itisjustwhatitis

[itisjustwhatitis]

Catch Me If You Can

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Reynolds, Bucky Barnes, fem!reader

Summary: You’re the villain they can’t catch. Bucky wants you gone, Bob wants you bad, and you’re loving every second of their chase.

Warnings: MDNI 18+!!! p in v sex, oral (male receiving) rough stuff, spanking, manhandling, hair pulling, bucky being rough, bob loves to praise, tiny tiny bit of what seems like non-con but it’s not really

A/N: This truly might be my dirtiest one yet MAYBE it’s good it’s so good i love a Bucky and Bob pairing…this might be my last Bob one for a bit yall unless i get more ideas, i wanna write for other characters whoops

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The alarms are already screaming by the time you vault the last railing, clutching the sleek black case to your chest. Your boots barely make a sound as you land in a crouch, flipping your hair out of your face just as the metal shutters slam down behind you.

Yelena can’t help but laugh as she watches you evade her teammates once again. “She has nice form. Good landing.”

Bucky looks towards her, his teeth gritting together so hard he’s worried they might shatter. “Not helpful, Lena.”

Bob, who tagged along on this mission solely for the purpose of seeing you once more, runs to catch up to them, out of breath. He leans forward, his hands on his knees as he gathers himself. “Fuck—how is she already three floors ahead of us?!”

You glance up at the nearest camera, smirk, and blow a kiss before darting into the shadows. The illusion you cast lingers—your figure still sprinting down the hall while the real you starts to scale a support beam overhead. You split yourself and created a double to distract them, hoping they would follow that and not you. Bucky barrels past below, boots thundering against the metal floor. Your plan worked, like always. He catches up to your clone and swings his knife through the illusion, snarling when it flickers into nothing. He should’ve known that wasn’t really you.

“Son of a—”


Bob catches up once more, Yelena hot on his trail. “Wow. That makes—what? The fifth time this month?”


“Sixth.” Bucky doesn’t even look at him. At this point, it’s person for them. They’ve been trying to catch you for so long now, it seems impossible that they haven’t even gotten close.


You quickly lean yourself down, hooking your legs onto a bar, hanging yourself in front of them off of the metal catwalk above them. “Seventh, actually. You boys really should start keeping better records.” You look towards Yelena and give her a little wave, which she returns. Definitely have a girl crush on her.

Bob looks up, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat as you toss a wave his way as well. He smiles for a second at the gesture and then shakes his head. He wonders how you’re even able to hold yourself up like that. You tuck the case up between your legs, knowing you’re hanging just out of their reach. They could throw a weapon, shoot you. But you knew they wouldn’t. They liked you too much.

“Do you ever shut the hell up?” Bob snaps, his breath finally steady as he stares up at you. It was a huge contrast from the innocent little wave he just tossed your way. 


“Not when I’ve got an audience. You’re pretty cute from up here you know.” You giggle, pulling yourself back up till you were on your feet again.

Bob nearly chokes, fumbling for words, while Bucky’s glare sharpens like a blade before he chimes in.

“Do you give up yet? You have nowhere to run this time. Stop acting sweet, we both know you’re not.”


You clutch your chest in fake hurt. “Ouch! Straight to the heart, congressman. No wonder you’re still single.”

“She’s right, Barnes. You could be nicer.” Yelena snorts, pushing him lightly on the arm.

Bucky pushes her hand off of him and rolls his eyes. “Am i the only one not falling for this schtick? Don’t encourage her.”

Before Bob can recover from your cute comment, your figure splits into three illusions this time, all of you darting off in different directions with identical laughs. You call out for them to come and catch you, taunting them some more.

“Uh—Yelena? Which one’s—” Bob begins to panic, not sure which one of you he should follow.


“None. She is behind you, idiot.” Yelena rolls her eyes and points at him. At this point she’s here for the show, not to catch you.

Bob spins, wide-eyed, and finds you crouched on the railing just above him. You tilt your head, studying him like he’s far more interesting than the case in your hand. You point towards Yelena, annoyed she gave you away.

“This is her first time on your catching me mission, and she knows more than you,”

You scold Bob. “And here I thought you knew me. I might actually have to start trying now if she’s going to be here.”


A blush creeps up Bob’s face, he can’t hide it. He’s thankful it’s dark in here or you’d never let him live it down. “I’m not—shut up!” His words however, 100% give him away. He just loved to tell you to shut up.

“You gonna make me, sweetheart?”


Bucky snaps his fingers in front of Bob, saving him from further embarrassment before he can answer. He pulls out his handgun, ready to aim at you. “She’s stalling. Move.”

You spring upward, grappling line firing from your belt as you rocket toward the glass dome ceiling. To your surprise, Bucky knew you would do that, already climbing after you. He’s catching up fast, but not fast enough. Bob and Yelena are on the ground, trying to figure out a way to stop you from another angle.


“Aw, soldier—don’t pout. It makes you look older.” You call out, watching as Bucky climbs after you. You can’t help but notice the way his arms look as they pull him up after you, Strong, large. Like he’d have no problem tossing you around a bedroom. It’s that super strength.

The comms erupt with static in their ears as the rest of the team scrambles to cut off your exit, but you’re already halfway across the roof beams, moving like you own the place. Every flip, every grab of your grappling line is precise—calculated—but looks like you’re dancing. Yelena tilts her head below, watching you soar across the dome with a little smirk tugging at her lips.

“You seeing this Walker? She makes it look easy. I like her.”

You drop yet another smoke bomb, another shimmer of light—your silhouette dissolves into thin air. You use the smoke as a distraction, leaving only the echo of your laughter bouncing through the rafters.

Your gone without a trace now, the only sounds being boots against pavement as the rest of the team meets up together outside. Bob leans to one side, his hands on his hips. He can’t stand all this running. He’d rather fight in one place if he could.

“Fuck’s sake. Seven. Seven goddamn times.”


Bucky sighs, handing Bob a bottle of water as he catches his breath. “Eight, if you count D.C.”

The night is silent as they’re walking back towards their transportation. Tired, bruised, and ready to never talk about this embarrassment again. John Walker is the first to break the silence, tugging off his helmet with a smirk that makes Bucky want to hit something.

“Well, well, well. Another clean getaway. You two ever gonna stop letting her slip through your fingers, or is this just your new hobby?”

Bucky rounds on him, jaw tight.

“Shut it, Walker.”


Walker’s grin spreads wide on his face. “What? I’m just saying—it’s starting to look less like a mission and more like a—what’s the word? Courtship.”

Bob groans, dragging both hands down his face. “Jesus Christ, man, can you not?”


“Come on, buddy, admit it. You like the chase. Both of you do. Hell, maybe you’re competing.”

Bucky glares daggers at him, but Walker just laughs and claps him on the shoulder hard enough to be annoying. “She’s a criminal. That’s it. End of story.”


Walker snorts to himself. “Yeah, sure. That explains the way you grind your teeth every time she calls you ‘soldier.’ Real professional.”

Bob mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like fuck off, but it’s drowned out by Yelena strolling up with her usual calm detachment.

“I like her. She moves well. Graceful. Stylish. Very… cool.”

Bucky turns his glare on her. “Again, not helping.”


Yelena shrugs. “I am not trying to help.”

Ava joins last, arms crossed, dark eyes flicking between them all. She looks like she’s been turning something over in her head, and when she finally speaks, it’s blunt enough to make Bob choke.

“It was almost like she was flirting with you. With all of you.” The silence that follows is instant and brutal. Bob nearly trips over his own boots trying to backpedal.

“I—I mean, she wasn’t—she’s just—fuck, no, she was messing with us. That’s all.” Bob stutters his way through his sentence, not sure if he believes the lie himself.


“Oh, this is even better than I thought.” Walker isn’t even trying to hide his excitement anymore.


“Drop it. Now.” Bucky snaps, his metal hand dragging over his face.

The tension lingers as they pile back into their transport, the weight of another failure pressing down on them. Bucky stares out the window, fists clenched tight on his knees. Bob sinks into his seat, cheeks hot, wishing he could vanish into the floor. Yelena hums under her breath, amused. Walker looks smug. Ava just looks thoughtful. And somewhere out in the city, you’re already long gone, laughing to yourself as you count tonight’s victory as number nine.

The jet hums low as the team settles in for the ride back. The mood is thick—another failed mission hanging over them like smoke.

Walker leans back with his arms crossed, smug as ever.

“Y’know, for two guys who claim to hate her, you sure spend a hell of a lot of time running after her.”

Bucky doesn’t even look at him, jaw tight as steel, eyes fixed on the floor. He tells himself he hates her. He should hate her. She’s dangerous, slippery, arrogant—always taunting him like it’s a game. And yet—he can’t stop replaying the image of her vaulting over the railing, hair catching the red strobe lights, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. The way she looked at him—right at him—before slipping away like smoke between his fingers. Damn it. She’s the enemy. But God, she’s fine.

“She’s not winning. Next time, we catch her.”


“Sure, Barnes. Keep telling yourself that.”

Bob sits two seats away, slouched low, trying his best not to look like he’s melting into the chair. His heart’s been hammering since the moment she perched above him, eyes locked on his like he was the only one in the room. He should be terrified. She’s a criminal, an illusionist, a tease. But every time she smirks, every time her voice drips sarcasm in his direction—it’s like his brain short-circuits. She’s dangerous, untouchable, wrong. And it’s the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen. He didn’t want to admit how many nights he’s spent thinking about her. Frustrated he could never get her hands on her, and not in an arrest her kind of way, but in a way where he wants her in his bed. He wants to know what her lips feel like, how soft her skin is, bring her breakfast in bed after a long night together. He wondered what her hair smelled like.

He bites the inside of his cheek, praying nobody can read his face. Because if they knew the truth—that he’d let her do whatever she wanted, no resistance, no questions asked—he’d never hear the end of it. Especially from Walker.

“She looked at you both like she was enjoying herself. Especially you,” she kicks Bob’s leg to get his attention. “It’s like cat and mouse game, huh?”


“She wasn’t—she’s just—wait who’s the cat?” Bob knows exactly who’s the cat, and it isn’t him.


“Messing, flirting, same damn thing.” Walker teases. He’s loving every second of this.

Bucky finally looks up, eyes sharp. “You need to stop letting her in your head,” he’s calling out Bob, but he knows he’s referring to himself as well. “She’s nothing to us but somebody else we’ve gotta catch.”

But the words feel hollow in his throat. Because when he closes his eyes, he can still see her laughing from the rafters—untouchable, infuriating, and impossible not to notice. And across from him, Bob stares at the floor, cheeks hot, already lost in the thought of what it would be like if—for just once—she stopped running.

The city moves below you as you perch on the edge of a rooftop, case beside you, black mask hanging loose in your hand. Sirens wail in the distance—late, as always. You tilt your head back, sighing as you think about Bucky. About Bob.

They’re good. Really good. But so were you. Most people would’ve been caught by now, but not you. Not when you’ve got illusions and a knack for slipping away. And not when you’ve got two super-soldiers practically throwing themselves at your heels like dogs chasing a fox.

Bucky Barnes. Always scowling, always biting down on his own temper like it’s the only thing holding him together. He hates you—hates how you get under his skin. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens every time you wink at him. The man is pure grit and discipline, but when his eyes linger just a little too long, you know he notices you. And you like making him notice. You wonder if you’d be able to crack that unrelenting grumpy facade, be able to get him underneath you like you’ve always pictured.

Then there’s Bob. Sweet, nervous Bob with the mouth of a sailor. You didn’t expect to like him—thought he’d bore you. But the way he blushes when you lean too close, the way his voice cracks when he tries to snap back? Irresistible. There’s honesty in him that you don’t get from people like you. It makes you want to push, to see how far he’ll bend. Maybe how far he’ll break. If you could break him. You smile to yourself, brushing a strand of hair from your face. They think you’re running from them. Maybe you are. But maybe… just maybe… you’re letting them chase you, because it’s more fun when they almost catch you.

—————-

The mission room buzzes with low light and static chatter. Maps and blueprints flicker on the holo-display, red markers blinking over a high-rise downtown. Your face is plastered all over the screen, multiple different pictures, you as yourself and you disguised from the world as well.

Val paces at the front, heels clicking like gunfire. “New intel says she’s after a biotech shipment moving through this facility. High value. Dangerous. And this time, I don’t want excuses—I want her caught.”

Her eyes slice across the team, lingering just long enough on Bucky and Bob to make both men bristle. They’re always the ones letting you go.

Walker spins in his chair to look at his teammates. “Oh, don’t worry, Val. These two love chasing her. Practically wag their tails when she shows up,” he points towards Bob. “And this one just drools over her.”

Bucky shoots him a look sharp enough to kill. Bob mutters something under his breath that sounds like eat shit.

“She’s a threat. Not a damn joke.”

“Threat, crush—funny how the line keeps blurring for you two.” Walker pushes.

Yelena leans back in her chair, twirling a pencil in her fingers, completely unbothered. “He is not wrong. You both get very… intense when she is around. Like teenage boys with posters on their walls. I don’t blame you. I might have a crush too.”

Bob flushes red, sinking lower in his chair. He can’t stop staring at your pictures on the screen. Too many thoughts in his head, dirty thoughts that should be for when he’s alone, not around all his friends. “That’s not—it’s not like that. I just—she’s slippery, okay? That’s all. Nothing else.”


Walker snickers. “Sure, buddy. Slippery. Got it.”

Ava finally cuts in, arms folded, eyes sharp.

“She flirts with you. You know that, right? It’s deliberate. Distraction tactics.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens until it aches. “Doesn’t matter. We go in, we stop her—end of story.”

But even as he says it, flashes of her grin, her laugh, the sway of her body when she vaulted out of reach earlier that night burn behind his eyes. He can’t shake it. Bob fiddles with his shirt, trying to focus, but his brain won’t stop looping one humiliating thought: if she cornered him—really cornered him—he wouldn’t resist. Not even a little. He’d probably drop down on his knees for her right then and there. And God help him if anyone on this team ever figured that out. Val slams her hand on the table, cutting through the tension.

“Enough. I don’t care if she’s your nemesis, your fantasy, or your prom date. Next op—she doesn’t walk away. Clear?”

Silence. Then, reluctantly, the team murmurs agreement.

The mission is set. The trap is laid. But deep down, everyone knows the truth—she’s slipped away nine times before. And if history repeats itself… they’ll be walking home empty-handed again.

————-

The facility is quiet. Too quiet. Rows of shipping crates stretch into the shadows, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Bucky moves with his usual silent efficiency, rifle at the ready, eyes scanning every corner. Bob trails a few steps behind, muttering curses under his breath every time his boot scuffs against the floor.

“Try not to screw this up, boys. She’s slippery, but you’ve got home-field advantage this time.” Walkers voice cuts through their thoughts on the comms.


Then Yelena. “Stop talking, Walker. You are distracting.”

Bucky ignores them, focused, shoulders tight. He has half a mind to turn off his friends in his ears, but he doesn’t.

Bob fiddles with his earpiece, and glances at Bucky, then blurts out, like he can’t help himself. “So… why do you care so much about catching her?”

Bucky doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even break stride. “Because it’s my job. Our job, Bob.”

Bob laughs. “Bullshit. You don’t get this worked up about anyone else. She gets under your skin.”

Bucky finally cuts him a sideways glare. “Yeah? Wanna talk about how you lose all brain capacity when she’s near you?”


Bob shrugs at him, knowing he can’t really argue. “Yeah, but… she’s not just a criminal, is she? You saw the way she moves—like, it’s… cool. Hot, even. She’s got style. I like her outfit she wears.”

Bucky stops, turns fully toward him, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t wanna admit he agrees. “Hot?”


“I mean—not—not like hot hot. Just, you know—objectively. Like—fuck, never mind.” Bob stammers, getting defensive.

There’s a beat of silence before Walker bursts out laughing in their ears. “Oh my God. You’ve got a crush on her.”


Bob raises his hand to his ear. “Shut the fuck up, Walker!”

Yelena’s voice slides in, smooth as silk. “He is not wrong, though. You are blushing. You always do.”

Bob groans, dragging a hand through his hair. Bucky shakes his head, trying to smother the uncomfortable flicker in his chest. Because damn it, Bob’s not wrong. She is hot. She’s all sharp smirks and lithe movements, always a step ahead, always vanishing in a puff of smoke. And he hates himself for noticing. He adjust himself uncomfortably, suddenly feeling a little hot under all his padding and layers.

“Doesn’t matter what she looks like. She’s still an issue.”


“Issues can be hot.” He says it barely above a whisper, except Bucky heard him. He agrees, silently, but he does. He shoots him a look sharp enough to cut steel. Bob clams up immediately, no more of that.

And somewhere above them, in the rafters, you crouch with a grin, illusions already flickering to life. You’ve heard every word.

The game’s about to get interesting.

The warehouse quiets around them—dim lights, shadows pooling in the corners of the massive space. Dust motes swirl in the beams of yellow overhead bulbs, and the air feels heavy with anticipation. Bucky paces the edge of the shipping crates, every step silent, precise. His rifle never wavers. Bob hangs back, trying to mimic the same calm, but his nervous fidgeting betrays him.

You watch from the rafters above, body still as a cat, lips curved in a smirk. They’re waiting. They know you’re coming. And you’re already here.

“You’re wasting your time. She’s long gone by now.” Walker cuts in after a while.


“Shut up. She is here. I can feel it.” Yelena argues. All they ever do is argue.


“Feel it? What are you, psychic?” 
“Smarter than you.” Yelena and Walked continue to argue, Bob and Bucky becoming more and more annoyed at listening. Why couldn’t it have been Ava and Alexei in their ears all night?

You stifle a laugh as you watch them, eyes glinting as you roll the tension over your tongue. They’re on edge, primed for you. It’s almost a shame to ruin the suspense. Almost. With a practiced grace, you drop from the rafters, boots hitting the ground in a soft thud. You concentrate for a second as three more of you appear, surrounding them. The thing you’ve come for rests unopened in a crate to your right, but you don’t go for it. Not yet. You raise your hands, palms open, head tilted like this is all some elaborate game. Your clones copy. The boys jump at the sudden noise, flipping towards you with their guns raised. They’re spinning around, unsure of which one is the real you.

“Now, now… no need to be so jumpy,” you purr, eyes flicking between them. The sight of both rifles aimed at makes your grin widen. “Though I have to admit—pointing guns at me does make things a little spicier.”

Bob jerks, his grip on his weapon tightening. His face flushes almost instantly, betraying him in a way that makes your pulse quicken with delight. He was your first target.

You let your gaze slide over him, slow and deliberate. Your clones disappear, revealing the real you. “Relax, sweetheart. You’re shaking. Don’t worry—I don’t bite.” Your smirk sharpens. “Well, for you i would. Whenever you want.”

Bob makes a strangled noise, his ears going scarlet. Ah, what you would give to hear that noise is another context. In your bed spending time on your knees, perhaps.

“Jesus Christ, shut up!” Bob snaps.

You laugh, a rich, genuine sound that echoes through the cavernous space. Oh, how you like him. He’s so easy to unravel.

Then your gaze shifts to Bucky. He hasn’t flinched, hasn’t lowered his weapon, hasn’t given you even the satisfaction of a twitch. He’s a wall—hard, immovable. And yet, you can feel his eyes on you, cataloguing everything: the curve of your body in the matte-black suit, the tilt of your lips, the gleam in your eyes.

You tilt your head. “Still not smiling, soldier? I was hoping by now I’d get at least a smirk. Or maybe a blush. Blow me a kiss?”

His voice is gravel, steady and cold. “You’re not funny.”

You shrug, feigning disappointment. “Tough crowd.” Then, casually, you glance around. “By the way—where’s your blonde? She’s my favorite. I was hoping Yelena would be here in person. She at least knows how to give a compliment.”

The comms crackle in their ears. “See? She has taste.”

You grin wider, lowering your hands just a fraction—not threatening, just enough to remind them you’re comfortable here, even with barrels aimed at your chest.

“She in your ear? Come on, boys,” you tease, stepping just close enough that Bucky’s finger tightens on the trigger. “Nine times I’ve slipped through your fingers, and you still haven’t learned? You’re cute when you’re stubborn.”

Bob swallows hard, eyes darting anywhere but you. There’s that cute thing again. Cute. His voice cracks when he mutters, “You’re not cute.”

You take one slow step toward him, grin curling into something wicked. “Oh, sweetheart… you think I’m cute. You think i’m a lot more than that, in fact. And that’s what makes this fun.”

He splutters, face blazing red, while Bucky grits his teeth and keeps his aim steady. His pulse ticks higher in his throat, though, no matter how still he stands. Because damn it all—you look like sin standing there in the half-light, dangerous and radiant, untouchable yet close enough to taste.

And he hates himself for noticing. He wants to dip that damn suit off of you.

Your grin lingers as you tilt your head, eyes glinting. You slowly reach up and pull your mask from your face, fully revealing yourself to them. The rifles pointed at you don’t scare you—they never have. Guns are useless when you’re already inside their guard. One shift of weight, one flicker of distraction, and you’re moving. A sweep of your arm, and Bob’s weapon clatters to the ground, skidding across the concrete. Bucky manages to keep his grip for half a second longer, but you twist, pivot, and slap the barrel aside just as his finger tightens. The metallic clatter of steel on steel echoes through the warehouse.

“Much better,” you whisper, dancing back a step. “I hate when things get too… impersonal.”

Bucky squares his shoulders, stance low, eyes locked on yours. Bob scrambles, fists tightening like he’s ready to box.

