no. you move.

she/her | 19 | peggy carter’s lawyer

[imposterogers]

the worst part is steve rogers WOULDN’T. he wouldn’t leave sam with the responsibility of the shield without being there to support him. he wouldn’t go back to a woman who died of old age, had her own life and told him to move on. he wouldn’t have ever, not even once, considered leaving bucky — aka his entire world wrapped up in one person — alone, especially after just getting him back. and he wouldn’t have decided that he’d fought the good fight enough and retire in suburbia in the decade epitomes for traditional values aka an antitheses to everything he stood for. the real steve rogers would legitimately hate the man marvel put on the screen in endgame. and yet. and yet

[wxntertoast]

☆ Hope ☆ Bucky Barnes

○ Pairing Bucky Barnes x reader

○ Summary Bucky thinks his life is over after escaping Hydra's grasp. That is, until he met you.

○ Warnings 18+ only no smut, blog rule. Angst, a few hints towards suicidal ideation (dont be afraid to ask for help), not proofread, happy ending

Bucky Barnes the first few years away from Hydras grasp is traumatized beyond belief.

He scratches at the arm every so often. All the nightmares centered around it. He can still feel what it was like to wake up with it, and then forced to use it for evil purposes. All the lives hes choked out with it, all the bullets hes stopped, all the families destroyed because of it. Parents never knowing where their kid went, kids never knowing where their parent went.

And thats all he wanted before everything. A family. A wife to take care of, to watch grow their child, and a child to come home to. A family to cherish.

Now, he fights his sleep, an all too familiar feeling of being put into the cryochamber. Sometimes he wakes up in a panic, ready to hear those cursed words. A sequence he'll never forget, forced to remember, now that he's not forced to forget. He's ready for the feeling to take over, the willingness to comply, worry and guilt slipping from his grasp just as it had done countless times before.

If asked, he'd say he doesn't know how many missions he's been on. "Too many to count."

But he knows, and he remembers.

The small apartment gave him some hope. Some sense of reality, of life beyond control and brainwashing. Every trip to the store, every time he flips through the cable channels, every bus ride, bike ride, long walk. All of it.

He tries desperately to cling to those moments. To remind himself that despite the arm and the serum, he is still human. Just like everyone else. Just like all he wants to be. He wonders how long the serum will keep him alive past the usual human breaking point, but he hopes it won't.

One morning, when he realized he was out of breakfast food, he almost decides it's not worth it anymore— this life, but by the grace of whatever God is out there, he finds more hope.

It came in the form of an animal. A small, white cat, who first ran from him. She tucked herself under a dumpster in an alley next to the apartment complex. Bucky wasn't sure what to do with her, but she obviously needed help. He clung to the human need to help, to want to help, like his very life depended on it.

Maybe it did.

He eventually coaxed her out, gently petting down her back. She was wet from the rain, cold to the touch, and so Bucky picked her up and tucked her into his jacket, hoping his warmth would convince her to not fight back.

In the midst of deciding he had no more purpose, he was given one. The need to be there for his new pet. He needed to take care of her, to feed her, to brush her, to bathe her if she so needed.

Instead of breakfast food, he bought all what he thought he would need for her. Alpine, he decided.

It was as if she could feel his hurt, his nightmares, his prayers, and listened. He wasn't so sure she was smart enough for that level of emotional intelligence, but he decided not to question it when she sat on his chest purring as he fell asleep peacefully for once.

You came not long after, pulled in by the sight of a man with a cat in his jacket, straddling a motorcycle. You introduced yourself with the question to pet the cat. Bucky smiled, genuinely, for the first time in forever in that moment.

How could he not? A pretty woman— no, beautiful woman, wearing such a pretty dress, asking talking to him without fear, but instead excitement.

He nodded, unzipping the jacket just enough to let you reach in and let the animal smell your hand. Alpine turned her head to the side, rubbing her cheek against your hand, letting you pet her without fear.

You laughed, and Bucky could only hope you didnt notice the new red tint to his cheeks as his smile grew to the sound. He could only muster up the courage to stutter out an introduction.

After an exchange of numbers, he drove off with a newfound light in his life.

Moving you in was a breeze, a no-brainer. When you finished college and needed a place to stay, Bucky took the chance to offer you his.

You'd made the apartment a little more lively and put together, but he wouldn't have it any other way now. New bedsheets with a blanket and pillow cases to match. New curtains for the windows, new towels for the bathroom, and a few pictures of the two of you hung to the walls. He loved it because it had you written all over it.

That night he finally got to sleep with your warmth beside his, tucked under his arms where he knew you'd be safe. Alpine curled herself up beside you, purring in content as you both slept. A night without nightmares was once in a blue moon, but now they were nearly gone.

Every so often he'd wake up in a pool of sweat, his brain reeling from whatever nightmare his trauma decided to serve him. But he could look down at you and Alpine sleeping peacefully, his girls, and know those days were over, and to think this was once only a dream.

○ Authors notes been a minute since I wrote a whole fic, but managed to get this out all in one go. I like angst every once in a while. Hope you enjoyed! Consider liking/reblogging :)

[godmadeaterribleerror]

messy

✦Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦

✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦

✦wc: 10.9k✦

✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦

You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.

Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.

But not him.

You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.

“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“

“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”

“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“

“Yes, you have.”

Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”

You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”

“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.

“You should go try that.”

That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-

Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-

“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.

“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“

“No, he was looking before-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Yes, he was-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Who wasn’t what.”

You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-

“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.

I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.

“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”

You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-

He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.

Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.

And you’re not. You know you’re not.

You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.

You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.

But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.

They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.

The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.

Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.

She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.

Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.

You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.

In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.

You need to get a fucking grip.

“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-

Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”

You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“

“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”

“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”

Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”

“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.

“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.

It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.

You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.

“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-

“Kid, you already have.”

Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.

Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.

“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.

With his presence. His closeness.

How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.

“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”

You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.

“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“

“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.

The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.

“Everything’s fine.”

Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.

But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.

And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.

“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.

You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”

I dressed up for you.

“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.

“Is the printer out of paper still?”

“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he’s not-“

“Yes, he is-“

“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”

Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”

“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”

“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”

You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.

“Hi, Stacy.”

She almost glows. “You remember my name?”

“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”

Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”

Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”

Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“

“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”

You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.

“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”

Right. Lunch.

“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.

“I took a photo with the guards.”

“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“

“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“

“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”

Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“

“But you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it-“

“Steven Rogers.”

You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.

“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.

“Next time, tell them no.”

“But then I can’t come upstairs.”

You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“

“Or I can just do the photos-“

“No-“

“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.

“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.

He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.

No hope. It just makes everything else harder.

If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.

His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.

You can’t handle this at all.

The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.

You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.

Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.

You want to shoot yourself in the face.

It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.

“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.

“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”

He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.

You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.

Not that you’re much better about that, either.

“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“

“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”

He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”

“Why not-“

“It’s unethical.”

“I… don’t think that’s true-“

“Well, I didn’t earn it.”

“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“

“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.

Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”

You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.

“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”

You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.

“No. You don’t.”

That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.

“There she is-“

“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”

“A lot.”

“Like what-“

“You have to ask me to find out.”

You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.

“You suck.” You grumble.

He shrugs. “I know you think that.”

You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.

“I’m going to punch you in the face-“

“I’d like to see you try, kid.”

Kid.

You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.

“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”

“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”

Of course he will.

And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.

This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.

You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.

But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.

And that just makes it all hurt even more.

Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.

Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.

Consciously. 

But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.

You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.

And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.

Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.

But you still kept saying no.

Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.

Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.

Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.

But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.

And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.

More than usual right now. But all the time.

“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.

“Wait- I’ll come with you-“

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”

You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.

You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.

“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.

“I’m a journalist-“

“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.

That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.

“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”

Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”

“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.

“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”

He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“

“Only to people who deserve it.”

That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.

You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.

There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.

And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.

The same way he smiles at you.

You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.

There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.

You tried to be his friend. You really tried.

But you can’t.

“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.

“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”

You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.

“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”

Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”

“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.

“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”

“Stuff.” You snip.

Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”

“What the fuck does that mean-“

“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”

You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.

But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.

You have to go now.

“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”

And Stark laughs, as you turn away.

“Oh. I’m sure I will.”

You avoid Steve for a week.

Properly avoid him.

He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.

You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.

To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.

Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.

You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.

Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.

You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.

There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.

And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.

Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.

You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-

You yank the door open, and freeze.

Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.

This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.

He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.

“Steve-“

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”

 You blink. “I- What are you-“

“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.

“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

“With whom.”

Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“

“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”

You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”

“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name. 

This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.

“Is he nice.”

Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.

“Who?”

“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”

“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.

“What did I do?”

His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.

“You didn’t do anything-“

“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“

He waves to your outfit, and you frown.

“It’s just a date-“

“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.

“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“

“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”

He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.

Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.

Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.

Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.

A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.

“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“

“Steve-“

“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“

“You can’t fix it!” You shout.

He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.

“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”

“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“

“Stop being so nice to me.”

He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.

“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”

“Can’t-“

“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“

You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.

“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.

Letting you go.

You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.

But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.

A dream.

You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.

Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.

You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-

“God- Screw it.”

A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.

Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-

It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.

You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.

Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.

Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.

He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.

But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.

This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.

He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-

This is a hit.

And you need to have more.

You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.

He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.

You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.

He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.

It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.

“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“

“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.

“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.

At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.

Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.

He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.

But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.

“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.

Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy. 

His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.

“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”

You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.

Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.

“Look at me.”

His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.

You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.  

“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”

You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“

“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”

“Wha- Oh-“

He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.

“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”

“You- You didn’t lose me-“

“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”

You glare up at him. “You let me-“

“No, I didn’t.” 

Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.

Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.

Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm. 

“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.

“Ruin…”

“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”

You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.

“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.

“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”

You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”

“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”

You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.

“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”

It does.

Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.

You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.

Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.

“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”

You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I-“

“I just came on your knee.”

His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”

“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.

Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“

You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.

You’d very much like to see him give up.

“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.

Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.

“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”

You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.

“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“

“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”

“’M sorry about that-“

“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”

“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“

“You weren’t.”

“I got that now-“

“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.

He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.

“Fucking me.”

Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.

You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.

Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.

He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.

You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.

He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.

“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“

He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.

“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“

That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.

“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“

“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”

“I- Um- Ooooh-“

You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.

“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”

“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.

“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”

You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“

“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.

“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.

Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.

“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”

He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.

“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”

“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“

“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”

He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.

“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“

Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.

He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.

“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”

You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.

Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.

“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.

You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.

He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.

“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”

He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.

“Jesus, Steve-“

“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“

“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”

You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.

“Dude?”

“Um-“

“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e

“Sorry, sir.”

You say it half to mock him, half to test something.

Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.

“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No, sir.”

Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.

“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.

Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.

He never does anything halfway.

“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”

You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.

The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are. 

Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.

“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”

“Steveee-“

“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.

You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.

“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.

“Sweetheart-“

“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“

He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.

He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.

“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“

Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.

“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“

“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“

Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.

A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”

You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.

“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.” 

Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.

“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“

You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.

“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”

You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.

He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.

“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“

That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.

“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“

He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you.  Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.

It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.

Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.

“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“

Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.

“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”

You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.

“Steve- I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”

The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.

It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-

You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.

Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.

“Woah.”

“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“

“Steve-“

“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“

“Steve-“

“I’m so sorry-“

“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.

You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.

“Does that happen every time?”

He swallows, and nods.

“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”

Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”

Steve blinks. “Okay?”

You nod, and he shakes his head.

“I ruined your room-“

“I liked it.”

He stares. You smile.

Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.

“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.

“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“

He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.

“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”

You smile. You have no plans to do that.

Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.

✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[that-one-fangirl69]

I've seen a lot of ff writers apologize for their fic being "self-indulgent" which baffles me cause like is that not the entire concept of fanfiction?????

SAY IT WITH ME FOLKS, "FANFICTION IS SUPPOSED TO BE SELF-INDULGENT"

[rogers-carter]

steve rogers + side profile

[captianspidey]

most prettiest man in the world

[redd-blushing-roses]

You're a Good Boy, Krypto

word count: 25.9k

pairing: Clark Kent x reader

summary: a lot can can happen in nine months. Clark and you learn to navigate your ever changing lives, balancing the calm of awaiting your new family member and the chaos Krypto somehow always manages to cause.

warnings: pregnancy, morning sickness and vomit, mentions of birth and labor, a little bit of an existential crisis, life, reader is implied being shorter and smaller in stature, Krypto being a menace to Clark, emotions galore, Ma and Pa being the cutest, Kara is Krypto's enabler, brief Guy Gardner jump scare, mentions of c-section, pregnancy worries and scares. idk, let me know if I missed anything.

notes: this is wayy longer than I expected it to be. Totally fluffy and a little chaotic. I spend way too much thinking about Clark Kent as a dad. He's just so special to me.

I made a playlist for this one; link here if you'd like to listen.

enjoy reading :)

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The afternoon was sweet with the smell of summer, the breeze cool despite the bright sun above. The porch steps creak beneath you as you sit, eyes closed as you enjoy the quiet of the Kent farm.

“Krypto! Krypto no, be careful!”

Or as quiet as it could be with your husband and his energetic ball of cosmic fur. You peek a glimpse out into the cattle pasture, Clark's tall silhouette running after the small blur of white fur. Krypto bounds between the cows, snapping his jaws playfully, barking with excitement. Clark squats down and captures the dog in his arms, rubbing his furry side, trying to calm him. 

“Buddy, be careful. They don't play as rough as you.” 

You watch as Krypto just stares, his tongue lolling, tail wagging ceaselessly. He gives Clark a large lick across his cheek, Clark groaning as Krypto bounds off again. You laugh to yourself, the screen door opening behind you with a rattling creak. 

“You doing okay out here sweetheart?” 

Martha Kent smiles down at you, wiping her hand against her flour covered apron. 

You give her a bright smile. “I’m doing just fine Martha. Thank you.” 

“Good. That's good,” there's a wordless energy between the both of you. The excitement that lingered in every glance, in every smile of the Kent household since you'd last visited. 

Martha hangs in the entryway of the house, her wrinkled hands clinging to the screen door. She watches Clark in the field as he chases after Krypto, a large smile on her face. It was a look wrapped up in motherly love and amusement, in hope of future memories yet to be made.

“He's gonna be a worrier. Over protective. Just like Jon was with him.” You chuckle softly, thinking about all the ways Clark had changed already. 

The glances in the car, the hand which never left the small of your back, the soft murmurs he kissed into your temple.

“You rest a little more, I’ve got breakfast covered."

“It's okay hon. Go sit down, I’ll finish the laundry.”

Clark worried alright. 

“He is. But I wouldn't have your son any other way.” Martha gives you a smile. 

“He’ll do alright. You both will.” 

“Thanks Martha.” You glance over as the sound of Krypto’s barks grows louder, the dog jumping against Clark as the poor man tries to make his way towards the porch. Martha laughs, a raspy and warm sound, and heads back inside. At the sound of the screen door closing, Krypto turns, spotting you. His ears perk up, tail wagging with excitement.

Clark’s eyes widen as the dog digs his haunches into the dirt, ready to spring at you. 

“Krypto, stop. Stop- STOP!” 

The dog is already off and your eyes widen as he launches himself at you. Your hands instinctively cover your middle, bracing for impact-

But it never comes. Clark stands, chest heaving, clutching Krypto by the scruff of his neck. Krypto dangles just a foot from you, his tail still wagging, tongue lolling as he blinks at you. Clark huffs as he sets the dog down, hands resting on his hip. 

“Dude, what did we talk about?” Krypto barks, trotting in a circle before sitting at your feet. You lean down, scratching the top of his head in the way you knew he liked. 

“He didn’t mean anything, Clark. He was just excited.”

Clark sighs. “He could have hurt you.” You look up at him, a pained concern written on Clark's face. Krypto could have hurt a lot more than just you. But he didn’t know any better. 

“He’s just a dog,” you smile down at the white canine. Krypto looks up at you, clearly enjoying your support. “Isn’t that right buddy, huh- and a cute one.” Clark rolls his eyes as you coo at the dog, Krypto licking your hands with appreciation. 

“Yeah, a bad dog.” You scoff with feigned disbelief. 

“Krypto is not a bad dog, Clark.” The man gives you a look.

“Honey, he practically destroyed our couch the last time we watched him.” 

“He was just playing.” 

“He would call chasing squirrels and eating mice playing.” Clark crosses his arms, glaring at the dog. 

You shake your head, giving Krypto one last scratch before standing. Clark moves quickly to try and help you up and you laugh. 

“I’m okay, I can still get up myself.”

“I know,” Clark flushes. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I’ll be alright.” You reach out for Clark’s hand, squeezing it gently. He sighs, the porch creaking beneath his weight as he moves up the steps, bringing you into an embrace. You're engulfed by the large man, your arms wrapping around his broad back as he hugs you gently. 

------------------------------------------------------

Krypto just watches the both of you as you hug, furry head titled as you both look at each other. It was wordless, but it was there. That secret thing you’d both been smiling about for a couple weeks now.

The thing that made Clark kiss you gently, made his touch linger a little longer; the thing that made you hum in the kitchen and smile a little brighter.

Krypto wasn’t sure exactly what it was. He’d been away for a few weeks with Kara, visiting another planet. One with flying squirrels!

But when Kara had dropped him off last week, he’d noticed it. The change. 

Even now, Clark and you were whispering about something, the man’s thumb brushing just below your belly. Maybe you were hungry. Krypto was always hungry. 

The dog nudges Clark’s pants with his snout, whining. After a minute of this, Clark tells Krypto to stop. The dog debates biting him. That usually got his attention. But it also got him yelled at. And he wanted food, not a lecture. 

So Krypto tries you, barking once as he nudges his wet nose against your legs. 

“What’s wrong buddy?” You smile down at him, your arms still wrapped around Clark. Krypto barks again, hopping up the steps of the porch and padding to the screen door. “Are you hungry? Ready for some lunch?” 

See, you got it!

You laugh, turning to Clark. “Lunch doesn’t sound too bad.”

The man chuckles, pressing a kiss on your cheek. 

“Anything for you, love.”  

--- October ---

It was hard to tell if Krypto actually knew what was going on. They say dogs are attuned to the human body, often sensing changes in emotions or health before their owners even realize anything was going on. 

But Krypto…

Krypto didn’t seem to quite understand why everyone was acting so different. He didn’t seem to understand why Martha and Jonathan visited so often now, why they always entered the house with beaming smiles and went straight to see you instead of him like they normally would. 

“Oh I’m sorry Krypto, are you feeling left out. Here I brought you a little treat- oh and honey! I brought you some ginger tea. All the women at the grocers said it helped them when they were preg-” 

Martha never did get around to giving Krypto his treat.

“Krypto, buddy you’re still here! It’s good to see you- Clark. I’ve never been prouder of you. It may seem like you’re in over your head now, but just wait. There’s nothing sweeter than paren-”

Jonathan didn’t play ball with Krypto like he used to.

Krypto seemed confused over the changes in Clark. The way the man would hover around you, asking if you were alright, if you needed anything. The way his hands always lingered on your back or slid along the side of your belly. The way Clark would get onto Krypto more than before, talking to him in a sterner voice, getting more distressed over the dog’s antics. 

“Krypto! What did I say about that room? It’s not for you anymore.”

“Clark! Calm down, he’s just curious.”

“I know honey, but with the stuff for the ba-”

The thing Krypto seemed most baffled by, was you. And you couldn’t blame him. You were baffled by all the things happening to you. 

He’d watch you with a tilted head from the bathroom door, your fingers clutching the porcelain bowl as you threw up your guts. He’d watch you with his big glass eyes as you ate three helpings of cereal in the morning, the plain cheerios you now ate instead of your usual cinnamon and almond kind. He'd watch you carefully as you lay on the couch, too tired to do anything around the house, your fingers gently tracing shapes around your belly. 

One afternoon, while laying down with your book and trying to rest after another morning spent hunched over the toilet, you finally decided to have a talk with Krypto. Clark was off at work, reluctantly leaving Krypto with you, and the poor dog kept trying to get you to play and go outside with him.

You thought maybe if you explained…

“Krypto,” you call his name softly, the dog’s ears perking up from his spot by the apartment window. You pat the side of the couch you were laying on, “come here, boy.”

Krypto trots over, nose wet against your palm as he presses his snout into your hand. You scratch behind his ear, his fur soft beneath the pads of your fingers. 

“I have to tell you something buddy. It's kind of a secret though, so we can't go around telling everyone.” Krypto sits on the rug, watching you attentively.

You feel a little silly talking to him, but there's something in his sparkling eyes that makes you somewhat confident he actually understands you. Or, he at least wants to understand.

“You know how I’ve been so tired lately? And how Clark’s been a little distracted?” Krypto stares, a calm stillness you've never seen in the usually hyperactive dog taking over. You shift on the couch. “Well, it's because I’m pregnant. Do you know what that means?” 

Krypto tilts his head, whining softly. Your fingers leave their spot behind his ear, coming to rest over your still flat belly. 

“It means I’m having a baby Krypto.” 

Krypto’s nose follows your hand, sniffing your sweater. His snout presses gently into your belly, white tail wagging faster as he looks up at you. 

You smile, laughing softly. Could dogs even smell babies so early in the first trimester? Did he even know what a baby was?? 

Krypto licks your hand, jumping on to the couch. You yelp, heart beat spiking as you worry about having to defend yourself from the overexcited dog- 

But he doesn’t bound about like you expected. Krypto’s usual rambunctiousness was lost as he carefully pads around your legs, paws digging into the cushions. You ease up a little, laying back down as the dog lays between your legs, his head resting just below your belly. And he just stares. 

At everything. At nothing. 

You’d been doing the same lately. Going into your spare room and eyeing the four walls, imagining a nursery instead of the cramped office room you had now. When Clark and you went grocery shopping, you’d linger by the diaper section, fingers tracing the printed images of toddlers on the boxes. At Centennial Park you’d watch toddlers running around, trying to picture a mini Clark or you in their place.

Even though nothing had really changed yet, it felt like everything had. Your baby, still too small to have even a heartbeat, had already shifted your world so much. They were already so loved, by Clark and you. By their grandparents. And now, possibly, by the hyperactive alien dog Clark watched for his cousin.

You smile at Krypto, his nose twitching as he watches you.

“You do understand, don’t you buddy.” His tail wags, brushing your leg gently. You scratch his head once more, a big yawn leaving your mouth, eyes drooping closed slowly. 

Krypto yawns against you, and you find yourself drifting off, sleep calling once more.

------------------------------------------------------

The Metropolis sky was a painting of gold and indigo, the setting sun illuminating the towering buildings and knotted highways. The waterway glittered beneath the last rays of sunlight, a flock of birds fluttering past Clark in confusion as he flew through the clouds. Everything was beautiful at this hour, lights blurring into shooting stars, the world becoming a puzzle block of lives as Clark climbs higher into the sky. 

To the city below, Superman was flying through on his evening rounds, speeding past in a blur of blue and red. 

To Clark, he was trying to get home as fast as he could, itching to see you.

It had been a long day at the Daily Planet. Countless phone calls and dead ends, coffee that grew cold too quickly and a lunch hour that turned into a mission to save a building that had caught fire. Clark had even left work early, set on getting that takeout you liked so much and just spending the rest of the evening on the couch with you. 

He knew how tired you’d been recently, how this early stage of pregnancy was weighing on you. Growing a baby was no small task, as Clark was beginning to learn. And growing a half Kryptonian baby was even more challenging from what he understood.

But of course, Metropolis, as beautiful as it was, never slept. Halfway to the little chinese restaurant you loved, Clark’s ears prickled with the sound of a woman screaming for help. Twenty minutes later, a ship off the coast of Central City was thrown off course and had to be pushed safely into the harbor. 

And just a few minutes ago, Clark had stopped a malfunctioning plane from hurtling down into a city block, helping it to fly back to the landing pad safely. He’d done it all with a smile of course. Nodding politely as people cheered, making sure everyone was alright before lifting off again. 

But he’d missed dinner. His plans to surprise you had slowly slipped away as he realized ‘being Superman’ had come first. 

Clark’s mouth is pressed into a firm line as he begins to see the familiar rooftops of your apartment block. It was a lot later than he'd hoped to get home, and he was already brainstorming ways to make it up to you. Maybe he’d take you out to that museum you loved tomorrow, or make you a big breakfast.

Or-

Clark slows his speed as he spots the little flowershop, on the corner of mainstreet. He turns around, touching down on the street below with a gust of wind. The woman outside the shop looks up in surprise, her key halfway in the front door. 

“Superman!” He gives her a bright smile, nodding politely.

“Hello ma’am. You’re not locking up for the night, are you?”

“Well, I was. But if you wanted to buy something…”

Clark flies home carefully, the bouquet of pink lilies and baby’s breath clutched gently in his arms. Being Superman would always have its perks.

Your shared apartment is just a few buildings away, and Clark descends discreetly, slipping inside the open window quietly. His brows furrow as he enters the dim living room, the only sign of your person the knit blanket his Ma had made and your spare tupperware you'd been dragging around in case the nausea hit. 

His red cape drags on the wood floor, boots silent. Clark moves toward the kitchen as he registers the sound of sizzling meat, soft music reverberating through the thin walls. A surprised smile finds its way on Clark’s face, a sense of nostalgia washing over him. It was like a memory he doesn't remember having yet, the scene familiar in ways only dreams could provoke. 

The kitchen was lively, the smell of tomato and basil wafting into the living room as you cook spaghetti.

The small radio on the counter crackles with an old song, the one you always danced to in the car or hummed in the grocery store. 

“-It's such a fine and natural sight. 

Everybody's dancing in the moonlight-”

You stir the pot of sauce, hips swaying slightly as you sing, your eyes trained on Krypto beside you. You sing to the dog, his head cocked in curiosity as he gnaws on a half destroyed tv remote. One of the many destroyed objects in your apartment which had become Krypto’s adopted toys. 

Clark watches from the kitchen entryway with a fond smile, leaning against the door frame with the bouquet in hand. In just a few months, the scene would be different. Your belly rounder and fuller, the sound of two heartbeats echoing instead of one. And in less than a year, you'd be cradling a baby, singing gently. A baby with chubby rolls and an incandescent laugh; maybe a girl with your eyes and his dimples, or a boy with his curls and your smile. 

Clark can't wait to be a father. To cradle your baby close, to change diapers and wash pacifiers and rock them to sleep. The thoughts are distracting, and he’s so caught up in the future he misses the moment Krypto catches sight of him. 

The wind is knocked out of Clark as Krypto pounces, one of the island stools toppling over from the force with a loud clang. You gasp loudly, abandoning the stovetop and rushing over to Clark.

“Oh my goodness, Clark! Are you alright?”

“I- yeah… I’m okay. Krypto-” Clark turns his head away, trying to keep the dog’s slobbering tongue at bay. “Buddy, I know. I’m happy to see you too.” Krypto barks, managing to get a slobbery kiss on Clark's face. The man cringes, pushing the dog off of him gently.

Krypto pads off, distracted as he catches sight of his tail, chasing it around in circles.

You laugh behind your hand, leaning against the doorway. Clark looks up at you, using the end of his cape to wipe off his wet face. He grunts getting up, his broad frame filling the doorway. 

“Hi,” he smiles, embarrassed. 

“Hi,” you repeat, looking down at his hand. “Are those for me?” Clark looks down at the bouquet, frowning at the sad state the flowers were now in. It seemed nothing could escape the walking disaster that was Krypto. 

“They were,” Clark glares at the dog, no longer chasing his tail, but now off to chew on one of Clark’s old running shoes. 

You laugh, taking the flowers in your hands carefully. You brushed your fingers over the broken petals, caressing the silky lilies carefully. 

“They’re still beautiful Clark. Thank you.”

Clark leans in as you press a kiss to his lips, pulling him closer to embrace him. You move back into the kitchen as he begins to peel off his boots, leaving them and his cape in the living room. The bouquet, a little less sad now that you’ve fixed it, sits in a mason jar on the window sill. Clark watches as you begin cutting into a french loaf of bread, spreading warm butter onto the fluffy sides.

It smells delicious, cheese and garlic joining the tomato medley. You glance back at Clark, laughing to yourself. 

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Clark shrugs, coming to stand behind you. He wraps his arm around your waist, hands resting beneath your shirt. “You’re cooking.” 

You giggle, looking at him funny.

“You seem surprised."

“Well, you’ve just been so tired lately.” You nod, passing him the baking sheet with the bread. Clark lets go of you, putting the bread into the oven.

“I know. I caught a second wind today. Spaghetti sounded nice. You hungry?” Clark nods. 

“Very. I was going to bring chinese but I-” Krypto barks, padding over to Clark at the mention of food. The dog sits at his feet, looking up expectantly. “But I didn’t. I don’t have chinese buddy.” 

Krypto barks again, tail smacking against the floor. That dog just wouldn’t give up. It was his way or the highway.

Clark sighs and you pat his back. 

--- November ---

Smallville High’s football field is teeming with people, kids decked in red and gold, students chanting and shouting with anticipation. Families file into the high school, animated with excitement and anticipation. The stands buzz as people find their seats, kids already chanting, handmade signs raised high- “LETS GO CROWS!!”

The Kansas air was cool with the autumn winds, golden leaves falling from the school's trees, crunching beneath your shoes. Your hair flutters with the breeze, Clark’s hands quick to capture the wild strands for you, keeping them from blowing into your face. He stands behind you, his broad shoulders blocking the cold, his smile bright. 

“Thanks hon,” you smile, tugging your crimson sweater closer to your body- well, his crimson sweater to be exact.  

“Of course,” he leans down, planting a kiss on your lips. 

“Bleh-” Kara groans beside you, giving the two of you a disgusted side eye. “You guys are so  gross.”

Krypto barks in concurrence beside her, the sound muffled as he bites the leash Kara was holding, trying to run free. Clark rolls his eyes, tucking you closer into his chest.

“Kara, someday you’ll think differently. You just have to find the right person."

“No way,” she laughs darkly, kicking her sparkly red boot, along the cement. “Unlike you star boy, I don’t have as much luck with what earth has to offer.” 

You laugh, Clark giving you an unapproving look. You shrug.

“She’s not entirely wrong, Clark. I got lucky with you. But some guys here-” You and Kara give each other knowing looks. Let's just say dating at her age wasn’t entirely fun on earth.

“So…” Kara drawls, looking around the school’s football field as you enter the stadium. “Why are we here again? I thought you invited me here for food or whatever.”

“It’s Thanksgiving. We do this every year,” Clark says as the three of you approach the metal bleachers. “The high school has a game, we watch, have fun. And then we go home for dinner.”  

Krypto barks at the mention of food, looking up at Kara expectantly. You laugh, glancing at the snack bar across the way. 

“Dinner’s not till later buddy. But maybe we’ll get you a hot dog or something to tide you over.” 

From up in the stands, you can see Martha and Jonathan Kent already sitting, their arms waving high. 

“There’s Ma and Pa. Do you girls want something from the snack bar?” Clark asks, nodding towards the little stand cluttered with popcorn and nachos. You had to admit for a little high school, they really went all out. “I’ll grab it if you want to go sit.” 

Kara shrugs. “Only if you’re paying Kent.” Clark sighs, rubbing his brow line as he glances at you.

“Sure Kara. I’ll get you something.” 

“Okay, here’s what I want-” You try to hold in your laugh as Kara begins listing off things, ticking each item off on her blue polished fingers. “Oh and then a hot dog for Sniffles here,” Kara points to Krypto, the dog’s nose twitching as he watches the football players lining up on the field. His dark eyes trail the ball being tossed playfully, his tail wagging. 

“Okay,” Clark sighs, giving you a smile. “You want anything.”

“No, I’m okay.” He nods, but waits for a second, blue eyes sparkling playfully behind his glasses.

“You sure?” You laugh, raising your hand with confusion. 

“Of course I am, I don’t want-” and then the smell hits you. Buttery and sweet. The scent of caramelized sugar wafting your way, thick and decadent. “Actually-”

“I’ll get you some caramel corn, don’t worry.” You squeeze his bicep, lips pecking his cheek. Of course he knew. He always did. “Thanks.”

Clark turns on the heel of his sneaker, making his way to the snack stand with a bright smile on his face. Kara just shakes her head, looking at you with disbelief. 

“I can’t believe you married that oaf.”

“Kara! He’s your cousin-”

“Yeah, all the more reason for me to be so surprised.” You laugh, climbing the metal stairs carefully, Kara and Krypto trailing behind you. 

“So… you explore any fun planets recently?” You ask, switching the subject. 

“Eh,” Kara shrugs, “nothing I haven’t seen already. Although I did almost get sucked into a dying star on the way here. That was cool.” You look at her with a raised eyebrow, concern tugging at your heart. Kara had always been a little reckless; brave and courageous in a way that made you both proud and seriously scared for her well being.

“Kara! Thank goodness you weren’t. I can’t even imagine-”

“Don’t worry about it. I would have gotten out eventually. I just might have missed your holidays. Would have been a blessing in disguise.” You shake your head, wrapping your arm around her shoulder. 

“No way. I can’t imagine not having you here.” Kara's mouth quirks upwards at that. Not a full smile, but something.

Martha and Jonathan greet you both with wide, warm hugs, smiling brightly. Kara begrudgingly gives in to Martha’s tight squeeze, the girl’s hands still stuck in the pocket of her cropped denim jacket. 

“How was the drive over?” Jonathan asks, grinning.

“Oh, it was alright,” you smile.

“Long,” Kara rolls her eyes, slumping onto the metal bench. She frowns. “Jeez, these things are uncomfortable.

Krypto hops onto the bench beside her, looking up at you expectantly. Martha leans into you as you squeeze past her, her hand gently pausing you. 

“Your last appointment go okay?” She asks quietly. You smile and nod. 

“Swimmingly. Clark has the pictures to show you later in his truck.” 

“Good, good. I need a copy of those if he’s got the time.” You chuckle, giving her cheek a kiss as you move to sit next to Kara. She gives you a weird look as you settle into the seat, Krypto climbing over Kara’s red boots and coming to sit on your lap. 

“What was that about?” She asks, nodding to Martha, who was now engrossed in sharing Jonathan’s binoculars to look for Clark. You flush, trying to act casual.

Darn super hearing….

“Uh… just a doctor’s appointment I had last week. It’s nothing to worry about."

“Uh huh,” Kara nods, her eyes narrowed. She doesn’t believe you, but she doesn’t press. 

The cheering gets louder in the stands as the players begin to get into their position on the field and Krypto presses his snout into your belly, his furry body heavy on your thighs. You smile down at him, scratching his ears. He made an alright secret keeper. Better than Clark who practically told Kara about the baby the second she’d landed on your apartment rooftop. 

You hadn’t wanted to tell anyone else just yet. Not with it being so early. Clark’s parents finding out so soon had been somewhat of an accident; the minute Clark and you had stepped into their doorway for brunch on a Saturday and one look at the two of you was enough for Martha Kent to know. She was too smart for her own good. 

Clark, who was over the moon and wanted to tell every person he came in contact with, didn’t quite understand why. But when you explained just how fragile the early stages of a human pregnancy could be, he slowly agreed. More for your peace of mind than anything. And besides, it was kind of fun to have something that was just yours. A little secret that only the two of you knew about. 

Well, the two of you, his parents, and Krypto knew.

Clark finally makes his way up the stands, balancing a ridiculous amount of food in his arms. Martha and Jon are quick to greet him, Clark giving them that radiant smile of his as he scoots down the bench carefully, moving to sit next to you. Krypto wastes no time in trying to eat, Clark having to fend the canine off.

“Hey, dude, wait just a second. I’ll get you your food, just give me a minute.” Kara leans over you, hand held out for her food. Clark passes her half of the things he was carrying, hot dogs and popcorn. A cup of chips and queso with a ridiculous amount of bacon. 

The greasy smell hits you like a train and you feel your stomach churn. Your quick to cover your nose with the back of your hand, trying not to think about the wave of nausea that was hitting you.

"Here honey," he passes you the caramel corn, the sweet smell doing little to combat the feeling. You take it with a grimace, letting out a shuddering breath.

Clark doesn’t seem to notice as he listens to something his Ma is telling him, carefully feeding Krypto a hot dog. 

“Uh huh,” he nods, glancing at his Ma. “I don't think the market’s real good right now.” 

“You’re just not looking. Old Pete’s fixing up his house for sale-”

Their voices begin to blend together as you focus on not hurling everywhere. Krypto is a heavy weight against you and you stifle a moan as he turns his body around, paw plunging into the meat of your thigh painfully. The crowd begins to cheer around you, the game beginning with a flourish of red and gold. 

None of it really matters as you feel the bile rising in the back of your throat. Kara chews on her food, giving you a concerned look, brows drawn together. 

“Hey, you’re looking kinda green.”

“I’m fine Kara,” you breath, Clark finally looking over as you stutter your next sentence. “I just-” 

The world swims, the familiar dizziness and sting of bile rising hitting you all at once.

“Hon-” Krypto must see the look in your eyes because he’s moving out of the way as your body jerks. Clark reaches out for you, but it’s too late. You vomit into your lap, shaking with exertion. Martha gasps with surprise, already reaching in her handbag for a handkerchief. 

“Oh, honey,” she frowns, concerned.

Clark holds back your hair, quickly kneeling beside you as you ride the wave of nausea. 

“Oh my-” Kara cringes, the piece of popcorn in her hand forgotten as she looses her appetite. “What-”

You groan as you finish, snot and bile dripping from your face. If you weren’t feeling so awful, you might have half the brain to feel embarrassed, people in the stands giving you sympathetic looks. Clark is quick to try and cover your stained lap with his flannel, squeezing your clammy hand.

“You’re okay-”

“Clark, you’re shirt,” you groan.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Clark takes the handkerchief from his Ma, grateful that she was already on damage control, telling people not to worry. 

“Clark,” Kara hisses, watching you carefully. “What the heck is happening?” 

“It’s nothing, I just,” Clark sighs, shaking his head. “Can you get in her bag and find the bag of ginger chews? I think she has some in there.” 

“Okay,” Kara sighs, not satisfied with the answer. She rifles through your bag, not noticing the fact Krypto wasn’t paying attention to any of you anymore.

The crowd was a mix of murmurs and cheers, half of them glancing at you as you tried not to throw up again, the other half focused on the game. Krypto happened to be part of the latter half, his sharp eyes and super vision watching the football as it was tossed in the air, soaring with an impressive arch into the arms of one of the meaty players.

“Honey, listen- are you gonna be sick again? I can go get the car but I don’t want to leave you if you’re gonna be sick again.” Clark whispers to you gently, and you appreciate how kind he’s being. Especially since you’ve thrown up all over the two of you.

“I ruined the game, didn’t I,” you moan, stomach churning again. He laughs quietly, shaking his head. 

“Of course not. Nothing’s been ruined, okay? We’re just going to have to change our plans a little.” You nod, giving him a pained smile as he strokes your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. Kara lets out a surprised noise beside you, and you and Clark turn to her. She looks at you with a fiery passion, holding up the bottle of prenatal vitamins you’d forgotten in there. 

“I knew it,” She hisses, grinning maniacly. “I knew it. Clark, you are such a bad liar. Just a stomach bug my -” her words are cut off as people on the bleachers below cry out.

The three of you all look up, Clark’s eyes wide as he watches Krypto bound across the bleachers. Kara lets out a string of curses, the leash laying ripped to shreds on the bench, the game below in disarray as Krytpo pounces on the player carrying the ball. The dog runs around on the field and Kara begins to laugh hysterically as the players try to chase him.

"Run Krypto! Keep going boy!"

You groan as people stop looking at you and start pointing at Krypto who's bolting off the field, a pack of teenage boys after him. Martha and Jon watch in surprise, Clark groaning beside you.

"Oh cheese and crackers- Hon, I'll be back I- KARA! Stop laughing and help me get the dog!"

------------------------------------------------------

The quiet of the Kent farm is a reprieve from the chaos of the football game. Clark sighs as he watches you sleep, his hands stroking your damp hair. A shower, change of clothes and a good nap was what you had needed after the messy afternoon. He leans on his elbow, hovering over you as he presses a kiss to your flushed cheek. 

The mattress creaks as he gets up, the pair of blue sweats he was wearing loose at his hips, an old University t-shirt stretched against his taut muscles.

He leaves the room quietly, taking the box of kleenex and ‘just in case’ bucket with him. The nausea hadn’t really stopped since you both had left the game, Thanksgiving dinner thrown out the window for you. Clark felt terrible, knowing how much you enjoyed spending time with family and eating. It wouldn’t always be like this, he tries to remind himself. Morning sickness only lasted a little while. 

But he still felt terrible that you had to go through it. 

He thoroughly rinses out the bucket in the bathroom down the hall, the faint noise of the tv playing and Jonathan’s snores reverberating in the house. Clark can hear the soft pattern of footsteps headed his way, a smile making its way on his face as his Ma peeks in the bathroom. 

“Are ya decent Clark?” He laughs.

“Of course Ma. I wouldn't keep the door open if I wasn’t.” 

“Well, you took a much different approach to the bathroom when you was younger,” she chuckles, giving him a soft smile. “Your wife doing okay now?”

