ideal settings. But seeing him in this context, a thin sheen of sweat coating his pecks, an enormous bulge in his underwear that you know you have inspired; it’s unearthly. It’s only for you. You want him in wicked, sinful ways. And you’re determined to have him.

You try to hide the shake in your hands as you reach towards his underwear. Time slows down as you pull down it down to reveal his cock - what had been a frenzied blur of limbs and clothes patters off into cautious movements, heavy breaths.

You actually groan when you see it; standing tall and fucking huge, slightly curved, subtle veins running lines up to the tip. A pearl of liquid has collected at the tip, smudged on the swollen head. It’s so pretty, you can feel your eyes becoming a bit hazy. The light in the room seems to ripple and bend around it.

Your fingers reach out tentatively, dragging down his length. He hisses, hips jerking up to your touch when you wrap your fingers around him. You can barely wrap your hand around it and you’re startled by how small your hand looks in comparison.

“You think you can take it?” Steve asks you.

“I can,” you confirm with certainty.

“Let’s see about that, sweetheart. I think I might break you,” he returns and you wonder vaguely whether Steve is just baiting you, taking advantage of all your stubbornness to make sure you push yourself past your limit.

His body brackets yours again, leaning over your body to give you a filthy kiss. His mouth is absolutely dripping with the evidence of your arousal and his own spit. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with something that is pleasant and categorically Steve Rogers. His lips move hot and dirty against yours, tongue pressing in on yours while his cock nudges your entrance. You gasp against his lips.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You ready for me?”

You nod furiously and he reaches down to fist his cock. You feel his thick length begin to nudge at your entrance, the head slipping in slowly. Your cunt pulses with anticipation as you feel the sweet ache of him breaching you. You let out a low whine, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, as he pushes in further, the thickness of him stretching your walls.

It’s a tight fit. He gets just less than half-way, before your pride breaks and your hips jump away from his at the burn. His jaw twitches, blue eyes fluttering closed for just a second.

Steve reaches down to stroke at your clit and the rush of pleasure makes you loosen up just enough for him to notch in a few inches further. “C’mon, sweetheart. Thought you said you could take me.”

“I can,” you say, the words pattering off into a whine. “Just big, is all.”

“Sure is,” he says, pushing in further and smiling wickedly at you. “And I’m gonna make you take it all, baby. Gonna make you feel it here.” His fingers press down hard on your tummy.

His cock is stressing its size inside you, hitting places previously untouched. You can’t quit believe that he still has more to give you but he does. You’ve never felt anything like this before, never had anything this big inside you and it hurts in the most delicious way.

“Fuck,” Steve spits, breathless. “Yeah, okay, I think you can take me all the way. Just a little bit more, sweetheart. Let me in.” 

If he hadn’t eaten you out until you were an inch from nirvana, you’re not sure this would be possible. But as it stands, he bottoms out and you feel like you’re floating. Your hips are twitching, unsure whether to escape or grind down harder.

“Squeezing me so tight, baby. Think you were made for my cock,” he hisses, his face tightening with a primal need. “You okay?”

You’re not sure that your vocal cords are still working so you just nod and listen to his deep breaths. Your back arches when he presses sloppy kisses to your neck while you adjust to him. It feels as if he is moulding you around him.

Your fingertips drag down his back and he shivers, jerking his hips forward involuntarily. “Sorry- ah, fuck-” he groans, face clenched tight.

He withdraws a couple of inches, cock dragging through your walls, before slamming himself back in. He looks down at you like a kicked puppy when he hears your strangled gasp. “Feels too good. Gotta- agh. Can’t help it, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

You like this side of him, you think idly. You had seen Steve in many different moods, but never like this. Apologetic and pleading. He is a boulder above you; 6 foot something of pure brawn, but begging you so nicely to take his cock. “I know it’s big but you’re such a pretty little thing for me. Have to move.”

You still can’t talk so you nod at him in encouragement and watch relief pour over his face. He kisses you again with intention, bucking his hips into yours with beautiful friction. You are stuffed so full, it feels like he’s everywhere at once. This whole thing is becoming far sweeter than you were expecting.

Steve finds a leisurely, pulsing rhythm as he rocks himself into you, lathering kisses over your lips in a way that is entirely too romantic for the setting. He rubs tantalising circles on your clit, helping your walls to relax into him - helping you let him in until you find your voice, babbling about how much you want him and how good he’s making you feel.

You’re becoming aware that he owns you now; that maybe he always had. He thrusts into you with a beautiful sort of reverence and you know that you are ruined. Sleeping with anyone else would feel like a brutal punishment after you felt him like this. 

A noise from outside - the faint tread of boots on the ground - makes you both stop cold. Steve freezes completely, his dick coming to a stand-still inside of you. They are faint but getting closer by the second. Your eyes meet Steve’s wide ones. He starts looking around the room. at your intertwined bodies. You can see him assessing the situation, working out solutions, but a smug part of you notes that he still doesn’t pull out of you. He dick doesn’t soften; you actually feel it twitch inside you.

Your pussy jumps at the realisation that he’s excited by it. Maybe he doesn't even know it yet, but he is. You know it by the way his hips give involuntary, shallow thrusts. By the way his pupils grow impossibly darker.

So you do what any sane woman would do with Captain America’s cock buried deep inside her. You grind down. 

Steve eyes snap back to yours with astonishment. He looks wild; entirely out of control and somewhat furious. He brings a hand to your hair, tugs it with a warning that you don’t pay any heed to.

You grind down again, this time removing your right hand from his broad shoulders and bringing it slowly down to your clit. You rub and squeeze there, using his cock to get yourself off. The way his eyes are burning as he watches you only makes it so much hotter. You feel yourself approaching your peak. 

The steps get louder until you see a flash of cherry red pass the window and you know it’s Natasha. She’s on her way back to the locker room, perhaps to check if you’re still there. You don’t stop moving on his cock even as she passes by you and the locker room door swings open and shut.

“Are you insane?” Steve spits in a low whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You just smile back at him because you can see his eyes growing hazy. You not sure he even realises that he himself has begun to thrust into you again. A flush is working its way up his neck and you wonder whether it’s anger or arousal. Maybe both.

You’re halfway through a moan when the door to the locker room swings back open and Natasha begins walking out again with a huff. Steve’s hand goes up to cover your mouth, so large it almost envelopes your entire face. He’s giving you look like he’s disapproving of this development but he doesn’t stop fucking you.