You chuckle and step forward, smooth as silk. “Don’t look so tense, sweetheart,” you say, circling Bob now, slow and deliberate. His eyes keep darting to your mouth as you talk, and you know it. You let your words drip like honey. “You’re distracted already. That’s dangerous. Is it because of the nickname? You like that?” He blinks, swallows hard. His fists falter. You smirk. “I can see where you’re looking.”

That’s all it takes. You slide in close, twist under his arm, and sweep his legs clean out from under him. Bob hits the ground with a grunt, blinking up at you, dazed. You lean over him, so close he can feel your breath on his face. He could’ve reached out and grabbed you right then and there. So why doesn’t he?

“Sweet dreams,” you whisper, blowing him a mocking kiss as you step over his sprawled form.

Bucky’s already there. He lunges, metal arm whirring as he moves, flashing in the low light. You block, but the impact sends a tremor down your bones. He’s strong—stronger than anyone else you’ve tangled with. That damn super soldier serum. Each strike is precise, efficient, ruthless.

But you’re fast. Too fast. You slip under his guard, taunt him with a smirk as you spin out of reach. “You don’t even flinch, do you? No wonder they call you grumpy. Don’t you ever loosen up?”

His jaw tightens. “Not for you.”

You laugh, dodging his kick by a breath. He’s giving you a fight worth savoring, every blow making your pulse race. He’s the wall you want to climb, the soldier who refuses to give you the satisfaction of a blush or a stumble. And that—more than anything—makes him dangerous. Still, you can see it in the flick of his gaze, the way his eyes skim down your body even as he scowls. He notices.

Bucky’s fist whistles past your cheek, close enough to stir the air. You twist, blocking the next strike with your forearm, sliding your palm along his metal wrist like it’s a dance. His strength rattles through you, but you hold steady, grinning as though this is nothing more than foreplay.

“Mm,” you hum, circling him. “All that muscle, all that scowling. It’s almost like you’re trying to impress me.”

His jaw clenches. “You’re not that special.”

“Oh, honey…” You let your grin spread, sharp as glass. “Then why are you staring?”

His glare falters—just for a second. It’s enough.

You let your body ripple, skin shifting in an instant. His own face stares back at him now, silver arm gleaming under the dim lights. You smirk with his own mouth, his own blue eyes. “You really want to hit yourself, soldier?” His fist freezes mid-swing. You tilt your head, mocking his permanent scowl, and drop your voice an octave, matching his gravel. “I don’t smile for anyone.”

“Cut it out.” His voice is low, dangerous.

“Why? Afraid you’ll like it?” You shift again—this time into Bob. Same nervous eyes, same crooked grin. You throw in a shaky laugh that’s dead-on. “God, you’re so—uh—serious all the time, Bucky. Relax, man.”

The real Bob groans from the floor, still struggling up onto his elbows. “That’s not what I sound like!”

“Spot-on,” you giggle, snapping back to your own form with a wink. Bucky’s fists tighten, but you can see it now—his breathing quickening, his focus fraying. He hates the way you crawl under his skin.

And you’re so caught up in him—in the sparks flying every time your bodies clash—that you don’t notice Bob creeping closer. His steps are soft, deliberate, the nerves finally buried under something sharper: determination.

By the time you catch the flicker of movement in the corner of your eye, it’s too late. Bob slams into you from behind, pinning your arms just long enough for Bucky to snap a pair of cuffs around your wrists. Cold, heavy—power-dampening.

The sudden silence inside your head is jarring. No more flicker of borrowed faces, no ripple of shifting skin. Just… you.

You blink down at the cuffs, then up at them, and slowly smile. “Well. Took you long enough.”

Bob’s breathing hard, hair mussed, eyes wide—but his grip doesn’t loosen. He pushes your body closer into the wall and you feel his chest press against your back. He reaches down and brushes your hair from your ear, the touch sending shivers down your spine. “Got you,” he whispers in your ear, lips so close you can almost feel them, voice somewhere between triumph and disbelief.

You lean back against him just slightly, feeling his whole body tense like a live wire. “Mm. You did. Congratulations, sweetheart.”

Bucky yanks you forward out of Bob’s grip, his hand firm around your arm. Bob frowns, missing the feeling of your body on his. He wanted to be the one to walk you to the van. “Move.”

You laugh, letting them drag you toward the exit. No thrashing, no real fight—not now. You were exactly where you wanted to be. “Careful, boys. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you enjoyed that.”

The van waits outside, engine rumbling, headlights casting long beams over cracked pavement. Walker lounges in the passenger seat, smirk already plastered on his face, while Yelena leans forward from the back, eyes sharp as knives.

Walker whistles low when he sees you shoved into view, hands cuffed, hair mussed from the scuffle. “Well, well, well. Look who finally bagged the cat.”

Yelena’s lips curve, not unkind. “Told you she was here.” Her gaze lingers on you, and for the first time tonight, you feel her eyes really take you in. She doesn’t look smug—she looks impressed. You stretch out your legs as they guide you into the van, cuffs glinting in the light. Calm. Collected. Smiling like this is still your game. Because really… getting caught? That’s just another kind of fun.

The van’s engine vibrates beneath you, the air inside thick with silence—until you break it, of course. You lean back against the seat, cuffs gleaming on your wrists, legs stretched out like you own the place. You push your legs farther apart, knowing Bob’s eyes were on you. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Well,” you say, voice smooth as velvet, “if I had to get caught, I’m glad it was by you.” Your gaze slides deliberately to Yelena, lips curving into a lazy smile. “Always knew you were my favorite.”

Yelena raises a brow, and for a beat, doesn’t deny it. Her mouth quirks, sharp and amused. “You have good taste.”

You chuckle, tilting your head. “Mmm. And you have good reflexes. Deadly hands. Gorgeous eyes…”

From the driver’s seat, Walker groans. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Don’t fall for that crap, Belova. She’s just buttering you up so you’ll slip.”

Yelena shrugs, smirk deepening. “Doesn’t mean it’s not fun to listen.”

You grin wider, opening your mouth to say more—but Bucky’s voice cuts in, sharp and cold. He tugs your cuffs and you hiss in pain. “Shut up.”

The van dips into silence again. You look at him, head tilted, studying the hard line of his jaw, the storm brewing in his eyes. Oh. Interesting. He doesn’t like it when you spread your attention around. So you pivot. Instantly. Your gaze slides past him to Bob, sitting rigidly at your side, trying way too hard not to look at you. His hands twitch on his knees, his jaw works, and his ears—oh, his ears are red.

“Sweetheart,” you purr, leaning a little closer. He flinches at the little nickname you’ve given him. “you’re awfully quiet. What’s wrong? Still thinking about the way I had you on the floor?”

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, which only makes your smile sharpen. And then, before he can stammer out anything, your form flickers. Skin rippling, hair shortening, posture slouching just slightly—until his own wide eyes are staring back at him. Same nervous mouth. Same messy hair. Same awkward frown.

You lean forward, his voice spilling out of your throat, pitch-perfect. “I don’t sound like that,” you mimic, echoing his earlier protest.

Bob’s mouth drops open. “What the—stop that!” His voice cracks, which makes the imitation even better.

You lean closer, mirror-Bob grinning with wicked delight. “C’mon, admit it,” you tease, still in his voice. “You’d let me do whatever I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

His whole face flames. “I—I—shut up!”

The van erupts—Walker laughing so hard he nearly swerves, Yelena smirking at the chaos, Bucky grinding his teeth so loud you almost hear it over the engine. You just sit back, shift back into yourself with a blink, and smile like a cat in a sunbeam. Cuffed, caught, but still the one holding the strings.

The laughter lingers in the cramped space, Walker nearly doubled over in the driver’s seat while Bob is still avoiding eye contact. You lean back against the van wall, wrists cuffed, grin sharp as glass. Then your skin ripples once again, hair lightening, face narrowing into sharp lines. When the change settles, it isn’t Bob sitting across from them anymore—it’s Yelena. You just can’t help it. Without you, this car ride would be boring. Her short hair, her jacket, her calm posture. The accent rolls out of your mouth as easily as breathe.

“Oh, come on,” your voice is thick with her Russian drawl. “You love me, da? Admit it.”

Bob nearly swallows his own tongue, whipping his head between you and the real Yelena sitting at the front. “Oh my god—no. No, nope. This is—don’t—“

The real Yelena smirks, cool as ice, one eyebrow arching high. “Not bad. You even got the voice right.”

You flash her a grin in her own face. “One of my many talents, darling.”

Walker groans, throwing his head back with another laugh. “Jesus Christ. This is a disaster. Belova, you better not be flattered.”

“I am flattered,” Yelena says, still watching you with that unnerving calm. “It is a good likeness. Little taller than me, maybe. More smug. You have to admit this is pretty cool.”

Your grin widens. “Oh, I can fix that.” You slump your shoulders just slightly, copy her mannerisms, the way she tilts her head, the way her lips purse before speaking. It’s uncanny—like two mirrors facing each other.

Bob makes another strangled sound. “This is the worst day of my life.”

That’s when Bucky’s voice cuts sharp and hard, slicing through the laughter. “You need to relax.”

You turn your—well, her—face toward him, lashes lowered, smirk softening into something more dangerous. “Ohhh. You don’t like me playing with your friends. You jealous, soldier?”

His glare sharpens, jaw ticking. “I said stop.”

Walker, of course, can’t resist. “Looks like you hit a nerve, Barnes. What’s the matter? Don’t like her spreading the love around?”

Bucky ignores him, though his hands curl into fists against his thighs. “Don’t listen to her,” he mutters to Bob, voice tight. “She’s screwing with your head.”

“Oh, but isn’t it fun?” you tease, accent still rolling like honey over glass.

Yelena leans back, smirking at the chaos you’ve stirred. “She knows what she is doing. And you are all letting her.”

Bob groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we not psychoanalyze the shapeshifter while she’s still handcuffed two feet away from me? Please?”

You lean closer to him in Yelena’s voice, whispering: “You love it. Admit it.”

“I do not.” Bob couldn’t be a worse liar if he tried.

Walker laughs again, practically wheezing. “Oh, this is gold. You two are pathetic.”

And that’s when Bucky finally loses it.

“I said, enough!” His voice is a whipcrack, filled with barely-checked fury.

You hold his stare for a long, charged moment. Then, slow and deliberate, you shift back into yourself. Your smile hasn’t dimmed at all. If anything, it’s sharper now.

Because even cuffed, even cornered, you know you’ve left your mark. And judging by the way Bucky’s jaw is clenched, by the heat lingering in his stare—you know you’ll be living rent-free in his head for a long, long time. Just like you have been already.

————-

They sit you in the glass-walled room at HQ like you’re some rare animal they finally managed to trap. pair of metal cuffs chain your wrists to the table, glowing faintly against your skin. You don’t fight them—you just lean back in the chair, relaxed, a smirk already tugging at your mouth. Bucky stands against the wall, arms crossed, glowering like it’s a full-time job. Bob hovers awkwardly near the corner, hands twitching, not sure if he should sit or stand. He doesn’t want to get near you, afraid of how you’ll mess with him this time. Walker leans against the doorway, smug as hell, while Yelena takes the chair across from you, calm and curious.

“Nice place,” you murmur, glancing around. “Bit sterile for my taste. No plants? No art? No windows? Tsk. You’d think after all this government money, you’d at least get a rug.”

“Start talking,” Bucky grits out.

You turn your head slowly, and lock eyes with him. “Make me.”

He exhales hard through his nose, like he’s already run out of patience. You really do want him to make you.

Yelena, however, props her chin on her hand. “You enjoy this. Being caught.”

You morph again without warning—skin rippling, hair lightening until Yelena is staring at… herself. You copy her posture exactly, even the angle of her eyebrow. Then, in her own thick accent:

“Of course I enjoy it. Look at these faces. Priceless. I love to spend time with my favourite anti-heroes.”

Walker can’t help but be impressed. “Jesus Christ. She’s good.”

“Better than you ever will be,” you add, still as Yelena. “You know, you guys aren’t better than me. You’re just farther along in your weird redemption arc story.”

Walker’s grin falters. “Alright, that’s enough—”

“Don’t like the mirror held up, huh?” you tease. Then you switch again—this time into Walker, same stance, same cocky grin. “‘I’m John Walker. I’m America’s golden boy.’” You mock his voice with perfect inflection, then tilt your head. “Only problem is… you’ll always be a discount Cap.”

The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop—Yelena starts chuckling under her breath, Walker’s face hardening as he bristles, Bucky pinching the bridge of his nose. Bob mutters a swear and tries not to laugh. You shift again, this time into Bob—same hoodie, same nervous posture, same darting eyes. His jaw drops when he sees you, and your voice trembles in a perfect imitation:

“Uh, guys, maybe we should… maybe we should hear her out? I mean, uh—she’s dangerous, but she’s kinda, uh…” You trail off, bite your lip, give him a bashful smile.

Bob practically implodes on the spot. “Stop that. Stop that right now.”

You lean across the table, still wearing his face, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, Bob. Your secret’s safe with me. You know, you guys should just give up. I really could do this all day. If you give me a second i’m pretty sure i could even turn into Hulk.”

His eyes widen with curiosity. Is it crazy that he really does want to see that? He shifts his eyes to Yelena, who shakes her head no. As amusing as it would be, they have a job to do. He whirls away, muttering every curse word he knows under his breath.

That’s when Bucky snaps.

“Cut it out.” His voice is sharp, but there’s an edge to it, something tight, something fraying.

You shift back into yourself, tilt your head, and study him like he’s the most interesting thing in the room. “Oh, come on, Barnes. You’re telling me you’re not at least a little curious about what i can really do?”

Before he can answer, your form flickers—and there he stands, across from himself, yet again. Same metal arm glinting, same scowl, same haunted eyes. You smirk through his face. You lean to the side to look at yourself in the mirror behind him. “Damn. No wonder everyone’s obsessed with you. You brood, you glare, and yet…” You drag a gloved hand down your jaw. “Still hot as hell. Id definitely fuck me.”

For the first time in a long while, Bucky looks rattled. His jaw tightens, his fists curl, and his stare could burn through steel. He was completely taken off guard by the id fuck me comment.

Walker’s grin comes back tenfold. “Oh, this is beautiful. Did you hear that, Buck?”

Yelena finally leans forward, voice calm but firm. She snaps her fingers at you. “Enough. You will break them if you keep going.”

You smirk, returning to your own skin. “That’s the fun part.”

The cuffs glow faintly as you flex your hands, settling back in the chair like the queen of the damn world. The cuffs make your skin sting as you pull on them slightly. Turning into other people truly was one of your favourite things. You loved to see the way people reacted, looking at themselves or even somebody close to them.

“You caught me. Congratulations. But let’s be honest—” your eyes flick between Bob and Bucky—“you don’t really want me locked up. You like the chase too much.”

Bob looks like he might combust. Bucky’s scowl deepens, but his silence says more than words ever could. And for the first time since they slapped those cuffs on you, it’s clear: you might be in custody, but you’re the one running this room.

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead.

Walker’s smirk has finally cracked after you dismantled him with one line about being “discount Cap.” He’s pacing like a caged lion, snapping at Yelena, who just sits calmly, watching you with that predator’s patience. Then a voice crackles in their earpieces—orders. They exchange looks, and reluctantly, they rise.

“We’ll be right outside,” Yelena says, almost like a warning—but her eyes flicker with something else. Amusement. Interest. She leaves, Walker at her heels, and the door seals shut with a heavy clunk.

You glance across the table at your remaining company. Bob. Bucky. Your boys.

You lean forward, elbows on the table, chin in your hands. “Finally. Some privacy.”

Bob swallows so hard you hear it. “You—don’t start.”

“Oh, but I’ve been waiting for this,” you purr, eyes sliding to him. “Sweet, nervous Bob. Always looking at me like I’m the worst idea you’ve ever wanted.”

He stammers, red blooming across his face. “That’s—no—that’s not—”

You shift just slightly, your features flickering until Bob is staring at himself again. You copy his voice perfectly: “That’s not—no—that’s not—” Then you grin with his mouth. “You having fun watching over there, Bucky?”

Bucky doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, just glares at you from the wall. “You think this is funny?”

“Oh, I think you’re funny.” You turn to him, eyes glinting. “All that angry staring at me, like you hate me, yet the second I get too close, your pulse jumps like a teenager’s. What’s the matter, Barnes? Afraid of what might happen if you let yourself enjoy the game?”

His jaw works, muscle ticking. “You’re wasting your breath.”

But you don’t miss the way his eyes flick down your frame, then snap back to your face like he caught himself.

You smile slow, dangerous. Gotcha.

“God she in my head,” Bob blurts, nervous energy spilling everywhere. “She’s just—she’s trying to mess with us, trying to get under our skin.” He’s convincing himself at this point.

You lean toward him, eyes softening in mock sincerity. “Bob. Honey. If I wanted to really get under your skin…” You let the pause stretch, then smirk. “…you’d let me.”

His face explodes red like usual. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out but a broken syllable. You laugh, low and throaty, then settle back in your chair, wrists still cuffed but posture screaming victory.

“Here’s the thing, boys.” Your voice turns sharper, quieter. “You don’t actually want to lock me up. You don’t even want me rehabilitated, or whatever bullshit Walker’s peddling this week. You want me exactly where I am—just out of reach. Just close enough to chase. Because if you caught me for real? If the game ended?” You lean in, eyes glittering as they flick between the two of them.

“What would you even do with yourselves?”

The quiet after hits heavier than chains. Bob looks stricken, his throat bobbing, his mind scrambling for words. Bucky’s eyes narrow, his stoic mask still in place—but his fists are clenched tight at his sides, and you can almost hear the storm raging behind his calm.

You’re leaning forward, cuffs digging more and more into your wrists as you move, grin sharp and predatory. Your voice is sweet like candy while you speak directly to Bob, each word calculated.

“Bob,” you whisper, slow and deliberate, “you’re looking at me like you’ve never seen anything more interesting in your life.”

He swallows hard, flush spreading down his neck. “I… uh… I—”

You let your lips curl into a teasing smile, leaning closer, just enough that he can feel the heat of you even through the cuffs. “Shhh. Don’t speak. Let me do the talking.”

Bob leans forward, eyes glued to you, breath catching. He’s mesmerized, practically drooling, and you love it.

Bucky stands stiffly across the room, arms crossed, jaw tight—but inside, his mind is racing. He hates watching this. Hates that Bob’s flustered, hates that she’s teasing him. But… he can’t stop thinking about her. The curve of her lips, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her clothes cling perfectly to every line of her body. And then the thoughts start, sharp and dangerous: her mouth… what she could do… how much better it could be used…He bites back a curse under his breath, wishing he could make her stop talking to Bob so he could—God, he doesn’t even finish the thought out loud.

His fists clench at his sides. He can feel his pulse in his neck. The sight of her, the way she leans forward, the soft flex of her wrists against the cuffs, the smirk she’s flashing at Bob… it’s eating him alive. He wishes he could shut her up for real, pull her close, and show her exactly how he’d make that mouth useful. Bob mutters something incoherent, caught in her spell, and she leans in just slightly, letting her presence wash over him, voice soft and teasing:

“Don’t be shy, Bob. You like it when I—”

Bucky’s jaw tightens, nails digging into his palms. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t let her see—but inside, he’s imagining everything. How he’d corner her, how he’d feel the weight of her body, how he’d take control in ways she’d barely be able to resist, the noises that would come out of her as he touched her anywhere and everywhere.

She shifts slightly in her chair, giving him the perfect view of her curves, the way the cuffs catch the light, the way she smirks at Bob.

Yet even as he seethes in silence, he can’t tear his eyes away. She’s untouchable, even in cuffs, and he’s trapped by what she’s doing to him just as much as Bob.

And she knows it.

Youre closer to Bob, voice low, teasing, letting him melt under every word. He’s practically trembling, hanging on your every syllable. You could stay like this forever, letting him unravel—but the real fun is in pushing Bucky to the edge. And you can feel it. His gaze is fixed, tight and dangerous, jaw working as he fights to control himself. You almost hum with satisfaction, leaning just slightly forward, letting the cuffs click softly against the table.

Bob stammers, voice shaking: “I—I… you can’t… she’s—”

You laugh softly, tilting your head. “Oh, darling, Bob… you love it. Admit it.”

He’s nodding, heat radiating from every part of him, and your grin spreads like wildfire.

Then, finally, Bucky snaps.

One hard step, boots against the floor, and he’s in front of you in an instant. His hand grabs a fistful of your hair. The motion is firm, commanding, and your body reacts instantly—even though your mind had known this was coming, part of you is shocked at how real it feels. You gasp, sharp, breath catching. Your smirk falters for the briefest second—just long enough to notice how controlled, how deliberate he is. He lifts you to your feet, finding it hard to keep up with Bucky’s swift movements.

Bob blurts, voice incredulous: “What the hell, Bucky?!” He flies out of his chair and goes to pull Bucky off of you, but his metal hand flies up to stop him.

Bucky doesn’t look away, doesn’t hesitate. “What?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Don’t save her. This is what she wants. She’s wanted this all along.”

You can feel the truth in it, your body arching subtly under his grip as he bends you over the table. He runs a hand down the curve of your back, slow, deliberate, testing, tracing, and the gasp that escapes your lips is raw, pleasure and surprise mingling. Your cheek presses to the cold metal table, and you bite your lip to try and hide your excitement. Should you be pretending you hate this? Bob bends slightly to meet your gaze, worrying if you’re hurt, if you don’t want this. He pushes your hair from your face and sees your expression. maybe you do…

Bob’s face is a mix of awe, jealousy, and panic. “I… Buck what if she-“He stops, eyes wide.

You catch the shift in him. Almost as if you can hear his thoughts, you tilt your head back, voice low. You want to be clear that this is exactly what you’ve wanted from them all along. You didn’t want to pick, you want them both in every possible way. “Oh, I want both of you,” you murmur, letting the words hang, letting the tension thicken.