Clark nods, humming. “Her system finally calmed down enough to let her rest. It was like she couldn’t stop.” He looks down at his bare feet, hand brushing through his dark curls. “I just wish there was something more I could do to help her, Ma.”

“I know, Clark. I know,” she pats his back comfortingly. “You’re doing all you can now though. And that’s what matters. Just being there for her. That’s half of what being a daddy is, you know.”

Clark shakes his head, looking away with embarrassment. He watches as his Ma nods, eyes faraway in a memory. She shakes her head, pulling her knitted cardigan tighter over her body. 

“I almost forgot what I came in here for. Your cousin was looking for ya.” 

“Was she?” Clark asks, eyebrow raised. Martha hums in agreement.

“Said she wanted to talk to ya about something before she left.” Clark holds back a sigh, scratching the back of his neck as he moves towards the door.

“Thanks Ma,” he kisses her cheek, heading out to the back of the house. The last golden rays of the Kansas sun were dipping below the horizon, bathing everything in a gilded hue. Kara danced around the grass as Krypto nipped at her, laughter spilling out through the backyard. Clark shakes his head, trying not to relive the disaster from the game earlier. 

Kara finally catches sight of his flanneled frame, giving Clark a bright and mischievous smile.

“Hey Daddio.” Clark cringes.

“Don’t call me that K.” She shrugs, knowing full well she was probably going to do it again.

"Since when are you the boss?"

"Since you can't control that dog of yours." Clark gives her a pointed look, gesturing towards Krypto who was currently tearing up a patch of his Ma's flowers, dirt flinging high in the air as he digs.

Kara watches, shrugging. "Well, on that subject, I actually wanted to talk to you about him." Clark raises an eyebrow and Kara gestures towards the porch swing, sitting on the wooden bench with a creak. Clark follows, slumping into the seat beside her.

"So... you're gonna be a daddy." Clark smiles at his feet, nodding.

"Yup. In about seven months or so." Kara nods, her legs swining as she leans forward on her hands.

"Well, I've been thinking and I wanted to propose something. A little 'you help me, I help you situation.'"

"Uh huh," Clark glances at Kara suspiciously, not entirely sure where she was going with this. "And help me... how exactly?"

"Okay, babies need a lot of attention right. You have to feed them and keep them out of trouble, and change them-"

"Yes, Kara. I believe having a kid means keeping them alive."

"Well, I was thinking, maybe, you would like some practice. You know, taking care of something like that."

"Right..." Clark narrows his eyes. He did not like where this was going. Kara smiles, gesturing out to the field. Clark's eyes go wide and he shakes his head. "No. No way Kara, that dog- there's no way."

"Oh, come on Clark! Krypto likes you. And he doesn't like just anyone. Trust me, he'll be really good practice!"

"What- you love that dog? Why would you want me to take him-"

"Here's where we help each other," she gestures between herself and Clark. "I leave you my dog, you take care of him, maybe teach him some manners- and I will take care of all the big bads who want to eat up the universe."

Clark blinks, trying to understand what she was saying. Kara sighs, mumbling something about Clark's brain running slow.

"I'm sure your wife's not going to be happy if you're flying off world all the time. Bless her heart, she would say she wouldn't mind. But we both know that girl is a worse liar than you are. This way, I don't even have to fly far to party, and you get to stay home."

Clark rubs the bottom of his lip as he thinks. It was actually quite thoughtful- Kara offering to take on the universe while you were pregnant.

But Krypto... Clark makes a face as he watches the dog pad towards the porch, his white fur caked in dirt and broken flowers. He looks up at Clark, fluffy ears flopping as his body shakes.

"Kara," he sighs, reaching out to scratch behind Krypto's ear. "I really don't know-"

"I'm not gonna offer it again." She smiles. "I'd rather not be here while the baby is cooking. Pregnancy is really not my thing. Babies neither, but I'll suck up babysitting later for you." Clark snorts.

"You are not babysitting." She shrugs.

"You'll change you mind someday." Clark looks away, Kara standing with a stretch. "Just think about it Kal."

She heads inside, leaving Krypto and him on the porch alone. Clark sighs.

Krypto just sneezes.

--- December ---

The Christmas tree glistened in your apartment, lights glowing as snow softly drifted into Metropolis’ streets outside. Clark was busy working on decorating your tree, his big hands spreading the branches and fluffing the spruce. The tree was too big for your tiny living room, the top brushing against the ceiling, your furniture pushed around to accommodate for its girth. 

But it had been with the both of you since you’d gotten married. A miscalculation in Clark’s measuring, one that had made you both double over in laughter the first time you’d set it up in your apartment. Even if it was too big, it was part of your little family. You’re growing family. 

Krypto barks as he pads through the living room, coming to sit beside you on the floor as you unwrap ornaments. It was a little hard to believe that Kara had just left him with the both of you. She'd disappeared after her talk with Clark, leaving nothing but a note on the counter, a crude drawing of Superman and Krypto on it, a heart surrounding the two of them.

Clark had tried to track down his cousin for three days, Krypto in tow as he flew across the milky way. He had come home exhausted, missing you and still being trailed by the Kryptonian dog. Of course, he'd been a bit stubborn about admitting Kara might have been right about off world missions. He tried telling himself nothing had changed. It was like any old business trip; and he'd been gone for days at a time before.

But the tight hug you had given him when he returned, the sigh of relief and kiss- a kiss that had left him flushed and more than willing to follow you back into the bedroom- had changed his mind. And he didn’t mind Krypto, really. But seven whole months of the guy…

“Be careful Krypto, those are glass.”

Clark glances back at you, your arms around the dog as you try to move him away from the box of sparkling ornaments. It’s to no avail, Krypto much stronger as he sniffs through the glass things. 

You sigh, shaking your head as Krypto picks up a plush reindeer in his jaws, biting down on the stuffed ornament. Clark watches as the dog pads away with his new prize, chewing on the reindeer with a concerning level of ferocity. 

“What on earth are we going to do with him?” You chuckle, looking up at Clark. He shrugs, rubbing the arch of his brow.

“I don’t know, honestly.”

“I mean, Kara was right. He’s great practice. But-”

“He’s also the worst roommate ever.” You laugh. 

“That’s for sure.”

Clark smiles, quick to help you up when you reach out for his hands. You lean into his warm frame, arms wrapped around his torso as you look over the sparkling tree. 

“It’s so pretty already. Even with just the lights.” Clark hums in agreement, kissing the top of your head. 

“Yeah. It’ll be better with all the ornaments.” There’s a loud crunch, the sound of glass shattering behind you, and you both turn, Krypto stepping into the box with a soaking wet and torn reindeer in his mouth. Clark sighs and you frown. 

“Or, what’s left of them,” you breathe, giving the dog a stink eye. Krypto doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact he’s just broken three ornaments, ready to step on a fourth one when Clark leaves your side, swooping in to pick up the dog. 

“Okay- I think it’s time to play at the fortress a bit.” Krypto barks as Clark carries him to the big window of your apartment. You shiver as he opens the glass, pulling your arms tight around your body. Krypto is already bounding off into the snowy sky, barking at Clark impatiently as the man steps onto the ledge. “I’ll be back in a jiff.” “Fly safe Clark.” He smiles, leaning down and kissing you goodbye. 

“Always.”

You wave as he takes off, flying after Krypto in a blur of flannel, nothing but the disrupted swirl of snowflakes to signal he’d even been there.

------------------------------------------------------

Clark enters the softly lit apartment from the door this time, juggling a half ripped gift bag in one hand and the sleeping dog in his other arm. It’s warm with the Christmas tree, the living room still a mess of boxes and tissue paper. Clark carefully closes the door with the heel of his sneaker, setting the bag on the coffee table and carefully laying Krypto down in his dog bed. 

You’d never know the chaos the dog caused if you saw him sleeping; Krypto’s paws occasionally twitched as he dreams, his small body moving up and down softly. Clark gives the dog’s head a soft pat before grabbing the gift bag and heading off to find you.

He chuckles softly as he enters your room, spotting the small tree you had set up on the corner dresser, your fingers working diligently as you hang red and gold ornaments. It takes a moment before you realize he’s there, glancing back with a bright smile gracing your face. Clark’s heart skips a beat, knowing he can always make you smile. 

“Hey! I didn’t hear you come back in.” Clark kicks off his sneakers, coming beside you and planting a kiss on your shoulder. 

“I was trying to be quiet. Didn’t want to wake ‘Dennis the Menace’ in there,” he nods back to the kitchen. You giggle, hand covering your mouth as you put up another ornament. 

“Poor guy. Did he try to eat any more of your robots?”

“Nah,” Clark laughs. “I think Gary’s put him in his place.” You hum in reply, observing the Christmas tree carefully. 

“You think this is okay? I don’t know if it needs anything else.” Clark smiles, delighted at the perfect segway you’d provided. 

“Actually, I have something else we could put up.” Your brows quirk in curiosity, gaze drawn to the gift bag he held up. 

“What’s this?”

“Just a little something.” You take the bag from him. Clark laughs as you eye the ripped bag; your fingers gently pulling out the crumpled tissue paper, the bag crinkling as you dig inside. 

“Oh,” you smile, pulling out a small ornament box, peering at its front. It was a small little thing, a little gingerbread themed frame to put on the tree. “Baby’s first Christmas.” Clark nods, grinning proudly.

“I thought we could use one. Considering this is technically our baby’s first Christmas.”

“Clark,” you laugh, “these are usually for when the baby’s already here.” 

Clark shrugs, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. 

“Look inside.” You do, opening the box and shaking out the little ornament. You stare with awe at the little picture already inside the frame, a cut out of your latest sonogram picture. Clark looks down at his feet, suddenly embarrassed. Was this too corny? “Gary helped me out. Said it’d be nice to replace the ornaments Krypto broke.” 

You give him a knowing look, the one that said you didn’t believe Gary gave half a care about what Krypto did. No, this had Clark's fingerprints all over it. You set the ornament down, pulling Clark in for a hug. He sighs, relieved that you liked it. 

“You are the sweetest man on earth. You know that Clark Kent?” He shrugs. Clark’s eyes glisten as you whisper in his ear, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’re already the best dad.”

--- January ---

“Clark… you’re still staring.”

“I know.” You glance up in the bathroom mirror, Clark’s large frame filling the doorway as he watches you with a dimpled smile. “I just can’t help it.”

He steps into your small bathroom, arms snaking around your towel clad torso as his hands settle against your bump. 

Your bump.

You’d popped earlier that week, the softening outline of your belly suddenly becoming a definite curve overnight. At first, you’d chalked it up to the restaurant Clark had taken you too. Too many rolls and that large piece of chocolate cake you’d shared. Just a case of too much good food. 

But the next day, it was still there. Your belly peeking out from beneath your cotton pajama’s, your baby finally saying “hello there!” You turn around, your hands cupping Clark’s face as he presses a kiss to your lips. His thumbs brush against the cotton fabric of the towel, right below your navel, where your belly poked out the most. 

“Honey,” you whisper as Clark continues to kiss you. “I have to get dressed, I have work tomorrow.” Clark huffs with disappointment, giving you a look.

“Well, if you weren’t working anymore, we wouldn’t have to worry about that.” You shake your head with a smile, patting his chest.

“Clark,” you drag his name out. “We’ve been over this. As much as I love you and your two jobs, we both know they don’t exactly pay the greatest. And with the baby-”

“I know,” he sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “I know, we need to save.”

“Exactly,” You point. Clark follows you into the bedroom, watching as you slide into your pajamas, the elastic waistband of your pants stretched a little tighter than normal, your top unbuttoned at the bottom to accommodate the swell of your belly.

“You know,” Clark begins, “you wouldn’t have to work if we moved. If we lived in Smallville-”

“Clark,” you give him a warning look. You’d both had this conversation countless times. Moving. Metropolis, as beautiful and lively as the city is, was expensive and not the most accommodating to new parents. Especially when one lived off of a reporter’s salary... and a hero's.

“I know,” he raises his hands, “You think Kansas is too far a commute. But honey, I’m Superman. I can fly here and back in no time. If we had a house, Krypto would have plenty of room to run around, you’d be able to do your laundry in the house, I’d have my own office. And when the baby comes-”

“Clark, we’re not having this discussion right now.”  

“Honey, just think about it. If we moved, you could stay home and rest. You wouldn’t have to be on your feet all day-” You scoff, crossing your arms.

“Clark, I like my job.”

“I know,” he sighs, sitting on the edge of your bed. “I just want you to take care of yourself. I don’t like thinking you’re out and about when you’ve been so tired.” Clark looks at you with concern written in his eyes. He holds out his hand, and you take it, sliding into his lap.

He presses a kiss to your temple, your arms snaking around his neck. You kiss him back, thumb caressing the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble there prickly against the pad of your finger. 

Clark’s forehead leans against yours, and your quiet as you both sit together. 

“Just… think about it. Okay? For me,” he whispers. You huff in defeat, nodding. 

“Okay, Clark. I will.” 

You both crawl into bed, the steady sounds of Metropolis echoing as you curl up next to Clark. He pulls you close to his side, hand resting on your belly. 

“You’re Ma was right you know,” you whisper. Clark hums in question, giving you a confused look. “You are such a worrier.”

------------------------------------------------------

Clark was a worrier alright. A patient, kind, and loving worrier. 

“Uh- BLEH” 

You hurl into the container Clark had sped off to get you, one big hand rubbing your back, the other keeping the container steady so it didn't spill all over the couch. You throw up again, spit glistening on your lip as you groan. 

“I hate this,” you croak, throat sore from the stomach acid. 

“I know honey,” Clark frowns, pressing a kiss into your hairline. “I know, it's not fun.” 

“Clark… I’ve never seen you throw up, like ever,” you glare half-heartedly at him. He flushes. 

“Well, I- it's not fun watching you be in so much pain. Or be exhausted all the time.” 

“Technically, this is your fault you know,” you give him a look, hands cupping the swell of your belly, where you could feel your baby moving around gently. Clark takes the container and sets it on the coffee table, far enough where you couldn't smell it and get sick all over again. 

“I wasn't the only one who wanted a baby, you know. Ma always says, ‘it takes two to tango’”. You laugh, wincing at the sore muscles in your stomach. 

Clark squats in front of you, looking at your belly seriously. He leans in close, gently placing his hands at the sides of your bump, face pressed close. 

“Listen in there. You be nice to your mom, okay? No more making her sick with all the rolling around.” You shake your head amusedly, your eyes drooping with exhaustion. Clark brushes your hair out of your face, giving you a soft smile. “You want me to get you a glass of water?” You nod. 

Clark helps you lay back down on the couch, trying to give you another kiss. 

“Not on my lips. I have vomit all over.” He smiles, shaking his head. 

“You think I care about that? You kiss my morning breath and don't complain.” You chuckle softly and roll your eyes. 

“Okay Clark. Just one, okay? 

“Okay.”

“And don't make it too long, or else you might-”

Clark doesn't let you finish the sentence, his lips capturing yours. You cup his jaw gently as he kisses you, soft and long despite your previous protest. 

Your heartbeat speeds up, thumping loudly as Clark’s thumb caresses the soft curve of your bump, his hand resting gently over the swell-

thump. 

Clark pauses, his face turning slightly away from you as he listens. You look up at him carefully, confused in the haze of kissing him. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. I just thought I-” 

Thump! 

He jerks back, face twisted in bewilderment as he lifts his hand, like he'd just touched fire. You smile amusedly, realizing what must have happened. 

“Clark Kent. You just felt your baby kick for the first time, didn’t you?” He sits there dumbly, staring. As if he couldn't quite believe it. 

“The baby kicked-” it's somewhere in between a question and a statement, the shock in his blue eyes glistening. You nod. 

“It was hard to tell for a while, but last night I finally realized bean wasn't just rolling around anymore.” 

It finally registers to Clark what you're saying, and he gives you a wide grin. He hops up, knuckles pressed to his mouth as he holds back a triumphant yell. 

“The baby kicked. OH THE BABY KICKED-” Clark is so giddy, you wouldn't be surprised if he started floating. He looks like he doesn't know what to do, his body moving around like keeping still wasn't an option. You laugh from the couch, watching his excitement. 

“I can't believe it. They actually- KRYPTO! Krypto, come here dude.” Clark pads into the kitchen, coming back with the dog at his heels. Krypto’s tail wags excitedly, likely wondering what all the commotion was about and if it involved food. 

“The baby kicked bud, can you believe it!” Krypto yips with excitement, unsure of what that meant exactly, but Clark was happy. The dog lifts his front legs, Clark grabbing them carefully and doing a little shuffle and dance. You laugh as you watch him, the memory of being sick just moments before disappearing with the pure joy radiating from Clark. 

“I- when did you even feel the baby kick?” Clark finally asks, sitting on the floor with Krypto, his hand resting on your belly again.

“Last night. When you were in the shower.” Clark nods, brows quirking when you giggle. “Actually, it was when you started blasting your music.” Clark's laughter rings loudly, his dimples popping as he leans back.

“The Mighty Crab Joys! Of course.” You laugh too, your hand sliding over Clark's palm.

“Only you could have a child with the same terrible music taste as you.” Clark gives you a look, taking your hand in his and kissing your knuckles.

“They’re not all bad. And you sing along in the car with me.” You flush.

“Okay.. well that’s beside the point.” Clark just shakes his head amusedly, blue eyes glued to your bump. “Now, can you get me that glass of water?

--- February ---

The Kent farm was bustling, the kitchen crowded with giggling women, the backyard decorated with string lights and balloons, the smell of smoking meat and the afternoon sun heavy. Krypto dodged between legs, watching Clark as he manned the barbeque, laughing at something Jimmy said to him. It smelled heavenly. The salty tang of the meat cooking, the woody scent of the fire; the sweet smell of frosting drifting out from inside the house. 

Krypto knows that’s where most of the food is. Clark wouldn’t let him near the meat. Not yet at least. But there were definitely treats in the kitchen he could look for. 

The dog pads inside, pushing his way through the creaky dog door. The little girls he’d been avoiding spot him immediately, rushing with a squeal and petting him.

“Awww, it's puppy!” “He’s so cute. Hi puppy!” 

Krypto had to admit the attention was nice. He hadn’t gotten much of it since you’d told people about the baby. He still wasn’t quite sure what that was, a baby. 

Kara had called it a nuisance, Clark's Ma called it a blessing. Whatever it was, it made people squeal and laugh, it made Clark smile brightly and you glow like you’d swallowed the sun. It made you eat a lot and cry and laugh; it made you smell different and look different-

“I’ll get it, don’t worry. Where is it-” 

Krypto watches as you stand in the kitchen doorway, nodding as Lois points to something in the living room. The girls still pet him, cooing as their small hands grab his fur. One girl pulls too hard and he whines, jerking away. Now he remembers why he’d been avoiding them. 

“Hey, girls,” you come padding over, your flowy dress hiding your bare feet. “Why don’t you go help Ms. Lois finish the cupcakes? I think we need both your frosting skills.” 

“Okay!” “I wanna frost cupcakes-”

The girls are quick to scramble towards the kitchen. Krypto barks, wagging his tail with gratitude. You smile, squatting beside him, fingers scratching his head. Krypto rumbles with satisfaction. You always knew just the right spot. 

“They too rough for you?” 

Of course they weren't. But Krypto preferred not to feel like his fur was being ripped out. He licks your hand, pressing his snout into your belly. This part of you was the strangest. This was where the baby was. Krypto could smell it. Sometimes he could even feel it; like when you were laying in bed and he laid his snout on your swollen belly. He could feel it moving around, could hear its heartbeat. 

It was strange, but you didn’t mind. So it must be a good thing.

“You want to help me find the cake Krypto?” Krypto barks, nudging you in agreement. 

Of course he wanted cake! 

You laugh, rubbing his side once more before standing with a grunt. Your hand rests on your lower back and you head upstairs, Krypto bounding after you.

------------------------------------------------------

The upstairs of the Kent house was notably more quiet. Nothing but one of Clark’s little nephews asleep in his old bedroom, the soft sound of the pipes creaking. It was comforting. A still contrast to the bustle downstairs.

Krypto follows you into the guest bedroom, the door creaking softly as you push it open. It’s dark in here, a fan softly blowing despite the cold outside. You were lucky it hadn’t snowed that weekend; the perfect afternoon for your little party. Or rather, your quite large party. There were a lot more people here than you’d expected. Family, friends, the occasional Smallville neighbor who dropped by to give congratulations to you and Clark.

You spot the cake immediately, a pretty round thing with buttercream frosting and emerald icing that reads: boy or girl? It was beautifully made by Lois, the only one who actually knew the gender. She was the only one you could trust to know if you wanted to be surprised. Clark had spent the last couple of days trying to get it out of her at work. But Lois’ lips were sealed, the secret hidden in the color of the cake just a few feet from you. 

You'd finally quit trying to hide your bump, no longer living in Clark's large sweatshirts or trying to dance around questions. It was out there. The Kent's were going from two to three.

It made you giddy to think about. In just a few short hours, you’d know whether or not you’d be the mother of a little boy or girl. You tried to tell yourself it didn’t change much. You didn’t mind what the gender would be, only worrying about their health and comfort. But the suspense of not knowing whether your days were going to be filled with tea parties and playing dress-up or baseball and playing with cars was killing you. 

Krypto eyes the cake from below the dresser it was resting on, watching as you turn the glass pedestal it was sitting on gently. You smile down at him knowingly.

“I know that look, Krypto.” He whines, padding around. “This isn’t for now buddy. We have to wait.” 

The dog looks up at you with big glass eyes, a low whine reverberating in his chest again. You smile softly, shaking your head. 

“Not now. We have to be patient.” 

“I don’t think that’s in his DNA unfortunately.” You turn around with your hand against your chest, startled at the voice. Clark grins sheepishly at you from the doorway, his eyes bright behind his glasses. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re fine. I didn’t hear you coming up.” 

“Well you have a lot on your mind,” Clark steps inside the room, his hand resting on your hip as he presses a kiss to your temple. Krypto whines beside you and Clark shoots him a stern look, the dog padding onto the bed with an annoyed huff. You let the cake go, smoothing out the front of his white button up shirt, pulling Clark's collar down so you can kiss him better.

It’s soft and sweet, Clark’s dark curls brushing against your forehead, hands gentle as he pulls you close. Or as close as you can get with your bump between you. His lips are soft against yours, tasting of refined sugar and something resembling strawberry. Your eyes close with the feeling of him being so close, your heart beat skipping as you kiss him. It’s no surprise when you feel your baby move for the first time in a few hours, kicking just as Clark slides his hand up the curve of your belly.

He’s the first to pull away, lingering just a moment, his nose bumping against yours. Clark’s smile is bright as he looks at you, blue eyes bright despite the dim lighting.

“Hi.” It’s just a whisper, his cheeks a dusty shade of pink as he catches his breath. It makes you giggle. 

“Hi.”

“I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.” You nod in agreement, hand caressing Clark’s bicep as he stands to his full height.

“We’ve been busy. There’s a lot more people here than I had expected.”

Clark chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, glancing out the door of the room. You knew he was probably listening to the party downstairs, chattering voices and clinking dishes overlapping one another.

“I know. Small towns just love babies.” You smile, hand sliding over the curve of your bump. Clark stares, looking at you like you were holding the sun. His hand twitches against you, like he was holding himself back. 

“You look so pretty.” 

You flush, laughing as you look down at your dress. It was a simple cream color, the fabric draping down your torso and brushing against your ankles as you swayed.

“Thank you,” you smooth out the fabric over your bump, the baby kicking again. Clark squats down, pressing a kiss above your navel.

“Hey baby. You doing okay?” 

“It’s been quiet in there till you showed up. It’s like they know their daddy’s here.” Clark laughs, looking up at you. His blue eyes are sparkling with happiness, enthralled with the idea his baby recognizes him. Ever since they had begun to kick, your baby kicked the most for Clark. At the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch. Of course, they were always ready to kick for music, dancing away whenever you drove in Clark's truck or cooked dinner. They were just as enamored with him as you were. 

From the hallway, the wooden floor squeaks. Clark stands quickly, adjusting his glasses as he takes a step away from you. You both smile at the little boy in the doorway, Clark’s nephew yawning as he rubs his eyes sleepily. 

“Is it cake time?”

“Almost,” you lean down, opening your arms for the boy. He’s quick to run to you, cuddling close as you pick him up. Clark hovers close, his hand resting against your back.

“You got him?”

“Hmm. He’s like a little feather. Right Conner?” The boy nods into your chest, his hands gripping your dress. 

“Where’s mommy?”

“She’s downstairs. You want to go see her?” He nods again. You can feel the sticky residual drool clinging to his cheek, his face warm against your collar bone. Conner’s eyes were already fluttering closed again. 

“Do you want me to take him?”

“It’s okay Clark. I got him. Will you bring the cake down?”

“Sure,” Clark pecks your lips before you turn to leave. You glance back at him, smiling brightly with the boy in your arms. 

This would be your future soon. A baby cradled against your chest, a toddler saddled on your hip. You carefully pad down the stairs, Conner’s mom in sight just behind the banister. You’re half way into passing the little boy over when you hear a crash from upstairs, Clark’s cry of surprise following. 

“What was that?” Martha asks, frowning as she enters the living room. 

“I don’t know. Clark’s up there, but don’t worry. I’ll go see what it was, okay?”

------------------------------------------------------

Clark is pretty sure all the blood has left his body. 

He had sensed something was about to happen the moment you had begun to descend the stairs. There was an electric current, a spark of anticipation in the room that he couldn’t quite understand. But Clark had understood as he had begun to turn.

He could see it as his eyes caught sight of Krypto on the bed- the dog who had sat there patiently. Plotting. Waiting to pounce. And pounce he did.

“Krypto, NO!”

But Clark’s words were thrown out in haste, the dog already bounding from the bed and onto the dresser, the piece of furniture banging against the wall with heavy thud. Krypto’s paws scrambled against the wooden surface, losing purchase as he falls…

Taking the cake with him. 

The glass pedestal crashes against the floor, glass shards spilling across the surface. The cake falls with a heartbreaking splat, Krypto wasting no time digging into the mess of buttercream and crumbs.

Clark is quick to grab the dog out of the mess, Krypto’s tongue lapping at the frosting on his snout. He wasn’t even thinking straight, worried about the dog hurting himself in the glass, worried about what you would think when you saw the mess. 

You had been so excited for this moment. Excited to cut the cake, to finally find out the baby's gender. There was no way to salvage it now. 

Clark had never been so frustrated with the dog.

“Krypto! I can’t... you- that wasn’t for you dude. That was not for-”

“Clark!” 

Your footsteps grow louder as you pad up the stairs, Clark’s heart beating faster with worry. 

“Clark, is everything okay-” 

He doesn’t look away from you as you stand in the hallway, your eyes wide with shock. Krypto wrestles against his hold, trying to get to the smashed cake, his whines low and annoyed. 

Gosh, you looked so heartbroken, your face crestfallen at the sight of the mess. 

“Honey,” Clark begins, finally giving up on restraining the restless dog, letting him free to ravage the cake more. He stands, moving closer to you, taking your hands in his. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realize he was going for it until it was too late-”

Your breath stutters, eyes wet with unshed tears. Clark sighs, his big hand rubbing your shoulder, trying to comfort you. 

“Clark,” you whisper, looking up at him.

“I know. I should have-”

“Clark.” You whisper again, gentler. Clark looks at you, realizing you were holding back a smile. “Sweetheart, look,” you point to the smashed cake. Or more specifically, Clark realizes with wide eyes, the frosting that was hidden inside the cake. The blue frosting. 

Clark hadn’t even realized- hadn’t even thought to register the color he was looking at when pulling Krypto away. 

“We’re having a boy.” The words feel unreal coming out of his mouth. He turns back to you, your chest trembling as you sobbed. Happy tears, Clark realizes. 

“We’re having a boy.” 

Clark lifts you into his arms, embracing you carefully. You hug him tightly, face hidden in the crook of his neck as you cried. 

A boy. You were carrying his son. 

Everything was slowly coming together. The first time Clark had seen the baby move during ultrasound, the first heartbeat, first kick. It had painted a picture of something exciting. Something beautiful. But now, Clark had a better picture of what the future looked like.

A little boy playing with trucks on his grandparent’s porch, a baby boy who had his curls and your smile, who loved to play in the mud and ride around in Jonathan Kent’s tractor.

You laugh into Clark’s chest, pulling away to look at him. 

“You’re going to be a boy dad Clark.” He grins like he’d swallowed the sun. Krypto barks from behind the dresser, the both of you looking at his cake covered face. 

Clark gives him a look, stern despite the absolute elation he felt. 

“You… are in so much trouble dude.”

------------------------------------------------------

The Kent’s house is quiet now, nothing but the winter owl hooting from the trees, the soft murmurs of the cows as dusk falls over the farm.You slip quietly into the backyard, your coat thrown over your pajamas. Snow crunches beneath your boots, a thin layer falling as you make your way to the small dog house in the back. 

Clark had been quick to get onto Krypto, putting him outside as Lois and you did damage control on the cake. Lois, the quick thinker she was, had suggested piping the colored frosting into one of the extra cupcakes, making it a random surprise. If you thought finding out with Clark was special, you both cried even more tears as Jonathan Kent bit into his cupcake, laughing triumphantly as he held up the blue buttercream inside. 

You kneel outside the dog house, peering in the dark opening. Krypto lay inside, his head resting on his paws. He looked disappointed. Maybe in himself. Maybe because he didn’t get to have a decent bit of cake. The dog looks up at you, his tail flicking with anticipation. 

“Hi bud.” Krypto’s nose twitches as you set a plate in front of him, a leftover cupcake sitting on its glass surface. He inches forward a bit, wary. But when he realizes the treat is for him, Krypto goes for it, scarfing it up in a few bites. You laugh, rubbing his furry body with affection.

“Don’t feel bad Krypto. I know you didn’t mean to knock the cake over.” Krypto looks up at you, licking his jaw. “Well, maybe you did. But I’m not upset. It wasn’t what I had planned, but… it was still special. Something Clark and I will always remember,” you laugh. 

Krypto licks your hands, whining in reply. You smile, thinking.

“There’s going to be a little boy running around soon buddy. Think you’ll be able to keep up?” Krypto barks happily, sticking his snout inside your coat, sniffing your belly. 

You’d take that as a yes. 

From behind you, the screen door creaks open and shuts. The sound of slippers scuffling around and the porch steps creaking follows. You turn, watching as Jonathan Kent makes his way towards you, trying his thick robe as he reaches the dog house. 

“Hi Jonathan,” you smile up at him, Krypto barking in hello. 

Jonathan smiles, crossing his arms as he shivers. 

“It’s cool out tonight. Gonna snow some more I think.”

“Yeah,” you give Krypto one more pat before pushing yourself up off the ground. Jonathan extends his hand and you take it gratefully, standing with a grunt.

“You sound like me when I try to get up from the couch,” Jonathan laughs. You do too, your hand resting on the top of your bump. 

“Yeah. It’s getting a bit harder to get around. I can’t imagine how big he’s gonna get.” 

“Not a lot of real estate, is there.”

“No,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I probably should have thought that one through when marrying a Kryptonian.” 

“Well, none of that really matters when you love someone.” 

“No. I suppose it doesn’t,” you smile. Krypto yawns at your feet, padding over to Jonathan and leaning against his sweatpants. The man bends down, giving him a gentle pat. The wind is chilly as the sun sets even lower, snow beginning to drift down silently. 

Jonathan nods towards the house, his arm wrapping around your shoulder tenderly. 

“You know,” he begins as you trek up to the porch. “Clark was so worried for a minute there. When you were so sick. He called Martha… oh, two- three times a week asking what he could do to help you.”

You stand there at the bottom of the porch, Jonathan nodding to himself as he works up the courage to continue. 

“I can’t tell you how happy I am he found a girl like you. Someone who understands Clark’s obligations. His situation. You’re gonna be a good mama. And I know you’re gonna raise a son just as kind and good as the two of you.” 

Your heart melts as Jonathan sniffs. You pull your father in-law into a hug, squeezing him tightly.

“Thank you Pa,” he sobs a little at the name, “That means the world to me.” 

The screen door opens again, Martha shaking her head at the sight of you too. 

“Oh, Mush. The two of you are gonna cry a puddle and freeze. Come inside!”

--- March ---

Metropolis Centennial Park was blooming with green and pink. The snow had finally started to melt away, revealing the beautiful foliage and inviting Metropolis’ residents to enjoy a leisurely stroll without freezing their noses and toes. Krypto was happily bounding about, sniffing every flower you passed, chasing the occasional butterfly. 

You wave as a woman passes you by, her smile bright as she runs past you, pushing a small stroller. The baby inside giggles at Krypto, who watches the stroller with a tilted head. 

“Come on buddy, let's go,” you laugh. 

The days were beginning to blur together, your apartment growing cramped with the amount of boxes and clothes you were acquiring. Clark had spent a whole day with you rearranging the office room, painters tape marking the floors as you tried to map out how you’d organize the nursery. 

“Okay, but if we had the book case here- and then changing table here-”

“Clark, how would that work if we block the closet?"

“Oh. Right.” 

He was trying, and you appreciated just how much he was doing to help you. 

Krypto bounds up to you, teeth clamped down on a broken stick, dragging it along the ground. You laugh, squatting down as he drops the stick at your feet, looking up proudly.

“That’s a very big stick, bud.” His tail wags happily, and you look at the stick- really more of a broken tree branch. “I don’t think we can take that home though.” 

He whines in disappointment and you pat his side carefully. Krypto recovers quickly, bounding off again to find some other souvenir to bring home. You stand carefully, trying to catch your balance as you find your footing. You smooth out your sweater over your bump, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. 

“You alright ma’am?” 

You turn around in surprise at the voice, a smile blooming on your face as you face Clark. Or rather Superman.

He looked regal as always in his red cape, dark curls swept out of his face. You’re always amazed at just how different he looks without his glasses, the rosy apples of his cheeks and bridge of his nose on full display, not hidden behind the black frames.

“Hi Superman,” you laugh, watching as Clark approaches slowly, trying to hide his smile. “I’m just fine.” 

Clark looks around the park carefully, waving at a couple people who point and stare at his tall frame. Krypto comes bounding back, barking at Clark. 

“Hey bud,” He bends down, giving the dog a pat. “You being good?” 

“Well, as good as he can be,” you give Krypto a look, his teeth barred in disagreement. Clark just shakes his head, standing tall again. 

“You better be good. Or else I- er, your lovely owner here,” he glances at you, “won’t bring any of those treats you like so much.” Krypto barks at the mention of food, circling around your legs as you smile at him. Clark looks at you, his head tilted upwards slightly, and you know what he was listening for. 

“He’s okay,” you caress the curve of your belly. “Just misses his daddy.” Clark hums, eyes flickering up to your lips. He gets an expression on his face, the one you knew meant he felt torn about something. Clark takes a step towards you, his hand reaching out, ready to say something.

“You look beau-”

He just as quickly takes a step back, a little girl running up towards him, a bright grin on her face. 

“Hi Superman!!” Clark puts on a dimpled smile, wasting no time in crouching down for her to give him a hug. 

“Hey there.” He pats her head, looking around for her parents. Just a few paces away you can see her parents walking up, their phones in hand. You take a step away, not wanting to be seen so close to Clark. He notices you leaving and you give him a reassuring smile. 

“I’ll see you later,” you mouth, waving goodbye. He gives you a smile and a nod, turning back to the girl who begins to ramble cutely in his arms.

“Come on Krypto,” you call out to the dog, nodding your head for him to follow. The dog barks, looking back at Clark and then to you, as if to ask why the man wasn’t by your side like he usually would be. You just smile. “He’ll be back later. He’s just… busy right now.”

Superman always was. Krypto sneezes, shaking his furry head, leaves and dirt flying. You laugh, any disappointment you had disappearing. 

“Come on, let's go get some lunch.” 

------------------------------------------------------

Clark stands tall over the washing machine, throwing in his white button ups and work pants. The minute you’d walked into the living room with the basket on your hip, Clark had swooped in, his latest article abandoned as he steered you back to bed and took the basket. 

“It's just laundry Clark-”

“Uh huh. What kind of a husband would I be if I made you walk all the way to the second floor to wash my socks and shirts.”

“I don't mind walking.” 

“You're ankles are telling a different story honey-” 

He digs through the laundry basket, pulling out a lone pattered sock, the one with little squirrels with cowboy hats that made him laugh. He frowns as he eyes the pulled threads at the seams, little holes marking the edges. 

He looks down at the dog at his feet, Krypto looking up at him innocently. 

“Seriously?” He holds the sock up higher. If the dog could shrug, Clark is almost positively Krypto would be shrugging like some half- listening teen. The man sighs, throwing the sock back into the basket. 

He’s finishing up the load, turning the washer on with a rumbling tumble when his phone pings. Clark checks it, brows raising as he reads the email. It was from his secret project, the one he'd been keeping from you for a while now. 

He reads over it, scratching the back of his neck as he sighs. Clark still wasn't sure he should go through with it, but he just wanted what was best for you and the baby. 

Krypto whines at his feet, looking up at Clark with his dark eyes. Knowing. 

“Look, I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't in her best interest.” Krypto tilts his head, tail wagging. “I only started looking because I know one day she'll change her mind. And the Kansas housing economy isn't the greatest right now. And I mean look at this-” 

Clark kneels by Krypto, showing him an image of the “project”- or really the thing you had said you didn't want. But Clark knew you too well. He'd been married to you for quite some time now. Of course he knew. 

You wanted the house. You wanted the backyard and the big living room. You were just too stubborn to admit it. Clark just wanted to take care of you, to give you everything. And he didn't mind making a few sacrifices to make it happen. Even if you insisted it wasn't worth it.

The dog barks with approval, and Clark smiles, rubbing his furry head. 

“I know she'll like it. It's just figuring out how to tell her without her getting upset." Clark pauses, mouth twisting with worry. "Should I be doing this?” 

Krypto licks Clark’s hand with approval again. Clark sighs. 

“Okay. But you have to let me know when the right time is, okay?”

--- April ---

The stairwell of the large apartment building echoes with the squeaks of wet shoes, the light jingle of Krypto’s leash, and your labored breaths. Krypto watches as you pause a few steps below, his furry head cocked in curiosity as you grip the railing, your other hand still holding his leash. The dog whines, and you try your best to smile despite your shaky appearance.

“I’m okay buddy… I’m just trying to catch my breath.” 

Five flights of stairs while you were six months pregnant was no joke. You can feel your son rolling over inside of you, his back pressed against your lungs, little body snuggled against your ribcage. At least he was comfortable in there.

It was getting harder to navigate your normal routine. Ever since your baby boy had begun moving and kicking, you’d had a harder time getting things done. Work was becoming difficult to stick to; it was hard to focus with your baby pretending he was Superman, your bladder the unfortunate victim of his kicking.

And taking care of Krypto had become much more of a chore than it should have. Walks around the parks were a workout, and bathing him in your apartment’s small bathroom was becoming more of a hassle since you couldn’t bend over as easily. 

And ever since the elevator went out in your apartment building… let's just say leaving the apartment was not something you looked forward to doing.

You swallow thickly, trying to find even breaths. 

Clark usually was there to help you, walking Krypto early in the morning, taking him to the Kent farm when he could so the dog could expel his energy. He’d get groceries after work, takeout after he’d fought another alien visitor. Clark carried you up the stairs when he could, sometimes even flying you when he was sure no one was looking. 

But recently it all felt like too much. Even with everything he did. The busy life of Metropolis had become overwhelming. Suffocating. 

Krypto barks, looking past you and you sigh, trying to pull yourself together. You could hear it now, the footsteps making their way up the flights of stairs with a quick ease that made you a tinge jealous. You weren’t embarrassed- well who were you kidding. It was hard not to be when you were red faced and swollen everywhere, trying not to look like a few stairs made you exhausted. You make your way up to the next floor landing, trying to keep close to the wall to let the person pass you up. Krypto sticks close to you, tongue lolling.

A young girl jogs up the steps, hair bouncing, her skinny ballet flats smacking the paved stairs with a speed you could only imagine right now. She gives you a sympathetic smile as you wave at her, more pitying than kind. You only sigh, looking down at Krypto. The dog looks up at you with his dark eyes, head cocked, as if to say “it’s alright.”

It didn’t feel alright.

You told yourself you were just overreacting. You had been for lots of things during this pregnancy. Your hormones were all over the place, and for goodness sake you were growing a baby! Every time you had gotten upset over a misplaced mug, or cried because you hadn’t made it to the bathroom on time, Clark would kiss you and remind you just how much was going on in your body.

“Honey, don’t be sad. Please. You’re growing our baby. You have a lot going on right now, it’s okay to get upset.” You finally catch your breath, tugging on Krypto’s leash.

“Come on buddy. We can do this.”

------------------------------------------------------

It seemed you and Clark had excellent timing. Just as you were sticking your key into the apartment slot, Clark had flown in through the open window, his Superman suit still on. He can hear you from the other side, shuffling around as you try to get in. Clark is more than happy to open the door for you, ready to finally see you after a long day of heroism and getting grilled by Lois. 

