or: you and Country!Simon get in an argument and he fucks the anger away.
cw: 3.3k wrds, 18+ mdni, smut with little plot, jealous!simon, no use of y/n, married!reader (to Simon), angry sex, p in v, creampie, cunnilingus, pussy pronouns and slaps, back shots, cowgirl, nipple play, exhibitionism (if you squint), outdoor sex, daddy kink (papa/pa), breeding kink, country!simon, lucky!reader.
a/n: forfeit by Kiana Ledé was my inspo
It’s not that your friends were bad, quite the opposite really, they were great and easily welcomed your husband into the group even though he was on the quieter side. They’d come from the city to congratulate you on the marriage since just your two best of friends came to the wedding.
It was your friend, Vee, her boyfriend that didn’t know his fucking place.
He saw the way you looked at Simon, all heart eyed and yearning for his approval. And Simon’s pretty seafoam orbs would dance all over you, to your pretty face, to your lips to your chest and back to your dark mocha eyes and pretty skin, give you a smile under his skull bandana that no one would understand but you. And Simon would just know you were blushing because you’d look away with smiling harder than ever, squeezing his arm as you continued conversation with your friends—
God, Simon was in love with you. Could’ve done anything for you.
Would’ve beat the breaks off your friends boyfriend if he was alone for a second.
It couldn’t be more obvious that you were a happily married and taken woman. But that stupid bastard couldn’t keep his eyes up, continued to ask about you brushing off Simon, and to top it off you were acting like it wasn’t happening. Still entertaining conversation with him, laughing— giggling.
“Where did you two meet? I’m suprised a city girl like you would move so far just to live in the country.” The fool asked in the middle of conversation, cutting you off from talking about some story from college.
Strike two.
“O-Oh, we’ve known each other since we were younger—“
“—We fucked like dogs right in that old barn when we re-introduced ourselves though.” Simon doesn’t miss a beat. He’s not really one for white lies and he doesn’t care if the truth hurts.
He’ll be as crass as he wants to prove a point. Your friend’s boyfriend, the idiot, was staring too hard. Simon doesn’t mind when people looked, you were as pretty as rain. Curves nice as ever, that jaw dropping smile, pretty brown eyes and curls he loved to play with no matter how long or short. His drop dead gorgeous baby, married to him in the backwoods. Heavy on his.
Heat rushed through your whole body, embarrassment, while your friends squealed in excitement. Your friend Shauna teased, “[+], I didn’t know you were such a naughty girl.”
You washed it down with a sip of wine though, a playful smack to your husbands shoulder— a warning— “Nothins wrong with a little fun. Right Simon?” You emphasized his name. The first time you’d said it all night.
Five and a half times in that barn, but who’s counting?
The wild man gave a cheeky grin, “Course Darlin.”
More squeals from your friends, they thought Simon was right out of a movie. A dream man. He was.
Not when he was acting territorial.
When dinner finally rolled around Vee’s boyfriend, Samuel, offered to help. It was the touching that was an issue. The sly touch to your back when he was moving around you, how he kept trying to brush fingers and you’d jerk your hand away— he’d knock the poor boys head off. Simon swooped in of course, told Samuel it’d be best if he sat, ‘let the man ‘f the house handle it’ while wrapping his arm around your waist and tugging you a little closer as you held the baked duck in your hands.
strike fucking three.
Thankfully, everyone was tired after their long plane ride down and the wonderful dinner you prepared. You sent them off with a tight smiles and big waves, yelling how you couldn't wait till tomorrow to show them around.
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ 🍀 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
Simply put, Simon never liked arguing inside the house.
Didn’t matter if it was cold or raining outside. He’d rather take it on that porch. Get out everything that needed to be said, even if he was giving you a spanking— he didn’t want that energy festering inside the house. Apologizing could be done there or in the house but don’t hold a grudge.
Ever since he’d been with you, the house was truly the definition of one of those wall decorations that said, ‘home sweet home.’ Peaceful, loving, quiet. The method Simon had you two so hung up on, worked.
Any anger or irritation got left at the door. You’re mad? Go for a walk or figure it out on the porch.
You’ve really only had a few arguments since your short time together, little things and could be resolved before they could even begin erupting. Nothing like this, that had you scrapping food off dishes to harshly and putting them in the dish water and washing the poor dishes so roughly.
Simon leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow raised, bandana that once covered his face sitting on the counter.
“You gonna break the dishes if you keep doin it like that.”
You mumbled, shaking your head, completely incoherent, “Fuck off.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said, fuck off!” you yelled, placing the dish in your hand ever so gently on the drying wrack.
You laugh, nothing but sarcastic, “Why did you have to talk to him like that, huh? He was being friendly! Everyone was havin a good time!”
“Did you not see the way he was talking ‘nd ogling his damn eyes at you the whole night? Son of a bitch acted like he wasn’t looking at a married woman!” Simon scuffed.
“He was not!”
“[+] you can’t be fuckin—“ The older man cuts himself off. Takes in a deep breath— get to that porch. He grits, “Come on, let’s talk.”
You know exactly what he means, you know he really isn’t asking. But you’re unmoving, simply continue the rest of the dishes in the sink.
“No.”
“What?”
“I said, no! How many times do I gotta fuckin repeat myself tonight?! I don’t wanna do your talkin on the porch shit! I wanna finish the damn dishes and go to sleep on my side of the bed! You listen to everybody but me! Your fuckin wife--“ Simon doesn’t let you finish, just manages to get you over his shoulder. The utensils you had in your hand clanging to the floor as you slap at his back, shouting and thrashing to get out his arms.
You land on your feet when Simon puts you down on that hard wood of the wrap around porch. You shove at his chest, “You think you can just move me as you fuckin please, Riley!? I’m a person! A human being!”
“A human bein, I’ll move again if I fuckin want to till you fuckin get it in your big ass head-“
“—I do not!—“
“—You’re big ass head,” he repeated, “that, that idiot was fuckin flirtin with you! Lookin at you like a meal on a silver platter, kept tryin to touch up on you with his own damn girlfriend sitting next to ‘em! And ya went ‘nd encouraged-“
“—Don’t fuckin lie Simon! I would never encourage anyone to- to flirt with me! And the whole night I was lookin at you! Could barely get a handle on myself because I’m hung up on the likes of you!” You poked at his chest. He knew you were right, you’d never do anything like that, not even if the thought graced your mind.
You were a gorgeous little thang, any man with working or non working eyes would fawn over you just from your kindness alone, your pretty voice too. But for someone to do it so blatantly. Do it while Simon was right there. Oh, he hated it.
“Just fuckin admit it, you’re fuckin jealous! I don’t why you wanna pick a fight with me when you should be mad at your damn self for acting like that.”
Oh the unruly thing— to speak the truth on jealousy.
Forfeit the fight and apologize.
Simon’s hands clenched and unclenched, chest heaving up and down— he chose the latter.
Let him show you how you were his and his alone, right on that porch. He’d think of an apology mid fuck, say sorry once or twice and say it again to you tomorrow. Proper, make you breakfast and talk all soft how you like. Make you squirm in your seat with kisses on your neck till you shrug and whisper, ‘I-I guess Mr. Riley.’
Fuck, you were so damn cute. Couldn't keep his hands off you.
Till then, he’d bend you over while he sat in one of the rocking chairs. Hike that pretty white skirt up to your hips while bringing your mushy mess of clothed pussy right to his face.
How’d he do all that so quickly? Well it’s quiet easy when your both a little mad, a little cynical in your own right— so pissed off that you both need to “cool off” your own emotions. Rub one out.
That southern man would yank you close by the hip with his large hand and plant a kiss on your needy two tone lips. Roughly intertwining your mouths, if you’d interject (or tried to get another word out), he’d slap your ass a few times. Enough to get a moan out of you, telling you to ‘shut the fuck up.’ You’ll stumble over to the chair together and he’ll spin you around, do what he has to do.
And God, did he loooove fucking you on that wrap around porch. Whether it be at the end of a long work day or right after the chickens crowed on his day off that had to be spent with you and no one else.
Mouth salivating, Simon ripped apart your white cotton panties in two, with a cut pink bow and embroidered with Mrs. Riley on them, causing you to yelp out, swatting at his shoulder while he spread your pussy lips apart. Staring at the glistening pink mess only he could see, only he could create.
“So gorgeous mama. Ruinin this underwear, who’s all this for?”
He whispers, not to you, not to himself, to God— ‘Thank you for the meal’ he’d give your cunt a sweet peck before letting his flat tongue swallow you whole. Slurping up every drop that came out of you.
“F-fuck you Mr. Riley, seriously fuck you!” You gasped, hand reaching behind you to spread yourself wider.
He groans against you, slapping at your sopping mess once, “Lil girl, I’m tryin,” he flicks his tongue around your hole before sliding two fingers into you. “Therrre you go Lucky, all that damn talkin, just needed somethin in your pretty little hole huh?”
You moan, “Talkin c-cause I’m right! hngh- You’re just- hah- just so hardheaded- aangh!”
Simon thrusts his fingers harsher, sucking at the fingers you were getting wet, then down to your pretty button of a clit. You kick your foot out right when his fingers curl into you juuuuust right, almost falling forward till he wraps an arm around you to keep you steady.
“Stay still baby girl, or you’ll fall.” he gruffs, lapping his tongue every to slowly through your folds.
“Mr. Riley- I can’t! Shit! Augh“ you hiccup, you gut twisting in knots.
“Shhhh Mrs. Riley? Yer bein so loud when me ‘nd her are talkin.” Simon buries his face in your cunt, fingers slamming into creating a loud sloshing of your wetness until he feels you flutter once, his takes a breath away, his voice horse as your syrupy cum trickles down his throat and onto the floor. “This is just what she needs baby, just hush and take it.”
He bites the beautiful fat of your ass before diving back in, slurping and letting his fingers work in and out of you till you’re shattering around his thick digits. Screaming as you wet his face. And Simon swallows it all down. Sticking his tongue in your sponginess of your walls as you clench repeatedly.
Simon pulls away, turning you around while your still in a daze, face wetter than ever with your slick. He pulls you on top of him, springing his aching cock free from the boxers that restrained them, that slaps right at his abs. You rested your head against his, letting the man rub his aching red tip against your hole.
With a slap to your ass, you ease yourself down on him, a pornographic moan of pain and pleasure leaving your plump lips.
“Take this off.” Simon huffs, fingers pulling at the straps of your bralette and grinding up into you.
“Mmph- But Simon i-it’s strange.” You hiccup. You always get so nervous when you two go at it on the porch. His shy baby, he’d remind you that no one, especially at 1 or 2 in the morning, is coming or will ever hear your loud moans. But maybe you’d sound like a banshee if this man got anywhere near your chest. Your nipples had become so sensitive as of late and you didn’t know why.
Simon on the other hand, adored it. Couldn’t get enough when they got all puffy and the way you whined when they hurt. Like music to his ears. But he soothes you, rubs your back and rests his chin on your chest.
“Ain’t strange f’me tuh have what’s mine, is it? Come on, show ‘em to me. You know I looooove how pretty they are.”
You bite your lip, this man could get you to do anything. If this was 10 months ago, you would’ve laughed in your own face if you said you were fucking outside, let alone mindlessly listening to a man. You took off the material holding your breasts, throwing it off to the side.
Simon cups them both in his large hands, groping and squeezing at them, “Pretty tits gonna be filled with milk for our kid soon, huh mama? Can’t wait to see you feedin ‘em. Gonna look so beautiful.”
You moaned his lap, attempting to cover your mouth with the back of your hand as he gave one of your nipples a little suck. Gently taking it between his teeth and nipping at it.
You looked beautiful, your pretty mounds bouncing right in his face while you moved up and down, taking every inch of his veiny cock he was willing to give you. All while he sucked your hardened nipples, looking you right in the eyes. A groan escapes you lips, grinding your hips even harder.
He grunts, meeting you half way and thrusting up into you when your legs began to shake, “Love when I suck on ‘em don’tcha Lucky? Need it to get off.”
You only whimper, eyes fluttering, as you fight your own pleasure. You manage to stifle up a, “Shut up Mr. Riley.” But it does no Justice to the way your rubbing your perfect tits in his face. Begging for more. Wanting him to suck just a little bit more.
“Lil girl, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you want, can I?” He tuts, looking up at you with such lust filled eyes.
“Please Si, need you, please?” You keen, letting your nipples rub against his face to feel something, anything.
Simon would give you anything at the drop of a hat, even if you didn’t have any manners, and most definitely if you used that ultra rare nickname with him. He grips your hips, slamming you down on his dick, taking your gorgeous nipples in his mouth and sucking like his life depended on it making you moan. His tongue swirled around your areola, French kissing both of them equally while he rudely bullied his cock through your velvety walls.
Your fingers find his golden locks of hair, running through them while he rams into you, finding your g-spot causing you to squeal, more of your slick dropping past your thighs and onto Simon.
“Fuck me baby, Gonna cum, you want it?”
“Want it so bad Mr. Riley. Nng- Need it all in me.” You whine. Your head falls on his shoulder as he sob his name like a prayer, clutching onto him as your walls tighten around his length, spasming.
“That’s it pretty, that’s it, s-shit.” Simon fills you to the brim, working his cum deep inside you, bouncing you a few more times.
You don’t even know how you got to the floor.
You fluttered your eyes open and Simon had you on your knees, the meanest arch with your back and your face pressed up against the hardwoods floor. Your mixed cum was dripping down to the floor while he smacked his tip against your sloppy cunt. You shuddered at the feeling, mewling in want.
Simon heard your phone ring from his back pocket, he scuffed yanking it out from his pants, just to see that idiot calling you. And probably while his girlfriend was sleep, that fucking cheating bitch. A curse feel from Simons lips.
“Mr. Riley?” You keened, You looked back at him with those big brown eyes, batting those long lashes, a pout adorning your face. You shimmied your ass back on him and he groaned.
Were you too cock drunk to hear your own damn phone vibrate? A devilish grin on Simons face, he’ll get what he wants and fill you up just how you need to too.
He answered it, leaving it on speaker before tossing it in the chair Simon just fucked you in.
“[+]? Are you there?” The stupid prick asks in a whisper, and right then Simon rocks himself into you. Giving your ass a harsh slap before drilling his dick inside your cum soaked walls.
“Fuuuuck- feels so goooood Mr. Riley!” You practically screamed, eyes fluttering shut. That was answer enough, honestly. Your Mr. Riley was fucking you dumber than dumb, your mouth forming a ‘o’ with movement.
“Tell me darlin, who you in love with?”
“M-my huuushband.” you slurred out, drool leaving the corner of your lips, nipples grazing the floor with every harsh thrust.
“And who’s that?”
“Mmmph- you Mr. Riley.”
The ends of Simons lip curve up, such a good girl taking his cock. A white ring forming at the base of his length, “ ‘S that right pretty?”
“I-I love you soooo much papa! More than- hngh- mooore than anything, I swear!”
Papa? New.
He likes it.
Simon snickers at your response, stretching you out so fucking much, and giving you the sluttiest, cruelest thrusts of his life. The loud, smack, smack, smack of your hips colliding could be heard miles away, “Pa loves you too, don’t I, Lucky?”
“So much, fuck, love on me sooo much Pa!” You breath hitched,
And it’s just enough to let that bastard hear exactly what Simon Riley does to you. Simon glances at the phone and it’s already hung up, he's sure the idiots dick got wet from the precious and needy sounds you and your sobbing cunt were making.
Love making was a be-au-tiful thing between a married couple who loved each other, wasn’t it?
Simon bends down, tweaking your nipples in his hands as he rams into you faster, swiveling his hips into you.
His voice is low, gentle, and he whispers right in your ear which makes you tingle all over, “I’m sorry sweet girl, was jealous.”
“I- shit, shit, shit, I know. Mmph- ‘s okay. Love you so much, always want you sooo fuckin much papa.” Your words turn into sobs, tears filling your eyes as you jerk in his arms.
“That’s my girl.” Simon mumbles against your cheek, holding you closer, makes you take his thick cock while he bruises your poor cunt. His hand comes down to your clit, giving it small circles with his thumb, and you cum. Hard. And maybe you were as loud as a banshee, completely soaking the dick that was splitting you cunt in half.
And Simon didn’t stop, fucking you right through your orgasm that seemed to never end.
Simon growls at the feel of your gummy walls, managing to get tighter while he gives you frantic thrusts. Gobbling at your neck while he snaps his hips into yours, kissing your cervix with his leaking tip. Grunts and moans of ecstasy fill the star fill sky as you two cum. Ropes of cum leaking right into your womb, just as you needed.
A good filling.
Simon pats your stomach, “That’s right where our babies gonna go Lucky. Promise, tonight a baby's gonna be right in there.”
You giggle, eyes low and dazed, “G-gonna make you a real Daddy, Mr.Riley.”
“Yeah,” he swoons breathlessly. Kissing the apple of your cheek making you giggle again. “Can’t wait to see our pretty baby sweetheart.”
a/n: this was a request so lmk what you think bubbas (I know it wasn’t that icky but idk I still think it’s cute). Also @bunnybeaches proofread for me so thank you so much🥺 I luv you.
we know Bucky’s a cocky little shit but he definitely whimpers while he talks you through it, send ask
﹙ ❤︎ ﹚OH HEEE DEFINITELY FUCKING DOESS that man does NOT hold back
You’d been dancing around this tension with Bucky for weeks, snarky comments in the Avengers compound, lingering stares during missions, that cocky smirk he always flashed when he caught you checking out the way his tactical suit hugged his broad shoulders and metal arm. He knew exactly what he did to you, the bastard. Always strutting around like he owned the place, teasing you with lines like, “Doll, if you keep lookin’ at me like that, I might have to do somethin’ about it.”
Tonight, though? You’d had enough of the games. After a particularly grueling training session where he’d pinned you to the mat one too many times, his body pressed flush against yours, breath hot on your neck, you dragged him into your room, slamming the door behind you.
“You’re such a cocky little shit.” you gasped as he backed you against the wall, his flesh hand sliding up your thigh while the vibranium one gripped your hip with just enough pressure to make you shiver.
“Cocky? Always baby. Little?” His voice dropped to a dark, teasing growl. “I don’t think so.”
His mouth crashed onto yours, all teeth and tongue, devouring you like he’d been starving for it. He tasted like sin, coffee and something uniquely him and you moaned into the kiss, fingers tangling in his dark hair.
He didn’t waste time. Hands yanked at your clothes, stripping you both down until skin met skin, his hard length pressing insistently against your stomach. Fuck, he was huge, thick and veined, already leaking at the tip as he ground against you. “Look at you,” he growled, voice rough with want. “So fuckin’ wet for me already. Been thinkin’ about this pussy all day.”
You shoved him toward the bed, climbing on top to straddle him, but he flipped you effortlessly, super soldier strength and all, pinning you beneath him with a wicked laugh. “Nah, doll. Tonight, I’m takin’ what I want.”
He spread your legs wide, settling between them, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock. You arched up, desperate, but he held your hips down. “Patience, sweetheart. Gonna make you beg for it.”
Slowly, torturously he pushed in, inch by thick inch, stretching you deliciously. Your walls clenched around him, and he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. “Shit… so tight. Takin’ me so well.”
Once he bottomed out, he stilled, letting you adjust, but that cocky smirk was back. “Feel that? All mine now.” He started moving, deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every spot inside you, building a rhythm that had you clawing at his back.
But as he picked up speed, pounding into you harder, something shifted. His breaths came in ragged pants, and soft, needy sounds escaped his lips, whimpers, high and broken, mixing with his dirty words.
“That’s it, baby,” he whimpered, voice cracking as he thrust deeper. “Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so good… gonna make me lose it.” His metal hand gripped the headboard, knuckles white, while the flesh one slipped between your bodies, thumb circling your clit.
You moaned loudly, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. “Bucky-”
“Shh, I got you,” he whined softly, hips snapping erratically now, chasing his own edge while driving you toward yours. “Come on, doll… let go for me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock… please, fuck- you’re so perfect, takin’ every inch like you were made for it.”
His whimpers grew louder, desperate, as he talked you through it,,filthy praises spilling out between gasps. “God, yes… just like that. Milk me, baby. I’m so close… wanna fill you up, mark you inside- ah, shit-”
The combination of his cock hitting that sweet spot relentlessly, his thumb on your clit and those pathetic, whimpering pleas undid you. You came hard, walls fluttering around him, crying out his name.
Bucky followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a broken whimper that sounded almost like a sob. “F-fuck… yes, take it all…” Hot spurts filled you as he shuddered, collapsing on top of you, face buried in your neck, chest heaving.
For a long moment, the room was nothing but heavy breathing and the faint hum of the compound’s AC. His weight pinned you deliciously to the mattress, metal arm loosely caged around your waist like he never planned to let go.
Then you felt it, another tiny, involuntary sound muffled against your skin. A soft, needy whimper as he shifted slightly inside you, still half-hard and sensitive.
You couldn’t help it. A slow, wicked grin spread across your face.
“Bucky” you murmured, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp hair and tugging gently so he’d lift his head.
He did, sluggish and sated, blue eyes hazy. That trademark cocky smirk tried to form but it wobbled when you raised a brow.
“What, doll?”
You dragged a nail lightly down his spine, just to watch him shiver. “You whimpered.”
His smirk froze. A faint flush crept up his neck. “I did not.”
“Oh, you absolutely did.” You clenched around his softening cock, drawing another helpless little whine from his throat before he could stop it. “Multiple times. High, desperate little sounds, like a puppy begging for more.”
Bucky groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder in defeat. “Jesus, woman…”
You laughed softly, wrapping your legs tighter around his hips so he couldn’t escape. “Big bad Winter Soldier, pounding me into the mattress, talking all that filthy shit… and then whimpering while he comes.” You nipped his earlobe. “Kinda ruined the whole intimidating assassin vibe, Barnes.”
He lifted his head again, eyes narrowed in mock glare, but the blush was undeniable now. “Keep talkin’ and I’ll flip you over and fuck you ‘til you can’t remember your own name, smartass.”
“Promise?” You grinned wider. “Or are you gonna whimper through that too?”
Bucky growled, low, playful and silenced you with a messy, possessive kiss. But right before he pulled back, you caught it again: the tiniest, betrayed whimper against your lips.
You broke the kiss just to whisper, “There it is again.”
He buried his face in your neck with a muffled curse, metal fingers digging into your hip. “You’re gonna pay for this, doll.”
“Looking forward to it,” you said, still laughing as he started trailing biting kisses down your throat.
But you both knew the truth now.
The cocky little shit absolutely whimpered when he lost control.
And you were never, ever going to let him forget it.
── .✦ ⌈ dean x reader headcanons that are too specific (and definitely self-indulgent). ⌋
『 part 1 of @bejeweledinterludes’ headcanon series. 』
read my dean headcanons part 2 here!
↳ . . . just stupid thoughts in my stupid brain 😭 i need him so bad guys PLEASE
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> dean has his own nickname for you, just like he calls sam ‘sammy’— whether it’s a shortened version or your name or just the first letter, it doesn’t matter.
> but just like sam, he’s the only one who gets to call you that (he loves that little fact way too much— and abuses it heavily).
> years ago, you made dean one (1) mixtape of your and his favorite songs (mostly yours for when you tagged along on a hunt).
> and even though he was very chill about it in the moment, it’s easily now his most prized possessions that he has in baby at the moment. not that he’d ever tell you that, though.
> despite being the ultimate womanizer, dean has never once actually, genuinely hit on you. ever.
> and it hurts more than you’d like to admit to yourself. but maybe you’re used to not being seen romantically by any male friends in your life (funny friends unite!).
> however, the reality is, the real reason dean would never even attempt at making a pass or flirting with you— not even for a case, was because he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you flirted with him back.
> one time, you fell asleep in the passenger seat of baby when it was just the two of you on the way to meet sam at the next case. dean drove an extra two and a half hours to watch you let you ‘rest and recharge’.
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looking for new work from me? go to @bejeweledinterludes2, my new writing account—all new work is posted there!
summary: Dean will never feel anything for you but friendship, and you have long accepted that. So what's getting him all worked up about you receiving a bit too much attention from one of your witnesses?
warnings: mutual pining, jealousy, idiots in love, friends to lovers, lightly implied age gap, smut (unprotected p in v, creampie, mentions of fingering & oral - f receiving, dumbification, love confessions during the act lmao), a lot of fighting but they're soft for each other, cursing, um ig reader is a little bit of a crybaby and it's mentioned that dean takes care of her
word count: 8.7k words
a/n: if this is bad please don't tell me lol
You don’t have to fake your skittishness as you twirl restlessly on the stool, elbows sticking to the dirty bar counter. The bottle of beer in front of you looks grossly unappealing but you catch Dean’s gaze from across the bar and he raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. You bring the rim to your lips and try not to wince as the bitter, lukewarm liquid goes down.
You do your best to look out of place and uncomfortable, but something tells you that you don’t have to try too hard. The bar is dimly lit and grimy, with deer heads watching you sullenly from the wall. They’re not the only eyes on you. The bar is reasonably busy but there is only one other woman present, and she’s behind the bar. There’s a sinking feeling in your gut and you’re determined that you will never take over Sam’s gig again.
Dean saunters over, cool and cocky, the way you had seen a million times before - but this time he’s sauntering over to you like that. And it makes your stomach do strange, pathetic things.
“Hey baby, you here alone?” he asks, getting up in your space in a way that should be creepy but isn’t because it’s Dean.
“Um yeah,” you mutter, because you may have to fake your body language, leaning away from him in a way that’s supposed to express discomfort, but you don’t have to fake your shyness.
“Lemme buy you a drink. Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be left alone.”
“I’m good, thanks,” you say, twisting your beer bottle around.
“C’mon, just one drink. I don’t bite unless you want me to,” he says smirking, and the way he says it is so unlike Dean, it sets your teeth on edge. If you were really a girl he was trying to pick up, he would have taken no for an answer, but left the door open for you to change your mind, which you inevitably would. He would have said something like; ‘If you’re sure. You know where to find me, baby’ and taken his seat back with a flirty wink. He wouldn’t have insisted or thrown that corny, overused innuendo at you.
“No, really, I’m okay. Thank you.” And you’re squashing your eyebrows together, squirming in your seat, trying to look intimidated but this is Dean and nothing about him is intimidating. Not to you.
“It’s just one fuckin’ drink, bitch. Don’t be such a stuck-up priss.”
Dean’s a good actor but you know he feels remotely uncomfortable having to say any of this to you. It doesn’t matter. The man beside you, taller than Dean but not quite as broad, stands up off his stool.
“Didn’t you hear the lady? She said she doesn’t want a drink, punk.”
Dean makes a big show of backing off, raising his hands in submission and muttering something about how he was ‘only trying to be nice’, before backing away to his table once again. You turn to your saviour with a smile that you hope is radiant.
“Thank you so much,” you simper. “That got a bit scary for a second.”
He looks nice. He is lightly tanned with wavy brown hair, soft green eyes and a handsome smile that verges on shy. You think that this must be what Sam would look like, if life had been a little kinder to him.
“Don’t mention it,” he says with a modest shrug. “God, I can’t stand guys like that. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
“Happens more often than you think. Not many people would step in like you just did.”
His chest puffs out like a pigeon at the praise. “Maybe it’s because I’m a cop, but I can’t stand when people sit around and do nothing when something like that is happening in front of them. Makes me sick.”
“You’re a cop?” you ask, smiling and trying to do that ‘doe-eyed shit’ that Dean always accuses you of. It’s harder to do on demand. “That’s so cool, I really admire you guys. Your job must be really hard.”
He shrugs again, cheeks going a dusty pink. “It’s worth it if I can get to help people. But yeah, it can get a bit hairy sometimes.”
“I bet,” you sigh. “I heard about this weird killing spree in the next town over. Those guys sure aren’t living the dream right now. I can’t imagine all the things they have to see.”
He straightens up immediately, animation dropping from his face. “Actually, I- uh, I’m working on those cases right now. You’re right, it’s not pretty.”
You’re losing him. His eyes are drifting away from you, away from the conversation. He’s searching for an out. You’re dimly aware of Dean’s eyes on you from afar, boring holes into your head. In a blind panic, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, one hand reaching out to his arm in a consoling manner. His eyes drop just once to where your hand meets his wax, green jacket and you feel him coming back to you.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry for bringing that up,” you say, teeth worrying your lip with anxiety that you don’t really have to falsify. “I had no idea. I’m a bit of a true crime junkie, but the last thing you want to do is talk about that right now on your time off. I’m just gonna go. It was nice meeting you and thanks for, uh-” You make a vague gesture towards Dean, who is still watching you with dark eyes.
“No,” he says, hand moving over your own one on his arm to stop you from moving. He smiles in such a genuine way, it almost makes you feel guilty. “I can let you in on a couple secrets if you promise to keep it between us.”
You brush your hair behind your ear and laugh, soft and shy.
“I’m Jeremy, by the way.”
You have to stop yourself from saying I know.
“Sold it a bit too hard back there,” Dean grumbles, leaning against Baby with his arms folded and watching you dart out of the bar. He’s wearing an irritated scowl.
“Don’t be an ass,” you say, rolling your eyes as you open the car door and slide into the passenger seat. It’s not often that you get to ride shotgun and it feels weird - like you’ve suddenly become more important. Dean follows. “You’re the one that told me to ‘charm the pants off him’ if I remember correctly, so-”
“Yeah, charm him,” he says. “I didn’t say to fuckin’ feel him up.”
“Feel him up?” you splutter with a half-laugh as Dean pulls out of the drive. “You’re ridiculous. I put a hand on his arm. I’ve seen you do worse.”
“Yeah, whatever. You get anything outta him?”
You launch into the story and try to share all the same bits that Sam usually does. You tell him how the victims were all men in their early 20s, recently discharged from a hospital not far away. How the cops are currently questioning the hospital staff but haven’t found anything suspicious just yet. You describe all the gnarly injuries, all the pieces of evidence left behind.
“Um- I think that’s it,” you say, eyebrows furrowing together as you try to figure out whether there is anything you left out.
“That’s it?” Dean says with surprise, eyes shifting from the road to you briefly. “You were in there for damn near an hour. Thought this was about to be some fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes shit.”
“Well I couldn’t just leave straight away once he gave me the information, Dean,” you say, frowning at him. “That’s suspicious. And rude.”
He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and shakes his head. “Never mind. What hospital is it?”
You bite your lip, face flushing. “Um- I don’t know. Should I have asked?”
“Goddamnit, sweetheart-”
“I can ask!”
“Ask who?” Dean frowns.
“Jeremy. The cop from the bar. I mean, I probably can’t just call him up and ask him outright but if I tell him I want to meet up then maybe I could-”
“You exchanged numbers?”
“Well yes,” you say, watching Dean carefully. He is looking more wound up by the second. “He asked and I couldn’t really say no after talking for so long. Besides, it’s useful now because I can ask him what hospital it was.”
“Jesus Christ. I asked you to charm information out of him, not to start a fuckin’ fling-”
“Well maybe you should have waited for Sam or done it yourself!” you say, voice raising in frustration. Your lip is wobbling a little bit and it feels like barbed wire is tightening around your throat. “I’m no good at this stuff, the flirting for information. I get nervous. You know that.”
Dean takes one look glance at you out of the corner of his eye and all his exasperation slips away. He lets out a puff of breath and his body deflates with it, eyes going soft and gooey like they always do when you get upset. It makes you feel like a kid in a horrid, humiliating way, but it’s better than being on the receiving end of his frustration. Dean being annoyed at you is your own personal hell. Of course, he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know anything about that and you’d like to keep it that way for as long as you possibly can.
“Hey now, none of that. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find out what hospital is it, don’t you worry about it.”
You nod once and turn to face out the window, still fighting the unsteady feeling in your throat and behind your eyes. Damn him - you’re so soft when it comes to Dean. No matter how much you rebel against it, no matter how many phases of denial or resistance you go through, you just can’t fight how you react to him.
He is still giving you cautious looks whenever he can pry his eyes away from the road. “C’mon, sweetheart. Y’mad at me?”
You shake your head because you don’t trust your voice to carry anything, but you still don’t look at him. He sighs and pulls in to a gas station at the side of the road. It’s one of those small, Americana-style ones you’d find on route 66. You can’t imagine he can get very much in there. He gets out without saying anything and you flinch as the car door slams shut.
You tap your fingers against the window as you wait for him and think resentfully about the fact that he, and he alone, seems to determine whether you’re going to have a good day or a bad one. One smile is enough to make you feel the sun on your skin even when the clouds are out, but his disapproval or disappointment shatters you in a way that not much else can.
It’s hard to remember a time when that wasn’t the case. You look back on your life before the Winchesters as boring - insignificant, even. It’s probably pathetic and un-feminist to admit, but it’s true.
The before of your life seems grey. Before Sam convinced Dean to let you tag along with them because you had nowhere else to go. Before you managed to convince him that you were more than just a burden - that you could help with their jobs. Before you wormed your way into his heart, even if it’s not in the capacity that you might have wished for.
When Dean slides back into the car, he has a cherry cola and a pack of those sour green gummy worms that make your face scrunch up and your tonsils hurt. They’re your favourite.
He watches you as you take them from his hands and when you smile, so does he.
Dean finds out which hospital it is two days later. You’re not sure whether he called up Sam, who is out of commission in a motel a few towns back with the flu, or if he did some digging of his own while you were asleep. But he’s tugging on his jacket by the time you wake up in the motel bed, bleary eyed and sore from the awkward position you slept in.
“Dean?” Your voice is thick with sleep. “Where are you going?”
“I’m headin’ out to the hospital to poke around. It’s early. You go back to sleep, I’ll be quick.”
You would usually fight him on this, but your body is tired, having only recently shaken off the flu that you had so kindly passed on to Sam. You nod drowsily, a bit dizzy with sleep, and he gives you a fond, amused smile, as if you did something very funny. You watch him leave.
Your mind is too awake to drift immediately back into your stupor, and your body gradually wakes up with it. Within a few minutes, you’re too alert to even try. The red digits on the alarm clock read 7:09, and you suppose most coffee places would be open about now.
Dean has all your expensive hair products and shower gels out on the counter of the bathroom and you file that away to complain about later, even though you secretly kind of like when he uses your stuff. You like to think that he might have struck out a couple times because the woman could smell the sweet, girly scents on his skin and hair, and assumed he had a girlfriend.
The shower you take is short, only because there is a film of dirt on the shower floor that makes you feel like you might slip. Most of your clothes are in dire need of laundering so you pluck one of Dean’s plaid shirts up. You tell yourself that it’s ok because he has used something of yours too, even though you know you’re lying to yourself. This is very different. You’re wearing Dean’s shirt because some ugly, desperate part of you wants to feel close to him - wants to smell his scent on your skin. He’s explained to you why he uses your toiletries; “All that girly shit is fuckin’ luxe. Makes my skin feel like a baby’s goddamn ass”.
You check your phone for any updates from Dean before you leave the room, but you see only the same text that had been sitting there since yesterday.
JEREMY (COP FROM BAR - HOSPITAL MURDERS): I really loved meeting you last night. Let me know if you’re free any time soon. I would love to take you on a date.
You smile despite yourself as you descend the stairs of the motel, which leads directly onto the streets of the town. The guy really was sweet, but Dean’s reaction is enough to stave off any intentions to respond, even just for a ‘fling’, as he termed it. It’s hypocritical, really, that Dean has the freedom to chat up whoever he wants on a job but considers you to be ‘derailing the operation’ whenever there is the slightest hint of a connection on your end.
Ultimately, though, it’s fine. Your feeble old heart has a one-track mind and any attempts to satisfy it with some shoddy, off-brand replacement, whether for one night or more, leave you feeling sick and heartbroken. You’ve learned well enough by now that any time you try to move on, it just leaves you bereft.
It’s not even that you think that nobody can compare to Dean - not exactly. Dean is good and he’s kind and is smooth enough to make a nun blush. He’s smart, funny, loyal - the best kind of person there is. But you’ve met a lot of guys with those same qualities. It’s just Dean’s unique blend of those characteristics that you feel must have been concocted within him specifically for you.
And it’s fine that Dean flirts with other women. That he can pick up a girl as easy as others can tie their shoelaces and throw them away even easier. Because he has suffered enough and done enough good in this world to be allowed these kinds of indulgences, and you know that if he was aware of how you felt, he wouldn’t do it anymore. He would lock himself away to avoid hurting your feelings and eventually go insane with frustration and you know he would bear it for you if he thought the alternative was hurting you.
But you won’t let him. Because you love him and there aren’t many things you can do with your love. You can’t get rid of it, you can’t put it down anywhere, or give it to someone else. So you choose to love him in this strange, silent way instead. You suffer so that he doesn’t have to.