Bob chokes on a breath. His hands twitch, fingers itching to reach out again, to touch, to claim just like Bucky. His jealousy flares—hot, sharp, desperate. Bucky’s metal hand starts down your back, but now he’s watching you, watching Bob, gauging reactions, eyes dark with want. You shiver under him, breath uneven, cuffs still restricting but utterly irrelevant to the surge of heat in the room.

Your grin widens, teeth barely showing, as you murmur again, teasing and raw: “You don’t even know what you’d do if you really could… and I’d let you. Both of you.”

Bob swallows hard, fists clenching. Bucky’s hands continue to work up and down your back, and the room seems to shrink around the three of you. The dynamic is tense, electric, and entirely yours to control. Because even in their jealousy, their need, and their frustration, they can’t stop themselves. And you? You’re right in the middle, smiling, alive with the chaos you’ve orchestrated.

Bucky’s hands are firm, skilled, moving over you in ways that make your chest tighten, and your legs squeeze together in need. The cool metal worked wonders against your skin, which felt like it was on fire. Then, he lifts you clean off the table. Hair still caught in his grip, your back presses against his chest, and for the first time, you’re sharply aware of how vulnerable you are. The cuffs keep your wrists limited behind you, but he’s the one holding you, the one in control of every subtle tilt, every sway of your body. His hand reaches around and presses against your abdomen and you let out a small squeak, your body now pulled tighter again him.

Your usual smirk falters for a fraction of a second as you realize just how exposed you are, your chest rising and falling against him, your pulse hammering. You’re practically on your tippy toes now, not able to hold yourself up in his grip. The game has shifted. You—the siren, the untouchable—are now the one feeling under their control.

Bob’s eyes widen as he notices. His earlier nervousness is giving way to something sharper, bolder. He’s seeing cracks in your usual confidence. The way you shift in Bucky’s arms, the slight hitch in your breath, the catch of your lips—he realizes you’re reacting, and it lights a fire under him.

He steps closer, slow and deliberate. “So… this is what you’re like when you’re nervous?” His voice is teasing, but there’s a tremor in it, excitement creeping in. The nervous stutter, magically gone.

You glance at him, smirk returning—less practiced, a little shaky. “Careful, Bob…” you murmur, voice low, playful, but not fully in control.

He leans in, hand reaching out. His fingers brush your neck as he pulls out the chain of your necklace, tracing the curve of your collarbone with his fingers. You feel the subtle tremor in your chest as his touch presses against the pulse at the base of your throat. Your heart beats faster under his fingers, every thrum loud, undeniable.

Bucky tightens his hold, hand sliding down your side, feeling the tension coiled in your muscles. He notices Bob’s move, the small teasing touch at your necklace, and a flicker of wanting you all to himself crosses his face—but it only makes him hold you closer, press you more into him.

Bob sees this, and thinks of a way to get your attention again. It was almost like they were fighting over you, but not with words, just with touches and seeing who gets the bigger reaction.

You gasp, caught between the two of them—the firm, commanding weight of Bucky behind you, the teasing, daring touch of Bob in front of you. Your usual control is slipping, replaced by raw awareness of how each glance, each touch, each whispered word sets your pulse racing. The triangle is alive in the room, humming, electric, with you at the center—vulnerable, exposed, wanted by both of them.

Bucky’s grip is unrelenting. His chest is solid against your back, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other still tangled in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to remind you who’s in control here. His breath fans hot against your ear, steady, unshakable, while your own is coming quicker, shallower, betraying you. And then there’s Bob.

He steps closer, his boots heavy against the floor, until he’s right in front of you. His eyes search your face, catching every flicker of your expression—the smirk you’re trying to hold on to, the tension tightening your jaw, the way your chest rises faster against Bucky’s hold. Bob lifts his hand slowly, deliberately, until his fingers curve under your chin. He searches your eyes for any kind of protest, and when he sees that you have no plans on stopping him he continues. Then his grip tightens, firm, steady, but not cruel. His thumb presses just beneath your lip, coaxing your head up until you’re forced to meet his gaze.

“You’ve got a smart mouth,” he murmurs, his voice low, roughened with nerves and heat, “but I don’t think you really believe half the shit you say, do you?”

The words hit harder than you expect. You try to twist out something clever, a quip, but the sound sticks in your throat. The weight of his eyes, the command in his touch, and Bucky’s unyielding grip behind you—it’s too much. Your lips part, but nothing comes out except a shaky exhale. The heat coils tighter in your stomach, your body betraying you.

Bob tilts his head, smirk tugging at his mouth as he feels the faintest tremor in your jaw under his fingers.

“That’s what I thought,” he says softly, teasing. “You want this. You want us.”

The last of your practiced defiance slips. Your voice is husky, almost desperate as it slips free: “Please…”

The word hangs in the air, electric.

Bucky growls low against your ear, his grip tightening just enough to make your breath catch. “Knew you’d beg eventually.” His hand slides lower, splaying across your stomach, pinning you tighter against him.

Bob leans closer, lips inches from yours, his thumb brushing across your mouth. “Tell us what you want, sweetheart.”

The air fractures when that word slips out of your mouth. Please. It’s all they need.

Bucky’s growl vibrates against your spine as his hand trails down your stomach, fingers pressing firmly through the thin fabric of your shirt, reminding you how trapped you are in his hold. His lips graze your temple, rough, unyielding. He’s driven, frustrated, like every ounce of irritation he’s ever felt for you is crashing together with everything he’s tried not to admit he wants.

Bob, though—Bob is different. His hand cups your jaw tighter, tilting your face toward him. But instead of devouring you immediately, his touch is steady, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if coaxing the words out of you again. His voice is softer, teasing but certain: “That’s it, sweetheart. You just tell us what you need.”

That nickname you gave him, he seemed to reclaim it. Your head swims. Two different storms, pulling you apart, pushing you under. And then—it all collides. Bob leans in first, capturing your mouth with a kiss that makes you whimper, soft but firm, leaving you no room to escape. His free hand slides along your side, fingers dipping under your shirt, tracing fire across your skin. Bucky doesn’t wait. His hand clamps harder on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his teeth grazing the edge of your ear before his lips move down on your neck. His other hand grips your hip, rougher, more demanding, leaving no doubt he wants to mark you as his.

You’re drowning in it—their mouths, their hands. Bob’s kiss is steady, drawing you in, grounding you in warmth while still commanding. Bucky’s touch is jagged lightning, rougher, angrier, like he’s trying to prove a point with every press of his lips, every tug of your body against his. Your hands finally find freedom, tugging at both of them desperately. You fist the fabric of Bob’s shirt, dragging him closer, while your nails dig into Bucky’s arm behind you, silently daring him to hold you tighter.

It’s chaos. A mess of mouths and gasps, of hands roaming everywhere at once, none of you able to decide what comes first—shirt buttons popping open under clumsy fingers, teeth nipping at swollen lips, soft groans tangled with low growls. Bob breaks the kiss long enough to breathe against your lips, eyes blown wide. “

“God, you’re perfect…” His forehead rests against yours for a second, a soft, grounding pressure before his mouth is back on yours. He can’t get enough of you, always wondering what it would be like to kiss you, what your lips felt like. It was better than he ever expected.

Bucky isn’t having it. If this were any other situation, he would be more gentle, more respectful. But he doesn’t believe you deserve that this time. His growl rattles low in his chest as his hand slides higher under your shirt, fingers splayed wide, claiming more of you. “She’s not yours, Bob.” His teeth scrape over your throat as he drags his mouth lower, sucking bruises into your skin. “She’s mine.”

But you—oh, you’re thriving in the chaos. Their tug-of-war isn’t breaking you apart. It’s feeding you, every ounce of their jealousy and hunger sinking into your bones. You tilt your head back against Bucky’s shoulder, gasping into Bob’s mouth, grinning against his lips between kisses.

Bucky’s grip on you tightens even more. his breath hot and ragged against your throat. His voice is rough, jagged edges tearing into you. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? Running your mouth, teasing us—” his hand dips lower, squeezing your hip hard enough to make you gasp, “—but look at you now. Begging.”

The words burn, but it only makes you ache more. You melt back against him, shivering as his teeth scrape the curve of your neck.

Bob doesn’t let you sink too far. He pulls back from your lips, eyes dark but steady, his thumb still hooked under your chin to keep you looking at him. His voice is lower now, quieter, but every bit as commanding.

“She’s not just begging, Buck. She’s giving in.” His lips ghost over yours again, feather-light, until he finally presses in for another kiss, slower this time, deliberate. He pulls back just enough to whisper, “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for us.”

The contrast shatters you. You whine at the loss of contact with his lips, hoping he would give in and come back.

Bucky’s mouth finds your shoulder now, biting down just enough to make you yelp, his laugh dark against your skin. “So damn needy,” he growls. “You like this, don’t you? Us fighting over you.” His hand squeezes your tit before continue to move across your skin. “Say it. Say you like it.”

Before you can answer, Bob cuts in, smug but softer, lips brushing the corner of your mouth as he murmurs, “She doesn’t have to say it—we can hear it.” He tilts his head, condescending, teasing. And then—he mimics you. A soft little gasp, drawn out perfectly like the sound that had just slipped from your lips.

Your face burns hot as he grins, thumb stroking your bottom lip. “Hear that, baby? That’s you. That’s what you sound like.” His tone is gentle, but the smirk ruins it, his voice dripping with control even as he praises you.

You whimper, caught between their mouths, their hands. Bucky chuckles at your reaction, his grip on your hair tightening. “Pathetic.” His words are sharp, cruel even, but the way his hand steadies your hip, the way he guides your body against his—it’s care buried under fury. He doesn’t want to hurt you, not really. He just wants you undone.

Bob kisses you again, slower this time, swallowing the shaky breath you let out, grounding you even as he keeps pressing. “You’re ours now,” he whispers against your lips, firm and steady. “Let go, pretty girl. We’ve got you.”

And you do—you fall apart under their hands, their mouths, their voices. Rough and sweet, cruel and coaxing. Both of them fighting for you, and you loving every second of being caught in the middle.

The fight between them ends the second Bucky’s had enough. His growl rumbles low in his chest, and then—without warning—he hauls you forward, spins you, and bends you over the table. Your palms slap against the cold metal, your chest pressing down, the chill biting at your bare skin where your shirt and bra used to be. The cold shoots through you so sharply you gasp, spine arching against it. Bob rolls his eyes, watching as Bucky moves you around like a rag doll.

“Don’t move.” His voice is gravel, thick with command. His hand presses firmly between your shoulder blades, holding you down as if you’d even dare to resist. “You hear me? Stay right here while we figure out what to do with you.”

Bob is there in front of you instantly, crouching a little so his face is level with yours. His hand finds your jaw again, tilting your face toward him, thumb brushing soft over your lips. “Easy,” he murmurs, sweet and coaxing even as his eyes burn. “She’s already doing good, Buck. Look at her.”

But you don’t have time to reply, to quip back, to even smirk—because without warning, you feel it.

The rip.

Fabric tears loud in the room as Bucky’s hand fists in the waistband of your pants and yanks, shredding the seam with brutal ease. The air rushes in against your skin, the sudden exposure making you jolt violently. You yelp, head jerking up in shock, heart hammering against the cold table.

“Jesus—!” The word escapes before you can stop it, part gasp, part laugh, part incredulous squeak.

Bob’s eyes go wide for a second, but then the smirk takes over. “You scared her,” he says, half amused, half scolding. He leans closer, whispering against your ear, “Bet you liked that though, huh? The way you jumped? Don’t lie to me.” His tone is soft, playful, but the words are sharp, daring.

Behind you, Bucky chuckles low, satisfied, his metal hand smoothing over the fresh tear in the fabric, brushing the edge of skin it reveals. “That’s what happens when you don’t shut that mouth,” he growls. “You push, and I push back harder.”

Pinned between them—the cold metal below you, Bob’s warm gaze in front of you, and Bucky’s iron grip behind you—you’re trembling, breath ragged, every nerve alight.

The tear in your pants still echoes in your ears, the fabric barely hanging on. Your breath stutters against the cold table, every nerve awake and screaming as Bucky’s hand stays heavy between your shoulders. His voice is a low rumble, sharp as a blade.

“You wanted our attention,” he growls, his metal hand brushing deliberately along the fresh tear, making you jolt, “and now you’ve got it.“

Your lips part to answer—to throw back a line, anything—but Bob leans in, his palm cupping your jaw again, thumb pressing lightly against your bottom lip to silence you. You open your mouth slightly, and he takes the opportunity to slip his thumb past your lips. They wrap around him immediately, making eye contract as he shushes you. His voice is soft, coaxing, but it slides straight through you like honey over glass.

“Shh. Don’t waste it on words, sweetheart. Just listen.” He tilts his head, studying your flushed face, the way your body trembles between them. “Look at you. Spread out for us, shivering like this… you’ve been waiting for this moment, haven’t you?”

You shake your head, trying to smirk, but the sound that slips past your lips is closer to a whimper.

Bob’s smirk deepens. “That noise again.” He imitates it, low and teasing, before pressing a kiss to your temple. “So sweet,” he murmurs, but it’s drenched in praise. “So good for us already.”

Bucky huffs a laugh, rougher, darker. “Don’t sweet-talk her too much, Reynolds. She doesn’t deserve it.” His hand trails lower, down your back, over the curve of your ass, settling on your hip in a grip that promises bruises. “She’s been in control long enough. It’s our turn.”

The words make your stomach flip, heat sparking everywhere at once. You arch involuntarily against the table, pressing closer to both of them without even meaning to. It felt like this was going on forever. You just wanted them, right now. You couldn’t take the teasing anymore.

Bob notices first. His grin is sharp as he strokes your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lip again. “See that, Buck? She likes it. She wants it.” His eyes find yours again, pinning you in place as he says softly, “Don’t you, baby? You want us to take it from you?”

You were at a loss for words at the way he was speaking about you. So gentle, praising your every move. But so firm, it’s making you go crazy.

Bucky’s groan is low, approving, as his hand tightens on your hip. He leans down, his breath hot at your ear, voice jagged and final. “You’re ours now. You’ll take whatever we give you—and you’re gonna be grateful for it.”

Your body betrays you before your mouth can. The shiver that racks through you, the way your thighs squeeze together against the torn fabric, the desperate sound caught in your throat—it’s all the answer they need.

Bob kisses you some more, soft at first, then firmer, swallowing the broken sound you make. When he pulls back, he licks his lip, as if he was savouring the taste.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll make sure you like every second of it.”

And Bucky’s hand slides lower, over the curve of your ass. He admires your choice of panties today, black and lacy, perfect match to your outfit. He runs his fingers along the fabric as Bob watches curiously. He loves to tease, watching you squirm under their gaze. Then, he pushes your panties to the side, his fingers dipping low until they’re swiping through your folds. You moan, unrestrained and loud, not expecting the sudden feeling. It’s soon gone though as he pulls his fingers back.

He tsks to himself. Bob watches as Bucky brings his fingers up, towards your mouth. “So wet for us already…” You watch as his fingers wait in front of your mouth. “Open.” he commands, and you do without question. You suck yourself off of his fingers as they leave your mouth with a pop.

Bob swears he’s about to explode. You move your hands from your side to grab at Bob, pulling him closer to you. You need him. You need them both, but you can’t find the words to beg them anymore.

Bucky’s the first to break restraint completely. He yanks your torn pants further apart, hands rough as he spreads you against the cold table. He kicks your legs even farther apart with his boot, making sure you’re as far open as you can be. You jolt, the shock of steel under your bare skin making you whine, and he grunts with satisfaction.

“That’s mine now,” he says, his tone jagged, almost cruel—but the way his fingers dig into your hips betrays the care laced beneath. “Stay still, honey.”

Before you can catch your breath, Bob leans in close, his fingers pushing your hair from your face, grounding you. His lips brush yours, feather-light before he presses in for a slower, hungrier kiss. “She’s already trembling,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice all velvet. “You’re so good for us, sweetheart. You’re going to take us both, aren’t you?”

The answer tumbles out of you in a desperate nod, a broken sound you can’t swallow. “Yes please- please just fuck- you-please!” You beg them finally, you can’t take it anymore.

Bucky doesn’t wait after he hears your confirmation. He pushes into you hard and fast, no easing, no warning. You cry out, fingers clawing at the table, your whole body arching against the intrusion. The stretch is sharp, shocking—and perfect.

Bob swallows your cry with another kiss, his hand steady on your cheek, his other sliding down to squeeze your thigh. “That’s it,” he whispers, his voice shaking with want but still steady for you. “You’re taking him so well already. So fucking good.”

Bucky groans, his thrusts already rough, driving you hard into the table. “Look at her—already falling apart,” he growls, breath hot against your ear. “You love it, don’t you? Being pinned here, filled up like this.”

You try to answer, but it’s nothing more than a gasp, a moan—and Bob mimics it instantly, smirking as he kisses you one last time. “That noise,” he teases, sweet but cutting. “Can’t believe we’re the ones dragging that out of you. I’ll never get enough of it.”

While Bucky pounds into you from behind, Bob shifts closer in front, undoing his belt with shaking hands. Your eyes widen as he steps out of his pants, stroking himself in front of you. Your mouth waters at the sight, you want him so bad. His voice softens as his cock presses against your lips, coaxing, encouraging. “Open up for me, baby. You can do it.”

Your mouth parts quickly, and he slides in slow, careful despite his own ragged breaths. He strokes your hair with one hand, thumb brushing your cheek. He’s already having to hold himself back. He wants so badly to just fuck into your throat, see how good you can take him. But for now, he doesn’t. “Good girl,” he groans, already unsteady. “Just like that.”

Stuck between them, your body takes it all—Bucky’s furious rhythm behind you, Bob’s cock filling your mouth, both of them overwhelming you in opposite ways. Rough and sharp. Sweet and coaxing. You gag around him as he pushes deeper into you. The room fills with grunts, skin slapping on skin, your muffled gags and moans.

Your body’s already shaking, as Bucky drives into you hard from behind, his thrusts rough and merciless. His metal hand clamps onto your hip like a vice, holding you steady, while his flesh one roams everywhere—gripping your ass, sliding up your spine, finally tangling in your hair and yanking your head back off of Bob so he can hear you moan louder.

“You like this,” he snarls, punctuating his words with sharp thrusts. “Getting ruined by both of us at once. Can’t get enough, can you?”

You try to shake your head, deny it, but Bob’s cock fills your mouth again before you can answer. He’s careful, moving slow, letting you take him in at your own pace. His hands settle at the back of your head, his voice soft even as his hips roll forward.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Nice and slow. Just breathe,” he coaxes, eyes locked on the way your lips stretch around him. “God, you’re so good like this.”

The mix of it—Bucky’s brutal rhythm, Bob’s gentle coaxing—has you squirming, overwhelmed. And then Bucky’s hand cracks across your ass. The sharp sting makes you jolt, the sound muffled around Bob’s cock.

Bucky growls, satisfied. “Knew you’d like that.” His palm comes down again, harder, leaving heat blossoming across your skin. “So fucking greedy.”

Bob watches your eyes go wide, tears springing as you choke around him. His free hand strokes through your hair, soothing even as he pushes a little deeper, letting you gag around him just enough. “She’s handling it,” he murmurs, almost like he’s reassuring himself. Then he smirks and mimics the gagging sound you make, low and teasing. “I wish you could see how good you’re taking me.”

You’re shaking when Bucky finally pulls out, growling curses as he steps aside. He wants a turn at your mouth now. Bob slides free of your mouth with a wet pop, thumb wiping saliva from your lips. “Good girl,” he whispers, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “So good for us.”

Then Bob moves behind you, his hands immediately softer than Bucky’s—stroking up your thighs, spreading you open again with care. He leans close, pressing a kiss to the small of your back before his fingers slide over your clit, slow and deliberate.

“Jesus, you’re soaked,” he groans, slipping a finger inside you, curling it just right. “So tight… you feel incredible.” Another finger joins after a few pumps, his pace steady. His lips brush your shoulder as he whispers, “I want you ready for me. I want you to beg for it.”

The sounds spilling out of you are desperate, broken—and then Bucky’s in front of you, his cock heavy in his hand. His eyes are dark, jealous, sharp.

“Open,” he orders, his tone jagged.

You obey, and his hand fists in your hair, not as rough as before but still firm, guiding you onto him. The first push makes your throat tighten, your gag muffled around him. He groans low, his hips rocking forward. “Fuck—yeah, that’s it.”

Bob’s fingers don’t stop moving inside you, stroking, curling, his other hand circling your clit. His voice is low, sweet even as his fingers fuck you open. “You’re doing perfect, baby. Taking both of us. God, look at you.”

Bucky snarls, shoving you deeper onto him, his breath ragged. “You’re mine—don’t forget it.” His hips drive forward harder, making your throat convulse.

Bob leans down, lips brushing your ear, whispering over the sounds of your gagging. “Ours,” he corrects softly. “She’s ours.”

And with Bucky’s cock filling your throat and Bob’s fingers working you open, you’re wrecked—stuck shaking between them, the fight between rough and sweet leaving you desperate for more.

Your body shudders, trembling against the table as Bob’s fingers curl just right inside you once more, circling your clit at the same time. The pressure is too much, too sharp—your orgasm slams into you before you can even brace for it, breaking you apart in a muffled cry around Bucky’s cock.

“Fuck—she’s cumming,” Bob groans, watching you squeeze around his fingers.

Bucky groans above you, driving into your throat without mercy, spit and tears streaming down your cheeks. Mascara runs in dark streaks, smudging under your eyes, your lips stretched wide. Drool spills from the corner of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto your chest. He hisses through gritted teeth, “Good. Don’t you dare stop.”