But his bright smile falters a little as he opens the door, taking in your heaving chest, Krypto watching you carefully from your side. 

“Hi honey,” he whispers, gesturing for you to come in, careful to keep hidden behind the wooden door. You shuffle inside, Krypto running off as soon as you’ve bent over and undid the leash attached to his collar. The dog bounds over the couch, flying over it and scrambling into the kitchen, the sound of his food bowl being ravaged echoing in the kitchen.

Clark sighs, shaking his head as he closes the door, glancing back at you as you grunt. Your hand is pressed against your lower back, fingers massaging the muscles there. Although you're trying to hide it, Clark can see the way your chest is heaving, like you’d just run a marathon. He can hear how fast your heart is beating, noticing the way your mouth is pressed into a firm line. 

Uh-oh. 

“Hey,” he reaches out for your arm, rubbing a small circle against your back. “You okay.”

You nod, humming in reply. “I'm just tired."

Clark is ready as your arms open for him, gladly embracing you. You lean into him, like you couldn’t stand on your own for one more minute.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You nod into his chest, and Clark presses a kiss to the top of your head. He holds you for a moment before whispering, trying to get you to look at him. “You don’t have to pretend to be fine, you know. I can feel you’re hurting.” 

Your lips pout, body trembling slightly. Not from exhaustion, but from tears you were holding back. 

“Honey…” He cups your face, thumbs brushing the skin slightly. The dam bursts and you’re crying. Fat tears drip down your cheek, and you sob into Clark’s blue suit. “Hey,” he tries to comfort you, hand caressing the back of your damp hair. “It's okay. You're alright.” 

Clark is careful as he guides you to the couch, sitting down with a sigh, letting you curl into his side as you let it out. His hand trails from your wet cheek to your bump, big and heavy as it protrudes from your rain coat. 

“What’s wrong, hon? What's got you so worked up?” Clark whispers into your hair, holding you tight. It practically breaks his heart when you finally calm down enough to whisper back. 

“I’m so tired, Clark.” He frowns, waiting for you to elaborate. You sit up, nose red and stuffed up, the back of your hand rubbing away the tears still leaking from your lashes. “I just… I’m exhausted. Everything is so hard now. Work and taking care of Krypto, cleaning the house, getting groceries. I can't do everything as easy as I used to.” 

“Honey, I can help with all of those things. I try to-” 

“It's not that Clark,” you sigh, looking down at your swollen belly. “I just feel… big.”

“I- well you are carrying my baby.” Clark gives you a look, glancing down at his 6’4” frame. You breathe a laugh and Clark feels a bit better. He always liked making you laugh. 

“I know. I guess I’m just not feeling myself. I miss being able to get myself dressed without getting out of breath or walk Krypto up the stairs without getting looks of pity.” Clark frowns. 

“Did someone say something to you-” 

“No,” you laugh again, pressing your hand to his chest to get him to sit back down. “No, nobody said anything. It's okay Superman.” 

He gives you a smile, caressing your side. “Okay. But if I need to teach someone a lesson on respect-” 

“Clark!” 

He sighs, hugging you close. 

“You are so strong, you know that. You're carrying my baby. You're carrying a half- Kryptonian baby. And doing it beautifully.” You look up at Clark, eyes glistening as he praises you, his big hand covering your bump. “Honey I don't even know how you still get up every morning with this little guy. I think I would have called it quits long ago.” 

“Clark… you can lift buildings. This would be nothing for you.” 

He shrugs, his dark curls falling on his forehead as he inches closer. 

“Doesn't make what you're doing less impressive.” Your nose brushes his as he captures your lips, your hand cupping his jaw gently. 

He kisses you softly, tasting the tears which had stained your face. Clark only breaks away when he feels something tugging on his cape, peeking his eyes open to find the red fabric captured in Krypto’s jaws. 

“I think that's our cue,” you smile at him as Krypto barks, dropping the cape to nudge his dog bowl closer to Clark’s boot. 

You fall asleep almost as soon as your head hits the pillow. Clark spoons you gently, your back flush to his chest, his hand gently splayed against your belly. Krypto lays at the end of the bed, watching the two of you in the dark.

Clark felt awful about today, about how tired and stressed you clearly were. He should have caught it sooner, should have seen it this morning in the way you took longer to get out of bed. Or that afternoon when he had called you and you’d sighed at even the thought of having to haul the laundry out into the apartment’s hall. 

You deserved all the rest and more. You deserved to feel loved and safe and cozy. Of course, Clark had the better half down already; he loved you more than anything in the universe. But the latter half… 

Krypto whines, like he knew what Clark was thinking of. The man shifts gently, careful not to wake you as he looks at Krypto. 

“What do you think buddy… should we show her the surprise?” Krypto stretches his jaw, tongue lolling gently. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

------------------------------------------------------

“Clark,” you hold your hands out, trying to keep your balance as he leads you blindly. Clark chuckles, one big hand keeping you steady against your back, the other covering your eyes. 

“Clark Kent, I love you, but if you don't tell me where we are right now-” 

“I know, I know. We're almost there. Just a few more feet.” 

You can hear the sounds of birds twittering, sticks and leaves crunching beneath your feet. 

“Hon, you flew me here blindfolded and now you want me to trek through- what is this the woods? I don't really feel like reactivating my morning sickness-” 

“I promise you’ll like it,” he pats your back, pushing you forward. 

He'd been acting weird all morning, nervous and excited at the same time. It reminded you of the morning you were going to tell his parents about the baby, the secret threatening to spill out of his wide grin and glistening eyes. 

“Okay right here,” he stops you, and you wobble a little, your hand coming to rest over your bump. It's still dark beneath his hand, and you smile nervously. He slides his hand away, and you squint, the sunlight bright. “Okay! Here we are.” 

You blink, taking in your surroundings. 

“It’s… a house.” You glance at Clark, your husband crossing his flannel clad arms. 

“Hmm,” he hums in agreement. 

“You took us to someone's house?” 

“Well, not exactly,” Clark holds out his hand. “Come on.” 

You let him lead you up the wooden porch, the steps creaking beneath your weight. It was quite cute, flowers growing along the sides of the driveway, a dusty rocking chair sitting on the porch, ready for love. The front door was painted a pretty shade of red, diamond cut windows decorating the front. 

Clark squeezes your hand as you enter the door, and you try not to think about the fact he just entered without a key. It's bare inside, beautiful wood floors and a big fireplace greeting you. You gasp a little, not able to hide the smile as you take in the large kitchen. 

“Clark… what is this?” You laugh, entering the house further. He smiles, hands tucked in his pocket as he watches you turn around to admire the freshly painted walls and soft light pouring through the windows. 

“It's yours,” Clark says softly. “If you want it.” 

“I- what?” You laugh, your hand resting over your bump again. “Clark, but how-”

“I know you said you didn't want to move- and for a while I thought that would be it. We'd live in Metropolis and be happy in our little apartment. But I kept thinking about it. About our son and what I want for the both of you.” He swallows, looking around. “I want a place where you both feel safe. Where you don't have to worry about the Justice Gang crashing through the roof or worry about crowded laundry rooms. I want our son to be able to run around the backyard and see his grandparents more often. I want a place we can call ours.”

You smile at him amusedly, his eyes glistening with love as he takes your hands. 

“Clark… I thought you said it'd be impossible to find a house in Kansas now?” 

“It is. But I found this a few months ago. And I’ve already put an offer in.” You swallow thickly, looking around. It was beautiful, like something you'd only seen in your dreams. “I want you to have everything you've dreamed of. And if you don't want it, just say the word and I’ll take care of it. I’ll be just as happy in Metropolis with you and the baby as here.” 

Your lip trembles as you look around, the bare walls transforming in your minds eye into something warm and cozy. A living room with a thick rug and cozy sofa, a baby learning to sit up and crawl. A big kitchen where you could have family dinners, where you wouldn't have to worry about your landlord running behind on the water payment or whether your stove would get fixed or not. 

A bedroom window where you could watch Clark and your son run about, teaching him to fly or how to take care of Krypto. 

Clark leans closer to you, a soft smile on his face as he caresses your cheek with his thumb. You give him a big smile, squeezing his hand. 

“This is really ours?” You whisper. 

“If that's what you want honey. I’d give you the moon and the stars if I could. The whole galaxy if that would make you happy.” You laugh, cupping Clark’s face. 

“I think I’ll settle on just the house for now.” He grins like a kid on Christmas, scooping you up into a big hug.

--- May ---

The soft Kansas morning filtered through the gauzy curtains, soft light illuminating the outline of your bedroom. Morning birds twittered about, the cicadas finally slowing their nocturnal song as the day began. Clark’s hearing was attuned to all of this, his lashes fluttering open as he slowly awoke, tuning it all out to hear the one sound he'd loved since he first heard it. 

Thwump. Thwump. 

You shift in your sleep, the pillows surrounding you dipping beneath your heavy frame. Clark smiles softly, hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. He loved this part of marriage. Waking up to you every morning, excited at knowing he’d get to fall asleep with you by his side after the day. 

You both were exhausted; moving had taken up most of your time the past couple of weeks, packing your little apartment and unloading everything into the new house. Clark wasn’t exactly tired from lifting furniture or boxes- that was a piece of cake. It was more the constant rise in his blood pressure when he turned around and caught you trying to move a box into a new room or when he found you elbow deep in some cleaning project. 

If it was up to Clark, you wouldn’t lift a finger. Just sit pretty with an iced tea and slice of pie and let him do the heavy lifting. 

Clark yawns as he rolls onto his side, scratching his bare chest when he hears it- 

Bark. Bark.

He sighs, closing his eyes in disbelief at the sound coming from the roof.

Bark.

You stir beside him, your hand reaching out blindly, fingers finding purchase on his bicep and tapping him.

“Clark,” you murmur sleepily. 

“I know,” he mutters. “He’s on the roof again-”

“The dog is on the roof again,” you repeat, eyes still closed. Clark smiles, leaning over you to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“I’ll be back,” Clark whispers, throwing the covers off his body and getting up. 

The house is looked like a tornado had passed through, cardboard boxes every which way, furniture gathered in every room. The nursery was half painted- the soft blue walls glowing in the sun. Clark yawns again as he pads outside barefoot, eyes squinting as he turns, looking up at the roof. 

Bark. 

Just like he expected, Krypto was on the roof, his little cape tangled in the satellite dish. Clark shakes his head, floating up to help the dog out. His feet hit the roof with a soft thud, Krypto now whining, pleading to be released.

“Golly Krypto, we really gotta work on keeping you out of trouble.” Krypto licks his hands as Clark unhooks the fabric trapped. Clark smiles, sitting on the roof carefully.

The view was beautiful from up there, the surrounding houses bathed in a golden hue, the green fields dark and rich, the occasional cow grazing slowly. Krypto pads over to Clark’s lap, sitting on top of him, resting his face against his shoulder. 

Clark smiles, patting his back.

“You’re alright bud.”

------------------------------------------------------

It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon when a familiar rapping knock sounds at the door. You and Clark exchange confused looks, not expecting any company. He’s floating by the ceiling of the baby’s room, installing a curtain rod, looking down at you as you organize the shelves of the bookcase.

You shrug, following him into the hall as Clark pads into the living room.

It’s even stranger when Krypto comes flying down the hall, barking like a mad man, paws scrabbling at the door as Clark moves to open it.

“Okay, okay, down Krypto. Jeez, what has got you all worked up-” Kara looks up from her phone as Krypto pounces on her, knocking her over. She laughs, giggling as the dog licks her. 

“Hi boy! I missed you too.” 

You lean into Clark as you both stand surprised in the doorway. You hadn’t expected to see Kara for a while. The last you’d heard from her was a phone call Clark had made with her, just making sure she was alright. 

Kara gets up, dusting off her red and blue suit. She gives Clark a big smile, “Sup’ daddio. Thanks for watching my dog.”

“Yeah, of course K. But-” Clark’s words are lost as Kara glances over to you, her eyes wide as she takes you in.

“Woah. You’re huge.” You frown. Kara was never one to sugar coat things. 

“I- yeah, I’m carrying a baby Kara.” She gives you a thumbs up, nodding. Clark glances at you with a knowing expression, lips pressed into a firm line.

“And you know what, I’m very impressed. You couldn’t pay me to do it. Do you guys got anything to eat? I’m starving.” 

“Uh, Kara-” Clark starts, watching as she pushes inside, Krypto trotting in after her.

“If not, I’ll order burgers or something.”

Clark sighs, rubbing his brow line. “Kara, you can’t just barge in here like this-”

“Hey, you guys want Big Belly Burger? I swear, nobody in the milky way can make fries like they do.” Clark looks like he’s about to argue when you tug his elbow, shaking your head.

“Don’t push her away, Clark. She must be here for a reason.” He sighs, squeezing your hand.

“You’re right. I’m almost afraid to ask why.” 

You hum in agreement, not liking the way she was favoring her right side, fingers trembling slightly as she types away at her phone.

------------------------------------------------------

It was late in the night, the remnants of an UNO game and Big Belly Burger leftovers littering the kitchen table. Clark shuts off the light, fingers gripping the rim of his glass of chocolate milk as he carefully pads down the hall.

Clark passes the guest bedroom, smiling softly at the sight of Kara fast asleep on the bed, her limbs starfished on the mattress, snoring softly. Krypto sleeps soundly beside her, curled sweetly beside her. You're already tucked in bed as Clark enters your room, the covers draped loosely at your thighs, hand resting on your bump as you read your latest paperback. 

You look up at the sound of his footsteps, giving him a soft smile. 

“Hey.” 

Clark slides into bed next to you, letting out a tired sigh as he sets his glass down on the makeshift nightstand- a stack of boxes and his old briefcase. He looks at you, sliding his glasses off.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do with her.” 

“Who,” you ask, flipping over to the next page.

“Kara. She’s not staying.” You hum.

“Well, she’s a grown woman, Clark. She can make her own decisions.” Clark folds his arms, huffing with a pout.

“She’s not making good decisions.” You look at him, laughing a little. 

“Did you ask her to stay? Or tell her to?”

“I, well-” you hum again. 

“That’s what I thought.” You set your book down, setting up the barrage of pillows around you as you settle in for the night. Clark runs his hands down his face, looking up at the ceiling. You reach over, patting his chest comfortingly. “Don’t worry about it, hon. She’ll come around eventually. Just give it time.”

“I know.” Clark settles into bed, his hand reaching out for yours after he turns off the light. You press a kiss to his knuckles, sighing with exhaustion. “I guess this is what being a parent is like, huh?”

--- June ---

“Awwwww.” 

You hold up the small knitted sweater circle of women, smiling giddily. Your baby shower was in full swing, your backyard crowded with fold up tables and chairs, plenty of goodies and flowers. The tables were decorated with little cowboy cut outs, a blue and white balloon arch decorating the back entrance of your house. You beam at the little green sweater in your hand, thumbing the soft yarn.

“Martha, you really shouldn’t have.” You look at her gratefully, clutching the small sweater to your chest. It was so tiny, you almost couldn’t believe your son would fit into it. Clark’s Ma beams, clutching her iced tea, her eyes glistening. 

“I know he’ll grow out of it in a blink, but I wanted to make him something special.” 

“Thank you.”

There were so many gifts. Too many. You were overwhelmed with the love your family and friends were pouring out for your baby boy. Boxes of diapers and clothes, cardboard books and letter blocks and teethers. All kinds of things.

You peer over your swollen belly to get a glimpse of Krypto, the dog snoozing beneath your chair. His furry body rising up and down with his soft breath, paws twitching as he dreamed. 

“Alright,” Lois finishes writing down the last name on her notepad, keeping track of who to write ‘thank you’s’ to. “Here’s the last one.”  

She passes you a small navy giftbag, tissue paper jutting out the top haphazardly. You smile, eyeing the tag, yellow cardstock cut into a small circle, curly red script reading: 

Clark said I had to get you something. If the kid doesn't like it, his loss -K

You chuckle. It was just like Kara to be both thoughtful and complacent in one sentence. The tissue paper crinkles as you remove it from the bag, a small gasp leaving you as you peek inside the bag.  

“What is it?” One of your friends asks, the women all leaning close to get a good look. You pull out the little stuffed toy, a fluffy white dog who looked suspiciously like the one beneath your feet. 

“Oh, Kara,” you whisper to yourself, your words lost as the group breaks out in another chorus of “aww” and “too cute!” You hold the little dog, his bead eyes glinting beneath the sun, fluffy fur soft beneath your fingers. 

Lois sighs with all the contentment of a party going well, writing down the last gift. 

“Okay, that'll do it. Who’s ready for the diaper raffle!

------------------------------------------------------

You wash your hands in the kitchen, eyeing the little stuffed dog sitting on the counter. You couldn't seem to let it go, the gift from Kara too sweet to sit amongst the piles of baby clothes and books. 

In the living room, the chorus of women laugh and talk together, paper plates and forks passed around with snacks and slices of cake. 

Martha Kent pads into the kitchen, her wrinkled hands gently patting your back as she smiles. 

“Lots of nice things you got.” You chuckle, shutting off the water and drying your hands. 

“I know. I think we're set on diapers for the next year.” Martha laughs knowingly, her eyes sparkling with memory. 

“You'd be surprised. If your boy is anything like Clark, those diapers won't last long.” You both laugh, your hand brushing over your bump as the baby boy in question kicks you. 

From down the hall you can hear footsteps, Clark’s tall frame rounding the corner, dimpled smile bright as he catches sight of his Ma. 

“Speaking of Clark, there you are! I almost forgot you were here, son. You've been so quiet.” Clark’s ears turn red as he hugs his Ma, glancing up at you. You smile knowingly, observing his windswept hair and crooked glasses, a faint cut against his cheek that hadn't been there this morning. 

“I know. I figured I’d give you ladies a chance to mingle without me interrupting.”

“Oh please,” Martha pats his chest. “No one would ever say no to seeing you, Clark.” You giggle, nodding in agreement. 

“She's right honey.” Clark just looks at you in embarrassment, releasing his Ma and moving to stand next to you. You don't miss the way he tries to hide a limp, favoring his right side. 

Martha chats with Clark for a few minutes, the man slowly leaning further into you, doing his best to try and hide the fact he was hurt. 

“Okay,” Martha sighs. “I think I’m gonna get myself another slice of that cake. Lois sure can bake.” 

“She can,” you smile. 

“Either of you want a slice?” 

“Uh, it's okay Ma. I’ll probably have some later.” 

“Better be quick Clark. It's going faster than earrings at a Macy’s sale.”

“Okay Ma,” Clark chuckles. His hand brushes down the back of your spine as you both watch his Ma head back into the living room. You look up at your husband, cupping the side of his face to get a better look at the scrape. Clark watches as you inspect it, taking his weight off you and leaning heavily into the counter. 

“Where’d you go?” You whisper. He smiles, shaking his head. 

“I can't keep anything from you. You know that?” 

“I do,” you glance behind you, making sure no one else was coming into the kitchen as you lift the bottom of Clark’s shirt. “Clark…” you cringe as your fingers hover over the nasty burn mark. 

“There was a runaway train in Gotham. Would have taken out a whole building if I hadn't shown up.” Clark’s voice is hushed, his hand resting on your bump. “It looks worse than it is. I just need some sun and I’ll feel better.”  

You frown looking up at Clark through your lashes. 

“You didn't even say goodbye.” He sighs, and you can feel your son kick hard. Clark’s lips quirk into a small smile as a little foot presses against his hand. 

“I think he agrees. I should have said something. I just didn't want you to worry during your party.” 

“Clark,” you give him a look, voice lowering once more. “At least I know. I don't have to see you walk into my kitchen looking like you got run over.” 

Your son kicks again, pressing harder against his fathers hand. You groan slightly, massaging your belly gently. 

Clark squats down carefully, now eye level with your bump. 

“Okay, okay. No need to hurt your mom to make a point, son. I get it.” Your baby must be satisfied with Clark’s reaction, giving one more kick, gentler this time, as Clark presses a kiss to your belly. 

He grunts quietly as he stands pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You wrap your arms around his tall frame, giving him a soft squeeze. 

“You're alright Kent. Just don't make your son mad again. I don't need him kicking my bladder anymore than he is now.”

Clark nods, eyes narrowing as he catches sight of the little dog on the counter. He reaches for it, the animal comically small in his large hands. 

“What’s this?” 

“That is from Kara.” Clark looks surprised. 

“Really? She's not exactly the greatest gift giver.” You laugh. “Is that why you told her she had to get me a present?” Your husband shakes his head, inspecting the stuffed dog curiously. 

“I never told her that.” You frown, confused. You tell him about the tag, remembering her curly script perfectly. 

“No. I only told her we'd miss her. And that if she changes her mind she's still more than welcome to come over.” 

“Huh,” you place your hands on your hips. 

“Hey, does this remind you of something,” he points at the dog. You break out into bright laughter. 

“Clark. You, of all people, should know who he looks like.” The man frowns, the sudden realization dawning on his face. 

“Kara…” he mutters. In perfectly timed fashion, Krypto comes bounding through the living room, the women gasping and crying out with surprise. The dog races through the kitchen, your hands stifling a cry as he almost busts through the back door, barely making it through his small flap. 

Lois peeks into the kitchen, giving Clark an apologetic look. 

“I’m sorry. He got to the cake before I could stop him.”

------------------------------------------------------

It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that weighed down on you, made your heart beat feel like a thunderstorm, made every breath a tumbling storm. 

You stood on your back porch, staring out into the dark of backyard, anxiety and worry clawing at your heart. From your belly, your son kicks to a feverish beat, as if to say “what’s going on mom?” 

“I know baby,” you look down at yourself. “I’m just a little worried about your dad.” 

Clark had been gone for two days. Two days without any phone call, without so much as a glimpse of him on the news. He had left in a rush, kissing you fiercely as he muttered something about the Justice Gang. 

You had simply told him to calm down, that it was probably nothing. 

“They don't just call for nothing, honey. Are you sure you don't want me to call Ma to keep you company-” 

“Clark. You worry too much. We’ll be fine. Krypto makes an excellent conversationalist.” 

“But-”

“Clark. Go save the world.” 

But after almost fourty-eight hours you were feeling less certain. 

Krypto sits at the base of the porch, watching your backyard with a guarded stillness. He was listening for something; you could tell by the way his left ear was raised upward, his wet nose twitching. 

Your eyes scan the dark sky, night falling in steady strokes of indigo and violet. You wrap Clark’s large flannel tighter around your torso, a chill running down your back. 

A flash of light catches your eye, quicker than lightening. You almost think you've imagined it, hope twisting in your chest. But Krypto’s wagging tail and frantic barks confirm you saw it. 

You carefully creep down the porch steps, watching the clouds for another sign. Anything. 

“Please Clark. Please come back to me.” 

Your whispered prayer is answered as you hear the whistling force of something falling, a bright speck breaking through the clouds and plummeting through the stars. You stare wide eyed as something crashes into the outer fields of your backyard, dirt and grass spraying out from the impact. 

“Krypto,” you glance down at the dog, already moving off the porch as fast as your very pregnant body would allow. “Go fetch,” you point. The dog pants, tilting his head looking between you and the crater of dirt now mounded in the fields. He must see something out there because he’s off in a blink flying fast through the Kansas grass. 

You follow, the grass warm beneath your bare feet as you move out into the yard. Krypto barks as he bounds around the mess, disappearing into the crater. From just inside you can see the auburn hair of the Justice Gang’s most stubborn and vulgar member. Guy Gardner dips back into the crater, his voice carrying through the field as you make your way towards him.

“Come on, big guy. I thought you could fly-”

Your heart leaps as you hear Clark’s groaning reply, his curly hair appearing as Guy helps him up. Krypto runs about, barking at the two heroes as they climb out of the dirt crater, Guy half carrying Clark. His red boots drag against the ground, legs barely supporting his large body. 

You hurry as fast as you can, a stitch in your side and heavy bump slowing you down. Clark looks up at you, and your heart breaks-

He’s exhausted. Scared. You can tell whatever fight he’d just been through… it had been bad. Guy helps Clark forward, your husband staggering out of his hold as the two of you meet in the middle. Clark practically falls into your arms as you embrace him, the feeling of having him back lifting a heavy weight off your heart.

You hug each other tightly, his face plunging into the crook of your neck, warm tears already dripping onto your skin. You hold him, not even caring about the fact you were practically supporting him upright, pressing soft kisses to his cheek, hands cradling his head. 

“You’re home, Clark. You’re alright- we’re alright.” 

Clark holds you close, fingers tight against your hips, as if he was afraid you’d disappear. 

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry, I tried-”

“Shh, Clark, it’s okay,” you whisper, holding him tightly. “Save your energy, okay. You can explain later. I’m just glad you’re home.”

You glance over his shoulder at Guy, the green lantern looking just as roughed up as your husband. You don’t even need to ask what happened for Guy to shake his head. It was better not to. Not yet anyways.

“Okay Supes, let's get you inside. I don’t want you to grill me later for having your wife carry you in.” 

It’s a slow process, Guy and you taking either side of Clark and helping him along. Krypto barks at Clark with worry, the dog lingering on your porch as the three of you disappear into the house. You’d never seen Clark in such bad shape, the man practically folding as he slumps onto your bed. You breathe heavily as you lean over him, Clark’s hand reaching up to cup your face as his eyelids droop heavily. 

“Are you okay,” he whispers and you laugh quietly, smiling softly. 

“Of course I am. Just worried about you.” You reach for his other hand, guiding it to the side of your belly, letting him feel the soft kicks of your son, now awake from all the commotion. “You’re son missed you too.” Clark smiles painfully, his eyes closing as he groans. It only takes him a minute to slip into unconsciousness, his head slumping against the pillow. You swallow thickly, kissing his forehead before padding into the kitchen, glancing back with worry. 

You cross your arms, watching with furrowed brows as Guy rummages around your fridge, pulling out a carton of milk and sniffing it. 

“It’s fresh, Guy. You know that.” He shrugs.

“It may be fresh but is it good? I don’t settle, sweetheart.” 

He pours the milk into a bowl of cereal he’s already made, slumping into one of your kitchen chairs with a tired groan. You sit across from him with a similarly tired groan, your hand coming to rest on the top of your bump. You bite your lip with worry, wanting to ask Guy all the questions tumbling around in your brain. But from the way Guy was downing the cereal, you could tell he was in no mood to answer anything quite yet. 

He finally sets his bowl to the side, leaning back in his chair as he chews the last bit. You look at him seriously, worry written into the frown on your face.

“What the heck happened Guy?” Your voice is hushed, strained. Like if it was any louder, it would break the dam of emotions coursing through you. Guy sighs, running a hand through his messy bowl cut. 

“It was crazy. The call we got said it was a military base whose operation had gone south. An experimental weapon gon berzerk- the usual idiotic scientist who didn’t have the balls to admit he screwed up.” Guy scratches a cut on his cheek, frowning at the blood staining the crevices of his finger nails. “Turned out to be a trap. Lex’s raptors surrounded us, managed to pin us down and capture us. We barely made it out. Almost didn’t if it hadn’t been for your husband’s insistence. He was dead set on getting home.”

You look away from Guy, hiding behind your trembling hands. Guy doesn’t say anything, just gets up with a grunt and rinses off his dish, letting it clatter in the dishwasher. 

“Tell Clark I’ll talk to him later, okay?”

“Okay Guy,” you sniff, finally looking back up at him. Your words of gratitude are trapped in your throat, stuck like a lump you couldn’t swallow. You don’t have to say them though, Guy knows. He can see it in the glistening drops stuck in your lashes, the way your gaze keeps drawing to the bedroom, itching to see Clark again. Guy sighs, cracking his neck.

“The milk was alright by the way. Pretty good… for Smallville anyways.” You laugh, waving Guy out. He smiles, waving. “See you later Mrs. K.”

------------------------------------------------------

Clark blinks awake slowly, the Kansas sun peeking out from behind your bedroom’s curtains. It takes his brain a moment to catch up, to realize he was awake. Alive. 

The soft fabric of your comforter, familiar and warm, rubs against his bare arms; Clark’s eyes drift down at the gentle weight laying against his torso, Krypto asleep on top of him. There’s a strange sense of de ja vu, like Clark had been in this exact position before, a brush away from death. The memory is faint, forgotten. But it’s there.

Clark sighs, shifting against his pillow, only to realize it’s not just Krypto laying on him. Your breath stutters from the movement, the hand which had been laying on Clark’s chest falling onto the covers. He’s surprised he didn’t catch your heart beat next to him- his superhearing quickly zeroes on the steady thumps, the fainter beats of his son following. 

Clark grunts, his whole body still sore as he reaches over your body, pulling you closer to his side. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out for, barely registering the cotton pajamas on his frame, the overflowing can of tissues on your side, empty bowls of soup stacked on top of the other. Your lashes flutter open as Clark cards his fingers slowly through your hair, and he can hear the shift in your heartbeat, the sudden spike of fear which courses through you.

“Shh, honey,” he whispers, shaking his head when you try to speak. “I’m okay. I’m alright. I just- I just want to lay here with you for a minute.” 

You stare with a worried stillness, your fingers moving up his chest and cupping his jaw. Clark can feel the stubble growing there- it had to have been a few days he’d been out. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I am with you here,” Clark quietly murmurs, already feeling the aching exhaustion pulling him under again.

--- July ---

It was a muggy Kansas summer day; the sun beating down on the roof, air conditioner rattling as it chugged along to combat the weather as best it could. The long grass rustled outside the window, the air buzzing with anticipation, as if it knew something you didn’t. 

The house was still, sun glowing in the nursery as you passed by, the laundry basked heavy on your hip. 

Clark would have a fit if he could see you. 

You really should be sitting down and resting, but the urge to clean had gotten the best of you. With only a few weeks to go, you'd taken to cleaning everything you could. Or everything Clark would let you. Since he’d been home more, recovering after the Superman incident and starting his paternity leave from the Daily Planet, he’d been doing all he could to help you out. 

Cleaning the rain gutters, moving furniture around, organizing the garage. He’d finally taken up the battle of putting the carseat into his truck, Krypto running around as he’d mumbled and grunted. 

“I can lift buildings… this shouldn’t be so hard- gosh darn it!”

The man frowned and pouted anytime you tried to do anything, swooping in to finish a load of dishes, herding you back to bed when you attempted to make yourself some tea, constantly asking how you were feeling.

As sweet as Clark was, his constant doting and worrying was getting on your nerves. 

You had sent him to the grocery store, hoping to buy yourself an hour or two to get some things done. Like this Superman suit, which hadn’t been touched since he’d crash landed in the back yard. 

You hadn’t talked much about what exactly had happened. Clark had admitted he didn’t remember much… just pain and the same thought tumbling over and over.I have to get home.

Whatever had happened, it was bad enough for Clark to be out of commission for a while. Even after he’d been to the fortress and healed by his Superman robots, he’d still hiss at a sore muscle or an invisible pain. It was eerie to see him like that, so… human. 

And of course, it didn’t help that Krypto had been acting weird. Barking more, constantly pacing around the house. Clark chalked it up to jitters, the dog sensing something was changing between his injury and your looming due date. But you couldn’t help the feeling that something was off. You just didn’t know what.

You pad down the hall, moving in the slow waddle you’d unconsciously adopted in the past month. Clark’s suit hung out of the basket, red cape glistening as you made your way in the kitchen, past Krypto who was currently terrorizing his latest new toy- a little stuffed squirrel who once could have been labeled as cute, but was now no more than an amalgamation of stuffing and beaded eyes. The dog chews fervently, only stopping as you pass by, his nose twitching. 

You set the laundry basket down on top of the dryer, reaching for the washer’s knobs with some difficulty, your bump getting in the way. Just able to press the start button, you begin to load Clark’s suit inside, throwing in the blue costume, covered in dirt stains and scorch marks, his red shorts too. The cape needed some extra scrubbing and you carefully reach for the special solution he kept, beginning to spray and scrub. Krypto pads over to you from the kitchen, his nose still twitching as he watches you. 

You look back at him with a smile, amused at the concern written in his eyes. The dog barks as he pads closer, looking up at you, his tail no longer swaying with its usual pep.

“Krypto, it’s okay. I’m just putting this in the wash and then I’m going to sit down. Don’t worry.” Krypto doesn’t listen and begins to tug on the ankle of your sweat pants, teeth barring over the fabric. You frown, still scrubbing as you glance down at the dog. “Krypto…”

Krypto had never been an aggressive dog. Messy and overly hyper, sure. But lately, he’d been more agitated. Easily sent into a barking spell or trying to get Clark’s or your attention. 

“Krypto, what-” your words are cut off as you gasp, Krypto letting go of your pants and leaping onto the basket, knocking it over. The clothes still inside tumble onto the floor, the dog knocking into the laundry soap and the bottle going over as well. Soap spills onto the ground and you cry out in shock as Krypto bites the cape’s fabric, dragging it out of your hands as he bounds through the air and into the kitchen. “KRYPTO!” 

You cry out, leaning down to try and salvage some of the soap still inside. You look around at the mess, trying to take a deep breath and remain calm. Goodness, Clark was going to have a heart attack when he saw all this. You set down the soap, moving towards the kitchen where Krypto was currently growling at the cape, staring at it from afar. You stop beside the dog, hands on your hip as you look down at him.

“What has gotten into you? Huh, buddy? You’re never this bad. Even on your crazy days.” Krypto gives you a single glance, barking when you try and get Clark's cape. “Bud,” you sigh, “I just need to finish the laundry. You don’t need to worry, okay?” 

You move to grab the cape, barely beginning to reach for the red fabric when Krypto moves, faster than you’d seen him move before-

“Ouch!” You look at Krypto in surprise, grabbing your hand tenderly. “Did you just bite me? Krypto-” The dog just growls and you stare, stunned. 

You almost miss the sound of the front door as Clark comes in, his boots heavy against the wooden floor.

“Hey, sorry it took me so long. They didn’t have any of the witch hazel spray you wanted so I stopped by another…” Clark’s words trail off as he rounds the wall, face contorting in surprise over the grocery bags he was carrying. “I- what happened?” 

“I don’t know. I was trying to do some laundry and he just started going nuts.” You gesture towards Krypto, the dog looking somewhat apologetic at what he’d done. If dogs could even look apologetic. Clark sighs, clearly not in the mood to deal with the dogs antics as he sets down the bags on the table, giving Krypto a stern look. 

“Come on Krypto, outside.” 

Clark moves over to the kitchen’s back door, leading to the yard outside. He opens it, gesturing for Krypto to follow. The dog doesn’t, still sitting and glaring at the cape. Krypto’s teeth are bared now, as if he was holding back from tearing the thing apart. 

“Come on bud.” He still doesn’t budge. “What has gotten into you?” Clark moves to grab the dog, Krypto barking insistently as Clark carries him to the door. 

“Krypto…” You start, worried. He’d never acted that way before. He was a bit reckless and crazy, sure. But never had he tried to bite you. And sure, he could be a pill with Clark, but he never tried to fight… 

You glance down at the cape, a sense of dread washing over you. You think back to what Guy Gardner had told you that night in the kitchen, about Lex Luthor and the prison. You remember Lex’s name from stories Clark had told you, a big rivalry they had years ago. And most importantly- the weapon Lex had used to capture Clark.

You pick up the cape, carefully inspecting the fabric. You can still hear Krypto outside, his barks becoming desperate as Clark carries him away. Your heart beats faster as your fingers run over the threaded symbol, eyes moving along the folds. And then you see it. 

Glinting in the sunlight, almost invisible if you weren’t really looking. A flash of green. Dark, like an emerald, and immediately you drop the cape, taking a step back. 

Kryptonite. 

“Clark!” You’re hurrying out the back yard door, breathing heavy with worry. “CLARK!” 

He’s still trudging out with a distressed Krypto, the dog thrashing in Clark’s big arms. The man turns, clearly perplexed by your raised voice.

“Hon- what is it?!” Clark likely picks up your erratic heartbeat, probably see the way your hands shake because the next thing you know he’s by your side, telling you to breathe. “It’s okay, sweetheart- take a deep breath.” 

You take a shaking one, glancing down at Krypto who eyes you carefully. 

“Your suit Clark. He… Krypto, he-”

“Don’t worry about it. Whatever he did-”

“No, Clark!” You breathe, looking up at him with a terrible sense of dread. “Clark, I think whatever prison they put you in… I think it was made of Kryptonite.”

The blood drains from Clark’s face and he looks between you and the house. It would make sense. Clark’s regression in getting better, the constant aches and pains. Krypto’s agitation, his constant clinginess. He was trying to get your attention, not be a nuisance. And all this time you had though he was maybe worried about the baby-

“The baby,” you whisper, looking down. “Clark, what if…” Clark shakes his head, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. 

“It’s not… I  can still hear his heartbeat. The amount stuck on my suit wasn’t enough to hurt me. Not too much anyway. He’s still protected by your immune system and he’s only half Kryptonian…” Clark trails off, not meeting your eye. His palm is warm against your belly, holding you steady. Or maybe he’s trying to hold himself steady.

“But, there’s something wrong. Isn’t there?”

He finally meets your eye, the emotion on his face surprising. Scared. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Clark scared. And it worries you. The baby worries you. He was being awfully still right now. Maybe he had been for a while. 

You’re kicking yourself for losing track of the last time he’d kicked. 

“Clark,” you start, hands trembling as he pulls you close. “I’m scared.” 

“Don't be. We’ll get him checked out, okay? I’m going to make sure the both of you are okay.” 

------------------------------------------------------

Krypto watches Clark as he hugs you, tongue lolling out of his mouth. He thinks you finally understand, finally get why he had taken the cape from you. 

He knows you were angry at him. He could see it in the way your lips curved downward, in the tilt of your head, the fists resting on your hip. But Krypto had to warn you somehow. 

The house had been off for a while. Since Clark had come crashing from the sky like a star. He’d smelt weird. Different. Not a different like you, a sweet smell that grew stronger as the baby had gotten bigger. No. 

This was a bad different. 

Something that made him tired and a bit cranky, that made the baby sleep more inside you, made you feel out of sorts. Krypto had heard you once, mentioning something about "baby nerves."

It was just too late when Krypto finally recognized the smell… when he finally saw the glittering crystal you couldn’t stuck on the cape. 

Clark gives you one last squeeze before heading back in the house, his face stricken. Krypto pads closer to you, head tilted as he catches your wet eyes. He can smell the salty tang which usually preludes crying. He doesn’t want you to cry.

Krypto barks, nudging your pants with his snout. You sniff, squatting carefully, one hand cradling your belly, the other reaching out to keep your balance. 

“Oh Krypto.” He feels strange. You’re scratching his ears like he usually enjoys, but he doesn’t feel the normal spark. “You were just trying to warn me. To warn us, huh buddy?”

Krypto licks your hand, wishing he could tell you it was going to be alright. But you were just so sad. Clark too. The dog could see it in the man’s face, the sadness he was trying to hide as he walked outside with a trash bag, chucking it into the shed across the yard. From the smell of it, it was the cape.

Clark comes back, helping you up with the gentleness he always used with you, whispering in your ear. Something about a bag and calling the hospital. Whatever that means. It probably wasn’t a nice place based on the looks you give each other. Krypto sure didn’t want to go. 

But he’s quick to follow Clark when the man whistles, nodding towards the truck. Krypto loved to ride in the truck! If only it wasn’t while you were sad. Krypto bounds over to the red pickup, hopping inside the bed like he usually did. 

“We’re gonna go for a little ride, bud. Make a quick trip to the hospital.” Clark pats Krypto’s side, his mouth set in a firm line. Krypto has lived with Clark long enough now to know that was the face he made when he was trying to hide something. Usually a surprise for you, something wrapped in colorful bows and glitter. Or the rare occasion he brought Krypto something home. Like the new squirrel. 

But now… now Clark just looks sad. The man gathers the rope tether tied to the bed and attaches it to Krypto’s collar, his big hands working carefully to tie it neatly. Krypto licks Clark’s hand, just like he did with you. 

The man sighs, pausing as he leans against the truck.

“I didn’t know Krypto. I should have known… should have guessed” he swallows thickly. “I put them in danger.” 

Clark was so hard on himself sometimes. Always wanting to protect everyone. Krypto thought he was a good guy for that. 

But when Superman failed, who would protect him? Krypto lays in the bed of the truck as it jostles along the road, his ears occasionally flicking in the hot sun. The ride to the hospital is a lot longer than the usual trips to town. Not that Krypto minded. 

But watching Clark and you get out of the truck, the man’s hands carefully helping you down, carrying the small bag you’d brought, the dog felt bad again. It was strange. He never felt guilty for anything. 

Not when he’d tore up your old couch, the brown thing he thought looked like an ugly loaf of bread. Not when he’d chewed up Kara’s new eyeshadow palette, or her pink mascara tube, or her comb or- well, he’d chewed up a lot of her makeup things. 

But he’d never felt bad about it. And he didn’t even do anything this time! 

You sniff as you pat Krypto’s head, giving him a gentle rub with your thumb.

“We’ll see you in a bit buddy.” 