The diner you choose is straight out of one of those ‘small town America’ travel brochures. You’ve seen ones just like it in those autumnal TV comedies that you put on in the background. Sam watches them with you with mild interest, even if he pretends he dislikes them, but Dean complains about anything that isn’t chock-full with cars and guns and hot girls. It’s bright when you walk in and fairly clean, even if the red vinyl of the booths is cracking and there is a small stain on your table. A tall, pretty girl takes your order of coffee and scrambled eggs on toast and manages to bring them over to you almost immediately. The food is not great, but it’s not bad either.
“Hi there. Mind if I join you?”
Jeremy is standing in front of you, dressed in his blue uniform and hair askew. He’s smiling hesitantly, as if he’s not sure whether you’re about to tell him to get lost.
“Jeremy, hi,” you splutter, even as you do your level best to seem collected. “Of course. Please.”
He seems a lot more assured of himself as he slides into the booth in front of you, hesitant smile giving way to a charming grin. “You remember my name. That’s a good sign at least.”
You breathe an awkward laugh. “Sure I do. Wouldn’t forget. Are you on duty?”
“Nope, coming off. Just ordered some breakfast at the counter. Then I gotta head over to my niece’s seventh birthday party.”
“Ouch,” you say, wincing in an exaggerated way. “A seventh birthday party is a lot for the morning after a night shift.”
“Tell me about it. You kinda forget how loud kids are at that age.”
He uses the waitress’ name when he thanks her for bringing his order. It makes you smile.
“So you remembered my name and you’re good with me joining you, but you didn’t reply to my text,” he says with a small, teasing grin when the waitress - Justine, apparently - goes back behind the counter. “Trying to figure out what that means. Can you help me out here?”
Your face flushes with shame and mortification, your brain racing to come up with an excuse. He’s handsome and nice and not even trying to make you feel bad about the fact that you ignored him and he should be perfect for you. You should be jumping at the chance for someone like him to take you on a date.
“I’m so sorry,” you gush, real guilt pouring through. “Your text was so sweet, it was really shitty of me to not reply to you. It’s just- well, I’m only here for a couple of days and I didn’t want to waste your time.”
“Relax,” he laughs. “I wasn’t mad. Just don’t wanna be sitting here bothering you if you’re not…”
“You’re not bothering me,” you say, and it’s the truth. Jeremy smiles.
“Where do you live, if you’re not from near here?”
“I travel around a lot for work,” you say, and because you know that’s not really an answer that doesn’t raise suspicion - you add; “But technically Kansas.”
“Kansas isn’t that far from here. Just a matter of a few hours when the traffic’s light.” He’s not looking at you, cracking pepper onto his plate casually.
You’re not worth this kind of attention. Guilt, along with something much more complex and difficult to describe, gnaws low in your stomach. You know that you should be thankful that someone like him would even look twice at you, let alone suggest hours of travel to see you again after meeting you once. But your ungrateful heart can only scream that he is not Dean. Not even close.
“I’m in Kansas maybe thirty percent of the time,” you say with a regretful smile. “I really do move around a lot.”
Jeremy responds, but you don’t hear it. Because another sound has taken up your attention; something low and gravelly and something that sounds an awful lot like Dean.
Your eyes snap over to the counter where Dean has just ordered two coffees to-go. You watch in slow-motion while he looks around the diner - probably looking for a hot girl to chat up, your traitorous mind taunts you - before his gaze finds you.
Sitting in the booth.
With Jeremy.
It looks so bad - it looks planned - and you can only gawp open-mouthed as Dean stomps over, looking completely murderous. Jeremy is giving you a strange look now, wondering why you have suddenly stopped responding, but there’s nothing you can say. You feel like a mouse in a trap.
“We’re going,” Dean snaps out when he makes it all the way over, placing his hand on your arm in a firm grasp. “C’mon.”
Jeremy’s eyes darken as he stands up. “Get away from her right now,” he spits. “Or we’re gonna have a real problem.”
Dean seems to remember the part he played in that little private investigation at the same time as you. The pushy creep who wouldn't take ‘no’ for an answer. His eyes flick between yourself and Jeremy for a second, before he decides it’s not worth it to blow your cover, or to get arrested on charges of sexual harassment. He scoffs for just a second and shoots you a very unimpressed glare before walking out of the diner without his coffees.
“I told you to stay here!” Dean snaps as soon as you walk in the door to your motel room again. It has been over an hour since that moment in the diner and you had been dreading this every moment since. The rest of your breakfast was pleasant, if a little awkward after that interaction. Jeremy had insisted, insisted and insisted again on dropping you back to the motel in his cruiser in a show of gentlemanliness that did more to annoy than impress you. And sure, maybe a part of you understood that you would consider the same gesture charming if it had come from Dean, but Jeremy isn’t Dean so that doesn’t matter.
“No you didn’t,” you sigh, throwing the key onto the table.
“Well, it was fuckin’ implied.”
You give him a bewildered look before collapsing down to sit on your bed and peel off your shoes. “In exactly what way was it implied?”
“When there’s a ghost going around whacking people, your natural instinct should probably be to stay the hell outta the way.”
You roll your eyes and make sure he sees you do it. “Well I’m not a male in my early twenties, so I’m not really the target here, am I?” Your mind catches up a second later. “Wait, you found out it’s a ghost?”
“Yeah, it’s a ghost,” he replies, but he really doesn't seem to want to linger on that subject right now. “That little piggy you were with might be a male in his early twenties. You don’t know, which is why you should have stayed the hell inside.”
“He’s late twenties at the very youngest and you know it,” you say. “And since when am I not allowed to go get breakfast while on a job? Come off it, Dean.”
Dean is still furious, but he seems to be scrambling to figure out how to respond. You take advantage of his momentary speechlessness. “Tell me what you got.”
He is hesitant to drop it there, but he eventually does. He still looks displeased while he walks you through what he figured out - the fact that it’s a ghost; a female from the early 1900s who was left to rot in hospital in favour of a male patient in his early 20s and subsequently died from medical neglect. She has been enacting her revenge with a host of killings every ten years around the anniversary of her death. You will be going back to the hospital after hours, when it’s a bit quieter.
“Pretty standard job. In and out,” he shrugs, and you thought he might distract himself with the details and have gotten over the whole diner incident by the time he finished telling you about it, but he’s still not looking at you. It sends a bolt of hurt through you but you shake it off.
“Right, in and out,” you agree.
The job is simple. In and out, just like he said. You distract the receptionist by asking after a grandmother that doesn’t exist while Dean chases the leads he had found earlier. He finds the bones within thirty minutes and burns them. He’s a bit banged up by the time he makes it back to where you’re waiting in reception, clothes askew and hair mussed up with a cut or two spilling blood through his shirt, but he won’t tell you what happened except that he ‘Sorted it.’ The receptionist gives you a skeptical look when you walk out with him, but she doesn’t say anything else.
You feel exceptionally useless when you climb back into Baby. The power rush you had from riding shotgun has evaporated.
“I can’t believe you made me be the distraction again,” you mutter, scuffing your shoes against the car floor just to piss him off.
“Someone’s gotta to do it,” is all he says back. He still won’t look at you, not even to give you evils for the way you’re treating Baby. Hasn’t looked at you properly since this morning in the motel. It hurt before and it still does, but now you’re just fed up more than anything. There’s only so much awkward silence you can take.
“Dean, will you- Goddamnit, can you look at me?”
He takes a second, fingers flexing around the wheel as he pulls out of the carpark. His lips flatten into a thin line, before he looks at you for a brief second, raising his eyebrows as if to say; ‘There. Happy?’
But you’re not.
“What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t know what the big deal is. You can pretend all you want that this is about me going to get a breakfast, but it’s not is it? You just didn’t like that I was with Jeremy.”
Dean wasn’t expecting that. All exasperated sarcasm melts from his face as he steals an astonished glance at you, eyes alarmed and mouth somewhat ajar. “I don’t know what you’re-”
“You don’t want me getting distracted on a job.”
At that, he seems to relax, slipping back into the same easy grouchiness as before and you wonder what it was he thought you were getting at. “Yeah, that’s it,” he mutters lowly.
“You’re such a hypocrite,” you sigh. “How come you can do whatever you want but I can’t?”
You surprise yourself as much as you surprise him by bringing this up. That’s a subject you always stay well away from - Dean and girls. You look away and pretend not to hear when Sam teases him after he stumbles into the motel room the day after a job ends. You’ve smelt all kinds of perfume on him - sweet, spicy, cheap expensive and say nothing. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom so you can stop yourself from retching when he approaches some random table in a bar and shoots a suave smile to someone who isn’t you. But it’s spilling out of you now; not because you can’t hold it in anymore (because you can and you will until the end of time), but because it’s simply not fair. You couldn't move on if you tried, you know this, but who is he to tell you whether or not you can try?
“Because, sweetheart, it’s different,” he says, and the word ‘sweetheart’ is uttered almost sarcastically, in a way you had never heard before. You had always been his only sweetheart - one of the only things he could give you and you alone, but it was always said with a sort of gentle veneration - never like this. It feels tainted now. No longer yours.
“How is it different, Dean?” You’re trying to keep that damned barbed wire from closing in on your throat again. Trying, for once, to not be the baby that cries too easily and loves too easily and gives herself away to him for nothing in return.
“Because those girls don’t mean anything. They’re not distractions,” he explains, voice thick and low. “But you can’t have someone who doesn’t mean anything. You carry on with that asshole and you’ll end up in some fuckin’ picket fence house with a wraparound porch.”
He’s halfway there. He’s right, of course. You couldn’t just have an indistinct someone who doesn’t mean anything. You could never let them warm your bed without making yourself feel ill and blue - you had tried it before and it didn’t work out well.
But he really doesn’t understand that you could go on a hundred dates with Jeremy or with anyone else and you still wouldn't end up anywhere but right here. Following Dean around like a slobbering puppy. Because your sick, stubborn heart decided what it wanted years ago and has not forgotten.
Dean must mistake your silence for something else, because he watches you wearily, frustration falling away from his face and giving way to a panicked sort of concern. “Unless that’s…” he coughs nervously. “Unless that’s what you want.”
“That’s not what I want,” you confirm glibly. You don’t mention that it could be what you want, if he decided that it was what he wanted too. It’s your turn to avoid his eyes now. You watch the rain stream down the car window.
“C’mon, I’m tired of fightin’ with y’, sweetheart,” he says and the designation of ‘sweetheart’ is once again yours to claim. He is speaking to you sweetly, coaxing you out of your corner. But tears are springing to your eyes so you keep them trained away from him.
It’s mostly for his benefit, that you hide this from him. It’s not his fault that your world is moved by his hands alone. It’s not his fault that all his attempts to take care of you have worked so well that they backfired and hurt you.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-” he sighs and you can hear him running his hand through his hair, even though you can’t see it. You can smell a burst of your shampoo when he does it. “I don’t know how to… Did I upset you?”
You don’t say anything for a moment, and he seems ready to speak again.
“I don’t want the… picket fence and porch,” you say, tracing raindrops with your fingers. There’s a wobble in your voice. “But it would be nice to just have someone, maybe.”
That ‘someone’ is Dean, obviously. But you can still dream of someday breaking free of these feelings - finding someone else. You won’t feel a fraction of this intensity for them but that would be ok, that would be alright. And they wouldn’t look at you the way Dean does and they wouldn’t be able to make you laugh like he can but you would learn to live with that, maybe even learn to numb your feelings for Dean from this fire into a dull ache.
Because what good is your love for Dean when you’ve had to debase it so many times? You’ve tried to bastardise it - to turn it platonic, to turn it familial, even to get rid of it altogether and none of it ever works. It returns to you, defiled and wounded but no weaker, every single time.
“You could have me.”
Even the tears in your eyes can’t stop you from looking over at Dean now. You’re searching for any sign that he might be making some sort of joke, but you can’t find it. His eyes are trained firmly on the road, a worried pinch between his brows. You almost feel like you imagined it.
“I… What?”
“If you wanted to have someone. You could have me.”
Your breath feels stuck in your lungs. Dean has no idea what he’s saying; how unintentional cruel he is being to you. You have no idea whether he means as a friend or as a warm body to satisfy some part of your longing. You don’t want to think too long about whether he means the latter - because you’re deathly afraid that you are weak enough to accept his offer and then the whole thing really will fall apart.
“I didn’t mean it in that way. I meant-”
“I know what you meant. I want to be that. For you.”
He is speaking so uncharacteristically soft. It’s not the same soft that he offers you when you’re scared or upset, the confident arm around your shoulder while he coos and comforts. This is another kind of soft. He always looks tired, but right now he looks exhausted. You’ve only seen him look this vulnerable a handful of times and you feel a strange discomfort when you realise each time has been when he was speaking to his dad.
You are soaking in his words as he puts the car in park outside the motel. Crickets croak to fill the silence between you. He is sneaking glances and you know him well enough to know that he is trying to get a read on you.
“Why?” you land on eventually.
He frowns. “The hell do you mean why?”
“Why are you offering to-? You don’t need to feel sorry for me, or whatever-”
Dean laughs, more angry than amused. “You really think I’d tell you I want to be with you because I feel sorry for you? I’m fuckin’…” Dean sighs, face twitching with discomfort and awkwardness. “I think if you just gave it a chance, I could maybe be the someone you’re talkin’ about. Maybe.”
Your face flushes with heat and your brain feels like the scrambled eggs you had for breakfast. Your mind is racing to make sense of what you’re hearing - he could ‘maybe be your someone’? “What…”
Dean shuts down, as if a sudden door slams over that vulnerability he had shown you just a minute ago. “Y’know what, forget it-”
“No!”
He pauses, his hand going still on the car door. Your thoughts aren’t making sense at this point but you’re desperate to say something - anything - that might stop him from leaving.
“I want to-” you stutter, clumsy as a baby goat. “I want you to be my maybe-someone too, but I want to know for sure that you… I don’t know how to talk about this, but please don’t leave.”
Dean is skittish when he looks back over to you. You see a flicker of something masked by a cloud of doubt. Slowly, he reaches his hand out for yours. You clutch it with urgency, holding it tight against your own. His hands feel big and rough against your skin. Your thumb glides along all the little ridges and bumps and callouses; the results of the dirty work he never lets you do. He looks as if he is almost afraid you’ll bite when he reaches the other hand out, hesitantly moving up to your face, and his throat bobs a little bit when you lean in to his touch. His pretty green eyes are watching you carefully while his thumb works its way slowly along your cheekbone and you wonder for the briefest of seconds if this is another one of your dreams.
But the next second he’s kissing you and you know it can’t be a dream. Because even in your dreams, you don’t allow yourself to imagine it would be like this to kiss Dean. In your dreams, his kisses are hot and rough, the same way you had seen him dole them out to an endless carousel of girls in dark corners of bars, while you and Sam play solitaire and try to ignore what’s happening in your eye-line.
Dean’s lips are warm and unsure, like he doesn’t know whether he is really allowed to do this. You melt into him slowly, because you had thought about this moment too often for you to freeze up when it is finally happening. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, pulling you up against him, and chokes a broken sigh into your mouth, as if he was the one who had been waiting on this for years. As if he was the one who had to suffer all this longing, had to wield his love carefully so it wouldn’t pour out of him like water from a faucet.
You have gone astray in the feeling of his lips, of his large hands gripping your waist with such painstaking gentleness. Your heart is aching in your chest and you know it’s lost to him forever when he runs a careful hand through your hair, holding you with the same tenderness that he treats you with in all regards.
You’re not even thinking when you press yourself closer to him, clasping your hands around his shoulders and pushing your chest to his urgently. Your need for him - to just be close to him - is growing rapidly inside you like a fire. You shake a bit as Dean kisses you harder, mouth moving against yours, hot and messy.
Gone is the sweet gentleness from just a moment ago, but this is still not quite how you have seen Dean kiss strangers in bars. He’s holding you a bit tighter, kissing you with a bit more exigency. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you’re sure you had never seen him kiss anyone like this. Heat is pooling low in your stomach and you’re squirming, legs twitching as you try to get closer to him. Eventually Dean grunts, the sound sending sparks in your stomach and between your thighs. He splays a hand over your thigh and shifts it over his own. In this position, you become aware of how hard he is. You can feel it even through the layer of jeans and it makes you gasp.
“Dean,” you breathe, struggling for air.
He’s undeterred. One hand moves to gently caress the side of your neck as his mouth moves to kiss you there, soft but insistent.
“Hm?” he hums against your neck. You feel its vibration.
Your brain is failing you. The need for him is catapulting you off the edge of sanity and all your focus is garnered towards that bulge below you. You press down without even meaning to and Dean groans at the contact.
“Hey now, slow down, sweetheart,” he says, pulling away from your neck and looking up at you with half-lidded, blown-out eyes. You make a noise that you don’t even hear. You think it’s a protestation.
“F’you think I’m gonna take you in the front seat of Baby out in some scabby parking lot for our first time, you’re crazy,” he says, thumb reaching up to pull at your bottom lip.
Your heart soars. First time.
“What, you think that mangy motel room is better?”
Dean laughs. “Maybe not. But ‘least there I can lay you out all pretty. Take my time with you like I always pictured.”
His words go straight to your abdomen in a strange, pleasant mix of love and desire. You clamber off his lap in record speed.
You frown. “Are you sure?”
“Am I - fuck - what the hell are you talkin’ about right now?”
Dean is sitting up against the headboard of the bed. His gaze is dark and unfocused, sweat dripping down his brow and on to his naked chest.
“Are you sure that you want to be my maybe-someone?”
He gives you a strange look, eyes squinting and corners of his mouth poking up in that Dean-is-very-bewildered way. “Huh?”
“I just want to make sure that you’re sure, because I don’t think I’ll be able to- Oh…”
Your mind trails off the subject as Dean uses his grip on your waist to thrust his hips up just a bit, hitting that sweet spot you had just recently (tonight) discovered. His cock is deep inside you, stretching you out in a way that is almost enough to make you want to drop the subject. If you cared about him any less, you probably would.
“I don’t wanna be your maybe-someone, sweetheart. I wanna be your someone. I love you.”
That brings you back. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, and you have the odd compulsion to cry. Your body is experiencing a lot right now. “You love me?” The barbed wire is tightening again, but this time in a good way. That steamy grin Dean had been wearing crumbles into something softer. He nods.
“But what about the girls?”
“What girls?”
You flush. “Y’know. The girls you… in all the bars…”
His hands palm your hips with a bruising grip, flexing there as he bounces you on him experimentally, like he’s trying to get you to forget that any girls ever existed. Your cunt clenches tight around him, entire body buzzing, and black spots dance behind your eyes, but you sit still because you have really fucking great self-control.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, head rolling back. “I don’t wanna talk about any damn girl except you right now.”
“Dean.”
His face scrunches up in exasperation as he fights to keep his eyes on yours. They keep travelling down to your tits. “I wasn’t lying when I said they didn’t mean anything, sweetheart,” he says, dropping down to press kisses to your neck. Your eyes flutter shut and you unintentionally grind down at the wonderful tingly feeling it gives you. Dean grunts.
“Tried to go on as normal for a while. Thought I could get over you, ‘cause I didn’t wanna burden you with my shit. Didn’t work. Just ended up with a loada pissed off girls who kicked me out after I said the wrong name. That’s it.”
You barely notice that you had begun to grind down on him again until Dean wraps his lips around one of your nipples and you let out a desperate moan. His right hand moves down, feather-light, to stroke up and down your thigh.
“How- how long?”
“Dunno. Kinda sleep-walked into it,” he says, gasping between sentences as you leisurely ride him. “Think I realised when we were at Bobby’s house that one time and I heard you bangin’ around in your room for at least twenty minutes. Walked in and saw you wrapped up in that bedsheet like a ghost ‘cause you couldn't get it on and wouldn’t ask anyone for help. ’S stupid but it made me laugh so damn hard.”
He laughs shakily as he remembers it. You try to recall, but the angle he’s hitting inside you is turning any thought into a tough feat. “I don’t remember that. Must have been years ago.”
He just nods and leans up to kiss you, pretty and desperate. You pull away, even if you would much rather not.
“You’ve loved me for years?”
“Probably longer than that too, sweetheart. Everyone else seemed to figure it out before I did. Everyone except you.”
He’s trying to distract you again with his lips on your neck, but your brain is working too fast now.
“Everyone- Dean, does Sam know?”
He grunts and you can feel it rip through his chest under your fingertips. When he looks up at you, his pretty green eyes have gone a shade darker.
“Please don’t say another man’s name while I’m fuckin’ you ever again, sweetheart,” he damn-near growls. “ ‘Specially not my brother’s.”
You’re being flipped over then, your skull narrowly avoiding the headboard, until you’re under him, knees pressed up and he’s sliding into you at his pace this time.
“But yes. Everyone means everyone.”
He rolls his hips into yours and you can’t stop the breathy moan that escapes at how he feels inside you. He’s so deep and you’ve never been this full before, but there’s no pain to it because it’s Dean and he had made sure you were ready for him - of course he did. He had played with your pussy; rubbed it and fingered it and licked it in ways you didn’t even know were possible before sliding into you with a slow, loving reverence that made your legs tremble and your heart quake. He’d eased in slowly, despite you whining that you wanted to take him all the way. Dean has always taken care of you and he always will, especially now.
“And since you clearly can’t be trusted on top yet,” he says, punctuating his point with a brutal thrust that has you gasping and clenching around him. “I’m just gonna have to fuck all those thoughts outta your clever little head. Maybe then I’ll let you get back on top. When you can’t treat this like a job we’re workin’ on and all you can think about is me and how good I’m fuckin’ you.”
God, his voice is travelling right through your body and you still can’t quite believe that this is really happening. Your hips jerk up to meet his thrust as he turns you to ruins below him. You’re still fighting to hold on to your line of questioning, but he’s making it so hard.
“Dean, I- oh-”
His hand goes down to find your clit, gives it a rub with his thumb without losing any of his rhythm.Your eyes squeeze shut and your body moves against his as if your mind doesn’t have any say or involvement in the matter.
“That’s it, let me fuck you stupid. Forget about everything else. I’ll sort you right out, baby.”
It shouldn’t be possible for him to fuck you like this. One hand still under your knee and the other playing with your clit, still maintaining a bruising rhythm that sends stars to your eyes.
It’s not fair.
Because for as many times as you had pictured being fucked by Dean, as much as you had known that nobody else could compare, you still had no concept of just how good the real thing could be. How thoroughly it would destroy you for anyone else.
“So pretty and dumb when I’m splitting you open like this,” he whispers, fucking himself so deep in that you can feel the tip pushing against your cervix. “Can’t believe you’re letting me have you like this. Knew you’d feel this good, sweetheart. Thought about you like this every goddamn day.”
You have already come twice. Once on his fingers, once on his tongue. And now he’s about to make you come with his cock. You love every woman he has ever been with for showing him exactly the ways to touch you in order to make pleasure flash in every nerve, and you hate them for ever having him like this before you did. But it doesn’t matter now, because Dean seems as far gone as you and his face makes you think that maybe he’s destroyed for anyone else too.
The noises you’re making are barely coherent - something about how good it feels, how deep he is inside you - but they make Dean smile at you, sly and patronising as his tip keeps hitting that spongy spot inside you.
“Yeah, baby?” he coos at you, and all you can do is nod, even if you’re not sure what exactly he’s asking you. “Doin’ so good. Tight pussy’s suckin’ me in.”
Your eyes flutter, fighting the instinct to close only because you want to keep watching Dean - you don’t want to miss a second of how sweet and wrecked he looks above you. He’s got the control now, but you can tell he’s close to losing it by the way his eyebrows furrow just a little and his face goes unfocused. His drooping eyes travel around your body quickly, shooting from your face to your tits to where you’re being split open by him, like he can’t decide where to look.
“Please, Dean. Need more,” you whine, just centimetres from coming. You’re not even sure you could take more at this point, but you want to see what he’ll do.
“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he says, even as he slams his hips into yours harder. Your eyes roll back. “Takin’ you nice and sweet right now. Gonna make you come apart real pretty for me. Enjoy it ‘cause next time I’m not gonna be this nice.”
Your brain stutters at the thought that this is him being nice. This feels utterly filthy to you.
There’s an overwhelming pit of pleasure in the bottom of your stomach and it seeps low into your pussy. You twitch once, clenching down on him, and with one more brutal thrust you’re falling over the edge, grinding right down on him. You’re spewing out words incoherently, babbling in tongues. One thing that is coherent, though - one thing that is entirely unmistakable - is how you gasp out; “I love you” in a broken moan.
You hadn’t really noticed that you hadn’t said it back when Dean first admitted it. It had felt obvious to you, like a fact of life. The sky is blue, the grass is green and you love Dean Winchester. You didn’t really think about the fact that he didn’t know.
But you think about it now. When Dean’s half-lidded eyes suddenly shoot open and he’s marvelling at you with such open awe that it makes you feel like maybe you’re something sacred to him too. His face crumbles and he seems to lose control while you’re still riding your high, spilling so deep inside you that you can feel his warmth in your tummy.
Once he’s spent, he slows his hips down and thrusts shallowly while you twitch and jerk around him, his body folding over your own in a way that makes you feel wholly and completely surrounded by him. You feel lax and satisfied as you had never been before.
“You mean it?” he asks against your neck, lips pressing a small kiss there. You know that that kiss means; it’s ok if you don’t.
You shudder out a breathless laugh and your chest moves against his because of how closely your warm bodies are pressed together.
“You really don’t understand. I’m crazy in love with you, Dean.”
His head lifts up and he searches your eyes with the same expression he uses to investigate a haunted house or look for evidence in some abandoned warehouse. “Since when?”
“Since forever,” you say, heat flooding your face. “Even when I was just some dumb kid you didn’t want tagging along with you and Sammy.”
He goes soft. He melts to a puddle and wraps himself around you even tighter, hand going to your face while he presses a hot, gentle kiss to your lips. “My girl,” he murmurs against your lips.
“You girl?” you repeat, pulling back even though you still feel like you’re floating. “Are you sure? I know you don’t really-”
Dean groans. “Sweetheart. You gonna make me fuck all those doubts outta your head again?”
You smile. “Maybe later.”
a/n: first supernatural fic! i am genuinely terrified!
foolishly wrong
thunderbolts!roommate!bucky barnes x f!reader
You thought you’d felt his fingers twitch against your face, and for a second, you really thought he’d kiss you. And then the doorbell rang. And he dropped his hand, looking away from you. “It smells amazing, thank you so much for this, kid.” He had to be joking.
warnings: age gap, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, badly written make-out session, reader is oblivious, bucky is a yearner in disguise, yelena is a menace, thunderbolts being chaos demons
w/c: 8.2k
a/n: this... i kid you not, took me almost six months to finish haha! It was one of my first one-shots I had planned and when I finished tawgtp i had no energy to write long things so this idea died along with the first 2 thousand words, but I decided to finish it for the new year! hope you enjoy it, i am so beyond rusty haha!
-> main masterlist
foolishly wrong, autoheart
Kid.
That word fucking haunted you.
Mornin’ kid.
Work givin’ you trouble kid?
Won’t be home ‘til late kid. Buncha debriefs.
He always called you kid. You hated it. You were barely younger than him — well, biologically. You doubted you’d look as good as him at 106. Every time his perfect lips would say that word, it seeped in your bones in the worst way possible. It’s not like you ever told him, but you’d come to despise that word. More than your boss. More than non-tippers.
More than the stain you were angrily rubbing out of a table. The words he left you with this morning looped in your mind as you took out your anger on the poor table.
Remember ‘bout tonight kid.
As if you could forget. His entire workplace — which consisted of five deeply deranged heroes — was having dinner at your small Brooklyn apartment. And you stupidly volunteered to cook, to make a good impression. Absolutely not so maybe he’d look at you differently for once. You thought it was brilliant , especially when he thanked you with that half smile that made your brain buzz with adrenaline and your heart rate spike.
Then you realized you had an opening shift that day at the buffet you worked at, and several papers due the day after. But you weren’t going to tell him that. He’d just insist on ordering takeout and you couldn’t have that. You’d researched for hours recipes from the 40s so that maybe he’d thank you without that damn nickname.
How you — college student, waitress, up to neck in debt — ended up with Bucky fucking Barnes as a roommate, you’d never know.
It started with a text – hey is this unit still available? – when you’d posted your extra room online in the hopes of finding a roommate. You could barely believe that this ex-Congressman, current New Avenger, was texting you about a shitty Brooklyn apartment.
Turns out he just needed a place that wasn’t the Tower to live in. And your unit just happened to be the same address his old place (from 1942 you’d learned quickly) used to be. So who were you to refuse him? If you were lucky, maybe he’d even pay off your student loans.
Then he moved in. And you were faced with a tall broad-shouldered man whose arms should be (and probably were) illegal in most countries. And you knew you were fucked. So deeply fucked. You’d seen him on TV a few times but nothing could prepare you for having him tower over you. He was so damn handsome and never fucking smiled, which made him look like an ever brooding puppy with his big blue eyes. He’d just grunted a hi and made you coffee – in your own kitchen. Before even moving his boxes in. And just like that, you had a massive crush on your roommate who moonlighted as a superhero.
One year later, that crush had dangerously grown into an all consuming love for this stupidly kind and grumpy man who constantly referred to you as a kid. You’d gone as far as a girl could go – listened almost exclusively to 40’s music, cooked his favourite dishes constantly (under the pretence that you liked them too – even the most bland ones from his childhood), you even did his damn laundry. You wore his hoodies and boxers around the house, for god’s sake.
It’s not that he wasn’t thankful. It would be easier to forget him if he wasn’t. But he always complimented your cooking with those stupid blue eyes looking into yours. He always hummed along the old tunes echoing from your phone. He didn’t hug you often, but when he did, he’d hold you close, nose buried in your neck. And it was somehow so platonic it hurt.
He never looked at you like you wanted him to. His eyes never lingered on you when you dressed up. You paraded around in his damn boxers and he didn’t even bat an eye. You could wear the tightest, most revealing dresses and he wouldn’t even flicker his eyes down to your cleavage. Not even your legs.
Just.
You look good, kid.
Anyone less delusional would have given up by now. You should’ve given up the day you’d walked into the kitchen in a bra because you didn’t think he was awake and the man didn’t so much as look at you twice. Just grunted a good morning and kept drinking his black coffee. You’d almost unhooked it, just for science.
God, it made you want to scream. You still held onto hope – fragile and stupid hope – but you were starting to believe that your love was a lost cause. That you were a lost cause.
You slammed the napkins on the table in frustration. The clattering of cutlery soon followed. Two hours. Two hours until your shift ended and you had to cook like a madwoman for a man who wouldn’t care if you walked in fully naked.
“You alright?” One of your coworkers asked as you slammed three glasses down at your station, still half full with flat Pepsi. The brown liquid sloshed at the shock and a few eyes turned towards you.
“Mhm. Just school,” You lied smoothly. They didn’t need to know just how little you cared about college since James Barnes came into your life. Maybe it was severely unhealthy but he consumed everything about you. You took a damn advanced World War II seminar last semester just to be able to talk to him about it. You had no previous interest and/or experience in that field. You’d barely passed the class, but it hadn’t mattered even when your GPA took a hit. The sparkle in Bucky’s eyes when you’d approached the subject quietly and respectfully had made it all worth it, especially when you’d lay on your living room floor listening to his low voice recounting his toughest times during the war.
You blinked out of your thoughts when your coworker bumped your shoulder but Bucky’s blue eyes stayed in your mind. The rest of your shift was hell. Well, internally at least. Outside of your mind, the customers were kind, the tips were good and your boss had let you off early. Even as you went home, the sun was shining and your bus was early. But your brain was a storm of thoughts, from how the hell you were supposed to throw together a full dinner in three hours to what dress you should wear. You could go with the short red silk one, just to see if he’d drop the kid in front of his “coworkers’’. Or maybe your small black number. Could never go wrong with an LBD.
By the time you were home, you’d gone through your entire closet mentally, wondering if you still had the rust coloured dress that you’d bought because it looked identical to a dress you’d seen in an old 1940’s magazine he was thumbing through. Jesus Christ, if you even stopped to think about it you’d realize you were turning yourself into a housewife for him. And he didn’t even so much as look at you like anything else but a friend.
Hands on hips, you were staring at the mess that was your floor. Clothes were strewn across the floor, heels and sneakers sitting proudly on your bed. The silk dress was hanging from your desk chair – you’d decided against it. Too sexy for a dinner party with your roommate’s coworkers.
Would it be too obvious to wear the orange shirtwaist dress?
Before you could doll yourself up into a 1940’s daydream, you threw the dress away, deep back into your closet. Too obvious. Too desperate.
So you settled for a black silk blouse and jeans. Casual. Slightly sexy. You unbuttoned another button on the blouse for good measure.
Your phone buzzed and your heart leaped. Maybe it was him, texting you about tonight. Checking up on you. Asking if you wanted something from the store. Wondering if you’d go on a date with him. God, a girl could dream.
You grabbed your phone from the pile of bras on your bed and your heart drooped. Not Bucky. Your best friend.
pamm | 3:27pm
heyy you free tnt? me, tommy n carter were planning on going out if you wanna join
You | 3:27pm
noo sorryy, cooking for buck n his friends tnt
pamm | 3:28pm
booo, you always do that. you wearing that housewife dress too??
pamm | 3:28pm
no but seriously, you need to stop putting so much effort into that guy 😭
You | 3:28pm
oh stfu, like you're any better w tommy
pamm | 3:29pm
hon tommy and i are together, you’re literally just busting your ass over a guy that treats you like a child
You rolled your eyes, though her words settled in your stomach. She was right, as much as you wanted to deny it.
pamm | 3:29pm
if you’d rather do that than go out w us, thats up to you but yk
pamm | 3:30pm
he could at least have the decency to stare at your tits once in a while
You snorted, taking a look in the mirror. You’d worn your best bra, the one that made your chest look illegal. Maybe you’d get a glance. Even just a flicker down. God you were so thirsty for the slightest bit of attention from him.
You snapped a picture for Pam, posing so your boobs were front and centre, and sent it.
You | 3:30pm
hopefully tonights the night then
You | 3:31pm
even put some of that shiny product you gave me on the girls
pamm | 3:31pm
UM SEXY?? If that man doesn’t make a move, I will 💋
You giggled, until your eyes flickered to the time. 3:31. Three thirty one. T-minus 2 hours and a half until the damn Avengers rocked up. And you still had an entire chicken pasta dish and a coconut cream pie you’d found online to make. 37 Best 1940’s Recipes, the website said, so you’d gotten all the ingredients and prayed he liked it. But just in case he didn’t, you’d prepped his favourite pie – a plum pie – that was sitting in the back of the fridge behind your inexhaustible stock of energy drinks. Bucky hated those, swore by good old fashioned black coffee and wouldn’t touch the cans with a ten foot pole, so your secret was safe.
You | 3:32pm
pam, babe, i have like barely three hours to get this shit done i gtg im so sorry have fun tnt <3
You almost ran to the kitchen, barefooted, your phone tucked in your back pocket haphazardly. Without a glance at your apron, you scoured the fridge for the ingredients you’d bought a few days before. Coconut shavings – check, eggs – check, whipped cream – check, vanilla that costs more than you could afford– check. But leftover pie dough from the plum pie? Nowhere to be found. You frantically pushed aside a tower of chicken legs, looking for your missing crust. Panic started to settle. You had zero time to buy a new one, much less make one from scratch.
You couldn’t make a coconut cream pie without the pie part, now you could you? Fuck, you could shoot Bucky a text but you wanted it to be a surprise. But it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if you had nothing to serve. So you reluctantly fished your phone out of your pocket again, clicking on his contact.
You | 3:46pm
hey could you stop by the store for a premade pie dough
You | 3:46pm
the one i had for tnt disappeared
Disappeared was a ridiculous word but you’d sworn you’d prepared extra last night just to have enough. You’d left it sitting proudly in the fridge, not hidden –there were only so many things you could hide from a supersoldier with enhanced senses. As you paced the kitchen, gathering the seasoning for your chicken, your phone buzzed again. You almost dropped the garlic salt, diving for your phone.
Bucky | 3:49pm
Shit, I used it to make some meat pies this morning for our lunches. Thought it was just leftovers. B.
Exasperation should be settling in your gut but instead, amusement filled you at the perfect punctuation. He swore up and down he knew how to function in this century but still signed his texts.
You decided to ignore the way ‘our lunches’ hit something in your chest you’d spend too long mulling over later that night.