Even when your body’s shaking from release, Bob doesn’t stop, sliding his fingers out just long enough to line himself up behind you. He pushes in slow at first, groaning when he feels how tight you are, how wet you are from cumming. “Jesus Christ—she’s perfect,” he chokes out, hips pressing flush against your ass.

Bucky looks down at you with that cold smirk, metal hand tangled in your hair as he forces you to take him deeper. “Hey, Bob,” he grunts, thrusting harder into your throat, watching your mascara-smeared eyes flutter. “Spank her. She likes it.”

Bob hesitates for a heartbeat—but then his palm comes down hard across your ass. The sound cracks through the room, and you jolt, moaning around Bucky’s cock.

“Oh, she does like it,” Bob says, voice thick with awe. His hand rubs the sting after each slap, soothing the heat before striking again. “Good girl. Taking it so well.”

Bucky growls, shifting his grip. Both your wrists are yanked behind your back, caught easily in his hand. He pins them there, holding you helpless, forcing your body into an arch. “Stay just like that,” he orders, voice rough.

Bob thrusts deeper into you, pace steady but firm, his voice sweet even as he ruins you. “God, sweetheart, you feel so good around me. So fucking tight. That’s it, let me have you.”

You’re wrecked—makeup smeared, throat stretched, ass stinging, body pinned in more ways than one between them both. The overstimulation is brutal, unbearable—and then Bucky shoves himself deep, groaning ragged as he spills down your throat without warning.

“Swallow. All of it.” His voice sounds strangled, his grip tightens in your hair, forcing you to take every drop.

The taste floods your mouth as Bob’s rhythm falters, his hips slamming flush as he groans your name, finishing deep inside you. His hand strokes your hip as he pants, “So good for us.” He moans again, voice cracking with a small whimper.

Pinned between them, you can’t hold back—the shock of them both finishing with you sends you spiraling again. Another orgasm tears through you, stronger, leaving your body convulsing around Bob’s cock.

Bucky pulls back at last, watching you with that dark, possessive gleam. Spit drips from your swollen lips, your chest heaving, your body twitching from the aftershocks. He picks up a discarded piece of clothing, wiping your mouth dry. He also wipes at your cheeks, your tears and makeup disappearing. He presses a small kiss to your lips, his stubble poking your cheeks.

And still, Bucky smirks, voice low and dangerous. “Told you—you’re gonna take everything we give you.”

Bob doesn’t say much as he checks you over. He examines your face, smoothing down your hair. His eyes land on the bruising forming on your hips from their hands. His brow furrows, silently asking if they went too far, worried about if you’re ok. You place a kiss on his lips to let him know you are. He moves away from you, reeling from his own climax still. You sigh, your body aching from taking so much so quick. But you couldn’t sit with this feeling long. Now you had to figure out how to get out of here.

Bucky’s leaned back in the chair, silent but watching you with that stormy gaze, while Bob now sits on the opposite chair, arm thrown across his eyes, chest heaving.

For a long, quiet moment, it almost feels like peace. Like maybe—for once—you don’t want to run. Almost.

You shift slowly, pushing yourself up on shaky arms. “Well,” you murmur, voice husky with exhaustion and amusement, “I’d say that was worth getting caught.”

Bob snorts, rolling his head to look at you, flushed and dazed. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Bucky just narrows his eyes. He knows that look in yours.

You glance down at your ruined pants—ripped clean in half courtesy of Bucky’s impatient hands—and then at the pile of discarded clothes nearby. His. Bob’s. Yours. Smirking, you pluck up Bucky’s black shirt, tugging it over your head. It drapes too big on you, the sleeves hanging past your wrists. You pull on his pants, which are also too big, but you cinch his belt around your waist anyway, tightening it until it holds. Five minutes ago you were a moaning, whimpering, drooling mess for these boys, and now you’re back to your regular cocky self.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bucky mutters, watching as you continue with slow, deliberate motions.

“Oh no,” you hiss, reaching for his combat boots and sliding them on. “I’m deadly serious. I can’t very well escape naked, can I?”

“Escape?” Bob pushes himself up on his elbows, blinking at you. “Wait. What?”

You tilt your head, smirk widening, and then—before their eyes—your form ripples. Muscles broaden. Hair shortens. Your smirk reshapes itself into a familiar scowl. And then there he is: James Buchanan Barnes, standing in front of them… only it’s you, wrapped in his skin yet again.

Bucky bolts upright, instantly furious. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

You—wearing his face now—cross your arms, mimicking his perpetual glare, and lower your voice into a perfect gravelly imitation: “Don’t follow me. I work alone.”

Bob bursts out laughing despite the panic, wiping at his mouth. “Holy shit. She’s—you’re—this is crazy.”

“Not funny, Bob,” Bucky snaps, trying to push himself up. That’s when he realizes. The clink of metal stops him. He looks down. His wrist is cuffed to the table leg.

He jerks against it, incredulous. “What the—? When the hell did you—”

Bob tugs at his arm too, only to realize he’s cuffed on the opposite side of the table. He gapes. “Oh, come on! what is she, magic?!”

You lean down between them, still in Bucky’s form, that smirk practically glowing in his borrowed eyes. “You boys were a little… distracted,” you tease, dragging out the word. “I figured I’d take advantage.”

“Unbelievable,” Bucky growls, struggling against the cuffs. “You planned this from the start.”

“Mm,” you hum, tapping his cheek with your new metal hand. “Maybe. But don’t act like you didn’t enjoy every second of it.”

Bob groans, slumping back against the table. “I did. I really, really did. Doesn’t make this any less messed up.”

Straightening, you toss Bucky’s jacket over your shoulder, turning toward the door. “Relax, boys. You’ll get another shot. You always do.”

You’re halfway to the door, Bucky’s boots heavy on your feet, when you pause—like an idea just struck you. Slowly, you turn back, eyes dragging over the two of them still cuffed to the table.

“Actually…” you muse, fingers toying with the hem of Bucky’s oversized shirt. “If Bucky’s gotta be naked, then…” Your smirk sharpens as your gaze drops to Bob. “It’s only fair that you are too.”

Bob stiffens. “Wait, what?”

You stroll back, humming under your breath, and pluck up his discarded sweater and jeans from the floor. He makes a grab for them, but the cuffs jerk him short, leaving him sputtering.

“Hey! Those are mine!”

You pull the sweater over your stolen frame—still wearing Bucky’s face—and tug it down smugly. “Mm. Cozy.” You stretch, letting the sleeves swallow your hands. “Shame, though. I’m sad to leave two hot men naked, but duty calls.”

Bob groans, cheeks flushing crimson as he jerks against the cuffs. “That’s my favorite sweater! You can’t just—”

“Oh, I can,” you cut in, grin wicked. You lean closer, lowering your voice. “I’ll be sleeping in it from now on.”

For a moment, he forgets to breathe. His mouth opens, shuts, then opens again. “R-really?”

You wink. “Really.”

Bucky groans, head falling back against the table with a thunk. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You ignore him, sauntering toward the door with both men’s clothes layered on your frame, belt cinched tight to keep the too-big pants from falling. At the threshold, you pause, turning to drink them in one last time—two soldiers, cuffed, naked, furious, and flustered.

“Good luck explaining this to the team,” you sing-song, blowing them a mocking kiss before disappearing into the hall.

The sound of their curses follows you like music.

The door slams shut behind you, and silence hangs heavy in the room. For a few long beats, only the sound of two men breathing hard fills the air.

Bucky drags his hand down his face, rattling the cuffs on the table. “What the hell just happened?”

Bob glares at him, still tugging uselessly at his restraints. “You happened. You grabbed her hair, bent her over, started this whole thing—”

“You were drooling over her before I even touched her!” Bucky snaps back, jerking his wrist against the metal with a growl. “She played you like a damn fiddle.”

Bob flushes, muttering, “At least she wanted me.”

Bucky turns to him, incredulous. “She robbed you, man. Took your damn sweater.”

Before Bob can shoot back, the door bursts open. Walker storms in first, Yelena right behind him. Both freeze at the sight in front of them: two naked men, cuffed to a table, clothes missing, fury written across their faces.

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Walker lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh my god. She played you two so bad.”

Yelena raises an eyebrow, biting back her own grin. “You let her escape… again. But this time—” she gestures at them with both hands, “—she left you naked.”

Bob groans and slams his head down on the table. “This is humiliating.”

Bucky mutters darkly, “Don’t. Say. A word.”

Walker’s already pulling out his phone. “Oh, I’m saying a lot of words. Starting with team briefing.”

————

It was later in the evening now, dinner had the team teasing the boys finally subsided. All throughout dinner, Bob and Bucky both refused to make eye contact. They both couldn’t stop replaying the scene from earlier in their head, every noise, the way you felt wrapped around each of them. It was going to drive them mad.

Bob is sitting at the kitchen table, fiddling with an empty cup as Bucky enters the room. The silence is thick, awkward, and buzzing with everything left unsaid.

Bob drags a hand down his face. He has to break the silence somehow. “God, that was brutal. I haven’t been able to look at anyone all day.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on some invisible point across the room, jaw tight, the muscle ticking.

Bob risks a glance at him. “You’re really pissed, huh?”

“Of course I’m pissed,” Bucky growls. “She’s made a fool out of us. Again—we should’ve had her.”

Bob snorts, trying to lighten the mood. “Yeah, but…Well worth it.”

Bucky’s glare cuts across the table, sharp enough to make Bob shift in his seat. But beneath the irritation, Bob sees something else flicker there—something darker, hungrier.

“Don’t,” Bucky mutters, low. “Don’t act like this is some kind of game.”

Bob shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Feels like it sometimes. She… she’s just got this way about her, y’know? You try to hate her, but then she smiles at you, and it’s like—” He stops himself, realizing how much he’s saying.

Bucky doesn’t respond, but the silence says enough. He hates her. He really does. But every time he closes his eyes, he sees the way she smirks, the way she moves, the way she looked pressed against him, lips parted, breathless. He hates her… and yet he can’t stop thinking about how badly he wants her back in his bed.

Bob leans back, staring at the ceiling, lost in his own spiral. He’ll never admit it out loud, but he’s completely gone for her. Villain or not, he couldn’t care less. He just wanted her.

The silence stretches—until Bob’s phone buzzes against the table.

He frowns, picking it up. Unknown number.

“Spam,” he mutters, thumbing it open—only for his entire body to lock up in shock. His jaw drops.

It’s a picture.

Your picture.

From your perspective, the phone camera tilted down just enough to catch your smirk as you lounge in bed. Nothing on but his sweater, the one you stole, hanging loose off your shoulder. He looks see the mouth shaped bruises they left behind scattered along your exposed skin, the sheets rumpled around you.

Beneath it, a single text:

I told you I’d wear it to bed. See you boys soon. xo

Bob nearly drops the phone. “Holy sh—”

“What?” Bucky snaps, leaning forward. “What is it?”

Bob doesn’t answer right away. He can’t. His ears are burning, his chest tight. He just stares at the picture, completely undone, while somewhere out there… you’re laughing.

Always two steps ahead.

Always in control.

[itisjustwhatitis]

Eyes That See (part twenty-three)

Eyes That See Summary: Your life has consisted of caring for others. This is a story of you learning to care for yourself. Eyes That See Part 23 Summary: It’s the morning after your fight with Justine. After staying the night at Sy’s, you wake up in a much better mood and end up finding something out about yourself. Relationship: Syverson x Reader Words: 5k Tags: Smut with an capital S, but like in a romantic ETS way (dry-humping, fingering, female ejaculation)

You come to consciousness the next morning as if drifting afloat the ocean on a raft, warm and floaty. Judging by how warm the room is, Sy must’ve fed the fireplace overnight instead of letting it die out, and you’re grateful.

You’re also grateful that Sy’s still next to you. Normally, he can’t help but leave the bed whenever he wakes up for the day, but more and more lately, he’s begun to stay in bed with you under the blankets instead. When that happens, it's coveted and special. 

Sy’s typical early-morning position is spooning you from behind, but when you wake up this time, the winter sun just barely beginning to dully peek through the sides of the window curtains, he’s on his back instead. You find yourself laid halfway across him. Your hand's draped over his chest, right leg lifted over his thigh, and your head's laying half on his shoulder and half on a balled-up pillow underneath his arm. You're pretty sure you may be drooling on him.

The remnants of Sy’s body wash on his skin, the scent of his sheets, the soothing up and down sensation of his breathing–everything rolls over you like waves. You’re consumed in pure safety. Afloat with it. Basking in it.

Last night was yet another time you’d come running to Sy with yet another one of your issues, crying and frustrated after your argument with Justine, and still, there’d been no real annoyance from him. The extent of his frustration had to do with you continuing to take more blame in the entire situation than he feels like you should, and it’s just evident: he’s truly in your corner. He’s entirely in your corner. 

He really loves you.

And you really fucking love him.

Everything’s just so comfortable right now–your body, Sy’s body, the fireplace, this room, this bed, your dreamless, empty, floaty brain–that you aren’t even aware that you haven't been just riding some sort of imaginary wave within your thoughts this whole time; you’ve actually been truly moving your body in waves. 

When Sy speaks to signal he's awake, his voice is croaky. “You humpin’ my leg, darlin’?”

Instantly, you freeze as if being electrocuted. What the fuck. 

You’d been mindlessly grinding yourself against Sy’s thigh.

Quickly, you open your eyes. Forcing yourself to lift your head and embarrassingly look at Sy with a face that must look groggy and guilty as hell, you prepare to apologize and disentangle yourself, but he stops you with a strong hand on your waist.

“Stay here,” he lets out with a rasp.

Hesitantly, you drop your head to rest on Sy’s shoulder again, moving it more to his bicep so you can hide your face in the crook of his arm, but your body’s still tense. Sy lowers his hand from your waist to cup your asscheek at the crease on the top of your leg.

“So I take it you’re feelin’ better after last night.”

Against his skin, you just nod. Purposefully, you keep your body still and appropriately-placed.

“C’mere,” he chuckles, pulling your ass inwards until your underwear-covered core presses directly against his thigh again. “Stop hidin’.”

You let out a half-groan, half-whine. “Sy…”

He lowers his voice to a more suggestive tone. “I liked it.”

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, you press your hips forward again, and the same pleasure from before comes back and spreads from inside your undies to your stomach to your chest to your brain and everywhere else. It felt good–feels good–but you can’t continue, though. You just can’t. Sy’s full attention now is almost too much, too–you don’t know the word. 

Now that you’re fully awake and know he is, too, you have to falter.

You don’t know why you’re so confident about your feelings for one another but still so shy about sex sometimes. You want to keep going, you do, you’d love it, and you’re sure he would, too, but it’d make feel you so vulnerable, and borderline humiliated, and–and you’d–but–Sy would never say anything but nice things, you know, so maybe it’s okay if you–

“Hey, it’s alright,” Sy eventually breaks you from your thoughts, and you find yourself instantly on your back with Sy draped over you this time. He looks down at you with something like fondness in his sleep-puffy eyes. 

His left leg is still directly in between both of your legs, and he firmly presses it downwards to give you what you couldn’t find in you to give yourself a second ago. Once he starts actually moving his leg, your clit feels like fucking pop-rocks exploding, like too much concentrated in too small an area, definitely too much for you to have just woken up a few minutes ago. God, his thigh alone is big enough to–

You hold back a moan.

When Sy says, “Baby, it’s okay,” you shakily let out the breath you’ve been holding in.

When he says, “Can feel you’re wet,” you close your eyes. 

When he says, “You’re perfect,” you turn your head to the side and squeeze your eyes even more shut.

Then–nothing. Sy stops. He takes his leg away. 

You blink and blearily look up at him, legs splayed open under the covers, pussy throbbing. In the dark room, you’re able to tell his eyes are dark, but still, they remain somewhat soft. You offer him a small smile.

Sy’s fingers trail to the top of your underwear and pause there until you lift your hips off the mattress, and then, with your help, he slides them down your legs. Clearly getting a look at you before pulling the blanket back over your legs, Sy then starts running his hand in a circular pattern over your stomach.

He spends long moments caressing your stomach and breasts under your sleep shirt, and you find yourself starting to feel afloat on the ocean again, spurred on by a steady stream of deep whispered words Sy keeps letting out. Stuff about how smooth your skin is, and how good you feel, and how good you smell, and everything you'd found yourself internally thinking about him moments ago. Then momentary silence. 

“D’you think I talk too much?” he quietly asks out of nowhere, and you just give him another smile before actually meeting his eyes, expecting him to wink at you because you know he can have a dirty mouth. 

He doesn’t, though. From his expression alone, you can tell he’s for some reason being genuine.

You shake your head. “I think you–I think my brain is–it’s too much sometimes, and you help me stay, like…you help me stay in the moment. And not…overthink things. Or worry.” You clear your throat. “So no. I don't think you talk too much. I…I like it.”

You know it’s too early to be rambling so much, but Sy’s eyes simply travel around your face while he looks at you. Eventually, he reaches up to move some hair out of your face. “Good,” he finally settles with. 

With your knees still pointing opposite ways under the blanket, it’s easy for Sy after that to glide his hand down your body before cupping your entire pussy in his palm. The wide middle part of his hand makes contact with your touch-starved clit just as his fingertips find a pool of wetness below. You gasp. 

“Fuckin’ A.” Sy props himself up on his forearm and looks down at you. “Hadju some good dreams or what?”

“No,” you mutter while your face heats up. “I’m…I dunno. Shut up. I’m ovulating.” There’s a defensiveness there that’s not necessary or sincere whatsoever. You end up smirking in slight residual embarrassment and also slight humor at the way Sy’s continuing to stare at your face with his eyebrows lifted. 

The smirk doesn’t last long. Under his gaze, you feel so small, and so desired–and you love it–but you still can’t explain how the weight of his attention is too much sometimes and you just have to close your eyes.

Soon, there’s actual pressure at your slick hole, and Sy just barely dips a finger inside you. Going no further, he pauses. “Still good?”

You open your eyes and nod fast, and while Sy slips his index finger as deep inside your pussy as it’ll go, you don’t take your eyes off one another. You’d lean up and kiss him if it weren’t for your own morning breath. 

But he probably wouldn’t care about that, anyway. And you don’t need to kiss. Not really. The way you’re both looking at one another like an invisible string is connected between your noses, like reverie, like this is something more than just early-morning fooling around...that’s enough. Enough for you to close your eyes again after a minute.

This is something only for each other, something no one else will ever get to know. Only he gets to have you like this. Only you get to have him. 

Just one finger is thick enough for you to feel full, but when Sy adds his middle finger, too, you’re honestly stretched enough that you don’t think you could take another. Keeping his hand flat on your mound in a way that makes it impossible not to grind up against, he then starts to slowly pump both of his fingers in and out of you.

While continuing the steady in and out slide, Sy lowers his mouth to your neck. You feel him moan against your skin like he’s the one getting pleasure from this, and when he picks up speed, there’s a noise to it that you can hear even over the layer of the blanket covering you. Even over the sporadic crackling of the fire.

“Oh, fuck.”

Sy chuckles against your neck, and you know it’s because he’s learned that you cuss in bed more than you ever would any other place.

Like this isn’t lighting you the fuck up right now, raging morning hormones and hot-as-shit boyfriend and arousal so evident it’s noisy. If this blanket weren’t offering you modesty, you really don’t know if you’d be able to hold this brazen position at all under the intensity of Sy’s focus.

But–Yes, you could. Sy would get you there. He’d talk you through it. He’d make you feel sexy. All of the times you’ve been intimate together have been boundary-pushing for you in mindblowingly stellar ways. All of them.

And it’s then that you come to your senses and reach down towards the hardness you’ve been gradually feeling poke you to give him the same attention he’s giving you.

Sy barely even lets you trail a finger along his erection before lifting his head and moving your hand away. He makes a low noise. “Let me focus, baby.”

“What, you can’t focus if I–”

Without malice, Sy moves your hand away again. Your head falls back on the pillow while you relax your arms and give in to his hidden and rhythmic movements under the blanket. When Sy moves his slickly-drenched fingers up and down your slit, it’s easy to imagine that you’re probably wet all over now, thighs and asshole and all. It definitely feels wet. It definitely sounds wet. 

You squeeze your eyes again and let your mouth partly drop open. 

With your legs so widely open for him, Sy easily finds your clit and presses the tips of his wet fingers on top of the hood. His mouth starts kissing the pulse-point of your neck while he starts making wet tight circles there, and with a gasp, you jolt your hips upwards. 

Again, you blindly reach downwards to try to tug at Sy’s cock, and this time you’re able to wrap your entire hand around his shaft over top of his boxers. That only rewards you with the cessation of all of his movements–no more kisses over your neck, no more circles over your clit. You whine.

“I can’t focus if you do that,” he moves your hand away and tells you again. “Not how I want.”

“How’s that?” you practically slur. “The way you want?”

“Mm. Like this,” he utters, lowering his fingers to your entrance again, but this time with different ones: his middle and ring finger, it feels like. You’re pretty sure those are his index and pinkie fingers you feel pressed against the backs of your legs.  

When Sy’s fingers start moving inside you again, the frantic speed takes you aback: it’s so sudden and so strong that you gasp and grip the sheets underneath you in a tight ball. Sy barely even moves his hand after that, keeping his fingers inside as far as they can go, curved up so the pads of them keep touching a spot within you that instantly has your legs quivering. His hand still moves, though, like he’s vibrating it to match how you were inadvertently moving while waking up this morning, and–your lower belly feels like a fucking balloon of pressure starting to expand.

It only builds. In the past, you’d considered getting fingered as a precursor to intercourse. Sy’s treating it like the main event, his sole desire. His focus is with it. God, his hand is big.