“Please… be good dude,” Clark says, his eyebrows drawn in a serious line. Krypto watches as you both walk towards the hospital, an air of dread and sadness following you. 

Krypto didn’t know if he could sit in the truck the whole time. The suspense would probably kill him before he even had a chance to make a mess. 

But an idea enters his head. A rare occurrence, considering most of the time he just thought about squirrels or which of Clark’s shoes he was going to chew up next. 

No. He would be a good boy. But being a good boy didn’t necessarily mean staying….

------------------------------------------------------

The hospital room is sterile, the space still ringing with the nurses words from just ten minutes ago. 

“The baby’s heartbeat is a lot slower than I’d like it to be. Especially with him being so low and it being so close to your due date.

We’re going to prep you to stay, but if baby’s heartbeat doesn’t improve, I’d recommend us performing an emergency c-section.” Emergency. 

It was hard to tell what you were more afraid of. Your mind was so cluttered, worried for your baby, worried for Clark. He hadn’t said much of anything. Just a thank you to the nurse and a quiet, “let me help you” when you moved to get up off the low examination table. 

Now, he was holding the soft cotton hospital gown open for you now, helping you carefully maneuver your arms into it. His face was downcast, clearly listening to the inner workings of your body. Your heartbeat. Your son.

“Clark,” you whisper softly, turning around to cup his face. He sighs, closing his eyes at your touch. “It’s not your fault.” 

His lashes flutter open slowly, blue eyes giving you a pointed look.

“I should have known.”

“You couldn’t have. You said it yourself, the amount was small enough to go unnoticed.” Clark shakes his head as he turns you around again, his large fingers working carefully at the ties of the gown.

“I could have noticed sooner. I- you were doing my laundry and I should have been the one doing it. I should have-”

“Clark.” You say his name with such purpose. A firm anchor bringing him from the brink of spiraling. “You wouldn’t let me blame myself. I can’t let you do the same.”

Clark sighs, his hands pausing. 

“I’m Superman, honey,” he whispers, barely audible. “I’m supposed to keep you safe. Keep my family safe. And I failed.”

“You didn’t fail. We’re both okay right now. You got us here… you got us help.” You reach for his hand, placing it on the swell of your belly. “I know how much you love us. And how you do everything you can to take care of us. You’re right. You’re Superman. But right now, I don’t need you to be a hero. I need you to be my husband.”

Clark swallows thickly, his thumb brushing against the fabric of the cotton gown.

“And as my husband I need you to hold my hand when I’m scared. And make sure you catch everything the doctor says, because I’m pretty sure I missed half of it.” Clark gives a small chuckle at that. He meets your eye, leaning down to capture your lips softly. 

“I love you honey.”

“I know you do, Clark. Now please, can you get me some ice chips?”

------------------------------------------------------

Clark's leg bounces nervously against the plastic chair. Everything felt so vast in the hallway of the surgery wing, so isolated. He was alone, save for the single nurse taking a nap behind her check in desk. 

You hadn’t been in the room long before the nurse was checking you again, her frown deepening, eyes searching as she listened with the stethoscope. She didn’t need to say anything for Clark to know. Something was very wrong. 

Even for the man who could fly faster than a bullet train, the last thirty minutes had been a blur. Nurses crowding your room, helping you get an IV set up, talking you and Clark through the procedure to come, getting you onto the hospital bed.

They tried to be reassuring. But there were only so many things they could say before the words grew stale, just background noise to the growing worry. 

“I’m sorry sweetheart, but your husband will have to wait outside the surgery room.” 

Clark had to refrain from a few choice words at that. He couldn’t even keep you company; couldn’t be there for you when your son was being brought into the world. It wasn’t what Clark had imagined, wasn’t what he had pictured late at night, when you were sleeping snug against his ribs. 

Despite the pain you obviously felt at the news, you still found the strength to give him a soft smile, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay Clark. Just think… we’ll be seeing our son sooner than we thought.” 

Clark had held your hand till the last minute, keeping his composure for as long as he could. He walked with you as the nurses wheeled your bed down the hall, his tall frame bent at an awkward angle so he could kiss you goodbye. His thumb caressed your hairline covered by the scrub cap, your eyes misty as you whispered an I love you. 

Clark was hyper focused on you, reaching out with his super hearing, listening as they performed the surgery. Sometimes it was almost too much, as if he were in the room right beside you. Clark listened so intensely, he often had to force himself to stop, making himself sick with worry at the muffled sounds of organs shifting and the doctors whispering. 

He runs a hand through his messy curls, fingers tugging harder than he meant to. Clark winces. His phone pings and he’s quick to check it, the screen glowing with multiple texts from his Ma, a few from Lois and Jimmy and some from his cousins.

Ma: Pa and I are still stuck out in Fortsworth. We’re coming as soon as we can. 

Try not to worry too much son. Your wife’s a strong girl.

Clark sets his phone down, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses with a tired sigh. He swallows thickly, feeling the wet warmth of tears threatening to spill. He takes a breath, standing up. The plastic chair squeaks with relief at the loss of his weight, and Clark begins to pace down the hall slowly, sneakers thudding quietly against the tiled floor. 

The surgery is still going. He can hear it clearly now, his mind wandering to you, unconsciously tuning in to your body as it’s poked and prodded, torn and rummaged. The image is gruesome and Clark has to take a shaky breath. The guilt he feels is overwhelming. Isolating. 

In moments like these, it was you he’d turn to for a comforting embrace, a smile. Even a small quip to try and get him to smile. But he was alone. All alone in the hall, left to listen as you let out a pained breath, to think about how this was all his fault. 

Clark’s hand trembles as the first tear breaks free, streaking down his nose leaving a warm and salty trail. He wipes it quickly with the palm of his hand, head beginning to throb with a blooming headache. Clark stands there, trying to stifle a sob when something behind him makes a commotion. 

“Ma’am. Ma’am you can’t come in here like that. And with- this is a hospital!”

“Aw, that’s too bad. I don’t really care-”

Clark should check it out. Raised voices usually don’t mean anything good. He should dry his eyes, put on his Superman charm and make sure everything is all right. 

But how could anything be all right when he was so worried about you. About your baby. 

Clark just stands there, trying to calm himself. His brows furrow as he hears a familiar jingling, the sound of boots clicking against the tile. Glancing to his side, he catches sight of a familiar flash of red, sparkling beneath the bright lights. Clark looks up, surprise written on his face as he takes in the sight of Kara, her blonde hair messily windswept, face still covered in galactic glitter. 

“Hey Daddio.” 

She gives him a smile, understanding written in the soft expression of her face. Clark thinks he could crumple right there, and he doesn’t say anything as he bridges the gap between them, embracing Kara tightly. The sobs he was trying to hold back break free, tears surly staining Kara’s blue and red dress, her hand patting his broad back slowly.

“Okay big guy, no need to cry. Jeez, you men are such babies.” She pulls away, giving him a look. “You’re wife’s the one doing all the work in there. You could at least try and pretend she’s not stronger than you.”

Clark laughs at that, rubbing the tears away. Kara was right. Of course she was. 

“How did you even know-” he doesn’t need to finish the sentence as he catches sight of something over Kara’s shoulder. Krypto stands there panting, paws slowly moving forward at a snail’s pace, fur tangled with leaves and astro debris. 

Clark’s shoulders round out with ease as he shakes his head, moving over to the dog. Krypto whines, tongue lolling as Clark rubs his ears, pulling him into a hug. 

“You’re a good boy Krypto. Good boy.”

------------------------------------------------------

Kara is half asleep on his shoulder, his Ma and Pa sitting across the hall, dozing. Krypto is snoring beneath Clark's chair, half hidden beneath Clark's large flannel wrapped around his exhausted frame.

Clark rubs his eyes beneath his black frames, checking his watch after. It had been barely an hour since you'd been brought to the room, but it felt like an eternity. His long leg bounces against the plastic chair, arms folding as he listens. Still nothing new. Nothing-

He pauses, his entire body going still. There was something. It was faint, almost non-existent. But it grows louder, Clark's breath leaving his body as he listens.

It was a cry. A little wail, fragile and raspy. It was beautiful. Clark nudges Kara's shoulder, trying to rouse her.

"Kara. Kara hey-" She inhales sharply, sitting up with a start.

"What? Huh-"

"Shh, listen!" Kara blinks, her head titled as she listens to the soft cries.

"Well darn. You're officially a daddy Kal."

Clark smiles wide, pushing up out of the plastic chair, his hands shaking a little. His Ma and Pa stir in their seats, blinking with confusion.

“Something happening Clark?” His Pa asks.

“Yeah Pa. I think… I think I’m a father.” Jonathan Kent smiles brightly, standing with a grunt and clapping his son on his shoulder.

“Atta boy.” Martha smiles, clutching her hankie with excitement.

“Oh goodness Clark, I can't wait to see him.”

Clark is still afraid, the worry still etched into his heart. But just hearing the little cry, so fresh and new, is enough to calm some of his fears.

It's a little while before one of the doctors peeks her head out of the surgery, pulling down her mask and giving Clark a reassuring smile.

“Congratulations Mr. Kent. We have a baby boy, safe and sound here.” Clark smiles, Martha and Jon hugging.

“Is my wife okay? They're both okay?” She smiles, nodding.

“He's perfectly fine. Vitals leveled out as soon as we gave him some attention. You're wife's being wheeled to one of our recovery rooms with your son. If you want to come with me, we can get you in a gown and we can see them.”

Clark nods, turning back to his parents with a torn look in his eye. He didn't want to just leave them. But you needed him. And he needed to see you, wanted to see for himself that you and the baby were alright.

His Ma gives him a warm smile, reaching out to cup his cheek gently.

“You give that baby a kiss for us, okay? And give your wife all the love she needs right now.” Clark smiles, turning to Kara as she pats his shoulder.

“Be cool Kent. You're just meeting your son for the first time. No big deal.” He laughs, the tension loosening in his shoulders.

------------------------------------------------------

The recovery room is quiet as Clark enters, the lights dim, a nurse rounding the bed with a bundle of blankets in her arms. Clark is already teary eyed as he takes you in, your own tears already staining your cheeks, your smile tired and pained. But oh so bright.

The green medical gown he wore, a size too small for Clark’s tall frame, swishes as he walks over to you. He takes the hand you extend towards him as he squats beside the bed, his other hand reaching out to cup your cheek.

“Hi honey,” he whispers. You smile, sniffling.

“Hi.” Clark presses a kiss to your forehead, waiting until you pull him in for a real kiss, being careful of your abdomen. Gosh, he missed you.

“They're never separating us again,” he says in between kissing you. You smile, laughing softly as you take a shuddering breath.

“You feel alright?” He asks, looking you over carefully. You nod, eyes a bit glazed over as you watch the nurse on the other side of the bed leave the little plastic bed, bundle of blankets squirming inside. You lean in close, as if you're sharing a secret.

“I feel a little high honestly,” you giggle. Clark nods as he eyes the Iv still attached to your hand, pumping pain medication into your system. The doctor had mentioned how you might be a little out of it. “I’m not in too much pain. Just groggy and emotional.”

He smiles, turning to look at the plastic bed by your side, the label on the end reading “KENT”. He swallows thickly.

“Is this…”

You nod, beginning to tear up again. “It is. He's here.”

Clark squeezes your hand nervously, slowly makes his way around the bed. His heart hammers in his chest as he peers down at the little boy inside.

He was small, all chubby pink cheeks and dark wisps of hair. Clark laughs softly as he rests his hand on the newborn's swaddled torso, his son taking a shuddering breath beneath Clark’s warm hand.

Clark looks at you, amazed you carried the boy for nine months; awe struck at how perfect he was. Despite being a few weeks early, he was well on his way to being the chubbiest newborn Clark had ever seen.

“He's beautiful.” You smile, watching with sleepy eyes as Clark carefully scoops up the baby. He's small in Clark's big hands but heavier than the man had anticipated. "Chunky though."

You laugh, wincing a little as you rub your side. "The Kent genes are strong with this one."

Clark carefully cradles the newborn, his cheeks hurting with how much he was smiling. He takes a couple steps back to the hospital bed, sitting on the edge beside you.

The boy's face turns a bright shade of pink as he smacks his lips open and closed, making tiny little noises. Clark rocks him gently, glancing at you as you reach over and fix the blanket wrapped around the boy.

Clark leans forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Thank you," he whispers. You smile confused.

"For what?"

"Everything."

------------------------------------------------------

“Up we go. You ready buddy?”

Krypto twists in Clark’s arms trying to see through the glass window. The dog wasn't sure what had happened when Clark went into the other room. He had woken up to Martha and Jon crying happily, Kara smiling. But no Clark.

The man had come out of a new room some time later, a big smile on his face, tears staining his cheeks. He'd mentioned something about a viewing room, someplace to see the baby. Which Krypto had thought was strange. The baby was with you. Why would it be anywhere else?

“Okay,” Clark says, looking into the little room full of plastic beds. Some of them had squirming little things inside, tiny hands and feet reaching up. Clark smiles at them, glancing at Krypto. “Any minute now, we'll see him. Just be patient.”

Krypto twists again, tail wagging and Clark pats his back, trying to calm him. Kara rounds the corner of the hall, arms crossed as she stands beside Clark.

He smiles at her, Kara rolling her eyes.

“What? I’m just curious. I’m his aunt after all.”

“You're his aunt?” Clark asks with a raised brow.

She nods. “Of course. Someone's gotta teach him about Krypton.”

It's just a minute more before a woman enters the room, wheeling in one of the plastic beds. Inside this one is a similar tiny, squirming thing. But as the nurse wheels the bed up to the window, Krypto can see a little face. It's so tiny, eyes closed, cheeks squished against the blanket. He’s scrunched up, tucked beneath a soft blanket.

It takes a moment before Krypto recognizes a familiar scent through the glass. The soft and sweet scent that had lingered around you for the last few months. So that was what the baby looked like.

He sure was small. And kinda funny looking.

Krypto looks at Clark, the man laughing at his surprise. Kara smiles, leaning in for a better look.

“No fair Kal. He looks exactly like you.”

“I know.”

“I can't believe it, nine months in the womb and he can't even have the decency to look like his mom.”

From down the hall, Martha and Jon make their way to the viewing window, smiling.

“Oh, where is that baby!” Clark laughs, smiling bright. He sets Krypto down, guiding his parents in finding the baby. Krypto stands on his hind legs, snout pressed against the glass. The baby blinks slowly, his dark eyes peering out at the dog. Krypto’s tail wags fast, paws moving with excitement.

He liked the baby.

Martha and Jonathan coo and awe at the baby, the both of them choking back tears.

“Oh, you both did a good job son. Look at the big guy.”

Jonathan laughs. "He's practically ready for football season."

Clark smiles proudly, glancing at Krypto who drops to his haunches, sitting patiently. The man winks, and Krypto barks happily.

He was feeling like a good boy.

------------------------------------------------------

extra notes: genuinely, if you read this whole thing, thank you!!! I appreciate you so so much <3 this has been such a fun project for me and I almost feel sad it's over. It was my go-to project for the past couple months and I'm going to miss this man! (I say as if I don't have three other Clark fics I'm working on too lol) if you have any thoughts or comments pls share, I'd love to hear them :)

if you're interested in some of my other Superman works here's a link to my masterlist!

blue dividers by @cursed-carmine

tags: @alanahlovesryan

[bloodynosenatashasupremacist]

Me deciding if I’m gonna be dating Bucky Barnes or Steve Rogers in my nighttime scenario

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[aquaticmercy]

The Woman You Are

Summary : Sam sets Bucky up with you, a human ray of sunshine.

Pairing : FATWS! Bucky Barnes x Sunshine! reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags :  Fluff, smut-ish, nothing too explicit but still very steamy, sexual themes. Kind of grumpy x sunshine, reader is mentioned to be Sam’s gym buddy, Bucky has an annoying neighbour, cursing, reader is secretly kinky in this. set immediately after FATWS (Let me know if I missed anything!)

Word count : 6.2k

Note : I originally aimed for this to be around like, 3k words, but oh well. Enjoy!

The Saints game blared through Bucky’s apartment, the volume louder than necessary because Sam insisted he couldn’t feel the game unless it rattled the windows. Bucky sat slouched in the armchair, arms crossed, looking every bit the human embodiment of a raincloud.

“What’s up with you?” Sam raised an eyebrow while he sipped his beer, noticing his friend a bit lost on his phone for the better half of the game. 

“Online dating,” Bucky muttered, stabbing a fork into the takeout container on his lap. “I tried it, but it was a disaster, Sam. You swipe left, you swipe right… I feel like I’m making decisions about people like I’m picking produce. It wasn’t like this in the ‘40s.”

Sam didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah, in the ‘40s all you had to do was show up and girls tripped over their own feet.”

Bucky glared. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Buck, please. Steve told me you were the original pretty boy of Brooklyn,” he laughed, scoffing with amusement. “Don’t rewrite history just because you’ve lost game.”

“People actually talked back then,” Bucky grunted, “We courted. It took time. Now it’s all emojis and ‘wyd.’ What the hell does that even mean?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It means: what are you doing.”

“I know what it means,” Bucky rolled his eyes.“I’m just saying…. It feels impersonal. And half the time we stop talking before we even get to dinner.”

“Maybe because you open conversations like you’re writing your memoir,” Sam said. “You sent that one girl five paragraphs on your favorite plums.”

“They were good plums.”

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but it seemed like the universe would cut him off.

Knock knock knock.

Both men jumped. Then came the voice.

“James!” Mrs. Carmichael, the old lady who lived next to him, shouted through the door. “Turn that infernal game down! Some of us are trying to sleep before our arthritis medication kicks in!”

Bucky looked at the clock. 

It was like, 6 p.m. And it wasn’t even that loud.

Bucky groaned and got up, dragging himself to the door. He cracked it open just enough to see the elderly woman in her robe and slippers, her scowl carved so deep, he wondered how long it had been since it was permanently etched into her mouth.

“Sorry, Mrs. Carmichael,” Bucky said. “Sam’s really into the—”

“I don’t care if Sam is into it. Turn it down!” she huffed, wagging a finger. 

Bucky sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

She eyed him another moment, then shuffled back toward her apartment muttering about “handsome men with no manners.” Bucky shut the door.

Sam burst out laughing. “She still lives next door? Oh man, I remember when she tried to get you evicted for using your vacuum cleaner.”

“She’s gonna live there till she dies. And that’s assuming that she can die.” Bucky hopped on the couch and went back to sulking. 

Sam watched him for a moment, eyebrows furrowing. He knew his friend had always been grumpy in the 21st century… but he can’t remember the last time Bucky even tried to date. That effort must’ve counted for something. Right? 

“You know… I might know someone,” Sam started. “Someone who’s not into emojis. She’s sweet. Real sweet.”

Bucky stiffened. “Are you setting me up on a date?”

Sam shrugged. “If you want. I think you’d like her. More importantly, I think she’d actually like you.”

Bucky scoffed, staring at the floor. “I doubt it. I’m… a lot.”

“C’mon, man.” Sam leaned forward. “She’s the kind of person who could brighten a dungeon. You’re the dungeon. She’ll balance you out.”

Bucky cracked the smallest smile. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam patted, grinning. “Trust me. She’s gonna adore you.”

Bucky wasn’t so sure.

—

Bucky spent the entire subway ride rehearsing how not to sound like an idiot.

Sam’s voice echoed in his head: She’s easy to talk to. Just don’t scowl like you’re interrogating her.

He tried to relax his face. It felt wrong, almost unnatural. Apparently, according to Joaquin, he had a ‘resting bitch face,” whatever that meant.

The café Sam set you up on was cosy, warm, and smelled like cinnamon. Bucky stepped inside and immediately spotted you at a booth by the window: bright smile, sunny sweater, waving at him like he was an old friend instead of a stranger.

His stomach did something embarrassing.

“You must be Bucky!” you said, standing up and offering your hand like you genuinely couldn’t wait to meet him.

He shook it. “That’s me.”

You laughed softly. “Sam showed me your picture. He didn’t show you mine, did he?”

“I—I didn’t ask.” (He absolutely should have asked. He would’ve stress-panicked less if he knew you were this gorgeous. Or maybe he would’ve panicked more. Who knows?)

You sat back down, folding your hands in front of you. “Sam talks about you all the time. He said you two were watching football and yelling at the TV when your neighbor threatened to evict you?”

Bucky groaned. “He told you that?”

“We go to the same gym,” you said with a little shrug. “He shares a lot during cooldown stretches.”

“Yeah, he shares too much in general,” Bucky said, and managed to pull out a genuine chuckle this time.

You laughed again, like you thought he was charming instead of off-putting. Bucky didn’t know what to do with that.

The waitress came by, and you placed your order with cheerful confidence. Bucky panicked and just echoed whatever you picked.

You talked after that. About little things, stories from work, a funny moment at the gym, how Sam always stretches like he’s performing for an invisible audience. And Bucky… listened. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because for once, listening didn’t feel like a chore. It felt as natural as breathing.

Every time he did speak, even if it was just a small “mmm” or a hesitant answer, your eyes warmed like something important had come out of his mouth. 

It had been a long time since someone looked at him with interest, without fear or pity. 

Your hands wrapped around your coffee cup as your laughter spilled quietly into the air. Your ankle brushed his by accident and he went still, not out of fear, but because a hopeful part of him had opened its eyes. 

He liked how you made the world feel lighter.

He liked the way you filled silences with warmth, not noise.

He liked… you. Immediately. More than he’d expected or prepared for.

When it was time to go, you slipped into your coat, still smiling (always smiling) and Bucky realized he didn’t want the moment to end. Not the cinnamon-scented room, not your sweet voice, not the warmth in his chest he’d thought he wasn’t capable of anymore.

“I had a really, really good time,” you said, meeting his eyes sincerely. “If you ever wanted to do this again… I definitely would.”

And Bucky felt his heart flutter under his ribs.

“Yeah,” he managed. “I’d like that.”

You gave him one last bright smile and your number before stepping out into the crisp evening, the bell on the café door chiming behind you like a promise.

Bucky stood there a long moment before pulling out his phone to text Sam:

She’s… nice.

Sam replied instantly.

Nice?? That’s it?? Did you at least smile???

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

He just looked out the window at the spot you’d disappeared around the corner and let his mouth, slowly, tug upwards. 

Eventually, he typed back:

Yeah. I smiled.

—

Date two was Bucky’s idea.

He texted you a simple “Coffee? Same place?” and immediately regretted the lack of emojis, punctuation, of anything. But you showed up with the same bright smile anyway, excited just to see him.

This one felt easier.

You talked about your week, your favorite silly shows, Sam’s terrible gym playlists. Bucky found himself watching your hands when you talked, the way they moved gently through the air like you were painting your words.

He told you a little more about himself this time. Nothing heavy, just small glimpses, like jazz records he liked, a diner he missed, and that he never understood why people thought biscotti was edible (he always got crumbs stuck in his teeth. You, on the other hand, didn’t mind it.)

You laughed, and Bucky realised he didn’t mind being teased by you. Not at all.

When you said goodbye, you touched his metal arm lightly.

He felt the warmth for hours.

—

After a whole week of texting and adorably calling in the middle of the night, you pulled the trigger on the third date. 

You took him out on an evening walk, warm air, ice cream dripping down your fingers as you both wandered down a quiet street.

Bucky walked close enough that your shoulders brushed sometimes. Close enough that he noticed how you smelled sweet, like clean laundry and just as comforting.

You talked less tonight. It wasn’t awkward, just… peaceful. You pointed out pretty windows, he made small comments, and every silence felt like a blanket, not a void.

When the walk ended at your corner, you stood together, streetlights glowing above you.

“I had fun,” you said, voice smaller than usual.

“Me too,” he answered, and it came out lower than he meant.

You stepped closer. He froze, not out of fear, but because he didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to misread, didn’t want to ruin the warmth that had grown between you.

But you just tipped your face up and whispered, “Bucky?”

“Mhm?”

“Can I?”

He barely got out a nod before your lips met his. You kissed him like you knew he needed slow, not fast; soft, not deep.

His heart did a wild backflip behind his ribs.

When you pulled back, he was still half-leaning toward you, like gravity was confused.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you whispered.

—

Bucky didn’t go home right away after you kissed him goodnight.

He needed… a minute. Maybe more than a minute. His heart was still beating too fast, his lips still tingling, and his head felt strangely clear and warm at the same time. Like you had cracked open a window in a room he didn’t know was stuffy.

He ended up walking a few blocks before pulling out his phone.

Sam was usually up late, but Bucky hesitated anyway. He typed, deleted, typed again.

You awake?

Sam responded within ten seconds.

Yep. Did you ruin it?

Bucky rolled his eyes at the screen, but the smile tugging at his mouth wouldn’t go away.

He typed back.

No. I… actually wanted to say thanks.

Another quick reply.

???

Bucky exhaled slowly. Then he called him.

Sam picked up on the first ring. “What’s up?”

Bucky stopped under a streetlight, staring at the pavement like he could make sense of the last two hours by studying it. “Just had the third date.”

“Oh, that’s what this was about,” Sam sounded way too proud of himself. “How did it go?”

“It was good.” He swallowed. “I haven’t…Sam, I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

Sam went very quiet. 

Bucky continued. “She’s… kind. She smiles at me like—like I’m someone worth smiling at.”

“Buck,” Sam chuckled, something like relief threading through his voice.

“There was a moment,” Bucky said softly. “We were walking. And she just… slipped her hand into mine. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And for a second, I forgot to be nervous.”

“Oh damn,” Sam whispered. “You’re in deep.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I think I might be.”

He leaned back against a closed shop door, watching the city glow. His chest felt full, and it was a new feeling. A good one.

“Thank you,” Bucky said. “For setting us up. For thinking she’d… like me.”

Sam snorted. “You’re like a sad puppy with muscles. Girls eat that up.”

“Sam.”

“Fine, fine.” Sam paused. “But seriously—,you gonna see her again?”

Bucky didn’t have to think. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“Atta boy.”

—

Date four was dinner on a Thursday night. You both sat closely in a dim corner booth, your knee pressed against his the entire time.

You told him more about yourself. Dreams, fears, silly stories. Bucky listened like each word mattered. And sometimes, he reached out, just lightly, brushing your fingers, your wrist, like he was memorizing the texture of your presence.

When he walked you home, you held his hand and came in for a hug.

He didn’t even register how much he was touching you until you turned your face into his neck and whispered, “Bucky?”

He hummed.

“You can kiss me.”

So he did.

One kiss became two. Two became a handful. Your fingers curled into his shirt.

Before you knew it, you pulled him into your apartment. There, he found a couch and he pulled you gently into his lap, mouth brushing yours.

His heart pounded under your palms, not out of fear, but out of want. He whispered your name against your lips and sighed. 

At one point you pulled back just enough to look at him, “You feel so good.”

It sent a shiver straight through him.

He kissed you again, laying you down on the couch, guiding you gently beneath him, one of his knees braced by your hip. He didn’t rush. He didn’t even seem to think about anything except the sounds of your gasps, your fingers curling in his shirt.

You tugged him closer, and Bucky let out the smaller, rasped sound right against your lips—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Bucky froze.

You froze.

A very familiar voice shouted through the door.

“Hey, you home? I gotta talk to you bout somethin’” He paused, listening for a response. “Why is it so quiet? You dead in there? Did Bucky kill you?”

Sam.

It was Sam. Knocking on your door in the most unfortunate of moments. 

You buried your forehead to Bucky’s shoulder as you tried not to laugh. Bucky’s hands stayed on your waist, gentle, protective, and mortified all the same.

“Don’t—” he whispered urgently, “don’t make a sound.”

But you were shaking with laughter anyway.

Sam knocked again. “Uh… if you’re not answering, I’ll just wait out here—”

You scrambled out from under him so fast it would’ve been funny if he weren’t panicking.

The moment you cracked it open, Sam barged in like an overprotective sitcom parent.

He pointed at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at you.

“Good. You’re alive.”

You blinked. “I… what?”

“I came to check you weren’t breaking my boy’s heart.” Sam waved a dramatic arm at Bucky. “Because if you hurt him, gym buddy or not, I’ll make your next leg day a personal hell.”

You rolled your eyes and chuckled. “Sam!”

Bucky buried his face in both hands. “Get out.”

Sam ignored him entirely. “I mean it. He told me how much he liked you the other day and if you don’t like him back—”

“Sam,” you interrupted, cheeks burning, “I like him. A lot.”

Sam looked between you two… finally really saw the flushed faces, the messy hair, the way Bucky refused to make eye contact because he was trying not to die of embarrassment.

“Well,” Sam clapped his hands together. “Glad we cleared that up. Now I can go, unless…”

He glanced at the table, where you have a jar of sweets.

“…you got snacks?”

Bucky closed his eyes in despair.

You, of course, too nice for your own good, beamed. “Come in.”

“No,” Bucky muttered under his breath, horrified.

But Sam was already stepping into your living room.

“Smells like cookies,” he said, before looking at the messy cushions on the couch and the super-soldier size dent that was left in it. “You two were definitely making out.”

“Samuel,” Bucky growled.

You patted Bucky’s arm. “It’s okay. It’s kinda cute.”

“See, Buck?” Sam snorted. “She thinks you’re cute. She thinks you’re cute. Wow. Never thought I’d see the day.”

You and Bucky ended up on one side of the couch while Sam plopped himself in the armchair like a self-appointed cockblocker.

The makeout session was now officially over. And you were too sweet to say no to hanging out with a mutual friend. 

But you still leaned your head on Bucky’s shoulder. And Bucky slipped his hand into yours.

Even with Sam loudly narrating the movie (“Girl, don’t go in there, the killer is ALWAYS in the basement!”), Bucky felt grounded and stupidly, unbelievably happy, with his girl on one side and his best friend on the other.

Later that night, when Sam finally left, you turned to Bucky with a smile.

“It’s very late, and I got work in the morning, but you can come back tomorrow,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheek, “this time, I promise I won’t let Sam in.”

—

When tomorrow came, you didn’t even bother pretending it was anything but continuing what Sam had interrupted. 

When Bucky walked through your door, your smile was mischievous, eyes glinting like you knew exactly what the two of you were going to do.

“Hey,” you greeted, stepping close enough that your hip brushed his. The touch was deliberate, teasing, enough to make him tense and melt at the same time. “Come on in.”

He kicked off his shoes, aware of the way you were watching him, the way your gaze lingered on his lips, the curve of his necklace, the muscles under his shirt. His own hands itched to touch you, but he waited, because you wanted this. You were daring him, and he could feel the pulse in his chest quicken at the thought.

You guided him toward the couch, your fingers grazing his hand as you settled close. Just brushing him was enough to make him take a deep breath. His body was already on fire from your proximity and the tension between you that had been building since yesterday.

When your lips finally met his, it was urgent and hungry, but careful. His hands moved to your waist, gripping gently, pulling you closer, tilting your hips just so, pressing you into him with a controlled force. Your lips parted beneath his, sighing against him, and he groaned low in his chest, feeling the coil that ran down your spine.

“You feel so amazing,” he murmured against your mouth, lips trailing down your jaw, brushing against your neck. His teeth caught your collarbone in a teasing nibble, and you gripped his shoulders for balance.

You tugged at his shirt, breathless. “Bucky… I want you.”

He froze for a moment, eyes darkening, chest rising and falling. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Every kiss, every touch, was deliberate, teasing, filled with heat and care. He slid his hands under your shirt slowly, savoring the feel of your skin, watching your reactions, every moan driving him further. You did the same, fingers threading into his hair, tugging him down.

At some point, your clothes began to come off and he carried you to your bed. His hands traced your curves while exploring, making you sigh against him. You whispered against his lips, little words that made him groan and press closer.

“Bucky… please,” you gasped, breathless, sliding your hand along his chest.

“Shh,” he whispered back, “just let me take care of you.”

And you did. You let him take the lead, let him guide, let him touch and tease in ways that made your knees weak and your heart race. 

You gasped and grabbed his back, pulling him closer, pressing your body against his in every way possible without words.

An hour passed in a haze of warmth, kisses, and touches. Every time you paused to look at each other, the world outside vanished. Bucky’s hands, both vibranium and flesh, mapped you, memorizing your body without ever rushing. Your hands did the same, threading through his hair, across his shoulders, down his back, feeling every inch of him, claiming him just as he claimed you.

Finally, when you both rode out your high, you curled into his chest, tangled together in a blanket. Your thumb brushed against his cheek, and you whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this relaxed after sex.” You chuckled, kissing his nose. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled against your hair, brushing his lips over your temple. “Yeah?” he said, chest full, voice thick. “What do you usually feel?”

You winked playfully, “You’ll see… if you take me out again, soldier.”

He chuckled, pulling you impossibly close, heart swelling with a feeling he hadn’t felt in decades.

“Oh… I will.”

—

Bucky absolutely took you out again.

He would’ve taken you out the very next day if he hadn’t been dragged off on a two-week mission with Sam and Joquin. And the entire time he was gone, he had one plan waiting for him the moment he got back: invite you over to his place for the first time, cook dinner, maybe cuddle on the couch, kiss you breathless, and, if he was lucky, fall asleep with you in his arms again.

What he didn’t plan for was… whatever the hell tonight turned into.

Your first official sleepover at his apartment started perfectly normal.

He cooked. You teased him about how seriously he took seasoning. He tried (and failed) to not stare at you like you were the prettiest little thing that ever walked into his kitchen.

Then you two curled up on the couch to watch a rom-com with way too many sparkles. Halfway through, you leaned over and kissed him, soft at first… then deeper… then longer. 

Eventually, you kissed him long enough that the movie became irrelevant and breathing became optional.

And then…

Well.

Everything escalated so fast he didn’t remember where the ground went.

One minute you were straddling his lap, his hands on your hips, your mouth hot against his. The next, he was being guided, no, maneuvered— back toward his bedroom, his thoughts crashing, his self-control slipping, and you whispered dirty nothing in his ears like, “aw, Buck… you get so obedient when you’re worked up.”

And at one point he actually had the clarity to think my sweet sunshine… Was this filthy?

Because you were so bubbly in the daylight, warm in conversation, golden when you smiled, and yet here you were pushing him onto his own mattress like he weighed nothing, kissing him like you were claiming territory, looking down at him with this wicked glint that should’ve been illegal.

He genuinely wondered if he should be embarrassed by how fast he let you take over.

Or how he didn’t even protest when you slid his hands up over his head.

Or how quickly he nodded when you reached into your bag, casually, like you were grabbing lip balm, and pulled out a pair of pink, fuzzy metal handcuffs.

“Why do you have those anyway?” he’d asked, dazed.

“Just felt like it,” you said with a shrug. And he swore the universe shifted.

He’d never been that man before.

The kind who wanted to be pinned, teased, ordered, and handled in bed.

But with you?

He was helplessly, shamelessly that man. He would be any man you wanted.

And oh, you took advantage of that on the best way

You wrecked him, rewired him, and made him want to give it.

Without going into much detail, the headboard might consider legal action. The poor mattress probably shifted into another dimension. And Bucky discovered an entire list of kinks he had absolutely zero idea he possessed.

By the time you were done, you were draped across his chest, both of you trembling and completely undone. Your limbs tangled with his like you’d melted into him. His wrists were free now, but faint red marks lingered on his human one as an evidence of trust, surrender, and the fact that he definitely did not want you to stop. He knew he could easily break free, but fuck— he didn’t want to. 

His hands settled on your waist, grounding himself through you as his chest rose and fell under your cheek.

“Holy hell…” he rasped, voice shredded. “Sweetheart, what was that?”

You laughed weakly into his neck. “Fun?”

“That was…” He shook his head, trying, and failing, to catch a full breath. “I didn’t even know I liked half that stuff.”

“You do now,” you giggled, lips brushing his stubble with a smug smile.

His groan was almost a confession.

You kissed him again, softer now, pulling him down from the high. His fingers traced lazy, soothing shapes on your back.

After a long, blissed-out silence, you pushed yourself up on shaky elbows. “I need to shower before everything gets… sticky.”

“It’s already sticky,” he mumbled, hooking an arm around your waist like he could will you back onto him. “C’mon, sweets. Stay with me a minute.”

You swatted his metal arm away. “Behave.”

“After what you just did?” His eyebrow arched. “Absolutely not.”

You kissed his chin, grabbed the towel waiting on the chair, and wrapped it around yourself before wobbling toward the bathroom.

“You sure you can walk?” he teased.

“Barely,” you shot back. “That’s your fault.”

“Best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

You closed the door before he could continue being insufferably pleased with himself. The shower turned on, steam curling out from the edges, and your quiet humming drifted through the running water.

Bucky fell back into the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

His wrists tingled. His mind spun with flashes of you, your hands, your voice, your wicked smile.

So that’s what you meant…

He dragged a hand over his face, then let it fall again, smiling like an idiot. He could feel you even with the door shut.

He could smell you on his sheets, on his skin, in the air he breathed.

I’m a lucky man, he thought. So unbelievably lucky—

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“I know you’re in there!”

Bucky shot upright like he’d been hit with a stun grenade.

For a second, and just a second, he truly believed the universe had taken personal offense to how thoroughly you’d ruined him. As if fate itself had peeked into his bedroom, seen the bite marks and heart the things you whispered in his ear that rewrote his entire understanding of himself, and gone Absolutely not. Consequences time.

The knocking thundered again.

He launched himself off the mattress, only then realizing the room looked like a hurricane of love and passion had wreaked havoc through it.

There was a tank top dangling off the lampshade like a surrender flag, your bra clinging to the bedpost for dear life, and the sheets halfway down the mattress.

And, dear god, the handcuffs were sitting perfectly centered on the pillow, catching the light like holy relics.

The voice shrilled through the door again, “Barnes! Don’t make me call the police again!"

Bucky froze in a pose reminiscent of a startled deer halfway into sweatpants. “Again? Oh, just kill me now,” he whispered to no one, wrestling his legs into the pants like they were trying to escape.

He managed to yank them up (inside out, backwards, incorrect in every conceivable way), grabbed the nearest shirt (inside out as well), and attempted to flatten his hair (no luck on that either).

His metal arm gleamed and the skin around it was marked. His neck… well. You’d left plenty of love letters there in the form of dark kisses and very illegal-looking scratches.

Phenomenal for his ego.

Horrific for dealing with his neighbor, Mrs. Carmichael.

Two years he’d lived next to that woman. Two long, traumatic, hyper-vigilant years.

She was, without exaggeration, the undisputed heavyweight champion of unnecessary noise complaints. The woman had called the police on Bucky last summer because he played “Bring It On Home to Me” at a volume that could be accurately described as “normal human.” She once accused him of running “illegal industrial machinery” at 10 a.m., which was just him making a protein smoothie. She left notes under his door if he so much as coughed after 9 p.m. And she had threatened to contact the landlord the one time he dropped a plastic bottle on the floor.

She also had—Bucky had seen it with his own eyes—a laminated, color-coded folder titled:  Building Violations.

So tonight, with how loud both you and Bucky have been? 

Oh, tonight would be her Superbowl.

“Okay,” Bucky whispered to himself as he staggered toward the door. “You survived seventy years of brainwashing. You can survive… an angry cat lady.”

KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK—

“No I can’t,” he whimpered.

He swung the door open before she could pound a hole through it.

There she stood, in her pink robes and slippers shaped like furious cats, holding a binder labeled Noise Ordinance Laws – PERSONAL COPY clutched like a holy scripture. (Bucky knew he didn’t violate it. It was only 9.30 PM. Quiet hours in New York start from like, what, 10PM?)

Her eyes traveled from his face, down his neck, over the suspicious red marks, to the shirt that was definitely inside out, and then lower, to where his sweatpants sat incorrectly on his hips like a toddler dressed himself.

She sniffed.

“Well,” she announced. “I see you’ve been… active.”

Bucky sighed. “Mrs. Carmichael, I really don’t—”

She raised the binder like an executioner’s axe.

“Do you know,” she barked, “that the walls in this building are six inches thick? SIX! That is not my fault! That is YOUR responsibility!”

Bucky blinked, mortified.

She charged on.

“The noises coming from your unit tonight were outrageous. Absolutely obscene. Groaning, thumping, banging, the headboard knocking like a cat was stuck in a dryer.”

Bucky choked. “That is NOT— I mean—no one was— there’s no—”

“And the language!” She clutched her chest. “I’ve never heard filth like that in my life! And I was married to Richard Carmichael for forty years!”

Bucky wanted to melt into the floor.

Halfway through his attempt at a defense, you got out of the bathroom and made your way into the living room wearing nothing but a towel.

Oh no, Bucky thought, gotta protect you from Mrs. Carmichael.

But you were clueless, still glowing from the shower, smelling like warm vanilla and sin, water dripping down your collarbones as if you were walking out of a movie scene.

Bucky could feel his soul leave his body.

“Buck?” you asked gently, sweetly, “Everything okay?”

Mrs. Carmichael looked at you so quickly it was a miracle she didn’t injure herself.

“Well I— I— I was just—” Bucky started, but of course the building dragon interrupted him. 

“Everything is not okay young lady—“ she started, but you just smiled sweetly, interrupting her in return.

“Oh!” you beamed. “Your robe is adorable. I love the color on you!”