Natasha’s footsteps stop for a split-second. You feel a disinterested sort of confusion, too wrapped up in the way Steve’s cock feels as it drags through your walls. 

Something spasms between your legs and you realise you’re about to cum. Your blood freezes. You feel Steve tense, breath snagging in his throat. You’re sweating now - praying that all those gasps you can’t mute are not audible from outside.

You hear Nat let out a long, irritated sigh from outside, but you’re too far gone to even care about the consequences anymore. You squeeze around Steve’s length once and then your eyes are rolling back into your head while she resumes moving down the hall. As she approaches the glass window of the door, you try to crouch, as if that would prevent her from seeing your and Steve’s very naked bodies as he fucks you through your orgasm. You can see the faint shadow of her figure sliding across the frosted glass. For one horrifying second, you’re sure Nat will glance in.

But she doesn’t. She keeps walking, footsteps fading with distance until the hallway is left silent again and your pussy is squeezing with aftershocks.

“You’re seriously fucked up, you know that?” Steve asks, but there’s more awe in his tone than malice. “You really get off knowing someone could walk in here and see me fucking you?”

You don’t even know how to answer him. He’s given you no time to recover from your orgasm, fucking into you again with a renewed vitality. You’re overly sensitive, the pressure of his massive cock inside you bullying your sensitive hole. It shouldn’t feel good, it should be too much too soon - but it’s not because it’s Steve. And you don’t think you could dislike anything that he chooses to do to you.

“You wanna be fucked like a whore? Fine,” he says, pulling his cock out of you with lightning speed and flipping you around on the table so your ass is arched up for him. He takes a second to look at you, squeezing at the skin of your ass, dragging his thumb all the way up from your clit, past your wet heat and through your ass. He’s mumbling something unintelligible. You clench and shudder, a moan breaking out through your lips.

When he fists his cock and presses into you again, all that slow romanticism from earlier is gone. He is fucking you hard and fast, his thick cock pressing into a heavenly spongey spot that you didn’t even know existed. “Fuck Steve!” you cry out, ass working its way back on him of its own volition.

“Such a fucking brat. Couldn’t even wait patiently for me to fuck you for one minute. Too desperate for my cock.”

You want to argue that he was also fucking you, but your brain is not working fast enough to come up with the words. All you can focus on are his dirty words, the obscene squelching noises of him filling you, and how it feels to be taken by him.

“Maybe I should punish you for that. Always so disobedient. Maybe I’ll leave you high and dry here, fill you up and not let you cum.”

“Try it,” you growl, brain suddenly fully operational. “I’ll make you regret it.”

You hear him huff a laugh from behind you. “You’re adorable. Fucked out on my cock and still think you’re in charge. I’ll make you cum sweetheart, but only because I want to see you fall apart. Next time you won’t get this lucky.”

His cock hits a spot inside you that almost makes you see god. His hands are so tight on your hips as he fucks himself into your body that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You hope you do.

“That’s it, isn’t it baby? That’s your spot. Fuck. Maybe I should reward you, now that I think of it. All my sweet girl wanted was to get caught getting fucked by me. You just wanted to show everyone that you’re mine. Want everyone to see me fucking that attitude right outta you.”

Being called his coils your stomach in a way you’d rather not examine. Instead, you twist your head back and scowl. “Fuck you,” you spit, voice strangled.

He chuckles again, but it’s strained. He’s pounding you with a force that you feel all the way up to your belly, all the way up to your teeth. You know you’re not far from coming again and neither is he.

“Is my pretty girl gonna cum on my cock again?” he asks, patting and squeezing your ass encouragingly. You nod, eyes squeezed shut, not even sure that he can see it from his angle. A desperate whine escapes.

“Good fucking girl. ‘Cause I’m about to come inside you. Want you walking out of here with me dripping out of you. Gonna fill you up so good, keep you topped up for every mission. Make you mine.”

That sends you tumbling over the edge, white-hot pleasure soaring through you. Your cunt clenches down hard on him and you feel him burst, spilling sticky ropes of cum into you. He groans loud, telling you how good you are for him while holding your hips with a bruising power, fucking into you violently. He shudders behind you, and eventually his aggressive thrusts patter out and slow into shallow jerks. 

Dark spots are exploding behind your eyes for a while as you come down, chest heaving as Steve drives his cum back into you slowly. You feel your mixed spend dripping down your thighs, spilling onto the wooden floors below. Steve hisses as he steadily pulls himself from your tight heat. He stops momentarily while he, presumably, watches his cum drip out of your hole. 

And then he reaches down to grab his underwear. He wipes it across your privates and thighs as a makeshift towel. It is decidedly not romantic, but the fact that he’s willing to go home in soggy underwear just to clean you up makes your chest tighten with affection regardless.

Steve begins to dress but it takes you another minute to gather the strength in your limbs to haul yourself up. Your hands are shaking as you yank up your panties and try to buckle your bra. Steve is fully dressed now, watching you intensely, thighs spread out on an office chair.

You’re feeling slightly awkward in a way you never do around Steve. You’ve never been short of quips or insults to throw at him, but the air has changed now and you’re not sure where you stand or how to navigate this.

You have just tugged on your jeans when Steve leans forward to grab your hips, pulling you onto his lap. You hadn’t realised that you were waiting for him to do it until he does. You go with no objection, curling into his chest. It feels strangely natural for how combative you’ve always been with him. He nuzzles his face into your neck with a shy affection. 

“I’m sorry for requesting the transfer. I regretted it immediately after if I’m honest.”

“Why did you? It was kinda fucked up, Steve. And you didn’t even come to visit me when I got shot. It hurt my feelings because I would have been there for you.” You can’t even look at him when you say it. You are vastly uncomfortable being this vulnerable with him, but you suppose if there’s ever a time for venturing into uncharted territory, it’s now. Steve was right about what he said regarding your past relationships - you just never cared enough before. But you do now.

“I stayed there until you were stable,” he says. “I was just so angry that I couldn’t even look at you. The idea that you risked your life for me killed me. I hate the way you risk so much on missions. It makes me feel like I can’t protect you.”

“But sometimes you can’t, Steve. I know I should be less reckless. Being away from you for the last few weeks made me realise that. But I have to be able to make my own decisions too.”