And it’s fucking good. Your hips keep bolting upwards so you can ride his fingers any way you can, in turn giving your clit contact with his palm, and the speed of everything lights up every single one of your nerve cells down there. Fuck.

You’re not aware how much you’re moaning until something Sy whispers in your ear breaks through all the frantic feel-good static in your head. “--lay here’n be good, that’s all you gotta do, just lay here’n be good for me, just letch’yourself feel good for me.”

Those words coupled with the way you can feel Sy start to rut against your hip do something weird to you, like they have some sort of control over your actual body or something, because directly after you hear them, the bottom of your stomach feels like it’s convulsing. That pressure that’s been building and building this entire time feels ready to burst open and explode. 

“Oh, my fucking God,” you let out in a shaky voice. That almost-bursting sensation is right there, right there, almost about to happen–like a pending orgasm but something else, too. 

You’re able to place what the familiar sensation is, and it’s not just an orgasm. And in the middle of so much pleasure building up that you’re literally about to come all over Sy’s hand, this can’t be happening right now. It can’t. You can’t. 

You’re about to pee.

Sy’s teeth are latched on your neck, directly overtop where the marks he’d recently given you have literally just started to go away. You’ve got to raise your hand to hit his head. You can’t fucking speak.

His fingers keep the same rapid movements, though, and now he’s using so much strength that you can’t even undulate your hips upwards anymore. Insistently, they move, fingertips still pressing upwards against what feels like your bladder. Everything still feels so fucking good, and you’re still being way too fucking loud, but shit–you fucking drank before bed last night, and even though you didn’t even feel like using the bathroom when you woke up a few minutes ago, you definitely feel like it now, and you’d be fucking mortified if you fucking peed on his hand during a time like this. 

“That’s gonna–” You thrash your head to the side. “Sy, stop, that’s gonna–Stop!”

While simultaneously stilling his hand on instant, Sy detaches his mouth from your neck and looks at you with big and worried eyes.

Your legs quiver like you have no muscle tone. “Sy, I–”

“You alright?”

You squeeze your eyes shut in humiliation. “That’s gonna make me pee,” you urgently whisper. “You’ve gotta–”

Something changes in Sy’s expression when you dare to peek at him again. “No, it’s not,” he says, and there’s a strange confidence there. Like he would know how full your bladder is.

You lay there with your chest heaving from how fast your heart’s been beating. “Yes, it is.”

“That ain’t–Then just let it out,” he utters with words sounding just as slurred as yours. He brings his mouth down to your neck again and sucks a patch of skin into his mouth in such a way your pussy tightens around his soaked fingers.

“Oh, shit… What? Pee?”

Sy pauses for a heavy moment. “If it happens, it happens,” he murmurs, “but you ain’t gettin’ out this bed.”

“Oh, Jesus,” you mutter directly after Sy’s fingers start relentlessly fucking into you again–or, fucking in you again. The same pressure from before comes right back lit anew–the outward sparkling sensitivity of your clit against Sy’s palm, the inside… the inside everything. You bring a hand up to your mouth. 

You can’t believe this. You can’t believe you’re in this situation right now. You can’t believe you’re going to fucking pee in Sy’s bed while you come and Sy’s not going to even care. On his fucking hand, too. The man has no scruples with bodily fluids, though, and especially no scruples with anything when it comes to you, so you guess it tracks. You remind yourself that he’s dirty, and he loves you, and– “What’d I tell you, huh? Just lay here’n be good, honey,” he grunts against your neck, darkly-sweet.

“Oh, my God,” you whimper. You feel like you have no control at all right now, that Sy’s got everything handled, that this is what he wants. Just you like this.

“That gets you goin’ so much,” he murmurs. “Bein’ good for me.”

“I…” You can’t reply.

“Just let go, baby. I wantchu to.”

You drop your hand from your mouth to grasp the bedsheets again. From the force of your body essentially being drilled, the blanket has moved enough that you can see Sy’s forearm now.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, teeth clenched together while you breathe out frantic puffs of air. Keeping your right leg bent, you raise it and plant your foot into the mattress to get some sort of grounding against the welcome onslaught. “Yeah, okay. Fuck.”

Within seconds, you’re moaning near-incessantly again, staring down at the cords of muscle in Sy’s forearm while his hand vibrates so quickly inside you that it’s like he’s a part of your body itself. Your legs impossibly shake even more while the squelching sounds from earlier continue, and it’s then that you can’t just fight it anymore. Sy said to just let go. Sy said if it happens, it happens. Sy said let it happen.

Throwing your head back and squeezing your eyes so tightly shut that your ears ring, you start feeling that same distinct sensation from earlier, like Sy’s fucking targeting a spot in your pussy that throbs. It’s not uncomfortable, though; it’s just pressure. Massive pressure. It builds, and it builds, and you cry out, and you cry out some more, and within mere seconds, without you hiding from it any longer, a surge overcomes you so powerful that your body simply locks up. 

You entirely white out. With a growing orgasm so strongly that you can’t speak besides breathing out “Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God,” you realize from your jumping hips that Sy’s fingers aren’t in you anymore. They’re pushing the blanket down as far as possible, then they’re back on your clit, and you just can’t control anything anymore. You’re gonna–

You feel the liquid embarrassingly gush out right as you start to come with a high-pitched drawn-out noise you don’t recognize, and the shame will have to wait until later because everything feels too good. When Sy slides his fingers back into your leaking pussy, a bit more liquid up top is forced out from his still-rapidly moving hand, like you don’t have enough to be embarrassed about. But you feel so fucking good.

And Sy would never say anything bad about what you’ve just done. He just wanted you to lay here and be good, and to let go, and you listened, and you feel so, so, so, so good.

Fuck, the covers are still moving from–fuck, Sy won’t stop fingering you even though you’ve clearly just come your brains out, like he’s wanting you to keep going, but you just–you can’t. You feel deflated, like all your muscles and all your organs have been taut and tense and now can finally relax.

Sy doesn’t stop moving until you reach down and shakily hold his wrist. “Okay, okay,” you let out through an odd whimper. “I’m good. Fuck. Good God. Oh, my God, okay, I’m done, Sy, oh, my God, please, I’m done.”

You can’t sit up, but you feel like you should. Everything underneath your ass is soaked. Somewhere along the way, you’ve raised your left leg off the mattress, and your knees are knocked together almost trembling. Your breath comes in quick heaves. 

You look over at Sy just in time to see him licking his fingers, and there’s a small trail of clear pee sliding down his forearm. That brings you to your senses quickly. “Sy, oh, my God, what the fuck.”

“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve seen in my entire life, Y/N,” he says with a surprisingly clear voice–not sounding grossed out at all. Also, strangely not even sounded aroused anymore even though you’ve probably been moaning out your release loud enough and long enough to give him blue balls.

The sun is a little brighter through the edges of the window curtains, casting small slivers of light on your lower stomach and below. You stretch out your shaky legs. You’re going to have to change all of the sheets. You’re gonna have to—shit, you can’t even think. You don’t know what you’re gonna have to do. You’re gonna have to do a lot. Everything is so wet.

…And Sy didn’t care. He liked it. He…It got on his hand. He didn’t even drop the “g” from the word “fucking” like he always does. He enunciated. He used your government name. 

You can’t look at him at all when you ask, “You got, like, some sort of pee fetish I didn’t know about or something?” 

It’s…it’s not like you’re one to judge. You’re the one that fucking let loose in the middle of having an orgasm, not even able to hold your bladder for just a few more minutes. It felt so good that you couldn’t even describe it if you wanted to, though, and that’s what you hold onto while still coming down from everything. That’s what’s keeping embarrassment from washing over you. 

Sy’s face still looks so turned on, though, eyes dark and intense, mouth-breathing quickly. “Baby, that–” He pushes himself up on his hand. “You still think that was piss?”

You make a face at his word choice. “Gross, Sy.”

He lowers his hand to splay his fingers out atop your lower belly. “Baby, you–” He looks down the bed. “Look at all that,” he whispers.

Squirming, you begin feeling hot again, and not in the best way. You attempt to roll over to face the window, but Sy won’t let you.

“Baby. You squirted,” he says, waiting until your eyes finally meet his. You feel so tiny with him looming over you like this. “You fuckin’ squirted for like a minute straight.” He lifts his left hand in the air and turns it slightly. “All over…You just kept–”

You can’t hear anymore. “But–I–”

When Sy looks downwards towards your hip, your eyes trail there, too. On your skin without you even noticing, and also on the mattress, are splotches of what is clearly semen. Speechless, you suck in a puff of air.

Sy swallows and looks back at your face. “I–” He chuckles at himself a little. “I couldn’t even hold out, you were so fuckin’ hot just now. That…”

You sit up on your elbows. “But–Sy, that wasn’t…” You just keep blankly blinking.

“You ain’t ever done that before,” he muses to himself like he’s figuring something out. “I fuckin’ was the first one?”

You’re starting to come back to reality more and more with every passing second. And the embarrassment is starting to build in your chest, pressing down. 

“Sy, I–I don’t know what all you’re talking about,” you say in almost a childishly quiet voice, “but no, I’ve never peed over anyone’s hand while having an orgasm.” You swallow at your own bluntness.

Sy grins at you. “You squirted.”

“But Sy, it–”

“Look, you wanna smell it?” he interrupts. “It ain’t pee. I’m tellin’ you that.”

You close your eyes and fight back an incredulous smile. This freaking man.

Slowly, you lower yourself back down until you’re entirely horizontal again. Your eyes flicker from the ceiling to to the wall to Sy’s face, still looking down at you like you’re–like you’re some kind of porn star. 

“So it wasn’t pee,” you let out.

He shakes his head and continues to grin.

“Well, I mean–You were goin’ like a freakin’ jack-rabbit down there, Sy–I couldn’t help–Where’d that even come from?”

“You were makin’ noises I ain’t ever heard before,” he responds while laying himself down beside you and putting his head on the pillow you’re using. “Just kept goin’ ‘til I could see how loud I could getcha.”

At his smile, you bite your lip. “Pretty loud.”

“You’re the one who woke up humpin’ my leg, darlin’, so I ain’t too sure what you expected.”

You turn onto your left side, not minding how messy Sy’s tacky cum feels against your skin as you do. Hell, the little globs of his release are nothing compared to…an entire drenched bed.

“You’re not ever gonna let this go, are you?” you ask.

He shakes his head and kisses you. “Hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve seen in my life,” he repeats. 

Sy puts his hand on your hip and rubs his thumb back and forth while both of you lay quietly, mutually coming down from your highs.

“I feel so much better now that I know it wasn’t pee,” you whisper after a while. “I just kept thinking…I mean, I know you wouldn’t’ve been mean about it or anything, but still.”

When Sy notices you beginning to shiver, he reaches out and pulls the blanket up where you’d apparently kicked it all the way down to the footboard. He finds a dry spot before covering it lazily over both of you. It’s a sweet action he takes while retaining a somewhat smug expression.

“Have you ever done that to someone before?” you eventually ask, unsure if you even want to know the answer. 

Sy just shakes his head. 

Oh.

“Then how’d you–how were you so sure, then? When I said what I thought it was gonna be. And you were all–” you lower your voice to something deep and twangy– “‘You ain’t leavin’ this bed.’”

He smirks at your impression. “Had a feelin’.”

You roll your eyes. “You had a feelin’.”

“Literally, I had a feelin’,” he maintains. “I could feel it. It was like your body was tryna push out my hand. Then it did.”

Again, you momentarily can’t look at him.

The smugness leaves Sy’s face entirely. “Baby, I’m fuckin’ serious. If you couldn’t tell. It was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, and I mean that.”

You give a small nod. “‘Cause you say what you mean, and you–”

“Mean what I say,” Sy finishes. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, ignoring Sy’s little “aht” noise, “I don’t mean to be so…weird about it. I think I’m still in shock.”

“I am, too,” he admits.

You can’t believe you… You can’t even say the word. Maybe you’ll get there one day.

Even though the both of you really need to get out of bed by now, you remain where you are: next to each other and more comfortable than you’ve been in a long time. The fact that your embarrassment only lasted for a fraction of moments is extremely telling. 

You want to marry this man. 

"Whatcha thinkin'?" he asks after quite a long silence, but he says it so quietly it's like the tiniest of murmurs, like a sentence spoken rather than a question. 

You smile against his chest. "My mind floated away for a minute."

"Where to?"

"Someplace nice."

Sy holds you a bit tighter.

“Actually, I’ve kinda been wonderin’ somethin’.”

A deep, rumbly noise vibrates from Sy’s throat–an acknowledgement, an inquiry. He probably thinks you’re still ruminating over the fact that you–that all that stuff gushed out of you earlier. But you aren’t. 

Your thoughts have traveled all over the place, and they’ve always ended back to the present moment: both of you holding each other on the bed that, together, you first had sex. Then all of the moments after that…and then all of the future moments yet to come…

You know you can trust Sy. You trust him implicitly. You know this.

It's other people you don't trust.

So…if someone were to ever get his phone, for instance, it'd be your worst–worst–nightmare. You can already picture him taking a picture of the bedsheets. 

Your voice is a whisper. "What do you do with the pictures you take of me?"

Instead of immediately answering, Sy pushes himself up on an elbow. He must be wondering why you're asking. 

"Or the ones that I send you?" you add. “Like, the–the private ones.”

“Well.” He reaches out and taps on your chin to get you to lift your gaze. "I look at 'em.”

You're quiet. 

"...Unless a certain person asks me to delete 'em," he offers, and you can hear the confusion lacing his statement. 

"Oh, that–I wasn’t gettin’ at that,” you admit, smiling. “It’s just..I just wouldn't want anyone else to see anything.”

Sy’s expression gets sternly serious. “Y/N, I would never–”

“I know, I know,” you’re quick to interrupt. “But if someone else saw by accident. Like if you gave your phone to one of your nephews to play a game or something.”

"Not possible,” he answers. “They're locked.”

"The phone?”

“The pictures.”

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

“In a hidden folder,” he goes on, and your eyebrows only get closer to each other, confusing him. “What?”

"How is it that the man who’s practically technologically illiterate–”

Sy lifts his hand to cover your mouth, and you start to cackle. 

“Woman, take that back.”

You shake your head as your eyes crinkle from your hidden smile. “Can’t even talk on the phone and take a picture at the same time–” you say all muffed and incomprehensible. “Had to teach you myself.”

When he doesn’t move his hand from your mouth, you stick your tongue out and lick his palm until he finally backs off. 

You’re expecting more banter, maybe tickling, maybe an “Alright, darlin’, best get up now,” but there’s none of that. Sy keeps his hand in midair and stares at it. 

Staring at you while he does so, he brings his hand to his mouth and licks it from top to bottom, right over the smear of your own saliva. Right over…Right over where you’d squirted all over. 

You squeeze your eyes shut while your heart starts to loudly thump in your chest.

[itisjustwhatitis]

I never stopped falling for you.

summary: It's a truth universally acknowledged (by everyone but himself), that Clark Kent's been in love with his best friend ever since the two of them were knobbly-kneed kids, wading through the sun-bleached grass of his childhood farm. For whatever reason, it's never seemed like the right time to do something about it. Some wound of his, a boyfriend-shape ache of hers; excuses kept them lingering in a purgatory of one day, one day, a prayerful pang that Clark kept telling himself over and over. Until it's not enough anymore—not for you, anyways, who was fed up of waiting for him to do something other than halfheartedly tell his parents that, It's us, Ma and Pa, it's always gonna be us. She knows that. It's also a truth universally acknowledged that if you take a girl for granted, you'll lose her. Clark, wonderful, boyish, tender Clark, just never thought it would happen to the two of you.

word count: 15k (she's a mammoth, of course). Unedited, sorry. I couldn't read over my own filth. Hopefully the inevitable mistakes aren't too glaringly obvious.

content warning: Angst, a lot of it. But, also plenty of soft fluff, because it's Clark, and it's a friends-to-lovers fic. Strong language, smut, yearning, emotional cheating, Clark self-sabotages a lot, miscommunication, a lot of sexual tension, oral (fem receiving), Clark's a munch and eats it like he'll die if he doesn't, fingering, situationship? Reader's nickname is 'Daisy.' Let me know if I forgot anything.

note: First time writing smut, kinda nervous lol. But it felt needed for this fic, because of how long it is, and how attached I got to them, I just kind of needed Clark to eat out the reader, who he loves so so so much. Also she deserved some good head after the shit he puts her through.

Inspired by 'Parachute' by Hayley Williams.

I thought you were gonna catch me... / I never stopped falling for you...

It was the 4th of July, a smattering of fireworks smearing the inky-purple sky a few miles down the road at the town’s celebrations in a barren field. Just over the canopies of the surrounding trees, you could make out a lit-out ferris wheel, the very same that you and Clark shared your first kiss at the top of exactly ten years ago. An innocent enough exchange, his hands folded nervously in his lap the entire time, a bit of teeth-knocking, and you were pretty sure that he briefly bit your lip in his boyish enthusiasm to finally be kissing you. Back then, it seemed like the biggest thing in the world, the most important thing that ever happened to you. Ten years later, on the very same holiday, it just made you grimace distastefully as you watched a few of the carriages on the jittering ride crest to the top. 

If there was a girl, sixteen, fragile-hearted, all swooning in that trembling seat, hands fluttering against the iron-bar as she waited for her best friend to swoop down and kiss her, you wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, screaming, Don’t do it, idiot! It’s not worth it! He’ll act like it didn’t happen the next day, and you’ll wish that you just jumped off the damn thing—

You took an indignant swig of the pale beer in your clenched fist and tried to stop thinking about pitching yourself from very tall heights. It probably wasn’t the most festive pastime, and the last thing you wanted to do was dampen the mood. That was probably why you were here, sitting outside on the wraparound porch of the Kent’s farmhouse on that quaint little bench that used to feel so big, but now your legs were curled awkwardly underneath you. Your cramped limbs were covered halfheartedly by the scratchy, crocheted blanket that Martha insisted you’d take with you after you muttered something about, ‘wanting to watch the fireworks,’ (everyone, thankfully, took that as you-language for needing a breather).

“Hey, you.” Everyone, it seemed, but Clark.

It’s not like you didn’t expect it. Friends and family alike were all bustling around in the kitsch bungalow, drinking beers, belly-laughing amicably, throwing companionable arms around shoulders, and genuinely enjoying the holiday. You weren’t in such good spirits. Clark must’ve thought you looked as sour-faced as you felt when he watched, unflinchingly, as you took the blanket from his mother with a soft thanks, Ma, and stalked outside to his porch. Realistically, it was only a matter of time before he ducked outside to find you.

And, surely, here he was. Lingering on the second step, smiling at you all bright and beautiful, impossibly soft in a plaid t-shirt that looked fathoms more comfortable than the expensive top you shimmied in for the occasion, shamefully regretting as soon as you stepped into the Kents’ home to see the rest of their guests in some variation of Betsy Ross’s flag.

“Hi,” you said breathily, snatching your gaze back to the far-off fireworks and that damned ferris wheel.

Clark hummed to himself, quickly realising the kind of mood you were in. You hated that he could always read you so effortlessly. You heard soft footfall against the patio, felt his warm hands on your ankles, lifting your legs up, and saw him, briefly, just out the corner of your eye, as he sunk down onto the bench next to you and let your calves smush against his thighs. Attentively, he fixed the askew blanket so they covered your socked feet, and swept his hand underneath it to toy absently with the daisy-charm anklet he got you when you were kids at the seaside.

“Not feeling the patriotism?” he mused wryly, thumb stroking over your anklebone like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A resentment worked in your throat and made it very hard to swallow. So, thickly, you responded, “Not much to feel patriotic about. This country’s shit.”

“I mean,” Clark laughed amiably, “you’re not wrong.”

You knew he was only half-lying. Clark saw the good in everything. That’s why he kept saving the world, and the people in it. He’d told you plenty of times before that the government’s sins weren’t his business, but the hearts and lives of the average citizen was.

“Sometimes I just want to leave,” you continued, feeling belligerent, almost wanting him to fight with you. “Pack all of my bags, get on a plane, and never come back.”

Clark smiled at you warmly. “Yeah? And where are you going, daisy?” 

Daisy, Clark called you. Hence the anklet. Hence the little finger-painting his parents’ still have up on their fridge of the wildflower (one of Clark’s finest, Jonathan would tease).

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here,” you replied irritably, picking a frayed thread off the blanket.

Clark didn’t seem too rattled by your hostility, and kept smoothing little caresses against the skin of your shin. “Okay. Say the word, and we’re gone. Heck, you don’t even need a plane.” 

He knew you hated when he took you flying with him. It was stomach-churning, and terrifying, and—well, in truth, it was fucking exhilarating, and beautiful, and honestly one of the most intimate things you would ever experience. But, those weren’t things you could just tell Clark. He made sure of that, time and time again.

Still, he called you Daisy, and none of his girlfriends could ever stomach your existence in his life for too long, and he kissed you on that ferris wheel, and his hands were on your ankle, and he was telling you, even if lightheartedly, that he’d whisk you away in his superhuman arms and fly you off to some land where you could breathe lighter. Clark didn’t realise that the reason why you struggled to breathe was him, but saying that would crush him, and make that horrible, wounded, tender look screw up his pretty features, and no matter how bitter you felt, you couldn’t do that to him.

“That’s nice, Clark,” was all you said, and swigged another mouthful of beer.

For the first time all evening, Clark frowned, and he did it in that awful, boyish way he did whenever his feelings were hurt but he was trying not to show it. That tiny crease between his eyebrows and soft poutiness of his mouth that wouldn’t really be noticed by anyone other than you—but, the whole effortless reading thing was a two-way-street. You knew Clark just as well as he knew you.