Mrs. Carmichael actually stopped and blinked.

Her entire posture relaxed like someone had unplugged her battery. “T-thank you?”

You stepped closer with that gentle, disarming sweetness that could make a demon repent. “I don’t think we’ve met properly yet.”

“Martha,” Mrs Carmichael said, voice suddenly meek.

“Well, Martha,” you said, tone honey-smooth, “why don’t you come inside? I was just about to make some tea.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “Sweets—she literally tried to have me evicted—last month—”

You patted his cheek lovingly.

“Honey,” you murmured. “Go shower.”

He blinked at you, dazed, almost bewildered.

You guided Mrs. Carmichael— his mortal enemy, as far as he was concerned— inside. Martha fussed with her robe, suddenly shy.

“Well…” she said. “If you insist… I do enjoy a good chamomile.”

You looked over your shoulder and winked. “I got this.”

Bucky backed into the bedroom like a man fleeing a battlefield, closing the door behind him before resting his forehead against it and groaning into his hands.

—

Bucky took one of the fastest showers of his entire existence.

Partially because he was still overheated, skin buzzing with the afterglow. Partially because he was terrified of leaving you alone with her.

The woman who once accused him of “walking too aggressively for a man of his size.” 

He shut off the water and just stood there dripping, towel in hand, bracing both palms against the wall like he was preparing to charge into battle.

“Okay,” he pep-talked himself. “They’re probably done talking. She probably drank her tea, yelled about  me again, threatened to call the cops, and left. Right. Right.”

He dried off, threw on actual clothes this time, not inside-out panic-wear, and dragged his fingers through his wet hair. 

Barefoot, heart thudding, he padded down the hallway.

As he reached the living room…

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Because sitting on the couch—on his couch—was Mrs. Martha Carmichael, pink robe draped like a queen’s mantle, angry-cat slippers still on her feet, holding a delicate teacup in one hand, offering her other hand to you as you, still just in a towel, sat cross-legged on the coffee table in front of her, painting her nails a glossy, shade of cherry red.

You were laughing.

She was giggling.

Giggling.

The woman who once threatened to report him to the FAA because she heard a “jet-engine-like noise” from his apartment at 4 a.m. (he had snored).

Bucky rubbed his eyes, fully convinced he was hallucinating from dehydration or post-orgasm brain fog.

“—and then,” Martha was saying in a tone far too lively, “he had the audacity to tell me I was the reason he couldn’t finish! Can you believe that? The nerve!”

You gasped like she was confessing to a federal crime. “Oh my god. I can't believe  he blamed you for his incompetence.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Martha slapped her knee. “Forty years, and the man couldn’t find—well, we don’t need to get into that, but let’s just say Richard was a walking, talking disappointment.”

You hummed sympathetically, rotating her hand to finish the coat. “Trust me, I get it. I got lucky with Bucky, I mean he could rattle my insides like a sailor on leave— but my ex? He was useless. Genuinely didn’t have a clue—”

“HEY,” Bucky barked before either of you could talk about something far more embarrassing.

You looked up with wide eyes.

“Oh! James! There you are.” Martha lit up like a Christmas tree. “We were just discussing men with poor… aim,” she added as if this was a normal Tuesday.

Bucky made the sound of a man dying inside.

You winked at him, as if you hadn’t just implied to his enemy neighbor that he rearranged your organs.

He pointed helplessly between the two of you. “You’re… still here?”

Martha lifted her newly painted nails to the light, admiring your work. “Yes, dear. We were bonding.”

“Bonding,” Bucky repeated slowly, like the word was foreign.

You flashed him a pleased smile that nearly put him on his knees.“She’s a sweetheart once you talk to her.”

Martha actually blushed. “Oh, stop.”

“No, really,” you continued, “you have fantastic taste in robes. Which means we’re kindred spirits.”

“Oh, you’re such a lovely girl.” Martha preened like a bird. “And your skin! My goodness, do you moisturize, exfoliate, what do you use? I’ve been trying everything but nothing makes me glow like that.”

Bucky stared in awe.

You had healed the neighborhood menace.You had actually domesticated the building’s final boss.

A few minutes later, after you’d finished her nails and given her your skincare routine (soap, really), Martha stood.

“Well,” she said, smoothing her robe, “I should get going. I don’t want to intrude.”

She leaned toward you, “But you must stop by for brunch sometime. Anytime. I make wonderful blueberry scones.”

“I would love that.” Your eyes lit up. “But only if you let me bring more colors.”

“Deal,” Martha agreed immediately.

Then, as the miracle to end all miracles, she turned to Bucky and smiled.

“You take good care of her, James,” she said with a wag of her freshly painted finger. “Or I’ll file a noise complaint.”

“Wait—what did I—why—?!” Bucky sputtered.

“Just kidding.” She chuckled. “Mostly.”

She left peacefully, the first time she had ever left his apartment without threatening legal action.

The door closed behind her with a click.

Bucky stared at the door for a good minute before he turned to you.

You sat there, legs swinging lightly off the coffee table, absolutely glowing. “We’re best friends now.”

Bucky tilted his head “How did you do that ? I was in the shower for ten minutes and she wanted me evicted. You talk to her for ten minutes and suddenly she’s telling you about her dead husband’s… performance issues!”

You blinked up at him innocently as you wrapped your arms around him and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “She just needed a girl’s girl.”

His brain short-circuited. 

God, the way you were looking at him now… so gentle and so in love without even saying it—

It hit him like a truck.

I’m gonna marry her.

He hid his face in your neck, arms locking around your waist like.

You giggled again, rubbing his back. “What’s going on in that pretty head, Barnes?”

“Nothing,” he lied, breathless.

You kissed the crown of his head, completely unaware of the way he was in awe of the woman you are, caring and kind to him, a sunshine to everyone else around you, yet so damn filthy when you needed to be. 

But he knew.

Oh, he knew.

I’m gonna marry this girl, he thought again, helpless and certain.

And Bucky Barnes had never been so sure of anything in his life.

-end.

Request Guidelines

Masterlist

[slutdier]

𝑬𝑿𝑻𝑹𝑨 𝑪𝑹𝑬𝑫𝑰𝑻

lesson 01 : 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞 & 𝐭𝐢𝐭-𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

stucky x f!tutor!reader

summary : You tutor failing football gods Steve and Bucky through calculus disasters, only for a spilled-water accident to ignite weeks of filthy tension.

word count : 13,1k

warnings 18+ : college au, no use of y/n, jocks!steve & bucky, reader is inexperienced, explicit sexual content, protected sex, multiple orgasms, fingering, oral (f & m recieving), squirting, threesome, praise, slight degradation, party drinking, shots (no intoxication beyond buzz), risk of being caught

𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮 : AHHH!! these two have me absolutely wrecked, the amount of times I rewrote this is lowkey embarrassing 💀 ANYWAYYY buckle up for steve & bucky being stupidly whipped and enough filth to fog your glasses. enjoy the ride <33

masterpost | lesson 02

Another soul-crushing afternoon in the shoebox you share with Natasha. You’re wedged between a leaning tower of bio textbooks and a graveyard of empty cold-brew cans, highlighter caps chewed to nubs, neon streaks smeared across your knuckles like war paint.

Your laptop teeters on a pillow fortress atop your thighs; the cursor blinks accusingly in a half-finished lab report on mitochondrial apoptosis. One more distraction and you’ll miss the deadline, again.

Ping.

An email. [email protected]. The subject line glows red: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring.

You snort. Athletics? You once got lost in the gym trying to find the vending machine. Still, curiosity wins. You click.

Subject: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring Good evening, We have an offer for a qualified peer tutor. Two students in critical need: • Rogers, Steven G. – Calculus II (F) / Chemistry I (D-) • Barnes, James B. – Calculus II (F) / Chemistry I (F) Requirements: 2 sessions/week minimum. $22/hr. Full scholarship bonus if both pass midterms. Reply ASAP. Thank you.

Your stomach does a triple axel. Steve Rogers. James Barnes.

You’ve seen them on the Jumbotron: Steve, the golden-boy quarterback, launching a 60-yard spiral like it’s a Nerf dart; James or Bucky, as they call him, the cocky wide receiver, diving horizontal for a one-handed grab that defies physics. Both shirtless and dripping with sweat that the entire campus has memorized.

They’re not students. They’re campus gods in shoulder pads.

The door slams open. Natasha, red hair twisted into a messy knot, black sports bra and leggings like she just stepped out of hot yoga, struts in with an iced matcha in hand. She catches your expression and smirks.

“Someone died, or did you just fail a pop quiz in your head again?”

You shove the laptop toward her. “Read.”

She scans, eyes widening with theatrical glee. “Holy shit. You’re going to be tutoring Rogers and Barnes? The same duo who bench-press freshmen for fun?”

“They’re failing calc,” you hiss. “And chem. Both Fs.”

Natasha whistles low. “That’s not failing. That’s killing your grades on purpose.”

She flops onto your bed, propping her feet on your open textbook. “Pay?”

“Twenty-two an hour. Scholarship bonus if they pass midterms.”

“Dayum.” She sips her matcha, eyeing you like prey. “That’s rent, textbooks, and the fancy microscope you’ve been drooling over in the bio catalog. Do it.”

You chew your thumbnail.

“They’re… them. I’m-” You gesture at your soft cardigan, your frizzy ponytail, the highlighter stains. “I’m a walking library fine.”

Natasha snorts. “Please. You’re a 4.0 nerdy goddess who color-codes her panic attacks. They need you.”

She leans in, voice dropping to a sneaky purr. “Also? Those boys eat nerds for breakfast. And you, my sweet, innocent lab rat, are about to be served.”

Your face combusts. “Nat!”

“What? I’m just saying, Steve Rogers has forearms that could crush walnuts. And Bucky? That man’s smirk could impregnate half the sorority row.”

She wiggles her brows. “Picture it, two full hours a week, pressed up close and personal. Finally gonna get your hands on some real, thick, sweaty biceps… instead of that limp-noodle disappointment your shitty ex called arms.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “What if they’re mean? What if they laugh at my flashcards? What if they see me and go, ‘Who let the librarian in?’ What if they don’t show up? What if they do show up and I forget how to speak? What if-”

Natasha yanks your hands down. “Breathe, nerd. You’re spiraling harder than a bad PCR cycle.” She spins your laptop, already typing.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring Available Tuesdays/Thursdays, 4 to 6 pm, Library Study Room 3B.

Her finger hovers over send. “Last chance to chicken out and live in poverty forever.”

Your heart jackhammers.

What if they’re everything the rumors say, cocky, cruel, unattainable?

What if youre just the punchline?

Natasha smirks. “Or… what if you walk in there, own the room, and make them nervous for once?”

You swallow. “Do it.”

Send.

The confirmation email pings instantly. Natasha whoops, tossing you a victory fist-bump. “Operation: Tutor the Campus Gods is live. I’m claiming all the tea. You owe me play-by-play.”

You collapse back into your pillow fortress, pulse racing, Steve’s future letterman jacket already haunting your imagination.

Tuesday. 4 pm Study Room 3B. God help you.

You’re fifteen minutes early, because punctuality is your love language, anxiety is your native tongue. Study Room 3B smells like stale coffee, dry-erase markers, and the ghost of someone’s tuna sandwich.

You’ve turned the table into a war zone: color-coded notes fanned like Pokémon cards, three highlighters lined up by wavelength, yellow for definitions, pink for examples, green for warnings, a laminated derivative cheat-sheet taped to the wall like a hostage photo.

Your cardigan is buttoned all the way up, the top button practically begging for mercy. Every time you lean forward over the laptop to triple-check the chain rule, your glasses slip a little farther down your nose.

The pleated skirt sits warm against your skin, but it’s the soft cotton thigh-highs that keep catching your attention; those long, cozy socks that stop a couple inches below the hem. Every few minutes you reach down, fingers hooking under the ribbed bands, and tug them a little higher up your thighs, smoothing the fabric so it hugs you just right, the gentle pressure snug and comforting.

You rehearse your opener for the ninth time, whispering to the empty room: “Hi, I’m your tutor. We’ll start with the power rule, then move to-”

The door slams open like it owes someone money.

Steve Rogers ducks under the frame, 6’2” of golden-boy quarterback crammed into a faded NYU hoodie that’s losing the battle across his chest.

Hair damp from practice, smelling like grass and Irish Spring and nerves. His backpack thuds, spiral notebook, two Gatorades, half-eaten protein bar.

“Hi. You’re… the tutor?” His voice is softer than the Jumbotron makes it seem, like he’s afraid of scaring the flashcards.

You nod so hard your glasses slide again. “T-that’s me! Study Room 3B, Tuesdays and Thursdays, 4 to 6 pm sharp.” Your voice cracks on sharp.

He smiles, small, sheepish, devastating. “Thanks for doing this. Coach’ll bench us if we don’t pull Cs by midterms. I, uh… really don’t wanna ride the pine.”

Before you can reply, the door bangs again.

Bucky Barnes saunters in thirteen minutes late, chewing wintergreen gum loud enough to wake the dead. Dark hair a calculated mess, jersey half-tucked into gray sweatpants that leave zero to the imagination.

Blue eyes lock on you like a heat-seeking missile. He drops into the chair opposite, knee brushing yours under the table, deliberately and stays there.

“Rogers, you started without me? Rude.” He flashes a grin that should come with a warning label. “So you’re the genius saving our asses from academic exile?”

You clear your throat, shoving a worksheet forward like a peace offering. “C-calculus first. Derivatives?”

Bucky leans forward, elbows on your open textbook, chin in his hands. His gaze dips to the V of your cardigan where the top button is clearly losing the war.

“Derivative of those tits?” He taps the page, smirking. “I’m talkin’ the exact slope of that left one when you breathe in. Bet it’s a fuckin’ parabola.”

Heat floods your face so fast your glasses actually fog.

Steve’s head snaps up. “Bucky.”

“What? I’m engaging with the material.” Bucky’s grin widens, all teeth. “Or do we need to integrate to find the volume of them? ‘Cause I’d volunteer for the hands-on portion.”

You’re dying. Your hands fly to your cardigan, clutching it closed like it’s body armor. Your voice comes out a strangled mouse-whisper. “The power rule. If f(x) = xⁿ, then f'(x) = n x⁽ⁿ⁻¹⁾. For example: f(x) = x³, then f'(x) = 3x².”

Steve scribbles dutifully, but you catch him stealing a glance at your chest, quick as lightning before snapping back to his paper. His ears are crimson.

Bucky traces a lazy circle on the edge of your notebook. “Or we could talk related rates. Like, how fast those buttons are losin’ the fight when you lean over. That’s a real-world application right there.”

Steve mutters, “Jesus, Buck,” but his gaze flicks up again, just for a second before he forces it back to the page. He’s biting the inside of his cheek so hard you’re worried he’ll draw blood.

You power through the product rule, the quotient rule, the chain rule, voice cracking four times.

Every time you glance up, Bucky’s staring, lazy and hungry, like he’s already picturing the cardigan on the floor.

Steve tries to focus, but you catch him sneaking looks too: the way your highlighter leaves neon streaks on your fingers, the way you bite your lower lip when you’re thinking, the way your chest rises when you inhale to explain the chain rule. His pen slows every time.

Halfway through, you pass out practice problems. Steve attacks his like it’s fourth-and-goal. Bucky spins his pen, then “accidentally” flicks it across the table so it rolls into your lap, clattering against your thigh.

“Oops,” he says, not sorry at all. “Clumsy me. Bet you’re real good at pickin’ things up, though. Especially if they’re lower.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Bucky.” But his eyes dart to your lap, then back up fast, guilty.

You snatch the pen, cheeks on fire.

Bucky leans back slow, arms up, hoodie creeping just enough to flash that carved, tanned V dipping under his waistband.

“Just sayin’, Teach,” he drawls, voice low and rough. “You keep bendin’ over like that, I’m gonna need a priest, a prayer, and about thirty seconds alone with my hand.”

Steve clears his throat, voice strained. “Can we focus on the actual math?”

Bucky smirks. “I am. I’m calculatin’ how many seconds till that top button pops. My money’s on twenty.”

You yelp, and shove another worksheet at him. “Chain rule. Now.”

By the end of the session, you’ve covered half a chapter. Steve has four pages of neat notes, color-coded in your spare blue pen, but his handwriting gets shakier toward the bottom.

Bucky has one page of doodles: a football with boobs labeled Teach’s Study Aids – Handle with Care and a stick figure of you with a speech bubble: f (tits) = tits².

You start packing up, cheeks still flaming. Steve stands first, slinging his backpack. “Same time Thursday? I’ll bring snacks. And, uh… sorry about him.”

Bucky stretches again, arms overhead, hoodie riding higher. “What can I say? I’m a visual learner.” He winks, popping his gum. “Nice cardigan, Teach. Bet those tits look even better without it.”

Steve elbows him hard so hard Bucky grunts. “Ignore him. He’s allergic to filters.”

But Bucky’s already sauntering out, hands in his pockets, whistling the fight song. Steve lingers, rubbing the back of his neck, ears still pink.

“He’s… a lot,” he says, voice low. “But he’ll show. He always does. And he needs this. We both do.”

You nod, clutching your notes like a life raft. “See you on Thursday.”

The door clicks shut. You collapse into the chair, heart hammering so loud you’re sure the next room heard it.

Derivative of those tits?

Visual learner?

Holy fuck.

You glance at Bucky’s doodle one last time, then crumple it but not before snapping a mental picture.

Thursday can’t come soon enough.

You stumble into the dorm like you’ve run a marathon, backpack straps cutting into your shoulders, glasses fogged from the steam of your own panic. The door hasn’t even clicked shut before Natasha pounces.

“Spill. Every. Detail.” She’s perched on her bed legs crossed, tea in one hand, phone in the other. “You’re twenty-eight minutes late. That’s either a miracle or a crime scene.”

You drop your bag, collapse face-first onto your pillow fortress. “I need a lobotomy.”

Natasha vaults off her bed, lands beside you like a cat.

“Nope. No lobotomy till I get every detail.” She yanks your cardigan sleeve.

“So did the boys actually try to pay attention to a single word you said, or was the whole tutoring thing just an excuse to stare and smirk? Were they teasing you nonstop?”

You bite your lip so hard it might bruise, cheeks on fire.

She leans in, voice low and giddy. “Come on… was it Steve pretending to be the perfect student, or was it Bucky being a total menace?”

Your gaze flicks to Bucky’s name for half a heartbeat and you give the tiniest, guilty nod.

Nat’s grin goes full shark. “I fucking knew it was Barnes. That cocky bastard. Spill it, nerd.

You groan into the pillow. “He said, direct quote ‘Derivative of those tits? I’m talkin’ the exact slope of that left one when you breathe in. Bet it’s a fuckin’ parabola.’”

Natasha cackles, loud enough to rattle the mini-fridge. “Oh my God. He’s filthy! I love him.”

“Nat!”

“What? It’s art.” She pokes your side. “And Steve? Golden boy? Did he clutch his pearls?”

You roll over, face flaming. “He kept looking. Like quick glances, then back to his notes. His ears were pink. He wrote four pages but his handwriting got shakier every time I leaned over.”

Natasha’s eyes gleam. “He’s folding. Slowly, but folding.”

She grabs your wrist, inspects the highlighter stains. “Did Bucky touch you?”

“His knee. Under the table. The whole time.”

“Knee porn. Classic.” She flops beside you, propping her chin on her hand. “Rate the tension. One to I need a cold shower.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I need a rosary and a damn exorcism.”

“Wrong answer. Try again.”

You peek through your fingers. “Fine. I need a cold shower and a new cardigan.”

Natasha whoops, rolling off the bed.

“That’s my girl!” She yanks open your closet, rummages, and emerges with a sheer white blouse, silky, slightly oversized, the kind that turns translucent when wet. “Thursday, you wear this.”

You blink. “That’s… see-through.”

“Exactly.” She tosses it at you. “Ditch the cardigan. Keep the top three buttons open. Let the parabola breathe.”

You hurl a pillow at her head. It thwacks off her shoulder.

“I’m tutoring, not auditioning for a bad porno.”

She catches the pillow, smirks. “Same difference with those two.”

You groan, but you’re smiling. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, nerd.” She tosses the blouse onto your bed. “Now shower. You smell like library and sexual tension.”

You drag yourself up, clutching the blouse like contraband.

Thursday sneaks up like a linebacker in the blind spot.

Your nerves are live wires, sparks every time you think about Bucky’s doodle, Steve’s shaky handwriting, the way your own voice cracked last time.

Natasha corners you at the mirror, arms crossed, red hair still damp from her shower.

“Blouse. Now.” She shoves it into your hands.

“It’s too much,” you protest, clutching your cardigan like body armor.

“Hey, it’s sexy. Enjoy ‘em while you can.” She winks, smacking your butt. “Go get ‘em, parabola.”

You lose the argument.

The blouse is softer than expected, silky, breathable. But the fabric clings to your chest like it's been paid to stay there. Every breath lifts the hem a fraction, the collar a fraction; every nervous tug only draws more eyes. You pair it with jeans anyway.

You push through the heavy glass doors of the library and the air-conditioning hits like a slap: icy, sharp, goosebumps exploding across your arms.

Your backpack thuds against your hip with every step, the white blouse already sticking from the humidity outside: cotton clinging to the small of your back, underboob, nipples faintly visible through the weave.

You scan the carrels: empty, empty, occupied.

Bucky’s early a miracle.

He’s claimed the seat directly across from yours like a throne, long legs stretched, sneakers planted on the scarred oak table.

One thumb scrolls TikTok in lazy loops; the other hand crinkles a half-eaten protein-bar wrapper, silver foil flashing. His fingers drum a silent beat against the armrest. He doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he felt you walk in.

“Sup, nerd.”

The bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos arcs through the air without warning, red comet. Thwap, dead-center on your closed laptop, dust puffing like a tiny explosion.

“Brought snacks. Steve swore he would, but he’s late.” The last word drips with fond exasperation, eyes still glued to his screen: some clip of a dog failing parkour, volume low enough to tease.

You open your mouth, to say something, anything, when the door behind you bangs open hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Steve barrels in, a whirlwind of damp hair and turf-scented wind. Practice bag slung high over one broad shoulder, cleats dangling by their laces.

His letterman jacket tied around his waist, T-shirt clinging to every ridge of his abs, nipples hard from the cold, sweat making the fabric translucent in patches.

“Coach ran film. Lost track of time, sorry.” He drops into the seat beside Bucky with a huff, notebook already flipped open, pen uncapped between his teeth.

He pulls it free, offers you a sheepish half-smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Ready when you are.”

You sit across from them, slide your laptop forward, and open to page 187. “Related rates. Balloon problem. Air pumped in at 10 cm³ per second, find dr/dt when r = 5 cm.”

Steve leans forward, elbows on the table, pen poised. Bucky leans back, arms folded behind his head, eyes already locked on your chest like it’s the only equation that matters.

You start writing the equation on the textbook with a black pen. Ink glides smooth. “Volume of a sphere, V = (4/3)πr³, differentiate with respect to t-”

Bucky’s elbow slips.

The move is subtle, almost lazy: a casual lean forward, a brush of knuckles against your stainless-steel bottle. The cap’s loose, you loosened it two minutes ago for a sip you never took.

Physics takes over.

The bottle topples with a hollow clunk, then a liquid whoosh. Ice water detonates across the narrow table in a glittering arc, a cold slap that punches the air from your lungs.

It soaks the open textbook first, pages warping, ink bleeding, then bridges the gap to your chest like it was magnetized.

White silk drinks it in, turns sheer in half a heartbeat.

Your lace bra, delicate, floral, the one you wore because it made you feel secretly powerful, maps itself in cruel high-def against your skin. Every swirl of embroidery, every scalloped edge, every shiver of gooseflesh.

The cold bites; your nipples tighten instantly, hard, aching. Fabric clings like it’s been paid overtime, suctioned to every curve, every breath a betrayal that lifts the soaked hem a fraction higher, revealing the soft curve of your breasts.

Time stalls. The fluorescent lights turn the wet patch into a spotlight. You hear your own inhale, sharp, mortified, echo off the cinderblock walls.

“Sorry Teach,” Bucky drawls from across the table, voice low and syrupy, zero remorse in those storm-cloud eyes.

His gaze is a brand, slow, deliberate, tracing the waterline where silk meets skin, lingering on the lace like he’s memorizing the pattern for later. A smirk tugs the corner of his mouth, fingers flexing once against the table as if savoring the chaos he engineered.

“Fuck, look at those beauties on full display. Lace looks expensive. Bet it feels even better wet.”

Your arms fly up, crossing tight over your soaked blouse like that’ll hide anything. Heat explodes across your face, scorching your ears, tingling in your fingertips. You’re stuck, half-wanting to bolt, half-wanting the floor to swallow you, heart slamming so hard you’re sure the whole room can hear the frantic thud-thud-thud.

Steve moves like a reflex.

He’s out of his chair in a flash, metal legs screeching across the floor. Two long strides and he’s right there, crowding into your space before the little shocked squeak even finishes escaping your lips.

Letterman jacket rips off his waist in one fluid motion, still warm from his body, heavy with cologne, fresh turf, and something unmistakably him. He drapes it over you like a shield. The sleeves swallow your hands whole; the hem brushes mid-thigh.

The weight of it grounds you, a sudden cocoon of safety in the middle of the storm. “Thanks,” you manage, voice a croak, fingers clutching the lapels like a lifeline.

Steve lingers half a second longer than necessary, one hand brushing your shoulder as he steps back. Then he’s retreating to his seat beside Bucky, ears scarlet, jaw tight.

But his sweatpants, gray, thin, do nothing to hide the thick bulge straining against the fabric.

Hard, obvious, twitching with every breath. He sits fast, thighs spreading to try and hide it, but the angle only makes it worse, the outline of his cock clear, veins, head, everything.

“No problem,” he mutters, the words clipped, almost angry at Bucky, at himself, at the universe. His pen hovers, trembling slightly, above the margin where he’d been scribbling.

A bead of water rolls off the table’s edge and lands on his sneaker with a soft plink.

Bucky leans back, smirk lethal. “Jesus, Rogers, your dick’s about to rip those sweats. Can’t even hide it, huh? Poor guy’s aching for those wet tits.”

Steve’s knuckles whiten around the pen. “Shut up, Buck.”

But his cock jumps at the words, visible, throbbing, a wet spot forming at the tip where precum is already leaking.

You teach the rest of the session in Steve’s jacket, sleeves bunched at your wrists, wool heavy and warm against your damp skin. The cedar-turf scent clings to every inhale, a quiet reminder that he’s watching even when he pretends not to.

Every breath is a negotiation with gravity. The zipper, thick brass teeth, creeps upward a millimeter with each expansion of your ribs, then settles again.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Bucky notices first, of course. His smirk starts lazy, a slow curl at the left corner of his mouth, and widens into something predatory every time the metal teeth flash.

“So, Teach,” he muses, voice pitched low enough to vibrate under the table. He taps his pen against his lower lip, tap, tap, tap, like he’s keeping time with your pulse.

“Water level rises… does the volume go exponential?” His gaze dips deliberately to the narrow V where the jacket refuses to close.

“Askin’ for science, obviously. Or maybe I just wanna know how hard those nipples are right now. Bet they’re begging for a mouth.”

Steve’s trying, God, he’s trying.

His pen scratches across the margin in tight, furious loops. Jaw locked so hard you can see the muscle jump beneath the skin. Shoulders rigid, like he’s bench-pressing the weight of his own restraint.

But every time you lean forward to underline a formula- “V equals one-third pi r squared h, so dV/dt equals…”

His eyes betray him. A flicker. Zipper. The shadowed hollow between collarbones. The place where wet fabric meets dry wool. Back to paper. Repeat.

You count the slips like heartbeats.

One: a half-second too long, lashes sweeping down before snapping up.

Two: a swallow that bobs his throat, pen pausing mid-stroke.

Three: the faintest exhale through his nose, almost a sigh.

Four: the pen snaps. Cheap plastic cracks; ink bleeds a blue comet across his notes.

“Sorry,” he mutters, so low the word barely disturbs the air between you. He doesn’t look up. Just flips the broken pen over, grips the barrel like it owes him money, and starts writing again with the jagged stub.

His ears are the color of brake lights. His cock is throbbing, leaking, the wet spot now the size of a quarter.

Bucky chuckles, soft, dark, delighted. “Easy, Rogers. You’ll flood the page next. Or your pants. Look at that stain man, leaking like a fucking faucet for her.”

Steve’s knuckles whiten. He doesn’t answer. Just shifts, thighs clenching, trying to hide the obvious.

You keep teaching, voice steady by sheer spite. But every breath still lifts the zipper. Every lift still earns that smirk. And every stolen glance from Steve still burns hotter than the last.

You snap the notebook shut with a crisp thud that echoes off the cinderblock walls. “Quiz yourselves on problems 12 through 18. We’ll go over them Tuesday.”

Steve is already on his feet, duffel slung over one shoulder, the strap cutting a line across his broad chest. He pauses, fingers tightening on the nylon.

“Thanks. Seriously.” His gaze flicks to the jacket, still draped around you like borrowed armor, then skitters away to the ruined textbook, the puddle on the table, anywhere but the place where wool meets wet silk. “This is… helping.”

Bucky rises slower, a deliberate stretch that lifts his hoodie just enough to flash a strip of toned stomach. He yawns, arms overhead.

“Yeah, Teach. Real educational.” The wink is pure sin, slow and pointed. “Jacket looks better on the floor, Rogers. Or around her ankles while we-”

Steve’s elbow finds Bucky’s ribs, hard. The impact lands with a muffled thump; Bucky exhales a laugh that doesn’t quite hide the wince. “Bucky.”

You clutch the lapels tighter, knuckles whitening against the wool. “Tuesday. Same time.”

Bucky drops his arms, salutes with two fingers to his brow. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.” He saunters out, sneakers scuffing the linoleum, the door swinging shut behind him with a lazy whoosh.

Steve lingers. The room feels suddenly smaller, the air thick with cedar and leftover tension. He shifts his weight, cleats dangling from the duffel strap clacking softly.

“Keep it,” he says, voice softer now, almost shy. “Till your blouse dries. Or…” He swallows, the word longer hanging unspoken between you. “See you.”

The door clicks a final time.

You sink into the chair, knees weak.

Steve’s warmth seeps through the wool, wrapping you like a promise.

Bucky’s stare still burns phantom trails across your skin, lazy, deliberate, impossible to scrub off.

Bucky kicks a pebble; it skitters across the cracked sidewalk and pings off a bike rack with a metallic clink.

Steve’s half a step behind, duffel bouncing against his hip, jaw still clenched so tight the muscle jumps under the stubble.

“Subtle,” Steve mutters, voice gravel-rough. “Real fucking subtle, Barnes.”

Bucky snorts, hand shoved deep in his pocket, the other lazily spinning his keyring around one finger. “What? Gravity did ninety percent of the work. I just gave the bottle a little love tap.”

He glances sideways, grin sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re welcome, by the way. Did you see that lace, Steve? White floral. Little satin bow right between her tits like a goddamn present.”

Steve’s ears flare crimson again, the flush crawling down his neck. “I caught you staring like a creep.”

“Please.” Bucky mimics the pen snap with his flesh fingers: crack. “You murdered your Bic in cold blood. One second you’re solving for r, next second you’re eye-fucking the bow on her bra like it’s the Super Bowl halftime show.”

Steve exhales hard through his nose, breath fogging in the cooling night air. “She’s our tutor.”

“She’s also twenty-one, single, and just spent the lesson marinating in your jacket while her nipples tried to drill through layers of wet fabric.”

Bucky bumps Steve’s shoulder, deliberate. “Tell me you didn’t picture peeling that wool off her slow, inch by inch, till she’s standing there in nothing but those thigh-highs she wore last Tuesday.”

Silence. A cicada screams overhead, then dies.

Steve finally speaks, voice low, almost pained. “She’s… careful. Like she’s waiting for something.”

Bucky arches a brow, keyring still spinning. “Waiting, huh? You think she’s still-”

“Don’t.” Steve cuts him off, but the word hangs in the air anyway, thick and electric.

Bucky shrugs, softer now, but the smirk never leaves. “Wouldn’t matter if she was. Just means we’d take our time. You’d be all gentle and golden-boy, kissing her like she’s made of glass. I’d be…”

He licks his bottom lip, slow. “Educational. Spread her out on that table, show her exactly what related rates feel like when it’s my tongue doing the differentiating.”

Steve stops dead under a streetlamp. The orange light carves harsh shadows across his cheekbones, turns his eyes storm-blue. “We’re not betting on her virginity, Buck.”

“Wasn’t a bet.” Bucky steps closer, voice dropping to that filthy purr he saves for locker-room talk and dark corners. “Just curiosity. Girl blushes like that: ears, neck, chest, all the way down to her pretty little-”

Steve shoulders past him hard enough to rattle the duffel strap. Boots crunch gravel. “Tuesday. Hands to ourselves.”

Bucky falls in step, smirk audible in every word. “Sure, Rogers. Hands off. Eyes, though…” He whistles low, two notes, filthy promise. “Eyes are fair game. And my mouth’s got a mind of its own.”

Steve shoots him a look that could freeze fire.

Bucky just grins wider, spinning the keyring faster. “Come on, admit it. You’re hard again just thinking about it. I saw that wet spot in the library, size of a quarter and growing. Bet you’re still leaking thinking about that bow. Bet you’re imagining tying her wrists with it while I-”

“Jesus, Buck.”

“-slide my tongue under that lace, suck those nipples till she forgets the chain rule. Bet she’d sound so pretty begging: ‘Please, Bucky, please, Steve, I’ll do the homework, just-’”

Steve grabs the front of Bucky’s hoodie and shoves him against the nearest tree trunk, forearm across his chest. The bark scrapes. Bucky’s breath whooshes out, but the grin never wavers.

“Finish that sentence,” Steve growls, “and I’ll break your jaw.”

Bucky licks his lips, slow, deliberate. “You’d have to catch me first, Rogers. And we both know you’re too busy picturing her on her knees between us: mouth full of you, my cock in her-”

Steve’s forearm presses harder. Bucky’s laugh is low, filthy, delighted.

“Relax, Stevie. I’m just saying what we’re both thinking. She’s dripping for it. You saw how she kept tugging that jacket closed like it could hide how hard her nipples were. Bet if we’d slipped a hand under that table she’d have come just from a thumb on her clit.”

Steve’s breathing is ragged. The streetlamp flickers overhead. Somewhere a car door slams.

Bucky softens, just a fraction. “She wants it. You saw her eyes. Scared, yeah. But wet. Curious. Tuesday we play nice. After calc midterms…”

He shrugs, smirk curling again. “After calc midterms we find out how far down that blush really goes.”

Steve lets go, steps back, runs a hand through his hair. The duffel thuds against his thigh.

“Tuesday,” he repeats, like a vow and a threat at once.

Bucky pushes off the tree, brushes bark from his hoodie. “Tuesday we’re perfect gentlemen. Eyes only.”

He leans in, voice a dark whisper against Steve’s ear. “But after midterms I’m gonna have her screaming my name so loud the librarian files a noise complaint. And you’re gonna thank me for it.”

Steve doesn’t answer. Just starts walking again, faster now.

Bucky follows, hands in his pockets, whistling that same filthy two-note tune.

Behind them, the library windows glow gold against the dark, warm light spilling onto the empty sidewalk like a promise neither of them intends to keep.

You’re early again, cardigan buttoned to the throat like a chastity belt, sleeves tugged over your knuckles so far only your fingertips peek out.

The table is a fortress: flash cards stacked in perfect towers, two freshly sharpened pencils aligned like soldiers, and a single laminated midterm formula sheet taped to the whiteboard like a hostage note.

No water bottle in sight. Lesson learned.

The door bangs open at 3:59. Steve ducks in first, hoodie swapped for a tight black thermal that clings to every ridge of muscle. He drops a paper bag on the table: two iced coffees, one labeled oat milk, two pumps vanilla, condensation already beading on the plastic. His fingers drum the bag nervously.

Bucky follows, slower, but his usual swagger is cracked, gray sweatpants ride low on his hips, hoodie half-zipped to reveal a sliver of collarbone and the dark trail that disappears beneath the waistband. He carries nothing but a smirk and a single red pen he twirls between his fingers like a baton: except the twirl is a little too fast, betraying jitters.

“Final boss level, Teach,” Bucky drawls, sliding into the chair opposite you. His knee finds yours under the table immediately. “Quiz us. Break us. Then we break you.”

Steve elbows him hard, but his ears are already pink. “Ignore him. We’re ready.” His voice wavers just a hair. “Mostly.”

You clear your throat, shoving the first flash card forward. “Related rates. Conical tank, water draining at 4 ft³/min. Radius 6 ft, height 12 ft. Find dh/dt when h = 8 ft.”

Steve’s pen scratches instantly, the sound loud in the quiet room but his hand trembles slightly.

Bucky leans back, arms folded, eyes locked on the V of your cardigan where the top button strains against the swell of your chest.

He forces a grin. “Volume of a cone is (1/3)πr²h. Similar triangles, r/h = 6/12 = 1/2. So r = h/2. V = (1/3)π(h/2)²h = (1/12)πh³. dV/dt = πh² dh/dt. Plug in-”

“-h = 8, dV/dt = –4,” Steve finishes, voice low, focused: but he exhales shakily. “dh/dt = –4 / (π*64) = –1/(16π) ft/min. Right?”

You nod, impressed. “Good. Next.”

Bucky’s turn.

You flip the card. “Optimization. Rectangular garden, 100 ft of fencing. One side against a barn. Maximize area.”

He doesn’t blink, but his knee bounces under the table. “Let x be parallel sides, y the side against the barn. 2x + y = 100, y = 100 – 2x. Area A = x*y = x(100 – 2x) = 100x – 2x². Derivative A’ = 100 – 4x = 0. x = 25. y = 50. Max area 1250 ft².” He pauses, then adds with a nervous smirk, “Unless I just maximized the wrong variable and tanked the whole thing.”

Steve whistles low. “Show-off.” But his laugh is tight.

Bucky’s grin is sharp, but his eyes flick to you for reassurance. “Just warming up, Rogers. Gotta impress her before she realizes we’re one wrong derivative away from flunking.”

He leans forward, voice dropping to a filthy murmur: but there’s a tremor in it. “What do I win, Teach? A gold star? Or…”

His gaze flicks to your cardigan button, then lower. “One less layer? Bet if I pop that top button we’ll see that little bow again. The one that made Stevie leak in his sweats last week, might distract us from the fact we’re about to bomb L’Hôpital’s.”

Heat floods your face so fast your ears ring. You shove another card at him. “Integration by parts. ∫ x² ln(x) dx.”

Steve takes this one, eyes never leaving the page: but his free hand rubs the back of his neck. “u = ln(x), dv = x² dx. du = 1/x dx, v = x³/3. ∫ u dv = uv – ∫ v du = (ln(x)*x³/3) – ∫ (x³/3)(1/x) dx = (x³ ln(x)/3) – (1/3)∫ x² dx = (x³ ln(x)/3) – (x³/9) + C.” He looks up, hopeful. “Nailed it?”

You blink. “Perfect.”

Bucky’s fingers drum the table: fast, anxious. “My turn again. Make it hard but not too hard, or I’ll forget my own name tomorrow.”

You flip the toughest one. “L’Hôpital’s Rule. lim (x→0) (sin(x) – x)/x³.”

He doesn’t hesitate but his voice cracks on the first derivative. “Indeterminate 0/0. Derivative: (cos(x) – 1)/(3x²). Still 0/0. Again: (–sin(x))/(6x). Still. Again: (–cos(x))/6 = –1/6.” He exhales hard. “Please tell me that’s right, or I’m switching majors to art history.”

Steve’s jaw drops. “You memorized that?”

Bucky shrugs, eyes on you: pleading under the bravado. “Had motivation. Your flashcards are hotter than my GPA.”

You swallow. “Last one. Partial fractions. Decompose 1/(x²(x+1)).”

They tag-team it like they’ve rehearsed but Steve’s hand shakes as he writes.

Steve sets up: “A/x + B/x² + C/(x+1).”

Bucky solves: “1 = A x (x+1) + B (x+1) + C x².”

They plug in x = 0, x = –1, x = 1. Coefficients fly, Bucky mutters “If this is wrong, I’m blaming the coffee.”

Final answer: –1/x + 1/x² + 1/(x+1).

You stare at the page, then at them. “You… you just aced the practice final.”

Steve’s smile is soft, proud, but his eyes are wide. “Told you we’d make you proud but holy shit, we might actually pass.”

Bucky leans in, voice velvet and venom but there’s a nervous edge. “Now the real quiz, doll.” He taps the red pen against his lower lip slow, deliberate, but his hand trembles slightly.

“How many buttons till we see that lace again? I’m betting on three. Pop, pop, pop.” He mimics the motion with his fingers, eyes locked on your chest. “Then we find out if your nipples are still pink when they’re hard. Bet they taste like vanilla, might be the only thing sweeter than a passing grade.”