Bucky | 3:49pm
I’ll get you some. The nice kind right? The one in the organic section? I’m sorry kid. B.
Your stomach fluttered then dropped. There it was again. That word. He could’ve said the most thoughtful, kind, most Bucky thing in the world, and then added that word. The one that tasted bitter in your tongue and seemed to flow from his like honey. There were times at the beginning of you living together where you almost thought he felt the same about you, like when he taught you how he used to dance in bars and clubs back before the war. It started friendly enough, going through various dances, like your poor attempt at the Charleston (You looked like a flailing chicken. A cute one, he’d said). You tripped over his feet during a foxtrot and he looked too graceful on his feet to be an ex-assassin.
By the end of the night, the music had slowed, Vera Lynn’s voice filling the air. He’d quit trying to teach you but still danced with you, just slowly rocking side to side. His vibranium fingers were splayed across your lower back, his other hand in yours. You felt the callouses, the warmth of his fingers. His thumb was brushing your spine, holding you close to him.
He’d looked down at you with his blue eyes and that’s when you knew. That your stupid crush wasn’t just something you could brush off anymore. You’d fallen in love with Bucky Barnes, and for a foolish moment, you’d thought he might’ve felt it too.
And then, as the music flickered out and Vera Lynn returned to her box of memories, he pulled away from you, dropping your hand.
You did good, kid.
It was the first time that word broke your heart, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
Which led you here, in the middle of your kitchen, about to lose it over a three-lettered word and a missing pie crust.
You | 3:51pm
yeah, thank you! dinner might be just slightly late, but ill have cocktails done n those scallop things u like at 6 :)
You remembered the first time you almost gave him an aneurysm trying to explain what the hell ,,:)’’ was. He was so damn confused when you’d sent it, and now he even sent you ,,<3’’ sometimes. He clearly thought nothing of it but every time you’d see that stupid less than sign and 3, something in your chest unraveled.
Bucky | 3:52pm
What would I do without you? B.
Sometimes you swore he knew how you felt and just fucked with you. Because those six words shook you so hard you almost dropped your phone. You felt tears prick your eyes, not out of sadness but out of frustration. Was he serious? If he didn’t know, he was the most oblivious man in the world and if he did, he was cruel. God you’d take an honest rejection over whatever the fuck he was playing at.
You let out a thick breath, blinking back your tears angrily. You just slammed your phone face down on the counter, wiped your eyes and started mixing the seasonings with trembling hands. You prayed no tears would slip loose, your cheap drugstore “waterproof” mascara had failed you before and you had no time for a wardrobe mishap. But your vision blurred with unshed tears, and your bottom lip quivered so you took a deep breath, reached for your phone, closed the message app too quickly, and turned on your favourite playlist. Not the 1940s one. You’d crumple to your knees if you heard one more smooth jazz melody from your phone.
So with Jody Gadsden’s voice ringing out in your small kitchen, you tried your best to get through prepping the chicken. You usually liked making dinner. It made you happy, took your mind off work. But today, hands deep in chicken thighs and garlic salt? Your teeth were clenched, still blinking back tears that resurfaced every time you thought about Bucky (which was every two minutes). You threw the chicken in the oven, and glanced at its digital clock.
4:24pm
You sighed, washing your hands. An hour and a half left. An hour and thirty-six minutes before you came face to face with his coworkers, like a girlfriend would. In your apartment full of memories the two of you made, his sweaters thrown over your side of the couch, your picture in his wallet. Except you slept in separate bedrooms and never once had you felt the press of his lips against yours. You weren’t sure you ever would.
But you kept going. You grabbed the coconut, the cream, the sugar, the eggs and followed the website’s recipe carefully. There was no way you were going to mess this up. Even for a man that destabilized every crevice of your carefully crafted being. You were almost on autopilot for the next hour, Autoheart fading to Finger Eleven, followed by Eric Carmen accompanying you as you baked and cooked.
At 5:30 on the dot, the doorknob turned and you wiped your trembling hands on your apron as Bucky stepped through. He had a bag slung over his shoulders, his stupidly attractive face turning to you to greet you with a sheepish smile. You tried, oh how you tried to stop the rush you felt in your veins at his presence. You tried to smile back. It probably came out as a twitch of your lips before your eyes darted back to the counter where the bacon-wrapped scallops sat, ready for the spicy honey you’d made.
“Hey,” He said, closing the door behind him, shrugging off his jacket. He wore that red henley, the one you’d fantasized pulling off his body so often it hurt. “How was your shift?” He asked, carefully, like he was approaching a wounded animal. Maybe somewhere in your fantasies this is where you’d break down and admit how much you loved him, and he’d kiss you against the kitchen counter that had seen too many of your near-romantic moments. But this was real life, where the best you could do was croak a yes and where he simply handed you the pie crust.
“Thanks,” Your fingers brushed against his tanned ones and you pulled them away fast, still avoiding his gaze.
He stood next to the kitchen island, hovering like he wanted to say more, like if he left, something would not be quite right. Your shaky fingers grabbed the wooden honey dipper and drizzled the scallops, trying your best to act normal. As normal as you could with a highly perceptive supersoldier scanning your every move.
It was quiet as you turned to put the scallops in the oven. You were still facing away from him when he spoke.
“I’m sorry about the pie,” Five words and your entire composure almost shattered. Here he was, in all his six-foot-something stature, one of the most powerful men in the world, apologizing to you for something as trivial as a pie crust. You turned around, and caught his eyes for the first time since he’d arrived. His blue eyes were riddled with guilt, his hair tousled. His usually confident, no-bullshit persona was gone, just a man drumming his fingers against the faux-marble counter next to his college student roommate. Fuck.
“Don’t worry about it seriously.” You forced a laugh, unwrapping the expensive organic pie crust he’d bought just for you. “How much do I owe you?”
His jaw clenched and you could tell he’d wanted to say more, maybe fight you on the nature of your quick shutdown of his apology. Instead, he just shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Don’t worry about it. Fairly sure I can cover a pie crust.” He said, one of his fingers twitching against the counter.
“Bucky, please, I can pay for my ow-”
“Says the college student with a shitty job,”
That shut down the argument and with a laugh, your heart eased a bit. You shoved him away gently, trying to avoid the warmth of his bicep underneath your hand.
“Alright, get out. I don’t have forever to finish this pie,” You unrolled the dough, setting it in the pan as Bucky chuckled, walking away.
You were too deep in your thoughts, too wrapped up in getting this pie perfect to notice him lingering in the doorway. Too distracted to notice the way his eyes dragged down your body as you worked. Too distracted to see the clench of jaw as he lingered on your chest, your little frown, your lips. He left the moment your tongue darted out to lick your bottom lip. He never stayed long enough for you to notice the way his pupils dilated anytime you were in his space.
When 6h30 hit, you were ready. A bit disheveled, a bit anxiety-ridden, but with a fully prepared coconut pie, scallops out on the counter, and chicken thighs warm and seasoned wrapped in foil. You had regained some sort of dignity after your mid-prep breakdown, and not a single lash was out of place as you took out the bottle of champagne Bucky had bought for tonight.
Bucky stepped out of the hallway leading to your bedrooms and you tried not to drop the very expensive bottle. It wasn’t a fucking secret that Bucky Barnes looked illegal in formal wear, but it still caught you off guard every time. You were used to him in sweaters, Henleys and leather jackets when he was around you, so the moment he combed his hair back and wore something slightly more classy, it awakened something in you that had died about three exes ago.
He was fiddling with the sleeves of his black button-up, mumbling under his breath as you stood there, apron long forgotten in your hands. Four buttons were undone, revealing the curve of his muscled chest, his dog tags glinting in the soft light of the kitchen. You couldn’t help the swoop of your stomach when he adjusted his watch and looked back up to you with a crooked smile.
“How do I look?”
“Good!” You answered, a little bit breathy, trying your best not to knock over the bottle as you pushed it towards the seven glasses you’d set on the island. The scallops looked perfect, sitting prettily on the nicest plate you could spare, decorated with springs of thyme. The entire apartment smelled like heaven, and yet your stomach was in knots, stuck between vomiting your nerves up or stuffing down everything as fast as you could.
Bucky walked over to you, his smile wrinkling the corner of his eyes. He looked like the first ray of sunshine after rain, beautiful, holding your aching heart between his calloused hands. You held your breath as he pushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingertips grazing your cheeks. You stood there, looking up at him, and he stared back, an unreadable look in his eyes.
You thought you’d felt his fingers twitch against your face, and for a second, you really thought he’d kiss you. And then the doorbell rang. And he dropped his hand, looking away from you.
“It smells amazing, thank you so much for this, kid.”
He had to be joking.
Before you could even register, a swarm of people walked through the door, Bucky holding it open for them. You watched him smile, hug a few of them, shaking hands with the others, and shoving a blonde man with his metal arm. You stood there, frozen, unsure what to do. This was not your element. Talking down to some right-winged asshole at work, talking in front of a class about the literary repercussions of Dante’s Inferno on Italian literature, that you could do. Hosting six world famous superheroes in your safe space – who also happened to work very closely with the man you could not get out of your head? Yeah, you weren’t sure you could do this.
But before you could melt in a puddle of anxiety and sulk back to your room, Bucky walked over to you, and leaned against the kitchen counter. He introduced you to each of them, and you prayed your hands weren’t too clammy as you shook the blond man, John Walker’s hand. A woman with long brown hair smiled at you, Ava. The towering large Russian man swopped you up in a bearhug, and you squeaked, your nerves loosening just a bit as Bucky laughed.
The final two shook your hand, a nervous looking man with a twitchy smile, and a blonde woman who looked to be just a few years your senior. Bob and Yelena.
“It’s nice to meet you finally,” Yelena spoke, her accented voice speaking over her (apparently) father’s booming voice as he talked to your roommate. “Bucky talks about you a lot.”
It was said so matter-of-factly that you almost didn’t fully catch the full intent of her words. She raised an eyebrow at you, her eyes darting to Bucky. Bob stifled his smile, and you felt your face flush as you stuttered a response.
“Ah, well, nice to know he appreciates me,” You laughed awkwardly, “Y’know how it is, I try to be a good roommate.” You kicked yourself in the shins in your mind at your nervous tone.
Yelena simply hummed and you felt an arm wrap itself around your shoulders. It was warm and strong but you knew in a second it wasn’t Bucky. It was a different kind of strength, something that didn’t ignite your stomach with want, but with a spark of unknown and anxiety.
“Barnes didn’t tell us he had such a pretty girlfriend!”
You wished you could sink in the ground as Walker’s words echoed in the small kitchen. Alexei, Bucky and Ava paused their conversation as laughs slipped from the rest of the team. Bucky joined their laughter a second too late, sounding a little bit too forced.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” He said, and you could see his hands rip another tear in your carefully guarded heart.
“Yeah, just a roommate,” You added, avoiding his eyes. Walker’s arm remained around your shoulder and he shrugged an apology, claiming a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be living with a hunk like him if you wanted to get laid. You face flushed for the millionth time tonight and Yelena shoved his arm away.
“You sure you don’t want to be his girlfriend, Walker?” She said, crossing her arms over her white button up. John lifted his hands in surrender, chuckling. “Asshole.” Yelena muttered her breath, and it was your turn to laugh. Maybe you could find some semblance of stability from the ex-Russian assassin. Yep, that was your life now. You’d done this to yourself.
“Alright, go on and eat, I don’t want this food to waste, scallops are expensive,” You announced, pushing the plate towards Alexei, who’d been eyeing them since he walked in. You ignored Bucky’s frown, and popped open the bottle of champagne, pouring a glass for everyone.
Bucky’s coworkers all crowded around the island, tasting the scallops you’d spent years perfecting. Between praises and sips of sparkling wine, Bucky slipped behind you, whispering your name with a tug on your arm. You excused yourself, heart beating out of your chest, before slipping from the group, joining Bucky in the doorway to the living room.
“How much did you spend on tonight?” He asked, his voice low and the space between his eyebrows wrinkling. You almost laughed at his concerned look, as if he didn’t realize just how much life cost for a college student.
“Don’t worry about it,” You muttered back, adjusting the sleeve of your shirt he'd ruffled when he dragged you over. He let out an exasperated breath and pulled out his phone, his large fingers awkwardly typing away. “What are you-” You were interrupted by the buzz of your own phone and you pulled it out, knowing exactly what it was.
Venmo: Bucky Barnes sent you $300 (USD)
Before you could protest, or even express your surprise at his use of Venmo, he squeezed your arm hard. It took everything in your being to not pull away from him, and even more to not bridge the gap between your bodies.
“I don’t wanna hear it. You spent the entire afternoon cookin’ f’me and my friends.” Then he leaned down, looking you straight in the eyes. “I’d be losing my mind without you,” And he walked back to the party, leaving you in the doorway, staring at the molding like it owed you money. You blinked once, twice, and then it hit you.
He hadn’t called you kid. Not a single time since they’d arrived. And that small burst of hope spreading to your fingertips made you move back to the group with a large smile on your face.
The coconut pie and the plum pie was long devoured by the time you’d eclipsed yourself to the kitchen to start cleaning up, replaying the moment you’d brought out both in your mind. Bucky looked stunned for a moment before his usual reserved face split into a large boyish grin. You’d almost collapsed right then and there, your hands shakily cutting a piece for each of you.
You were wrapping up some chicken and rice for the New Avengers to take back to tower (their request – they’d loved your cooking) when the door to the kitchen was pushed open. You jumped a bit as Yelena walked in, adjusting the cuffs of her shirt.
“Oh hi,” She said, stalking over to you like a predator observing its prey. You tried not to squirm under her stare. She leaned against the counter next to you, observing your face as you kept packing food in the containers, hands albeit a little shakier.
“Hey,” You replied. You’d quickly realized halfway through dinner that while Yelena was calm and offered you respite from Walker’s antics, she was just as observant. And she had not let a single detail escape her this entire evening.
“You love him.” A simple statement, but it made you freeze.
“W-What?” You stumbled through the phrase, turning your eyes to meet hers. They weren’t accusing, just intrigued.
“You love him.” She repeated. “Bucky.” She added.
You laughed nervously, wiping your hands on the cloth you’d thrown over your shoulder. If you couldn’t admit it to even your closest friends (except Pam, she was the exception) , why would you tell this near-stranger anything?
“He’s a good friend, but it’s nothing more,” You lied through your teeth, and she cocked her head slightly. It was more menacing than curious now.
“I am trained to kill a man with a hairpin, and to extract any information from anyone. I don’t think it is ‘nothing more’”
Okay, no lying yourself out of this one it seemed. You turned to put the rest of the leftovers in the fridge. And to avoid eye contact as you admitted for the first time outside of your mind and Pam that you loved Bucky Barnes.
“I, uh, yeah,” You said, slowly shutting the fridge door. “I have feelings for him.”
It was quiet for a second before you heard Yelena hum again. You faced her again, smoothing down the front of your jeans. She had a small smile on her face and before you could even try to backtrack, she spoke.
“Good. He needs someone like you.”
You scoffed.
“I don’t think he knows I’m an adult, Yelena.” You were truly losing your mind. Not even Pam knew the extent of your delusions with him.
She raised a sharp eyebrow, pushing herself up from the counter.
“Just keep taking care of him. You’re good to him.” She left the room right after, not even sparing you a second look. Your heart was beating out of your chest, sweat beading on your forehead. You took a deep breath to steel yourself before you followed her to the living room where the rest of the guests were getting ready to leave.
“Ah there is best cook!” Alexei exclaimed, throwing both his large arms around you, “You cook again for us, yes? Barnes will bring us food or we return for more!”
You giggled, returning the hug.
“Absolutely, you just let me know what you’d like!”
Ava gave you a nod, a small smile dancing across her lips. She thanked you, and elbowed Walker who was busy staring at your collection of vinyls.
“Oh yeah, thanks.” He shrugged, before turning to observe the 1940s vinyls. You prayed he wouldn’t comment on them.
Oh yeah, I’m just so desperately in love with James Barnes that I listen to them because it’s sometimes the only piece of him I can have.
Bob followed suit, giving you a small side-hug, saying he’d never had such good pie. Yelena then embraced you in a tight hug, which took everyone in the room by surprise. You were frozen for a second before hugging her back.
“I don’t think you know Barnes as well you think, малышка.” She whispered, before pulling away from the hug with a stern look. You averted your eyes, but the words echoed in your mind for long after they all left. Bucky told you he was going to take a shower before helping you clean.
It was 10h45 and you were hands deep in hot water and dish soap when the floor creaked, announcing someone had entered the kitchen. You looked up and locked eyes with your roommate, just wearing a simple white shirt and shorts. His hair was damp and he was still halfway through towel-drying it, his feet bare as he joined you at the sink.
“I know I said it a lot, but thanks. Seriously.” He said, throwing the towel over his shoulder. “I really couldn’t have survived tonight without you.” Your mouth went dry and you tried your best to not let just how much his comment affected you. You just nodded, not trusting your words.
You stayed in silence for a while before he took a step forward, grabbed a dish towel, and started drying the plates. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but there was a tension that your usual quiet evenings did not have. Like something was looming over the both of you – namely, your massive fuck-off feelings. You just needed to not look at him. That would do the trick at least until tomorrow where you’d continue your game of treating everything like normal roommate things.
Minutes passed and you cleared your throat, still avoiding his eyes.
“How was your day?” You asked, scrubbing down a dessert plate.
“It was good, ran late to a meeting, then ran late here.” He chuckled a bit as you handed him the plate and your fingers brushed again. You tried not to flinch. “You?”
“Mh, not horrible. Got everything done kind of on time,” You laughed under your breath, mostly out of nerves. “Marjorie let me off work early and zero assholes today,”
He stilled, before putting down the plate.
“What do you mean ‘work’?” He asked, his voice low. It was your turn to pause, because fuck you had told yourself you would not mentioned you’d worked today.
“I, uh, I just worked opening today, I ended early, I didn’t want to tell you! It’s not a big deal, I wanted to help you and I feel great honestly I’m-”
He interrupted you by saying your name in that low voice of his, and you looked up to him, still holding a glass under the bubbles.
“You… fuck, you’re amazing,” He almost whispered, his head slightly tilted. That look in his eyes, the one he got sometimes when it was just the two of you and the silence of late nights, almost made you believe, again, that there was something else. A spark. Something he’d finally acknowledge. You couldn’t breathe, your entire body warm and shivers running down your spine. He licked his lips, his finger twitching against his thigh. Shit, was this really happening?
And then he blinked, the look turning into something near stone. He abruptly turned back to the sink, grabbing the glass right out of your hands. You were still stunned, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. And then he spoke, and your entire composure crumbled.
“Just, thanks kid.”
You snapped.
“Why the fuck do you call me that?” You said, your voice trembling.
“What?”
Your throat felt tight as you wiped your hands off, now not afraid to stare at him. He’d been yo-yoing with your feelings all day, and you had enough.
“Fucking ‘kid’!” You couldn’t control your volume on that last word and he took a step back. He opened and closed his mouth a few times and before he could say anything you interrupted him. “I mean, it’s not like I’m a damn teenager.”
You’d gotten closer to him, almost standing toe to toe with him. His eyebrows knit, crossing his large arms over his chest.
“You are a college student in her fucking twenties, of course you’re a kid to me,” He said, carefully choosing each one of his words. And if you’d had a clearer mind, you’d have seen the obvious lie slip past his lips as he bit back what he truly wanted to say.
You couldn’t help but gape at him and tears threatened to spill as you swallowed hard.
“I hate that word,” Your voice was wobbly and you knew, oh you knew you were going to tell him tonight. You couldn’t do this anymore. This was torture for yourself, and you couldn’t spare yourself the imminent rejection. You needed to be free of this fucking torment that was loving Bucky Barnes.
Before he could open his mouth to ask why, or add anything else, you took a deep breath and tears started rolling down your cheeks.
“I’m in love with you, Bucky. And it’s fucking horrible, it kills me, because I try so hard to make you see me a different way. I try so damn hard everyday, and I get you calling me ‘kid’. It’s torture to wake up every day and see you in our kitchen, drinking coffee from my cup, making you dinner because I love you, and get treated like your little sister.” You were hiccuping through words now, dishes long forgotten. “And you wanna know the worst part? Sometimes I’m not even sure how you feel. And it would be so, so much easier if you could just put a stop to it. If you don’t feel the same, then stop dancing with me around our apartment. Stop looking at me with those damn eyes of yours and then call me kid. ‘Cause it fucking kills me and I don’t know what the hell to do anymore!”
The last words were a yell and you stood facing him, your chest heaving. He hadn’t moved a muscle and was just staring down at you, left hand tightly gripping the side of the counter. He wasn’t saying anything, just breathing just as heavily as you and you couldn’t handle it. You swallowed hard, smoothed your hair back, and pushed past him. He didn’t even try to follow you, just let you run to your bedroom, before you locked the door and collapsed on your bed.
Arms tightly wrapped against your pillow, you cried, and cried, unable to stop the sobs wracking your body. You weren’t even sure why you were crying anymore. The weight of your feelings, his damn explanation for your “nickname”, your exhaustion – all weighed down on you as you sobbed into your pillow, mascara running down your face, staining the cotton.
You stayed there, curled up on your blanket, crying until your eyes were dry but your body still shook with sobs. And you almost thought you’d fall asleep like that, but then a soft knock came from your door.
You ignored it at first, still squeezing your poor pillow, but he knocked again. You heard your name, muffled against the door. So you got up. Not bothering to fix the mess your hair had become, not even caring that your perfectly selected outfit for tonight was all crooked and wrinkled. You reached the door, your fingers shaking as you hovered above the knob.
With a deep breath, you twisted it, opening the door with a creak. Bucky was on the other side, his eyes rimmed with red and his hands flexing. It was quiet as you both took in each other’s appearances, till he finally spoke.
“I, uh, I’ve just been sittin’ there,” He nodded to the wall next to your door. “Trynna figure out what the hell I was doin’. What I was gonna say.”
You stayed silent, your arms wrapped around yourself, avoiding his gaze.
“Can I come in? Just to talk? Please?” He added. You clenched your jaw, but logic got the better of you. You needed to face this, even if you would’ve rather anything else tonight. So you nodded, turning back to sit on your bed, clutching the pillow.
He gulped, stepping into your space, and sat at the edge of your bed, and took a deep breath. And he said your name again, in the tone that always made you feel like you were floating.
“I’m a moron. A massive fuckin’ idiot.” He said, his voice rough. He reached out for your fingers, still gripping the cotton like a vice. You let him tug you forward a bit, his large hand resting over yours.
“It was self-preservation, the whole kid thing,” He confessed, his thumb tracing circles over your skin. “Just the easiest way I could protect both of us. And I see now, it was the stupidest thing I could've done.”
“Protect?” You croaked, still trying to wrap your tired mind over his words. He let a pitiful laugh out and licked his lips before speaking again.
“Myself from falling even deeper in love than I already was. Evidently, it did not work out.”
You froze. You couldn’t have heard him right.
“Y-You what?” You stuttered out, head snapping up meeting his fond blue eyes.
“I love you,” He repeated, inching closer to you. “I always fucking have, from the moment you opened that door and accepted me as all I am. I fell in love with you so quickly it terrified me, and I didn’t want you roped up in, well all of this,” He gestured at himself “, so I just… pushed you away. And I’m so sorry, I never wanted to hurt you.”
It took your mind a long time to comprehend just what he’d confessed to you, holding his expectant gaze for a long moment, mouth agape. Emotion flooded you, love, anger, confusion.
This entire time?
You lifted a trembling hand, and his eyes softened, still rubbing circles on your other hand. He looked so bare and gentle that you almost felt guilty but with one strong push you shoved him off your plush bed, tears of fading anger and bubbling laughter filling your eyes. Bucky was clearly not expecting it because the supersoldier known for his strength slid right off, landing at the foot of your bed. You tried not to giggle as he looked at you shocked. You bit back your laugh, put on your most serious face and spoke.
“You are an idiot,” You said, shifting to have your face at the same level as his. “I’ve been torturing myself for months and this entire time, you felt the same. And never once did you consider that in protecting yourself, you just hurt me more.”
He lowered his head, brown hair falling over his eyes but before he could say anything, you slid your palm over his cheek, turning him towards you. Your eyes locked, and you found yourself drowning in his blue eyes once more.
“Don’t ever do it again.” You whispered, before you finally closed the gap, kissing him with the passion of months of built-up desire. It took him a split second to respond, his hand flying to your face, greedily sliding his lips against yours like you were the only source of water in the desert of his emotions. He groaned when you deepened the kiss, your lips opening to let him in. He shifted to kneel in front of you and your bed. It was perfect, Bucky drinking you in, you responding with the same vigour, hands wandering to his hair, his perfect brown strands.
You broke for air after what seemed like hours, but only to pull him up to the bed, and he obliged, standing to his full height. You shifted back, tugging him down to you, reattaching your lips as soon as possible. His weight was like a blanket to you as your legs wrapped around his strong thighs, tongue delving deep in his mouth.
Fuck, this was real.
Months of wishing he’d see you as more than just a roommate and here he was, arms bracketed on either side of your face as kissed you with more intent than half of your exes. Your arms snaked around his neck tugging him closer but the moment your hips started involuntarily bucking against his, he pulled away with a groan.
His lips were kiss-swollen, pupils blown out wide, dark hair tousled by your hands and if he were to fuck you right here and now, you wouldn’t have complained.
“I don’t, I don’t think we should go further,” He said, panting, though the insistent pressure you felt on your inner thigh told you his body had other plans. Yet, pulsing core aside, you knew he was right. You’d just upgraded your relationship from strictly roommates to… whatever you’d become. Maybe taking your time wasn’t the worst idea.
“Okay,” You said, a content smile dancing across your lips. You leaned up to kiss him one final time before he rolled off of you, laying next to you. You both stared up at the ceiling of your bedroom, his pinkie wrapping itself around yours. It was silent for a long time, only your breaths synched together.
“Bucky?” You asked, breaking the carefully crafted quiet.
“Mh?”
“If you loved me this entire time, did you notice when I would… dress up? Or down?” You hoped he knew what you hinted at. The dresses, the boxers, the bras. He let out a breathy laugh and moved to face you, elbow propped up.
“Fuck, I did. I almost had an aneurysm when you were just in that damn red bra. Almost lost my damn mind.” He answered, pupils dilating as if the memory of you just in your bra reignited the fire that had dimmed during the silence.
“I almost unhooked it,” You whispered, as if telling him your deepest darkest secret. He groaned, falling back on the pillows dramatically, hair fanning out around him. You rolled on top of him, laying flat against his muscled body. He was hard everywhere you weren’t and it fit so perfectly against you. You kissed him chastely on the lips.
“And the dancing? Was that…” Your voice trailed off as you looked down at him, unable to stop the rush of warm emotion through your veins as he looked up at you with the most adoring eyes you’d ever seen in a man.
“The moment I knew I was so, so fucked.” He replied, hands sliding on your hips, thumbs stroking your hipbones. “You looked up at me with those damn eyes of yours and I had to tell myself not to kiss you right then and there. Though I’m startin’ to think I should’ve.”
“Mhm, you should’ve. You had me convinced you thought I was a child.” You gave him the nastiest look, though your lips were still stretched in the smile that wouldn't leave your face.
“I’m sorry,” He said, his grip on your hips tightening, before kissing you briefly, but deeply. You rolled off him, but stayed close, burying yourself into his side as his strong arm came to rest around you.
“You looked amazing tonight, by the way.” Bucky’s fingers were tracing circles in your back, his lips pressed against the crown of your head. Pam was going to be so smug.
“You did too,” you echoed, hand resting on his abs, absentmindedly sliding up his shirt. It was nice. Quiet. And you stayed like this for hours, talking about everything and nothing, about the months you spent pining, about the months he spent pining. And eventually, you drifted off, cheek pressed to his strong chest. He stayed awake a little longer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, before closing his eyes peacefully.
It was perfect. It was everything he’d ever wished for, hoped for, and he was so at peace. After years of running, of pain, he’d found his salvation. And it was you, with your kind smiles, your food, your love, that had mended him. And he was perfectly at peace.
Until with a gasp, you woke up and stared at him panicked.
“I need you to be quiet, baby. Can you do that for me?”
Charlie Swan x Fem!Reader
Summary - While you and Charlie are tangled in the sheets—breathless and begging for more—Bella comes home earlier than expected.
Word Count: 1.2k
Warnings: 18+!!, sexual content, fast-paced, quickie, mentions of oral f!receiving, kissing, secrecy, unprotected piv sex, slight dirty talk, and cream pie.
(Let me know if I missed any.)
Disclaimer: Apologies for any potential spelling errors or grammar mistakes. Twilight au—details won’t be accurate to the films or books—they are rewritten to fit the story.
a/n - Another short one shot while I work on my longest Charlie one shot yet. Stay tuned! (Major apologies for how rushed this is.) Enjoy!! <3
“Please, Charlie.” You gasp.
Your back arches off of the plush mattress, your hand flying into his messy hair. A self-satisfied hum travels from between your legs, his eyes glancing up your squirming body.
“Want more already?” He pulls away from your pulsing cunt, your previous release glistening on his lips and chin. The sight is otherworldly, your chest rising and falling with pure need and arousal.
You nod eagerly, spreading your legs wider as he climbs over you, settling his hips against yours and capturing your lips in a devouring kiss. A hum rasps in your throat as you taste yourself on his tongue, earning one from him in return.
He moves swiftly—one hand beside your head propping himself up, the other fumbling with the waistband of his boxers. With a hand still in his hair, your free hand grasps at his waist, waiting to feel him stretch you out.
Your lips pull away from his to suck in a sharp breath, feeling the head of his cock drag between your soaked folds. A strained whine settles in your throat when he circles your clit, prolonging your anticipation.
In an instant, his head dips into the crook of your neck, his lips finding the sensitive skin below your ear and sucking gently. Simultaneously, his hips inch forward, his tip finding your entrance with ease.
In an effort of encouragement, your legs wrap around his waist, subtly tugging him closer and just a smidge deeper. You feel a smirk pull at his lips against your skin from your impatience—no matter how often you find yourself in this position, you’ll never get enough.
His now free hand braces itself beside your head, caging you in and gripping the pillow beneath you. Your breathing halts, and your eyes flutter shut, just waiting.
However, the jingle of keys and the slam of the front door halt Charlie’s movements. Your eyes shoot open, and his head pulls back. His wide eyes lock with yours, surely mirroring his shocked expression.
Bella is home. The two of you hadn’t expected her to be home until hours later. Which is why you had begun to indulge in such activities.
Thinking quickly, Charlie reaches over to the nightstand and turns off the lamp, making the room completely dark.
“She’ll think we’re asleep.” He whispers from above you. His silhouette is vaguely visible.
“What if she comes in here?” You counter in a hushed voice.
“She won’t.”
When has Bella ever barged into her dad’s room unannounced—especially at this time of the evening? Never. Your anxiety soothes slightly.
The both of you fall silent when you hear her clumsy footsteps trek up the stairs, followed by the closing of her bedroom door. Both yours and Charlie’s breathing is steady, soft breaths traveling through your noses to reduce sound.
A beat passes before you both relax, tension melting from your frozen positions. The coast is clear. Bella won’t be leaving her room anytime soon.
With a shaky breath, Charlie nudges his hips forward, stretching you at a deliciously tantalizing pace—inch-by-inch—your walls accommodating his solid length. Your chest tightens with the breath you’ve unintentionally held.
You let out a sharp exhale, a moan braided in the heavy breath, making Charlie crash his lips against yours to muffle your sighs. Both of you breathe heavily through your nostrils, eyes squeezed shut as he fills you completely, his hips snug against yours. His cock twitches, eliciting a soft moan from you.
When your breathing steadies, his hips don’t move, his lips gently releasing yours. With his forehead against yours, his eyes lock onto yours, determination clear in his gaze.
“I need you to be quiet, baby. Can you do that for me?” He asks, his brows scrunched in subtle concern—pleading.
You quickly nod, biting your bottom lip, “Yes, Charlie, I can.”
“Good.” He places a chaste kiss on your parted lips. “‘Cause I don’t wanna stop.”
“Me neither.” You let out a breathless giggle, only to hold back a strained groan when Charlie pulls his hips back, slowly pushing back in.
He quietly shushes you, repeating the antagonizing and teasing gesture. With every thrust of his cock, your breathing picks up, morphing into shallow pants—afraid you’ll be too loud if you breathe too deeply.
The suspense and secrecy of the situation only heightens your arousal—your second climax approaching alarmingly fast. That familiar tingling sensation in your lower belly melts throughout your limbs, clinging to his bare skin and holding him close.
Charlie struggles to stifle his grunts, his head falling to the crook of your neck and letting small groans brush past his parted lips.
“Feels so good.” He whispers, his warm breath fanning along your heated skin.
Usually, you’d moan in agreement, but only a shallow breath is squeezed from your lungs. Your head tilts back and eyes squeeze shut the quicker his pace becomes, the pads of your fingers digging into the expanse of his back.
“I’m close, Charlie.” You rush out in a hushed voice. Your brows scrunch the more your climax claws its way to its peak, teetering at the edge, waiting for a push.
“Already?” You can hear the cocky tone in his quiet voice, his lips smirking against your sensitive skin.
With your admission, he moves swiftly, his fists white knuckling the pillow beneath your head. His hips barely brush against yours, avoiding the sound of your skin connecting.
“More… m’so close.” You whimper, your legs spreading wider to deepen his thrusts, hitting you in all the right places.
His pace falters, prioritizing the strength behind the thrusts rather than the speed. He pumps into you deeply—slowly and attentively, only applying sudden force when he’s fully seated inside of you.
“Come on, baby.” He grits into your neck, rocking into you thoroughly.
The subtle desperation in his voice pushes your orgasm to its very peak—your mouth falling into an “o” and eyes opening as you come undone.
The beginning sound of a loud cry trickles out of your throat, though Charlie is quick to place a hand over your mouth, cupping your parted lips and leaning back to meet your gaze.
Your eyes are glazed over, your eyebrows furrowed and nostrils flared as your hips sputter against him—your walls pulsing frantically around his cock. A strained groan catches in Charlie’s throat as he slowly rocks his hips, pushing them as deeply into you as possible as his release crashes into him.
His eyes are locked onto yours, his hand still firmly planted over your mouth, slowly riding out his orgasm—shots of his cum coat your fluttering walls, mixing with your release and spilling out of you onto the sheets below.
When he’s fully undone, his movements halt, and his heavy breathing evens out into shaky breaths. Slowly, he removes his hand from your face, letting the air pierce your lungs in sharp inhales.
A brief moment passes before a lazy smile melts onto his features, and you quietly giggle in return.
It all feels a little… funny, as if you two are teenagers fooling around, afraid of being caught by your parents.
“Well,” He sighs, still inside of you, leaning over to pepper your face in gentle kisses, “now that I know you can be quiet.”
“Charlie.” You warn in a playful tone, welcoming his affection despite yourself.
summary: You're harbouring more than just a crush on your best friend - you're completely in love with him. It's too bad that Bucky is too busy entertaining other girls to see you as anything more than a friend. When you make the difficult decision that it's time to move on, does it push him to see what he never has before?
warnings: au, angst, yearning, friends to lovers, miscommunication, idiots in love, jealousy, reader waxes poetic about unrequited love for way too long, angst with a happy ending, no use of y/n, no smut but references to sex
a/n: i promise i’m not part of the forgive men agenda i just love angst with a happy ending :( also i think this might lowkey be buns but we roll! no smut in this one (just melodrama) but the next one will be horny again, promise <3
not proofread - if you see any typos, no u didn't <3
You suppose it’s probably about time that you develop some self-respect. Or at least some fucking boundaries.
Wanda knows it, too - it’s why her eyes are narrowed at you in open disapprobation. She twirls a pen around in her fingers, movements abrupt and irate. You figure the tense hush of the library is the only reason you’re not getting an earful right now.
September is streaming in, dull and cold, through the ceiling windows. There’s something a bit eerie about it at this time of year. Most students won’t make an appearance until exams begin to loom over them in about a month’s time. Right now, however, it is shrouded in a bleak sort of emptiness. A student mills about in search of a particular volume every now and again, but yourself and Wanda have the table to yourselves.
You fix the sleeves of your sweater and try to immerse yourself into the article open in front of you, but you can still feel her stare.
“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” she snaps, voice low.
“You promised you wouldn’t be mad.”
“Well, I lied.”
You wince. “I know. Like, I really know. It’s just so hard to say no to him sometimes.”