“Did I, erm…” His hands hesitated against your ankles, “are you…” Idiot. Beautiful, lovely, idiot. “Daisy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Something is wrong,” he insisted, fingers tightening around you, warm, steady; you hated it. “Is it being back home? Do you miss the city? We can go home earlier than planned—I know we said that we’ll stay the week, but if you’re not—”

“God, Clark,” you interjected exasperatedly.

Clark flinched. His hands left you entirely. They fell into his lap like limp, dead birds, and he suddenly looked so forlorn, and unusually small.

It all delivered a pang of remorse to your stomach that might’ve been unbearable if it wasn’t for that stupid ferris wheel taunting you over the heads of all those trees.

“I’m fine,” you said tightly, “everything’s fine. I don’t need to go back to Metropolis. I don’t need you fussing over me, either. I really did just want to get a breather, s’all.”

Clark looked as though he was barely listening, staring listlessly and with the slightest tinge of rejection at where your legs were still draped awkwardly over his lap, but again, you knew him better. He was listening to every last scathing, contemptuous word. He was swallowing them whole and letting them sit at the pit of his stomach, to fester, and ache, and tally all of his deficiencies by vicious names.

“Right,” he said hoarsely, swallowing, “m’sorry, Daisy.”

You blinked at him. This was what you wanted, right? To make him as solemn as you? To get him to shut up, for once? So, why did it feel so deplorable? You blamed the sickening talent he had for manipulating your heart—those pretty, blue eyes of his, and that crestfallen expression; they were evil, really, and unkind. (Two words that didn’t describe Clark at all, you knew that, but you hated being back here—in the small-town that you honestly thought, at this point, you’d be returning to at holidays with a ring on your finger, Clark’s mouth on your cheekbone, but each time, you were met with pitying, confused looks from distant relatives and old schoolfriends, asking innocently if you and Clark were together).

“Don’t be sorry.” You flashed him the biggest, most shit-eating grin you could manage, and gently sunk the heel of your foot into his ribs. “Lighten up. I’m just tired, that’s all. Sorry if I upset you?” 

“You didn’t,” Clark lied softly, touching you again, quieter now.

Eyes narrowing, you tilted your head at him as he kept his own down and shy, gouging his features. “So,” you murmured, testing the waters, “that guy asked me on a second date.”

Clark hummed thoughtfully. “I thought you said he was boring.”

“He was,” you admitted hollowly. “But, he was cute, I guess. And, well, I’m not getting any younger,” you half-joked.

“So, you’re going to settle for a guy who finds taxes exciting?” Clark retorted. 

He was trying to be lighthearted and funny, but it kind of fell short because of the slight bite to his voice and the squinty frustration behind the eyes that didn’t quite meet yours.

“Hey, the market’s tough right now,” you teased.

“And the stock market, too, I’m guessing? Did he tell you about that, too? Tesla shares and his sharing account—”

“Clark,” you said sternly, slanting him a droll look.

Clark glanced down again, frowning. “Sorry, Daisy. Sue me for thinking you deserve a little better than some Wall Street guy.”

The sinews of your heart throbbed at the intensity of his vulnerable honesty. This was why you loved him. This was why you had to go on that second date with some ‘Wall Street goon.’ He was so tender, and lovable, and you adored him completely. He knew this. But, he wouldn’t let anything happen. That ferris wheel was a distant, aching memory, one that he swept under a rug of bashful charm, telling you the next day, Darn, I was such a bad kisser, right? Sorry, Daisy! Let’s go and get burgers… 

Obviously, there was nothing more you’d like to do than kiss him again. Than to unravel your legs from his lap and straddle it instead, bury your fingers in his unruly curls, steal the air from his lungs, tell him, I love you, you idiot, I fucking love you. But, he wouldn’t let you. For whatever reason, he’d put his hands on your thighs so kindly and softly, and tell you that it can’t happen. And he’d be so sweet about it, so sweet with you—because, he adored you right back, and he always would, you knew that, too. But, he wouldn’t really explain why it couldn’t happen, and your ego would be in ribbons and tatters in your shared lap as he cradled your face as if you were his dearest thing, murmur lovely words to you that would do nothing for the wounded pride butchered in your ribs. Then, he’d slip you so tentatively from his lap, and offer you a hand, saying something to you about returning to the party, complimenting the top you spent a silly amount of money on just for him, and spend the rest of the night at your side, acting as if nothing had happened. As if you didn’t love the very bones of him.

You couldn’t stomach it. You had tried before—in the dim light of your apartment back in Metopolis after a night out, slurring on too many rum and cokes, trying to make yourself as endearing and sexy as possible as you practically offered yourself on a shameful platter to him. He was so affectionate and patient with you that night, it made you love him even more, even as he delicately removed your hands from his face, and told you that you were too drunk. He still called you pretty as he lovingly removed your make-up. He still tucked you into the softness of your sheets and pecked the crown of your head. Hell, he even spent the night on your sofa, legs almost folded up to his chest, so he could take care of your miserable hangover in the morning.

You tried ten years ago, on that ferris wheel. 

You couldn’t keep trying. You couldn’t keep letting him mutilate your heart as if it mattered nothing to him.

“Maybe I fancy him,” you sighed then, swinging your legs off of his lap, settling your feet stubbornly in the grass beneath the bench. “Maybe I just want to get laid, so it doesn’t really matter if he’s boring or not.”

Clark stared at you, unhappy. “That’s not what you want.”

“Like you care about what I want,” you found yourself seething, so inadvertently furious and reckless.

That was the wrong thing to say. Clark’s face languaged itself into the most wretched thing you had ever seen, and you thought, for a terrible moment, that he might cry.

“Daisy, that’s…” Clark shook his head softly, “that’s not fair.”

“Not fair? Not—fuck you, Clark,” you snarled, getting up and snatching the blanket, leaving him cold and without you. 

He seemed to shiver against it—the wind, and your absence. Even with you standing, and Clark still sullen on the bench, he was almost as tall as you. He frowned at you, so distraught at whatever this was unraveling in the middle of you both, so confused and desperate to understand why it felt like he was losing you these days when, to him, nothing had really changed to make you so mean and cold.

“What did I do?” he asked dolefully, blinking up at you with wide, startled eyes that were still fawnlike despite their blueness. “I don’t—is this about Ben?” 

It was beyond you how Clark remembered the name of a guy you went on a date with when you had been wracking your mind over it for the last twenty minutes. It only stirred the wrath in your stomach even more.

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” you snapped.

Clark gestured helplessly with his empty hands. “Well, help me understand! That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? That’s who we are. Why are you being like this? All I said was that you deserve—”

“Maybe I will go back to the city early,” you muttered, turning your back to him, looking back at the colourful, exploding fireworks swelling in beautiful contusions of scintillating red and white and blue.

“Okay,” he mumbled, lost, standing too, “we can go in the morning. Ma and Pa will understand. We’ll tell them Perry needs us for—”

“I’ll go,” you interjected, “you can stay. There’s no need for you to cut your trip short.”

Clark looked like everything he held dear was falling apart at the seams and he couldn’t do anything but pathetically hold one end of the fraying thread. “If that’s what you want, then…” He shook his head solemnly, disconcerted. “Daisy, can you please just talk to me? I’ll drive you to the airport in the morning, and you can be alone for the week back in the city, but please, can we just—”

“Are you ever going to let me be your girlfriend, Clark?” 

It was such a ridiculous, petulant sentence to say—so raw, and childlike, and humiliating. But, you didn’t really know how else to phrase it. Because, Clark let you love him. He let you love him unconditionally, in fact. That wasn’t the issue. So, you couldn’t really stand there and plead that he let you into his heart, because you were scored all over it in cicatrices and tenderness, in a way that you knew nobody else would ever really be. You didn’t take that for granted. You appreciated that, maybe, that was all he could offer you. This purgatory state of greyish almost, not quite understanding where you stood on the delicate line between best friends and more. You might be able to stomach it better if he was more final and definite about it. If he told you, earnest and brutal, that no, you would never be Clark Kent’s girlfriend, maybe it might be easier for you to move on, and to digest the love you had for him a little better. Maybe, you could stop these bouts of meanness and cruelty that you never thought you’d ever inflict in him.

“Daisy, I…” Clark looked tormented. You might as well have sucker-punched him, with how agonised he seemed. “You know how I feel about you,” it’s the same script as last time, and the time before that, and it regurgitated like blood in his mouth, blood in your hands; incessant and ugly. “It’s always going to be you and me. Isn’t it?”

Isn’t it? 

“I don't know, Clark,” you replied honestly. A flinch later, and Clark was staring miserably at the floor, at the fluffy socks cladding your feet—the pair he offered you after you slipped off your pretty heels at the welcome mat earlier. “I thought it was going to be,” you continued, lifting your shoulders lamely, hands coming to cradle the goosebump-covered flesh of your arms, “but…I don’t understand what we’re doing here anymore.”

Clark was on his feet instantly, swaying a little at the suddenness of it, as if he wasn’t Superman, as if he wasn’t practically ichor and steel bones. “You’re my best friend. I thought that was enough.”

Guilt panged through your ribs. “Clark, it is. You are. It would be enough, if there weren't all of these…appendages, I don’t know? Like, it would be more than anything, it would be everything, if I knew there wasn’t anything else,” you beseeched. “But there is. I know there is. And so do you. So,” you added, bottom lip wobbling, “it should be me asking you if I’m enough, ‘cause I really don’t know what else is stopping us from—”

“We can’t keep doing this,” he whispered ruefully. “Every time, it’s like you’re breaking my heart, Daisy. I’ve told you, we can’t—”

“But, why?” Your voice raised now, lashing out with the crack of a ruthless whip, bringing the entire length of your friendship down on the rosary of his spine. It made Clark fold in on himself, impossibly small for someone of his stature. “Why, Clark? I think…I don’t know, I think it would be—” a tear rolled down your cheek, without permission, or dignity, but you made no move to wipe it away (you knew it killed Clark to see you cry, so you let it slip and carve a jagged line down your face). “I think we’d be okay.”

Clark was ravaged. His chest was throbbing, hands trembling, and an ugliness lay dormant on his tongue. 

“Daisy, please. Please, just—”

“Wouldn’t we be?”

“I can’t,” he murmured, throat bobbing sorely. “I can’t, Daisy, I’m sorry.”

You let your chin dip hollowly toward your sternum, holding yourself tightly. “Right,” you said faintly, “okay, Clark.”

As you went toward his house—a place ripe with childhood memories, shared, and precious, and intangible now—Clark felt himself unravel, exclaiming your name, your real name, not just Daisy. Not that borrowed fondness that felt so absent of belonging now. It scraped his throat raw at the unfamiliarity of it, leaving an aftertaste of bile and grief.

“Please,” he said desperately, “can we just—c’mon, Daisy, it’s us.”

You didn’t turn to face him. Honestly, you were too afraid of all self-preservation leaving you as soon as you saw that wrecked look on his pretty face. You must harden yourself to him. You’ve spent too long waiting and aching and cutting yourself up into darling little pieces for him.

“Goodnight, Clark.”

You swore to yourself, then—ten years after your first kiss—that you would cut off your own hand before you reached for Clark Kent again.

Now I know better, never let me... / Leave the house without a parachute...

A year earlier.

“—Ma, that was delicious,” you enthused, so bloated that you were sitting at the quaint dining table with the button of your jeans popped open. “Honestly, your best work.”

“Nawh, you’re a flatterer, Daisy,” Martha Kent said, flustered and ruddy-cheeked as she gently dabbed a tissue at her mouth. “It was just pie!” 

Clark, so broad and long-limbed at your side that his shoulder was brushing yours and you couldn’t quite tell where your legs began and his ended, was hasty to gently repudiate his mother’s modesty, “Ma, Daisy’s right. It was beautiful. Tell her Pa.”

“Huh?” Jonathan startled, having been focused on the crackling static of the box-television, playing some football game or other. He blinked, looking at his son, his crimson wife, and finally you, before nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Wonderful, darling. I mean, just—”

“Okay, that’s enough from all of you,” she reprimanded gently, moving to gather everyone’s cleaned plates. “Go off, the lot of ya, so I can wash up.”

“Oh,” you chimed in, smiling brightly, “we’ll wash up.” You touched Clark’s shoulder, “Won’t we?”

Clark blinked at you, softening at the hand on his shoulder, at the warmth in your eyes, and didn’t tear his eyes from you once as he quickly acquiesced, “Of course. Yeah. Ma, we’ll wash up.”

It didn’t take much convincing. Martha and Jonathan were soon shuffling into the parlour to nurse glasses of homemade lemonade, icicles tinkering against glasses, bellies hearty and full with the wonderful pie. You could distinctly hear them singing your praises at being so generous as Clark filled up the sink with soapy, hot water.

Not really thinking much about it, you plant your palms flush against the granite countertop of the kitchen island and lift yourself up onto it, not far away from where Clark was submerging the dishes into the sudsy water. It was as if your offer of a joined attempt at washing-up had completely evaded you, but you couldn’t help it. Clark looked so irresistibly domestic with his towering figure looming over the wash-basin, the window overhead peering out to the garden letting oozes of sunlight filter through the water-speckled glass. It was most likely the Kryptonian in him, but there really was something special about Clark doused in sunlight. Sometimes, you wondered if he would bleed it—ribbons of beautiful gold and trickling warmth. He was wearing a simple white tee, the material of it strained against the muscles of his back as he scrubbed away at the ceramic plate in his hands, not even grimacing against the scorching temperature of the water. 

“I’m starting to think you had ulterior motives offering to do the dishes,” he mused wryly, eyes flitting teasingly to you as he rinsed off some bubbles from the chinaware and settled it considerately onto the drying-rack. 

You feigned an offended gasp. “I would never? I take my duties as chief dishwasher ‘round here really seriously!”

“Yeah?” Clark taunted, a lopsided grin curling up the corner of his mouth. “Is that why you’re sat there, all pretty and not moving a finger?”

I wish you’d move a finger, you thought lamely, maybe three…?

“I’m watching the next generation of dishwashers bloom, all right? Have to make sure that I’m passing the torch onto someone worthy of—“

“I think you’re in the wrong profession,” muttered Clark drolly, “you’re a great journalist, but you’d kill it in theatre, Daisy.”

You swung out a leg to kick him in the kidney. “Bite me, Kent.”

“Sure, let me wash the dishes you said you’d do, then pick a place, and—“

“Oh, you’re letting me choose?”

“I’m a people pleaser, at heart.”

“Who bites people. Cannibal.”

“Cannibal implies we’re the same species,” corrected Clark. “And, technically, we’re not.”

You rolled your eyes at his facetiousness. “Can I just bite you?”

“If you ask to bite my arm again—“

“I think it would feel nice!”

Finally, he placed the last of the plates on the rack and started to drain the sink of the dirty water. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to dry his soapy hands in a nearby dishcloth before he turned around and settled his hands on your thighs. It’s moments like this—with touches like these, and similar airs of domesticity, and warmth—where you find yourself inadvertently cursing your best friend. Those thoughts only worsened when one of his thumbs stroked over where your jeans still hung loosely unbuttoned at the waist.

“I’m glad you came,” he mumbled affectionately. You were pretty sure he was looking at the slither of lace from your underwear peeking through the gap in your unbuttoned jeans, but found yourself without many words or protests as he hooked his fingers through the belt-loops, tugging you the slightest bit closer to the edge of the countertop as your knees touched the sides of him. “Ma and Pa have really missed you.”

You hummed sweetly, glancing unashamedly at his mouth. “Yeah, well, I missed them.”

The callused pad of his thumb stroked over one of your jutting hipbones, just where your tee had ridden up during dinner. “I missed you.”

“We literally see each other every day.”

“Yeah, but,” Clark smiled pensively, “it’s different here, when we’re back home. Don’t you think?”

Your throat went very dry. “You’ll have to explain that logic to me, Kent.”

“I don’t know…it’s just—it’s like we’re really us here. Not that we’re not us in Metropolis, but…” A troubled sigh escaped him, “It makes sense in my head, all right?”

“That’s okay,” you promised him, flattening a hand against his hummingbird chest. “You don’t—I think we’re pretty far past explaining ourselves, don’t you? We’re, you know, us. Here, and there. And I guess I know what you mean—about it being a little different, back here.”

His smile softened impossibly more, the most tender and loving thing you had ever seen, dimpled and precious, and God, you love this boy.

“You understand?”

“Yes, Clark. I understand.”

Later that night, just after you slipped out of the shower, almost imperceptibly quiet from your exhaustion as you dried yourself off, you overheard Clark in the middle of the closest thing to a heated debate he could ever have with his beloved parents. Martha was ranting like you hadn’t heard her since the Bush administration, almost splenetic as she referred to Clark by his full name, reprimanding him for something or other. Jonathan, occasionally, would chime in, weary and loving in a way only a father as softhearted as him could be.  

“—Ma, Pa, you don’t understand—“ you briefly caught Clark saying, sounding a little stretched thin and pained, “it’s us. Daisy, she doesn’t mind about none of that stuff. It’s always gonna be us—“

Stomach in knots, you tried not to listen anymore. You didn’t want to make a habit out of eavesdropping on conversations that clearly had no space for you, especially ones so intimate and distressing. But, the little bits you caught onto pressed against your skin and marrow like thousands of tiny, little knives. You tried to ignore the sting as you tiptoed the length of the hall from the bathroom to Clark’s bedroom, where you had spent the night countless of times before, but now it felt so challenging and foreign that slipping under his boyhood covers felt like trespassing. The voices stayed the same volume, oozing through the walls as if they had forgotten you were there altogether. Until, finally, one side of the discussion acquiesced, and the farmhouse went uneasily still.

As soon as the floorboards outside of Clark’s room started to creak underfoot, you rolled onto your side on his twin-size mattress and feigned sleep. It took one glance at you, him lingering briefly in the doorway, for Clark to know that you weren’t asleep. 

“Did you hear any of that?” he asked calmly, making his way into the room. 

Keeping your head tucked into his pillow, you heard him rummaging through old comforters and blankets to fashion himself a makeshift bed on the floor. It felt reminiscent of childhood sleepovers, rather than a pair of twenty-somethings who had spent the last afternoon in the ankle-deep grass of the farm, sunbathing and laughing and tangling your legs together as if being symbiotic was the only way to breathe. He should be trying to make room for himself next to you on his tiny mattress, an intertwined network of desperate limbs as he cradled your head to the warmth of his chest. His mouth should be peppering a litany of kisses to your face, but instead, he was flopping into his sorry excuse of a temporary bed, body lying parallel to yours.

“Bits,” you replied finally. 

Clark just made a contemplative sound, before saying, “Today was nice.”

When you pressed your eyes closed, you felt a tickling of tears welling in the waterline. 

“Yeah,” you whispered, “it was.”

“You’re my favourite girl, Daisy. Always will be.”

You knew that. It didn’t make any of this easier to swallow. 

It didn’t make you any less hungry. 

A single tear soaked through the terracotta of his pillow-case. “Night, Clark.”

Silence swelled in the room like a purpling bruise, then, shuffling, a soft murmur of your name, and you felt a hand on you. His hand, stroking the back of your head. You squeezed your eyes shut even tighter, evicting another tear. His other hand moved, next, thumb collecting the tear and smearing it into your hairline.

“Please don’t cry,” Clark asked of you softly, a wrenching plea.

“M’not,” you denied childishly.

He scoffed, not unkindly, and brought his thumb closer to the corner of your eye. “Look at me. Please?”

“Asleep.”

“Please?” 

How could you deny such a tender request? Your eyes fluttered, the lampshade on his nightstand eclipsed by his face, mere inches from yours. Clark smiled at you, all dimples and pearly teeth and years of love. His hands held you still, so gingerly and doting.

“There she is,” he said quietly.

“Clark,” you protested.

“Do you wanna sleep down here? With me?” Knelt and penitent, he looked almost holy like this in front of you. Clark then smiled at you all boyish and lame, saying, “I’d say we could share the bed, but…” 

But it was barely big enough for him alone, never mind the two of you. 

You should’ve said no. Should’ve protected the splitting in your chest. But, you had never really made a practice of saying, no, to Clark Kent, and you weren’t about to start now—not with his hands on you so dotingly, his eyes crinkled at the edges in sentimental affection, in the middle of his boyhood room. 

“Okay.”

Together, you removed the duvet and pillows from his bed, fashioning something charming and a little laughable on the floor out of this fragile peace he was desperately trying to maintain. Only when you were folded like a letter within the envelope of comforters did Clark flick off his lamp and cuddle up behind you, lolling his chin against your shoulder as if it was second nature to him.

“Do you forgive me?” he asked innocently.

“Nothing to forgive you for,” you sighed, eyes open against the darkness of night, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Say you forgive me anyway. Indulge me.”

You love him. You really, really love him.

“I forgive you, Clark.”

“Thanks, Daisy.”

I thought you were gonna catch me, / I never stopped falling for you.

20th November, 2023.

The movie was fine. Ben picked it—he always did. A palatable, predictable rom-com with pretty actors and pretty homes, the kind of thing that suspended just the right amount of belief to have you shuffling out of the cinema with a self-pitying ache in the basement of your belly. He dropped you off outside of Clark’s place afterward, pressing a chaste to your lips as he absently reminded you about brunch with his sister and her husband next weekend. 

“You’re late,” Clark teased from the living room as you let yourself in. He had that soft lilt to his voice that sounded terrifyingly more like welcome home, than, hi, my totally platonic best friend, how was your date with your boyfriend? He was sprawled on the couch in a threadbare pair of grey sweatpants, long legs kicked up onto the coffee table, a half-finished bag of popcorn next to his crossed ankles. 