Steve’s hand finds your knee under the table, warm, steady, but his thumb strokes the inside seam of your skirt like he’s grounding himself.

“We’re done studying,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But we’re not done with you, unless we flunk tomorrow and have to beg for extra credit.”

You clutch the flash cards like a shield. “Calc midterms are tomorrow. Results come out next week. Go back to your dorms and review everything. No distractions.”

Bucky’s grin turns feral, his laugh is shaky. “Fine, Teach. Dorm. Study. Sleep.” His eyes rake you from cardigan to knees and back up.

“Next week, when we ace them… we ace you. Gonna spread you out on this table, hike that little skirt up, and take turns eating you till you forget the fundamental theorem. Then we’ll flip you over, bend you over the whiteboard, and fuck you so hard the dry-erase markers rattle, assuming we don’t bomb and end up retaking Calc 101.”

Steve squeezes your knee once, gentle, promising, before letting go. “You heard her. Dorm.”

They stand in sync, chairs scraping.

Bucky flicks the red pen across the table; it spins, stops pointing at your chest like a compass needle. “Next week, doll,” he says, voice low. “Cardigan optional. Panties definitely optional, unless we fail and have to wear them as a badge of shame.”

Steve lingers at the door, eyes dark, thermal stretched tight across his chest. “Lock up after us, Teach. Don’t wait up and pray we don’t forget L’Hôpital’s at 9 am.”

The door swings shut.

The room is suddenly too quiet, too warm. The air smells like iced coffee, cedar, and the faint metallic tang of Bucky’s nervous smirk.

You’re alone.

Your thighs press together under the table, slick and aching. The cardigan feels heavier now, every button a countdown. You exhale shakily, fingers brushing the top button, then stopping.

One week later, sunlight slants through the high library windows, turning dust motes into slow-motion glitter. The room hums with tension: whispers, page flips, the occasional groan of despair.

You’re camped at your usual table, cardigan sleeves pushed to the elbows, revising integrals. Color-coded sticky tabs bristle from your textbook like neon porcupine quills.

Then, thud-thud-thud. Sneakers pounding down the hall.

“We fucking passed!”

Steve bursts through the doors first, golden in the afternoon light. Hair windblown from sprinting across the quad, letterman jacket flapping open, exam clutched triumphantly in one fist. He skids to a stop beside your chair, chest heaving, grin wide enough to eclipse the sun.

Bucky strolls in right behind, lazy swagger intact. He hops up onto the table’s edge in front of you, boots dangling, hand braced on the wood. His paper is folded into a paper airplane; he flicks it open mid-air and lets it glide onto your open notebook.

“Look, doll. Ninety-fuckin’-two.” Wink sharp enough to cut glass. “Prof drew a smiley face. Bet he’s crushin’ hard.”

You snatch both sheets. Steve’s 94 is circled in triumphant red. Bucky’s 92 sits beside scrawled professor handwriting: “Outstanding improvement!”

The numbers hit you like tequila shots.

You did this.

Two weeks of whiteboard marathons, spilled water, snapped pens, Bucky’s tit doodles, Steve’s stolen glances: it paid off.

“Woah, boys…” Your voice cracks. You look up. They’re both staring like you’re the only equation in the room. Steve’s smile soft, shy. Bucky’s pure filth.

Bucky leans forward, elbows on knees, voice a low rumble. “So what do you say, pretty girl? Sigma Chi basement. Tonight. You. Us.”

He punctuates each word with a finger drum next to your highlighter. “We earned it. You earned it.”

Steve steps closer, shoulder brushing Bucky’s. “We’ll be good,” he promises, but his eyes lock on your mouth, linger.

“Scout’s honor.” His thumb grazes the frayed cuff of your cardigan, calloused skin on soft wool. “Low-key. Teammates, music, cheap beer. We’ll stay with you.”

You swallow. “I’ve never really been to-”

“Never?” Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, mock scandal.

He slides off the table, boots hitting the floor with a thud. Suddenly he’s close, heat radiating, cutting through the library chill. “That’s a goddamn crime. A girl who makes related rates sexy deserves one night of bad decisions.”

Steve’s hand finds the back of your chair, fingers brushing your neck, not accidental, warm, possessive.

“It’s casual,” he coaxes, voice warm. “If it’s lame, we bail for milkshakes. Deal?”

Bucky’s grin turns lethal. “Besides, you’ve seen us at our worst: flunking calc, drowning your tits in water-” He gestures at your chest, eyes raking slow.

“Let us show you our best. Dancing. Shots. Beer pong where the stakes are…” He leans in, breath hot on your ear, stubble grazing your skin. “Your cardigan. My hoodie. Steve’s boxers. Kidding.”

A pause. “Unless you’re into it?”

Steve elbows him, but he’s laughing, cheeks pink. “Ignore him. One hour. You, me, Buck, shittiest playlist on campus. Let us ruin you, just a little.”

Your pulse is louder than the stacks. You hook your pinky around Bucky’s. “One hour. But I’m wearing this cardigan.”

Bucky’s grin could power the campus. “Fuck yes. Cardigan’s stayin’. For now.”

Steve squeezes your shoulder, firm, reassuring before letting go. “Ten sharp. We’ll bring liquid courage… and condoms.”

Bucky blows a kiss. Steve just smiles, slow, devastating.

The doors swing shut. Sunlight pools where they stood. You stare at the perfect grades, heart racing like it’s already midnight.

You knock once, cardigan sleeves tugged over your knuckles like armor.

Natasha yanks the door open before the second rap, red hair twisted in a towel turban, silk robe slipping off one shoulder, cigarette dangling from her lips.

“Perfect timing. Strip.”

You clutch your cardigan tighter, knuckles whitening. “I’m wearing this. It’s… comfortable.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow to sniper slits, smoke curling from her nostrils. “Comfortable is for study hall nerd. Tonight you’re walking into Sigma Chi with two campus gods who’ve been eye-fucking you ever since they first saw you in that wet blouse. Cardigan says tutor. We’re saying trouble.”

She grabs your wrist, tugs you inside, kicks the door shut with her heel.

The room smells like vanilla, cigarettes, and chaos. Clothes explode across her bed: leather, lace, satin, denim. She rifles through like a general choosing weapons.

“Skirt,” she declares, holding up a black pleated mini, two inches shy of legal. “This one. The second you bend over in it, Steve’s gonna forget he was ever a gentleman and Bucky’s gonna start speaking in tongues.”

Your voice shoots an octave. “Nat, that’s… a belt.”

“It’s fashion, baby.” She shoves it into your hands, already unzipping your jeans. “Try. Or I’ll do it for you.”

You peek at the mirror, then back at the skirt. “I’ll freeze. And bend over wrong and-”

“You’ll bend over right.” She yanks the cardigan over your head before you can protest; cool air hits your arms, goosebumps racing.

“Top, here.” A silky camisole, thin straps, neckline plunging just enough to make your heart stutter. “Tucks in, shows the waist you’ve been hiding under fleece like it’s a federal offense.”

You hold the cami like it might bite. “This is revealing.”

Natasha snorts, already behind you zipping the skirt. “It’s strategic. Shows legs, hints at cleavage, leaves them guessing about the panties. You want Bucky short-circuiting or Steve praying? This is the uniform.”

She spins you to the mirror, hands on your shoulders. “Look. Dangerous. Like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing with two football players who’ve been jerking off to your flashcards.”

Your reflection stares back: skirt skimming mid-thigh, pleats swishing when you move. The cami drapes like liquid. You tug the hem lower, cheeks burning. “I look like I’m about to get arrested for public indecency-”

Natasha slaps your hands away and grips your shoulders, forcing them back so the cami pulls tight across your chest.

“Exactly. That’s the point.” She smirks, eyes gleaming. “You tutored the hottest jocks on campus through calculus. Tonight they’re your project. Own it.”

She produces a tiny leather jacket, cropped, studded. “Layer for the walk, ditch it inside. Mystery. Tease.”

Natasha circles you one last time, cigarette pinched between two fingers, eyes narrowed like she’s inspecting a weapon that still needs one final tweak.

“Hair: perfect. Lips: lethal. Legs: illegal.” She stops in front of you, reaches for the glasses perched on your nose. “These, however, have to go.”

You slap her hand away so fast the frames skid down the bridge of your nose. “No. These stay on. I don’t wanna be practically blind at a party.”

Natasha arches one perfect brow. “You’ll be able to feel where Steve and Bucky are just fine, trust me.”

“Nat. I won’t even be able to tell which one is groping me.”

She snorts, smoke curling. “That’s half the fun.”

You fold your arms, stubborn. “I’ll trip over a cup and face-plant into a keg. Or worse, walk into the wrong dorm room and accidentally give some random lacrosse guy the night of his life.”

Natasha’s grin turns evil. “Imagine the headlines: Calc Tutor Mistakes Sigma Chi for Phi Delt, Accidentally Invents New Position.”

You glare over the rims. “Not happening.”

She taps ash into a coffee mug, considering. “Fine. Glasses stay.” She adjusts the frames with two fingers so they sit just right, low enough to look effortlessly sexy, high enough that you can actually see. “We’re making them part of the look. Sexy librarian who’s about to grade two very eager students.”

A beat. “And these.” She tosses a pair of sheer thigh-highs onto the bed: delicate, lacy tops with tiny satin bows. “Trust me. They’ll be on their knees before the first beer pong ball drops.”

You sit on the bed, rolling one stocking up slowly, cheeks on fire. The lace band hugs your thigh like a promise, the little bow sitting perfectly at the top.

Natasha kneels in front of you, smoothing the lace with military precision, fingers lingering on the soft skin just above. “Mmm. Look at that. Bucky’s gonna lose his entire mind when he sees these bows. Steve’s gonna recite the pledge of allegiance backwards.”

You squeak. “Nat!”

She grins, feral. “What? You think golden boy isn’t gonna drop to his knees the second he spots this lace? These are weapons, babe.”

She stands, offers both hands. “Up. Final check.”

You rise. The skirt flutters. The cami clings. The cropped leather jacket hangs open just enough. The lacy thigh-highs grip your legs like a secret. Your glasses sit perfectly on your nose like you were born to wear them while getting ruined.

Natasha rests her chin on your shoulder, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Repeat after me: ‘I’m not the tutor tonight. I’m the final exam, and they’re about to fail spectacularly.’”

Your cheeks burn. “Nat-”

“Say it.”

You swallow. “…I’m the final exam, and they’re about to fail spectacularly.”

“Louder. With conviction.”

“I’m the final exam and they’re about to fail spectacularly!”

Natasha smirks, satisfied. “Good girl.”

She shoves the tiny purse into your hand: lip gloss, ID, emergency twenty, two condoms, and a spare glasses wipe “just in case things get steamy.”

She walks you to the door, slaps your ass hard enough to make the pleats bounce and the lace tops shift deliciously. “Go make Steve Rogers forget the rules of football and Bucky Barnes forget his own name. And if anyone tries to take those glasses off, tell them you need to see exactly how hard they’re failing.”

You pause on the threshold, heart hammering. “Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

She winks, blowing smoke. “Go win the war, soldier.”

You step off the porch into pulsing bass and red Solo cup confetti. The pleated mini swishes with every nervous step; thigh-highs grip your legs like a secret. The leather jacket hangs open, cami plunging, heart hammering louder than the music. You’ve never been to a frat party. You’ve never worn anything this short.

Steve 10:08pm

you already here pretty girl? can't wait to see you

You barely hit send on here before the front door flies open.

Steve is there, flannel unbuttoned, tight white tee clinging to his chest, jeans slung low. His eyes rake you from thigh-highs to cami, linger on the cleavage, then snap to your face.

His ears go pink. “Jesus, angel.” The words slip out before he can stop them. He swallows hard, offers his arm like a lifeline. “You came.”

You clutch it, fingers trembling. “Promised one hour.”

Bucky materializes behind him, three shots in hand, hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess. His gaze locks on your legs, slides up slow, stops at the cami neckline.

He licks his lips.

“Fuck me,” Bucky breathes, voice rough as gravel. He slides the shot into your hand, fingers brushing yours, then clinks his glass against it with a wicked little grin. “To 92%… and whatever filthy little thing this is turning into.”

You knock it back. Tequila slams down your throat like liquid fire. You cough hard, eyes stinging.

Steve chuckles low beside you while Bucky just smirks, both of them steering you inside with big, warm hands on your back like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they let go.

The party is chaos: strobe lights flash blue-red-blue, sweaty bodies grind to Future, beer pong screams echo off cinderblock walls.

You’re wedged between them on a sagging couch, Steve’s thigh warm against your bare one, Bucky’s arm draped along the backrest, fingers brushing your shoulder. You’ve never sat this close to anyone.

Bucky dips close, breath hot against your ear, voice a low, velvet growl. “Ever let someone feel you up, Teach?”

You shake your head, tiny and frantic little jerks, cheeks blazing hotter than the string lights overhead.

Steve’s voice is husky. “We’ll take care of you.”

His hand rests on your knee, innocent, then slides an inch higher. Bucky’s fingers toy with your cami strap, tugging it down a fraction. “Cold?” Bucky murmurs. “Or just happy to see us?”

You shiver. The AC is arctic; the cami is thin. Your nipples peak under the silk, traitors.

Steve notices. His thumb traces a slow circle on your thigh. “You okay?”

You nod, voice small. “One hour.”

Bucky grins. “Whatever you say, doll.”

They drag you to the dance floor. The bass drops low and filthy, bodies pressing in from all sides. Steve’s hands find your hips, guiding you back against him, slow and deliberate. Bucky crowds in front, sandwiching you between them.

“Move with us, sweetheart,” Steve whispers against your hair, breath hot. His hips roll, guiding yours in a lazy grind. The skirt flips up with every sway, brushing the lace tops of your thigh-highs.

Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, lacing his fingers with yours, lifting them above your head so your body arches.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, eyes dark. He drops your hands, spins you so your back is to his chest, Steve still in front. Bucky’s thigh nudges between yours, parting them just enough for the skirt to ride higher.

Steve’s hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin above your skirt. His fingers brush the edge of your glasses. “These stayin’ on, Teach?” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “Gonna watch us ruin you in perfect focus?”

Bucky leans in, lips at your ear. “Bet they fog up real pretty when you come.”

You’ve never danced like this. Never felt two bodies moving against you, hard and insistent. The music is a heartbeat, thumping through your ribs, your thighs, your core.

Steve’s hips press forward, the ridge of his cock unmistakable against your stomach. Bucky’s hands slide lower, cupping your ass, pulling you back so you feel him too, thick, throbbing, grinding slow.

“Feel that?” Bucky’s voice is gravel in your ear. “That’s what you do to us.”

Steve’s mouth finds your neck, open-mouthed kisses, teeth grazing. “So fucking sweet.” His hands slide up, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the cami. Your nipples ache, straining against the lace bra.

He spins you again, facing Bucky.

Bucky presses in close, chest to chest, one hand on your lower back, the other reaching up to tap the bridge of your glasses. “Gonna need these to see exactly how hard you make us, doll.”

The strobe lights paint everything in flashes, sweat-slick skin, Bucky’s tongue tracing the shell of your ear, Steve’s teeth nipping your shoulder. The music is so loud you feel it in your bones, in the pulse between your legs.

Bucky’s hand slides down, fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt, grazing the bare skin above your thigh-highs. “So soft,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Bet you’re soaked already, Teach.”

Steve’s hands slide up, cupping your breasts over the cami, thumbs circling your nipples through the fabric. “Fuck, angel. These are perfect.” He leans in, breath fogging the lenses of your glasses. “Look at that, already steaming up.”

You’re breathless, dizzy, the tequila and the heat and the hands and the mouths all blurring together.

“One hour’s up,” you manage, voice shaking.

Bucky grins against your neck. “Clock’s broken.”

Steve kisses your temple, lingering. “Stay.”

The bass thumps like a second heartbeat. Bucky growls, “Need you now.”

He grabs your wrist, yanks you off the dance floor. Steve follows, hand on your lower back, guiding you through the sweaty crowd like bodyguards.

They herd you into a dim hallway, music muffled to a low throb.

Bucky pins you to the wall, hands on your hips, mouth hovering an inch from yours. “Tell me, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “You ever had a boy actually care about this pretty pussy?”

You bite your lip, heat flooding your cheeks. “Twice,” you whisper. “But… he didn’t… I didn’t…”

Steve’s fingers trace the edge of your skirt, gentle. “Didn’t what, sweetheart?”

You swallow. “Didn’t come. Either time. He just… finished. Didn’t touch me after. Didn’t even try.”

Bucky’s eyes darken, jaw tight. “Motherfucker.” He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “That ends tonight.”

Steve’s hand slides higher, fingers ghosting over the damp lace between your legs. “Ever had a tongue on your clit till you’re shaking?”

You shake your head. “No. Never.”

Bucky’s mouth brushes your ear. “Ever had fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot till you see stars?”

“No,” you breathe. “He just… put it in. That was it.”

Steve groans, forehead dropping to yours. His breath fogs your glasses instantly, lenses clouding white. “Jesus. Never had your nipples sucked slow? Never had someone worship you?”

You shake your head again, trembling. “No. Never.”

Bucky’s hand slips under your cami, palming your breast, thumb flicking your nipple through the lace. “Ever had two mouths on you, taking their time?”

“No,” you whisper. “Never.”

Steve’s fingers press gently against your clit through the lace, slow circles that make your knees buckle. “Soaked already, angel. You’re dripping for us.”

He smirks, watching the fog spread across your glasses. “Look at that, can’t even see us through these anymore. Guess we’ll have to make you feel it instead.”

Bucky’s mouth slams into yours, raw tequila and sharp mint and pure, frantic hunger. His tongue slides in deep, filthy, claiming, like he’s been starving for this exact taste. A broken little whimper slips out of you; your knees actually give.

Steve watches, jaw clenched, fisting his flannel so hard the seams creak. He reaches up, gently slides your glasses down your nose just enough to clear the lenses, then pushes them back up with a filthy grin. “Better keep these on, sweetheart. You’re gonna wanna watch what we do to you.”

Bucky pulls back, lips swollen, eyes black. “Your turn, Rogers.”

Steve steps in, gentle at first, one hand cradling your skull, thumb stroking your cheek. His kiss is slow, worshipful then he groans and devours you, tongue sliding against yours, hips rolling slow.

Bucky’s hands slide under your cami, palming your tits over the lace bra. “Fuck, so soft.” He pinches your nipples, rolls them until you squeal into Steve’s mouth.

Steve breaks the kiss, breath ragged. “Tell us to stop and we will.”

You don’t. Can’t. You’re shaking, soaked, terrified, aching, glasses completely steamed.

Bucky spins you, back to his chest, yanks the cami up to your ribs. He bites your neck, sucks a bruise under your ear. “Gonna mark you up, doll. So everyone knows who you belong to.”

Steve drops to his knees, hands on your thighs, pushing the pleated mini up to your hips. “Spread for me, sweetheart.”

You obey, legs trembling so hard your thigh-highs slip an inch.

He nuzzles the lace panties, inhales deep. “Smell so fucking good.” His tongue licks a stripe over the fabric, groaning at the wetness.

Bucky rolls his hips slow and deliberate, thick cock dragging against your ass with every grind. “Hear that, doll?” he rasps, lips at your ear. “That’s Stevie down there praying.”

His hand glides down, cups you possessively right over Steve’s buried face, fingers pressing the soaked fabric against your clit. “Fuck, you’re drenched. Good girl.”

Steve drags the soaked lace aside with two fingers and buries his tongue deep, licking straight into your dripping folds. Your cry cracks in half; your legs turn to jelly.

Bucky’s strong arms band around your waist from behind, hauling you up so you don’t collapse. His fingers find your nipples again, pinching and tugging hard enough to make you sob.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasps against your neck, voice pure gravel. “Let Stevie devour that pretty pussy like it’s the only dessert he’ll ever need.”

You come hard, screaming into Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, glasses completely useless now, lenses white with steam.

They don’t stop.

Steve stands, kissing you with your taste on his tongue, salty, sweet, filthy, his breath fogging your glasses one last time.

Bucky spins you fast enough to make the room tilt, drops to his knees right there like a man possessed, and rips your soaked panties down to your ankles in one rough yank.

“My turn, doll.”

Your legs feel weightless and unsteady. Your thoughts are a blur of white noise.

And they’re just getting started.

You’re still trembling from the hallway, thighs slick with your own release, the cool air licking at the wet heat between your legs like a second tongue.

Panties gone: Bucky’s fist had closed around the damp silk and stuffed it in his pocket with a low, possessive growl.

Your pleated mini is twisted high on your hips, the hem catching on the lace tops of your thigh-highs, which bite into the soft flesh with every wobbling step.

The cami clings to your skin, damp with sweat and the faint salt of Steve’s kisses; your nipples are so hard they ache, rubbing raw against the lace with every ragged breath.

Steve’s hand engulfs yours, calloused, hot, slick with sweat, fingers laced so tight your knuckles blanch.

Bucky’s palm spreads across the small of your back, guiding you forward. He’d stripped off his hoodie the second you stepped out of the dim hallway, the fabric still warm from his body, heavy with cedar, smoke, and the musk rolling off his skin.

He zipped it around you in one motion, metal teeth scraping your nipples as he pulled it tight. “No one sees what’s ours,” he’d murmured, teeth grazing your ear. “This pussy, these tits, that mouth... all ours tonight.”

The party’s dying pulse thumps behind you as they hustle you out the side door. The metal handle is ice under your palm; the night air slaps your bare pussy like a shock, making you gasp.

Your arousal has cooled into sticky trails down your inner thighs, and every gust of wind kisses the swollen lips, sending sparks up your spine.

Bucky tugs the hoodie tighter, zipper teeth dragging over your sensitive skin until you whimper.

The hem falls mid-thigh, swallowing the twisted mini, hiding the way your cami is twisted sideways, one breast half-spilling out, nipple dark and peaked beneath the wool.

The quad is dark, wet grass squelching under your heels. Every step makes the slick between your legs shift, cool then warm again as your thighs brush.

Steve’s hand slides under the hoodie, cupping your bare ass, fingers spreading you open just enough that the night air hits your hole. You stumble; he steadies you, two fingers gliding through your folds, collecting the mess there and spreading it up to your clit in a slow, filthy circle.

“Still dripping for us,” he rasps. “Fuck, listen to that, so wet I can hear it. You’re gonna soak our sheets, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Bucky’s thumb finds your nipple through the hoodie, rolling it until it’s a hard, throbbing point. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough. “Say it out loud, doll. Tell us how bad you need these cocks.”

“Yes,” you breathe, the word cracking. “I need it. Need you both. Please.”

The dorm hallway smells like industrial cleaner and stale pizza. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh on your flushed skin.

Bucky’s keycard scrapes, plastic on plastic, until the door unlocks.

Steve pins you to the wall the second it clicks shut, mouth crashing into yours, tongue thick and wet, hips grinding so you feel every inch of his cock straining against his jeans. “Feel that?” he growls against your lips. “That’s all for you. Gonna split this tight little pussy open.”

Bucky grinds against your ass from behind, the thick line of him hot through his sweats, sliding between your cheeks with a low groan. “Gonna wreck you so good, doll. Gonna make you forget every shitty fuck you ever had.”

The room is a haze of male heat. The beds are shoved together, sheets rumpled and smelling of detergent, sweat, and sex. Cleats caked with dried mud sit by the door; a half-empty tub of vanilla protein powder sweats on the desk. Condoms glint on the nightstand like foil-wrapped promises.

Steve fists the hem of Bucky’s hoodie and tears it upward in one savage pull; the soft cotton scrapes over your skin and drops in a hushed heap to the floor. Your cami follows right after, he drags it over your head without a word, leaving you in the thin lace of your bra, nipples already straining against the cups.

Bucky’s hand slides to your back, fingers finding the clasp; one sharp flick and the elastic snaps open with a sting. The lace loosens, slips from your shoulders, and only then do your breasts spill free, heavy, flushed, aching, straight into his waiting palms.

He cups them, heavy and warm, tongue dragging over your nipples until they’re slick with his spit. “Fuck, these tits,” he groans, bending to lick a hot, wet stripe up the valley between them. “Been dreaming about sucking these while I jerk off. Gonna leave marks all over ‘em.”

Steve drops to his knees. His hands grip your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. The pleated mini unzips with a slow, metallic rasp, pooling at your ankles in a soft rustle.

You step out of it, naked except for the lacy thigh-highs and your glasses, frames slightly fogged from the hallway, lenses catching the golden dorm light.

Steve spreads your legs wider. His nose drags up your inner thigh, stubble scraping raw skin, breath scalding. He inhales deep, a guttural sound that vibrates through your clit.

“Smell like fucking sin,” he mutters, then licks, one long, flat stripe from your entrance to your clit, tongue curling to suck the swollen bud into his mouth. You cry out, knees buckling. “Taste even better. So sweet, baby.”

Bucky’s behind you now, cock out, thick and flushed, veins pulsing. He guides your trembling hand to wrap around the base, hot, velvet over steel, slick with precum. “Stroke me, doll,” he says, voice strained. “Slow, yeah, just like that. Fuck, your little hand feels so good.”

Your glasses slip down your nose as you sink to your knees, the carpet rough against your skin. You lean in, lips brushing the flushed head. The taste explodes, salt, musk, a hint of copper. Your tongue swirls, tentative, heart hammering so loud you’re sure they can hear it.

Bucky’s breath catches in a low hiss, both warm hands cradling your head as his fingers slide gently, reverently, through your hair.

“Open up, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe and raw hunger. “First time ever wrapping these pretty lips around a cock, and you’re already down on your knees for us… fuck, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You do.

The stretch is immediate and overwhelming, his thick, blunt head forcing your jaw wide as it glides heavy over your tongue and nudges the back of your throat. A sharp gag rips out of you, eyes flooding behind your glasses, tears already clinging to your lashes.

Bucky eases back just an inch, thumb sweeping tenderly over your wet cheek. “Easy, baby,” he soothes, voice low and wrecked. “Breathe through your nose for me. That’s it… now look up, fuck, let me see those big, teary eyes while you choke on my cock. Perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

Steve’s tongue is merciless, lashing your clit in fast, tight circles that make your hips jerk against his mouth. Two thick fingers sink deep into your pussy with a lewd, wet schlick, curling hard and dragging over that spot inside you until your thighs tremble uncontrollably.

Every muffled moan you try to swallow spills out as raw vibration around Bucky’s cock, the sound humming straight through his shaft and pulling a ragged groan from his chest.

Bucky’s hips roll forward in a slow, deliberate push, feeding you another thick inch until the swollen head nudges deep at the back of your throat. Another helpless gag tears through you, your whole body shuddering with it.

Saliva spills past your stretched lips in a slick rush, sliding down your chin and splattering onto your chest. The lenses of your glasses fog completely, turning the world into a hazy blur of heat and motion and him.

Bucky groans, the sound ragged and broken, hips stuttering as your desperate vibrations ripple through him.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps, thumb smearing the spit on your chin, “drooling down my cock, glasses completely steamed up like we’re shooting a goddamn porno. You love this, don’t you? First time on your knees and you’re already our perfect little slut, choking and shaking for it.”

You pull off with a wet pop, gasping, tears and spit stringing from your swollen lips to his cock, glasses opaque.

Bucky’s hands cup your face, gentle now. He slides your glasses off slowly, folding them with reverence, setting them on the nightstand. For the first time tonight they see you completely bare-faced.

Steve lifts his head from between your thighs, mouth glistening, lips swollen and red, eyes pitch-black with lust.

“Jesus, doll,” Bucky whispers, voice shredded. “You’re even sexier like this, no glasses, just… fuck, those eyes.” He tilts your chin higher, forcing you to meet Steve’s hungry stare. “Look at her, Stevie. Look how fucking gorgeous she is when she’s wrecked for us.”

Steve rises slowly, hands still dripping with you, and cups your face like you’re something fragile and priceless. His thumbs smear the wetness across your cheekbones, reverent.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes, voice hushed with awe. “So fucking beautiful without them.” His forehead rests against yours for a heartbeat, eyes locked on you like he’s memorizing this version of you, wrecked and bare. “Should’ve taken ‘em off hours ago, baby. Needed to see you like this the whole damn time.”

You blink up at them, suddenly shy without the shield of your frames, cheeks burning hotter than ever.

Bucky kisses your forehead, tender. “Glasses stay on next time so we can watch you fall apart behind them. But right now? We wanna see every inch of you when you come undone.”

Steve lifts you onto the bed, sheets cool and crisp against your back. He climbs over you, missionary, knees forcing your thighs wider until the lace tops of your stockings dig in.

The head of his cock drags through your folds, slicking itself in your wetness, nudging your clit until you whimper. “Feel how hard you make me?” he rasps. “This cock’s been aching for your pussy since that water spill.”

He lines up, eyes locked on yours, no glasses, nothing between you now. “Tell me you want it, sweetheart. First time with someone who actually gives a shit about making you feel good.”

You nod, breathless. “Want you both. Please.”

“Ready?” he asks, voice raw.

“Please,” you beg, hips lifting. “Fuck me.”

He pushes in slow, inch by inch, the stretch burning, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. You gasp, nails raking his shoulders. He bottoms out with a groan, balls pressed tight to your ass, the fullness overwhelming.

“So fucking tight,” he rasps, pulling back until just the head remains, then sliding in again, slow, deliberate, letting you feel every vein. “This pussy was made for me. Look at you taking every inch like a good girl.”

Bucky drops to his knees beside you, foil ripped open, latex already rolled down his thick length. He fists himself once, slow and lazy, eyes locked on you while his free hand guides your trembling body back against the mattress.

He leans in, mouth closing hot and wet around one aching nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking, teeth scraping just enough to make you arch off the bed with a broken gasp.

“Watch him fuck you,” he murmurs, lips brushing the stiff, wet peak. “Keep those pretty eyes open and watch Steve’s fat cock disappear inside your cunt inch by inch.” His voice drops to a filthy growl against your skin. “Gonna be so fucking pretty stretched around him.”

Steve’s rhythm turns relentless, hips snapping forward with deep, measured strokes that rock the bedframe in a steady, creaking groan. Sweat beads on his brow, one hot drop breaking free to splatter against your chest, sliding down between your breasts.

His hand wedges between your bodies, thumb finding your swollen clit without hesitation. He circles it hard and sure, matching every thrust, the pressure perfect and unforgiving until your back bows and your breath fractures into sharp, desperate cries.

“Come for me, baby,” he growls. “Let me feel this pussy squeeze me. Wanna feel you milk my dick.”

Bucky switches nipples, biting gently, then soothing with his tongue. “You’re gonna come so hard for us,” he says. “Gonna ruin these sheets with how wet you are.”

The dual sensations, cock dragging inside you, thumb on your clit, mouth on your tits, send you over. You come hard, walls clamping down, a gush of wetness soaking Steve’s cock and the sheets beneath you.

Your scream rips out raw and desperate, half-buried in the pillow as your whole body seizes, pussy clamping down hard around him in waves.

“That’s it,” Steve growls, voice shredded, hips never slowing as he fucks you straight through the climax. “Fuck, yes, soak me, baby, drench my cock.” He slams deep one last time, grinding against you, riding every pulse. “Good fucking girl, coming so hard for us.”

He pulls out, flipping you onto your hands and knees. Bucky lines up behind you, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, slick, hot, teasing your entrance. “Gonna fuck you like this,” he says, voice rough. “Gonna make this pussy remember me.”

He pushes in slow, the angle different, deeper. You cry out, fingers clawing the sheets. He bottoms out, balls pressed to your clit, and stills. “Too much, doll?”

“No,” you gasp. “Move- please.”

He does, long, slow strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you. His hands grip your hips, fingers bruising, pulling you back onto him with every thrust.

The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, mingling with your broken moans. “Listen to that,” he groans. “Hear how wet you are? This cunt’s fucking dripping for me. You love getting fucked like a slut, don’t you?”

Steve kneels in front, feeding you his cock again, tasting of latex and your own release. You take him deep, gagging, saliva dripping down your chin. He groans, guiding your head. “Suck it, baby. Suck my cock while he reams your pussy. Fuck, your mouth’s so hot.”

They find a rhythm, Bucky thrusting into your pussy, Steve fucking your mouth. The fullness is overwhelming, every nerve alight.

Bucky’s balls slap your clit with every stroke, sending jolts up your spine. “Gonna come again?” he says. “Gonna squirt all over my dick? Do it, doll, let go.”

You do, harder this time, squirting around him, soaking his thighs and the sheets. He growls, thrusting faster. “Fuck, yes, that’s my girl.” He slams in deep, hips stuttering, filling the condom with a guttural groan. “Take it, take every drop.”

He pulls out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it aside. Steve lifts you, turning you to face away from Bucky.

“Your turn to ride,” Bucky says, lying back on the mattress, cock still hard in its fresh condom. “Reverse cowgirl, doll. Sit on this dick and show us what you’ve got.”

Your legs are jelly, but Steve helps you straddle Bucky backwards, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. The thigh-highs have slipped halfway down your thighs, lace bunched and damp.

Bucky’s hands grip your ass, spreading you open, the cool air hitting your soaked entrance. “Look at this pretty pussy,” he groans. “All swollen and dripping. Lower yourself slow, fuck yes.”

You reach between your legs, guiding the thick head to your entrance. The stretch is immediate, burning as you sink down inch by inch, the angle letting him hit deeper than before.

Your walls flutter around him, still sensitive from the last orgasm. “So fucking full,” you whimper, voice cracking.

Bucky’s hands slide to your hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “That’s it, take every inch. Feel me splitting you open? This cock’s gonna ruin you for anyone else.” He thrusts up gently, making you gasp. “Bounce for me, doll. Ride me like you mean it.”

You start moving, tentative at first, lifting and dropping, the wet schlick of your pussy swallowing him filling the room. Your tits jiggle with every motion, nipples hard and aching.

Steve stands on the bed in front of you, feeding you his cock again, hot, salty, slick with your earlier release. “Suck me while you fuck him,” he growls. “Show us how greedy this mouth is.”

You take him deep, gagging as Bucky’s cock hits that spot inside you with every bounce. The dual fullness, Bucky stretching your pussy, Steve filling your throat, makes your head spin.

Bucky’s hands guide your hips faster, the slap of your ass against his thighs loud and obscene. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans. “Riding my dick like a goddamn porn star. This pussy’s gripping me so tight, gonna make you squirt again.”

Steve’s fingers tangle in your hair, guiding your mouth. “That’s it, baby. Choke on my cock while he fucks you senseless. You’re ours now, every hole, every drop.”

Bucky’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in tight, filthy circles. “Come on, doll,” he pants. “Squirt all over me. Soak this cock, let me feel it.” The pressure builds fast, too fast, your walls clenching, thighs trembling.

You pull off Steve’s cock with a gasp, screaming as you come, a hot gush of wetness spraying out around Bucky’s cock, soaking his abs, the sheets, your thighs. The sensation is overwhelming, your vision blurring with tears.

“Fuck, yes!” Bucky roars, thrusting up hard, chasing his release. “That’s my girl, squirt for me, drown my dick.” He slams in deep, hips stuttering, filling the condom with a broken groan. “Holy shit, doll. Perfect.”

Steve pulls you off Bucky gently, your legs shaking too hard to hold you. He lays you on your back, spreading your thighs wide, your pussy swollen, glistening, dripping with your own release. “One more,” he says, voice soft but wrecked. “Gonna fuck you till you can’t walk.”

He slides in slow, the glide easy from how soaked you are, condom slick with you. He fucks you slow at first, then harder, the headboard knocking against the wall.

Bucky kneels beside you, kissing you deep, tongue lazy, tasting you. His fingers pinch your nipples, rolling them until you’re sobbing from overstimulation. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “Taking us both like a champ. This pussy’s ours now.”

Steve’s thumb finds your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. “Come with me, sweetheart,” he rasps. “One more time. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You do, shattering, walls pulsing, another gush of wetness soaking him. He follows with a broken groan, hips stuttering, collapsing over you, hot, heavy, panting.

Steve ties off the condom with a practiced flick, the latex snapping sharp before he knots it and tosses it into the trash under the desk, thunk. He’s already reaching for another foil packet, the crinkle loud in the quiet room, and drops it on the nightstand like a loaded promise.

His chest rises and falls hard, sweat gleaming on the cut lines of muscle, blond hair plastered to his forehead in damp strands. He looks wrecked and reverent all at once.

He leans over you, lips brushing your temple, breath scorching. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice raw with wonder. “You took us both like you were made for it. So fucking proud of you.”

Bucky slips from the bed, bare ass flexing as he pads to the mini-fridge. The carpet is soft under his feet; the door creaks, cold air spilling out and raising goosebumps across your thighs.

He grabs a water bottle, twists the cap and takes a long swallow, throat working, then offers it to you. Condensation drips onto your chest, icy against fevered skin; your nipples tighten instantly.

“Drink, doll,” he murmurs, rough but gentle.

You sip, throat scraped raw, a little water slipping down your chin. Steve takes the bottle next, drinks deep, passes it back. They move like they’ve done this a hundred times, wordless, whipped, eyes never leaving you.

Bucky disappears into the bathroom, comes back with a warm washcloth steaming faintly of eucalyptus. He kneels between your shaky thighs, spreads them with careful hands, and wipes you clean in slow, worshipful strokes. The cloth glides over your swollen folds, your tender clit, the sticky mess on your inner thighs. Every pass is soft, soothing, filthy in its intimacy.

Then he pauses, smirks, and picks up your glasses from the nightstand. One lens is streaked with a cloudy smear, your squirt, dried in a perfect arc.

“Well, shit,” Bucky drawls, holding them to the light. “Look what our little genius did to her own glasses.”

Steve leans in, grin slow and wicked. “Fuck. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You squeak, an actual, mortified squeak and try to disappear into the pillow. Your face is on fire, ears ringing, voice barely a breath. “S-stop…”

Bucky drags his tongue across the lens in one deliberate swipe, eyes locked on yours. “Tastes like you baby,” he says, low and dirty. “Sweet, salty perfection.”

Steve groans. “Jesus Buck, you're going to kill her”

You whimper, thighs trembling, arousal and embarrassment twisting tight in your belly.

Bucky crawls up the bed, kisses your burning cheek. “Don’t hide it, baby. Own that pretty mess you made.”

Steve tugs one of his soft gray NYU tees over your head; it falls to mid-thigh, swallowing you in his scent, clean sweat and warm cotton. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder through the fabric. “You okay? That was… intense.”

You nod, dazed, voice small and hoarse. “Never felt anything like that. Perfect.”

They tuck you between them like something precious. Steve spoons you from behind, heavy arm draped over your waist, calloused thumb tracing lazy circles on your hipbone. Bucky faces you, nose brushing yours, metal fingers combing gently through your tangled hair.

“You sure we didn’t go too hard?” Bucky asks, voice velvet-rough, all earlier fire banked into something soft and worried.

You shake your head, sleepy, blissed-out. “Perfect,” you whisper again.

Steve’s mouth finds the bruise blooming on your neck, kisses it like it’s sacred. “Best tutor in the world,” he murmurs against your skin, lips dragging slow, wet. “So proud of you, baby.”

Bucky feeds you half a protein bar, chocolate peanut butter, sweet and salty. Crumbs tumble onto the sheets; Steve brushes them from your lip and licks the chocolate off his thumb, then kisses you soft and slow.

“Messy girl,” he teases, fond.

Bucky tucks the fleece blanket around your feet, fingers lingering on the lace tops of your thigh-highs. “Leaving these on?” He snaps the band lightly, grins. “Looks like you’re still ready for round two.”

You hum, too floaty to form words.

Steve’s lips brush the shell of your ear, breath hot. “Next time… we’re playing with this perfect little ass.”

Your eyes snap open.

Steve’s lips graze your ear, breath scalding. “We’ll start slow. Warm lube dripping down your thighs while you’re on your knees. I’ll spread you open, watch that pretty virgin hole flutter when the cold tip kisses it. Just the tip at first, slow circles till you’re pushing back, begging for more.”

Bucky’s fingers drift lower, tracing the curve of your ass, feather-light. “Then one finger. Just the pad, teasing, till you’re soaked and whining. Second finger scissoring slow, stretching you open while Stevie licks your clit till you see stars. By the time the plug slides home you’ll be coming so hard you fog these glasses again.”

Steve’s hand joins Bucky’s, both of them circling that tight, untouched ring with slick fingers, barely pressing, just enough to make you clench and whimper.

“Feel how greedy you already are?” Steve rasps. “Gonna train this perfect ass till it takes the plug like it was made for it. You’ll wear it to class, to the library, to every fucking tutoring session. Every time you sit down you’ll feel us owning you.”

You make a strangled sound, half panic, half desperate heat, and hide your face in Bucky’s neck. He smells like smoke and sex and safety.

Bucky chuckles, low and fond. “Shy little thing. But your pussy’s dripping again, doll. You love the idea.”

Steve presses one fingertip just inside, barely breaching, enough to make you gasp and arch. “No pain,” he promises against your nape, voice soft. “Just fullness. Pleasure. Gonna make you squirt from both holes at once, baby. Want you so stuffed you can’t think straight.”