Wanda’s expression shifts to something like pity and you think that might actually be worse because you can actually picture how pathetic you must look to her - the girl who takes absolutely no shit and never has. The pen falls to the desk as her hands reach forward to grab yours. She pauses until she coaxes your gaze over to her, fingers padding over your cold knuckles affectionately.
“I know, darling. But I want you to listen to me. This is going to be the last time I ever say this, because I’m really not sure that it’s having any effect and, to be honest, I’m tired. Maybe this is a lesson that you’ll only learn after you have been hurt one too many times, but I am going to try one last time anyway.”
Something about the finality in her tone takes you by surprise. Actually - it does more than that, it terrifies you.
You have probably stretched the limits of what’s socially acceptable when complaining about your situation with Bucky and Wanda has put up with far more than she should have - always giving solid advice that is never taken. And you know that you need to stop talking about it. You have known for a while now.
But you can hear her loud and clear now; if you want to keep torturing yourself, you can do it alone.
“That boy is making a complete fool of you. We’re going into our third year of college and you’ve been on how many dates? You’ve slept with one person and came home crying afterwards because you felt like you betrayed Bucky. Meanwhile, he has a new girl attached to him at every frat party.”
She is gripping your hands tighter now, leaning closer with intense focus.
“And really, your feelings for him are just a symptom of one of the best things about you. You love hard, and I love that about you, darling. The right person will love that about you too - not take advantage of it. I mean, seriously, coming in to cuddle after messing around with another girl? That’s not being just-friends, it’s not normal and it’s not fair.”
Shame floods your stomach and finds its way to your face until you are sure you are the colour of plums. She hesitates, eyes flicking away briefly, before her face steels.
“And- I’m not sure how to say this without being cruel… it’s getting a bit embarrassing, watching you accept it.”
You feel deflated. Like she had just pricked a hole in your skin and watched all the air hiss out. She look at you as if she had just imparted some words of comfort, eyes sympathetic and brows pinched, while you attempt to blink away tears.
You can’t be mad at her, even if you wanted to. Because she’s right.
You know that Bucky walks all over you. And you know that you let him. He doesn’t even need to ask for the notes for a lecture he has missed anymore - you email them to him before even leaving the theatre. When he pulls you onto his lap, you curl up, head lolling gratefully on his shoulder, even when you know that it’s just because there’s no other girl around that he has an interest in. When he calls you at 2am because he’s leaving a one-night-stand’s house and doesn't want to crash alone in his room, you open the door and the duvet to him with a smile.
But you are ‘just friends’. Always will be.
He kisses you, but never on the lips. He says he loves you, but in that dismissive, buddy-ish way. He stays the night, but never in the way you want him to. He calls you that weirdly affectionate pet name, sounding like your goddamn husband from the 1940s, but it never means what you want it to.
Meanwhile, you tell all your friends that you ‘don’t date’, because going out with anyone else feels wrong. It’s pathetic.
You feel Wanda’s words rattle through your head and you know you will think about them late into the night. But it’s not her words alone that let you know for absolute certainty that things have to change.
It’s a giggle. Sweet and playful. Coming from across the library.
And of course it’s Bucky, because somehow it’s always Bucky. He’s whispering something to a blonde girl you think you recognise from your module on the Byzantines. He’s standing behind where she sits, one hand on her shoulder and the other brushing her hair back so he can speak softly to her in that beautifully tempting way you had seen a million times before.
He catches your eyes for just a beat and you watch surprise flicker over his face before his mouth curls into a smirk and his eye drops into a soft wink.
And that is it. The nail in the coffin.
Your first real act of defiance is a text. It feels rebellious and subversive, even though you know it’s not.
YOU: Sorry, Buck! Was asleep.
You put the phone down, feeling very satisfied with yourself indeed. In truth, you never usually turn Do Not Disturb on and keep your ringer up full volume, just in case Bucky decides to call. And when he does - the feeling of his body against yours as you both drift off to sleep makes each time you had woken up to marketing texts from Dominos worth it.
Last night, however, you tapped the Do Not Disturb button extra hard, as if proving a point. And, you think smugly, that point was now proven.
BUCK: no problem doll
BUCK: found another place to crash
Your heart sinks before you can tell it that it is no longer allowed to do that. This new version of you can guess very well where ‘another place’ might be, but she no longer cares. At all. Even a little.
You leave the phone down and amble out of your room, kicking rogue clothing items out of your path.
The flat is still in chaos from the night before. Beer bottles littered everywhere, a random body splayed unconscious across your sofa and a pouch of cat food open on the table for reasons you don't want to know. You are about ten minutes into clearing up the mess with a trash bag and microfibre cloth when Nat stumbles in, hair sticking up and makeup streaming off her face.
She looks so like something out of a comic that you can’t control your giggles. Nat rolls her eyes but she is smiling as she roots through the cabinet for some ibuprofen.
“Big night?” you ask, looking warily at what you think might be someone’s underwear in a wet heap on the floor. You pick out a pair of gloves from under the sink.
“Yup. And another one coming up tonight.”
“What’s tonight?”
She raises an eyebrow over the rim of her drinking glass. “Steve’s birthday. You’re coming too.”
“Oh.”
You pause for a second before returning to your task, now much more interested in the various beer bottles than before. You study them intently before tossing them, feeling her eyes burn through your skin.
Actually, you are planning on being sick tonight, but you had forgotten about that. You wonder what illness could suddenly seize you between now and this evening. Telling everyone you have diarrhoea wouldn’t be your preference, but it is starting to look like the obvious choice.
“Wanda told me about the whole Bucky thing. Says you seem to be taking it seriously this time, going on dates.”
Your throat contracts. You can only manage another “Oh.”
“You can’t just ignore him, you know. It won’t work like that.”
Yes, you know this. Of course you do. You met Bucky on the very day you started classes and since Steve and Nat started dating almost two years ago, your life had been inextricably linked with his. Scarcely a day goes by that you don’t see him, whether at lectures, in Steve’s flat or in your own. He is as inevitable in your life as death or taxes and even trickier to avoid. Which has made the last week a living nightmare.
You are aware there’s only so long that you can keep this up. But you’re not quite sure you’re ready to see him again. You’re not sure you won’t fall in hard again, the way you always do.
“You have to trust yourself. I do.”
Nat has a somewhat unnerving but mostly constructive habit of telling you exactly what you need to hear.
When Bucky sees you, it is as if he’s seen the sun after a month of darkness. Moments like this would have made the old you doubt herself, wonder if maybe there was something soft and secret lurking under that libertine exterior.
The new you keeps her distance.
You walk into the kitchen with Wanda and Nat to pregame the pregame, as instructed by Steve.
Despite the fact that the new you totally, categorically does not care what Bucky thinks of her, you still made a little extra effort with your appearance, fixing up your hair and applying your makeup with a bit more precision than usual. If you can’t get Bucky’s attention in the way you want, you would make damned certain to get someone’s.
You purposely don’t see Bucky making those eyes at you - the ones that demand your complete attention. You can feel them on your skin, but you won’t look.
Instead, you make idle chat with Sam, who doesn’t try to hide the way he is admiring you, eyes traversing your form leisurely. It makes you feel warm and giddy and pathetic. Because you know that excited feeling is just another symptom of your feelings for Bucky. Your body’s way of screaming, See, Bucky! Someone thinks I’m worth looking at!
You jolt when you feel large, warm hands on your waist, pulling you onto a familiar lap.
“Ignoring me?” he murmurs against your temple, pressing a soft kiss there. “Haven’t seen you in about a week, doll. Where you been?”
You fly into a standing position, perhaps a little too abruptly. Bucky’s chin jerks back in surprise, his arms raising involuntarily into a surrendered gesture.
“Forgot to get a drink!” you stammer out, stumbling away. All eyes are on you, now. The boys are confused, but you can feel pride rolling off Wanda and Nat in waves and it steels you.
You read the bewilderment on Bucky’s face as he questions whether he did something wrong - but when you shoot him a warm smile for reassurance, he returns it. He leans back in the sofa, probably assuming you will be back on his lap in two minutes flat.
“Don’t take it personally Buck,” Nat says and you can hear the smirk in her voice. “She’s been a busy girl. Barely has time for us anymore since she started going on dates. She’s in high demand.”
“You’re dating? Since when?” Bucky’s voice rings out and you hate that you can hear the hurt festering there. He’s your best friend, up there with Wanda and Nat. He should know that you had made the decision to start dating again. You should have told him. But how could you? You weren’t even sure you could look at him until this morning.
“She’s making it sound like I’m some nympho,” you laugh, but it’s shaky. “I’ve been on one date.”
“Who with?” Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t even smiling.
“Tony Stark,” Wanda says, matter-of-fact and cold. “Not that it’s any of your business, Barnes. She can date whoever she wants.”
Bucky usually takes the bait when Wanda taunts him like this and they bicker like siblings for at least ten minutes. Not this time. He has turned around fully on the couch to look at you, eyes blazing. You avoid his gaze, busying yourself with picking out a drinking glass.
“Tony Stark? Jesus Chr- are you being serious, doll? That fuckin’ guy?”
You bristle, defensive. Leave it to Bucky to make you feel shit about the men you choose to help you get over him.
“Yes, I’m serious. I mean, there won’t be a second date… he was a bit of an ass, actually. Had a god complex because of his daddy’s money. But he asked me and I said yes.”
Sam takes over from you to mix your drink. He gives you a wink, smooth as butter. “You should’ve told me you were dating now, angel. Woulda been first in line.”
“Not too late, Wilson,” you say, smiling cheekily.
Bucky is quiet and his arms are crossed. This time, when you sit on the other side of the sofa, he does not try to pull you onto his lap. It lasts about ten minutes.
Wanda is watching you give a masterclass in self-control with a tight, satisfied smile as the hours tick by. You are skilfully dodging Bucky’s approaches like they’re landmine, wounding out of the group conversation when he feels a bit too close for comfort and winding back in when you figure it’s pretty safe.
At the start, he brushes it off. When you wiggle out of his grasp or softly brush his hand from your back, using excuses like needing the loo or topping up your drink or having to speak to Wanda privately, he believes you. But as the flat fills up for the actual pregame, the attractive little line between his brows grows deeper. His attempts grow more desperate. When you announce your third ‘private chat with Wanda’, he sighs, only pulling you tighter to him.
“What are all these private chats about, huh? Can I not be in on the secrets?”
“Girl stuff,” you say, shooting him an apologetic smile and shooting out from under his arm before he has the chance to stop you. His arms reach out to grab you but they find only air. You are walking away.
Wanda links your arm with her nose in the air and the two of you walk off to an uninhabited corner. She can scarcely wait until you are out of earshot before she’s laughing.
“Stop!” you whine. “This is really hard. I didn’t think pulling away would make him try harder.”
Wanda doesn’t stop laughing, but she brushes a lock of hair behind your ear softly to compensate.
“I’m sorry, darling, but this is just perfect. I mean, look at him. He’s so confused he can’t even focus on the girls in the room.”
It’s true. Bucky had flopped down on the sofa after you left his side. His eyes are downturned and his mouth is set in a hard line. He is the picture of confusion. You can’t help it; you giggle a little bit too.
He clearly doesn’t linger on it very long. By the time you all make it to the bar, Bucky is talking to someone new - this time, a tall, brunette stranger.
You are used to this, but it doesn’t make it sting any less. She is swooning, inching closer to him, and you swallow down the resentment that threatens to spill out of you with an awareness that you would be no different to her, if you were in her place.
You gossip with Wanda, examining those in the room to guess who is getting with each other in secret. You sit down with Bruce and listen to him with genuine wonder as he describes what he is currently working on, even if you can’t fully understand it (science was never your forte). You flirt with Sam and feel a rush of satisfaction when he focuses his undivided attention on you, lighting up your skin with his approving gaze. And you can almost forget about Bucky.
It’s rare these days to have everyone in the group come together on the same night, now that life has become a bit more serious and coursework is no longer a mild suggestion but a real and consequential requirement to unlocking your futures. You feel guilty about the fact that your heart isn’t really in it.
“You’ve been really brave,” Nat murmurs, not looking at you but gripping your hand with a sort of maternal protectiveness. It makes you feel like a child, but you don’t mind it, really. “You don’t need to stick around any longer if you’re not feeling it. Thank you for coming out.”
You don't say anything but give her a grateful smile as you leap up to give Steve a hug and wish him a happy birthday once more. You’re deep in thought when Bucky appears beside you. You jump out of your skin.
“You’re going?” he asks, frowning. He grabs your coat from your hands and opens it in front of you to step into. You do as instructed, turning your back to him and looping your arm into one of the sleeves.
“Jesus, Buck,” you murmur. “Didn’t even see you coming.”
“Sorry.” He flashes you a pretty grin when you turn back around and you melt to liquid. Your insides feel gooey and warm. They always do when he looks at you like that.
“You’re going home?” he repeats and you nod once, attempting to snap yourself out of it. He was just chatting up another girl less than five minutes ago. You could hear Wanda’s voice in your ear, telling you to pick your dignity up off the floor.
“I’ll come with you,” he says, chipper as a kid. “Think Steve won’t be hanging around very long anyway.” He gestures over to Steve, where he is making out with Nat against one of the tables. Your nose wrinkles and Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich. The sound makes you smile but it doesn’t make you forget your mission.
“Um- actually…” you stammer. “I’m pretty tired tonight, Buck. Think I’ll go home alone.”
Bucky is astonished. Like, he actually blanches. His eyebrows raise up to his hairline and his lips part ever-so-slightly.
And it lights a fire inside you. You know you let him walk all over you, that you had never turned him down before. You have always been over the fucking moon on nights like this, when he would choose to hang out with you instead of taking home another girl. You can’t usually turn him down when he asks for something so prettily. In fact, he didn’t even need to ask. He just… just told you he would come with you, with the reassurance that you wouldn’t deny him.
And now that you have, he’s gobsmacked.
God- are you really this pathetic? Are you so predictably desperate for his attention, that you saying no to him just one time is enough to elicit this reaction? You feel a dull, simmering kind of rage bubbling in your stomach. You know it should be directly mostly at yourself, but instead you find yourself wanting Bucky out of your sight.
“But- doll, I haven’t seen you in a while. Missed you. I thought…”
“Sorry, Buck. Maybe another time.”
Or maybe never. Fuck this guy.
He's looking at you with thinly veiled hurt, but for once in your life, it does little to move you. Even his admission that he missed you doesn’t override your temper.
“At least let me walk you back,” he says reaching out for you.
You give him a tight smile and evade his grip. “No really, I’m okay. You have fun.”
You don’t give him the chance to argue again, spinning on your heel and zipping out of the bar before he has time to react. You can feel his eyes follow you out.
You delete the Instagram app when you get home, unwilling to see Bucky and his latest conquest in the background of some group picture. You finger hovers over his contact for one second of weakness, before you lock your phone and toss it away.
You comfort yourself with whatever you can scavenge from the kitchen. Most of the snacks you had bought for yourself are gone, as they often are, but you manage to find some semi-stale popcorn and figure it will have to do. You flick a 90s romcom on your laptop and lie horizontal, coaxing your thoughts away from Bucky and towards Hugh Grant to the best of your ability.
You hear Wanda stumble through the hallway to her room with an unidentified male who whispers louder than most people shout. Steve and Nat come in not much later. When the first moan rings out, you decide to continue watching your movie with headphones and try not to sulk.
BUCK: hey doll
BUCK: you awake?
You know what Wanda would tell you to do. But there’s some sick part of you that wants to twist the knife.
YOU: Yup. What’s up?
BUCK: you sure i cant come over?
BUCK: steve and sam are still out
BUCK: house is lonely
You’re mildly surprised that he didn’t go home with someone. You’re not sure if you can remember him striking out before.
YOU: Steve isn't still out, he’s here. Trust me when I say you don’t wanna be here right now.
BUCK: damn that sucks lol theyre like rabbits
BUCK: why dont you come over here then?
You pause for a moment, reading over the last text a few times. He doesn’t usually invite you over there, but then again, you don’t usually turn him down.
YOU: Not feeling it tonight, Buck.
YOU: Sweet dreams <3
BUCK: sweet dreams. love u
You turn your phone off, along with the movie. You can’t focus on anything anyway.
When you arrive at the boys’ apartment for board game night, you aren’t sure whether you need a drink, a deep tissue massage or a gun to fire at a passerby.
“Woah,” is all Sam says, immediately stepping aside as if you would steamroll him if he stood in your way.
Nat winces. “Guessing the date didn’t go well.”
“Understatement of the year,” you say, taking your shoes off and stomping further into the room.
In truth, it wasn’t just the date. You received an email first thing this morning, informing you that you received an about-average grade on an essay you had spent far too many hours on to justify the mark. Then, just as you were about to leave the house, the dishwasher flooded the kitchen with sudsy water. You had to skip two lectures while waiting to let someone in to fix it. You were informed that the company you had been planning to backpack through South-East Asia with this summer went bust, and your summer plans and deposit went swirling down the toilet with it. And, to top it all off, the only person you wanted to vent to about all of this was Bucky… whom you had hardly been speaking to for the last month.
So, overall, the odds of the date going well were probably not great in the first place.
“What happened?” Wanda asks, wrapping a gentle arm around you when you flop down beside her on the sofa. You laid your head on her shoulder and sighed.
“Literally the first thing he asked was whether I had an Only Fans. Which, like, already super weird. But whatever. So then we started talking about our families and stuff and when he found out I wasn’t from some super rich family, he accused me of having an Only Fans again to afford school. So I was like, ‘Uh, no, I’m literally on a scholarship, dude’. But by that point I wanted to get the hell out of there. So when the bill came, he asked to split it and I was like, ‘Yeah, totally fine’ and he accused me of having one again because I could afford dinner. So then I was like, ’If I was hot enough to make money on Only Fans, I would not be sitting here on a date with you’, and then he was like-”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve groans. “I can’t listen to any more of this. Where the hell do you find these guys?”
“The market is tough right now, Steve.”
“I can’t believe he asked you to split the bill, but I guess that’s what you get for going out with John Walker,” Bucky says, dripping with superiority. “I would never let a girl even see the bill on a date.”
You feel annoyance prickle at your skin, because of course he would be rubbing this in.
“Yeah, you just leave their beds at 2am instead. Like a real gentleman.”
Any satisfaction you might feel from the laughter that rings out across the room is instantly wiped out by the wounded puppy expression on Bucky’s face.
The conversation takes off around you. Steve is teasing Wanda for her taste in men and in response, she is mimicking the vulgar noises she hears from Nat’s room, which makes Sam cackle and Steve burn red.
But Bucky is still watching you with pinched brows and a small pout and it makes you feel so guilty that you don’t think you can put up with it much longer.
You leave the room, mumbling something about going to get some water, and you can sense that Bucky will follow before you even see it.
“Everything ok, doll?”
You give him an affirmative hum while you pluck out a drinking glass, hoping to god that Bucky will let you get away with avoiding eye contact. He doesn’t.
He holds your shoulders, grip impossibly gentle, and pauses until you meet his gaze. “You’ve been off with me, recently.” It’s not a question. It’s a cold hard fact and he’s waiting for you to explain why.
“Have I?” you ask. “Sorry. I didn’t notice.” You’re being purposely obtuse and it’s obvious, but you’re just not ready to have this conversation dammit.
“Yeah,” Bucky nods and his eyes are focused on you, glassy and intent. His hair is tousled and his brows are furrowed and god- he doesn’t even look confrontational, just worried. “Is it something I did? You can tell me, doll. Whatever it is, I know you’re right and I know I’m one sorry son of a bitch.”
You sigh, melting into his grip. You wrap him in a hug, mostly because you don’t want him looking at you like that anymore, all dejected and apologetic.
Because Bucky has nothing to be sorry for. Not really.
You are the one who caught feelings. He doesn't know how you feel, you never told him. And even if he might have a sneaking suspicion that you have a crush on him, he can’t possibly know just how deeply it runs. You are sure he never would have played with your feelings if he did. From his perspective, this relationship is no more than a close - and according to Wanda, deeply inappropriate - friendship. Nothing deeper.
He pulls you in tight to his chest, one arm wrapping tight around your shoulders while the prosthetic one brushes through your hair. He presses a kiss to your head and your heart seizes. It would be so easy to fall right back in if you allowed yourself. You can almost feel yourself slipping.
“Sorry, Buck,” you murmur. “Things have just been a lot. I don’t have as much time as I used to and I’ve been really tired. Didn’t mean to be off with you.”
“That’s ok, sweetheart,” he says, practically cooing at you. “It’s all those damn dates you’ve been going on. You should give it a rest.”
You freeze and Bucky notices, the hand in your hair pausing mid-stroke. You look up at him. He’s caught off guard, watching you watch him - searching your face to identify the misstep he knows he must have made.
“Give dating a rest? I’ve been on four dates, Bucky.”
“Yeah but… doll, those guys have sucked.”
“Most men do,” you snapped, pulling fully out of his grip. His face falls completely, hand reaching out for you. “Doesn’t mean I can’t look for one that doesn’t. I’m not gonna just sit around and watch everyone else around me date anymore And don’t act like such a Puritan. You’ve gotten with far more than four people this term.”
“No! That’s not what I was trying to say. I just… I wanted to…”
“Am I interrupting something?”
Wanda is standing at the door to the kitchen, a hand on her hip as she appraises the two of you, eyes narrow and suspicious. You take another step back from Bucky for good measure.
“No. Nothing at all.”
“Why don’t you let Sam take you out?” Nat asks, swirling a piece of spaghetti around her fork.
The bolognese has gone cold, the evidence of a conversation that is more engrossing than your feeble attempt at cooking. You end up like this with Wanda and Nat very often; letting time slip away unnoticed while you chat and laugh over the kitchen table. This time, you are joined by Steve.
In recent weeks, those laughs have been directed at your pathetic excuse of a dating life. You had just been describing date number six in great detail; Brock, who asked you out at the gym, revealed five minutes in that he was a full-time YouTuber, pedalling incel content. His channel was called Crossbones and it had a grand total of 63 followers. You couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry when relaying it.
Nat bumps your shoulder with hers. “You know he’s been dying to. Put the poor guy out of his misery.”
You scoff. “Sam is not dying to take me out. That’s just an inside joke we have.”
“No, it’s definitely not.” Steve says. “Like, unquestionably. He’s into you.”
Your brain goes for a bit of a spin, face flushing with heat. This can hardly be how you find out that Sam has feelings for you.
“Relax,” Nat laughs. “He just thinks you’re cute and he’d like to take you out. He’s not, like, in love with you.”
You slacken. This is familiar territory. Because, yeah, you kind of know that.
Sam had never made it a secret that he finds you attractive and recently, with you returning his advances more than ever before, he has stepped it up a bit. He hardly leaves your side at group events and flirts just a little bit more than a joke would call for.
He has asked you out on a date before. Three times, in fact - all in your first year of college. You said no every time, not just because you had tunnel vision on Bucky, but also because you knew that dating his friend was probably the most effective way to make sure that Bucky would never even think about dating you.
But, as it turns out, Bucky never even thought about dating you anyway. And you still have tunnel vision for him, but maybe one good date with Sam could help fix that.
But, still.
“I don’t think I can,” you say, hesitantly. “We’re friends. It’s weird.”
“Well, keep flirting with him the way you are and he’s gonna ask you,” Wanda says. “I think you guys would be good together.”
You fumble for a bit, looking to Nat for help you don’t receive.
“I think he will eventually,” Steve says eventually, stretching back in the iron chair that is ridiculously too small for his giant frame. “But in the meantime, let me set you up with another buddy of mine. I think you’ll like him.
You are going to kill Steve. And bury him. And exhume him. So you can kill him again.
“And then she just… ended it. Out of nowhere.” Scott blubbers over his entree. You watch with mild discomfort as his teardrops slip into the thin soup in front of him. “Well, not out of nowhere, I guess, because I did get arrested. But it was a misunderstanding. It wasn’t, like, a proper gang. Nobody died.”
Steve had promised you Scott was one of the good ones. And it really seemed like he was, at first. He was handsome and polite and just so funny. He had you laughing so hard, you almost forgot about Bucky for a minute.
But you, of course, had to go ahead and ask him about his studies. Which led to him telling you he was taking a gap year due to an arrest half-way through the term. And, hey, you’re all for rehabilitation - who were you to turn someone down for their past mistakes? But the subject moved swiftly to his ex. Which resulted in… well, this.
“I’m really sorry,” you say, shifting awkwardly in your seat. You aren’t sure whether it would be considered insensitive to continue eating your bruschetta. “What’s her name?”
“Hope,” he sniffles.
How fitting. You hope that a semi-truck swerves into this restaurant right now and takes you both out.
“Why don’t you just text her?” You can’t believe you’re giving your date advice on how to get back with his ex. This must be a new low, but you’re trying not to think about it.
“She blocked me. Like I meant nothing to her.”
Your wish of a semi-truck doesn’t quite come true. But Bucky Barnes, who you consider to be equally as destructive, walks through the doors of the restaurant at that moment.
Maybe it’s because you had been looking wistfully towards the exit, but you sometimes feel like you have a radar for him. Like he could be in a room of one thousand people and your eyes would automatically find him, like magnets. A ridiculous idea occurs to you because you think briefly that he might have the same radar for you. He doesn’t even have to scan the room to find you.
You sink deeper into your chair, but you know he’s on his way over to your table, no matter what you do to try to prevent it. His eyes are dark and grave until he sees Scott’s miserable state.
“We ok over here? Scott, what did she do to you?”
Seeing him light up at your snivelling date sets you on fire. One side of his lip curls up in thinly veiled amusement and his eyes crinkle. He was laughing at him - and maybe at you too.
“What are you doing here, Bucky?” you ask.
He can’t even pull his eyes away from Scott who hasn’t stopped weeping, smile growing wider by the minute. “I love this place,” he says, distractedly.
That’s a lie. You know it is, because Bucky has never been here before. He goes to the same Thai restaurant every single time unless you force him to expand his horizons.
You’re growing bristles, each whimper from Scott adding fuel to a fire that’s already burning bright. Is he here to witness your car crash of a date?
You’re furious at the intrusion, but mostly you’re just fucking embarrassed. You’re happy to joke about your failed dates with friends, even with Bucky, but him calling over to witness it with his own eyes is crossing a line. He really wants to bathe in how much of a fucking disaster it is, trying to get over him? You hope he’s enjoying his front row seat.
“She didn’t do anything,” Scott manages eventually. “Sorry, this is so weird of me. I just- we started talking about Hope and I lost it. I was just saying that she blocked me.”
You think it’s a bit inaccurate for him to say that ‘we’ started talking about Hope, but you let it slide.
“Maybe she needs space, man,” Bucky says, sliding into the booth beside you without invitation. “I mean, you fucked up bad. You were interning with her dad before you got arrested, right? Maybe you should go make it right with him first. She would probably appreciate that.”
Scott looks down, mulling over Bucky’s words as if they were a riddle to solve.
“You’re right,” he says eventually. “You’re so right. I need to speak with Hank. I’ll go do that right now. Thank you, Bucky.”
He’s jumping up and out of the booth then, apologising profusely and throwing down fifty bucks before jogging out. You don’t bother telling him it’s too much - he probably stole it anyway.
“Good kid,” Bucky laughs, tossing a casual arm around your shoulder. “Guess I’m your new date for the evening.
That is cruel. You shove his arm off with a bit too much force, rage rising its way up your gullet. “No you’re not. I’m leaving.”
“Woah, woah,” Bucky grabs your arms while you struggle to push him out, still chuckling softly. “What’s so bad about me, huh?”
You hadn’t really thought about how difficult it would be to get out of the booth with a mountain of a man sitting in the way. And there is a danger that you end up on his lap. So you stay put, huffing dramatically for good measure.
Bucky says nothing for a moment, doesn’t bait you into a response. He picks at your bruschetta, even though it has now gone cold.
“You give good relationship advice for someone who is chronically single,” you say eventually.
“I could be a good boyfriend for the right girl.”
And god, don’t you know it. It’s what is making this whole thing so much more painful. The way he had been able to read what Scott’s ex needed just by hearing about the situation is so him. You love how thoughtful he is, how he really thinks about things before acting. The way he makes you feel like you’re his first priority, even though you know it’s not true.
“Did Steve tell you I would be here?”
Bucky looks at you, as if weighing up whether or not to tell the truth. “Yeah,” he admits finally.
“And why the hell did you show up?”
The waitress comes to clear your starters then, a tall, pretty girl with a cute uniform. She is sneaking glances at Bucky out of the corner of her eye but he doesn’t see. He’s looking right at you.
“Don’t act like you didn’t need saving from that train wreck.”
“I didn’t,” you snap. “I don’t need you to save me from dates, Bucky. I can handle myself. This date was probably one of the best ones I’ve been on, actually.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, like he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to laugh at the sad truth you just shared. Your face softens involuntarily, a smile creeping onto your face before you can stop it. And a beat later, you’re both laughing, all the fight dissolving from you. You hate how difficult it is to stay mad at him.
“Why do you keep going on these stupid things? These guys are losers. Scott is a great guy but, doll, I would kill you if you started dating him for real. He doesn’t even come close to deserving you. None of them do.”
“What do you want me to do, Bucky? Stay alone forever?” you ask him, absently ripping up the napkin in front of you. “I just gotta go on enough of these things till I find someone decent.”
Bucky pauses, clearly deliberating his next words. The cold mental of his pinky finger brushes against your hand. “Would you date someone you already know is decent? Like, a friend?”
You sigh. “Steve and Nat already had this conversation with me.”
“Yeah?” Bucky is looking at you seriously now, eyes traversing your features while you twist uncomfortably.
“Yeah, but… I don’t wanna make it weird.”
“Why would it be weird?” he asks, voice strangely soft. “I think…. I think it could be a good thing.”
Your face is flooding with heat and you mind begins racing, guilt flooding all circuits. You don’t look at Bucky. Even though you have now accepted that there is nothing between the two of you and never will be, you still feel weird talking about other men in front of him - especially Sam. As if you’re cheating on the Bucky that is your boyfriend in all the scenarios you imagine to help you fall asleep.
“Yeah, I mean, maybe. But I dunno. I feel like maybe we’re just friends. Sam’s obviously amazing and I know he wouldn’t be like any of these guys but-”
“Sam?” Bucky has been electrocuted, his eyes wide and concerned. “I thought all of that stuff was just a joke!”
His tone is surprises you for a moment, abrupt and forceful. You don’t take any notice of the waitress quietly putting out the main courses yourself and Scott ordered because Bucky is looking at you like you had just told him you were about to run off and join the travelling circus as one of the monkeys.
“Well, so did I, but Steve says he’s probably going to ask me out for real soon,” you say slowly. “Why? Who were you talking about?”
Bucky doesn’t say anything - just continues to stare with that same urgency, brows pressed together and mouth parted. You’re frowning right back.
“You can’t date Sam,” he says at last.
His voice is laced with such certainty, such finality, it pisses you off. Who the hell does he think he is? You’re aware that you have allowed much more than you should have throughout the years you have been friends with Bucky, but where the hell is he getting the idea that he can tell you who you should or shouldn’t date? In fact, who the hell does he think he is - barging in on your date, telling you that you shouldn’t date at all?
“What the hell are you talking about? I can date whoever I want, Bucky.”
He looks at you for just a second longer, brushing a frustrated hand through his hair.
And then his lips are on yours.
You almost short circuit. You can’t stop whatshappeningwhatshappeningwhatshappen- from running through your brain. Bucky tugs your frozen body closer to him, as if begging you to respond to him.
And you can’t help it. The way you melt to goo around him.
Your hands reach up frantically. You’re pawing at his neck, tugging at his collar. You need him closer. And far be it from Bucky to deny you what you need.
His lips press softly to yours and his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. You know what it feels like to be close to Bucky - you have fallen asleep with his body wrapped around yours - but kissing him is better than you had ever imagined, like he is moulding himself to you totally and completely. Like he is giving himself to you.
Except, when he starts rubbing absentminded circles on your hips, you go still, your brain conjuring the image of a blonde stranger at a dive bar a few months back. The one he was talking to instead of you. The one he was touching, just like this.
And suddenly you feel sick. You pull away from him and he’s looking at you, eyes bleary and dazed, like he had become drunk off the feel of you. He takes you in for a moment, eyes drifting to your swollen lips, before leaning in again.
Your right hand comes up between the two of you, reaching his chest - like a curtain falling between you. Bucky stops, watching you with some curiosity, an adorable little wrinkle forming between his brows.
But you don’t move it. Because you’re thinking about the timing of this, putting everything together like puzzle pieces in your head.
You start dating. And then Bucky kisses you.
Because he is annoyed at your sudden lack of attention to him? Or perhaps because he thinks you’re fair game for a one-night-stand now that you’re dating? You can’t decide which one is worse. Either option makes your stomach curl and your face blanche, because you thought you might have meant more to him. You thought that, despite all the one-night-stands and the manwhore tendencies, there was a place in his heart specifically for you - that you were somehow more important to him than all the other girls he fucked and dumped. Obviously not.
You climb swiftly onto his lap and Bucky gasps, clearly not expecting you to make such a bold move out of nowhere. But before he can react, you are clambering over him and out of the booth. He’s watching you like this is all moving much too fast for him.
“You’re a real asshole, Bucky. Leave me the fuck alone for a while,” you say, and you’re storming out of the restaurant before he has time to catch up.
BUCK: please doll can we talk about this?
You throw your phone back onto your nightstand and, just to stop yourself from replying to him, you gather your things and head over to the bathroom for a shower.
You’re vibrating with anxiety when you turn the dial and step under the warm stream of water, trying to manoeuvre your thoughts away from Bucky but coming up short.
You know you can’t keep avoiding him. The last four days have been hell - you’ve had to decline every group hangout, get your groceries delivered and even steer clear of the fucking library, safe in the knowledge that he was probably hanging around there to catch you.
Your hands are rubbing soap onto your body and massaging the shampoo into your hair a bit too aggressively. Truthfully, you are spiralling. You want so badly for that kiss he gave you to wake you up - snap you out of that sad delusion you have been harbouring since you first met him. But all it really did was make you fall twice as hard. You can’t stop picturing the way his lips felt on yours. You fall asleep to the memory, mind conjuring up the sensation of him sucking softly on your bottom lip and hands caressing your hips. Your subconscious doesn’t care that he had done that to a hundred girls before you, just that it had happened and it was real.
Wanda and Nat are getting worried. You recall the glances they give each other across the table when you tell them that you’re just going to stay in again tonight and study from your room as you let the warm water wipe away any traces of shampoo and replace it with this globs of conditioner. You have been pretending to not notice their concern so you don’t have to acknowledge it, but you know it’s just a matter of time before you’re confronted.
You hadn’t said a word to Wanda or Nat about what happened in the restaurant. Not to Nat because you know she will just tell Wanda. And not to Wanda because you’re certain she will be so disappointed that you gave in and kissed him back, even if it was just for the briefest of moments. The logical part of you is screaming that she will understand and commend you for sticking up for yourself and leaving, but she had been so clear about what she expected from you that another part of you doubted it.
Mostly, though, you’re just afraid of what her reaction will be towards Bucky. Their relationship is already fraught - in no small part thanks to you. You think this might be the last straw for her. She may never speak to him again.
You realise dully, as you dry your body and step into fresh pyjamas, that you are still protecting him. No matter how much he hurts you, you’ll still protect him. You’ll still want him.
By the time you leave the bathroom again, you’re feeling pretty refreshed. You still can’t stop that same scene from playing over and over again like a film behind your eyes, as if you’ve lost the remote for your brain. But at least you’ve finally gotten out of bed - your hair is clean, your teeth are brushed and your muscles are relaxed.
Until you take a step inside your room. Because there sits Bucky Barnes on the edge of your bed, fingers laced together and knee bouncing. You stop dead when he looks up at you.
“I did knock,” he says with a bashful grin and you spin on your heel to walk right out.
“No, wait. Sweetheart, please.”
You hesitate for just a moment, but it’s long enough for Bucky to make his way to you and coax you over to the centre of the room, hands gripping your wrists firmly.
“Who let you in?” you ask, but you already know the answer. Because it sure as hell wasn’t Wanda.
“Nat. Don’t be mad at her, she’s worried about you.”
You keep your mouth shut, but you will so be giving Nat shit later on.
“How have you been?” he asks, shifting his weight to his right foot.
Really?
You give him your best unimpressed glower, looking up at him through your lashes. You don’t respond.
“Doll, I’m sorry for what happened. It was too sudden, I get why you ran off. I should have spoken to you properly first. I’m sorry. But please, just talk to me.” His pretty blues are looking at you nervously for any trace of emotion, but you’re keeping it locked away.
“What do you want to talk about?” you say and even you can hear the frostiness in your tone.