“Sorry, Dad,” you taunted, shrugging off your coat and toeing off your shoes, “did I miss curfew?”

“I told that young man to have you home by eleven,” Clark played along wryly. 

An impossibly large grin carving into your sore cheeks, you padded over to him, curled into the usual spot on the plush sofa, knees crazing his thigh. To the common eye, it was the same as it had always been. Except it wasn’t—not to you, and not to Clark. His arm wasn’t slung easily along the back of the couch anymore, fingers tracing aimless patterns on the skin of your shoulder. His pinkie didn’t reach tangibly for yours on the cushions. And you, inwardly, hated how obvious the absence of touch felt.

“How was the movie?” he asked, eyes on the television, playing some aviation documentary or other.

“It was fine.” You played with a loose thread on the sleeve of your cardigan. “Ben enjoyed it.”

Clark hummed noncommittally and briefly spared you a polite smile, as if to say, oh, I’m glad.

It made your chest throb dully. “You would’ve hated it, though.”

“Good thing I wasn’t there, then,” he said absentmindedly.

It was a lot of this recently—feigned indifference, halfhearted comments, muted smiles that didn’t quite reach eyes; your well-mannered, deferential best friend. He was so respectful, it hurt. Admittedly, you were taking his chivalry rather to heart. For the last few months of dating Ben, you had been silently willing Clark to do something—he wasn’t the primal, territorial kind of guy, you knew that, but…didn’t it matter? Didn’t you matter? Weren’t the two of you more than this—diplomatic dinners where Clark pretended that he gave a damn about capital and assets and the property market for the sake of you? God, all you wanted was for him to tell you to leave him. It would take the slightest bit of jealousy from him, and you’d dump Ben in a heartbeat. Sure, that probably made you a wretched woman, but this was Clark.

You stared at him, desperate for him to fracture, to stop playing Switzerland about the guy you were spending your weekends with. But Clark only reached for the popcorn, offering you the bag with a gentlemanly smile.

“Do you like him?” you asked sharply, the words leaving you before you could stop them.

Clark’s hand went still halfway to his mouth, throat working as he chewed a single kernel. “Does it matter if I do?”

A pulse of agony ribboned through you. “Of course it matters.” 

Now, he granted you the privilege of his gaze—blue eyes too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let your resolve crack the slightest bit. “Then, no. I don’t like Ben.” A pregnant pause, Clark wetting his lips, gentling his voice, and he continued, “But you do, right?” 

“He’s…” Not you, “nice.”

“Nice,” Clark echoed, grinning, and returned his attention to the screen. His knuckles whitened around the bag of popcorn, so, small victories.

Selfishly, you wondered what kind of extremes you would have to go to in order to get the caveman, possessive reaction you truly wanted from him. Like, did you have to go into gruesome detail about your incredibly boring sex life with this guy?

“He asked me to come home with him for Thanksgiving.”

Jackpot.

Clark’s lungs emptied in a sharp, hitching exhale. His gaze snapped to you, too fast, too raw—he may as well have wrenched open his ribcage and exposed all the knots of himself to you. Thank fuck. 

“You always come home with me for the holidays?” he said quietly. 

This whole time, you never really considered that coaxing some kind of reaction from him would hurt you too, but that wounded, confused look on his face, like a rejected, kicked puppy, was a sucker-punch. Because, he was right—he often was. Every year, since the two of you moved away for college, you’d gone back with him to Smallvile—the Kent farm, Martha’s pumpkin pie and Jonathan’s well-meaning teasing, the two of you curled under that scratchy blanket by the fire, crackling with logs Clark had spent the better half of the afternoon swinging at with an axe as you swooned. You belonged there, with him, back home. Not in some stranger’s dining room in upstate Metropolis, making small talk with Ben’s fair-weather parents and boring-as-him sister. 

“I know.”

A muscle twitched in Clark’s taut jaw as he set the popcorn down, hands dangling pathetically between his knees as he took his legs off of the coffee table. “So, you said no. Right?” 

Nothing left your mouth. Nothing even formed on your tongue. 

“Daisy.” The endearment left him roughly. “Tell me you’re not going.” 

You shivered, wanting nothing more than to tell him no, I’m not. God, you wanted to so badly, with every yearning morsel of your being. You wanted him to demand it of you, to give you permission to shatter this fragile, unspoken arrangement. But, he only stared at you, silent and aching, handing you some kind of invisible knife carved of kryptonite.

“I don’t know,” you confessed.

“It won’t feel like Thanksgiving if you’re not there with me.”

Your self-preservation unravelled, and you moved without thinking. You touched his sternum, almost flinching at the pounding of his heart. “Then, say it, Clark,” you seethed, “tell me not to go. Tell me you want me there, with you.”

For an agonising moment, your best friend just stared at you, as if the entire, tangled history of the two of you was haemorrhaging in this harrowing space. Then, with the kind of excruciating gentleness and self-sacrificing bullshit that only Clark Kent could muster, he shook his head. 

“You know I can’t.”

The finality of it butchered the girl in you that you thought was buried years ago. Evidently, some part of it stuck around, nursing some kind of mad hope that maybe he’d be ready for you, one day. You stood, trembling, and staggered wordlessly towards the entrance hallway of his apartment.

“Daisy,” Clark called, panicked, standing too, “Daisy, wait—” 

You turned, undoing, strangled, and so very tired of this cycle of punishment. “You expect me to wait around with no real sign that you’re ever going to be ready. Do you realise how cruel that is?” 

He said your name again, your real name, and you were starting to resent the sound of it—this pattern you had fallen into, of him only breathing it when he looked like this; torn and apologetic, but never willing to do something about it.

“Lana Lang got married last month,” you told him steadily, trying not to cry. “Pete Ross and his wife just had their second baby. And I’m—I don’t know. Hoping you’ll ask me nicely to break up with my boyfriend? My life’s going on without me because I’m waiting for something that’s probably never going to happen.” You stared at him witheringly, at the devastation in his eyes but evident rigidity in his bones, his lack of movement or protest. The absence of any kind of reassurance. “Am I wrong?” 

Clark didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“Right,” you muttered sourly, snatching your jacket from its designated hook on his crooked coat-rack. “I’ll see you at work, Clark.”

It’s time you sever that hand completely.

You told me you waited for me, you said that you won... / Asked me on a plane from Rio, do I ever think of us?

12th of September, 2024.

Clark’s apartment was hollowed and harrowed all at once, silent except from the faint hum of his bare refrigerator and his own shallow breathing. He sat on the edge of his couch, the Superman suit draped over the arm of it like shredded snakeskin, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers as he nursed an ice-pack to the ugly swelling over his left eye. His ribs ached with each ragged breath, the bruises already flowering with petals of violet and blue across his chest and sides. He could still taste blood, metallic and sour and familiar, at the corner of his split lip. 

It wasn’t the worst of nights—he’d been pulling his punches, recently, letting blows hit closer to comfort than he would’ve a year ago. Still, the empty space next to him, around him, was enough to make the wounds ache that bit more profoundly as he pressed the ice harder to the contusion, just to relish in the sting.

He hadn’t seen you in days. Weeks, really. Not properly, not like before. You were still best friends—exchanging texts and funny videos, calling in the middle of adult responsibilities, and catching up at the coffee machine at the Daily Planet, as your lives weren’t grotesquely and obscenely woven together. Boundaries existed now that didn’t before, cruel ones that weren’t ever really negotiated, but they were necessary—they both knew it. It was nights like these where Clark found himself missing you the most, a hunger settling bitterly between his third and fractured rib. When he was bandaging his own pains, when laughter didn’t reach the parts of him you could, when he caught himself glancing at the door like he was willing you to walk in—you’d tell him you saw the fight on the news, that it terrified you, that you needed to know that he was okay.

Just that morning, Clark woke up from the cruellest of dreams. It was of you, of your mouth, of your skin. He was touching you, everywhere, and kissing you, and his sheets were drenched in sweat when the sunshine split through the curtains to give him a mean dose of reality. He tried jerking off in the shower when the ache got too painful, but last month, Clark ran out of the emergency supply of your shower gel that you kept here, and the lingering smell of you left his bathroom weeks ago. He washed off the shame and the desire, and went to work, and avoided your eyes even more stubbornly than usual. 

Then, his phone vibrated aggressively on the coffee table, flaring his ribs with a dangerous glimmer of hope.

Daisy.

His pulse rabbited against his scratched throat. He thumbed in the numbers of your birthday, unlocking his phone, and winced at the vicious pull in his abdomen as he leaned forward.

DAISY: Hey are you up

Clark blinked. Did she not see the news, or the tram torn from the tracks by the grubby hands of some extraterrestrial, or Clark being launched into a skyscraper as if he weighed little more than a paperweight? 

CLARK: Of course I’m up

CLARK: Sorry that sounded rude I didn’t mean it to be

CLARK: Yes I’m awake are you okay?

He hated himself. He fantasised briefly about self-flaggelation and almost felt glad for the agony in his body.

DAISY: Lol don’t worry Clark Knt could never be rude

DAISY: Erm so……he proposed!!!

Screw self-flaggelation. Give him a gun. 

Clark suddenly thought maybe the super-bots got it wrong, and he really did have a concussion, that maybe his brain was short-circuiting under the weight of exhaustion, internal bleeding, and the enormity of his yearning. 

So, he reread it—just to be sure. And he reread it again. Thrice. The words, horrifyingly, didn’t change. He proposed. You were engaged. His thumbs wavered, typing, deleting, typing again. What was there to say? 

CLARK: Wow

Kill him.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again—and it was at least some comfort to know that the two of you still had some things in common, after all of this. Clark denied himself the privilege of breathing as he waited for your next message, his ribs screaming against the strain.

DAISY: I haven’t said yes yet

The ice-pack slid uselessly to the rug, where it stayed, resembling some flayed animal. Clark’s hands quivered now around the phone that looked so pathetically small between his fingers. Whatever this pain was, it was brutish. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even Lex Luthor, doglike and sniffing at the hem of the Superman cape like something rabid and wronged. Not even Ben. 

CLARK: Okay

A breath.

CLARK: What did you say?

He couldn’t help but think he deserved it, though. Hadn’t she warned him this would happen?

DAISY: I told him I needed to think

DAISY: You’re the first person I told

Because, that’s Clark. Your best friend, the first person, a medley of shared memories and experiences and a childhood that belongs to the both of you, and not even this could separate it. A surgeon could take all the silver instruments in the world, and it still wouldn’t sever the two of you—there wasn’t a pair of scissors sharp enough to cut that invisible string, and Clark clung to that. He was the first person you told. It gutted him, it felt like an executioner coming for him, it felt like the gallows—but he was the first person. 

Not your parents, not his, not Lois. Clark. 

Clark wanted—golly, what did he want? He wanted everything. Clark was nothing but want and bruises and heroism. He would cut open a vein in his arm and bleed out you, if he could. The pulmonary artery of his yearning pulsed viciously against his worst fears and agonies, and he wanted, darn it. 

His thumb trembled again against the edge of everything he had ever known. 

Don’t marry him. Don’t say yes. I’m the first person. Don’t marry him, I’m begging you.

CLARK: I’m glad

CLARK: Glad you told me I mean

CLARK: And glad he proposed 

He’ll die alone and wanting.

DAISY: Glad?

CLARK: It’s what you wanted wasn’t it?

CLARK: To get married 

To get married to him. He knew that. Of course, he knew that. How many dreams had slipped through his fingers of you in white, a wedding back at the farm, wildflowers in your hair, and fireflies scintillating the night-sky as pressed his mouth onto yours when it was all said and done, and you were his wife? 

Wife. Wife. You were going to be Ben’s wife.

DAISY: You think I should say yes?

CLARK: I think you should have everything you’ve ever wanted

Well, not everything.

DAISY: Will you be there?

CLARK: Are you asking me to be your maid of honour?

DAISY: Clark

CLARK: I’ll always be there Daisy

You seemed to be typing for a long time, then. He could picture you, in the warmth of the fairylights in your bedroom, or the flickering of vanilla candles, typing out belligerence, needling snarls, cursing out his name, until you finally reached on something far more scathing and perfunctory.

DAISY: That’s not what I mean and you know it

DAISY: But okay

DAISY: I’ll talk to him in the morning

Clark hated himself. 

CLARK: I’m so happy for you Daisy.

You didn’t reply for the rest of the night.

And you were at my wedding, I was broken, you were drunk... / You could've told me not to do it, I would've run, I would've run.

20th of May, 2025

“—Here, son…C’mon…” 

Agony lanced right through him as Clark felt his father lift his legs onto the bed, Lois’s hand gingerly coaxing him to lie flat as Martha grasped frantically at his fingers. It felt like a thousand little, white-hot knives were pricking at his flesh, trying to reach bone. He was distinctly aware of his childhood room around him—the photograph of you crowned by a wreath of daisy-chains in the field angled just right on his nightstand, so close to his mother’s fussing elbow that it worried him, even through the stabbing pain, coursing through his poisoned, black-dyed veins.

“Hi, Ma,” he groaned, bellyaching in a childlike hurt as Martha cradled the nape of his neck lovingly. “Ma,” Clark croaked wretchedly, “they sent me here to rule over everyone…They sent me here to kill people…”

A single tear slipped out the corner of his ear, stinging and corrosive against his infected skin.

“Clark,” his mom protested, “that’s not…that ain’t…”

He shivered feverishly, feeling as though every drop of blood had been drained from him, as though his entire body was hollowed and raw. Black dots started to blur his vision, the morose faces of his beloved parents eventually melting into amorphous masses.

“Daisy,” panted Clark restlessly, craning his neck from side to side blindly, as if he might find her in this sea of black. “Daisy, Ma. I need—” 

“Oh, Clark,” Martha wept. 

It was a wretched and unthinkable thing for a mother to see her son like this.

Lois, stood in the doorway, fumbled uselessly with something to say or do to make any of this better. It was then when her eyes caught that brass photo-frame, that familiar face of you—her co-worker, but years younger, and fathoms brighter than the last time she saw you, ranting splenetically about wedding expenses and the uselessness of the guy you were seeing. You looked softer, there, lighter. A halo of daisies on your forehead as sunlight enveloped you in some kind of ethereal, golden warmth—or, that could’ve been the boy behind the camera. Lois always did think you looked happier when you were with Clark.

“I’m gonna…” Lois blinked, gesturing lousily, “I need to just—I’m going to make a call.” 

And she scarpered out of the room, prying her phone out of her jeans’ pocket. It was you she called. Because, who else?

You picked up on the third dial, voice rasped and exhausted. “Hey, Lois. Is this about Clark handing himself over, because I saw. And, honestly, I can’t even speak about it without spitting—”

“He’s asking for you,” she interjected quickly, talking over your rant. You went quiet, stunned. Lois blundered on, “Clark, he’s—he’s seriously hurt, and…and he asked for you. Well, he asked for Daisy, but I’ve worked with you both long enough to know what that means. He’s asking for you.”

Still, you said nothing. Lois’s teeth worried at the torn flesh of her bottom lip. She could hear, through the crackling, bad signal of the Kent farm, a disgruntled murmuring on the other end of the line. Lois could only presume that this was your fiancé, and that Ben, who she knew little about at all, wasn’t very happy about being rudely awoken by your ringtone. 

“Hello?” Lois uttered your name, desperate. “I’m really sorry to wake you up,” she said, unapologetically, “I know it’s late, and I know things aren’t the best between you and Clark right now—”

“Is he home?” you asked.

Lois’s breath hitched. “He’s in Smallville. We’re in Smallville.”

You made a musing hum, as if that’s what you had already meant by ‘home,’ and it startled Lois all over again to think about the tangible, terrible landscape of memory that you and Clark shared.

“I get that you’re going to have to book a flight, and that’s so much hassle,” she stressed, “but, I thought you’d want to know, so you could—”

“No, no,” you rushed out, and Lois could hear rustling, and the sound of a stubborn zip, and more disparagement from Ben, “I’m glad you called, Lois. Really. Thank you. You’re a good friend. I’ll, erm—I’ll be on the first flight out. Yeah?” 

“O-Oh!” Lois stammered, surprised. “Oh, you’re—okay! Yeah! Erm, well, I don’t know if I’ll still be here. There’s actually some stuff that I need to—you know what? Never mind that. He’ll be here. Big guy’s not going anywhere right now,” she added, grimacing. “He’s pretty beat. But…he’ll be real glad to see you when he wakes up, Daisy.” 

A soft exhale of breath travelled through the line, followed by the gentle closing of your apartment door. “Yeah,” you didn’t sound very convinced at all, but still inexplicably soft, “thanks again, Lois. Seriously. I’m so grateful to have you—that…that Clark has you.” 

Lois blinked, alarmed. You didn’t think that she and Clark were together, did you? “Oh. Clark and I, we’re not—”

“See you!” 

And the line went dead.

____________________

You were so sure that you’d never recover from this kind of devotion.

The love you had for Clark—it wasn’t the kind of thing you could pray away with a wounded pride, or have Ben kiss away until it was rendered. It immolated you, blotted you out, made you a shell of yourself. Receiving that call from Lois had your heart lodged in your throat, a splattering of viscera smearing the ivory of your ribs with innards and terror.

Now, you were back here. Back home. The air smelt of ozone, livestock silage, and something distinctly Clark—that cedar, sandalwood warmth, tinged with a faint lingering of his blood. You were half-slumped on a humble, wooden chair at his bedside, not quite near enough to reach out to touch him. And Clark, well, he may as well have been dead with how still he was lying, chest barely rising and falling against the weight of Kara’s loyal, tail-wagging dog perched under his chin. Sunlight imbued his tartan curtains; it wouldn’t be long until he woke up, and saw you. Anxiety clawed at the dry length of your throat, and you were very swiftly regretting the decision to decline Martha’s offer of a hot cocoa upon entering the farmhouse an hour or so ago.

There hadn’t been any debate or hesitation after Lois told you that Clark was hurt and asking for you. It didn’t matter that the two of you weren’t the same nowadays, that there was a cavernous ache in between you that not even overfamiliarity could nurture. It definitely didn’t matter that Ben wanted to go wine-tasting this afternoon—you couldn’t think of anything worse than swilling decanted wine around your mouth as your proxy sommelier of a fiancé oohed and aahed pretentiously over the different types of grape. This was Clark. And even the ring glittering on your finger, obscene and way too gaudy for your taste, didn’t beat that. You were starting to think nothing ever really would.

“Daisy…” 

It was whisper-soft, a parable on his tongue, and you genuinely were starting to worry that the reason why Clark was always so reluctant to let anything happen with you was because he had fashioned some kind of infallibility out of you, some religion.

The brittle legs of your chair scraped softly against his floorboards, a half-instinctive movement toward him that you would later blame on muscle memory, until you stopped yourself. Fell short. The space was better. 

“I’m here,” you said carefully.

Clark stirred, the sheets rustling leaf-like underneath him. Even so weak, he was gorgeous. Shamefully, you’d even argue he was more so. It killed your heart to seem so fragile, but his dishevelled curls, almost onyx, were haloing his pretty, devastated face in a way that reminded you of how closer to God he was than man. His eyes, periwinkle and frantic to find sunlight—or you (if there was much difference)—were swollen and glassy, fluttering as they found you. The worried crinkles softened out, all of him seemed to soften, in fact; melting into the mattress, easing as if his bones were turned to liquid. His lips trembled around the sweetest of smiles.

“You…” he groaned, struggling to move, to talk, to even breathe, “you came.”

A frog in your throat, all you mustered for him was a nod, staring at the wall, trying to ignore the photograph of you preserved on his nightstand. In your periphery, his hand was twitching feebly against the comforter, fingers curling like he was trying to reach for you, half-expecting your hand to be there already, waiting. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your hands stayed protectively in your lap.

Clark’s voice cracked, raw and bending under the weight of twenty years of this: “I thought you wouldn’t.”

That hurt.

“Don’t,” you said firmly, still tender, but not leaving room for him any longer. Your engagement ring pressed painfully into your skin, biting like tiny, diamond teeth. His hand tried to move again, to reach the impossible. “Clark, stop. Save your strength.”

He laughed—or attempted one, at least, thought it left him like a sob being pried from the depths of him. “Strength.” He closed his pretty eyes against the shame of it. “I’ve got none left, Daisy. Not without you. I mean—have you caught the news recently?” 

“And that’s my fault, is it?” you asked, almost scoffing. “I didn’t believe a word of it, Clark, if that’s what you’re talking about. Well. It could be true, about your birth parents. But not about you.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I lost. I failed.”

You tried to harden your resolve against the brokenness of his voice and the single tear on his cheekbone. You sunk your canines into your tongue against the weaker parts of you that begged to hold his hand or kiss his temple. To be kind when you must be resilient. It wasn’t your softness he needed now, anyway. Not in this state. He needed some brutish, old-fashioned honesty.

“You didn’t fail anybody, Clark,” you said steadily.

Clark’s bottom lip trembled. “I failed you.”

“How—” Your heart ached, “Clark, what do you—”

“I let you go.” It was if someone stole the words from him; snatched, so unforgivingly, so brutally. They fell between the two of you like viscera or entrails—some other gore. “I stood there, and I let you slip away, and I told myself it was right, it was fair, that I was protecting you—but, golly, Daisy—” Clark’s body shook with the enormity of his honesty, “every day, I think I’m dying without you.” 

The room held a breath, a twin pair of grape-lungs, purpling against the strain. Just the hum of grasshoppers outside of his window, and the faint pant of the slumbering dog on his sternum. It would’ve been peaceful, under any other circumstances. Now, it taunted you.

“Clark, don’t—” 

“Don’t what?” His eyes finally opened again. They were hazy with fever and want, but fixed on you so intensely with a devotion that he would surely never recover from, either. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For me to be honest with you.” 