Bucky kisses your burning cheek. “And when you’re ready for the real thing? We’ll lay you just like this, one cock in your pussy, slow and deep, the other easing into your ass inch by inch till you’re sobbing from how good it feels. You’ll come so hard we’ll need new sheets. And then we’ll slide that pretty pink plug in to keep you full of us all night.”

Your whole body is trembling now, thighs slick, breath coming in tiny, overwhelmed pants. “That’s… so dirty,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Steve nips your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. “Dirty and perfect. Gonna ruin you so gently you’ll thank us for every stretch.”

You’re trembling, blushing so hard you’re dizzy, but the word slips out tiny and shaky. “M-maybe… if it’s pink… and you’re gentle…”

They both groan, wrecked.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, kissing you deep and slow. “Gonna ruin us both.”

Steve presses closer, lips on your neck, voice a vow. “Worth it.”

You drift, floating in the cage of their arms, heartbeat steady against Steve’s chest, Bucky’s fingers laced with yours. The room smells like sex and eucalyptus and them.

Steve murmurs into your hair, so quiet you almost miss it. “Never letting her go.”

Bucky’s lips brush your temple. “Ours now. Gonna ruin her slow and sweet. Next time those glasses are getting another coat, pink plug in her ass while she comes so hard she cries.”

You sigh in your sleep, smiling, flushed, wrecked, utterly theirs.

© 𝓼𝓵𝓾𝓽𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓻 2025 (do not copy, translate or repost)

taglist: @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil @shackoflove @buckybunni

[captianspidey]

when i say i’m obsessed.

[superbassbuck]

two tickets to iron maiden

pairing: teenage dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular girl!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, banter, enemies w/ benefits, bucky bashes on trap music (sorry if you like it), pining but semi unrequited, john walker (kind of slandering him. also sorry), angst if you squint, miscommunication, fluff, semi-public sex, alcohol, jealousy, m!masturbation, soft dom!bucky, dacryphilia, degradation, dirty talking, pet names: "pretty princess" "angel"

word count: 11.7k masterlist

a/n: getting a lot of rodrick x regina edits on the tiktok tl... so i had to whip out a fanfic inspired by that. i called bucky a teenage dirtbag but they're in college. dedicated to the biggest teenage dirtbag rodrick rules herself @54nboo. erin rules.

synopsis: You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts. That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts. You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.

Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses. Iron Maiden.

Bands that unite everyone with sick riffs and pure rock energy that still blasts through people’s headphones and car stereos to this day. Timeless. Monumental. Sensational.

You could be complete opposites with someone—hell, even sworn enemies—but there’s one thing people will always agree on, and that’s good fucking music.

And that’s exactly why Bucky can’t stand what he’s seeing right now.

Because there you are—sitting in the student union—with John fucking Walker beside you, talking your ear off about “seventeen thirty-eight,” “strip clubs,” and “trap beats.”

All telltale signs of shitty music. Music Bucky hates—and music he definitely knows you hate too.

Yet there you sat, in your cute little pink outfit, twirling a strand of hair around your finger and nodding along to every word America’s Asshole had to say.

“Buck,” Steve called, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. “Did you already submit your article for—” he glanced up mid-sentence and paused when he noticed Bucky’s glare fixated somewhere past him.

Steve’s eyes followed, glancing over his shoulder, and he let out an agitated sigh at the sight.

“So fucking stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clicking angrily at his pen.

“Buck,” Steve tried again.

Bucky sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from you. “What?”

“Stop looking at her,” Steve lectured, tapping away on his laptop. “You’ve got no chance.”

Bucky let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He’d heard that claim a hundred times from his friends, but only he knew the truth.

He did have a chance with you.

He had a chance with you that night weeks ago, when he locked eyes with you across the crowd at a house party. He remembered the night clearly. Some underground garage band was thrashing in the backyard, and he was squeezing through the crowd to find the bathroom—that’s when he saw you. All the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He never expected to find someone like you—someone who’s popular and thrives on the attention of football players—at a party like that, much less listening to music like this.

The whole concept of popularity in college was stupid. He thought that shit ended in high school, but you proved him wrong, and he hated you for it. Every man turned their head when you walked by, girls started dressing like you, and everyone scrambled for an invitation to the parties you hosted.

God, he fucking despised girls like you.

But there you were that night, stripped away from all the popularity, the tight clothes and short skirts, and the preppy makeup. You were just… a dirtbag.

Just like him.

Bucky didn’t know what came over him, but he started moving before he could think, his feet carrying him through the crowd toward you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you turned, eyes bright and wild. He said your name, and you… just stared at him.

He remembered that face clearly, a blank look that told him he was no one to you.

Of course you didn’t know his name. You were complete opposites after all.

He immediately regretted walking over to you. At that point, he wished the ground would’ve just swallowed him whole.

Just as he turned to leave, you snagged his wrist and smiled.

Then you said, “Bucky Barnes, right?”

And then that night, he took you to the bathroom, where he fucked you hard against the sink, the door, and the toilet seat—kept you full of his cock until you were a crying, moaning mess. It was the best night of his life. The sloppy sex, your voice crying his name through the music, your manicured fingernails digging into his back and gripping his hair. He could never forget it, because that night replayed in his mind every time he jerked off to the thought of you.

You exchanged numbers, and the next morning, he woke up to a text message from you that ended your guys’ story before it could even start.

👑: hey

👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?

No explanation. Bucky didn’t need one.

And like the stupid idiot he was, he let you get away.

bucky: yeah

bucky: looks bad

From there on, you were his dirty little secret.

And he was yours.

“I don’t know why that girl’s got you wrapped around her perfectly polished finger,” Steve continued, snapping Bucky back to reality. “You’ve got girls throwing themselves at you after every show, yet you can’t stop staring at her. I thought we hated girls like her?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes drifting back to you and John. “I do hate her.”

“Hate her or want to fuck her?”

Bucky shot him a sharp glare. “Steve.”

Steve chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging. “I’m just sayin’. It’s hard to tell nowadays with you.” He shut his laptop and got up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And don’t forget about the gig this—”

“This Friday,” Bucky interrupted gruffly. “I know.”

“And don’t forget to hang the posters—”

“I’ll do that right now.”

Steve grinned, ruffling Bucky’s shaggy hair before Bucky swatted his hand away. “Good boy.”

“Get out of my face, Steve.”

Once Steve was out of the way, Bucky’s eyes naturally flickered back to you. By the time he was looking, you were already staring at him—not at John Walker, but at him. You should’ve looked away, but right now, the only interesting thing in this room was Bucky. Not the blonde droning on about “sicko mode” or “mo bamba,” whatever the hell those words even meant.

And how could you possibly look away when Bucky was holding your gaze just as intensely?

But then, with an agitated sigh that you could practically hear across the union, he swiped his belongings off the table and left the room, breaking the silent staring contest.

“So anyway,” John spoke up. “Are you coming this Friday?”

You turned to him, reluctantly. “What’s happening on Friday?”

John laughed, almost disbelieving. It was very obvious from the start that you weren’t listening to him—nor did you have the intention to—yet he still stayed. John was persistent: he’d get into the skirts of any attractive, popular girl on campus, and for a football player like him, having a hot girl on his arm was simply an ego boost.

“The big game is on Friday,” he said flatly, as if you were the stupid one. “And then the frat party right after.”

“Oh,” you blinked, trying to play dumb. “Right.”

A small, almost doubtful smile tugged at his lips. “So you’re coming, right?”

You forced a smile so wide it hurt. “Of course I am.”

John let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together loud enough to make a few heads turn. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cringing.

“That’s my girl!”

My girl?

You couldn’t hold the cringe back anymore, your face scrunching up into a sour expression before you could stop it. John was too far ahead of himself to even notice. You got up suddenly, snapping John out of his little victory dance.

“I’m going back to the chapter house to study—”

“Oh!” John immediately jumped up with you. “Let me walk you back, then.”

“I can walk myself,” you said, flashing a polite smile as you pushed your chair in and made your escape before he could argue.

Behind you, you heard John gathering his things frantically, the chair squeaking as he scurried after you. “Wait!” he called out, but you continued walking, pretending not to hear him.

You pushed the door open, and just as it was about to swing shut, John slammed his hand against the frame, barely catching it as he held the door open for himself.

“Wait—hold on—”

You rolled your eyes and continued walking, but you stopped short at the sight of Bucky standing in front of the message center. He was messily pinning up posters, scattering them across the board and blatantly covering the existing ones before his. Once John caught up, he opened his mouth to speak but noticed your attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes followed yours—and then he saw Bucky.

Bucky was covering up the frat party posters John had hung up earlier today, not even trying to be sneaky or ashamed about it.

“That fucking asshole,” John muttered under his breath, already stomping angrily toward Bucky.

“John,” you reached out, trying to stop him, but it was too late. “Wait!”

“Dirtbag Barnes!” John called out, finally catching up to him. His face was twisted in an angry, unpleasant look. He scrunched up his nose, looking down at Bucky like he was trash—even though there was only about an inch difference in height.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky gave him an impassive look. “I’m putting up posters for my gig this Friday. What else?”

John scoffed. “You’re covering up my flyers for my party.”

“No one wants to go to that shit anyway.”

John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he fisted his hands at his sides. Just as he was about to raise one for a punch—leaving Bucky completely unflinching—you stepped in the middle.

“Jesus Christ, John!” you glared at him, putting your hand out defensively—a small, absurd barrier against a football player. You knew John was an asshole, but you also knew he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his spot on the team by laying a hand on a woman.

John sneered, dropping his hand reluctantly.

Bucky, meanwhile, offered him a smug, taunting grin. “Would you look at that,” he drawled. His eyes tracked you up and down slowly, before flicking back to John. “Your guardian angel, dressed in pink, here to rescue you.”

John let out a cruel, barking laugh at the comment. The taunt should have offended you, but you found yourself physically tilting your head down, trying to hide the pink flush on your cheeks as you bit back a smile, because... well…

Bucky had called you an angel!

“I don’t need ‘rescuing,’” John crossed his arms, completely oblivious to your reaction. “If anything, she was the one who saved you. If it weren’t for her, you already would’ve been doubled over on the floor with a bloodied fucking nose.”

“Great,” Bucky’s smile only grew wider. “Having a bruised nose would look sick when I perform on Friday.”

John made a face of disgust. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“And you’re a fucking asshole. What else is new?”

“Bucky,” you warned.

His shoulders deflated just slightly. John mumbled something under his breath, already half-turned away and seemingly forgetting his mission to "walk you back to the house."

“Don’t linger around that dirtbag for too long,” John scoffed. “Unless you want to start smelling like trash.”

He gave Bucky one last dirty look, then turned back to the poster board, violently ripping one of Bucky’s posters down. He crumpled it in his hands, tossed the ruined paper haphazardly at Bucky, and finally walked away.

Once John was out of sight, Bucky turned his full attention to you. You didn’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face; you could feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes.

“Hey, loser.” You teased, trying to play dumb.

“John fucking Walker,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Him, out of all people? Seriously?” He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands, slowly unfolding it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mumbled the last part—but you heard it perfectly clear.

“John and I aren’t dating—”

“Yeah?” Bucky cut you off. “Then why is he following you around like some lost fucking puppy?”

“I don’t know! He won’t leave me alone. He only keeps an arm around my shoulder because it makes him look good. It’s nothing serious,” you said defensively.

You honestly didn’t know why you’d let John hover around you like this for the past few days, or why you had done nothing to stop it. You were used to guys—especially the popular ones—flocking to you; being near you gave them an incredible ego boost. You were just an accessory, and before, you hadn’t cared. You thought the same thing of men like John. You weren’t any better.

But after meeting Bucky, after letting him touch and defile you the way he did at the house party, a deeper part of you couldn’t help but keep John slung over your shoulder just to see Bucky riled up and jealous.

“Nothing serious,” he nodded, the understanding look completely fake. “Just like the guy before? And the one before that?”

You crossed your arms. “What are you insinuating? That I’m some kind of slut?”

Bucky just grinned, playing with your reaction.

“No. Not at all, angel.” He took a step closer, his fingertips catching the ends of your hair, twirling it tauntingly in his fingers. “Because those guys haven’t had you the way I had you, is that right?”

You sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around warily. You hated how easily your body still reacted to him. You circled his wrist, prying his hand away with a shaky grip.

“Bucky,” you sighed, managing a firmer voice. “What we had weeks ago—it was a one-time thing. Someone like me would never—”

“...fuck around with a sleaze like me?” he tilted his head down at you, the look almost condescending despite the self-insult. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Truthfully, you were drawn to Bucky as powerfully as he was drawn to you. But you couldn’t date someone like him. College was about networking, surrounding yourself with upstanding people who would connect you to future success. Being around Bucky—all dark, baggy clothes, shaggy hair, stubble, and loud music—felt like a direct detour from that steady path.

Yet, you relished the way he fawned over you.

But then a colder feeling snapped you back to reality—maybe Bucky was no different from John. Maybe, by having a woman like you on his arm, he was just building his own brand of reputation, too.

That reminder alone was enough to bring you crashing back hard down to earth.

“Bucky, let’s be real,” you insisted, jutting a hip and crossing your arms to maintain confidence. “Aside from our music taste, we have nothing in common. We have no chemistry.”

You expected Bucky to be upset by that—to finally give up and retreat. But Bucky, unpredictable as always, only smiled wider. He leaned in, his warm, low breath feathering against your ear.

“Oh, princess,” he cooed, his voice low and raspy. “You didn’t even know what chemistry was until you met me.”

Your face immediately warmed with sudden heat. You couldn’t understand how Bucky—a guy who managed to set most people off with an unintentional string of words and only hung out with the same three people—could make you melt with such a simple phrase.

“Th-that’s…” you cleared your throat, already turning halfway, “…so unbelievably corny.”

Bucky chuckled behind you, but before you could take three full steps, he called your name.

Like an idiot, you stopped and turned back around.

“Can you make it this Friday?” he asked, and suddenly he didn’t sound so confident. His brow furrowed just slightly, and his shoulders slumped a little with genuine appeal.

“To your gig?” you frowned.

He nodded, handing you the crumpled, unfolded paper of his flyer. You glanced down at it; in big, bold black letters, “CIVIL WAR” was written in the center in a messy grunge, edgy style.

Bucky pressed his lips together, already knowing what you were thinking. John had his football game and the frat party on the same night. And one thing Bucky knew about you was that you never skipped out on a party.

He glanced at John’s remaining poster on the message board, then back at you.

“Come on. Just skip a party for one night and come watch me play instead,” he pleaded. “Listen to actual good music. Not that… trap shit Walker was going on about.” He motioned lazily with his hand toward John’s poster.

“I won’t go,” you said flatly. But despite your words, you folded the crumpled paper neatly and tucked it into your shoulder bag.

He smiled as he watched you. “That’s a shame. I want to see my pretty girl in pink cheering my name in the crowd.”

You felt like the breath got knocked out of your lungs. When John Walker called you his girl just a few minutes ago, you wanted to double over and hurl vomit all over his pristine Nikes. But hearing Bucky call you his girl—his pretty girl—made you want to drop everything and run into his arms.

But instead, you inhaled a steady breath and turned on your heel. “I’m not going to that dump just to watch mediocre playing,” you shouted over your shoulder.

Bucky just barked a laugh behind you—a sound that couldn’t help but make a smile tug reluctantly at your lips.

“Alright. I’ll see you there, princess.”

It was Wednesday night, and Bucky was practicing drums in his garage with the rest of Civil War: Steve on lead guitar and vocals, Sam on backup guitar and vocals, and Natasha on bass.

Mid-song, Nat stilled her fingers on the strings and shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Steve, are you getting sick? You sound off.”

Steve turned from the microphone and gave Nat a look. “I’ve been singing for two hours straight. Of course, I sound off.”

“Amateur,” Bucky coughed behind his fist.

Sam and Nat chuckled until Steve turned and gave them all a dirty look that silenced them. “Shut the hell up, Buck. You’re drumming off-beat too, and it’s throwing the rest of us off.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “That’s impossible. I’m the drummer, so technically, you all have to follow me.”

Sam scrunched his face. “That’s not how it works.”

“Whatever,” Nat cut in, already lifting the strap of her bass over her head. “Let’s all take five,” she said, pointing a finger at Steve. “Go drink some water.”

As everyone scattered, their idle chatter filling the garage, Bucky’s thoughts raced back to you. He’d sounded so confident when he said, “I’ll see you there,” but in reality, he wasn’t confident at all. He knew girls like you were avid partygoers, and he hadn’t cared until he met you—until he had a taste, until he had marked your body and claimed it as his.

Now, the idea of you going to that party, vulnerable among assholes like John Walker, sent his blood boiling.

He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his worn jeans and opened social media. Of course, he immediately saw a bunch of stories from tonight’s party. Seriously, what was the appeal of all these parties anyway? On a Wednesday night, too. It was unbelievable, he thought, even though he was staying up way past midnight rehearsing for his own gig.

His thumb idly scrolled through stories until a particular one stopped him cold. It was a brief video of you, dancing exuberantly—and clearly drunk—to loud music. You were in your typical cute little outfit; short skirt, heels, and plenty of pink. Bucky’s jaw tightened as he replayed the clip, devouring every detail. Your skirt was riding high, giving the camera—and everyone nearby—an ample view of your legs. The way you moved, the way your body was bouncing as you danced…

It sent a thunderbolt of desire straight through his body and right to his dick.

“Alright, break time’s over,” Steve announced, tapping the microphone so the sound echoed through the garage. He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still absorbed by his phone.

“Buck. Did you hear me? I said break time’s—”

“I gotta use the bathroom,” Bucky snapped, shoving himself out of his drum seat. The cymbals clanged loudly as he bumped into them in haste.

“What? Where the hell are you going—!” Sam barked, but Bucky was already past the door.

Bucky scrambled quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. His phone shaky in his hands, he kept replaying the video of you over and over again. How badly he wanted to send you a text, to drive over there and pick you up just so he could keep you for himself. He wanted to be the only one to see you like this—not John Walker, not your stupid sorority posse of mean girls.

Just him.

His erection was pressing insistently against his boxers and jeans, and he knew he couldn’t go back out there in… such a state.

He set his phone down on the bathroom sink, unbuckling his belt quickly, pushing his jeans down along with his boxers. His cock sprang out, heavy, slapping against his lower belly—aching to be touched. He replayed the story a few more times, then shut his eyes as his eager hands went down to his dick with a low groan.

“Fuck,” he groaned to himself, tossing his head back as his mind started to fill with flashbacks of the night he had you.

He remembered you on your knees on the bathroom tile, taking him in your perfectly puckered lips that shined with a shimmery lip gloss.

“Fuck, angel…” he moaned as he balanced one hand against the wall, his forehead pressing against it as the other hand fisted his cock eagerly. His hand wasn’t nearly as soft, as warm, and as wet as your lips. But this would have to do for now.

He started rocking his hips into his hand as he remembered the way you batted your cute, long eyelashes at him. He groaned, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading pre-cum over his cockhead.

“God, baby…” he sighed. “This isn’t fucking fair—you shouldn’t be flaunting yourself at these… stu—stupid parties,” his fist moved faster, and his legs started to shake as he remembered your soft legs wrapped around his waist as he held you up and fucked you against the door.

“You should be here… w-with me, fuck, baby.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing out as his hand quickened its pace around his shaft. The more he surrendered to the filthy thoughts of you, the more his cock throbbed and jerked in his grasp.

He replaced the feel of his fist with the tight, wet warmth of your mouth. He visualized the way your tongue trailed along the heavy underside of his cock, lapping at every sensitive ridge. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurred as he focused on the floor, imagining you kneeling directly in front of him.

“Fuck… just like that, baby,” he moaned to himself, his hips moving in rhythm with his fist, as if you were taking him in your mouth.

“Gonna… fuck, gonna paint your fucking pretty face with my seed, princess.”

The imagined sounds of your moans and gasps drowned out the guitars and Steve’s singing from the next room. Your sweet voice, the way you cried his name and begged him to cum inside you—it was enough to shatter his control.

His rhythm broke, and his grip turned sloppy over his cock as he pulsed and shuddered. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna cum—” he groaned, driving a hard and final thrust into his palm, spilling himself all over his fingers.

Catching his breath, he watched his seed drip down his hand and onto the cold tiles. With a soft sigh, he reached for the toilet paper, meticulously wiping himself and the floor clean.

Bucky knew this was wrong, finding arousal in the sight of you drunk at a party and fixating on the memory of the night you shared, but he was powerless to stop.

He claimed he hated you, but the hatred wasn’t for you.

It was for the fact that he couldn’t have you. It was for the fact that you wouldn’t choose him.

Sam’s fist hammered on the bathroom door. “Bucky—what the hell are you doing in there?”

“I’m—uh,” Bucky stammered. “Taking a shit.”

“Well, hurry the hell up. Steve’s getting upset and we need to nail this song down by Friday, man.”

Bucky hauled his jeans up, his belt clanking as he swiftly buckled it into place. “Tell that punk to inhale and exhale for five and I’ll be right out.”

He couldn’t see it, but he could practically feel Sam’s eye roll from just outside the door. Sam mumbled a quiet “whatever,” and the sound of his footsteps shuffled away from the door and down the hall.

Just as Bucky reached for the lock, his phone dinged with a notification. He looked down at the screen, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

👑: bucky. can you pick me up? please?

And that was all it took.

He pocketed his phone and pushed the bathroom door open. He strode back to the garage to retrieve his jacket—instantly earning a round of “where the hell do you think you’re going?” from Sam, Steve, and Nat.

“I’ve got an emergency, just…” he motioned dismissively, “practice without me.”

They continued to argue right up until Bucky snatched his keys and stomped out the front door and into his car, but he didn’t heed their complaints—you needed him. You needed his help.

And that was the final truth Bucky hated.

He hated how effortlessly he could drop everything—no matter how important—just to answer your call.

Bucky broke every speed limit to get to you, to reach the stupid party you’d gotten caught up in. The entire drive, his mind raced with several thoughts: that you were okay, that you weren’t hurt, that one of those filthy frat boys hadn’t put their hands on you. When he pulled up to the house, you stumbled out by yourself to meet him at his car, but Bucky got out and steadied you, helping you slide into the passenger seat.

You reeked of alcohol, could barely stand, and your hair was disheveled—your makeup was a smeared mess.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he buckled your seatbelt. “You look like a fucking mess.”

“Wow,” you sighed, your elbow propped on the center console as you struggled to keep yourself upright. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”

He only rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the driver’s seat, quickly getting in so no one at the party would spot him. “You also smell like shit.”

“Oh, come on,” you pouted. “Don’t be mean to me!” you whined as you gave his shoulder a playful nudge.

Bucky glanced at you, a warmth spreading across his face as he laughed at your words. This wasn’t the first time since you two met that you had called him in the middle of the night, needing his help. And every single time, he was there for you. Without fail.

“Me? Mean to you? Never,” he teased as he put the car in drive and gently pressed his foot on the gas.

You let out a soft giggle, your face flushed pink, the sound making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes steady on the road. The speed he drove now was a complete contrast to his reckless drive to get to you. He was slower now—and despite the risk of you throwing up in his car—he took his sweet time driving you back to your house, all just so he could savor these few minutes with you.

“So…” he drawled, “… did something—”

“No. Nothing happened,” you answered immediately, already expecting the question. Every time Bucky picked you up, he always asked and made sure you were okay. “No one touched me. Well, they tried, but I didn’t let them. You know how these frat boys are.”

You looked out the window, your eyes glossy as the world outside blurred, but you caught Bucky’s reflection, and you spotted the way his jaw clenched.

“I just wanted to get out of there.”

“And the first person you thought to text was me,” he huffed a non-humorous laugh. “It’s starting to become a pattern, isn’t it?”

You, being in a drunken haze and completely oblivious to the strain in his voice, only tossed your head back and laughed.

“But you like it, don’t you? It gives you the excuse to see me,” you leaned over, poking your manicured finger at his cheek. “And I know how bad you want to see me.”

He parted his lips to say something—perhaps try to taunt you back—but the words caught in his throat. Because, despite your drunken state, the truth of your words was undeniable, and you knew it. You knew exactly how badly he wanted you, and here you were, drunk and vulnerable in his passenger seat, dangling that power right in front of him.

You noticed the grumpy look on his face and turned toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, don’t be mad, Buck,” you cooed, drawing out his name, which only made his grip on the wheel tighten. “You always look so serious when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot, actually.”

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” you giggled, leaning closer. “You don’t like it when I say stuff like that?”

If you were sober, he would’ve slammed the car into park, dragged you to the back seat, and claimed you for himself. But he couldn’t. Instead, his temper flared with how intensely you were taunting him, knowing damn well how much he wanted you.

“I don’t like it when you drink like this,” he shot back. “Or when you go to parties where you know those idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s self-sabotage.”

You pouted, the sound of it almost childlike. “You worry too much.”

“Someone has to,” he said with a scoff. “The Barbie and Ken dolls that you love to surround yourself with don’t seem to. That’s why you keep calling me instead—because no one else will.”

Your smile faltered.

His words struck you hard. Painful as they were, they rang true—a truth you never wanted to admit. You surrounded yourself with people like John Walker, who only cared about social status and appearances, always looking out for themselves and themselves only.

Bucky was genuinely the only person who looked out for you.

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms defensively over your chest, and turned your gaze back to the window. “Can you hurry up and take me home?” you said, your voice so painfully soft it was barely audible. “I feel sick.”

Bucky sighed, immediately regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Look, I just…” he pressed his lips together, struggling to find words that wouldn’t upset you further. “I worry, okay? You call me because you know I’ll show up. And I do, every time—”

“Yeah. You show up. Then you remind me why you shouldn’t have.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration building in his chest. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is what you said.”

A tense silence settled in the car again. He wanted to apologize, to tell you exactly how he felt every time he came to pick you up in the middle of the night. It was always about you—about the way his stomach twisted when you called his name through slurred words, needing him, wanting him, but just never in the way he needed you to.

But he couldn’t say that. Not when you were sitting there looking so small, so hurt.

So instead, he muttered, “Did you have anything to eat?”

You blinked, your eyes hazy as you looked back at him. “What?”

“You need to eat. You can’t drink on an empty stomach.”

“I haven’t,” you said, frowning. “I’m not hungry.”

Bucky flicked his turn signal on. Instead of turning right toward your sorority, he turned left, heading elsewhere. “We’ll stop by a gas station and pick you up something to eat.”

You scrunched your face, your nose wrinkling. “A gas station? That’s all greasy, processed food. I’m not messing up my diet.”

He huffed a laugh, trying to keep things light. “You just shot back a couple of tequilas and now you’re worried about your diet? A chili hotdog for one night isn’t going to ruin you.”

Each protest and whine went in Bucky’s ear and out the other. Once he pulled into the gas station’s parking lot, you sat reluctantly, arms crossed. Bucky laughed at your resistance, unbuckled your seatbelt, and hauled you up in one swift, steady motion. You collided into his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you steady against him.

At this point, you weren’t drunk enough to be stumbling over yourself anymore, but you weren’t about to push yourself away from Bucky’s arms. He led you toward the hot food section, and your nose was immediately hit with the smell of the rotating hotdogs.

You made a sour face. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to feed me that.”

He grinned, already grabbing a bun and splitting it open. He grabbed a hotdog—still slick with juices—and slapped it onto the bun. He started loading it with chili from the dispenser, the machine sputtering and making strange noises as it poured its goopy contents, nearly overflowing.

“That looks disgusting.”

He only laughed as he started piling on shredded cheese that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, followed by diced onions and a drizzle of mustard.

He turned to you and held it up. “There. Five-star dining.”

You blinked down at the hotdog, not even hiding the disapproving look on your face.

When you didn’t move, he let out a low sigh and gently took your hand, guiding the hotdog towards you. “C’mon. Just one bite.”

The warmth of his hand pressed against yours, and for a second, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the contact. You stared at him—the faint smirk on the corners of his lips, the messy hair falling into his eyes—and was that eyeliner?

With a hesitant sigh, you took a bite. Immediately, your face twisted, but you didn’t stop chewing. “Oh my god, that’s so bad.”

He laughed—a real one this time, soft and deep. “You’re a goddamn liar. You love it.”

He turned to make his own hotdog, and you couldn’t help the smile twisting at your lips as you watched him. At the party, there was no one else like him. There was no one with baggy and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, or shaggy hair who wore eyeliner. You watched his hands as they got to work on the hotdog. His hands were calloused—not because he worked out frequently or obsessed over sports. His hands were rough because of his constant drumming.

And for some reason, that fact made your body warm.

After he paid for the hotdogs, he led you back outside where you two sat in his car, Iron Maiden playing on his speakers at a low volume—music they would never play at the parties you go to, and music you secretly enjoyed.

He had his seat reclined back, arms draped behind him as he ate his hotdog. The both of you sat in comfortable silence—aside from the music playing—as you looked out at the ongoing traffic, the lights and cars zooming past each other.

“I fuckin’ love this song,” Bucky said, turning The Trooper up. “The band and I have been trying to learn it—but Steve can’t even get the beginning riff right.” He shook his head, taking another bite.

“I’m sure Steve’s trying his best,” you casually took a bite. “He’s probably just rushing the gallops.”

Bucky paused mid-bite, turning to you with a surprised look on his face. “Look at that,” he grinned, leaning over and ruffling your hair. “You know what gallops are—how cute.” He finished his hotdog, crumpling up the wrapping paper.

“Sooner or later you’re going to be wearin’ black eyeliner and replace Steve as the lead guitarist in my band.”

“God—no,” you scoffed lightly. “I would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing sloppy dark make up around my eyes.”

He gave you a look. “You’re sayin’ my eye make up is sloppy?”

A small, smug smile tugged at your lips. “I’m saying you could do a better job,” you motioned to beneath your eyes, “at blending it in.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

You crumpled up the wrapper of your hotdog and tossed it somewhere in the backseat. Leaning down, you rummaged through your pink handbag and pulled out a black eyeliner pencil.

“Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it, yet you have an eyeliner pencil in your purse?”

“Shut up,” you mumbled.

You crawled over the center console, squeezing and wiggling your way into the tight space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, nestling yourself onto his lap. Bucky’s body suddenly felt so warm, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he prayed you couldn’t hear it.

He also prayed that you couldn’t feel his hardening erection.

“Okay,” he tried to say casually, but he couldn’t help but feel giddy.

He went still as your hand came up, your thumb resting just beneath his eye. The car suddenly felt so small—so suffocating. You leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your expensive perfume—the exact one he smelt that night he had you.

You were close, so fucking close.

All he had to do was lean in and kiss you.

He let out a shaky exhale, and you furrowed your brow slightly.

“Your hair’s in the way,” you said, your soft hand running through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.

He was so starved for your attention and touch, that the gentle graze alone, the suffocating proximity, your smell, your voice—it was all enough to make his cock unbearably hard. And he knew you could feel it now too; every exhale you let out was shaky, and your hands were trembling just slightly. He was confident you felt the same tension he did when your eyes flickered down to his lips just briefly before looking back up.

Bucky cleared his throat, his hands subconsciously finding your hips and holding you in place. “How are you feeling?”

You paused. “Better now,” you slowly retreated your hand. “Head hurts a little. But I mostly just feel exhausted.”

He nodded. “We should take you home—”

“Wait,” you pulled out your phone, opening the camera app and flicking it to the front camera. “Look. It looks way better, doesn’t it?”

He paused, taking your phone and looking at himself carefully. He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does. You know—” he handed your phone back to you, “you should be my makeup artist for my gigs. You’re coming to my show on Friday, right? You can do my makeup then.”

You rolled your eyes. “You want me to be both your makeup artist and your cheerleader? For free?”

His hand couldn’t help but wander to your backside, more instinct than intentional, really. But you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer to him.

“Come on, just show up for me. I show up for you all the time, don’t I?” his eyes flickered down to your top. “I could even make you a band shirt, and I’ll have it designed all pink and pretty instead of black—just for you. What do you say?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not showing up to your gig, Buck.”

He smiled back, a little crooked. “Whatever you say, princess.”

You two stared at each other for a moment, neither pulling away. The Iron Maiden track and the sounds of the street began to die down; it was well past two a.m. in an empty parking lot, quiet and dark, leaving the two of you alone in that confined, tense space.

Bucky felt his heart hammering against his ribs. If he could freeze time, he would stop it right here. It was just the two of you—you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beat-up car, his favorite band faintly playing. It was perfect. All that was left to do was kiss you.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbled so quietly it was more for himself than for you.

His face immediately burned when he saw the mischievous glint in your eye and the curl of your lips.

You leaned in closer, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing—taunting. “Am I?”

He shuddered. “The prettiest girl I have ever seen.”

You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, making Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space between you and pressed your lips against his.

His body melted instantly at your touch, as if he’d been anticipating this very moment, and he let out a low groan as his fingers slid into the strands of your hair, his grip tightening just enough to hold you still against him as his lips explored yours hungrily.

You felt him push his tongue past your lips, exploring frantically, tasting you as much as he could—his body moving in a way that was filled with desperation, yet still savoring the moment. He kept kissing you until you were both out of breath. He pulled away, his hand still tangled in your hair, not wanting to let go. He sighed softly and pressed your forehead against his.

“Fuck, princess… I…” he breathed, pressing another messy kiss to your lips. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all night.”

You huffed a breathless laugh. “I know you were. I could see it in your eyes the minute you picked me up.”

He gave your hips a gentle, yet possessive squeeze as his hands moved up your thighs and around your waist. “There are so many things I want to do to you,” he managed, swallowing hard. “And it fucking kills me knowing I can’t.”

“Do things like what?” you teased, your fingers tracing the pattern of his T-shirt across his chest.

His jaw went slightly slack. He watched your fingers graze his clothed chest, breathing hard. “Like… lift up this tiny skirt,” he muttered, his hand playing with the hem of your miniskirt, “push your panties to the side, and fuck you right here on my lap.”

A small, complacent smile tugged at your lips as you gave your hips a subtle roll, feeling the thick bulge of him against his jeans.

“Yeah?” you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his. “You want me to ride you? Right here, in your car?”

A deep groan rumbled from his chest as his hands shoved the hem of your skirt higher, his erection straining against his denim as he caught sight of your bare and supple thighs.

“Don’t push me, princess,” he muttered, his fingers slinking underneath your panties, gently grazing your mound. His thumb found your clit and rubbed, his fingers dipping a little deeper, and his eyes darkened once he felt how warm and wet you were.

You whimpered, your hips immediately bucking into his touch. Your heart hammered in your chest and your legs felt like jelly just from being so close. The way Bucky called you "princess" made you feel something no other man ever had. You had been called plenty of pet names before, but none of them ever came from the campus dirtbag, Bucky Barnes.

“Call me princess again,” you pleaded.

“Oh, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding behind you, squeezing your ass through your panties and pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re a princess, my fucking princess. Fuck. I worship the ground you walk on, and I want to keep you all to myself. And you know that—you know you’re my pretty little princess, don’t you?”

You nodded, biting your lip.

Bucky smiled softly at you, but every word that left his mouth was filthy. “You’re such a dirty little girl, yet you still want to be called a princess?” His hands found yours and guided your fingers down to his belt. “If you’re such a princess, why don’t you go ahead and help me out, baby? Go on. Help me out of these pants.”

Your manicured nails clinked against the buckle of his belt as you worked to remove it and unbutton his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, strong enough to hold you up, and helped you pull his cock free from the confines of his denim. He was already hard, already slick and pulsing—begging for your attention.

You gasped softly at the sight. You cupped him in your hands and began to pump him slowly. His hips immediately jerked, his mouth hanging open as he savored the feel of your smooth hand against his warm cock.

It had only been a few weeks since you had last seen him bare and aching for you, but it felt excruciatingly long. You watched him, mesmerized by the way his brows furrowed and his eyes kept fluttering shut under your movements. You knew he missed you just as much as you missed him.

“Does that feel good, Bucky?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.

He sighed. “So good, angel… don’t fucking stop.”

While your palm worked his dick, you slowly rocked your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your clothed pussy against his thigh and making the car shake. Bucky watched the provocative sight; the roll of your hips, the way your miniskirt rode up to your waist—now a sad excuse for a belt.

The sight alone was enough to make his cock throb in your hands.

You looked down at him, letting out soft sighs and moans to help him along. Your hand began pumping him faster and harder, the speed quickly overwhelming him. And as much as he loved the feeling of your soft hands and the sight of your pretty nail polish around his cock, he couldn’t fight his greed.

He couldn’t control the burning desire to be buried deep inside you.

“Fuck—baby,” he grunted, his hands clamping down hard on your hips suddenly. “Hold on.”

“Hold on?” you raised a mocking brow. “But you just told me not to—”

He mumbled something grumpily under his breath that you couldn’t catch, his hands coming roughly to the waistband of your panties and trying to push them down. But his movements were clumsy, urgent, and desperate—nearly tearing your expensive, lacy underwear in his grasp.

“Bucky, baby—wait! You’re going to rip them. They’re my favorite pair—”

He groaned as he tore angrily at your panties, ripping a hole right in the center to expose your wet slit. You let out a sharp gasp at the sudden roughness, but his frenzied need for you sent butterflies to your stomach and made your core clench with anticipation.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, though he didn’t sound sincere at all. His hand found the base of his shaft, already positioning the tip toward your wet entrance. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help myself around you, pretty princess. Especially not when you’re right here…” his tip caught your entrance, slowly pushing in—testing you, “…sitting so pretty in my lap, just asking to be ruined.”

Your hands steadied on his shoulders, your hips instinctively pulling away, intimidated by the size you haven’t had in weeks. “Bucky…”

“Don’t shy away now, baby,” he grunted, guiding your hips down. He slowly sank you deeper onto him.

You tossed your head back, gripping his shoulders tighter as he guided you down onto his lap. Your walls were warm as they fluttered around him, clenching down as you took him in slowly but eagerly.

“Fuck, princess…” he moaned, eyes locking onto yours. “You remember how to take me?”

“Of course I do,” you said, trying to maintain confidence. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss. “How can I not after the way you fucked me in the bathroom—oh!”

Your words were cut off by a sharp moan as Bucky rutted his hips up, his cock completely sheathing inside you in one hard motion. You shook in his lap at the rough thrust, and Bucky’s arms immediately hooked behind you, wrapping you tight against his chest as your face remained snuggled in the crook of his neck.

“Fuuck,” he moaned into your hair. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?” another hard thrust up, but his arms held you steady against him so you wouldn’t jolt again. “I bet your pretty little pussy missed me so much, is that right?”

“Yes!” you moaned into his neck. “I missed you so much, Bucky—”

“Yeah? You missed me?” he groaned, one of his hands tangling into your hair.

You yelped as he gave your hair a harsh tug, pulling your face away from his neck so you were forced to look at him. He held you absolutely still as he continued rutting up into you, his cock fucking you hard and deep. His tight grip on your body immobilized you, forcing you to take every inch of his relentless thrusts.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I missed you s-so… so much. God, I missed you so much, Bucky!” you moaned, your neck slightly arched as you looked down at him.

A low, seductive sound rumbled from his throat, and he smiled—a nearly sneering grin. “Goddamn, you’re so cute when you tell me that,” he growled as his hips continued to pound into you, setting the driver’s seat creaking and the whole car shaking.

“I missed you too, princess. I missed you so much—your body... the way it’s pressed against mine... fuck, I missed holding you close—” he rushed out, staring at you with lustful, hazy eyes. “Now, tell me how good I’m fucking you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel—how no one else can fuck you as good as I can.”

Despite being trapped in his arms, you rocked your hips in time with his thrust, desperate for more friction.

“You’re fucking m-me… so good, Bucky. Oh my god, don’t stop—!”

“Now, will you tell me how no one else can fuck you as good as I can?” His voice turned soft and pleading, yet every word felt rough and demanding. “Tell me that I’m the only one for you—that I belong to you and you belong to me. God, please. Will you make me the happiest boy and tell me that, princess? Please?”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as he pounded upward into you. You clung to his shoulders even tighter, your walls fluttering and clenching down on him as he only fucked you deeper; your chest pressed tightly against his with the force of his hold.

“I-I belong to you, Bucky. I only belong… to you!” you moaned, your voice pitching into a whine. “I’m yours, all yours—”

“Goddamn, you moan so pretty, baby,” he said softly.

A soft laugh left his lips as his thumb came up to wipe your tears, smearing your mascara and eyeliner. You felt his cock throb inside you at the sight—teary-eyed, mascara running, and eye makeup everywhere.

“Look at you, princess,” he breathed. His eyes were soft and admiring, but his thrusts were anything but. “You’re a crying little mess on my cock. And your makeup…” His fingers grazed beneath your eye, then gently pushed messy strands of hair away from your face. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. I want to keep you like this, a crying mess on my lap forever.”

Every sense was overwhelmed—the sharp scent of his cologne, his lustful, hungry gaze, the contrast of his gentle hands against his brutal thrusts, the soft sweetness of his voice delivering filthy words. You tightened around him, nearly coming undone.