“I know. I know it’s just part of what happens on missions but I can’t deal with you getting hurt for me. Not with you. Because I…”

He swallows hard, eye downturned. He fidgets against your thigh and it makes your heart ache. You’re feeling embarrassingly gushy, watching him be this fragile and open. You’re taken off guard by it.

“Because you want me?”

He gives you a tight, sad sort of smile.

“I want you so bad, I’m not even sure ‘want’ is the right word for it anymore.”

You’re fighting a goofy grin but it’s beaming out of you like sunshine. You kiss him nice and slow, feel his lips move ardently and reverently against your own. Your heart flutters where it presses against his chest, as if trying to fly its way closer to him.

You pour every ounce of your adoration into the kiss and feel Steve's grin against your lips as a response.

You pull away only when your phone buzzes with a text.

NAT: so i see you’re out of the doghouse

NAT: and now i need to find a new partner. goddamn.

Even as friends, you knew only fragments about him. How he liked his coffee — black, bitter, not even a pinch of sugar. That he didn’t have an Instagram, Facebook, or any kind of digital footprint beyond an email address. 

And then, of course, there was the part you hadn’t known.

That he was Superman.

He hadn’t wanted you to find out — you could tell by the way he stammered and lied through an explanation the night you confronted him about it. But Clark Kent was not nearly as subtle as he liked to think he was, and you were far too observant. He was conveniently missing whenever Superman was needed. Once could’ve been a coincidence, but every time? No way.

Over time, he was okay with you knowing. He trusted you.

You were his friend. And friends trust and help each other.

Which was why you had helped him get all the way here — to his parents’ home, a beautiful farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It was quiet. Safe. 

You’d been to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis many times — a high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows, glossy black marble tiles, and simple, modern furniture.

It couldn't have been more different from the warmth of his parents’ farmhouse in Kansas. Here, the floors were scuffed wood, every step creaking faintly, and the whole house carried the scent of timber with a soft undertone of cinnamon. Memories were painted on the walls — framed photographs of smiles, family trips, and holiday dinners.

Clark’s parents were the kind of people who opened their home to you as if they’ve been waiting for you your whole life, their kindness effortless and genuine. It was a home that radiated comfort and care, and suddenly it made sense why Clark was so well-mannered and grounded. He’d grown up in the center of it all.

His childhood room was left untouched. Band posters and old movie prints clung to the walls, their corners curling. A shelf in the corner displayed trophies and figurines that had clearly been handled and loved. For all that he was, Superman, the man who could save the world and never expect anything in return, there was something disarmingly ordinary about this space. About him.

A low groan from behind you broke through your thoughts.

“You’re still here,” Clark murmured from the bed, his voice low and hoarse. He was lying down, one hand pressed over his ribs like the pressure alone could hold him together. The suit still clung to him, faint streaks of dirt and ash dulling the bright colors. The Kryptonite’s grip had loosened, his veins back to their normal color, but he was still weak. The sun was already setting. He’d be fully recovered by morning.

“Did you want me to leave?” you asked, turning just enough to meet his gaze.

“I- No!” His head lifted slightly, urgency in his tone. “I’m just… surprised.”

There was something behind that word. Not shock, exactly, but disbelief — like he wasn’t used to someone waiting for him to recover. Like he’d expected to wake up alone.

You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under each step, and lowered yourself into the chair beside his bed. His eyes followed you, searching your face, as if he was waiting for you to change your mind.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask softly.

“Pain,” he replied, a faint, breathy chuckle escaping before his eyes slipped shut. The sound was quiet, but it still carried that small thread of warmth you’d learned to recognize in him.

“Holt said you should feel fine in the morning, once the sun starts coming out,” you told him, keeping your voice gentle, like anything louder might press against his headache.

His gaze flickered, something unreadable in it before he looked away. “I wish you’d stayed in Metropolis,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with frustration. “You’re safer there.”

You shook your head without hesitation. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. The softness in his tone gave way to steel, the same voice he used when there was no room for argument. “You could’ve gotten hurt just by being seen with me. If something happened, I-“ His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”

You leaned forward slightly, catching his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t,” you said, your tone steady but gentler than your words. “Stop stressing yourself out, Clark. You’ve done enough. You should get some more rest.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted against the pillows, wincing a little. His hand fidgeted with the edge of his cape, eyes flicking to you and then away again.

“I, uh… I don’t…” He paused, licking his lips. “I don’t really like sleeping in the suit. It’s- uh- kinda uncomfortable. I was just… wondering if- if you could maybe… help me? Just with, y’know… the top part.”

“Y- yeah, sure,” you stammer, pushing yourself up and moving closer. Because you’re his friend. And friends help friends.

You help him sit up slowly, his breath hitching with a groan as his ribs protest the movement. Carefully, you reach behind to detach the cape, your fingers brushing the fabric with a softness that contrasts the roughness of the moment.

Then your hand finds the zipper at the back of his suit. You pull it down slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of his creamy pale skin beneath — smooth, vulnerable, so human.

Clark’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours for a brief second before they close again. The silence between you stretches filled only by the soft sound of the zipper and his shallow breaths.

You help him pull the suit off his arms, the fabric sliding away to reveal his upper body — bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. His chest is broad and muscular, every line defined, almost unreal in its strength. The same goes for his biceps, thick and strong. Suddenly, your own nerves flutter, caught off guard by the closeness, the unexpected weight of this moment.

You steady the back of his neck as he leans back against the pillows, low groans rumbling from deep within him.

“You sure you don’t want me to… take it all off?” you ask quietly, the tension between you crackling like electricity.

If the room weren’t so heavy, if Clark wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve thrown out a teasing, flirty comment about you trying to get him naked. But tonight, none of that comes.

Instead, he looks at you — eyes searching, silent, as if he’s trying to say something without words. Like he wants something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for.

“If you’re okay…” he murmured quietly, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile, your fingers lightly tugging at the edge of the suit. He lifted his body as much as he could, every moment careful but willing — doing what he could to make it easier for you.

You kneel at the foot of the bed, fingers working at the heavy boots until they come off one by one with soft thuds against the floor. Then, with a firm grip, you take hold of the suit and give it a swift tug, the fabric sliding away until he’s left in nothing but his boxers.

On any other day, the situation might’ve been awkward — but tonight, he’s too worn down, too sore to care. His head stays against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, breaths slow and shallow.