“I want you to tell me why you ran away. Why you’re so angry at me for kissing you.”
Heat blooms in your chest for just a second. There it was - verbal confirmation that he had kissed you, that it wasn’t just another one of your dreams. You breath is stuttering.
“Because it’s wrong, Bucky. It’s not fair.”
“Why?” he presses, hands moving from your wrists to grip your hands. “What’s so wrong about it? Maybe if you just gave it a chance-”
“Give it a chance? Bucky, I’m not gonna be one of those girls. I’m actually really fucking offended that it even crossed your mind.”
“One of what girls?”
“One of your girls!”
Bucky pauses. He’s frowning to himself, as if mulling your words over again and again in his mind. It’s a strange thought, but you wonder briefly if things will ever be the same between you again. Maybe this is when you find out that Bucky never really saw you as more than a conquest. Maybe this is the end of what has been the most beautiful but unkind friendship of your life.
When he finally speaks, he’s speaking so gently you almost don’t hear him.
“I don’t want you to be one of my girls, doll. I just want you to be… my girl. My only one.”
Your heart begins to gallop, something deep and sweet thrumming through your bloodstream, mixed with a sense of dread you can’t quite describe. Because what the fuck did he just say to you? And what the ever-loving fuck did it mean?
You had thought about this moment so often - every day, nearly. You had pictured every possible scenario, every possible monologue he could have put to you - overflowing with explanations and promises to change. But you had never imagined anything like this; Bucky standing in front of you, hands on your yours, fingers brushing over your knuckles. Eyes brimming with hope and desperation. Knocking your world off its axis with just one sentence.
You relish in this with a hammering heart and a guilty conscience. Because you know something isn’t right here; that this all backwards and wrong. You’re acutely aware that Bucky is acting out of desperation. He has felt you slipping away from him in the last few weeks, has complained about it to you and everyone else who will listen endlessly. This is his way of holding onto you in whatever way he can, even if it doesn't align with his real feelings. And you know you’ll have to acknowledge that once you begin speaking again, so you take liberties. You just watch him, living in this moment where you can still dream that you might say yes to being Bucky’s girl - his only one - for as long as you can.
“Please say something,” he mutters, shy and skittish.
“I’m not going to be your girl, Bucky,” you say and his face collapses. His hands let your own ones go gently and they drop to your sides. You try not to take notice. “You don’t want me to be your girl. You want me to be your friend that happens to do a lot of girlfriend stuff for you.”
“What are you talking about?” Something like frustration is creeping onto his features.
“You’ve had two years to say this, Bucky! Is it a coincidence that you suddenly bring up this shit once I start dating other people? I know you miss having my full attention, but this is a cruel tactic. It really is.”
“I’m not using any fuckin’ tactics, doll,” he fires back. “You really think that low of me?”
“What am I supposed to think? I’ve watched you fuck around with girl after girl for the last two years, Bucky. And now I’m supposed to believe that you’re, what-”
“In love with you, yes.”
He nods like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The annoyance never leaves his expression and there’s a bite to his tone - you think it might actually be fuelling his candidness. The room spins a bit and you feel lightheaded and sick- maybe lovesick-
“Fuck you. I don’t believe you.” You don’t register that you’re close to tears until you hear the sound of your voice - thin and wobbly.
“Doll,” he breathes, softening at the sound of your voice. You want to bury your head in the sand. You hate how frail you must look. You hate that he is making you refuse the thing you want more than anything else in the world. “I don’t know what to tell you. I love you. Always have.”
“That’s such bullshit, Bucky,” you spit and you do your best to ignore the rogue tears that you feel escaping. You watch his fingers twitch, fighting the instinct to wipe them for you, but he knows by the furious look on your face that it is not a good idea. “You don’t make the person you love watch you get with other people, night after night. You don’t only ask them to be yours when you’re scared they might start dating someone else.”
You feel so idiotic and childlike, standing in front of him and letting two years worth of heartbreak ooze out of your voice and eyes and skin. It’s all flooding out and it’s too late to close the gates. It’s so fucking humiliating that it takes you a few beats to even look at him.
When you do, you see that Bucky is frozen to the spot. There’s something uncertain there - in his eyes, in the line between his brows, in the small wrinkle by his lips, which are pressed in a hard line as he watches you. It disappears as soon as your gaze meets his. His jaw slackens, lips parting ever-so-slightly. He puffs out a breath and you know he sees it - sees the way you’ve suffered over the last two years.
And you realise you were right. Because nothing will ever be the same. You can never again pretend to be ok with him sleeping around. You can never again sleep in the same bed and pretend it means nothing. And you think maybe it’s about time - that this is all ridiculously overdue, even. You’re simultaneously mourning the loss of your old relationship with Bucky, while breathing out a sigh of relief. You’ll never have to play the part of yourself - the cool girl who is totally ok with being second priority in his life - ever again.
“I didn’t know!”
He’s grabbing you again, hands clutching yours as if you’re about to slip away. His eyes are glossy and pleading, voice cracking. His intensity startles you. You don’t know how to think with him this close.
“Stop.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Fuck- I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Stop it.”
“If I knew, it would have been so different but I didn’t so it wasn’t! You need to understand.”
But you don’t. He’s speaking too fast and you’re still crying and you think he might be too but you’re not sure. He’s talking and talking and he won’t stop, you can’t even hear him anymore.
You put your right hand up - a silent signal that you need a moment - and he understands instinctively. The room goes silent. He shepherds you over to the bed with all the gentleness and care in the world, like you’re made of glass, and you hate him because why does that make your heart squeeze?
Your mind is spinning but Bucky doesn't press you - just gives you the time you need to recoup in that annoyingly thoughtful way of his. He is shuffling around nervously, stretching so his t-shirt expands against his skin, leg bouncing. You can feel his eyes - guilty, despondent and oh so pretty. They’re lighting up your skin and you wish they would look somewhere, anywhere else but they never move.
You’re attempting to get a grip on how things stand, fighting to get back just an ounce of control.
Bucky now knows how you feel about him. He’s still claiming to love you - right? Or is that all out the window now that he knows how you’ve agonised over him? And you have absolutely no idea how you two will ever come back from this with any semblance of a relationship intact.
“Can you tell me I haven’t fucked this all up already?”
Bucky looks stretched thin. He is looking at you like a man ruined, but still deerlike and hopeful. Like his whole future hedges on the next words to come out of your mouth, but he’s not optimistic.
“None of this makes sense,” you landed on after some deliberation. “I think you’re doing this to not lose me. But that’s not going to work, Buck.”
“But I’m not!” and he’s begging you now, crawling onto his knees in front of where you sit - eyes downcast. You like how he looks down there, you decide.
“I didn’t know, sweetheart. I swear I didn’t.” You can tell he’s avoiding using the words - saying outright that you love him, in case he’s wrong. In case he was mistaken about what he could now read clear as day in your eyes. You decide to remove any doubt. It’s all out on the table, anyway.
“How could I tell you that I loved you when you were with a new girl every night?”
Bucky is destroyed. His throat is bobbing up and down and you think it might have something to do with the past-tense you used. That dreaded word - ‘loved’. It’s a lie - you love him as much as ever, maybe even more. You’re just trying to hold on to the final scrap of your dignity.
“You always said you don’t date, doll. I figured if you felt anything for me, you wouldn’t go ‘round saying that. Was just trying to move on. Couldn’t even go through with it most of the time, was too in my head ‘bout you. Ended up leaving and texting you instead.”
Your mouth fills with marbles. You search his face for any hints of doubt or dishonesty but he looks up at you with that unwavering certainty that you have never seen in anyone else. Could that be true?
He squishes his left cheek against your bare thigh hesitantly, like he’s expecting you to throw him off. You don’t. You’re not really prepared for the wave of relief that washes over you after finding out that he hadn’t really been sleeping with other girls before crawling into your bed. You weren’t aware of just how much it had been weighing on you, but you feel ten tons lighter.
“Been trying to tell you for weeks now. Ever since I found out you started dating,” he admits, sheepishness creeping into his eyes which still have yours on lock. “Figured maybe you might be willing to give me a chance. But you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I started dating because I was fed up waiting for you to see me,” you say, and you can hear your voice softening against your will.
“I always saw you,” he says, voice hoarse. “Always saw you. Never saw anyone else but you.”
You don’t say anything. What can you say?
“Am I too late?”
You want to say no. You want to trust everything that he’s saying is true - that you can forget all about the mess he made of you. But can you?
“I don’t know, Bucky I need to think.”
He nods, like it’s what he had been expecting. But you know him better than that. You know that he’s trying to mask his disappointment, to save you the guilt. Ironically, it makes you feel worse.
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
He doesn’t move his chin from your thigh immediately. Instead, he drinks you in with his eyes - as if it’s the last time he will ever see you. When he stands, he presses a kiss, deep and sweet, to your hair. He gives you a small, watery smile. You watch his back as he walks out the door.
In the end, it’s Wanda who is Bucky’s biggest defender.
“I hate to give it to him. Like, as in- I really can’t fucking describe how much I hate to give it to him. But his explanation does make sense, when you think about it from his point of view. Which I will not make a habit of doing, but still…”
You lower your eyeliner pencil, only half way through with your right eye. Nat’s hand freezes, until a light burning smell begins to shroud your room, prompting her to lower the hair straightener.
“You’re… on his side?” Nat croaks. You can’t tell whether it’s amusement or genuine shock on her face.
“No, never,” Wanda defends herself, turning to you. “I’m on your side. Always. And in this particular circumstance, I do think he is telling the truth. So as your best friend who wants nothing more than for you to be happy - even if that must be with the biggest idiot this world has ever known - I think maybe you should consider forgiving him.”
You’re still too stunned to speak. Nat is laughing from somewhere behind you.
“I hope you know what it took for me to say that,” she says grumpily, turning back to the mirror.
“I agree,” Nat says, finally. “I mean he’s a dumbass, obviously. But it does make sense.”
You don’t say anything - continue to work on your eyeliner while Nat and Wanda discuss whether or not Hope and Scott would turn up in a couples costume. Rumour has it that they had made amends. Good for them, you guess.
You are sporting a flirty little yellow dress - Belle from Beauty and the Beast, if the hem of her dress was about 25 inches shorter, with cleavage to boot. You are mildly self-conscious, watching the trimming of the skirt where it sways at your upper thigh. Last year, you had been Abraham Lincoln for Halloween. You had been planning on being Gandalf this year, but the thought of having to face Bucky for a serious conversation with a long, grey beard made you change course at the last minute.
And maybe, just maybe, a small part of you wanted to impress him.
It’s been a few days since your conversation in your bedroom, and you still haven’t spoken. Not even a text. Nat has been telling you that he has been asking about you - checking whether you are doing ok - but it doesn’t make it sting any less to pick up your phone in the morning and realise he still hasn’t checked in.
Which is ridiculous. Because you wanted this, right? You’re the one who specifically asked him for space to think - how can you be disappointed now that he is giving you what you want?
But you can’t help it. You’re playing reruns in your head of how he told you he was in love with you, how broken he looked when he realised what you feel for him too, the moment in the restaurant when he kissed you. They’re interrupted only by intrusive thoughts that you have of imagining him with other girls. You wonder if maybe he has already moved on to someone else, if he’s warming someone else’s bed while he waits for your answer.
Realistically, you know that’s not true. You know that’s not him. But it doesn’t stop it from running around unbidden in your mind.
You miss the pregame for the pregame this time, too busy adjusting your makeup, fixing your hair, stressing over your outfit. You almost change multiple times, tempted into a safer black outfit with cat ears, but Nat and Wanda wouldn’t hear of it.
You can hear the noise from the boys’ apartment from across the street and it only gets louder as you approach. The music is so loud, some rap song with a beat so heavy that you can feel it reverberating inside your ribs. You’re sure they’re probably ignoring multiple complaints. Many loud voices are chatting and giggling and shouting - an equal measure of boys and girls, you note against your will.
Nat walks into the apartment without ringing the bell as usual. You almost wish she did so you would have another few seconds to compose yourself. Wanda sends you a reassuring smile, bumping your shoulder with hers lightly, and the two of you follow her in.
The lights are low, retro neon lights flickering off the plastered walls. There’s a styrofoam skeleton hanging from the ceiling and a killer clown statue in the corner that makes you shiver. Hope and Scott pass you by, dressed as two insects, which makes Wanda roll her eyes and fish a $10 note out of her pocket for Nat. Scott shoots you an embarrassed smile which you return.
Like magnets, your eyes find Bucky instantly when you walk into the open plan kitchen. As if all your worst fears have just materialised in front of you, there is a girl standing in front of him, curling a strand of hair around her finger, and your heart plummets. You rip your gaze away, knees feeling as if they might buckle from under you.
“Look at him,” Wanda whispers. She gives you an encouraging nod and you look back at him, focusing this time on Bucky alone, rather than the girl making love-heart eyes at him.
He looks out-of-it. He is giving the girl a polite smile, responding to her with short sentences you can’t quite lip-read, but his eyes are flickering away, searching the other faces in the room. He is leaning away, presumably making up some excuse to leave, when his eyes catch yours.
Wanda whispers something - maybe good luck? - and recedes into the crowd when she notices him walking toward you, clutching his beer with a tight grip, jaw twitching nervously. When he reaches you, you’re greeted with an anxious, tired face. Now that he’s closer, you can see the dark shadow under his eyes.
“You look… wow,” he says sheepishly, straightening his jacket awkwardly while his eyes travel your form.
“High praise from… Jim Halpert?”
“Clark Kent, actually,” he smiles, opening up a button of his shirt to show you the bright red ’S’ underneath. “But I’ll be whoever you want me to be.”
You flush. How the hell does he just do that? You can barely speak.
“I was expecting Gandalf,” he continues. He’s mouth is twitching nervously, and you think maybe he’s trying to prevent you from evaporating like smoke.
“Steve told you about that?”
He nods. “I’m disappointed I didn’t get to see it.”
“Didn’t know you were into that.”
When you’re laughing together again, you can almost swear nothing had passed between you at all. He gets that sparkle back into his eyes - the one he was missing on the walk over to you. The grin dancing on his lips is so pretty and hopeful.
Your laughs taper off, but his smile doesn’t. He is just looking at you like you are something wonderful. And it’s doing strange things to your stomach.
“Was starting to think you weren't coming,” he says quietly, after a moment. “Was thinking about you a lot the last couple days.”
“Me too,” you breathe, legs shaky.
“Are you still mad at me?”
You consider it for a moment. Bucky looks slightly petrified, his chin tucked low and eyes round. His lips are raw from being bitten, but he catches his bottom lip in his teeth anyway, chewing it as you deliberate.
“A little bit,” you say. “But I do believe you now… after thinking about it.”
He nods, and you can see a little bit of relief claim his features.
“And I can probably admit that maybe I should have communicated a bit more,” you continue. “It was wrong for me to assume you knew what was going through my head.”
“No, I’m the one-” He’s shaking his head, and you smile, cutting him off by placing a hand on his chest. He stops dead, his flesh arm instinctively reaching up to cover yours. He swallows hard.
“But I’m going to communicate now. I love you. I have for a long time. And I only want to be yours, nobody else in the picture. If that’s not what you want-”
You don’t get to finish your thought. Bucky’s lips are on yours then, faster than you can blink. One hand is snaking through your hair, ruining the style you spent far too long on, but you can’t bring yourself to care - you’re pressing yourself closer to him, eager to feel every hard plane of his body against yours. Your hands crawl up to his neck, pawing at him and rubbing circles there until he sighs against your lips.
“That’s what I want. It’s all I want.”
You’re smiling at him then and you heart aches so fiercely with love that you can’t speak for a moment, pressing small, giddy kisses to his mouth instead. Bucky can hardly reciprocate, he’s beaming so wide, so you get more teeth than lips, but you don’t care. You feel like two children, giggling with cheesy smiles that can’t be dampened, even by the knowledge that your friends are looking on.
a/n: i don't wanna see anyone up in this bitch complaining that he should have grovelled more bc this fic burnt me the hell out, i almost made her forgive him instantly just to end my suffering lmao
summary: what was supposed to be a simple no-strings hookup between best friends turns complicated when feelings inevitably get involved. huh. who would've thought?
wc: 11.4k (i'm just as shocked as you)
genre/tags: fluff/minor angst (miscommunication trope tbh)/smut (TWO smut scenes woohoo!), best friends to lovers, protected sex (condom/bc), p in v sex, oral (fem & male receiving), size kink (clark has a huge dick, but y’all know that 😝), slight praise kink
"just one night," you had said. "no strings. no feelings." you liar.
you were the one who proposed it – all cool and casual, as if it wouldn't ruin you. and now? you can't even get through a bowl of cereal without thinking about the way clark kent sounded when he moaned your name.
it's been a week. one whole week since he wrecked you and then kissed your forehead like it was nothing.
(it was something. it was everything and you hate him for it.)
because now? you know no one else will ever come close.
you scroll through tinder like a bitter old woman; this guy's too short. that one uses the wrong "your." one says their most irrational fear is "women." (kill me.)
all the while, a tiny voice in your brain that you wish would just shut up whispers: clark would never.
and thanks to that voice, you end up mentally replaying that night for the thousandth time – back when it all started. back when it was just popcorn, a movie and a stupid, stupid idea.
– thursday, 9:42 P.M.
it had started the way movies nights at your apartment always did: clark stretched out on one end of your couch, his arm over the back of it, a bowl of popcorn sitting between you, and you on the other end, your socked foot tucked under his thigh, claiming the space like it was normal (which it was). you're halfway through some cheesy drama neither of you were really watching, spending most of the time catching up on life other than the daily planet.
you lean over, tossing your half eaten dragon roll from the takeout sushi platter onto the coffee table, before returning back to slumping against the couch, eyes scrutinizing the t.v.
then came that scene – hot and heavy kitchen counter action, complete with frantic kissing and someone getting hoisted onto the marble and you can tell it's a scene the actors had to practice at least three times by how seamless and graceful it seems.
you scoff, reaching for popcorn from the bowl between the two of you. "god, i miss that."
clark glances over at you, a brow quirking upward. "being thrown onto a kitchen counter?"
you popped a kernel into your mouth. "being kissed like that. hell, being touched like that. my last date ended with a side hug and apple cash request for half the appetizer."
clark winces, face visually contorting. "ouch."
you sigh dramatically, leaning your head back against the couch. "i'm in a dry spell so bad, it's actually concerning."
clark laughs. your transparence was something he had to get used to at first but over time, he realized that's just how you were. unfiltered. bold. honest in a way most people weren't. it didn't scare him. if anything, it made talking to you easy.
he nudges your leg. "join the club. last girl i dated told me i was 'too polite to be hot.' whatever that means."
your brows furrow, internally scolding the woman for ever saying a thing. "it means she had no taste, clark. trust me, you're hot and polite. some of us are into that, y'know."
clark flushes a little at that, lowering his head to conceal his shy smile but you see it anyway.
maybe that's why you said the thing. because of his dumb, stupid, clark smile.
you reach for another handful of popcorn, keeping your eyes fixed on the movie screen even though you've completely lost the plot. you may be blunt at the best of times, but even you have a little shame, so you cover it up well. "you know," you begin, tone softening considerably enough for clark to look over at you again, "we could fix that."
clark tilts his head, confused. "fix what?"
"the dry spell." you glance at him now, meeting his eyes. "you and me. just one night. a mutual exchange."
his mouth parts, just slightly, and then it opens and closes like a blubbering fish. you can practically see the gears turning in his head, the way his jaw flexes before he clears his throat. "are you serious?"
you shrug like it's no big deal, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribcage. "sure. we're both adults. good friends. we trust each other. and we're both painfully single. why not?"
he says nothing for a moment. you can see him doing that thing that he always does: thinking it through, being careful, considering every angle, every potential consequence.
your nails dig into the rough fabric of your couch, dwelling on the proposition you just made. with every second that passes, regret sinks heavy in your stomach.
you open your mouth, ready to backpedal and make a joke of it. you'll laugh it off, blame the movie or your hellish dating era–
clark cuts you off before you get the chance, his voice low. firm. certain.
"okay."
your breath catches, brows lifting slightly.
his eyes are on you now, his expression steady, unreadable but darkened in a way that makes your skin prickles and goosebumps rise on your arms. "if you're sure," he adds, softer this time. "i'm in."
you blink. "yeah?"
he nods. "yeah. just two pals keening for mutual relief." despite the joke in his words, he delivers it a little more seriously.
you nod along. "exactly. just sex. no strings. no feelings. we're still friends after this."
"right," he agrees sharply, adjusting the black frames on his nose. there's something different in his expression now, something unreadable. it's times like these when you wish you could read his mind. you share a planet with a superalien and yet, there's no accessible device you can use to know exactly what clark kent is thinking. pity.
"okay," he says again, resting his palms against his thighs. one of his thighs presses to yours. did he scoot over? "so, when do we start?"
your eyes flutter, startled at the sudden shift.
"um... now?"
and then he looks at you, really looks at you in a way that sucks the breath from your lungs, his gaze drags across your face like he's memorizing every detail he's never let himself linger on too long.
a beat passes.
"now works," he murmurs, nodding to himself and you're unsure if you're seeing things but you think you catch his adam's apple bob in this throat.
he turns to face you and there's another moment of silence between you, darting eyes looking into each other's with neither of you sure how to make the first mood. the tense air falters slightly when you both laugh, visibly shaking as if trying to fray the nerves you feel.
"you're allowed to kiss me, clark." you crack a smile, further easing the tension and giving him the go-ahead.
clark nods, reaching his arm up. his hand comes up gently, fingers brushing along your jaw, like he's hesitant in case you pull away. but you don't. you can't. you're frozen in place, heart pounding in your ears as clark kent, your best friend, your coworker and lunch break buddy, closes the distance and kisses you.
it starts slow and you shouldn't be surprised.
he's soft, tentative, like he's testing the waters, but the second your lips part and your hands slides up the back of his neck, feeling the curls at the nape of his neck, it's like a dam breaks.
the kiss soon turns hungry, almost desperate in a way that makes you feel dizzy.
he groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your chest when you gently tug at his hair, pulling him closer to you. his hands find your hips and he grips them tightly as he sits beside you.
your free hand trails down to tug at his shirt. he's quick to lift it off, breaking the kiss for a mere second, tossing the fabric somewhere behind the sofa.
you don't remember how you ended up in his lap, only that you're straddling him now, grinding down over the thickening length pressed against his jeans.
your hands aren't shy in the way they glide across the newly discovered fair skin of his torso. he's on the fairer side but you can imagine the farmer's tan he'd probably sport had he stayed home and not moved to metropolis.
you knew clark was a big guy. everyone did. he's a tower of a man, standing over you at six-foot four-inches, yet with the most gentlest of demeanors.
there's nothing gentle about clark's body though. you have half the mind to ask him when he finds time to go to the gym consistently but the other voice in your head tells you it'd ruin the moment.
clark's hands travel everywhere, too: up your thighs, your waist, your back. he touches you like he's been waiting for this. starving for this.
he hides pent up energy a lot better than i do, you think to yourself.
your teeth scrape against his bottom lip, holding the soft flesh between them and he exhales sharply, like you've knocked the wind out of him.
"bedroom?" he pants against your mouth when you release his lip.
you nod breathlessly. "please."
he stands with you still clinging to him, lifting you like it's nothing (seriously, what can this man bench?), and in a matter of seconds, you're in your room.
it's not the first time he's been in your room. it's not even the tenth. he's helped you assemble ikea furniture in here. he's helped you hang picture frames and fix a broken drawer. he's sat on your bed, fully clothed, eating pad thai while you struggled to find what to wear for a particular date.
but this...
this is different.
this time you're underneath him, flat on your back, watching as he looks at you like he's never really seen you before. granted, he hasn't. not like this.
his hands smooth under your shirt, eyes trained on the faded material. you're about to ask what he's staring at when he murmurs softly, "this is mine."
you glance down, eyeing the oversized fabric plastered with the logo of an indie band you know nothing about. a distant memory flashes in your eyes. "y'gave it me after that big storm," you remind him, your tone matches his. "never asked for it back."
"so you decided to steal it?" he asks, eyes flitting up to yours, a hint of amused challenge in his eyes.
"more like long-term borrowing," you correct him firmly. "i was going to return it eventually," you add.
"eventually," he echoes, like he doesn't believe you for a second.
his fingers toy with the hem of the shirt, brushing along the bare skin of your navel. it sends a shiver across your body, not only by his touch alone, but how he looks at you.
you swallow. "you want it back?"
clark hums, leaning in, nose brushing against yours. "eventually," he teases.
he kisses you again.
it's slower this time, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his hands skim your sides, pushing the shirt up gradually, savoring each inch of skin he reveals. your arch to help him, letting the fabric slide up off your arms, over your head and get tossed somewhere beside your bed.
clark sits back just enough to look at you, really look at you, and the look on his face makes goosebumps raise your skin. his eyes drag down your chest, still clad in a bra.
"um, may i?" he asks, voice strained.
a smile cracks your features, warmth blooming in your chest at the his display of shyness during your moment of intimacy. you nod with a hum of approval, grateful that the bra you decided to wear today had the clasp at the front between the two cups.
clark breathes out a quiet sound of relief, like he's also grateful for the simplicity. his fingers find the clasp easily, but he doesn't rush. he hesitates for just a second, giving you one last chance to change your mind, even though your body is already arching toward him in invitation.
the clasp clicks open with a soft snap and you bra loosens against your skin.
with a bated breath, you feel clark slide the straps from your shoulders carefully, until the bra has been tossed aside to join your – his – shirt on the floor. you blink up at him as he finally takes you in fully, his breath catches.
"you're beautiful," he says simply, like it's a fact. not a line, not flattery. just the truth.
you swallow hard, unable to speak, so you reach for him instead, pulling him down into another kiss, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. this one is deeper, messier. your tongue slide together, desperate and hot enough to make your thighs press together.
clark groans into your mouth, feeling the movement of your legs, as if he knows exactly what it means. his hands slide down your sides, settling on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles, just under the waistband of your sweatshorts.
then he shifts, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, pressing slow kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. you gasp when his lips find the sensitive spot below the corner your jaw, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks softly.
"clark," you whisper, barely able to get the word out.
he lifts his head slightly, eyes searching yours. "tell me what you want," he murmurs.
you bite the inside of your lower lip, feeling the heat pool in your lower belly. "i want you to touch me. really touch me."
he lets out a breath, nodding.
clark moves lower, trailing kisses down your chest, pausing to mouth at your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch beneath him with a croon. you moan softly when his lips close over your nipple, sucking at the stiffened flesh. your eyes flutter shut as his large hand gropes the breast that's not in his mouth, before it begins to trail down.
his hand coasts down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and then he goes lower, beneath the cotton of your underwear.
your breath hitches when his fingers brush over your slit, already soaked and his breath stutters against your skin. he releases from your nipple with a soft 'pop,' eyes meeting yours.
"oh my," he groans, "you're so wet."
you whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate. "yeah, well... you're kind of hot."
he huffs to himself – maybe a laugh, maybe it's out of disbelief – and presses a kiss to the slope of your breast before slipping a finger between your folds, circling your clit with a precision you don't want to know from where he learned. your body jerks at the contact, a soft moan leaving your lips.
clark watches your expression closely, trying to read your pleasure.
"like this?" he asks lowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.
you nod frantically, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer. "mhm... just like that."
his touch grows more confident, smiling to himself as he coaxes another croon from you when he pushes the finger inside your velvet walls.
you gasp, hands moving to clutch his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut at the slow and deliberate stretch of his digit inside you.
he hums in approval at the feel, like the warmth of you is enough to drive him crazy. his thumb moved to your clit, circling in tandem with the curl of his finger, drawing sounds from your lips he's never heard before. now that he has, he doesn't think he'll ever forget them.
your hips buck up to meet his hand, your breath hitching as his finger begins to move faster and with more purpose. he carefully adds a second finger, watching your reaction closely.
"oh, clark," you pant, voice breaking.
"does it feel good?" he checks in softly, continuing to crook his fingers inside your gummy walls.
"y-yeah, real good," you nod, lashes batting.
your body burns and your pulse pounds in your ears, thighs trembling as he works you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.
"clark, i'm– oh my god–"
you're at the precipice. he can feel it, too.
"mhm, go ahead, sweetheart," he hums against your temple, his thumb circling faster over your clit.
you're unsure if it's his fingers or the pet name that triggers your orgasm but you cum with a sharp cry, legs tensing and back arching as waves of pleasure roll through your body. he doesn't pull his fingers out until you're gasping, twitching and whimpering from the overstimulation.
when you finally open your eyes, you look at his expression: tender. a littler in awe.
you pull him into a kiss before you can overthink it, your lips a 'thank you' for the orgasm he gave you. one of your hands drift down and feel how hard he his through the denim of his jeans.
"your turn," you murmur against his lips.
clark shakes his head slightly, kissing your jaw. "we're not playing a board game."
you arch a brow, still catching your breath. "clark."
he grins softly. "okay, fine. 'm not going to argue with you."
you laugh breathlessly tugging at the loops of his jeans before your reach the button of them. he lets you unbutton his jeans, finding the zipper and pulling it down.
clark hisses when the zipper comes in contact with his bulge, separated by the cotton of his boxers. you glance up at him, eyes flitting to his face, just in time to see him bite down on his lower lip and knit his brows together.
you push the denim down his hips and he helps, standing off the bed momentarily to tug the rest of them down his legs and kicking them aside.
"those, too," you murmur, eyes zeroing on his boxers, more specifically the hard outline behind them.
clark exhales sharply, his cheeks tinting a faint pink as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and leans over to slide them to his legs before stepping out of them and leaving them in the pile on the floor.
your breath catches as he straightens again, fully bare now and yeah... you're in awe.
your eyes roam over him and he shifts slightly under the weight of your gaze. he's not bashful per se, but he's something close to it.
"jesus, clark," you whisper.
"what?" his ears flush a darker pink and that makes you grin because of course he's shy about it. it's so him, it almost makes your chest ache.
"you, clark," you smile, chuckling through your nose. "that," you add, nodding toward his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.
he sucks in a breath and you find his reaction dear. of course the guy with the biggest dick you've ever seen is modest about it. and of course it's clark kent of all men.
"c'mere," you beckon him over, sitting up in your bed. "wanna make you feel good."
he kneels at the edge of your bed, voice strained, raspy with want. "you don't have to," he murmurs but the twitch of his cock says otherwise.
"i want to," you answer softly, gently tugging him by the arm until he's settled against your headboard.
"sweetheart..." he trails off.
there it is again. that damn pet name.
"let me," you ask, practically beg, eyes boring into his with desperation. "please."
his lips purse as if he's holding something in and then he's nodding. "okay."
you wrap your fingers around him, heat returning to your belly when you realize your hand barely encircles his entire circumference. you stroke him once slowly, and clark's eyes flutter shut. his jaw tenses, tossing his head back against the headboard.
"god," he breathes, the sound low and guttural, like the air's been vacuumed from his lungs.
you smirk a little to yourself, tucking the moment away in your memory.
your hand moves again, slow and steady, watching his every reaction. you watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster now, and the way his brows scrunch together while his lips part with a groan when you twist your wrist just the right way.
"feel good?" you ask.
clark's eyes flutter open, glassy and dark with heat. "yeah," he rasps. "feels... feels great."
you beam at his words, pride filling your chest.
you shift lower on the bed, settling between his legs and placing a hand on his thigh for support. his breath catches when he realizes where this is going and you don't give him a chance to overthink it.
you run your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. he lets out a sound that's part groan and part whimper, hips twitching up instinctively.
he moans your name softly, pressing the back of his head harder against the headboard. part of you wishes you could take a picture.
you hum around the thick head of him as you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue and easing forward until you feel the weight of him on your tongue, nearly overwhelming in girth. his hands twitch at his sides before one reluctantly moves up to your hair.
clark doesn't push. doesn't guide. he just holds, like he needs something to ground him.
you set a rhythm, bobbing your head and stroking him with one hand what you can't take. you relish in the way his moans grow louder, more broken, a sound you want etched into your mind forever.
"sweetheart," he calls, voice tense with strain. "you have to wait– i'm–"
you glance up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, trying to read his expression.
"you're going to make me cum," he warns, voice cracking.
why does he say that like it's such a bad thing?
you double-down, sucking harder in response, flattening your tongue along the underside of his cock again, and that's it.
clark groans, loud and low and helpless, as he comes, hips bucking once before he stills them. his hand fists your hair while the other attempts to cover his mouth as if he's afraid of waking the whole building (too late, you think).
you ease off him slowly when his thigh trembles beneath your hand, lifting your head up and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you look up at him.
he looks completely and utterly wrecked. his hair is mussed, his skin is flushed pink and damp with sweat. his eyes are still dazed, slowly blinking at you as he comes down from his high. he looks... so pretty.
"jesus," he pants softly. "you really didn't have to do that."
"i know," you murmur with a small smile, crawling up his body until you're in front of his face. "i wanted to."
and then he smiles at you, a dazed one that sucks the breath from your lungs that you cant help but lean in to kiss him. he reaches up to cradle your jaw, uncaring at the fact that he can taste himself on you. his other hand drifts to your waist, pulling you closer and against him.
your tongues meet each other's, gliding together in almost a lazy manner. his kiss is languid, almost reverent, like he's trying to memorize the inside of your mouth.
you sigh into it, boneless and content as your body arches into his, bare chests pressing against each other's.
his hand drifts to your hip, toying with the hem of your shorts. "can't believe these are still on," he murmurs against your lips.
"you're the one who fingered me without taking them off first," you remind him with a chuckle.
"mm, my fault," he muses, beginning to tug down the material. you let him, allowing him to slide down your shorts until they're low enough for you to kick off and off the bed. "and these?" he asks, fingers playing with the lacy hem of your cotton panties.
you pull your head back slightly, eyes darting between his. "you want to?" you ask softly.
he swallows as he looks at your face in the dim light, just as flushed as his. "if you want," he answers, fingers still idly pinching the lacy fabric between his fingers.
you nod once with certainty. "yeah," you answer in a breath. "i do."
clark leans in to kiss you again, hands gripping your waist to flip you and ease you onto your back. he pulls away, his hands skimming your sides as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. his eyes meet yours once more, another silent check.
you lift your hips up in answer.
he slides your panties, soiled from your first orgasm, down slowly, tossing them aside into the growing pile on the floor.
you let him pull your thighs apart, exposing your core to the air and his gaze.
"you're so..." he trails off, but he doesn't finish, like the words fail him.
you look up at him, curious despite feeling so vulnerable before him. "so what?"
he smiles softly as if he's amazed. "just... beautiful."
your breath hitches at his words. it's so clark for him to say; it's so earnest and devastating at the same time, it makes your heart stutter in your chest.
he takes another glance down at your pussy before he snaps out of it, scooting away to reach for something on the floor. "i think i've got a condom in my wallet," he murmurs, a little hurried.
you choose not to dwell on wondering how often clark gets propositioned with sex to regularly carry a condom in his wallet.
it's clark after all.
any woman would be lucky to be with him.
you stop him, your voice calling out, "i've got a box somewhere in my nightstand."
the look on his face as he turns to look at you is boyishly flustered and adorable. you watch him crawl back over to you, hovering over you as he reaches in your nightstand drawer and retrieves a foil packet.
clark kneels up on the bed, leaning back against the back of his calves and carefully opens the packet. he rolls it on his hardened cock and you swear your brain circuits watching him do something so mundane and yet so intimate.
is this how you usually reacted to a date rolling on a condom?
then, he's hovering over you and his hand moves between you both, wrapping around himself and dragging the head of his cock slowly throughout your folds, gathering slick.
you whimper softly, hips twitching instinctively.
"you're sure about this?" he asks through gritted teeth, like he's not pressing his tip against your entrance, his restrain a hairline away from snapping. his glasses are already fogged and you hate to admit to yourself that it's one of the hottest things you've ever seen.
"yeah," you nod, letting out a breath.
he nods back at you, maybe to himself, before pushing inside you.
you cry out softly at the invasion, the head of his cock stretching your walls as he sinks into you. your hands scramble to find something, anything, to hold on to. they end up gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his warm skin as your breath stutters.
clark is big. thick. huge as he fills you in a way that feels overwhelming yet perfect at the same time.
"'s tight," he rasps, staying still as your walls flutter around the two inches he has inside you. "'m sorry."
"don't apologize," you pant, your eyes fluttering. of course he's apologizing for being too big. "i can take it."
he groans at your words, unable to resist pushing deeper inside you, another inch entering your tight walls. "sweetheart, y'sure? i don't have to go in all the way–"
how sweet.