Bucky groaned, driving another hard thrust as he felt you clench around him. “Fuck, baby, are you gonna cum?” his hands wandered back down, gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you. “Shit, princess. I’m gonna cum too—”

You couldn’t contain yourself. Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, you whined and moaned like a desperate slut as he drove you to release.

“Bucky!” you cried out his name, shaking and trembling in his lap as your climax hit you hard and fast. “I’m cumming—fuck—h-hold me—”

He cooed softly into your ear, his arms never losing their grip. “I’ve got you, baby. That’s it. Cum all over me, baby. Fuck—I’m gonna cum too—”

His words died in his throat as he tucked his face into your neck. Melting into one, you were impossibly close as he gave one final, hard rock of his hips upward, burying himself completely deep inside you. His cum filled you—warm and thick.

“My god, princess—you’re fucking... takin’ everything inside—shit...” he babbled, his hands wandering greedily and desperately all over you. Your waist, your thighs, your back, your hair. Everywhere.

Both of you were left panting in the driver’s seat, his body warm as he held you close. You kept your face buried in the comfort of his neck while he pressed soft kisses to your head. His arms now loosened their hold, his fingers grazing lazily—and lovingly—up and down your spine.

A soft smile curled at your lips. You loved this. You loved being nestled in his lap, held close after the nasty, filthy love he’d made to you. You loved the safety you felt in his arms—a feeling no one else could ever give you.

And in this moment, tangled up in each other’s grasp, you never wanted to leave.

“That was…” you panted, “really, really good—”

“Come to my show on Friday.”

“Bucky,” you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, keeping your voice light with a soft, tired laugh. “I told you. I can’t—”

“Please,” he pleaded, his voice breathless. “There’s nothing that I want more than seeing my pretty girl in the crowd, cheering me on.”

You bit your lip, hesitant. When he looked at you like that, it made saying no feel impossible.

“Would your band even want someone like me in the crowd?” you asked quietly. “Your friends make fun of girls like me.”

He sat up straighter, as if sensing your slow agreement, and you nearly tumbled out of his lap before he held you still.

“Come on, think about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “How good I’d look with my arm around you. Everyone would be talking about us. The band would start getting recognized, and you—” he paused, his thumb brushing your waist, “you could finally stop pretending. Listen to whatever music you want. Do whatever the hell you want…”

Bucky kept talking, but the only words that stuck were “how cool I’d look with my arm around your shoulder,” “everyone talking about us,” “my band will start getting recognized.”

It hit you like a punch to the gut—the very fear you’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface. He didn’t want you. He wanted what came with you. The attention. The status. The boost.

He wasn’t any different from John Walker—except this time, you had actually slept with him.

He kept rambling, excitement spilling from his mouth, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Without saying a thing, you slid off his lap, tugged your skirt back into place, and crawled over to the passenger seat.

Bucky blinked, his confusion clearly visible at your sudden withdrawal.

“Take me home,” you mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes back into place.

He frowned, reaching a hand toward you. “Hey—”

“I said take me home,” you bit back, your glare suddenly harsh. “I want to fucking go home.”

His brows rose at your sudden change in tone. “Did I say something—”

“I told you to take me home, Bucky!” you yelled—practically screamed—loud enough that it made him recoil in the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pick me up, and we shouldn’t have done this.” You motioned a finger between the two of you. “I’m not going to your gig. A girl like me should never be caught with a loser like you, anyway.”

You had to turn back to face the window, because the hurt on Bucky’s face would have otherwise crumbled you to pieces. But you needed to put yourself first. You were tired of being an accessory for men.

“Jesus,” he mumbled, adjusting his seat and quickly putting the car into drive. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”

The drive home was silent. Bucky kept stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you refused to look back—staring hard out the window, putting miles of distance between you even as you sat side by side.

It was obvious he had more to say, but the words never came.

It was Thursday afternoon.

Bucky hadn’t seen you since the moment he dropped you off. He kept replaying every second of that night in his head—the look on your face when you begged him to take you home, the crack in your voice when you called him a loser. He tried to go back to his usual routine, attempting to drown out every thought of you with band practices, loud drums, and hanging out with his bandmates.

But it was no use.

Tomorrow night, he had his gig. And you had your party.

Maybe that’s how things were supposed to be in the end. He was the dirtbag loser in his corner of loud music, instruments, and dark clothes. And you were the pretty princess on your throne, surrounded by mean girls and boys who only cared about their own backs.

Maybe this was exactly where the two of you belonged.

But as he walked into the student union to hang up a few last-minute posters for his gig, he saw you.

Same corner table. Same group of people. You were laughing as if nothing between you and Bucky had ever happened. John Walker was sitting right beside you, leaning close, whispering something in your ear that made you smile wider.

Bucky stopped in his tracks, the posters clutched in his hand. For a moment, he thought about walking over there—just to say something, anything. Even if it meant a public humiliation ritual in front of your posse. But the look on your face told him he didn’t belong to you anymore.

He crumbled the papers in his hands and turned the other way.

It was Thursday night, the night before his gig. He lay in bed, the screen lighting up his tired eyes. He typed and deleted the same messages over and over.

bucky: can we talk?

bucky: i’m sorry

bucky: i miss you

Then, he sucked in a breath and finally found the courage to send one.

bucky: you looked happy today.

He watched the screen, his heart beating loud in his chest. A few seconds later, the message was marked Read.

And then nothing.

No reply.

Just that tiny, mocking word at the bottom of the screen—reminding him that you’d seen it. That you were choosing silence.

Bucky leaned back against the wall, the screen of his phone fading to black. He’d written a dozen crappy songs about heartbreak before, but none of them had ever felt quite like this.

Like losing someone who was still right there, just out of reach.

It was Friday morning.

Bucky’s gig was later that night, and the campus was already bustling with energy for the football game. Across the square, he spotted you—surrounded by your friends, all dressed in pink and laughing. It was ridiculous how much they all took after you, trying to be you.

In his hand, he clutched a small pink gift bag. He had spent half the week working up the nerve to bring it to you, the other half designing what was inside—his band’s shirt, but re-imagined just for you. Soft pink cotton, delicate script instead of bold print, a design that looked more like something you’d actually wear.

You hadn’t spoken since that night. But he couldn’t let today go by without trying.

He crossed the quad, his worn Converse crunching over the gravel. Your friends noticed him first—a few stifled laughs, some whispered comments he tried hard to ignore. One of them even elbowed you just before he reached your group.

He stopped in front of you, the gift bag dangling awkwardly from his hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.

You blinked. “Hey,” you drawled awkwardly, acting as if he wasn’t speaking directly to you.

“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, then held the bag out toward you. “This is for you.”

Your friends exchanged looks, trying and failing to hide their amusement. One of them muttered something under her breath that made the others snicker, but Bucky didn’t care. His eyes stayed on you, earnest and pleading.

“I made it,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”

You stared at the pink tissue paper peeking out from the top of the bag, then back at him. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his denim jacket slightly frayed at the cuffs. But he looked sincere.

With a nervous hand, you reached into the bag and pulled out the shirt. The hoops of the bag dangled on your arms as you spread the fabric wide.

Your eyes widened.

He had made you a shirt, just like he said he would.

“Bucky, I—”

Before you could finish, one of the girls spoke up behind you, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Aww, that’s so cute. He made you a band shirt?”

Laughter rippled through the group, but you weren’t laughing. Your eyes stayed on him.

“Civil War?” one of them scoffed. “Never heard of ’em.”

“They’re probably not that good.”

All their words sounded like a blur to you. You tuned them out completely, focusing only on Bucky, who was the only thing in front of you.

Every word those girls spoke hit him hard, but he tried to hide it. As if sensing your guilt, his jaw tightened. But he didn’t move.

“It’s fine,” he said under his breath, offering you a small, crooked smile that was supposed to be reassuring—it wasn’t. “I just... wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry.”

But before you could say anything else, Bucky gave you a small, dismissive nod and turned away. You watched him go, the gift bag still dangling uselessly from your wrist. His broad shoulders—slumped in defeat—disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the square.

And behind you, the girls were still laughing obnoxiously.

“Oh my god,” one of them giggled. “Did you see his jacket? Does he smoke or something? I swear, I smelled cigarettes.”

“And that shirt,” another snorted, gesturing at the one still clutched in your hands. “Did he print that in his mom’s basement or something?”

“Please,” someone added, “I can only imagine the kind of songs he wrote for you. That’s so creepy—”

You turned sharply, the sound of your heels cutting through their laughter.

“You done?” you asked, your voice calm in that terrifying, icy way that threw every single one of them off guard.

They exchanged awkward glances. “We were just—”

“No, really,” you interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Please, finish. I want to make sure I hear every single shallow, brainless thing that comes out of your bitchy mouths.”

One girl stammered. “E-excuse me—”

You took a step closer, the pink shirt still balled in your fist. “You sit here pretending you’re better than everyone because you wear pink and flirt with mediocre football players who can barely spell your names,” you sneered, almost laughing in their faces. “But in reality—all of you whores are a herd of sheep who just can’t seem to stop copying me and wanting to be me—”

One girl tried to laugh it off. “God, what’s your problem—”

“My problem?” you cut in, flashing a perfect, pristine smile. “My problem is that I’ve spent way too long pretending you’re all my friends when really, you’re just discount versions of me with worse hair and cheaper shoes.”

The group went silent.

You didn’t bother wasting another breath on them.

Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the pavement as you disappeared into the crowd.

It was Friday night.

The air of Thunderbolt’s Bar, the kind of off-campus dive that always felt held together by duct tape and noise, was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and cheap stage smoke. The crowd was better than usual—shoulder-to-shoulder, the low sounds of conversation punctuated by the clink of bottles and the occasional cheer from someone already half-drunk.

Backstage, Bucky sat on an old amp case, his knee bobbing—a nervous habit—as he twirled a drumstick in his hands.

Steve was pacing, hyped as always before a set. “Place is packed, man. It’s gonna be a good night.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the heavy curtain that separated them from the crowd.

He stood, shoving his drumsticks into his back pockets. He wiped his palms on his jeans and peeked through a slit in the curtain for what had to be the tenth time. The front row was full—faces he recognized from campus, people holding drinks, heads bobbing to the warm-up playlist blasting from the speakers.

But not your face.

“Hey,” Sam called, tuning his guitar. “You good, Buck?”

Bucky forced a smile. “Peachy.”

But his stomach twisted as he looked out one last time. He’d imagined you there all week—standing in the crowd in that pink shirt he made for you, smiling at him like you used to. He had hoped, maybe, you’d show up after all.

Yet, after that night in his car, and after the poor choice of words he had strung together, why would you come to a dump like this for him?

You called him a loser. You told him that a girl like you should never be seen with a guy like him. You had stood there while your friends laughed at him.

And yet, deep down, Bucky knew you didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.

What you two had—it was different. It wasn’t just some party fling or a drunken mistake. It was late-night drives at two in the morning, listening to Iron Maiden in his car and making love. It was greasy chili dogs. It was smudged eyeliner and band shirts.

He wouldn’t call it love. He wasn’t stupid. Love was too heavy, too final a word for what you two shared. But he cared for you—God, he cared for you so bad it hurt. It sat heavy in his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how big the status quo was or how hard he played his drums.

And he knew you cared for him too, even if you tried to hide it behind the perfect hair, the designer purses, and the flawless smile you put on for everyone else. He’d seen you without all of that—barefaced, soft, and real. The kind of real that made him forget to breathe.

He cared for you so much that maybe it was love.

He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“Barnes,” Nat called, slipping her bass strap over her shoulder. “We’re on. You ready?”

Bucky forced a nod, his chest tight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The stage lights dimmed, and the peaceful hum of the crowd turned into eager whispers. He followed Nat and Steve through the side curtain, the heat of the stage lights hitting him hard. The noise was instant—cheers, laughter, clinking bottles, the pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the bar’s floorboards.

Steve was the first to step up to the mic, flashing his trademark grin. “Alright, you beautiful people,” he called out, his voice amplified through the speakers. “We’re Civil War, and we’re about to make your Friday night a hell of a lot louder!”

The crowd erupted. Steve was a great lead; he always knew how to hype them up.

Bucky settled onto his seat behind the drums, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers tightened around his sticks, the familiar feel of the wood trying to calm him. He looked up, scanning the sea of faces under the flashing pink and blue lights—people pressed against the stage, heads bobbing, phones raised.

He wasn’t looking for fans. He was looking for you.

He knew you wouldn’t come. You said you wouldn’t. He told himself he didn’t care. But the ache in his chest betrayed him, growing sharper with every passing second he couldn’t find you.

As Steve started strumming the opening riff, the sound Bucky had complained about all week, his gaze swept over the crowd. A sea of faces blurred together; sweatshirts, hats, flashing phones—none of them were you.

Until he saw pink.

There, near the middle of the crowd.

You stood out like you always did—soft, glowing, completely out of place and yet exactly where you should have been. You were wearing his shirt, the one he’d made just for you, the one your friends had laughed at. The pink fabric stood out sharply against the black sea of band tees and denim jackets, and somehow, you made it look like the most beautiful thing in the room.

And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.

Your eyes met his across the stage. A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. And from there on, Bucky knew what this was.

This was love.

You mouthed two words that hit him harder than he had hit any drum.

“Hey, loser.”

THANK YOU FOR READING!! i didn't anticipate this fic to be any more than 7k+ words but unfortunately i can't stop yapping.

but anyway. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!!! <333 it means a lot to me.

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[crybabycabin]

phantom limb | s.r.

**read touch and go here** ✮ synopsis: steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm’s length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he’s built starts crumbling.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america can’t fight.)

✮ pairing: steve rogers x soulmate!reader

✮ warnings: gunshot wound, severe blood loss, near-death experience, touch starvation/deprivation, PTSD, panic attacks, grief, hospitalization, steve's crippling self-destructive tendencies, some bone-deep yearning, angst with HEA, explicit sexual content

✮ word count: 17.2k (ur girl doesn't know how to shut up)

✮ a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble. like. idk. (I think I might like it more than 'touch and go' WHO SAID THAT)

series masterlist bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2

The first time you see Steve Rogers cry, you're not supposed to be there.

The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.

You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.

He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.

Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—

The bed. There's someone in the bed.

Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.

He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.

You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.

His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.

And Steve Rogers is crying over them.

Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.

Steve's head snaps up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.

The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.

Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.

"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.

"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."

"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.

"Really, I'm—"

"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."

You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.

"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."

"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.

He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.

"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.

"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.

"I mean it's going to—"

"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."

Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.

Finally, he reaches for your arm.

He's wearing tactical gloves.

Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.

But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.

"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—

Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.

"One."

He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.

"Two."

You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.

"Three."

The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—

His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.

"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."

You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.

"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."

You pull back, look up, and freeze.

He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.

His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.

Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.

The air between you goes electric.

His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—

He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.

"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.

He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"He's lucky."

Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.

"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."

When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."

He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.

"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.

"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"

An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"

Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.

"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."

You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.

And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.

You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.

But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—

Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.

When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.

Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.

"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."

This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.

Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.

You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.

But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.

Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.

The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.

You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.

"Agent."

Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.

You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.

"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"

Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.

He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.

"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."

Your hands still on the keyboard.

Us. 

Together. 

Run point.

"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Is that a problem?"

There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.

"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.

He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.

"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."

"I'll be there."

He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—

"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"

"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."

Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—

But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.

"Steve—"

"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."

He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.

"Why do you do that?"

He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"

"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."

His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what—"

"I'm afraid of what I want from you."

The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.

He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.

"Captain—"

"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."

Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."

He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.

"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"

"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"

"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.

I'm afraid of what I want from you.

Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.

But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.

You're getting better at lying to yourself.

But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.

0800 can't come fast enough.

The briefing room is too small.

That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.

He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.

"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.

"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.

You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.

"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."

You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.

"Extraction point?"

"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."

You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.

"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."

"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."

Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—

"Questions?"

You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."

"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."

"I'll be there."

He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.

"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."

There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.

You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?

By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.

You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.

"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.

"Always."

The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.

Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.

He pulls his leg back.

You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.

"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."

You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.

Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.

Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.

When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.

The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.

"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.

You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.

Twenty minutes to Brussels.

Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.

Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.

Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.

Three feet. Always three feet.

You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.

"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."

"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.

The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.

"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."

A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."

"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.

"Agent—"

"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."

Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."

He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.

"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."

"Let's move."

You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.

"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.

You follow him into darkness.

The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.

He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.

Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.

Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.

You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.

His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.

You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.

Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.

"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"

A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.

"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"

"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"

The explosion knocks you sideways.

Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.

"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.

"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"

"Like hell!"

But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.

You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.

Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.

"Steve?"

"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"

"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."

"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."

Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.

You run.

The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.

The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.

Trap. Definitely a trap.

But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.

Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"

The static cuts him off.

"Steve? Steve!"

Nothing.

You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.

Just silence.

You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.

He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—

"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.

The man's finger depresses the trigger.

Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—

You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—

The first shot catches you in the vest.

The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—

The second shot finds the gap.

Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—

The pain is exquisite.

White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.

Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.

Through blurring vision, you see him move.

The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this. 

This is brutality. Devastation.

Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.

That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.

Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.

"No, no, no, no—"

Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.

"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."

You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.

"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.

"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"

His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.

"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."

"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"

That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.

"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"

He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.

His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.

Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.

The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—

He rips his hand away like you've burned him.

"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"

The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.

"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"

"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"

"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"

A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.

"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"

"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.

Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.

"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"

"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"

"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"

"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"

Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.

"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"

"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”

Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.

"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"

"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"

But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—

The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."

The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.

The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.

The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.

But maybe that's why he pulled away.

Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.

Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.

The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.

The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.

Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.

Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.

The first night, you'd opened your eyes.

He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.

"I—" he'd started.

You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.

By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.

Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.

He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.

Sometimes he talks.

"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."

Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.

"I know you're awake."

Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.

"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."

You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.

"I'm being reassigned."

Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.

"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"

Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.

But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.

"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."

The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.

"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"

Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.

"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."

Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.

"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."

You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.

Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.

Tomorrow, they release you.

Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.

Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.

Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.

Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.

The first night is the worst.

You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.

Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.

The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.

You try to go back to work after a week.

Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.

"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."

You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.

The second week is when the anger arrives.

It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.

You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.

Probably not. He chose this, after all.

The third week is when you see him.

You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.

You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—

He looks like shit.

Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.

For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.

You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.

Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.

Right.

The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.

You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.

Twenty feet.

He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.

That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.

You don't send any of them.

But you keep them, just in case.

Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.

"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.

"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."

She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.

"He's not doing any better, you know."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."

"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."

"He made his choice."

"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."

"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"

"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No," she agrees. "It's not."

She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.

"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."

You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.

But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.

Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.

Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.

Maybe you're just tired, period.

The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.

Barnes.

He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.

Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.

"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.

"Yeah."

He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.

"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.

"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."

"It does, actually."

This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.

"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."

"Then why—"

"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"

"I'm on medical leave."

"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.

You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels. 

"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.

You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."

"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."

Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.

"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."

"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."

The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last. 

Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.

And you?

You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.

Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"

"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."

The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."

"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."

"And he doesn't want that."

"He wants it so much it terrifies him."

Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.

"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."

You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.

"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."

"And it worked out."

"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"

The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.

"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.

"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."

"Hopefully not all bad."

"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"

The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."

She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.

"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.

"What did you eat?"

A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."

She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."

"Seemed pretty filling to me."

"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."

"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.

Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.

Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.

And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.

Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."

"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.

"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."

They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.

He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.

But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.

Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.

With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.

You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.

Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.

Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.

Maybe especially then.

Conference Room C is empty.

You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.

Of course.

Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden. 

You're done. 

Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—

A hand wraps around your elbow.

Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.

The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.

Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—

Jesus Christ.

Steve looks destroyed. 

No, destroyed doesn't cover it. 

He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.

"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.

He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.

For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.

"Steve, what—"

He breaks.

With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—

His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.

The bond roars to life.

It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.

The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.

"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"

His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.

But he does take more.

His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.

"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."

His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.

"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."

"Steve—"

"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."

"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.

"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"

He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Steve."

"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"

"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.

He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.

"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"

His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.

Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.

"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"

His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.

"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"

"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"

"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."

"I don't care."

"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.

"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Then show me."

His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.

His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.

His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.

Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—

"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"

"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"

His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.

You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.

"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"

"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.

"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."

"You won't lose me."

It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.

"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."

"I promise."

He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.

When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."

"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.

"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."

"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.

He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.

"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."

"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."

"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.

"I'm counting on it."

He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.

"Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."

Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...

For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.

It purrs.

It fucking purrs.

Tonight. Eight o'clock.

You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.

And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.

Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"

It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.

"Bucky says—"

A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.

"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"

You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."

Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.

"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"

"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."

One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.

"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."

His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.

"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."

"But—"

"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."

His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.

"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"

"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.

"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."

"That sounds—"

"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.

"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."

"Steve—"

"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."

You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.

"Good girl."

The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.

He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.

"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."

Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.

"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."

"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.

"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.

"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"

He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.

"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."

He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.

"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."

His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."

"Steve—"

"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."

And he does.

Thoroughly.

By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.

check out the series masterlist♡

[captianspidey]

i was not prepared

[unificsation]

hold the line ☎︎₊˚ dial one for fun

series masterlist

congressman!bucky barnes x phone sex operator!reader, 3.8k

he called on a whim and ended up thawing desires long lost. you thought it was just another routine, until your body showed you otherwise. lines tangle, cross, and blur—and not just on the phone. or: congressman james buchanan barnes finds a curious business card.

🍒 SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, secret identities, power dynamics, phone sex, masturbation, sex work, workplace romance, questionable depictions of american politics (sorry)

📌 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader has hair and is able-bodied

🍷 CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: unprofessional conduct, dirty talk

💋 AUTHOR'S NOTE: phone sex is so intimidating to write guys. but if it's buns at least my graphics ate hehehe (i should stop writing atp)

fyi a tart card is a card which advertises the services of a prostitute

thank you to @houseofhyde @flockoff-featherface @blowingbarnes @juniebjonesin for reading parts of this beforehand <3

A less perceptive man would’ve missed the business card on the floor of the men’s bathroom.

It camouflages almost perfectly against the marble tiles typical of Capitol offices: cream-colored with a sort of understated opulence that shows respect for legacy and country—both increasingly hard to find in the people working in this building.

But Rep. James Buchanan Barnes of New York’s 9th district sees it.

Of course he does. He has to. The hallways in D.C. are as rife with information as underground hideouts and unsanctioned labs he once took down with bullets instead of bills. He might not do that anymore, might be wearing a different kind of suit to show up to a different kind of work, but sharp ears and even sharper eyes can’t be unlearned.

His hands are still slightly damp from washing, but he picks the thing up, metal fingers careful not to damage the delicate edges of the cardstock.

It’s elegance in ivory, with tastefully small text at its center, debossed to accentuate each letter:

call me brooklyn www.callmebrooklyn.vip

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow.

That’s the name of his district. Also the name of a woman. The implication of promiscuity lands heavy in the air, casting shadows like a sultry smile unfit for the halls of Congress.

This is a tart card. At least Bucky suspects so.

A pocket beacon for less-than-legislative favors has somehow found its way to the bathroom floor of a congressional office in Washington, D.C., probably dropped by a politician too busy thinking about Brooklyn in the middle of their work day—and not the Brooklyn he promised to take care of, too.

The fact that it has a link instead of a phone number suggests sophistication. A statement of differentiation.

This is not the kind of service peddled in run-down telephone booths or motel doors, this is something much more lethal. Precise.

A clean sniper shot, if you will.

Blue eyes stare holes into the card. In a previous life, he’d lift the prints off of this thing and run it against a database of the entire Capitol to find a match. Fifteen minutes till he’d get a name, district number, and browser history.

But what good would that do? Seventy percent of the House of Representatives have probably engaged in the services of an escort, what with lonely times at the Hill, free from the watchful eyes of spouses, insert a third excuse here. Keyword being probably—Bucky’s numbers are a rough estimate.

The remaining thirty percent are likely impeded by hip replacements, knee surgeries, and the like. Or are too repressed to even muster up the drive.

He belongs in that last bucket. Not the prosthesis—he’s got that in common with the seniors, except he doesn’t get tired—but the repression.

What once was perfect control begins to fray at the seams. He’s getting sick and tired of hearings so pointless they might as well be circles. Had enough of documents that aren’t even half as substantial as their word count.

So he pockets the card as he walks out of the bathroom and back to his office, disguising curiosity as principle, cynical what-ifs swirling in his head.

His subconscious demands an excuse to probe. Perhaps the person who dropped this card also dropped morsels in the ears of the lover they paid for. The confidential kind of morsels: government plans, state secrets. A cause for concern. A motive for action.

Bucky Barnes can’t entertain the thought of a call girl without making it national business.

He walks with purpose down the hallway, steadfast in the direction of his office, ignoring a couple of chatting aides along the way.

Twenty more minutes until the virtual meeting with the district office, a flurry of updates from the team stationed in his borough. Twenty minutes until his no-nonsense district director tears more holes into his already mauled calendar and makes him do things like get a haircut, which he did last week.

Apparently the new haircut did wonders for PR. His communications director reported a 150% increase of ‘positive public sentiment’ across all channels.

“You’re appealing to them as a figure of authority,” she said once on a Slack channel, but he knew for a fact that it translates to “people are calling you daddy.” Discovering the tabloid headlines was an accident. Reading the comments on his public social media account was a mistake. One of them said something about riding his metal arm.

Thank god he doesn’t have Twitter, and that is why.

He opens the heavy mahogany door to his office, letting it close with a soft click.

The space is modest: alabaster walls, a wooden bureau, bookcases beside the floor-to-ceiling window bleeding the room with late afternoon sunlight. The stars and stripes stand in a corner. For all his achievements, official or otherwise, he only allowed a small number of them to be displayed on the wall.

There’s a photo of the Howling Commandos. Another with him and Steve in the army.

Sighing, he discards his suit jacket on a nearby chair. Unbuttons his collar, loosens his tie, rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. Rituals of a burned-out councilman who has only been in office for a year.

Then he sits behind the desk and finds himself keying in the website on his laptop, because god forbid this little foray is part of his work computer’s digital footprint.

It’s just legwork. Making sure this link is what he thinks it is. Nothing more.

What shows up is just like the name card he found: classy and minimal. There’s no text coded in hot pink. No heavy-handed euphemisms. No gallery of naked bodies. It looks like he could accidentally flash this on a Zoom call and not a single person would bat an eye.

The background is a neutral beige that’s easy on the eyes compared to the harsh white he’s accustomed to. There’s an image of a dangling red phone in the center—the kind attached to cables. He skims through the sparse page, which is so short it’s not even scrollable.

Vague descriptions mark the screen in a serif font designed to tantalize.

Call Brooklyn for voice-only entertainment. One-on-one conversations. Tell me what you like.

There’s a little pill that says offline (leave a message). Underneath it, a Call now button.

Suspicions confirmed. Technological advancement and life improvements come hand in hand—except for whatever the fuck is up with pointless AI-generated videos these days—and that includes life improvements in the bedroom, or the steps that lead towards it.

He’s unfortunately been on Tinder. Learned of OnlyFans without his consent. Phone sex is like the eldest sibling in that line-up of services. A byproduct of a time when intimacy meant more than an eggplant emoji. When the spoken word hit harder than… whatever Hinge is doing with that audio feature Sam showed him.

So if he knows everything he needs to, why did he click on the terms and conditions?

There’s a pop-up with a wall of text, well-formatted and written in actual English, unlike most of these things. Whoever runs this sit does not play about being clear. Each bullet point emphasizes privacy: calls are encrypted, recorded only for legal pursuits should there be a reason for one, but the line is otherwise unsupervised. Brooklyn respects keeping identities confidential, including her own, and reserve the right to terminate or block a call if she finds it breached.

Shame that nobody reads T&Cs, least of all the people looking for phone sex.

He closes that pop-up and hovers over the Call now button. It highlights itself, jet black, demanding for attention.

Curiosity always kills the cat.

His ma used to chastise him with that line back in the day. Stop dreamin’ about flying automobiles and such, James. And she was right, because it’s been almost a century since she said so, and aerial highways are not a thing. Probably never going to be, unless it’s Wakanda.

That being said, he learned later in childhood that the saying was not complete.

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back.

So yes, maybe he’s starting to admit that this is curiosity. Not an investigation, or caring about code of conduct. The fire that fuels it doesn’t lie in wanting to know how this business card ended up in Congress—that’s part of it.

What leads him on is the fact that Brooklyn is doing such a good job at tempting him without showing anything at all.

He’s tried being good after the ice, after everything. No more occasional one-night stands since he took up office, and not with a call girl thereafter. It’s too risky given his identity. After everything, he’d like to feel safe, for once, and for now, his right hand is safe enough. So are videos of people rutting into each other’s bodies.

No face, all appetite.

Calling Brooklyn would be the same. What difference does it make? Just a voice and some extra dollars. Something to think about in sleepless nights. Nothing ever wrong with talking to a person—and in this case, he doesn’t even have to say a word. Silence has always been his preferred method of communication.

It doesn’t help that she’s named herself after his constituency. It had to be an alias, right? Maybe she’s from there. Maybe she grew up a couple blocks away from where he did, only lifetimes apart. Same brownstone block, different era.

That thought latches onto him like stubborn teeth. The air walks a tightrope.

What’s the worst that could happen? he thinks to himself. She’s offline.

Listening to the voice of his constituents is an important part of his job, anyway.

He clicks the button.

It leads to payment. A low price per minute, but mental math tells him she’s earning well above America’s hourly average with this little venture. He enters a burner debit card.

Then an empty form sits on the screen’s center, waiting for input.

Last step: what should I call you?

Blue eyes blink. He types a thoughtless “J” and clicks next, but not before the footsteps and chatter in the hallway past his door fade out. It almost feels juvenile, what he’s doing. In his extremely official workplace, no less.

But he’s in too deep to back out.

A phone number appears on screen. He calls it on his cellphone—again, not the work one.

Even before he presses the smooth slab against his ear, he can hear his heartbeat drumming in it. It pulses a lot faster than the calling tone.

The silences in between taunt him, the seconds running long. Ten of them pass.

Then, finally, a voice.

“Hi, you’ve reached Brooklyn. I’m sorry I missed you. Call back again soon? I’d love to talk to you.”

And god, what a voice.

It’s sweet even through the phone, syrupy and soothing with a lilt laced with just the right amount of eagerness that makes him forget this is her job. She sounds pretty. Patient. Attentive. A master weaver, dripping promises in a voicemail message, already threading the sound of that I missed you in the fabric of his mind.

What other words would she string together to make a man come undone?

His jaw clenches.

This is more dangerous than Red Room-trained honeypots. He’s already picturing a face, fleeting wisps appear and disappear as imagination constructs one to his liking, never staying long enough to ever be final. Hair he can sink his fingers into. Lips that match the sin they speak of. A waist to house his hands. The scent of flowers.

The work computer chimes with a meeting reminder. There’s a hard line in his pants.

It’s still there ten minutes into the sync with Brooklyn—the people working to make his job easier than it should be, not the one that got him hard with a five-second message.

The meeting is a round-up: status updates, green-lights, and a quick outlook all together. To say he’s distracted while someone’s going through the event calendar for October is an understatement. He stares at the grid of faces on screen, specifically at the one on the middle-right.

Your grid.

You were hired by his communications director at home base. New blood. Pretty, young, and off-limits—reasons why he can’t help but pay attention to the way you’re chewing the end of that pen, among other things. You write things down on your notebook off-screen. Wear a hair clip when you’re working from home, as opposed to a rotation of lipstick colors when you’re in the office.

He likes you. He hasn’t met you in person. Hasn’t even spoken a word to you since you joined a month ago, a passing “hello” at one of these meetings.

That’s a good thing, because then he can actually keep himself in line.

Even through a screen, you’re beautiful enough to make good men do bad things. And the public is still deciding whether him wearing Armani instead of Kevlar makes a good enough man.

“—will you draft the address? For the ribbon cutting at Flatbush.” That’s Sheryl, Communications Director, calling your name for the assignment.

Bucky watches as you smile sweetly and send a thumbs-up emoji.

Okay, so when you use it, it’s cute. When he does, he gets called an ‘unc’ by Cass.

The meeting ends. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. Another hearing and he’s done for the day.

Brooklyn’s voice from earlier slips in like silk. Missed you. Call back again soon. Vague whispers of the face, once fleeting, begin to settle.

When the smoke fades, he pictures yours, along with that innocent curl of your lips.

What transpires next is normal in a day in his life. Hearing’s dismissed. He adds things in his to-do list before going back to a barely decorated apartment near the Hill, maybe heat up some leftover pizza if he’s hungry.

And he is hungry. Just not for food.

Nothing helps: he’s tried watching the news, noting political movements—someone named Fisk is a surprise candidate for Mayor of New York. Read packets meant for tomorrow, completed a vibranium arm wash cycle on the dishwasher.

All he craves is to hear that pretty voice again. This time with a pretty face in mind.

Whiskey goes down his throat like willpower down a drain. He pours himself another glass and goes through the secret motions—the one he did in the afternoon.

Personal laptop. Burner debit card. ‘J’.

By the time he presses call, he’s already hard. This time, the call tone doesn’t last three seconds.

“Hi, J.”

There it is. The honey-sweetness of each syllable. The tone of her is different from her voicemail: breathier, lower, like she’s also sinking into a soft surface after a long day. Like she’s smiling.

“I’m sorry I missed your call earlier, but I’m so glad you’re here now.”

He doesn’t respond, frozen on the couch, breath hitching, heartbeat loud. What should he say? Should he say anything? He’s a public official, faced the camera a number of times, spoke into a mic half of those times. What if she recognizes his voice?

There’s a beat of charged silence—both literally and figuratively thanks to the per-minute fee she’s got her claws on. He thought she was going to hang up, but remembers there’s no reason to.

Why waste a paying customer?

“Are we feeling shy today? That’s okay,” she coos.He palms himself.

“Do you want me to talk to you instead? Press one if you want me to, hang up if you change your mind. No hard feelings.”

Fuck, she didn’t have to sound so understanding. And there are no hard feelings, but something else is—it just twitched in protest at the thought of ending the call.

He puts her on speaker and presses one. The phone sits on his lap.

“Thank you. I really want to know more about you, J. Are you a man? One if yes.”

He taps the number again.

She sighs. “Good boy—can I call you that? Do you like that…?”

One.

He exhales. Did she hear him?

A soft giggle on the other end of the line. Maybe she did, because the next thing she says hits as hard as a premonition.

“Wanna touch yourself for me?”

He already is. He lets her know with the phone, and as if wanting to provide proof, he loosens his belt. The metal clinks softly before a zip goes down, stern and fast.

“Mm.” A short silence. “You probably had a long day, didn’t you, J? You can relax with me.”

And then she starts stitching words together that pull a thread in his spine, making him arch. It’s gentle. Kind, even, the way she whispers things she’d like to do.

Nothing too much at the beginning. How she’d just sit on his lap and kiss his cheek, maybe try to map the lines of his face with her lips. Would he let her fingers on his body? she asks, because if so, she’d place them on his chest to point at the next place her mouth should land. She’d let him touch her too. Sink fingers into her thighs, run palms up her back, feel the weight of her on top of him…

The tumble down comes after a simple question.

“Do you like my voice, J?”

Yes.

Because then her words spell out his ruin.

“Can hear how much you do,” she murmurs, all sensuality and sin, “jerking yourself off so hard for me…”

He is, right hand pumping in earnest. Lips open, eyes half-lidded, looking blankly at the miles past the walls of reservation. A man seduced to explored perimeters of pleasure. In his mind, she’s really there, warm and willing under his hands, honeyed lips pressed against his ear. The device on his thigh becomes a hardware designed for his downfall, the heat emanating from it poorly mimicking the one her body might provide.

A rasp on the phone, breathy, fatal.

“Fuck, J—”

His first time hearing her curse.

“I’m so wet right now…”

His first time groaning out loud.

She responds with a sigh. He hates the fact that he can’t feel it across his cheek.

“Wanna grind of your cock. Make you feel how, ah,” Christ, that catch in your voice is illegal, “how soaked I am for you. Wanna put it inside, J, please—”

At that point, there’s no holding back his voice. A moan bubbles at the back of his throat, quietly begging for more without words, and then he hears it. The squelches.

She’s touching herself.

“F-feel so empty,” she whimpers, wet sounds in the background. “Want you in my mouth, in my cunt, anywhere, fuck…”

She doesn’t stop. His hand doesn’t, either.

“Gonna sink down reaaal slow for you, J. Put on a show while my pussy swallows your hard cock. Or maybe you’d tug me down by the ass and make me sit on it like a good girl?”

“Oh god, baby,” she moans. He nearly spasms at the nickname. “Need you to stuff me full… fuck me ‘til I have nothing in my head but your cock. ‘Til I can’t talk,” a breathless laugh, “too busy screaming for you.”

“You’d fuck this pussy right, won’t you? Make me ride you? See my tits bounce in your face?”

“Wanna see your cum leaking out of me, baby. Wanna feel you push all of it in again.”

Somewhere along the way, he pictures the face he saw in that meeting: you and the way you chewed on that pen. Replaces than pen with something else.

That got him. He cums, gritting a long, drawn-out “fuuuck” out from between his teeth, stars overwhelming the borders of his vision. There’s warmth. Copious amounts of it on his right hand, a speck on his neck. He pants, lost in the haze, but not so much that he doesn’t catch her whines from the phone.

“Please, want it s-so bad, gonna… ah—hngg!”

Her voice devolves into a delicious meltdown of mewls that he’s sure to dream of, reedy from a tight throat. Then she’s panting too, he can almost see her chest rising and falling in time. The giggle that escapes her sounds as if she ran away from home and into the arms of a forbidden lover.

The quiet rings loud in his ears.

He hangs up before she can breathe out something else that’ll undo him, the movement so quick it’s like he got burned.

Between roundtables with unions and lengthy briefing memos, rallying votes for veteran rights shouldn’t feel like the hardest fight in his life.

This is coming from someone who fought armies, the worst of humans and the best of otherwise. He’s been brainwashed. Snapped to dust. Brought back to life. Yet Bucky has no one else to blame for being on the political battlefield. He signed himself up to these trenches, just like the one in the forties.

His trigger discipline lasts for about three full days until his next call.

“I thought I said something wrong, you know,” Brooklyn purrs. “But I’m glad you’re here now.”

He’s figured it out this time. Earphones in, left hand on his phone, right hand pumping his cock—all while she feeds fantasies into his ravenous mind, paints pictures with her siren song. He still doesn’t respond with words of his own, only answering with a tap.

“You hear that, J? It’s my little vibrator.” He doesn’t, he just hears her. “She’s gonna help me cum. Make me think of you while I do. Would you let her?”

Yes; one.

“I’ll let you shove my face into a pillow. Stretch my tight pussy out from behind, your chest against my back.”

One.

“Fuck, c’mon, baby,” he always loses his mind when she calls him that, “cum with me? Need you to, please, I’m gonna—”

He lets her hear him in pieces: hisses when he toys with his pink leaking tip, gasps at the first pump, then urgent groans as he spills all over himself.

Right before that razor’s edge, he keeps seeing you, sweet girl in the communications team. The things he’d do to you flash in his mind’s eye.

Your tongue swirling around his cock, doe eyes staring up at him from between his legs. On your back, knees against your chest while he pounds you till both your lips are drooling. Then, the thing Brooklyn said, face down, ass up, all for him to use.

It gets worse with every call. The grey matter between his ears can only remember the color of your eyes and hair. The shade you chose to paint your lips, one he keeps replacing with slick white. At the end of each pornographic phone call, he’s faced with a string of ones on his phone screen. All the yeses he’s given, all the times his willpower dissolved like wet paper.

By the fourth call, he’s spent close to five hundred dollars on her—mostly in tips.

By the seventh, he’s her highest paying customer of the month. There are still two more weeks until the end of September.

taglist: @flockoff-featherface @barnesandashes @buckyfmd @opheliabbarnes @dollaems @overwintering-soldier @metal-armed-muse @hello1276 @nikifiedd @coquitokisses @vicky066 @sheriff-bodecker @superbassbuck @houseofhyde @buckysslut @vee061 @emmxiy @alex-cheraya @yvesjgk @barnesonly @wandabillywrites @sashabarnes22 @prettylittleviolets @dimlylittorch @sweetestharley @eridanidreams @itsjustemilygrace @nerddd13 @blowingbarnes @its-in-the-woods @addie81readss @nymph0puppp @bckyslover @fluorjscent @rhythmnobleus @badbitchsincebirth05 @rinaarlert @aliantendre @peachessprincess @heartz4buckyy @kissesforbucky @l1m3ly @ruckystarnes @slutforsr @allthatisbuck1917 @amoremarveloustime

[captianspidey]

i know we get a lot of technophobe steve but can we please get some ipad kid steve? candy crush obsessed steve? “i’ll look it up!” steve?

[baltharino]

Captain America: The First Avenger (2011)

[captianspidey]

she wanted that cookie so fucking bad bro

[deleted615427183628372517382]

i need to make a man cum in his jeans right fucking now or i’ll scream!!

[venunsgirl]

Steve being silly and relaxed is one of the best things I've ever seen...

[captianspidey]

my baby