You keep your gaze steady, careful not to linger, and carry the suit to his closet. The weight of it settles onto the hanger with a soft rustle, the deep blue and red now looking strangely still without him inside it.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, turning toward the door. But before your hand even reaches the knob, he calls your name. “Yes?” you turn back. 

“Don’t go back without me,” he says, his eyes pleading in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Stay here for now. With me.”

You look at him fully this time. His body is bare, save for the thin stretch of fabric covering his hips. You’ve never seen Clark like this — stripped of the cape, of any clothes at that. It isn’t weird in a seeing your family member naked kind of way. It’s… different. Raw. It makes you nervous in a way you don’t want to think too hard about.

“I’m not going anywhere, Clark,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

You reach for the door again, but he calls your name once more.

“Yes?”

His lips curve faintly. “Thank you.”

You smile back. “Of course.”

Because friends help friends.

Clark awoke with a start.

The pain in his side had eased to a faint ache, and the heavy fog of fatigue was gone. The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the nightlight on the nightstand.

His mouth was dry. A glass of water sounded perfect.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he got up and reached for the robe hanging on his closet door. The soft fabric brushed against his skin as he shrugged it on. Then, with slow, careful steps, he made his way toward the door, moving quietly as he descended the creaking staircase.

He walked through the dark with ease — even half-asleep, his steps were quiet and calculated — but he flipped the kitchen light on anyway. The soft hum of the bulb filled the silence. He grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it from the fridge, and downed it in one long swig, the cool water sliding down his throat, washing away the dryness.

“Clark?”

Your voice was soft, groggy. He turned as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

And then he saw what you were wearing. His sweatshirt — the gray one, hanging loosely on you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips — and pajama pants cinched tight at your waist, the legs pooling around your feet.

“Hi,” he said, the word coming out softer than intended.

“Why are you awake? What time is it?” you asked, coming to stand beside him at the kitchen island, tugging the long sleeves of his sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — over your hands.

He noticed. And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

“Almost three,” he murmured after glancing at the clock. “I don’t know — just woke up. Can’t sleep.” His sigh was low, weary, as he leaned onto the counter, elbows braced, thumbs fidgeting like he needed to keep them busy.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his face.

“Nothing,” he said too fast. Then let out a small groan as he rolled his shoulders — and you caught the grimace of discomfort on his face.

“C’mere,” you said with a knowing smile, motioning him closer. “Let me help.”

He hesitated, a faint smile ghosting over his lips — as if to say you don’t have to do that.

But you were already moving behind him, resting your hand on his shoulder. 

The robe was loose, soft beneath your palms, parting slightly as he shifted. You could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric. He was broad, solid, so much bigger than you; your hands looked almost delicate against him as you kneaded at the hard line of muscle beneath his shoulder blade.

“Yeah, right there,” he groans, throwing his head back as you press your thumbs into a stubborn knot in his shoulder. The sound is low, unguarded — almost inappropriate for something so innocent.

You press your lips together, heat rising in your cheeks. His robe has slipped just enough to bare more of that solid shoulder, warm under your palms. You feel every twitch of muscle beneath your tiny hands, every breath he exhales as he leans heavier on the counter.

“Better?” you murmured, digging your thumbs in a little deeper.

“Mhm,” he said, the sound deep, almost a growl in the back of his throat. His head tipped forward, giving you more access.

Your thumbs worked lower, along the edge of his shoulder blade, and you felt the faint shift of his breath — slower now, heavier. 

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, “you have no idea.”

You cleared your throat, swallowing.

“Alright,” you murmured, stepping back before you got carried away. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He didn’t argue — just pushed off the counter lazily and obediently. The robes knot at his waist had slipped slightly, a slight peek of his chest and the line of his collarbone. Your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself, and you snapped them away just as quickly — but not quickly enough. He saw you.

You turned on your heel, making your way out of the kitchen, pretending you hadn’t been caught looking. Behind you, his mouth curved, faint and knowing, and he followed behind you.

Clark could smell you. Not just the faint trace of soap on your skin, but something stronger, intoxicating — the subtle tang of arousal that hit his scent with every shift of your steps. His jaw tightened. You were just causally walking, but he could hear the faint, wet sounds between your legs.

“Here, come sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch,” he insists, acting like he didn’t know your dirty little secret.

“No, it’s fine-“

“Please,” he cuts you off gently, a quiet firmness in his voice. “Ma and Pa get up super early anyway. I wouldn’t want them to wake you up.”

You press your lips together, trying to argue, but his earnest expression makes it pointless. Finally, you sigh, smiling despite yourself. “Fine.”

His own smile is softer, lingering just a little too long. “I’ll walk you up.”

You climb the creaking stairs, Clark right behind you. Every step is weighted with tension, a quiet electricity that makes your pulse race. 

You reach the room and begin to speak. “Clark, I-“

But before the words can form, the door swings shut behind him. The sound echoes sharply in the quiet house.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Hungry. No hesitation. Your heart skips, your knees go weak, and the air between you shimmers with everything that’s been simmering for hours.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath, but the tension in his body is still taut. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, hair falling down his forehead, and those blue eyes darkened with something raw and hungry — lust, need, something you’ve never seen from him before.

He waits. Silent, expectant. Waiting for words you don’t have. Waiting for you to say stop, or a Clark, you’re reading me wrong — but none came.

Instead, your hands find the back of his neck, gripping him, pulling him impossibly closer. His lips meet yours again, feverish and demanding. Every inch of him pressed close, every gasp and low groan filling the space around you. You don’t pull away. You can’t.

He groans against your lips, words muffled but urgent. “Could smell how wet you are,” he breathes, “wanna feel it.”

You don’t pull back. “Touch me, please,” you murmur, guiding his hand. His fingers, much larger than yours, slither inside his your pants. He slides a finger up your folds, warm and slick, and you shiver against him.

“C- clark,” you moan, breath shaky, pushing your hips further into his hand.

The house is quiet, his parents asleep down the hall. Nothing exists outside the room — just the press of lips, the taste of each other, the wet, delicious sound of him touching your sopping pussy.

“Can I taste it, too?” he asks, lips and kisses trailing down your neck.

“Yes,” you moan, shivering. “Please.”

Without another word, he sinks to his knees, hooking a finger into the waistband of the pajama pants you’d stolen from him and pulling them down. You step out, bottom half bare, your panties gone in the washer with the rest of your clothes.