"please," you whine, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling his hips closer to you, not letting him pull out.
he grunts at your eagerness as you urge him in closer, deeper as he sinks another inch into you, the stretch burning just enough to make your toes curl.
"fuck," he breathes, like the sound is punched from his lungs. is this the first time you've ever heard him swear? you think stars form your pupils just because he sounds so pretty when he curses.
you feel so full, so deliciously and impossibly full and yet you still want more, knowing there's a little more of him to go. you babbles something along the lines of 'more' and 'please' and who is clark kent but the man who'd grant your every wish?
with one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out, cock fully seated inside you. he lets out a low groan, feeling his pelvis press against your slick fold. the breath in your throat hitches at the pressure, the fullness you feel.
for a moment, the two of you stay sill like that, bodies locked together and foreheads touching. clark removes a hand from your hips to gently brush your jaw with the pad of his thumb.
"you okay?" he murmurs, voice so soft it makes your chest ache.
you nod, nails pressing into his back, but your grip loosens slightly. "yeah," you manage to say, a little breathless. "just... give me a second."
clark kisses your cheek, then your temple. "take all the time you need."
and so you do. you catch your breath. you adjust, the dull ache between your legs slowly becoming one of pleasure. you give him a nod, tilting your hips, silently inviting him to move and he takes the cue.
he starts the thrust, slowly at first but it's deep. so deep. every movement is unhurried and almost reverent. his gaze remain on you, maintaining an intense eye contact through every thrust, his lips parted as soft groans leave his lips.
"i can feel you everywhere," you whisper, half-dazed. "you're everywhere."
his pace stutters for a beat at your words. he lifts his head to look at you, to really look at them. you think you see a flicker of something raw in his gaze but you can't be sure.
he leans down to kiss you and it's messy, deep, and needy, while his hips roll into yours with a growing urgency. his hips pick up their pace, moving harder and faster now, each thurst enough to make your vision blur with pleasure.
you clutch his back tighter as the coil in your belly gets tighter. your walls flutter wildly around him, desperate for release.
"sweetheart," clark pants, his voice ragged. "i'm so close."
you nod, voice barely a whisper, "me, too."
clark buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath stuttering as his body tenses. you feel him twitch inside you, his release crashing through you like a tidal wave, your own orgasm ripping through your core in response.
you cling to each other as your breathing slows, skin slick with sweat and hearts pounding in your chests. clark stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath, and you’re both too dazed to say anything.
then he presses a kiss to your forehead.
and that’s when you know.
you’re fucked.
totally, completely, emotionally fucked.
the next morning, you blink awake to an empty bed.
the sheets are cold and tangled where he was only hours ago. the faint scent of his cologne lingers, but the warmth is gone – vanished with him.
your hand instinctively reaches out, only to find the space beside you painfully vacant. no familiar weight. no slow morning breath against your skin.
you sit up slowly, heart hammering in your chest, eyes scanning the room. you notice the faint imprint on the mattress where he had lain, and your hands brushes over the cold sheets.
his clothes are missing too. no sign he'd ever been there.
you swallow the lump in your throat, running a hang through your messy hair and check the clock on your nightstand: 7:02 A.M.
how could he just... leave? no goodbye?
your mind races but you push down the swirl of panic, reminding yourself: no strings. no feelings.
you shake your head bitterly.
but the ache in your chest says another story.
your morning routine is quiet, your mind muddled with the memories of the night prior: the way clark's hands skimmed your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, the way his mouth moved so smoothly against yours, the way he practically engraved himself in your gummy walls.
you expected some form of conversation when you woke up that morning. then again, what would you even say? good job, clark! maybe too good of a job haha... ha.
maybe not.
but still!
a text. a note. something.
you keep glancing at your phone like it'll buzz with a text from him. but your screen stays blank. almost mockingly silent.
it was supposed to be uncomplicated. it was to just be physical. fun, even. and that's all it was – right? so why does it feel like he permanently carved himself into you and then disappeared, making you feel hollow?
you try not to spiral, really. but it's hard when your body still aches from how he held you, how he was inside you. you continue relaying the night like a film reel with a stuck stop button.
within an hour, you arrive at the daily planet still shaken, though you pat yourself on the back for looking otherwise; your hair is neatly done, lip gloss on and blazer crisp over your shoulders. your stomach is still in knots but you're hoping the distraction of news will take your mind off it.
you half expect clark to avoid you completely, given how he left your apartment. instead, he's there, at his desk (early for once) and as chipper as ever.
"morning," he greets, offering that charming grin that usually makes your chest warm. today, it makes you want to scream.
you manage a polite smile, your throat dry. "morning."
he holds up a to-go tray, offering you the contents in it. "got your usual. extra shot of espresso. thought you might need it – perry's been on edge all morning."
your fingers wrap around the warm cup, but your heart twists at the casual way he says it. thought you might need it. not because of perry, but maybe because he spent the night buried inside you.
he moves on, heading over to jimmy's desk to talk about the recent superman sighting.
apparently there'd been some alien creature on the clinton bridge – some grotesque, hulking thing with four arms and acidic spit, according to eyewitnesses. superman had swooped in early enough before any casualties were made, defeating the alien. you suspect clark is the key reporter on the case, given his connection to the superhero.
still, since when did clark go to jimmy first about stories?
you stare down at the coffee in your cup as if it'd give you an answer.
the morning drones on. perry barks headlines across the office, jimmy's frantically pacing the tiled floors while chewing a pen cap and clark... clark is perfectly normal. he's chatting with interns, bouncing article ideas off perry, tossing you a smile when he passes your desk.
around noon, you're about to get up for lunch when he beats you to it, strolling over with a brown paper bag and a casual, "hey, got you that turkey pesto you like. hope that's okay."
you blink at him, startles as you crane your neck up to look at him. "oh. yeah. thanks." you glance toward the break room. "are you...?"
"nah," he cuts in, shaking his head. "swamped with edits. gonna eat while i finish the luthor piece."
and just like that, without waiting for you to respond, he's gone.
you try to not let it bother you. you try to convince yourself that this is how it was always supposed to be. always supposed to be before your big mouth ruined it.
but all you can think about is how warm he was in your bed. how soft his eyes were in the dark. how different he felt.
and how different everything is now.
what you don't see is the way clark watches you from his desk. how he catches every flicker of confusion on your face, every little sigh when you assume no one's listening.
the weekend creeps by in slow and dragged hours.
with no deadlines hanging over your head (no perry yelling in your ear about headlines), nothing to dive into, nothing to keep your brain from looping over every moment of that night – the silence is so loud.
you try to distract yourself. you do laundry, you achieve some cleaning, all while some old rom-com plays in the background – which just makes matters worse because even that couple seemed to check in on each other the morning after.
clark hadn't.
by sunday evening, you're mostly numb to it. not okay, but dulled around the edges. detached.
if clark could carry on so easily, so seamlessly (as if sleeping with your best friend was no big deal), then so could you. you'd have to.
monday rolls in with a dreary drizzle and a headache you can't shake, despite the two aspirin you'd taken already. when you step into the planet, clark is already at his desk, tapping away at his keyboard with the same focused expression he always wears.
he looks up when you enter, lifts a hand in greeting and gives one of his clark boyish smiles. "hey," he says, like nothing is different. "usual on your desk."
you blink. "thanks," you murmur.
the coffee cup is still warm when you pick it up. the lid has your name scribbled on it in his handwriting – something he does when he picks up coffee for everyone else in order to remember whose is who. your lid was always different – special – though. a smiley face is scrawled beside your name, just like always.
now, the smile seems like it's mocking you.
you shuffle into the morning meeting and take the seat farthest from him. clark barely notices. he doesn't even look at you.
at least not that you can tell.
lunchtime comes and goes. he stops by your desk with a neatly packed container of leftovers. "made extra this weekend. figured you wouldn't say no to pasta."
you look up at him, then the container in his hand. you can smell it from here. you love his cooking and you can feel your stomach rumble at the sight of it.
"thanks, but i brought mine." you give him a pressed smile, pulling out your own container from home. it's got a sad excuse of a sandwich in there but still, you're too proud to accept his.
you see something flicker across his face, so subtle and brief you're not sure if it was ever there at all, but he recovers fast. "oh. okay. cool." clark pats your desk softly before walking away.
by wednesday, your strategy of coping has been reduced to silence and sidestepping. an absolute shutdown.
you haven't looked clark in the eye once.
not really.
you pretend he's not there, except when you have to acknowledge him. and when you do, you do it with the same kind of politeness you'd give a coworker you don't really know.
you've been packing your own lunch consistently now, every day. it's not because you're being petty, but because you can't keep accepting his gracious offers.
today, he hovers by your desk with a paper bag and a hopeful smile. "brought you that chicken teriyaki over rice you like," he says. "figured you might not have had time–"
"i packed something," you cut in, before he can finish. you plaster a polite smile on your face. "but thank you."
you don't wait for his reply, turning back to your computer and after a moment too long, he sets the bag down and walks off.
you don't touch it.
today 7:15 P.M.
and that leads you to where you are now, scrolling on tinder in hopes – desperate hopes – for something, anything to distract you from your mood.
but there's a knock at the door.
you thought, no, you hoped clark would skip movie night. you really did. after days of keeping your head down, of ducking out of rooms the moment he walked in, of dodging any and every attempt at closeness, you figured he'd get the hint.
you freeze on the couch, bowl of half-eaten cereal in your lap and an oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, phone in the other hand, screen still showing off a man’s dating profile. you consider ignoring the door. you could pretend you're asleep, or not home, or–
"hey," clark calls from the other side of the door, his tone gentle. "i brought thai. they were out of the dumplings you like so i got extra spring rolls."
your stomach flips.
you set the bowl down on the coffee table, standing from your seat and slowly pad over to the door, hesitating for a moment before you open the door.
there he is.
normal as anything. stupidly handsome in a soft blue henley and worn jeans, his hair a little messy from the breeze. he holds up the takeout bag with a hopeful little smile.
you can't believe it took you sleeping with him to realize just how handsome clark kent is.
"movie night," he says simply, raising the bag for emphasis.
you blink, mouth opening and then shutting.
"i'm... not really feeling up to it tonight," you say, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. "sorry. kinda under the weather."
it's a decent lie. passable. you even sniff for good measure, eyes avoiding his.
clark doesn't say anything right away.
behind his glasses, his gaze dips over you, scanning the faintest tension in your shoulder, the steadiness of your pulse, the evenness of your breath, the warmth of your skin. they're all signs that your body is just fine. signs that you're lying.
he doesn't call you out on it. he just lets a slow nod carry his chin. "okay..." he murmurs quietly, frowning. he hands you the bag of takeout anyway. "you can text me if you need anything, alright?"
you nod and start the shut the door.
he turns to leave, letting the door shut behind him and you move to place the bag on the coffee table.
but then clark stops. you don't even hear his footsteps on the stairs before they pause and double back to your door. the knock is softer this time.
you open the door again, brows furrowed in confusion.
clark stands before you, his own brows knitted. "did i... do something wrong?" he asks, his voice careful.
you freeze.
"what?"
"you've been avoiding me," he reveals gently. "not just today. all week."
your mouth is dry and it takes a second for you to swallow. "i've just been busy. tired," you answer weakly.
clark exhales through his noise, eyes narrowing slightly. he doesn't buy it. you can feel him not buying it. the air between you tenses but he still doesn't push you.
you sigh and rub your hand over your forehead in attempt to buy time and think of some excuse for your detached behavior that doesn't make you seem pathetic.
"i just needed space," you say finally, eyes still averted.
clark shifts his weight. "so i did do something."
"no!" you manage, too fast. too loud. then softer, you force calm into your tone. "no. you didn't... not really."
clark waits. patient. unmoving.
the silence is long enough that your embarrassment starts to rise hot in your cheeks. you should shut the door. thank him for the food. tell him you'll see him at work tomorrow and crawl back into the shell you've spent the last week building around yourself.
but you don't.
you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, staring off to the side.
"i just thought it'd feel different," you admit, voice so quiet and just above a whisper, you're unsure if he hears it.
clark's brow creases. "different?"
"afterward," you clarify. "i thought..." you sigh. "i don't know what i thought." your words trail off and clark doesn't rush you to elaborate.
he waits.
"i guess i didn't expect you to act so normal," you finally settle on. "and then i didn't expect me to care so much that you acted so normal."
clark's eyes darken, and something in his jaw tightens. "i wasn't trying to brush you off."
"you didn't," you say quickly. "that's the worst part, clark. you didn't do anything wrong. you were just... being you. sweet and thoughtful and friendly and perfect."
with a calm tone, he murmurs, "well, apparently not if you're not okay."
you finally meet his gaze, though your head remains slightly tilted downward, looking up at him through your lashes.
"i was the one who said it'd just be physical. i made a whole thing of it. i joked about it. and then i–" you catch yourself. the words tremble on your tongue, about to slip.
clark doesn't look away, his gaze settled heavily on you. "you what?"
you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat.
"i caught feelings," you admit, the confession dragging out of you like you're wincing. "i said no strings but i lied. not on purpose, but... i did."
a beat passes.
you avert your gaze, too afraid to see his expression.
here's where your mouth moves before your brain can compute, attempting to fill in the excruciating silence.
"i didn't expect to feel this way," you say, quieter now. "but i do. and i just... i don't know how to be your friend and pretend like that night didn't change anything for me. i... i'm just sorry."
clark's eyes search your face, his face unreadable for long second.
then, he finally says your name. and the way he says it is so soft, so full of emotion, it feels like a kiss. he takes a step closer to you, crossing the threshold into your apartment.
"i didn't want to leave that morning," he says suddenly, voice low. "i had to."
that makes your head shoot up. you blink, head shaking slightly. "had to?" you echo.
his eyes flicker, almost like he regrets saying it, but he nods. "there was something... urgent. i should've left a note. i thought i could just... make it up to you. you know, the coffee, lunch, the usual clark stuff."
"i didn't know how to act," he continues, his head tilting down as he looks at you. "i didn't want to assume what that night meant to you since you brought it up in the first place... hell, i even asked steve about hookup culture and what was the appropriate thing to–"
"clark." you snap your head up to meet his eyes with incredulity. "you asked steve? for dating advice?"
clark huffs, shaking his head. "no, not dating advice. hookup advice," he corrects, matter-of-fact-ly.
"oh my god," you mumble to yourself. "you asked steve, the guy who has a horrible track record when it comes to woman for advice."
"well, i couldn't ask jimmy. he'd know it was about you and then i'd never hear the end of it."
you blink, stunned, your mouth opening slightly before you let out a short, surprised laugh. "you are so bad at this."
clark shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "yeah, well. sue me for trying to respect your boundaries while quietly losing my mind."
you're taken aback. "you were losing your mind?"
his hand drops, and he takes another step closer to you. "you seriously can't believe i just walked away from that night and felt nothing," he murmurs, voice quiet and earnest. "i've been thinking about you nonstop. i couldn't be around you for more than a few minutes because every time i see you i..." he trails off, gulping.
"you what?" you ask softly, your breath halting.
"every time i see you, i want to touch you," he says, voice low, almost like he's confessing a sin. "i want to pull you into the nearest room and kiss you. touch you. hold you. have you."
your breath hitches in your throat.
clark takes another step forward, so close now you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. "and it's not just physical. i think about how you laugh when you're half-asleep. how you hum when you're focused. i think about things i shouldn't know after one night."
you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "clark..."
"let me be clear," he says quickly. "i do feel the same. maybe – probably more."
you glance up at him, noting the sincerity in his expression, the barely restrained tension in his frame.
"i'm not going to pretend it was just sex," he says. "not when every second of it felt like something i didn't want to end. not when i still think about the way you sounded – how you looked under me."
your breath stutters, legs nearly giving out at the memory alone.
his voice dips even lower, if that's possible. "not when i've had to physically stop myself from calling you every night since, just to hear your voice while i–" he cuts himself off, swallowing the words.
your stomach drops and a familiar heat grows. "while you what?"
"i think you know."
"every night?" you ask, your voice a small murmur.
he exhales sharply, face flushing but his eyes are still as darkened as ever. "yeah."
your chest tightens at the confession. there's a beat of silence where the air between you feels heavier than ever, thick with things you never thought he'd say. never thought he felt.
"i tried to respect the line you drew," he says softly, almost apologetically. "but i crossed it the second i touched you and i haven't been able to stop wanting you since."
your heart pounds in your ears. you want to speak, say something, but your throat is dry and your mind is racing too fast to catch a single coherent thought.
so you choose to act instead.
you surge up, gripping the collar of his henley, and kiss him.
it's clumsy at first, all heat and urgency and too many feelings shoved into the kiss. his hands immediately find your waist, anchoring you as your fingers tangle in his shirt, wrinkling the blue material between your fingertips. you're already tugging at him. tugging him further into your apartment – he takes the hint and kicks the door behind him.
he groans into your mouth when your hands slide uo under his shirt, palms brushing over warm skin. his muscles twitch beneath your touch, like he's been waiting for this.
he lifts you effortlessly – god, you missed his strength – and your legs wrap around his waist like it's second nature. your back meets the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth never leaves your. it's greedy, relentless. it's like he's making up for lost time. granted, he is.
his hands roam with a desperate urgency, memorizing every curve and contour of you with free reign. the heat between you is palpable, a built up tension bursting at the seams. you cling to him, breath hitching as his lips trail down your jaw to your neck, nipping softly.
"you don't know how much i've missed this," he murmur against your skin, voice rough with need.
you shiver, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, just beneath your ear, along the line of your throat. his breath fans hot against your skin. you're practically melting into him, undone by the weight and warmth of his body.
"i thought about you every night," he confesses, his pressing forward, still hoisting you up against the wall, making your breath hitch. all the while he presses open mouthed kisses to your skin. "your laugh." kiss. "your face." kiss. "your body." kiss.
you whimper, the memory of it rushing back all at once. you feel yourself clench around nothing, the heat in your belly pooling.
the words are stuck in your throat. you're too embarrassed to admit what he already seems to know: it was supposed to be just a hookup and you thought you could keep your heart out of it. but you failed. spectacularly.
so, instead, you lean in, teeth catching his bottom lip in a kiss that's filthy. needy. his groan rumbles against your chest, hand squeezing at the flesh beneath your thighs as he carries you, sliding up to your ass.
"i need you," you whisper finally.
his eyes darken at your words. "you have me," he rasps, and then his mouth is back on yours.
he carries you with effortless strength toward the bedroom, only breaking the kiss to make sure he's not bumping into anything in your hallway. your legs still stay locked around him, arms around his shoulders, fingers still tangled in his hair like you're afraid this moment isn't real. like he actually isn't here.
when his knees hit the edge of the side of your bed, he lowers you onto the mattress with a care that contradicts the heat in his gaze.
"tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips, his forehead brushing nose, voice barely holding back restraint. "and i will."
you shake your head. "please don't."
and that's his green light.
his mouth is back on yours as his hands trail down your body. they slide along the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips until they find the hem of your hoodie. you easily slip out of it as he helps pull it over your head, tossing it aside. he pulls away for a moment glancing down at the shirt your wearing.
"what?" your question cuts through the tense air.
"you look better in my shirts," he murmurs, pinching the material between his fingertips.
you smile – grin, really – finding amusement in his words. "you should give me some more then," you answer, arms hooking around his neck. he lets you pull him in, smiling against your mouth as you attempt to press another kiss.
his hands grow more eager, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one swift motion.
he lets out a sigh, eyes raking over your chest with reverence and hunger all tangled together. his large hands cup you through your bralette, thumbs brushing over the lace.
you whimper beneath him, fingers tugging at his henley until he stands over you, yanks it over his head. that was hot.
you'd forgotten just how solid he was. all broad chest, sculpted arms. smooth skin over muscle. the kind of body that made you ache.
your hands glide over his chest, fingertips trailing down the dip of his sternum to the line of his abs. his muscles twitch under your touch, and then he's lowering again, mouth hot and wet against the swell of your breast as he works your bra off.
he mouths at you, tongue flicking and teeth scraping enough to make you gasp, "clark." your lashes flutter, fingers reaching to tangle in his curls. one of his hands stay at your chest while the other slips between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts, your heat unmistakable.
he groans, like it hurts. "oh my," he breathes, pressing his forehead between the valley of your breasts for a moment, like he's taking a moment to pull himself together. but then his fingers are moving again, sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear in one slow motion. he drags them down legs, eyes never leaving your center.
you're wet. he sees it. you feel it.
"sweetheart," he murmurs like a prayer.
that damn pet name.
he knows you like it, he can tell by the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest. clark makes a mental note to continuing calling you it.
then he sinks to his knees on your floor between your spread legs, your calves dangling off the edge of your bed. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs brushing reverently along the inside, like he's committing this to memory.
you're also committing the sight to memory. despite the obsceneness of clark kent kneeling between your les, there's still something so pure in his face: the adoration shining in his ocean eyes behind those glasses.
he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher and higher.
you suck in a breath when his lips ghost over the skin of your inner thigh and his glasses nudge you slightly. it unintentionally reminds you that it's him, still him, still the clark who holds open doors open and rambles about his dorky interests.
except now his hands are parting your thighs further, spreading you open.
"d'you wanna take off your glasses?" you murmur softly, swallowing thick.
he's quick – almost too quick – to shake his head. "mn-hm, wanna see you clearly," he answers, not revealing the real reason. he exhales shakily, seeing you up closes and the sound alone makes your core throb.
"so, so pretty," he says, almost to himself. he drags his thumbs along your folds, gentle at first. "
you drape your arm over your eyes, too flustered to answer and he smile – you can hear it in his voice, "don't hide from me now."
before you have a chance to answer, his mouth on you.
you gasp as his tongue licks a slow, careful stripe through your slick. when you whimper, hips shifting, his hands tighten on your thighs to hold you steady.
he eats you like he's starving, like you're the only thing he's allowed himself to have after months of being denied. his tongue flicks, circles, presses just right against you and he groans every time your body jerks against his face.
"been wanting to do this," he grumbles against your clit, pressing a chaste kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves. "thought about it for days."
you gasp, back arching when his tongue plunges into your center, nose rubbing between your folds.
"clark," you whine, nails digging into his scalp as you push him closer to you, keening at the sheer pleasure from his nose and tongue. you don't know how long he's pressed to you like that but you're sure it's longer than a person can be before they need air.
he finally pulls away. "dunno why i didn't last week," he huffs to himself, as if he's scolding himself, breathing a puff against your twitching core, making your walls flutter.
he dives back in. he works you open with patience and purpose, like he wants to unravel you right here, right now, just with his mouth.
and you do start to unravel, your hips rolling and thighs tensing around his shoulders, his name slipping past your lips in broken gasps. you're close.
so, so close.
he pulls back.
your protest is immediate, a whimpering sound of frustration leaving your lips, but he's already climbing up over you, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips and murmuring softly, "i know, sweetheart."
you eagerly reach between your bodies, palming his through his jeans. he's already hard, straining, almost painfully so, and the sound he makes is low and guttural.
"clark," you pant, squeezing him through his jeans.
"yeah," he hisses, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "yeah." he repeats with a nod, reaching down to unbutton his jeans with one hand, the other braced beside your head. you hear the rasp of the zipper being pulled down and then he's fumbling to shove them down just enough to kick off. his boxers follow and you can feel the weight of him slap against your thigh.
"normally, i'd want you to cum before i get inside you," he murmurs through a breath, swallowing hard. "but i just can't wait."
"it's okay," you say quickly, looking into his eyes, heat filling your gaze.
he glances around, reaching for your nightstand drawer and you stop him, grabbing his wrist.
with furrowed brows, he turns to look at you.
"i'm on the pill." you whisper, "and i promise i'm clean."
clark's jaw ticks and then he nods, only once, before you feel the deliberate roll of his hips as he lines himself up.
"you sure?" he asks, voice rough like gravel, like he's barely holding himself back.
you roll your hips back against him, nodding with a soft croon as the head of his cock glides between your slick folds. "y-yes," you breathe out.
"i'll have to go slow because..." he starts.
"–you're huge," you answer for him, a ghost of a smile on your face.
his face flushes. "i was going to say i had little time to properly prep you but i guess that also works."
you giggle, the sound a little breathless, a little wrecked as you lay plaint beneath him as he stands before you. "i mean... both are true."
clark huffs a quiet laugh through his nose but there's a brewing darkness in his eyes. "okay, sweetheart," he murmurs, lowering his voice. "deep breath."
you inhale and then he starts to push inside. the head of him prods against your velvet walls, barely squeezing through your entrance. the stretch is instant. it's hot, thick, overwhelming, just like you remember it but it's oh, so different now without the barriers of latex between you. you feel him more than ever, the bare skin of his cock sliding and rubbing against your walls.
"f-fuck," you whisper, fingers clutching the sheets.
"i know, i know," he pants, lifting the underside of your thighs up to anchor him as he struggles not to shove himself in in one push. "god, you're–" the glasses on his nose, fog up as he pants and slowly sinks another inch into you.
"so good," you whisper, your words a little slurred as you blink ip at him.
clark's jaw is clenched, tendons straining in his neck as he watches your face with utmost focus. it's like he's mapping your pleasure in real time.
"you're doing so good, sweetheart," he croons, squeezing the fat of your thighs. "so tight, warm... christ–"
you whimper, overwhelmed by the stretch and the praise. the way he's only barely in but you already feel full.
it takes a while for him to push himself in, whispering praises and sweet words your way all the while.
then, finally, he bottoms out.
a shaky sound spills from your lips as he buries himself to the hilt, pressing against a spot inside you that has you cumming in seconds without warning.
clark feels your walls spasm around him and he groans, throwing his head back. "shit, baby," he rasps, voice trembling. (mentally, you add another tick to how many times you've made clark swear). "did you just–?"
you nod, dazed, still catching your breath, your whole body twitching from the aftershocks as he stays buried inside you. "i... i didn't mean to," you mumble, blinking up at him, lashes wet.
his smile is crooked and fond as he looks down at you, pupils blown wide. "oh, that's alright sweetheart," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "you okay?"
you hum, looping your arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. your legs wrap around his waist, making his arms move from holding your thighs up to brace beside either side of your body. "better than okay."
he grunts at your closeness, rolling his hips just a fraction. "sweetheart, you're squeezing me s'tight."
"sorry," you whimper, attempting to unclench around him. "y'can move," you add softly.
his eyes soften as he looks down at you. "you're not overstimulated?" he asks.
you must have the kindest man inside you right now.
"i need you more than that," you answer, looking into his eyes with determination.
he sucks in a breath at that, experimentally bringing his hips back slightly before pushing back in. your walls are slick with your orgasm so it becomes easier for him to slide between your walls. at your soft moan and fluttering lashes, he starts to move.
clark pulls out a few inches and thrusts back in with a slow, deliberate snap of his hips. you gasp, nails digging into his back and he hisses softly.
the rhythm he sets is measured and patient, but every stroke presses right against that devastating spot inside you that made you fall apart the first time. he doesn't look away from your face, like every flutter of your lashes, every gasp and tremble is something sacred.
"you feed so good, sweetheart," he mumbles, dipping his head to kiss along your jaw. "could stay here all night. buried inside you. just like this."
you shudder from beneath him, his words sending another wave of heart in your belly. "you can," you murmur.
"yeah, you'd let me?" he grunts against your neck, needing the confirmation between every slow roll of his hips. his glasses press against your cheek to the point you're worried they might snap.
"mhm, we could'a been doing this every night since last week," you whimper, squealing when he deliberately snaps his hips against yours out of rhythm.
"then, i guess i have to make up for lost time," he murmurs against your skin, picking up his pace.
you cry out, legs tightening around his waist as he begins to fuck you harder. it's still tender but it's deeper now. it's more insistent, like he's trying to imprint himself inside you (you think he already has from the week prior).
“fuck,” you breathe, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, anchoring him to you. “clark—”
he groans at the sound of his name, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “say it again,” he pants. “say my name like that.”
“clark,” you whisper, and he gives a sharp thrust in return that has your back arching, the pleasure overwhelming. you whine when he pulls his torso away from you, leaving your hands to grip the sheets beside you instead.
his fingers curl under your knees, pressing them up toward your chest to angle you open for him. the new angle has him hitting that spot with merciless precision, and your moans dissolve into something breathless and high-pitched.
“look at me,” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that contrasts how deep he’s fucking you. “wanna see your eyes when I make you cum again.”
your eyes flutter open, teary and half-lidded, and the moment they lock with his, noticing his blue eyes blown behind his fogged-up glasses, you shatter.
your walls clench around him, your cry muffled by the way he kisses you through your orgasm. it's the kind of kiss that feels like everything. it feels like home.
“that’s it,” he whispers against your lips. “good girl. you’re perfect. perfect.”
your body trembles under him, but he doesn't stop. not yet. he keeps thrusting through your aftershocks, voice low and ragged. “can I cum inside, sweetheart? please... need to feel it. need to feel you.”
you nod, dazed and desperate. “please, clark. want it.”
with a strangled groan, he pushes deep one final time, hips stuttering as he spills white ropes of cum inside you. he holds you tight, face buried in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.
you don’t say anything for a while, your limbs heavy and boneless as his weight settles over you. clark’s still inside, still pulsing faintly, and your body feels like it’s humming, buzzing with the aftershocks. he carefully pulls your legs back down from your chest, letting them dangle off the bed again.
"you okay?" he asks softly.
you nod, a dazed smile on your face as you look up at him. "yeah."
he cups your jaw, thumb caressing your flushed skin softly. "sorry if i went too hard at the end," he murmurs.
"it's okay," you quickly reassure him, turning your cheek to kiss the palm of his hand.
clark smiles at the gesture, basking in the warmth of you and being inside you. "can i stay over?" he asks, breaking the silence that falls between you.
the way your eyes narrow makes his heart stutter in his chest, second guessing everything that just happened prior. but then you speak.
"are you going to leave in the morning like i was some dirty mistress?" you ask, tone mostly teasing.
his shoulders relax and he laughs through his nose, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "sweetheart, i'm sorry," he apologizes, smiling against your skin. "i swear it was urgent. i didn't mean to do a walk-of-shame on you."
"mm, yeah okay," you hum along as if you don't believe him.
he pulls back to look down at you. "i'll spend the rest of forever apologizing to you for it," he promises.
"you better."
sure, tonight he won't tell you the real reason he left in a scramble and without a word that morning was because of the alien monster wreaking havoc on the clinton bridge that he had to deal with as his alien superhero counterpart, but until then, clark will do whatever it takes to make it up to you.
for now, he'll be right here and by your side until morning light.
ʚĭɞ reblogs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ
You send the guy you were dating pictures of you in lingerie by accident.
cw: 18+, smut, accidental 'nudes', colleague!reader, clark jerks off to your pictures, m!masturbation, soft dom!clark, rimming, f!receiving oral, clark uses his arctic breath on you, temperature play, p-in-v, overstimulation,clark's all freaked out in this fic, he eats you from the back, doggy, belly bulge, possessive!clark (4.4k wc)
You were halfway through tugging your jeans back on when you realised something was terribly off.
Cat should've been blowing up your phone in all caps by now — a 'GODDAMN BABE YOU LOOK HOTTT', or at the very least, 'buy both, coward'. But your screen remained stubbornly silent. Save for one text you didn't get a good look at.
Weird.
You yanked the curtains open, lingerie draped over your forearms as you shuffled out of the fitting rooms. Swiping your lock screen to open the most recent message. Your thumb hovers over the opened chat and you choke on your breath. No. Oh no. No no no no.
It's staring right back at you. In unforgiving grey & white. Clark Kent. Packaged with two little blue check marks sitting all innocent underneath what you'd consider the most unsexy tit and rump pics of what you'd tried on earlier.
"H-Holy shit," you croak, all too dramatically slumping into the mannequin beside you. You tossed your phone into the clearance panties basket as if that would've reversed the crime scene.
Your heart's slamming out of your ribs when you shakily grab for your phone, hoping it was a hallucination that you hadn't sent racy pics to a man you'd barely been on two dates with. Mr Small-town-farm-boy. The same man who would pull away burned the second your tongue met his lips.
This was it. You were drafting your obituaries in your head — local woman perishes after sending unsolicited boob pics to the most pure adult male alive.
A buzz from your phone nearly has you whipping it, you shakily look down at the thread.
[6:05PM]
You: Blue or purple??
You: [4 Attached Images]
[6:18PM]
Clark Kent: I think the blue one looks lovely on you. 🙂
You're staring at your phone like he'd send you a response in a different language. Lovely. He said you looked lovely, with a freaking millennial smiley face. Your insides do a somersault. Did he like it? Or was this a pity 'lovely' like he was trying to be nice?
You dial Cat's number before you spiral any further.
"Kill me," you breathe out all at once. Clutching the mannequin next to you, staring face-first at the green crotchless underwear in your eyeline.
"Hello to you too," there's an amusement to her voice, replying coolly like this was a regular occurrence, "what did you do this time?"
"I messed up. Big time."
"Easy, babe. What'd you do? Need me to bail you out of jail or something?"
"Worse. I sent Clark Kent boob pics."
There's a beat of silence across the line, and you yank your phone away from your ears when a loud cackling rings out. "No, you didn't."
"I so did!" You whine loudly, resting your forehead on the mannequin. "And it wasn't even hot. I look like….like I'm posing for an overtly-sexualised pudding commercial — CAT. STOP. LAUGHING. Tell me what to do!"
"Okay, okay. Breathe," she's still wheezing between syllables, "what did he say?"
You pull your phone back to squint at the text, and then hold it to your ears. Biting on your thumb. "He said I looked…lovely."
Another round of shrill laughter explodes through the speaker, "girl, GIRL. DO NOT tell him you sent them by accident. Don't you break his cotton candy heart."
"He's gonna think I'm some stupid over-eager slut, Cat!" You're pacing back and forth like a crazy person, gripped around the mannequin for emotional support.
"Oh please! He's still a man. Just roll with it. Let him think you sent them purposely."
"That's insane." You mumble, thumbs already hovering over the keyboard.
"That's how you're gonna get laid."
You're about to argue, but you type out a draft message, thinking more through your pussy than your mind. And then…you click the send button.
"Did you do it?"
"Yeah. I'm just gonna wai—"
Your phone buzzes damn near in seconds.
[6:38PM]
You: You really think so?
[6:38PM]
Clark Kent: ues you look perfecft
Clark Kent: perfect.
You're frowning at your phone at the uncharacteristic typo, and then you screenshot the thread to forward it to Cat.
"Oh hon he's one hundred percent typing with his dick in his hand."
"Shut up," you manage through a grin, "okay, bye bitch, I'm gonna go pay for the blue one."
"Over-eager-slut."
You roll your eyes, hanging up while you're smiling your way to check out.
Clark had been palming himself for the past five minutes. Or at least, he was, until it got way too painful to just rub at his hard-on. He fully had his cock in his palm now, pumping himself slow, with the picture of you on full screen, splayed on his device.
It wasn't a sexy picture — not really, you thought. But the half smile on your lips? The soft curves of your chest he'd been fantasizing seeing, in a lacy blue fabric?
You devastated him.
He tried to type something sweet back, something that wouldn't expose the fact that he was stroking his cock silly like some easily excitable hormonal teenager. He settles for something safe, because that's what you looked like to him always, lovely. Oh..so lovely.
Clark's thumbs rub at the leaking tip of the slit on his cock head. Eyes unfocused, he zooms in on your tits, noticing a glimpse of your areolas. "…!"
He could feel you on his tongue, rolling the shy nubs until they hardened. He wanted to suck around the fat and….And…it's too much. It was too much.
"Oh…mygosh —" He clicks the side button of the phone. Nothing but the black screen reflecting his still throbbing cock, now bubbling over with thick spurts of pent-up cum. It dribbles over his thumbs, landing onto the device. Clark's panting roughly, rubbing it clean clumsily with the waistband of his pants.
And because Clark Kent was the way he was? With restraint barely carved into his DNA? He does the only thing that's sensible. Especially after violating your likeness.
[7:10PM]
Clark Kent: I'm sorry.
Clark Kent: I can't make it to dinner tonight.
His pulse was hammering in his throat. Leaning back in his armchair to set his phone down. He couldn't face you like this, not when just the sight of you now was enough for him to want to pounce on you and fuck you senseless.
Clark's phone began to ring the tune of one of The Mighty Crabjoys songs. He froze at the incoming call that flashed a picture he took of you, smiling while holding one of your very first articles making headlines on the paper.
He hesitated for a second, but picks up after the second ring.
"Hello?" His voice was terse.
"Clark? Why'd you cancel? Did I do something wrong?" Clark's groaning internally at the worry in your voice. "I — It's not that, It's not you, I just —" His voice is faltering, hesitating.
Your brows knit into a furrow. Something was wrong. With the way he was stuttering at every word, "Clark." You repeat, softer. Heart racing with Cat's teasing words from earlier.
He grits his teeth, head rested on the edge of his chair, your voice settling in his ears like honey. His hand moves downward to idly rub at his still half-hard cock. "Y..Yeah?" He grunts softer and his tip twitches beneath his palm.
Your breath hitches, "…am I interrupting something?"
Clark goes radio silent for far too long and you hear it — his breathing, slow and strained. Inhaling, then exhaling like he was pained.
Finally, he speaks, low, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Ever since you sent me those pictures — I-I'm such a sleaze. It's not anything you did wrong, I swear."
Your lips part with a stuttered breath. Cheeks warming instantaneously at his admission. You're setting your keys down by the doors.
The silence stretches uncomfortably, and he's calling your name, hesitant.
You swallow thickly, the words spilling out before you could consider them.
"You jerked off looking at me?"
There's a sharp inhale at the other end of the line, and then he cuts the call.
You stood there for a solid minute and a half. Staring at your phone.
He hung up.
He hung up in your face.
Offence prickled potent in your chest, but it doesn't last all that long. Your thighs squeeze tighter at the ringing revelation that he'd jerked off to you. Looking at pictures of you. It feels far too hot and heavy in your entryway suddenly.
Your screen lights up with another text.
[7:15PM]
Clark Kent: I know an apology won't cut it.
Clark Kent: I violated your trust.
Clark Kent: I understand if you no longer wish to see me.
[7:20PM]
Clark Kent: I'm sorry.
You hadn't replied, of course you hadn't. Why would he have thought that pathetic apology would've cut it? Nearly thirty minutes had passed since then. Clark lay face down in his sheets, mumbling to himself, mostly things about how he'd let down his ma by treating a girl he really fancied like this.
Idiot. He was such an idiot. You probably thought he was disgusting, and probably regretted ever even giving him a chance.
Bzzztt.
Clark shot up right like the vibration from his phone had shocked him. He sat up on his thighs, palms flat down on his bed with his phone between.
A message notification, from you.
He's clicking on it with shaky hands. Ready to see you sending a text to end things with him officially.
But it wasn't.
[8:02PM]
You: [1 Attached Video]
It was blurry at first, shaky. The frame tilted like you were fumbling trying to prop it against something. But the moment it eased? Clark was zeroing in on you. You, in that blue set, perched on your bed.
You were looking into the camera, biting down on your lips with a shy smile. Head tilted to look down as you smoothed the lace on your thighs. Then, you hook your fingers at the thin band of the thong to adjust it higher onto your hips.
Clark's hand snapped to his mouth. Muffling a curse he'd never say out loud. All blood rushing down south when you pick up the camera, angling it down to run your fingers over the thin lace covering your tits, shy areolas peeking through from the near translucent fabric.
He thought the picture alone was enough to wreck him. But this? This was you saying, it's okay, use me.
Your phone rings even before Clark can finish the video you'd sent him.
The first thing you hear isn't even a hello, it's the muffled click of his door, followed by a slow exhale.
"I don't deserve you."
Your lips twitch, fighting back a slow smile at the way his voice trembles. You drag your fingertips down your belly. Toying with the heart-shaped charm attached to the seams of your underwear.
"Did you like it?" You finally say, featherlight. Clark audibly groans at your voice. There's a pause, and then a laugh tumbles out, breathless at its edges. "I — I did. — Yeah. Gosh, I did. You're unreal. So…so insanely stunning."
He hears a rustle on your end. You shuffle up your bed, wetting your lips, "…are you hard?
Clark hums a stuttered mhm. You hear him adjust, and he's rubbing at himself again, sighing, "I feel like some teenager. It's so…embarrassing."
There's a slow boyishness to his tone, and you're giggling, tracing your fingers over your nipples. "I really…liked how you sounded earlier." You admit.
"Yeah?" He laughs, palming his bulge a little harder, "you liked hearing me sound all pathetic, stroking myself for you?
You let out a stuttered breath, fingers rubbing down and beneath the lace covering your pussy, the sound of his voice teetering you over the edge to slip your fingers into you. Clark's listening to the dull schlick's of you touching yourself. He shuts his eyes, timing his idle rubs to your soft moans.
"I wish…you were here."
There's a sudden silence after your honest whisper. "…Clark?" You frown, looking at the line that wasn't hung up yet.
And then, there's a pounding at your door, like whoever behind was about to rip it off its hinges.
You jolt. Fumbling to grab the silk robe abandoned over your chair. The knocking all but grew more impatient, knocks reminiscent of someone trying not to break the door down. You barely make a proper knot at your hips as you open the door — eyes widening.
Clark Kent stands there, hunched over in your hallway. Panting like he'd just run a goddamn marathon. His hair was messy, glasses sitting crooked on his nose. His white shirt clung to him, sweaty particularly at the chest, wearing what seemed to be printed plaid pyjamas.
"Clark," you breathe out, hands stunted at your door frame. "I was just on the…phone with you. How did you get here so qui —"
"I was already in the area." He blurts out all too quickly. Chest still heaving with effort.
You look at him suspiciously, obviously still in what seemed to be sleep clothes, and sounding far too much like he was lying. But then you see how he's boring holes into you, at your robe. Gaze turning feral by the second as if he could see what was underneath the maroon silk.
Before you're able to press a little further, Clark's figure hunkers in. Forcing you to stumble backwards as he shuts the door behind him with a resounding click.
It's quiet, other than the sounds of his still-heavy breathing.
"You said…you wished I was here." He says, voice cracked and barely restrained.
"…I did."
The air whizzes at the speed of him closing the distance before he's on you — mouth crashing into yours, desperate and messy. His glasses bump into your nose, but he readjusts quickly. Kissing you like a man starved, hands trembling as they cup your jaw. His thumb steadied, feeling the way your cheeks hollow to keep up with him. When your tongue grazes over his lips, he doesn't pull away this time.
Instead, he groans into your mouth. His tongue licking into yours, and then over the softness of your lips. Clark walks you backwards and then lifts you up, like your weight didn't even matter. You squeak into his mouth, arms clambering to hook over his broad shoulders. You knees lock around his hips and he's walking ahead, not knowing his destination while he kisses at your neck.
"Where's — where's your bedroom?" He mutters low, the need in his voice sinking deep into your skin.
Your nose bumps into his glasses, chasing his lips. "D-Down the hall. Second door."
His hair feels wild beneath your fingers. Within barely a second, the walls blur, and he slams your room door open. Your breath catches in your throat at what seemed to be a crackling noise when the door hits your closet. You aren't able to see how the wood splintered beneath, and the hinges now creaked raw.
Thankfully, you're far too hazy to question it.
Clark tumbles into your bed, kissing down your collarbone and down to your sternum. "Mmh—…" He sighs into your chest at the sweetness in your satisfied hums. Your robe snaps open, and you jolt. Staring down at your exposed body and up at Clark, who was pulling back, looking down at you with a slow shake of his head.
"The real…thing…far..far better." He mutters more so to himself. Clark pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid movement, letting you marvel at his body. He smiles shyly, lifting your hand up. Looking at you now, he finds enough control in him to savour the sight.
He kisses at your knuckles, soft pecks travelling up your palms as he twists your wrist slightly. Trailing kisses up to your elbows. "I've been wanting to do this with you…for far too long." He admits, breath ghosting your cheeks when he leans over.
You're squirming at the sensation, curling your head into your neck. "I-It didn't seem like it.."
Clark's shaking his head, burying his face into your pulse. Your fingers card through his curly locks. "That's not it. I've been going insane." You raise your brow at his exaggerated hand gesture, "I want to touch you, all the time, every time."
He pulls away, gazing at you. "But then you send me something like that…how could I not?"
Your eyes are wavering, looking at the scrunch of his features. You drag your fingers down his dimples, and he tilts his head to kiss at your fingers once more.
"Mmm. It wasn't meant for you." You say softly, with a teasing edge. Clark's expression twists, grabbing your wrists.
"Don't even joke about that. I'm barely holding back as is."
"I still don't get why you're trying to be gentle, Clark. I-I want you. Can't you see that?" You finally huff out, a slight resentment building in you at how long it took for you to get to this point.
"I don't want to hurt you." He finally admits after a beat.
"Hurt me how? I want this."
Clark exhales slow, and his hold on your wrists loosen, to guide you to rub at the length of his cock. Your breath stills, and you squeeze at the girth.
"Ngh—that's…that's why." He grits, seeing the way you were rendered silent just by feeling how big he was.
"O-Oh.." You murmur. Clark lets your wrists go, but you don't release him. Watching his lips press taut as you curiously venture, squeezing and rubbing at his more than impressive length in your softer hands. It wasn't a reaction he'd anticipated.
"You're okay? With this?" He manages through a strained pant. Hips bucking to your steady strokes of his clothed cock.
"Are you kidding? Why the hell would I not be? My boyfriend is hung, I'd be an idiot to complain."
Clark groans and lets out an embarrassed laughter, covering your mouth with the expanse of his palm. "G-Geez... Don't…say stuff like that." He mutters, head falling flush onto the sheets. You smile into his hand, and your hand wanders beneath his waistband.
He lets you touch him, rubbing his thick, throbbing length. Clark groans the second your fingers roll beneath his balls, "…o-ohmy— g-gosh." His head goes dizzy, and he's blinking at you. "Where did you learn how to do that? Wait — no. Do not tell me." He warns, tugging his pants off quickly.
You grin, pecking at his jaw, ghosting a whisper, "college boyfriend."
Clark pulls back slowly, expression turning all serious. He didn't utter a single word.
Your bed frame groans when he flips you to your tummy all of a sudden. You gasp, perking up to look back at him, not seeing much but the intense look on his face. Clark's palm lay flat at your lower back, dragging his fingers over the pretty lace that curved around your hips and thighs.
You let out a shudder, trying to peek a glance at him. "Clark?" You try, growing worried that you might've upset him for real.
He doesn't answer you, and you soon understand why.
Your hips jump when he presses a kiss on the inside of your thighs. Then, he licks a stripe dangerously close to your puckered hole. "Mmn?!" You all but let out a stuttered gasp when he probes his tongue into your ass. Lips curved around it entirely, sucking and licking. The grunt that leaves you isn't something you recognise.
He holds you in place, tongue flicking over the ring. You don't fully process it, still breathing heavy at the aftermath of a pleasure you were not familiar with.
It's simple in Clark's mind though. He wanted to have the remainder of all your firsts.
He feels your hips tremble, and he soothes around the fat, head dipping lower to tug at your thong. You whimper at the string rubbing at your clit. He nudges his nose up your slick pussy, already wet from the stimulation so far. Your hips lift when he licks up your folds, his tongue poking into your pussy nice and slow.
"D-Didn't think….you had that in you."
Clark laughs, the vibrations sending an electric sensation of desire in you. "Yeah…" And he sucks at the softness, tongue grazing your clit. Your eyes roll back. You're close.
"Clark…" you whine, he hums in response, already aware —diving back in. "Give it to me." He mutters, continuing to tongue fuck your pussy with a blinding pleasure. Your hips are writhing, but he keeps up, knowing you were so goddamn close with just how your pussy was trying to clamp down on his tongue and nose.
He must've been there forever, but he doesn't rise up, not even once, not even to take a breath. It was insane. It's like he didn't even need to. That man was giving your vibrator a run for its money, and you were feeling the full force of his apparent expertise in pussy eating. Something you didn't even anticipate him to be this frighteningly good at.
It takes you a second to register the strange shift in sensation, more importantly, the temperature. His mouth felt so hot — and suddenly, there's an icy chill. Grazing your pussy in a way that has your cunt clench. A startled shiver takes you, and you look over your shoulder.
"W-What the hell was that?"
Clark flinches for a second. Lifting his head. "I — uh…" he begins, brushing his messy curls away from his face, "…I was chewing mints earlier. Do you feel uncomfortable?" he manages, voice strained.
You blink at him, not sure what to actually say. But it felt….good. "No…d..do it again."
His lips quirk into a smile, seeing the curiosity on your features. Clark leans back down.
"O-Oh my—..fucking…god, Clark!" You scream out, muffled into the sheets.
He takes his time, and like clockwork, you feel the familiar build. Your hips are nudging backwards, rubbing, grinding back into his face. And you cum. Hard.
Clark doesn't relent, licking you even as your thighs spasm through your release. He's suckling at your folds, kissing, flicking at your clit until you've pulled all stops, palm slapping onto the sheets.
He pulls away then. Licking his lips, watching you shake beneath him. Clark hooks his arm around your hips to turn you on your back. He leans down to kiss you, sucking your tongue with a gentle ease until you taste yourself. A heavy palm steadies on your head, soothing your hair down. "Easy, easy, baby. You're okay."
You're muttering incoherently into his neck, thighs shaking still from your come down. "I c-can't..s'too..much. It's—…can't.."
Clark rubs at your hips, humming. "Mmhm. I know. I know." He peppers kisses down your cheeks, picking you up in his arms, rubbing you nice and slow. For a second, you actually think he would give you a break. But instead, his own legs pushes yours impossibly apart. His cock rests idly on your pussy.
You blink at him confused, and Clark guides your hand to rest at your belly. "I promise you." He murmurs, interlocking his fingers where it lay on you.
"You won't ever need to think about your college boyfriend when you're with me."
The possessiveness in his tone catches you off guard. "H-Hrrk!" Clark notches his cock into you, and then pushes in, slow, inch by inch. You grab at his forearm that rests beside your face, the other, glued to your belly. He's watching you, watching as your expression turns to utter shock when his cock presses, pokes where he held your palm steady.
Clark looks at you, panting heavily. The suction of your cunt, squeezing at his cock with a pleasure unmatched. "You're so…incredible.." He mutters, burying himself into you to the hilt. You groan loudly, fingertips tracing over the bulge on your belly. Clark presses down on it further, and your eyes roll back.
He leans down, breathing against the column on your throat. His hips pick up the pace, starting off with slow, yet hard rocks into you. "Mm—..myg-gosh…so…tight." Your thighs squeeze around his hips, rocking to his movements. "N-No other…no other guy will ever…have you like this. You..hear me?"
You're nodding, through the tears prickling at the side of your cheeks. He was fucking you so full, so deep, you aren't sure if you'll ever be able to recover from this man. Your grip around his arm turns into a claw. You're about to cum again, you feel it.
But Clark tuts, his hand moving off your belly to hold your jaw in place. "Don't…cum." He mutters with a punishing edge, licking up your jaw slow. Your expression twists, and you clench instinctively around him.
"W…What?"
He groans when you somehow get even tighter around him, and he slumps over you. Grinding slow and deep into you. The wind is knocked out of you by the weight on your chest. But the sheer suffocation of his heavy body only served to drive you even more dumb.
You bite at his shoulder, arm slung loose around his back. "Claaark…" You whine his name out, muffled. Tasting the saltiness of your own tears at his relentless thrusts. He's nosing at your jaw, thumbs tracing over the lace on your neglected tits.
"Gosh..even wore this..all…for me.." His thumb rubs over the band, snapping it apart, earning a shocked gasp from you. You'd be angry at him for that later, but now? Now you were far too fucked out with how your pussy was throbbing, begging for release that he didn't allow you.
Clark leans down, massaging the softness he'd been fantasizing ever since you'd sent the pictures to him. His nose drags over the already hardened nubs, groaning into it, groping them with both his palms. His balls tighten when you mewl as he suckles around the fat.
He breathes your name out, reverent, panting until he tenses. Clark pulls out at the very last second. You blink hazily to see his thighs at the other side of your chest. He pumps himself once, then twice. Hot cum sputtering over your tits in jolts.
You're transfixed at the pearlescent white land on your chest. Wincing when some lands on your cheeks. Clark's eyes are fluttered shut, stroking and squeezing at the head, resting his cock on your sternum until the rest of his spend dribbles onto your collarbone.
He looks at you, with his head tilted. A lazy smile creeping on his lips when he spots you gathering some of his cum off your cheeks to lick your fingertips.
summary. when bucky sees you babysitting walker’s kid, something stirs inside him.
word count. 5.9k
warnings. smut, 18+, mdni, unprotected pnv, breeding kink, mentions of lactation kink, no use of y/n. reader likes kids and is good with them (work with me)
notes. this has been unfinished for weeks now. lowkey hate the smut towards the end, but it was all i could come up with 😭 im sorry i just had to get smth out before i go on this break. (if there are any mistakes, look the other way please)
lately sundays have been slow, tangled up in sheets with bucky’s metal arm slung heavy over your waist and his breath soft against the back of your neck.
but today, you’re already up, pouring coffee that smells too strong because you’re trying to wake yourself properly. bucky’s still in bed, or at least he was when you slipped out twenty minutes ago, eyes flickering open long enough to mumble “five more minutes, baby” before burying his face back in the pillow.
the common area is not so surprisingly louder than usual. john walker’s pacing near the big windows, with phone pressed to his ear, looking a lot like he’s trying not to yell.
you can catch fragments. something about a last-minute briefing, no one being available, something about “i know it’s short notice, but—” he’s cut off already.
his kid, a tiny thing with walker’s blond hair but none of his permanent scowl, is sitting cross-legged on the rug with a half-finished juice box.
you already know what this is about. leaning against the doorway, you watch with your mug cradled in both hands.
most of the team is scattered around. by most, you mean yelena and ava, because bob and alexei are nowhere to be found. no one’s volunteering. no one even looks like they’re considering it.
walker hangs up, “look, i know nobody wants to play babysitter, but i’ve got no one else. two hours, maybe three tops. he’s not a problem, he just… sits. colors. eats snacks. that’s it.”
that’s one way to describe his kid. okay.
but he’s only met with silence. the kind that is uncomfortable.
you set your mug down on the side table without really thinking about it. “i’ll watch him.”
walker blinks at you like he didn’t expect the words to come from anyone, let alone you. “you sure?”
“yeah.” youre already walking over. “i like kids. he’s cute. we’ll be fine.”
yelena snorts from the couch. “you’re too nice. it’s disgusting.”
you flash her a grin. “someone’s gotta be.”
walker hesitates another second. it’s long enough that you see the flicker of real gratitude under the usual guarded expression. “okay. thanks. seriously. i owe you.” he crouches in front of the little boy, voice dropping softer than you’ve ever heard it. “hey, buddy. you’re gonna hang with her for a little while, alright? be good. no climbing the shelves again.”
the kid— ben, you remember now —nods solemnly, clutching a blue crayon to his chest. walker ruffles his hair and gives you one more quick “call me if anything—” before he’s gone.
and then it’s just you and ben.
you drop to the floor beside him, “so. what are we working on today?”
he pushes a battered box of crayons toward you without a word. the paper in front of him is already covered in aggressive scribbles, mostly blue and red, overlapping so hard the wax is cracking. you pick up a green one and start adding little loops around the edges.
“that’s a dragon,” he is pointing put.
“oh yeah? fierce looking guy.”
“he eats bad people.”
you laugh under your breath. “we definitely need more of those around here.”
across the room, bucky’s finally wandered in. he’s still in yesterday’s black t-shirt and sweatpants, now with a coffee in his hand.
but his eyes though, they’re watching you.
when you catch him staring, your stomach does the familiar flip. he doesn’t smile, not really, but the corner of his mouth lifts just enough that you know he’s pleased about something. probably you. probably this whole scene.
you go back to coloring, adding tiny scales to the dragon’s tail while ben narrates in that blunt, serious way only four-year-olds manage. “he’s got fire. and wings. and he’s really big. bigger than you.”
“bigger than me?” you gasp, like you’re offended. “that’s rude.”
“you’re not that big.” reminding you little kids are terrible, they just cannot lie.
bucky’s moved closer now, until he’s standing just behind the couch. he’s not trying to hide that he’s watching. you can feel the way his gaze lingers on your hands moving over the paper, on the way you tilt your head when ben talks, on how you keep your voice patient even when the kid starts pressing too hard and rips the page.
something shifts in bucky’s chest while he stands there. it’s just a slow, warm ache that settles behind his ribs. you look… soft. natural. the way you laugh when ben shoves a broken yellow crayon into your palm and says “fix it,” the way you smooth the paper down without making a big deal out of the tear.
he can’t stop picturing you like this, but rounder, softer in different places, carrying something that’s his. yours. both of you. the thought hits him, makes his throat tighten. he just… wants. badly.
when you feel him still looking at you, you glance up to see that he is already moving, setting his mug down, lowering himself to the floor beside you with that careful grace he still has even when he’s pretending to be casual. his knee bumps yours as he settles. you think it’s on purpose, you know it is.
ben looks over, eyes narrowing like he’s sizing bucky up. then he digs through the crayon box, pulls out a dark red one, holding it out. “color, buck buck.”
“buck buck?”
“uh-huh,” a non-committal sound from ben is all bucky gets.
you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud. bucky takes the crayon very carefully like it might break in his hand. “alright, kid. show me where.”
ben points at an empty corner. “here. make him a sword.”
bucky starts drawing. honestly, he’s terrible at it. the sword looks more like a lumpy baseball bat, but ben nods like it’s perfect.
you’re grinning, “you’re really committing to the sword thing, huh?”
“had to.” bucky’s voice is still rough from sleep. “can’t leave the dragon defenseless.”
ben nods seriously. “uh-huh. dragons need swords.”
you laugh again, and bucky feels it in his chest like a hand closing around his heart.
god, he wants to kiss you. right here, right now, with crayons scattered everywhere and a four-year-old narrating dragon battles. he wants to lean over, catch your mouth, taste the coffee still on your tongue.
he doesn’t, though. he just keeps coloring, letting his knee press a little firmer against yours.
“you’re good with him,” he says after a minute, quiet enough that it’s just for you.
you shrug, adding purple spikes to the dragon’s back. “he’s easy. just wants someone to listen.”
bucky hums. “still. you’re… natural at it.”
you glance at him, searching his face. there’s something there. something that’s warm and unguarded and it makes your cheeks heat. you don’t know what he’s hinting at, but you can’t help but smile, “you getting soft?”
“yes.” he says it so simply it almost doesn’t register. then he smirks, “or maybe i just like watching you.”
you open your mouth to say something smart, something to deflect, but ben chooses that moment to crawl over, shoving himself right between the two of you. he plants both hands on your thigh like he’s staking territory.
“mine,” he declares, glaring at bucky.
bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “hey now. i was here first.”
“no. she’s mine.” ben scoots closer, practically in your lap now.
your arms surround him automatically. “oh boy. guess i’ve been claimed.”
bucky juts his lower lip forward in the world’s worst fake pout, “damn. kicked to the curb by a four-year-old.”
“he’s ruthless,” you press a kiss to the top of ben’s head.
you shift to reach for another crayon and your hip bumps bucky’s and he has to clench his jaw so he doesn’t groan. you smell like the lavender shampoo he loves so much and something sweeter underneath, something that’s just you.
suddenly, whatever family friendly thoughts he head vanished.
now all he wants to do is bury his face in your neck, wants to bite down until you gasp, wants to press you into the rug and fuck you so deep you forget how to breathe anything but his name.
but ben is here, chattering about how a blue dragon can beat a green one, and you’re nodding along, encouraging him like it’s the most important battle in the world.
bucky’s chest aches with how much he likes watching you do this. likes the idea of you doing it forever. likes the idea of coming home to this— you, soft and round with his baby, smiling at him like he hung the damn moon instead of just being the broken soldier who somehow ended up with you.
he watches ben curl up into you and the way your fingers card through ben’s hair, the way the little boy melts against you, eyelids already drooping.
bucky can’t look away.
he’s thinking about mornings like this. you sleepy and soft, hair in your face, one tiny hand curled in yours. his hand on your soft belly. the weight of it. the warmth.
he tries to focus on the terrible dragon drawing in front of him. he can’t.
ben yawns, and slumps heavier against your side. his head lolls onto your shoulder, crayon still clutched in one fist.
“think he’s done for,” you murmur.
bucky nods. “looks like it.”
you keep rocking him gently, almost without realizing. bucky’s eyes trace the curve of your neck, the way your shirt slips off one shoulder. he’s quiet for a long time, just breathing the same air as you, feeling the heat of your body next to his. committing each of this into memory.
he presses his lips to your hair, and wonders how long he can wait until john walker comes to pick up his son.
walker comes back sooner than expected. when he sees ben passed out against you, his whole face softens in a way you’ve never seen before. “damn. you’re a miracle worker.”
“he did most of the work,” you smile. “just tired himself out.”
walker crouches to gather ben carefully into his arms. the boy stirs, mumbles something incoherent, then settles again, face smushed against his dad’s shoulder. “thanks again. really.”
“anytime.”
he leaves as quietly as he came.
the room feels suddenly empty.
bucky pushes himself up first, offering you both of his hands. you et him pull you to your feet. he steps in, close enough that you feel the warmth rolling off him, close enough that your chest brushes his.
looking up, you see that his eyes are dark, the blue almost gone. he’s breathing a little harder than he should be.
that’s when you feel it. the unmistakable outline of him pressing against your lower belly.
your mouth parts on a soft exhale. “bucky…”
he just presses his forehead to yours, “been watching you all afternoon. couldn’t stop thinking…” he trails off like he needs a moment to collect himself, “you’re so good.”
your heart slams against your ribs. you don’t need to feel it know that his is doing the same. yet you slide your hands up his chest, feel the rapid thud under your palms.
his hands are already moving before you can say anything else, sliding down to your hips, fingers digging in just enough that it sends a spark straight through you.
bucky’s breath comes out rough against your temple, like he’s been holding it in all afternoon. “need you,” his words are muffled into your hair. “right now. c’mon.”
you don’t argue. wouldn’t even if you could think straight, which you can’t actually, not with him this close and that hard length pressing against you, making everything feel urgent and hot.
your fingers curl into his shirt, tugging once, and he takes it as the yes it is.
he walks you out of the common room, one hand firm on your lower back, guiding you, eager to get to your room soon enough .
the hallway blurs a little and all you really notice is the way his metal thumb traces circles on your skin where your shirt’s ridden up, cool and steady against the heat building under your ribs.
by the time you make it to your room, the door’s barely clicked shut before he’s on you. bucky crowds you against it, mouth finding yours in a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything gentle, like he’s been starving for this.
his hands are everywhere at once. they’re sliding under your shirt, palms flat and warm against your sides, then higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra.
you gasp into his mouth, arching up without meaning to, and when he groans back, the sound vibrates through you.
he breaks away just long enough to pull your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking.
his eyes rake over you, lingering on the swell of your breasts in that plain cotton bra you threw on this morning, the one with the little frayed strap that always slips.
“god, you looked so good out there,” he leans in, lips brushing your collarbone, then lower, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your chest. “with ben. the way you were with him—smiling, patient. fuck, it did something to me. made me think about…”
he trails off, mouth closing over the curve of your breast through the fabric, sucking lightly, and you feel the wet heat of it soak through.
your head falls back against the door with a thud, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer because it’s not enough, not at all.
but that unfinished sentence hangs there, tugging at the edges of your mind even as pleasure coils tight in your belly.
think about what?
but right now all you can focus on is the way his stubble scrapes your skin, the way his breath fans hot over you as he switches to the other side, nipping gently at the edge of the cup.
“think about what?” you manage to get out, voice breathy and uneven, fingers tightening in his hair as he presses a kiss right between your breasts, nose nudging the fabric aside just enough to expose more skin.
bucky pauses to lift his head to look at you, eyes hooded and lips shiny from where they’ve been on you.
there’s a knowing smirk there, like he’s got a secret he’s not ready to spill yet. “you know what,” he says, simple as that, before his mouth is back on you, kissing down your stomach now, hands working at the button of your jeans with a kind of focused urgency that makes your knees weak.
you don’t know, not really. or at least, not exactly. you think it’s about seeing you soft like that, domestic, the way he sometimes gets when you’re curled up together after a long day, all easy affection and quiet touches.
maybe it’s that side of you that turns him on, the one that’s not fighting or training but just… being. the gentle side.
his hands slide your jeans down your hips, taking your underwear with them in one go, and you step out of them awkwardly, kicking them aside as he straightens up, pressing his body flush against yours again.
the roughness of his jeans against your bare skin makes you shiver, makes everything feel sharper.
he kisses you again, slower this time, but no less intense, tongue sliding against yours in a way that pulls a whine from your throat.
his metal hand cups your jaw, tilting your head just how he wants it, while the other slides between your thighs, fingers brushing where you’re already wet and aching. “so ready,” he murmurs against your lips, not pulling back far enough to really speak, just breathing the words into you. “been thinking about this since i saw you on the floor. couldn’t stop.”
thinking about this?
you moan softly as his fingers tease, circling but not quite pressing in, and it’s torture, the kind that makes your hips buck toward him without thinking.
he’s still fully dressed, which feels unfair, so you tug at his t-shirt, fumbling with the hem until he gets the hint and yanks it off one-handedly, the metal arm whirring faintly as he does.
his skin is warm under your palms, scarred in places you know by heart, and you trace one of the lines across his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense under your touch.
bucky walks you toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, until the back of your knees hit the edge. you plop down, pulling him with you.
he kneels between your legs, hands on your thighs spreading them wider, and leans in to kiss your inner thigh, then higher, breath hot against your core.
but he doesn’t linger there. instead, he crawls up over you, bracing on his elbows, and you feel the weight of him settling between your hips, the hard line of his erection still trapped in his jeans but grinding against you now.
“bucky, please,” you whisper, hands roaming his back, nails scraping lightly because you know it makes him shudder.
a low groan escapes as he rocks against you again, harder this time.
“yeah, i know,” his voice is strained, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. his mouth finds your neck, sucking at the pulse point until you’re squirming under him, then lower again, back to your breasts. not bothering to unclasp it, he tugs it down until his lips close over one nipple, tongue flicking in a way that shoots straight to your core.
you arch up to press closer, as he switches sides, hand coming up to knead the other breast, thumb rolling over the peak until it’s hard and sensitive and beautifully aching.
the room’s quiet except for your uneven breathing, and the soft sounds of his mouth on you.
you’re probably soaking the sheets already, you can feel it between your thighs, and every shift of his hips against you makes it worse, makes you ache for more.
his mouth closes over your nipple again, harder this time, tongue dragging slowly before he sucks and pulls, like he’s trying to draw something out that isn’t there yet. a sharp little gasp slips out of you, and he groans against your skin.
his hips jerk forward, cock thick and leaking through his boxers, smearing wet against your thigh, and he doesn’t even pretend to hide it anymore.
your tits are already so soft, so full under his tongue, but all he can see is how they’d change… how they’d get heavier, rounder, with veins faint under the skin, nipples dark and sensitive from feeding his kid.
the thought makes his balls tighten, makes another bead of pre-cum soak through the fabric when he grinds again.
when he switches sides, his teeth grazes you just enough to sting, and his metal hand slides up to cup the other breast, thumb brushing the peak in lazy circles while he imagines milk beading there. he imagines tasting the warm and sweet milk, while you moan underneath him like you are doing right now.
you feel it too, the way he’s getting more desperate, hips moving faster now, like he can’t wait. your hands find his belt, fingers clumsy as you undo it, then the zipper, pushing his jeans down just enough to free him.
he’s thick and heavy in your hand, skin hot and velvety. when you stroke, your thumb swipes over the tip where he’s already slick, bucky hisses, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and bites down gently, enough to mark, enough to brand.
“fuck, baby,” he breathes, hips jerking into your touch. “need to be inside you. now.”
you nod because that’s all you can possibly do. you guide him as he shifts, lining him up to where you desperately want him.
he thrusts in all at once, making you cry out. it’s almost too much, the stretch, the fullness, but god, it’s exactly what you need.
bucky groans loud, burying his face in your neck, holding still for a second like he’s savoring it, the way you clench around him.
pulling back almost all the way before slamming in again, he sets a rhythm that’s fast and steady.
each thrust hits deep, rubbing against that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. all you can do is wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him closer.
his metal hand grips your hip, hard enough to bruise, while the other slides up to your belly, palm flat against the soft skin there.
the touch surprises you, because he’s never touched like this. you gasp when his hand lingers, pressing gently. something about it feels different, more intentional.
the feel of you under his palm is smooth now but he can picture it rounded out, full with his child, and the thought nearly undoes him. he thrusts harder, chasing that image, the way you’d look, the way it’d feel to know he put that there.
you’re lost in the sensation, the slap of skin on skin, the wet sounds where you’re joined, his breath against your ear. “so fucking good,” his words slur a little. “always so good for me. taking me like this.”
your nails rake down his back, making him moan at the sting, hips snapping forward in response.
sweat slicks your bodies, making everything slide easier, and you feel the coil in your belly tightening, building fast.
bucky’s hand on your belly presses a little firmer, thumb stroking back and forth, and you wonder if it’s the softness he likes, the way you give under his touch.
but then he lifts his head, eyes locking on yours, and there’s something wild there, something that makes your heart stutter. “can’t wait,” his voice breaks in time with a thrust. “can’t wait to see you round with my kid. fuck, you’d be so beautiful like that. all mine.”
the words steal your breath. that’s what he meant? that’s what’s been driving him crazy all afternoon? the idea mixing with the pleasure, heightens everything. when you clench around him without meaning to, his thrusts pick up speed.
“yeah?” his voice is almost desperate now, hand still on your belly like he’s claiming it. “you want that? me filling you up, putting a baby in you?”
you can’t speak, not really. you just nod and whimper as he drives in harder, the angle shifting so he’s grinding against your clit with every move.
it’s too much. everything’s too much. the words, the feel of him so deep, and you come undone suddenly, crying out his name as waves crash over you, body shaking under him.
bucky follows right after, thrusting twice more before he stills, buried as deep as he can go, spilling hot inside you with a guttural moan.
that’s when you feel it, the warmth flooding you, his cock twitching as he empties himself, as he collapses half on top of you, face pressed into your hair.
his fingers trace lazy patterns on your lower abdomen, and you cover it with yours, wondering if he can feel the way your pulse still races.
he shifts finally, pulling out slowly, making you hiss at the emptiness. the way his cum leaks out a little, trickling down your thigh. bucky watches it as his eyes darken again, and swipes his thumb through the mess, pushing it back inside you gently. “keep it there,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “wanna see you full.”
your legs closing around his hand instinctively, earning a satisfied smile from him. that’s when he leans down to place a soft and lingering kiss toyour stomach.
moving up, his mouth finds your breast again, sucking lazily at the nipple like he’s got all the time in the world, making you squirm, oversensitive but not wanting him to stop.
“bucky,” your hand is in his hair, not sure if you’re pulling him closer or what.
he hums against your skin, and switches sides, tongue circling the peak before drawing it into his mouth.
the sensation builds slower this time, a warm ache between your legs even though you’re still coming down from the first.
he’s half-hard again already, pressing against your thigh, and you realize that he’s not done. he’s not even close.
“one more,” his voice is soft, almost a whisper at first. “wanna feel you come around me again.”
you nod, because how could you not, and pull him up for a kiss that tastes like salt and sex. he slides back into you easily, the slick from before helping with the gliding movement, and starts moving, deep rolls of his hips that make you gasp each time.
it’s less frantic now, more slow, but no less intense. every thrust drags against your walls, building that pressure again.
his mouth wanders back to your breasts, alternating kisses and bites, sucking marks into the soft flesh that’ll show tomorrow under your clothes.
you arch into it, loving the possessiveness, the way he’s claiming every inch.
the idea he’s planted takes root, making you imagine your body changing, belly curving out. it shouldn’t turn you on this much, but it does, and that makes you clench tighter around him.
bucky feels it somehow. “that’s it. think about it. how good you’d look. how i’d take care of you.” his words are punctuated by thrusts, harder now, and you’re climbing again, faster than before.
when you come this time, it’s quieter, a shuddering wave that leaves you boneless, and he chases his own release with a few more snaps of his hips, spilling again with your name on his lips. he stays inside you after, not pulling out, just holding you close.
he kisses your temple, “not letting you up yet. wanna make sure it takes.”
you laugh breathlessly, but don’t argue, because part of you doesn’t want to move either.
for a minute it’s just quiet. the kind of quiet that settles after everything’s been said and done, when the urgency finally burns down. his lips brush your temple again soft enough that it almost doesn’t register. then he shifts enough to look at you.
his hair’s sticking up in stupid directions, face flushed, eyes still dark but softer now, like the wild edge has worn off for a second. he swallows, and lets out this small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh.
“shit,” he mutters. “i’m… i got carried away.”
you feel the corner of your mouth twitch. “you think?”