He looks up at you, holding your gaze, and then leans in closer. His tongue flicks out before he takes the first careful lick of your sensitive clit. His eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, as he tastes the sweet, wet arousal that’s been coating your inner thighs. You gasp, already hypersensitive, nearly collapsing at the slightest touch, knees weak from the rush of pleasure.

“So sweet,” he whispers against your clit, mostly to himself — but you can hear it, and can’t help smiling through your breathless moans.

Your fingers thread through his raven curls, brushing the strands from his eyes so you can watch his face. His brows are knitted tight in focus, lips and tongue working you over like he’s starving for it.

“Oh, god,” you moan, voice cracking. “Fucking hell.”

He hums low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide up, cupping your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth until his face is buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to breathe you in — like he wouldn’t mind suffocating there.

His eyes flutter open, locking on yours as his lips seal around your clit. The heat of his tongue makes your knees weak, and then — oh fuck — he moves one hand from your ass and slides a finger inside your sopping hole. Just one, but with how big his hands are, it feels like so much more.

You’re grateful for how wet you are; it lets him push in smoothly, his finger gliding in and out with ease while his mouth works your clit.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, breath coming fast.

“You like that?” he murmurs against you.

You nod frantically. “Fuck, M’gonna cum already, you’re so fucking good at that.”

He smiles against your clit, a low sound rumbling in his throat. Then, cruelly, his mouth disappears, his finger still stroking inside you but slower, lighter, just enough to drive you crazy.

“Clark,” you whine, breathless. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“Wanna hear you beg for it,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. His finger curls, hitting that perfect spot, and your legs tremble.

“Please,” you gasp, hips grinding down to chase his mouth. “Please, Clark- I need you-“

Instead of finishing what he started, Clark pulls back abruptly, sliding his fingers out of you — leaving you achingly empty. You whimper at the loss, hips lifting instinctively, but he’s already grabbing your waist and laying you down flat against the bed.

His chin glistens, but he doesn’t bother wiping it. The robe slips from his shoulders with a careless tug, revealing nothing but hard planes of muscle and smooth, golden skin. You take a shaky breath as he pushes your knee apart with ease, positioning himself between your thighs like he owns them.

You let out an audible whine. He’s taking far too long on purpose, and he knows it.

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, low and steady, sinking onto his stomach. His fingers find your clit with maddening precision, spreading your slick over every swollen inch before sliding back inside, stretching you deep. “Just wanna make you cum first… before I fuck you.”

His fingers start to scissor inside you, stretching you open, and you can’t help the moan that slips out — soft, but loud enough to make Clark cautious. Quickly, his free hand grabs the hem of your sweatshirt and yanks it up to your mouth.

“Bite down,” he orders, pushing the fabric between your lips. You obey instantly, teeth sinking into the cotton, your muffled sounds vibrating against it. “That’s it. So good for me.”

Then he’s back down, tongue sealing over your clit. The sensation is sharp and overwhelming, and your legs try to clamp around his head on instinct. He doesn’t let you — his arm hooks around your thigh, holding it wide open with effortless strength, practically hugging your leg against his head as he devours you.

You moan into the sweatshirt, muffled and ragged, hips bucking involuntarily into his mouth as your body trembles with need.

He groans low, mouth pressed to your clit, fingers pumping relentlessly inside you. The friction, the slick heat, the press of his mouth — it all coils tight inside you until you can’t hold back.

Your walls clench around his fingers, gripping him, legs instinctively squeezing shut as the heavy wave of euphoria crashed throughout your body. Your chest rises and falls wildly, and your moans spill out muffled but desperate, through the fabric he shoved into your mouth.

He drinks you up thoroughly before pulling back, lips glistening, dimples peeking through as he licks them. His fingers slip out, and he sucks them clean as well, tasting your arousal like it was the sweetest treat.

He climbs back up, pressing himself face to face with you, and carefully pulls the now-wet fabric of the sweatshirt out of your mouth.

“You’re a dirty man,” you tease, breathless.

“Didn’t hear you complaining a minute ago,” he replies, leaning down to press a quick, teasing peck to your lips. “You want more, or should we just go back to sleep?”

You bite your lip, suddenly shy, the memory of what just happened making your stomach flutter. “Want you,” you murmur, voice soft but certain.

He smirks before leaning down, kissing you so gently it has you weak, tongue exploring yours as if trying to memorize every curve. He pulls back with a final, teasing peck, holding himself up above you.

Then, with one swift tug, he strips off his last piece of clothing and tosses it aside. His cock bounces free — flushed pink, thick and standing tall, almost smug about the way it makes your breath hitch.

Kneeling over you, he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours. 

“Clark,” you say, voice stern but trembling.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, a soft moan escaping him.

“You’re so… big,” you admit, eyes wide.

“You can take it,” he replies, calm but commanding.

“No, I don’t think I can,” you whisper, heart hammering.

“Yes, you can. C’mon,” he urges, lowering himself closer, teasing the tip against your clit.

He pressed just enough to mix your slick with his pre-cum, dragging it along your folds, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach returns, sharp and insistent. You don’t even think about pulling back anymore.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You hesitate, then nod anyway, heart pounding.

He smirks and taps his tip against your pussy a few times, making you jolt, before finally pushing it inside. Just the head slips in at first, the stretch sharp but addicting.

“Good?” he asks, voice low.

“Y- yeah… just- just go slow,” you breathe, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater like a lifeline.

Clark nods, obeying, easing inch by inch. The intrusion burns and thrills all at once. He’s not just long — he’s thick, every bit of him prying you open, molding your body to fit his. You’ve never taken anything like this, not even your little friend sitting in your drawer beside your bed back at home.

“You’re so warm and tight- fuck,” he groans, eyes fixed on where you’re joined, watching every slow inch disappear inside you.

Your hand slips down instinctively, pressing against your stomach as he bottoms out with a deep, shuddering breath.

“God, you’re gonna split me in half,” you manage, half joking, mainly serious.

Clark lets out a low chuckle, eyes squeezing shut like he’s hanging into control by a thread. “You got it. Just… give me a second.”

The thin layer of sweat on his body glows under the dim lighting, tracing every line of his chest, his abs, those massive arms you secretly wouldn’t mind being in a headlock by. You stare, unable to look away.

“You okay?” he asks, voice ragged.

“Mhm,” you hum, still pressing where you can feel him through your stomach.

You can feel him through your stomach.

“Alright,” he says, opening his eyes again, gaze dark and steady on you. “Gonna move now, okay?”