“i didn’t mean to just… unload all that on you. the kid thing. fuck. sounded insane, didn’t it?”
you shake your head, fingers sliding up to push some of the damp hair off his forehead. “sounded like you.”
he searches your face for a beat, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. when it doesn’t, he exhales through and drops his head back to your shoulder. “i’m pathetic. saw you with ben for five minutes and my brain short-circuited. started picturing… everything. it hit me so hard i couldn’t think straight.”
you feel the words settle somewhere deep in your chest. you card your fingers through his hair again, slower this time. “you’re not pathetic. you’re just… you. and i like that version of you.”
he makes a small sound, something between a hum and a groan, and presses a kiss to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. it’s gentle. then another one, a little higher. he’s not trying to start anything again, not yet. just kissing like he needs to feel you’re still here.
“i keep thinking about how you looked at him,” he says quietly. “the way you didn’t even hesitate. just dropped down on the floor, started coloring like it was nothing. like you’ve done it a thousand times. and ben just… trusted you. melted right into you. i couldn’t stop staring.”
his hand moves again on your belly, palm spreading wider, fingers splaying like he’s holding something fragile. “made me want that. for real. want to see you like that. want to be the reason.”
your throat feels tight. “bucky…”
“i know,” he cuts in fast, like he’s afraid you’ll shut it down. “i know it’s a lot. i know we’re not even close to that yet. i just— i couldn’t keep it in my head anymore. needed you to know.”
you turn your face toward him, nose brushing his. “i know now.”
he nods abd then kisses you. it is slow, no teeth this time. just lips moving against yours, like he’s trying to say the rest without words. when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“you’re too good for me,” he whispers. it’s so quiet you almost miss it.
“shut up,” you mutter back, but there’s no heat in it. you press your palm over his hand, the one still on your belly. “you’re allowed to want things. even big, scary things.”
he lets out another small laugh, this one is more real. “big and scary. yeah. that about sums it up.”
the room is quiet except for the way your breathing starts to sync up again, until your voice breaks the silence, “it was kinda hot, actually.”
his eyes search yours with a grin tugging at his mouth. “yeah? not freaked out?”
“a little. but mostly… curious.” you admit, feeling heat creep up your neck. curious about how it’d feel, about the changes, about building something like that with him. it’s scary, sure, but exciting too, the way big things are.
bucky nods like he gets it, and leans in to kiss you. his hand slides up to cup your breast again, thumb brushing the nipple in a way that makes you sigh into his mouth.
“these would get— fuck—,” he murmurs against your lips, squeezing lightly. “sensitive. i’d have to be careful.”
you bite your lip, because you can’t help but imagine it. the way they’d ache, fill his hands more, the way he’d touch you then, softer maybe, or not. the thought sends a fresh wave of warmth through you, and you shift under him, feeling him twitch inside you. just enough to remind you he’s there. “goddamn it,” he mumbles. “i’m never gonna be normal around you again, am i?”
you huff a laugh and shift your hips just a little, enough to make him hiss. “probably not.”
“bucky…”
“hmm?” he’s kissing down your neck again, slow path to your chest, where he nuzzles against the curve. “tell me to stop if it’s too much.”
but you don’t. you arch up as his mouth closes over you again, sucking so gently to a point you no longer think it’s sexual. then his other hand kneads the opposite breast, rolling the nipple between fingers until it’s peaked and throbbing. and you know it is indeed sexual.
it’s almost overwhelming, the dual sensation, and you feel yourself getting much more wetter around him, body responding even though you’re spent.
your legs are jelly, thighs trembling around his hips, and there’s a sticky warm mess between you that keeps leaking out no matter how tightly you clench.
for a moment he settles and you think he’s finally gonna let you both come down, maybe pass out tangled like this, but then he twitches. thickens again inside you. just like that.
he can’t help but move, shallow thrusts that rock you gently. “one more time,” he whispers. “for luck.”
“bucky—”
“shh. one more.” his voice is wrecked. he shifts his weight, rolls his hips once, and you both hiss at how sensitive everything is. “just one more, baby. please.” he is begging at this point.
you’re laughing, probably because you’re breathless and a little delirious, because who the hell has stamina like this? but your body’s already answering for you. your cunt is fluttering around him, slicking him up again like it’s hungry for it.
he starts moving in these long, dragging rolls that make you feel every inch of him pulling out and sinking back in. his metal hand slides up to brace beside your head, while the flesh one stays glued to your stomach, thumb stroking back and forth over the softest part like he’s mapping it.
“fuck… look at you.” he’s staring down between you, watching where he disappears inside you. “so pretty taking me. always so pretty.”
suddenly you feel self conscious about the whole nakedness of it all, you reach for him, fingers curling around his neck, trying to pull his mouth to yours to make him stop staring. but he resists. he keeps looking. keeps talking.
“gonna keep you full tonight,” he mutters. “gonna pump you so deep you’ll feel me for days. can’t— can’t stop thinking about it. about you… like this, but—” his hips stutters. “but round. fuck. so round with my kid.”
your cunt clenches hard around him without permission and he groans like you punched him.
“yeah, like that,” he pants. “fuck, you like hearing it don’t you? like knowing i wanna knock you up. want everyone to see it. see you carrying what’s mine.”
he’s moving faster now, deeper, the wet slap of it loud in the quiet room. his hand presses down firmer on your belly, like he’s already imagining the swell, like he can feel it under his palm right this second.
then comes your tits. “these—” he ducks his head, mouth closing over one nipple again, sucking hard enough to make you arch and whine. he lets go with a wet pop. “these are gonna get so full. heavy. leaking for me. gonna taste you, baby. gonna drink every drop while i fuck you, just like this. gonna— shit— gonna breed you so good. fill you up till it takes. till you’re mine in every fucking way.”
it’s filthy. it’s too much. it’s exactly what you didn’t know you needed to hear.
your hands scrabble at his shoulders, nails biting in, and he likes that. he likes the way you’re pulling him closer like you can’t get enough either.
he’s rambling now in half-coherent words like he cannot help himself.
“you’d be so beautiful. fuck. tits all swollen, belly round, hips wider— god, i’d— i’d worship you. every day. kiss every inch. fuck you gentle when you’re tired, fuck you hard when you beg for it. just— just wanna see you like that. wanna give you that, baby.”
you feel himshaking. forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like the image is hurting him in the best way.
“say it,” he chokes out. “tell me— fuck— tell me you'd let me do it. let me… knock you up. please, baby, just say it. let me make you a mommy.”
you’re so close it hurts. everything’s tight and hot and spinning, and his words are pushing you right to the edge.
“yeah,” you gasp. “yeah, bucky. want it. want you to— to breed me. want your baby.”
like he was waiting for that word to leave your mouth, he slams in hard and buries himself so deep you feel him in your throat.
with a broken sound, he’s coming again. his cum floods you, make you clench and shudder around him until you’re coming too, just trembling pulses that milk him dry.
he just collapses on top of you again, his lips brush your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“not going anywhere,” he mumbles eventually, voice soft now, almost sleepy. “gonna stay right here. make sure you keep every bit.”
my masterlist!
extras. i’m gonna be taking a break till the end of jan. see you on the other side 🥹 ps. don’t let this flop lol
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦
✦summary: You agree to friends with benefits, knowing Bucky already has your heart. Knowing that he's so blissfully unaware of it, that there's never any hope to be anything more. Which makes it strange, how possessive he's getting after you're flirted with at a party.✦
✦warnings/tags: modern!au, friends with benefits, protective Bucky Barnes, jealousy smut, (oral!f receiving, p in v sex, feral!bucky, possessive sex, softdom!bucky, dirty talk), no use of y/n, no description of reader (images for aesthetic only), light angst, love confessions, happy ending✦
✦wc: 6.1k✦
✦Author's Note: i had. Too much fun with this one. Enjoy!✦
The rule is that it’s nothing.
That’s what you agreed on. That’s what he suggested. That first time, when you’d finished washing your hair in his shower, and he’d made you breakfast, and you thought this was going to be something. Bucky was the one who said that he wanted to do this again, but didn’t want it to be complicated. He’s the one who reminded you that he doesn’t do relationships right now, because between work and everything else, he simply doesn’t have time for one.
He’s the one who made a bad joke about his arm, and not wanting to put that kinda shit on someone.
You’re the one who just stared at him, your heart breaking up like the cereal in front of you.
You’d put up with him. You already put up with him.
When his arm got blown off and he got honorably discharged, you told him to take a chance on those new prosthetic trials. When he said he wanted to do something more with his family money, you used all your free time to help with his campaign. When he got sworn into the house, you drove down to DC to watch the ceremony.
Hugged him after. Pressed your face into his neck, listening the drum of his heartbeat and smiling against his skin, because even if it didn’t belong to you, at least it was strong and steady. At least when you pulled back, Bucky smiled at you.
You put up with him. It’s not a task, when just his smile makes you feel like you’re the brightest thing in the world.
But he’d said that he had fun, but this shouldn’t be something.
And you’d nodded. Hadn’t said okay, or that you were fine with that. You weren’t.
You left your heart on the floor of Bucky’s apartment, and at least twice a month you go to see it again. He’ll have an event, you’ll have a long weekend. He’s visiting family, you’re heading up to DC for some work.
He smiles at you, and you smile back. You float through the night, waiting for the moment.
Bucky’s eyes to start dragging over your body. The drink in his hand getting neglected as he takes you in, his sentences get shorter and shorter as he starts to grow impatient.
Then he taps your wrist with a soft finger. Raises his brows in a silent question.
You still never say anything. You don’t want to lie to him, ever.
So he drags you out of the bar or gala. And you start to breathe again, when he slams the door behind him and kisses you against the wall. His metal hand bunches up your skirt or drags down your pants, teasing over your soaked underwear while he leaves lovebruises on your neck.
“All for me?” He’ll tease, and you’ll nod a little stupidly.
It’s overwhelming, the rush of pleasure and emotion that he can drag from you so easily. You feel alive, when he shoves your face into the pillow and fucks you like an animal. Bucky’s hand wraps around your throat while he forces to you look at him, his face painted with hunger and focus as he pounds ruthlessly in your cunt, and it’s never easier to breathe.
Sometimes he flips you over, covering your whole body with his while his balls slap against your clit, and tears escape your eyes. They’re muffled in the pillow, but Bucky still catches them, grabbing your jaw and twisting it to give you a soft, teasing kiss.
“Messy girl,” he’ll murmur against your lips. “I know, sweetheart, you’re takin’ it so good-“
He mistakes the sobs for desire. And in part, they are. You’re not a crier during sex, except when it’s Bucky, and his hitting deeper than anyone else can while toying so lazily with your clit.
But it’s also just tears.
For yourself. And how this is all you’re ever going to get.
But it’s nothing. You’ve long accepted that it’s nothing.
If you were braver, you’d tell him you were done. That you wanted someone who fucks you stupid, makes you breakfast, then holds your hand while you walk through the grocery market. That as long as that can’t be him, you’re not young enough to keep waiting, and not old enough to not care anymore.
You’re not braver.
You come like a dog when he calls. You spread your legs every time his hand trails up your thigh. You stare at your phone in the hope of a text, you trail after him at parties in an attempt to hurry up that moment. When, for a glorious few hours, Bucky’s whole world narrows down to you.
But it’s nothing.
For him, it’s a fleeting night, and then just nothing.
You’re trying to take baby steps, to clean yourself of him. To heal the brand he’s left on your skin, that makes anyone else’s touch feel wrong. You might not be brave yet, but you can be strong.
There was a party tonight. And it’s nothing to Bucky, so you can play pretend that it’s nothing to you.
You dress the same way you always do, when you and Bucky are attending the same party. It doesn’t matter if it’s one of his fancy congressman parties or just a get together thrown by high school friends, you do your hair up and put on red lipstick. Wear something dark blue that compliments your skin, highlighting ever dip and curve that you know Bucky’s hands love to pretend they’ve memorized.
Something for his attention, because it really is that bad.
And you can’t break that habit quite yet.
But at the very least, don’t follow him around. When you arrive, you let Natasha pull you away to get a drink. You stick to her side until she goes to play some dart game with the boys and Yelena. Normally you’d follow her, and stand right next to Bucky, hoping that your arms will brush.
Instead you go over to Wanda and Ava, and keep your back turned to the rest of the room.
“Barnes is staring.” Wanda hums, giving you a knowing look—she’s too good at reading people, it’s annoying—and you just stare at your cup.
She wouldn’t lie about that.
He’s probably just wondering why you’re not sitting at his feet, waiting for his attention. You can’t turn around, because you’ll see his confused, sad little frown, and you’ll break.
You know you’re still going to end up on your knees tonight, or pinned to his chest, or with your legs pressed to your chest as he folds you in half. The least to can do is not break.
So you don’t turn around.
It’s nothing. You just have to keep remembering that to Bucky, it’s nothing.
His rule. You’re only following his words the same way you always do, like they’re gospel.
At some point, Wanda introduces you to some guy who works with Vision and Tony in tech. He’s charming. Slicked back brown hair and pretty eyes, not quite as tall and broad as Bucky but still strong looking. He’s a little older, and makes a lot of bad jokes—a little full of himself, but most rich men are—and leers over you like you’re something he wants to take a bite out of.
It’s not your best moment, how you entertain him. How you giggle at his jokes and twirl your hair, tilting your head and batting your eyelashes. It makes your stomach boil with shame, because no matter how insufferable this man is, you’re still leading him on.
He won’t lay a single hand on you tonight. The closest he gets is when he passes you another drink, and his fingers brush your wrist. You smile sweetly, and pretend to take a sip before setting the drink down.
The man’s eyes glitter, when you ask exactly what he does for a living. He spends a solid half hour talking about crypto and AI like he’s some sort of pioneer.
You’ve spoken to Tony about these things. You know half of what he’s saying is bullshit.
But he calls you pretty after, so you giggle again, and just keep mindlessly flirting.
And it’s nothing.
Nothing to you. Nothing to the man—you’ve already forgotten his fucking name—and nothing that’s going to break you free of Bucky’s spell. If anything, you just fall further under. Bucky’s never even flirted with you, and his every word has always been more captivating than this… Buffon of a man. His praise had always made you flush.
You would’ve taken a drink he handed you. When you ask what he’s doing at work, he always just rolls his eyes and grumble nothin’ important, doll, even if you know that’s a lie.
He asks you questions about your life. He makes better jokes, and has prettier eyes.
But you keep flirting, because it’s nothing.
But for something that’s nothing, you’ve never seen Bucky make that face before.
You just look for a second, because you’re weak.
You do a double take, because he looks murderous. His brows are knit, his mouth in a tight line, his jaw working like he’s struggling not to shout something. His metal hand is crushing his plastic cup, and his chest looks like it’s taking such shallow breaths.
He’s staring at you.
And you thought you’d been on the end of all of Bucky’s stares. The hungry ones, while he peels your clothing off or watches you work him in his hand, your tits bouncing and thighs squeezing as you smile down at him. You’ve seen his annoyed stare, when you make a dumb joke and he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t want to laugh. His thinking stare, when he falls silent to consider a question far more seriously than he meant it.
Even his sad stare, when you sat with him after his surgery. When he told you that he felt half-human, and you held his metal hand.
Told him that you didn’t care what he was made of. He was still all Bucky, and that’s what you loved.
He’d stared at you that night. Then just leaned down, and rested his face on your shoulder. You’d stroked his hair, and stayed there as long as he needed.
You’d thought that was the worst Bucky stare you could receive. The hollow one, so obviously full of pain and sadness.
But this stare.
It’s furious.
And it makes a lot more heat pool between your thighs than it probably should.
Sam whacks Bucky’s chest, obviously in the middle of some story.
Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second.
You swallow, and look back to the man you’ve seemingly attached yourself to for the night. You can still feel Bucky’s stare, and you won’t be able to clean yourself of his brand. It’s sinking back into you every single second, and you’re not even strong enough to go where he can’t stare.
It makes your body sing with excitement. It’s Bucky’s attention.
It means that when he does get a hold of you, he’ll be relentless. And it might be nothing to him, but it’s everything to you.
Nothing.
He’s the one who said it’s nothing.
But he’s still staring. Even after you signal Yelena to get you away from the man—and she does so very dramatically, with a shout that her hamster is dying and you’re the only one who can save him—Bucky still doesn’t stop staring at you.
His shoulders relax a little.
You catch him shooting daggered glares at the man for the rest of the night. He crushes his cup fully, and stomps off with a grumble that he’ll clean it up.
The man claps him on the back with a laugh about how ladies must love that kind of strength.
Bucky looks right at you, eyes shining in the dark.
“You got no fuckin’ idea.”
You swallow.
It’s nothing.
But it sounds like it’s about to be something.
Bucky doesn’t tap your wrist tonight. He finds you in the kitchen while everyone else is out in the living room, screeching into Wanda’s karaoke machine in a way the neighbors can’t love. He crowds your space, pressing into you from behind, and leaves a sloppy, wet kiss on your throat.
You gasp, grabbing at the counter for support. “Bucky- Everyone’s right there-“
“They’re busy.” He mutters, moving his lips up your jaw. “Let’s go. Half an hour.”
“That’s- What about the party-“
“Don’t care. They won’t even fuckin’ notice.” His mouth ghosts over the shell of your ear, voice a low, dangerous promise. “You head out first. My place.”
“Bucky-“ His hand slides up your thigh, and you bite back a moan. “Fuck- you can’t just-“
He grabs your jaw, twisting your face back, and pulls you into a long, deep kiss. The kind of kiss he’s only ever given you when he was buried balls deep inside you.
And you break. Just like that, you’re putty in his arms again, grabbing his arm to keep steady and melting back into his chest.
Bucky breaks the kiss lazily, pressing a second, softer one to your open mouth before pulling back.
His eyes are darkened, searing right into your soul as he takes in your slack face. His thumb smears a little drool over your chin, and he makes a satisfied sound.
“Fuck it.” He mutters to himself. “We’re goin’ now.”
You blink at him, but just nod. You don’t know what’s gotten into him.
But if that was any promise of the night to come, you can’t find it in you to really fucking care.
Neither of you bother with goodbyes. Bucky doesn’t give the chance for them. He mutters that they’re all so drunk they won’t even notice, and pulls you outside with your fingers intertwined. You’re led to his bike, and when you ask if he’s sober enough to drive, he just laughs.
“I keep a clear head, doll. You know that.” He pauses, something heavier flashing over his face. “But- You feelin’ yourself?”
You nod, and his throat bobs.
“What about that drink.”
“What drink?”
“The one hair gel passed you. You know, you shouldn’t take shit from strangers-“
“I know that.” You snap, crossing your arms over your chest. “And I didn’t drink it.”
“Hm.” Bucky’s shoulders relax. “Good.”
You didn’t know he saw that. You don’t know why he bothered looking.
And he holds you in front of him, on his bike. Wraps you in his strong arms, your back pressed to his broad chest, his strong, intoxicating smell making you feel more drunk that anything you had tonight. When you get to his place, he carries you upstairs and into his apartment.
None of this feels like nothing.
Your heart kickstarts, the moment he tosses you on the bed, and this feels like fucking everything.
“Clothing off.” He orders, already yanking his shirt over his head, and you scramble to obey the order.
You barely get your shirt over your head, before Bucky’s on you. His grab your ankles, tugging you down the bed, and kisses the inside of your calf. You stare up at him, your shirt still bundled in your hands, and try not to whine as his repeats the motion, hands sliding slowly up your legs.
“Bucky-“
“Shh.” He shoots you a glare, slowly spreading your thighs. “I’m barely touchin’ you, doll, you can’t already be beggin’ for me.”
You swallow, watching him with wide eyes. He uses these golden lamps that you bought him, when he finally moved out of the place he’d been sharing with Steve since they were eighteen. They always make him look like an angel above you, the light casting a strange kind of halo on dark hair, his tanned skin glowing and holy against yours.
It had enchanted you, the first time he’d switched one on. Now, it just drags you further under the spell he never even knows he’s casting.
Bucky shines, in the dark. Untouchable. Yours, until the sun rises in the morning and he goes back to masquerading as a man rather than the god that you silently worship. You’ll leave his alter, the silk sheets stained with your devotion, the chamber of his room echoing with your prayers.
He won’t think twice of it. Deities don’t find it strange, to be sacred.
Bucky doesn’t ever question, why when he tells you to be quiet, you can’t do anything but shut your mouth. Doesn’t wonder why you’ll argue with him about everything else, but the moment he’s got his mouth on you, you’re barely more than a toy for his pleasure.
You wish he cared for you less. It would be easier to hate what you become, under his hands.
But Bucky hums in approval, at your silence. Kisses up your leg, then over your clothed core, and squeezes his hands on your ass.
“That’s my good girl.” He whispers, and a breathy, pleased sigh leaves your lips.
His.
Here, on these holy grounds, you’re Bucky’s.
And that the prize that you’ve wrought, for the impossibly high price that you’re willing to pay. That Bucky doesn’t even know he’s charging.
A single second, where you’re just his.
“You were ignoring me tonight.” He mutters, kissing over the soft skin of your stomach, and your head shoots up.
“It- We were at a party-“
“You can talk to me at a party.” He kisses under your breast, sliding a hand around your back to unhook your bra. “Weirder if you don’t, sweetheart. Sam thought we were fightin’-“
You try to think of a smart response about how he doesn’t own your time—he does, but to Bucky that means nothing—but the words fall flat on your tongue when Bucky pulls your bra away, and wraps his warm mouth around your nipple.
Your back arches off the bed, your fingers shooting into Bucky’s hair as a loud moan of his name escapes your lips. Bucky’s hums, his metal hand kneading at your neglected breast, and your toes curl as he works you up with kitten licks and a pinch of your sensitive bud.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You try to crane your neck up to look at him, and the sight alone almost pulls you apart.
His broad, muscles back over your body, that halo around his head, pretty eyes shining on yours in the dim light.
He’s like looking into the Sun. Blinding and imprinting on your eyes, capturing your gaze under tears prick at your eyes, and you collapse back into the sheets with a pathetic moan. Bucky chuckles, nipping your breast, and kisses back down your body at a torturously slow pace.
“Were we fighting?” He kisses your hipbone, as he pulls down your pants. “You pissed at me about somethin’?”
It takes you a second to register that as a questions. “I- I don’t- I don’t think so-“
“You don’t think so,” he drawls, and you shake your head frantically.
“No- I- I wasn’t mad-“
“But you weren’t talkin’ to me.” Bucky’s lips travel over your abdomen, his breath tickling at your inner thigh.
You’re still holding onto his hair like a lifeline, tugging on it with every teasing touch and mocking word. Usually, a yank of it with have him drilling you into the mattress.
Tonight, it doesn’t seem to sway him at all.
“Didn’t even look at me, for hours.” Bucky’s voice is heavy. Almost cold. “Made me spend the whole damn night wondering if I’d done something wrong to my favorite girl.” He slides his hands back under your ass, squeezing it once before digging his fingers into your hips and picking your lower body up off the bed.
He’s sitting on his knees above you, your soaked underwear within inches of his face. You’re limp in his hands, grabbing at the sheets now that he’s out of reach, but Bucky doesn’t give you anything. He just holds you in the air and glares down at you, a darkness in his eyes that you’ve never really seen before.
He’s angry. With you. His fingers dig into your skin, and his jaw is locked as he just glowers.
It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does, but there’s a fire brimming behind his eyes. A fire you want to swallow you whole.
“Bucky-“ You try to roll your hips, your arms wrapping around your own stomach. “I- I wasn’t mad, please-“
“Hands off.” He snaps, shooting a glare at your arms, and you whine. “Now, doll.”
You whine, but slowly pry your arms away. Bucky nods in tight approval, examining your almost bare body. His tongue flicks over his lips, and you might be close to tears with desperation.
He’s barely even touched you yet.
“Arms over your head.” He grunts, and you slowly drag them up, exposing you ever further to his glare. “Keep ‘em there.”
You nod weakly, opening your mouth to plead again, but Bucky doesn’t give you the chance.
“You say you weren’t pissed at me.” He mutters, slowly guiding one of your legs over his shoulder. Locking you against his body. “But then you spend the whole fuckin’ night acting like you were gonna go home with some other asshole. Don’t even give me the damn time, when I was waitin’ for you. That’s not very nice, is it baby.”
“I- I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to-“
“Didn’t mean to what.” Bucky snaps, running his free hand down your spine. “Didn’t mean to act like I didn’t exists. Like Stark’s goddamn errand boy could give you what I do? Like he could make you feel half as fuckin’ good?”
“No- I didn’t- Bucky-“ Your fingers flex, and it takes everything in you not to reach for him. “It wasn’t like that, I promise-“
“Hm. Sure looked like that.” He nips at the inside of your thigh, and your hips almost jump off the bed. “Had me worryin’ you’d forgotten who this pussy belonged to, doll. Think you might need a reminder.”
Your mouth falls open in a loud, broken moan as Bucky presses an open, wet kiss over your clit through your underwear. You grab at the pillows, rolling your hips up into his face, and he groans against your heat.
“Bucky- Fuck-“
He squeezes your breast, pulling your core up higher into his face, and starts to eat you out through your panties. They’re already wet and ruined, soaked from his teasing and attention, and every time Bucky moans the fabric vibrates against your core like a sin. You almost scream, when his teeth graze over your clit.
Your arms fly up to grab for him, and Bucky growls.
He doesn’t pull back, as he moves up to bed. He tosses your leg off his shoulder and bends your knees up to your chest. Keeps you pinned like that with his metal arm under them, and uses the free hand to grab your arms and hold them back up. You whine, straining against him, but it’s fruitless. Bucky has you how he wants you.
And he won’t let up until you’re a trembling, ruined mess under his hands.
The new angle works too well. Bucky pushes his tongue into your dripping pussy through your underwear, and hits so impossibly deep you start to see stars. You can’t grind with how your legs are trapped, can’t tug at his hair, can’t do anything but take everything he gives you. Every lick and groan, every thrust of his tongue and press of his nose over your sensitive nerves. You try to warn him, when you get close to release, but it comes out only a loud, needy babble.
You cum hard and fast, your body shaking and tears sliding down your cheeks from the overwhelming please. Bucky rises up, wiping his chin slowly, and slowly drags his thumb back and forth over your overstimulated clit. You shudder, staring up at him with your best pleading eyes, and he chuckles.
“Always look so gorgeous, babydoll. Look like a fuckin’ angel.” He lets go of your hands, and they fly up, trying to grab for him.
Bucky lets you scramble against his arm—still holding your knees up—watching with vague amusement as you whine like some animal in heat. Eventually he takes a small mercy, dragging one of your hands to twine with his metal one.
“Still so fuckin’ needy, even when I give ya’ what you want.” He hums, slowly playing with the destroyed fabric of your panties. “You like these?”
You shake your head, breathing heavy through your nose. Bucky yanks them off like they were made of flimsy string, and his thumb goes right back to your clit. Rubbing slow, firm circles around it, building the heat back up in your body so fast you almost topple right back over the edge.
“Bucky-“ You moan, because it’s the only word you know anymore.
He doesn’t answer. Just watches your face contort in broken, hopeless desire, his metal thumb dragging back and forth on the back of your hand.
“So pretty.” He muses to himself, stopping his torment of your clit for a single second. Landing a sharp slap against your soaked cunt, before resuming his torture. “Such a good girl, takin’ what I give you. Gettin’ all cockdrunk before I even fuckin’ get inside you. Pretty fuckin’ pussy, begging me to fuck it-“ He spits on your clit, and you blink up at him in a drunken, thoroughly wrecked daze, a high whine leaving your throat.
Something softens in his eyes, at your openly hopeless expression. He leans forward, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. You try to crane your neck up to meet him, but Bucky fists your hair, pulling you carefully back down into the mattress. You somehow manage to melt up into him, like the ocean being called up into the crowds. The heat in your body is so consuming you might as well be only mist.
Bucky’s the only thing keeping you together, while still being the one who’s pulling you apart.
Nothing new.
Nothing but the way his hand drags back down, grabbing so possessively at your body. The way his kiss deepens, like he doesn’t he’s already marked on your lips like a tattoo.
“Doin’ so good for me,” he murmurs against your lips, and you just hum in response. “My sweet girl, gonna fuck ya just like this. Never let you forget again, how you’re fuckin’-“ He angles his face, the kiss pressing even deeper than before. “Mine.”
You make a happy sound in response, but somewhere through the fog of sex, his words drive through you, stinging and cruel.
You’re not his. You’re nothing.
He can’t say something like that, when it’s all nothing.
But he does. And just like every time before, you fall for it.
Bucky drags his cock through your swollen pussy lips, bumping the head against your clit. He kisses you the whole time, strangely gentle and cautious, and swallows your moan when he finally pushes inside. The position lets him drive into you deep, so deep there isn’t a place you can’t feel him. Dragging against your walls, pressing over the most sensitive places inside of you, splitting you open and filling you up until you’re only able to blink at him through teary eyes and moan.
Bucky presses his brow tight against yours, his eyes dropping down to where he’s sliding in and out of you. Your nails dig into his neck, your breathing shallow and broken up with gasps of his name, and he looks back up to you with shining, blown out eyes.
He kisses you, lips molding over yours, tiny groans leaving his mouth every time you flutter around him.
You squeak, when his pace starts to pick up. The room fills with the wet sound of Bucky drilling into you, his balls slapping against your ass and hands grabbing every inch of your skin.
“Mine.” He growls against your lips, sucking your lower lip between his teeth. “Say it, say you’re mine-“
“Yours.” You pull the words from the deepest part of your chest. The part where your heart is beating again, from being in his arms. “I’m yours, Bucky, I’m yours- Please-“
He presses up on your knees, fucking you like a man possessed.
Your orgasm slams into you, and you’re too trapped beneath him to do anything but scream his name, your eyes rolling and mouth hanging open.
Bucky just keeps kissing you, as he fucks you through your release, his own close behind.
He cums with your name spilling out of his mouth, your walls clenching tight around him as he empties into your pussy. Slides slowly in and out, chest heaving, eyes still trapped on yours. His cum drips out of your hole, down your ass.
Bucky gathers it on his fingers. Feeds it too you with an unreadable expression.
“There you go, baby.” He mutters as you lick his fingers clean. “That’s my girl.”
You hum around his fingers.
His girl.
But you’re not.
You’re just not.
And you don’t know what that was, but you’re afraid to ask. Why he’d say such horrible, beautiful things. Why he’d kiss your shoulder, kiss you, with such care and tentative adoration.
Why he was even mad in the first place, when nothing really happened at all.
You swallow every question. Some things are better not to know.
Bucky helps you clean up. He always does, because he’s an insufferably good man, on top of everything else. He lets you use his shower, sleep in his bed, eat his food. So close to everything you want, but fleeting.
A single moment, before it all becomes nothing again.
Sometimes you’ll watch a movie. Laugh with him, before you leave your heart again. Savor the small things you get, while you’re allowed to have them.
But tonight, Bucky doesn’t climb back into bed with you. He stands at the foot of the mattress, arms crossed over his chest, and clears his throat. Grunts your name.
“Yeah?” You blink up at him, and his throat bobs.
He fixes his gaze over your head, words clipped and short.
“We need to stop doing this.”
Your mouth falls open, and this time, your heart isn’t falling out of your chest.
It’s fracturing. Pounding in your throat, about to burst into something you won’t be able to clean up.
“Wha- What?” Your voice breaks, as you sit up a little taller. Everything is blurring in the world but Bucky.
Just staring over your head. Cold again, but without any of the fire. Without anything at all.
“Why?” You whisper, and he shrugs.
“Does it matter?”
It shouldn’t. You should just shake your head, because it’s not supposed to be something that destroys you.
But it destroyed you a long time ago. You let it, because it felt good to be in pieces Bucky knew how to put back together, even if he didn’t realize he was doing it.
Now he’s just going to leave you. Act like this was nothing-
It was nothing. He said it was nothing.
If it was nothing, he shouldn’t have made you say you were his, before tossing you onto the curb without warning. He shouldn’t have held you like you were priceless, if he was going to treat you like second-hand junk.
He didn’t give a warning. He just fucked you stupid and begging, left bruises on your throat and under your skin, and now he’s trying to act like it’s all been nothing.
You put up with him. You put up with moods and bad nights and days without contact. You put up with his sudden insatiable desire, then determination to act like he’s never seen you as anything but a friend in the morning.
He started this.
That first night, he kissed you. Then told you it was nothing.
And you put up with it.
But this.
You’re not going to put up with this.
“Yes.” You snap, your anger lending your voice strength. “It matters. You can’t just dump me after that, James. That’s not how this works.”
Bucky visibly flinches at his full name, his eyes dropping to yours in shock.
Whatever he sees on your face, it makes him stumble over his words. “It’s- I’m not dumping you-“
“So what are you doing?”
“I’m cutting it off-“
“That’s another way to say dumping, dumbass.”
“It’s not fucking-“ Bucky runs a hand through his hair, staring at you in disbelief. “Christ, woman, I’m telling you I’m done with this, I don’t need another reason-“
“Yes, you do.”
“Are you serious? You can’t just tell me we’re not done-“
“Really?” You give him a challenging look, shifting up onto your knees. “Because that’s what I’m doing, James.”
He gapes at you, shaking his head. “You’re- We’re done-“
“Why?”
“Because I said so-“
“Why are you saying so.”
“Because-“
“That’s not a real reason-“
“Because I’m trying to fucking help you!” He shouts your name, expression furious and panicked all at once, and you freeze. “Long as we’re doing this, long as I’m holding on to you, you’re never going to get a chance to-“ He grits his teeth, the words sounding like they pain him to say. “Find someone. Be happy. And I can’t keep fuckin’ waiting for you to-“ Bucky cuts himself off, glaring at you with hollow, sunken eyes. “You know what? Never mind. We’re done so you can go be with that dick from the party or whatever. That a good enough reason for you, sweetheart?”
He spits those last words like they’re poison, and you just stare up at him.
The words wash over you like sudden rain. Cold and sinking into your bones. Impossible to breathe, as you choke on the weight.
Wouldn’t want to put that kind of shit on someone, he said.
And you’d laughed. You hadn’t meant it, but you laughed.
The rain clears, and soil you thought was dead starts to bloom.
Something you’d never even thought you’d be allowed to plant, starts to grow.
“I am happy,” you whisper, and Bucky blinks.
Rasps your name, but you shake your head.
“I’m happy, Bucky, I’m happy with you, I’m happy when I’m here and when we eat breakfast and when you text me and when we talk. I’m happy when you smile at me, and I’m happy whenever you come to me for something, and I’m happy- I’m happy when you’re happy.” You wrap your arms around yourself, voice breaking under the pressure of your own love. “I have someone, I have you and I’m happy, and I don’t want to stop because I’m not happy right now, and there’s never a good enough reason but I- I-“
Bucky says your name again. Almost a plea.
The words fall out of you so easily. You can’t believe they spent so long lodged in your throat.
You say them, and you feel light and free.
“I love you, Bucky.” You whisper. “I’ve loved you for a long time, and I- I don’t want anyone else.”
Bucky’s silent for so long. Your words hang in the air like a blade, pointed at both your throats.
“No, you don’t.” He finally rasps, and you shake your head.
“Yes, I do.”
“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t be good for you-“
“You’ve spent three years being good for me.”
“I’m a lot to put up with-“
“I don’t complain.”
He swallows, body straining. Like he wants to reach for you, but can’t. “I can’t love you like you deserve-“
“But you can love me.” You whisper, crawling to the edge of the bed. “And that’s all I want.”
You stare up at him, right within arms reach. Bucky takes an unsteady step forwards.
“What happens if I say I love you now?” He asks, voice more uncertain than you’ve ever heard it.
So you just smile, and hold out your hand. “I’d say I love you back.”
Bucky’s throat bobs. He looks at you hand, then back to you. You’ve never seen him really cry before, but a broken sob rattles through his throat, and your heart burns for him as a few stray tears slide down his cheeks.
It burns, and burns, but you just wait.
And when Bucky tackles you into a hug, his face pressing into your neck and body shaking on your arms, your heart mends itself back together.
“I’m sorry.” He says against your skin, and you just hum softly. Run your fingers through his hair, and hold him close.
You’re never going to let him go.
“It’s okay.” You whisper. “We’re okay.”
“I shouldn’t’ve-“
“I know. But it’s okay.”
“You- you deserve-“
“I want you.” You tell him, and he holds you tighter. “Can- Can I have you? Please?”
Bucky nods, and your heartbeats like it’s going to grow wings.
“You have me,” he says your name. Like it’s holy.
Like it’s his.
“You’ve always had me.”
✦End note: Does he know I'm on my knees.✦
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