You nod frantically, fingers fisting the sheets on either side of you, bracing for what you already know is about to be the ride of your life.

Clark pulls out slowly, painfully, then eases back in with less resistance this time. You’re dripping, slick coating him, smearing over the tops of his thighs with every deliberate push. It’s so warm, so wet, every nerve screams at how good it feels.

“Go faster,” you breathe, voice shaky.

His eyes flick up to yours, brows raised. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you moan quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to stay composed.

He pounds into you harder, setting a faster pace, and the flimsy twin bed groans against the floorboards with every thrust.

You tug at the hem of the sweatshirt clinging to your overheated skin, desperate to peel it off.

“No,” he snaps, catching your wrists. His eyes are dark, hungry. “Keep it on. Wanna fuck you in this.”

He fists the sweatshirt though, yanking it up just enough for your tits to spill free. They bounce with every thrust, and his hand is on you instantly — rough, possessive — squeezing like he owns them.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “In my clothes. My bed. Taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hand drags slowly down to your waist as he leans close, his chest flush against yours. “Should just make you mine already, huh?”

You can’t even speak — he’s so big, stretching you to the point of insanity, every thrust knocking the wind out of you. It’s almost feral now, the pace, the way the twin bed screeches across the floorboards, springs crying out with every slam. The headboard keeps smacking against the wall, a steady rhythm.

Clark didn’t lock the door. If his parents wake up and come down the hall to investigate, you’ll both be caught — sweaty, naked, and guilty. The thought only makes your stomach flip harder.

“Fuck,” Clark grits out, suddenly stilling inside of you. One hand cradles your head as the other yanks a pillow out from under you. He shoves it between the headboard and wall, eyes flashing back down at you. “Pussy so good, gonna get me in trouble.”

“Clark, M’so close…” you whisper, breathless — too breathless to say it louder, or you’d scream it.

“Yeah? C’mon, baby,” he growls, rocking his hips rough and deep, “wanna feel you cum around me.”

The knot in your stomach tightens to something sharp, electric — not just release, something bigger, heavier. Your brows pinch together, sweat slick on your skin, and you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out.

“M’gonna cum- c- cover my mouth, cover my mouth!” you squeal, the words tumbling out high and panicked.

Clark’s large hand slaps a hand over your mouth, his palm broad and warm, and you grab his wrist instinctively, your fingers not even reaching around it.

Your body seizes up, clenching around him, so tight it nearly drags him under with you — and then it happens. A sudden rush, a warm spray, your release spilling out uncontrollably, soaking his stomach, his thighs, the sheets.

Clark chokes out a moan, eyes blown wide at the sight. “Fuck…” His hips stutter, fighting for control, watching every drop. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen — and he’s already thinking about how to make you do it again.

You scream, drooling into his palm, but he couldn’t care less — if anything, it spurs him on. He keeps pounding into you with a ruthless rhythm, chasing his own high. And when the squirting doesn’t stop, when your pussy somehow clenches even tighter around him, he finally pulls out with a guttural curse. His hand works his cock in rough, urgent strokes until hot ropes of cum spill across your stomach, getting on the sweater as well.

He pulls off of you with a long, ragged exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I don’t want to boost your ego” you murmur, still catching your breath, “but that was my first time doing that.”

“Huh,” he breathes out, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Well,” you tease, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “No one can be hung like you are.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, a faint pink tint creeping across his cheeks.

“God, Clark,” you breathe, glancing down at the mess, “now it’s gonna be obvious when I change clothes.”

“Hey, you made a mess too!” he whines, tugging at the rumpled sheets.

“You think we were being too loud?” you ask, tilting your head as you watch him wipe away all the fluids with the sheets he was going to wash anyway.

“Definitely,” he says with a grin, voice teasing as he gets up and looks for his robe somewhere on the floor. “Maybe we should just leave now… save ourselves the embarrassment.”

You smirk, shifting on the bed. “You might have to carry me this time, though. Just got my world absolutely rocked by Superman down there.”

He freezes for a second, then chuckles, fumbling for his robe and tying it back around his waist. “You did not just call my dick Superman,” he says, shaking his head, still chuckling.

You only hum, shrugging the sweater off and heading to his dresser to find clean clothes that don’t have his cum on them!

“Uhm…” he starts, fiddling with his hands like he can’t decide where to put them. “I… I wanna make things right. The whole… hook up stuff isn’t really my thing. So, when we head back to Metropolis… I was wondering if you- like, maybe you’d wanna go out for dinner, or stay in and I could cook for you instead? Or, um, if not that’s totally fine, I get it! We can just stay friends, act like nothing happened-“

“Clark,” you cut him off, walking toward him. “You just fucked the living hell out of me, and now you’re all shy?”

He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “Sorry… so? What do you think?”

You nod, smiling. “I would love that. Honestly, I’d be pissed if you wanted to just stay friends after fucking me like that.”

He chuckles, sliding a hand around your waist to slap your ass. You squeal a little too loudly.

“Shh!” he hisses, leaning closer, smirk tugging at his lips.

You playfully swat him with the shirt in your hands. “You really underestimate your strength, you know that?”

“So, I've been wondering— and you don’t have to answer— but is your dick different from humans?” 

You say the words without even looking up from your textbook and notebook. A pen continues to twirl between your fingers as you absentmindedly fidget. The choking noise that fills the air concerns you for half a second, forcing you to look over your shoulder and at the man who was quietly going through his articles on his laptop before you rudely interrupted him.

“You haven’t talked in hours,” he mutters, referring to how you crashed his apartment just to study. He removes his glasses off of his face– frames that he doesn’t even need to wear– to drag a hand down his face like it would wipe away the absurdity of your question. “And this is what you say?”

“My anatomy class finally moved on to sex,” you say, as if that was supposed to explain anything. 

“… Right.” Clark looks exhausted. He probably wishes he never opened his front door to you, but here you were. Well, even if he didn’t, you could always use the spare key that he gave you ages ago. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”

You roll your eyes at his sass, “C’mon. You know why I'm asking this.”

Of course he does. You were the first person to know of his abilities— right after his Ma and Pa. You'd been there to watch him soar into the sky for the first time, finally unafraid. You watched him discover ice breath, and remembered how distraught he was as he looked at you. 

Clark sighs, chest rising and falling dramatically with the breath. “My… reproductive organs are similar, from what I can tell.”

“From what you can tell,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. 

“I didn’t exactly grow up with Kryptonian anatomy lessons,” he shoots back immediately. “I haven’t seen a spliced Kryptonian in a museum— a body donated for science and research.”

You pause, then shrug slightly. “I guess.”

He huffs. Actually huffs, like he’s throwing a mini tantrum over your lack of thought to your question. Despite it, he still settles back onto the couch. His muscles no longer feel locked in place, he can breathe normally—

“So you don’t have an alien dick?” 

“Sweet lord— what are you going on about?” he whines, looking at you with pleading eyes. You ignore it in favor of expanding your knowledge on his biology. 

“You know,” you say, waving a hand in the air, “Some of the rifts— there’s documents on the corpses that come through. talking about how some male presenting aliens have both uterus and testicles, like they can impregnate and be pregnant, too—“

“I don’t have a womb,” he says, followed by your name falling from his lips in exasperation. 

“But are you sure?” 

“You know those released documents also included strong evidence that those aliens also had a menstrual cycle,” he quickly says. Clark moves his laptop off of his thighs, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He’s one second away from burying his face into his hands. “I haven’t— I think I would know if I was bleeding from my pen… from my thing.”

Clark's ears are red. Bright red. He can’t even hide it. 

Suddenly, your questions are no longer out of simple curiosity. Now, you want to poke the bear. Except the bear is too sweet and kind to tell you to knock it off, to get out of his apartment, and to leave him the hell alone.

“Your thing?” you tease, a smile spreading across your face. “Your cock, Clark.”

“Do you have to be so vulgar?”

“It’s basic anatomy.” You cross your arms over your chest. “One that you claim to have.”

“I don’t—!” He runs his hands through his hair, clearly stressed. You can’t help but giggle at the sight. “I don’t claim to have regular anatomy, whatever that means.”

“So you admit that your body is biologically built differently.”

“I mean, yes, but not like that!” 

“Like what?” 

“Please,” he groans, nearly desperate now. 

“Ooh, begging,” you say as your grin spreads even wider. “Are you trying to keep Kryptonian biology a secret?”

It doesn’t take much for him to break. You knew that. Always have, and always will. Clark was scarily easy to bait. 

“My dick is normal!” he finally shouts, face still flushed. You swear he’s sweating, too. 

“But how do you know that?” you ask. You’re not even trying to hide the lilt in your voice. “You compare lengths in the locker room in school?”

“Oh my— stop. please.”

“So guys don't do that? That’s just a myth said online?” 

“You’re not totally off,” he quickly says, only to pause a moment later. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

You pout at him, giving him your best pleading eyes you could muster. For someone made of steel and ice, this man melted at the sight of you. He always did. 

A deep sigh escapes his chest as he leans back into the couch. “My college ex said my… penis… was above average. I haven't seen other men’s… things, but i’m assuming since she didn’t have an issue with it then it has to be normal.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Do you not watch porn?”

Your name falls from his lips in utter shock, matching the look on face. “You do?”

“You don’t?” 

Clark stares at you, as if he’d been slapped with a bucket of freezing water. You can only stare back, waiting for his response. 

“… No,” he finally mutters. 

“Huh,” you say, taking in the sight of him. Even seated, he’s large. If you stood in front of him right now, you’d barely be taller than him. “Well, it makes sense that you’d be above average. with your height and all. Do you think that is also Kryptonian?”

“I don't know.” Clark shrugs, and it seems like the embarrassment of the topic is slowly melting off of him. “Probably?”

You hum, contemplative. “So, your dick doesn’t have ridges on it? Like spiky nubs along the shaft? Do you think your sperm count is higher than the average human male? Must be stronger, too. I wonder if a normal human woman would be able to carry your children to term without complications.”

A frown takes over his face at your rapid fire questions and commentary. Though he doesn’t look as bothered as he was earlier. It's as if he’s really thinking about it this time. 

“I would really hope that whoever carries my children won’t have any complications, but that’s another thing that I wouldn't know until the time came.” Clark's pointer finger taps thoughtfully on his knee as he continues to think, “All of your questions have to do with research that hasn’t been conducted on me.”

“You didn’t answer my question about the appearance of your cock, Clark.”

This time, a pretty red takes over his face. “Why are you so intrigued?” 

“Just answer, or I'm gonna demand you to just show me so I can find out,” you groan. 

“If I do show you, would you stop asking?” 

It’s your turn to freeze in place, blinking at him. He's still the shade of a tomato, but he’s not cringing at his words. If anything, he seems determined. like this would really shut you up. 

“Take your pants off then,” you dare. 

Clark, ever so obedient and kind, moves. his hands reach for the button of his jeans, so certain and sure. 

Suddenly, you realize how close the two of you really are. 

You grew up together with neighboring farms in Smallville. The two of you used to sleep in the same bed as children when your parents dropped you off at Kent's for a sleepover. 

As a child, the two of you used to change right in front of each other. Even as a budding teenager, you didn’t feel the need to hide away from him, though he was always a respectful kid and began to turn his head away on his own. 

Clark went off to college first to pursue journalism. It didn't stop your contact with each other, even when he went off to Metropolis first. You simply told him you’d follow him soon. And you did. 

You had your own place in the city, no longer dorming as it was your last year in university. Still, you spent more time in Clark's apartment than on your own. You had a key to his place, welcoming yourself and making yourself at home even when he was at work on the Daily Planet— especially when he was at work as superman. 

You’d fussed over wounds you knew would heal at the sight of first light, and he would let you take care of him. Clark knew it calmed you down. 

Clark always let you do what you wanted, and would always do as you asked. 

And now, he was unzipping his pants. 

“Wait,” you say quickly, as his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his briefs. “Are you okay with this?”

Clark's eyebrows pull together, eyes flickering up to you. “You’re the one who asked, and now you’re the one backing out?”

“I just… I don't want to make you uncomfortable if you don’t actually wanna…” you murmur slowly. 

“It’s you.” His words are said like it’s normal— like being you was a good enough reason to do anything. In this case— take his pants off. “I don't mind.”

You swallow, a weird rush of sentimental feelings going through you. Then, you nod, steeling yourself. “Show me your weird alien cock.”

“It's not weird,” he grumbles, “You’re lucky I love you.” A moment later, he’s lifting his hips off the couch slightly as he pushes both underwear and pants down his thighs. 

Your jaw drops, and you suddenly can’t breathe. 

The sight before you— he was right. His cock isn’t weird. If anything, it’s the prettiest dick you’d ever seen. 

Maybe it was the mix of him being carefully groomed as well and the fact the man before you was already pretty everywhere else, but you don’t think you’d ever seen a dick as nice as his. 

Clark's soft, but he’s still big. His skin is smooth, resting against his pelvis, dormant and asleep. You wondered if he was a grower— if he got bigger than the estimated seven inches you were staring at. 

Even his balls were fucking nice to look at. The seam of it— oh my God. You were going insane. 

“So?” he questions, breaking the silence and your thoughts. He sounds nervous, “What’s the verdict?”

You lick your lips, taking a deep breath. “You're actually really beautiful, Clark."

He stares at you, and you’re certain it was the last thing he expected you to say. So, you clear your throat. 

“I mean,” you start, “I've seen a good amount of cock. Yours is, by far, the best.”

Clark blinks at you, still digesting your words. “… Thanks. I guess.”

“Is it as soft as it looks?” you ask, finally getting a grasp of yourself again. “It looks soft. Like— your skin.”

He pauses for a moment, looking down at himself. Then, he reaches. 

You lied. You don’t have a grasp of yourself. Your sanity is gone, thrown out the window at the sight you were witnessing. 

Clark, sitting there on the couch, pants pulled down, with his hand wrapped around his cock. He's still flaccid, but he’s running his hand along his dick, trying to get the best answer for your question. 

“Just feels like… the rest of me,” he murmurs, frowning as he concentrates. “Nothing really different. You wanna feel?”

You’re a dead woman. 

You brought up this topic. At first, it was genuine curiosity. Upon seeing his reactions, you moved onto some lighthearted teasing. It wasn’t supposed to progress to whatever was happening now. In the back of your mind, you’re wondering if he’s doing all of this now just to mess with you like you did with him. 

The curious look on his face tells you he’s not even thinking about it. 

You should tell him it’s a bad idea. That there’s boundaries in friendships, and even though you’re so comfortable with him, maybe there’s things you shouldn’t be doing.

But your feet are moving, and you’re standing in front of him within a few steps. 

“You sure?” you ask, hoping your voice comes out steady. 

Clark releases himself, then nods. 

You’re leaning forward before you have the chance to allow more rational thoughts to invade your mind. It’s as if your hand wasn’t connected to the rest of your brain, moving before you could even stop yourself– and holy shit your hand is small compared to him. He's warm to the touch, skin smoother than you originally thought. 

His cock jumps in your hand, and Clark flinches. The gravity of the situation just dawned upon him, and blood was rushing throughout him, coloring his cheeks and hardening his dick. 

“Wait,” he whispers, breath catching in his throat. “I’m sorry— I didn’t— I'm not meaning to—“

“You really are pretty, Clark,” you cut him off, a little mesmerized. 

You can feel his eyes on your face, but you’re not looking back at him. You still can’t tear your eyes off the annoyingly pretty sight of his cock. Then again, you should’ve expected it. The rest of him was just as gorgeous.

There's a vein popping on the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing against your palm. His skin is still smooth despite losing the soft feel of it. And you were shocked— he was a grower. Both length and girth filled out with the rush of blood, and your mind wandered. 

His ex was fucking wrong. This man wasn’t above average. He was far from it— this was off the scale. He was Godly. 

“I don’t think you’d be able to fit.”

The words slipped out of your mouth softly, mainly spoken to yourself more than him. 

Clark's breath hitches. “What are you…”

“Just, theoretically, if we had sex, I don't think you’d fit in with me. You'd probably rip me apart— my hand barely can hold all of you when you’re soft, let alone hard. I don't know if it would even feel good to have you inside of me.”

“Oh my… You really can’t be saying these kinds of things while you’re still holding me,” he groans, head dropping back against the cushions as he shut his eyes. 

“I’m not wrong,” you argue. “Logistically speaking, there’s no way this would feel pleasurable for me– you’d tear me in half before I even get to cum.”

He lifts his head, and you look up at him. He's still flushed, but now he looks offended. “If we had sex, I wouldn't just stick it in you. I know it’s bigger than average so I'd make sure you’re prepared first. I'd need to fit at least three fingers in you— comfortably— before either of us could imagine me inside you. Besides that, who says I wouldn’t make you cum at least twice before I even want my dick in you?”

You can’t help the warmth you feel in your nether regions— like a sudden zap that went between your legs to make you feel weak at the knees. 

Clark notices. He always does.

He swallows, visibly nervous as a whisper comes from his lips. “Did I make it weird?” 

You’re surprised you can even suck in a breath. You shouldn’t be able to breathe. Your autonomic nervous system should be failing, but here you are. 

“Only weird if you think it’s weird, Kent,” you murmur. 

“You smell different.”

Fuck him, and fuck those super senses of his. You should’ve known better— he could easily spot every single twitch in your body, the change of scent as pheromones exit your body, and the feel of the light tremble of your hand against him. 

But despite all of that, a smile comes to your lips.

“Now you’re making it weird,” you tease. 

A devastating grin spreads Clark Kent's face. “My apologies. Thought we passed weird when you didn’t take your hand off me,” he hums. 

“You want me to?” 

The smile falters, and his eyes meet yours. He's reading you. Your face. reactions. Anything he can use to figure out what’s going through your head. You're doing the exact same thing to him. 

Finally, he speaks. 

“No. Want you closer, actually.” 

You don’t fight him when his hands reach for you, landing on your hips. You don’t fight him as he guides you towards him, your knees resting naturally on either side of his thighs. 

You’ve released him now, but only in favor of your hands sliding up his chest before finding home on the broad expanse of his shoulders. He's looking up at you, blue eyes swimming with an emotion you see every day— love.

Only now you’re realizing that the simple love you!’s that you’ve been throwing at him meant something else entirely for him. 

“There you are,” he murmurs, thumbs rubbing circles into your hipbones. “You only notice me when my dick is out and between us?”

“Thought you didn’t like that word,” you say, a little breathless. 

Clark smiles a bit wider, eyes sparkling. “I don’t mind it every once in a while.”

A laugh falls from your lips as you stare down at him, taking in every ounce of affection he was oozing out at you. You want to say something to acknowledge his feelings, but not yet. Not when you’re currently hovering over him, his cock still out and slowly, but surely getting more firm as the seconds pass.