Your eye twitched furiously. “It’s ten years too late, Clark!” 

“I know,” he admitted, guilt-wracked. “I know, and m’sorry, Daisy, but I can’t—you don’t understand—”

“I don’t understand?” you sneered in disbelief.

“Please,” Clark whimpered. “Don’t be angry with me.”

He had taken plenty of blows so far this week—he even stomached Kryptonite poisoning. Somehow, the malice in your eyes hurt the worst.

 “Fuck you, Clark,” you said then. Clark flinched pitifully. He hated swearing—it was a childlike, Midwestern thing of his. Charming, usually. It only angered you more. “You don’t get to say this now. You’ve got no right. I’m engaged. You told me to marry him. Remember? I gave you so many chances to…to do something, Clark! To say anything!”  

“Please. Stop. Daisy, just—”

“I’m getting married,” you said again scathingly. “It’s not fair to tell me this. You’re supposed to be my best friend. To want what’s best for me. And now you want me to marry him, knowing that you—” A sob strangled you, treacherously, and a filthy tear rolled hot down your cheek. You scrubbed it away as if it wronged you with the knots of your knuckles, the gold of your ring scratching the blotchy skin. “You’re selfish.”

Clark crumpled. “I know. I know I am. But, I do want what’s best for you, Daisy—”

“Stop.” 

“And you are my best friend. In the whole world. That’s why—”

“Stop it.”

“You deserve better than him. You deserve better than me, too. Golly, I know it. But, you can’t—”

“God, Clark—”

“Don’t marry him.” 

There it was.

You stared at him, ravaged. He stared back, undone.

“That’s…” your fists clenched in your lap, “...Clark, you’ve hurt me a lot over the years. Without ever meaning to. But, this—”

“Don’t marry him,” he said again, begging. “Don’t marry him, Daisy.”

Hastily, you got to your feet before the weakness in your knees could betray you, too. His eyes followed you helplessly, aching, and he tried to move, but Krypton’s paws pressed tighter into his chest, his body failing him.

“Daisy,” Clark pleaded hoarsely, “where are you…” His gaze tracked your heated movements towards his door, the frantic grasping of your bag, panicking, “don’t go. Please, don’t go.”

“I hope you get everything you want, Clark. And I hope I never hear a word of it.”

I thought you were gonna catch me... / I never stopped falling for you.

4th of July, 2025.

If handing out wedding invitations for a wedding you never imagined was excruciating, the apologetic letters explaining to relatives and high school friends that the ceremony wouldn’t be happening was a torture method. 

Honestly, it was preordained—a self-fulfilling prophecy that you and Clark had got yourselves marked by that day on the ferris wheel when you were sixteen, to tangle you up in this cycle of punishment and humiliation. You would always be hung up on him, he would always be alone, and that’s the price you had to pay for the people you had wronged on the destructive, toxic path you had tread in your inability to let go and his martyr complex. Maybe, you thought bitterly, you deserved this.

He may have been boring, and pretentious, and he probably didn’t even love you as he should’ve, but you genuinely hoped that Ben would find a woman who could enjoy the cantankerous things he also enjoyed.

You were in the middle of penning the sixteenth letter that evening—ink blotching some pathetic excuse about we just didn’t want the same things for an old friend of your mother’s, who would probably laugh dementedly over the whole ordeal—when you heard the faint tapping of knuckles against your living room window. And, of course, it couldn’t be anyone but Clark. His feet didn’t touch the floor, hovering just above the iron-grate of the fire escape, as if he was half-expecting to be turned away. In this fragile assumption, he had tucked his chin shallowly towards his chin, as if it pained him to face the inevitability of your rejection.

He was still wearing his work uniform, you realised, as your eyes raked over the godlike boy outside the glass. The night sky was smeared lilac behind him, and for the first time in a long time, not a single scratch marred him. Your body yearned for him in a way that your mind screamed for you to ignore.

You stayed knelt as you opened the latch, staying at some altar of longing and shame as he lingered just outside of the familiarity of your home that he hadn’t felt in so long—the flickering of candles, the needle-scratch of your record player over a Marvin Gaye vinyl, the leather sofa he helped you shoulder up the stairs the day you moved in. Clark waited, breathing it all in, but kept his eyes on you the whole time—you, on your knees; you, blinking up at him fawnlike and expectant; you, his. Still. Even now.

His feet settled on the windowsill as soft as snowdrift. “Hi, Daisy.”

“What do you want?” you asked gravelly.

“That’s…” Clark exhaled breathily, a boyish laugh warming through his chest, “that’s a loaded question.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, then glanced sparingly at the apology letters on your coffee table, and back to your best friend. “Well,” you said dryly, “I’ve got the time.” 

Grimacing, Clark looked at you in love and agony, and crouched to ease himself inside your life again. You thought he might remain standing, that he might appreciate the imbalance you inadvertently granted him through the feebleness of your knees, but you should’ve known better. Should’ve known Clark better, that if you were knelt in front of him like this—so unravelled and distraught and more his than you had been in years—then, he was going to match you. He sank to one knee first, and the sight made the sinews of your heart tug, and then the second. He still towered you, but it was never intimidating. His hands even stayed patiently in his lap, because this was Clark, and he loved you, and he respected you, and you’d always known.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, and, gosh, I’m an idiot for letting it. I’m a coward. I was too weak to tell you, too weak to let you go, and I don’t feel very super or manly at all.”

You blinked at him, processing the words you had been waiting for since you were a girl. You thought, after all this time, they might underwhelm you. It didn’t. It pressed against you like everything. Your spine ached like a rosary and, maybe, you made a religion out of each other, after all. 

“And?” you pressed, wetting your lips.

Clark’s hands twitched, waiting on his knees. He looked pretty, like this, you decided unabashedly.

“And,” he said, almost smiling, “and, I love you, Daisy. You’re my favourite girl. Always my—” he went quiet then, staring at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that made your lungs throb, “can I kiss you? Please,” he added sweetly.

“Can you…?” You felt yourself short-circuit. Did he really just ask that?

Clark smiled nervously. “Can I kiss you, Daisy? We can talk after. I just, well, I’m so glad to see that ring gone. And you’re so pretty. And I love you. I love you, I love you, I—”

You threw yourself at him. 

A part of you thought, blasphemously, that you always would. 

You threw yourself at Clark, and he caught you, and you genuinely reckoned that you would never stop falling for this boy—but, at least he would always catch you.

Your sternums touched, your hands grasped at the curls on the nape of his neck, and Clark kissed you as if he wanted it to bruise. It didn’t particularly hit you until now how much it must’ve killed him to see that ugly monstrosity of a ring on your finger—especially when he’d known exactly the kind of ring you wanted ever since you were fifteen and browsing the pawn shops in downtown Smallville. Not until now, at least, with Clark’s mouth hot and heavy against yours like he was trying so desperately to kiss any memory of any other man out of you.

You were sure his teeth grazed your bottom lip in the middle of it all, and it was a surprisingly nice sting that you hadn’t expected from him. Granted, the last time you kissed, it was both of your firsts—too much saliva, and teeth, and tongue—but now, there was just the right amount of everything, and you wanted to sew yourself to him like this. You wanted to kiss him forever, even against the merciless ache in your lungs. His hands, finally, had the bravery to move, and you prayed he’d never be a coward again, and always touch you like this—like you belonged to each other, like your limbs were one. His palms grasped at the meat of your hips, slipping under the flimsy cotton of your oversized sleep-shirt to touch bare skin, and he moaned shamelessly into your mouth—as if this was what he needed, this was what he was looking for: your skin.

“Clark,” you breathed, trembling. His mouth took the opportunity of yours being busy murmuring his name to trace an unmapped path along your jawbone, hands smoothing against the small of your back now. “Clark…”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” His teeth grazed a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shivered against him, gently pulling at the curls on his neck. You felt his lips smile against your bared throat, and you didn’t expect this from Clark—not one bit. “What is it, Daisy? Hmm…?” he pressed an open-mouthed, heated kiss to the crook of your shoulder, suckling an imperceptible lovebite to the strained tendons there, “Talk to me.” 

“I…I can’t focus when you’re…Clark…” One of his hands was at the fish-eye hooks of your bra, teasing, “Shit, you’re—”

“Language,” Clark reprimanded sweetly, letting go of the bra-strap as if he was punishing you for swearing. You pressed your knees closer together as something throbbed between your folded legs. 

You sighed shakily as his mouth returned to the corner of yours, pecking you so intimately that you almost cursed again. “Clark, I thought you said we would talk.”

“You can talk,” he retorted, kissing your lips again, short and sweet, “I’m listening, Daisy. I always listen to you. Don’t I?” He asked it so innocently, it was disarming—and so crude against the contrast of his fingers toying with the waistband of your gauzy sleep-shorts. Clark laughed then, not unkindly, looking at you all dimpled and wonderful through mirror-bright eyes. When his thumb stroked over your hipbone, something whimper-like rolled off your tongue, and his grin punctured an even deeper dimple into his ruddy cheek. “You know, sweetheart, I think it’s you who isn’t listening to me.”

“Now you’re just being mean,” you protested weakly, pulling his hair in halfhearted protest.

“I could never be mean to you,” denied Clark, both palms flush against your back again. 

And, before you could process it, he was lowering you onto the rug beneath you as his knees gently nudged yours apart to make room for yourself between your thighs. And, of course, you accommodated—lost in yourself, and your thoughts, hands tumbling from his neck to his strong arms, to his elbows, to his wrists that your fingers couldn’t even wrap half of themselves around. Clark leaned down over you, eyes so adoring as he admired you like this—committing the sight to memory, you on your back, knees kissing at his waist, throat bared to him, chest heaving salaciously. Then, juxtaposing the downright wanton thoughts intermingling in both of your minds, he chiselled away the narrow space between you to kiss you so tenderly that you almost felt bad for the wetness between your legs.

“I love you, Daisy.”

Your heart ached with it, hands clumsily fumbling until they were on his biceps again. You felt the muscles flex under your touch. His pupils were blown so wide, it made you feel feverish. It was as if twin black moons were staring back at you, fraying at the edges with the blue sutures of his irises.

“I love you too, Clark,” you murmured, nudging your nose lovingly against his. “Always loved you,” you said, saccharine. “Always gonna, if you let me.”

His fingers splayed out on your bare thighs, shorts hiked up impossibly. The sensation of his skin on yours was incomparable.

“Let you? Let you, baby?” Clark, baffled, had to kiss you again. So, he did. Over, and over, and—shit, was his hand on the waistband of your shorts again? “I’m never letting you go again. Never,” he swore against your mouth.

“Promise me?” you begged, feeling pathetic, and girlish, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t have this and never have him again. It would be a cruelty that you couldn’t stomach.

Clark was wrecked. He kept one hand just on the hem of your useless shorts and brought the other to your flustered face, cradling your jaw, smoothing his thumb over your cheekbone, before placing it reverently to your bottom lip. It took every little bit of your self-control not to let it slip into your mouth.

“I promise you, Daisy. I promise. Love you, baby,” he said, voice husky, rasped, meaningful to the marrow as his thumb ghosted over your lip. “I love you so much.”

The invisible string in your chest tightened ruthlessly, in the prettiest of ways. You nuzzled into his palm, mourning the weight of his thumb, but compensating it with a featherlight kiss to the inside of his hand.

“I love you.”

Clark only responded with a sound that could be described as half-sob, half-prayer. Whatever it was, you loved it, and you grabbed his face with both of your greedy hands, bringing him down into another kiss—just as hard, and desperate, and filthy as before. The hand he kept on your shorts finally tugged, tentative but determined, and the cotton slipped just enough for the cool air trickling through the still ajar window to lick at your bare skin.

You shuddered, pressing your forehead devoutly to his, clinging to his shoulders. It suddenly dawned on you how much clothes he was wearing, and how little you were. The blazer of his Daily Planet attire felt wrinkled and distressed under your frantic hands, whilst you were in a cheap pair of pyjamas.

“Clark…” 

“Sweetheart,” he soothed lovingly, an ache to his voice that crept through the softness, “I’ll stop if you tell me to. I swear. But, golly—Daisy, please don’t tell me to.” Clark’s curls brushed your cheek, unruly and dark and smelling strongly of green apples, as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. He breathed you in—you felt nothing short of sacred. “You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed about this. Of you. And now I’ve got you, and you’re mine—you are mine, right—?”

You felt dizzy. “I’m yours, Clark.”

“—and I need to show you, baby,” he carried on, as if he never doubted it, as if this was always supposed to happen.

And how could you deny a boy so earnest and yours? 

“Show me then, Clark.” 

Clark stiffened, as if he hadn’t expected it, in spite of all his kisses and touches, and his maddest of hopes, and filthiest of dreams. He pulled back to look at you, blown eyes and kiss-swollen lips.

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes. You beautiful, idiot boy.” You smiled at him, and hoped it was more dazzling than desperate, but you’d take anything. “Please, Clark. I want you to.”

He groaned brokenly, and then he was moving—kissing you as he went; your jaw, the flushed bit of your skin exposed by the askew nature of your tee, lifting the hem of it to kiss at your stomach, and you had never felt holier. His hands parted your thighs reverently, and when he glanced up at you from between them—eyes dark, cheeks rosy, mouth spit-slick and parted in some kind of stunned adoration—you thought that he might actually slaughter you. 

“Daisy,” Clark whispered, mouthing just above the waistband of your shots, his big hands bear-like and needy at your thighs. “You’re so pretty. The prettiest girl. My favourite girl, hm?”

You didn’t know if he was expecting a response to that, but you couldn’t manage one. He didn’t wait for one, either, not as he hooked his fingers into your shorts and slipped them off you as if they, or you, or both, were precious. You shivered at the contrast of sensations—the breezy draught from the window, the hot breath from Clark’s wanting mouth—against the gossamer lace of your panties. Suddenly self-conscious, you tried to close your legs, almost wrecking Clark.

“Hey…hey,” he said softly, hoarsely, his fingertips pressing into your thighs as he kept them open. “What’s that for, hm? C’mon, Daisy,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss at the ratty bow at the top of your underwear, almost making you spasm at the tenderness, “don’t hide from me.”

His hot mouth lingered over the lace covering your heat for a heartbeat, and then moved lower, pressing a worshipful kiss to your inner thigh as if it were scripture. He kept your legs steady and open, memorising everything your skin had to offer—the faint lines of your stretch-marks, the dimpling of cellulite, the living warmth. You loved him. He was mouthing at your thigh, wet and wanting, and you needed him more than anything.

You’d give up air, you thought ferally.

“Clark,” you pleaded, fingers tangling in his curls again.

“Mine,” Clark muttered, sucking a mark against your thigh, “all mine. Us, Daisy. Yeah? You’re mine.” It kind of left him like slurring nonsense. You would’ve thought he was drunk if you didn’t know that it was an impossibility for him. 

The desire in your stomach was grotesque, and you couldn’t control the abrupt, needy bucking of your hips, desperate for more. Clark didn’t seem to mind this, though. If anything, it spurred him on more. He briefly pecked the mark already blooming on your thigh and then let his eyes drag up to yours, pious and worked-up.

“Can I taste you?”

And fuck. Who were you to deny that? 

“Yes,” you begged, “please, Clark.” 

He’d do anything for you, always had, always would—so he granted your plea. First, with the most ridiculously tender kiss to the lace just above your pulsing clit. You practically mewled, almost kicking your legs out, wrenching at the roots of his hair. All he did was kiss it, and it was almost imperceptible in its faintness, but God, he felt everywhere. Next, he licked his tongue flat and salacious against the damp patch on your underwear, and you were sobbing his name. 

The material dampened further, from you, from him—the most sinful of benedictions, and you were falling in love with him all over again. 

“Clark, please,” you gasped wretchedly. “Don’t stop, please, don’t—”

His tongue traced the heat of you through soaked lace, pressing, licking, tasting, coaxing each arch of your spine and shaky slip of his name with a masterfulness that was making your head spin. The idea of him doing this to any other girl before you made your stomach knot, even through all the desire and ache. It made you feel greedy and ridiculous, but then he was hooking his fingers into the waistband of the panties, and you forgot about everything else but Clark.

“M’pretty girl,” he told you as he gently, ceremoniously, started to peel off your ruined underwear. He treated every next bit of exposed skin as a new blessing. Your hips thrashed again, but Clark caught you firmly, kissing right below your navel before sitting back onto his haunches. “M’Daisy.” 

All lovelorn and careful ministrations, he tugged the fabric down over your knees and let it dangle from one of your ankles. Incidentally, the very same limb your anklet was glittering on. Clark must’ve noticed this, too, because he was slowly lifting your leg and draping it over your shoulder, craning his neck to the side to kiss adoringly at the jewellery. He seemed to peck every last one of the daisy charms as if they were scintillating, silver extensions of you.

“I love you,” he said again. 

God, you’d never get sick of hearing that.

“Love you, too,” you punched out breathlessly, arms useless at your sides, “even if you’re totally blue-balling me right now.”

A laugh startled through him, fingers toying with that precious anklet. It haunted you that he was still in a two-piece suit and you were in nothing but a t-shirt.

“Blue-balling you?” Clark echoed, almost smug. “Well, I can’t do that to my girl, can I? What kind of cruel, horrible man would that make me…?”

“A really…” you swayed, trying to hit up, resting your weight back on your elbows, and watching through heavy-lidded, lascivious eyes as Clark hooked your other leg over his spare shoulder, and narrowed in ever closer to where you needed him, “...really evil one…”

“Evil, huh?” His breath tickled your heat, making your legs shift jerkily over his shoulders. “I saved this city not too long ago, ma’am, didn’t you hear?” Two of his fingers were now tracing the wetness just around your clit, and you bit hard on your lip to keep in a string of obscenities, afraid of him edging you for bad language, or something equally Clark. “I’m somewhat of a hotshot ‘round here, actually.”

You were panting now, losing your mind. “God, even like this, you never shut up.” It was still said fondly. 

“Never,” he admitted breathlessly, kissing your hip. “Not with you, Daisy.”

He removed his fingers then, and maintained the most intimate moment of eye-contact you think you would ever experience as he slipped them in his mouth. Your jaw swung open almost comically, blinking so fast it was as if you were trying to convince that this was actually happening, that Clark Kent was actually tasting you on his fingers. You even tried squeezing your eyes shut for as long as five seconds, and then cursed yourself for wasting even a breath of this—because, sure as day, he was still there, humming around the digits, throaty and appreciative, as if yellow sunlight was on his tongue.

Unbelievably turned on, you bucked up into him again, whimpering his name. You thought you might genuinely start bursting into hysterics if he didn’t do something, fast.

“You taste so good, sweetheart,” Clark praised sweetly, mouth dewy. “Look so pretty. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.” 

And then, his mouth was on you. Properly. And you let out the most pornographic, indecent moan that anyone—even yourself—had ever wrangled from you. Your elbows slumped, slipping against the rug, and you splayed back out on the floor, head thrown back.

Clark’s hands stayed on your thighs as his mouth devoured you like he was a starving man. It was feral, and primal, and obscenely dirty. Each stroke of his tongue, each teasing flick of your clit, made you sob, arching into him wantonly. His eyes looked torn on what to settle on—his handiwork between your thighs, the aching, fluttering of your entrance, or your eyes. You were pretty sure he was moaning into your heat, but you could barely hear anything over your own. 

“Oh, God, Clark—please, please…” You didn’t even know what you were begging for, fingers in his hair again. How did you ever think you would marry anyone but him? “Don’t stop, don’t stop, please—baby…” 

Clark groaned in agony at that, sucking harder at your clit. The vibration of it made you swear, and you swore his teeth grazed at your pearl the slightest bit in reproach. No other punishment, though. He was too lost in you.

“So pretty,” he murmured against you, still kissing, sucking, lapping, “taste so good. My favourite girl…”

“Clark, Clark, Clark.” It was a chant, now. You grinded closer to his face, feeling the slight crookedness of his nose bump against your clit as he moved down to lap his tongue even lower. “Baby, you’re—” The words got trapped in you when he, without any warning at all, sunk his index and middle finger into you, curling with some kind of extraordinary second-nature right at your sweet-spot. And, seriously, how were you ever with anyone before him? How foolish were you to not wait, when it was Clark all along? 

You careened upwards, panting, sobbing his name.

“You’re—oh…”

“That’s it, Daisy,” coaxed Clark lovingly, his mouth still on you, his fingers stimulating so effortlessly at a part of you that felt so deep, and so intense, and so good, it now belonged to him. It most likely made biologically no sense whatsoever, but the sensation felt so sublimely him that you would forever associate this kind of pleasure with Clark. He kept praising you and complimenting you and telling you how much he loved you—overwhelming you so much with sweet words and blinding ecstasy that you hadn’t even realised that he was rutting his clothed bulge against the rug underneath the two of you. “I got you, sweetheart. I got you.” 

Clark’s fingers massaged at that swelling pleasure inside of you, nursing it reverently, but his mouth kept tasting you, kissing your clit, sucking it to get a sob out of you, rewarding the needy sounds with ensuing, tender licks. It was too much. It was too good. It was too Clark. He was everywhere. The hand that wasn’t working to fit a third finger into you was now pressing his forearm into your middle, and you could only assume, through all your mindlessness, that he was getting slightly upset with all your thrashing and riled-up jerks.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Clark even sounded otherworldly. All ragged and passionate, your best friend, nestled between your thighs like he belonged there. He met your eyes again, so dark with lust, you almost forget they were ever blue at all. His mouth left your heat for the briefest of moments, slick with your arousal and his own saliva. “You’re almost there, aren’t you, sweetheart? Hm?”

“Clark,” you wept unintelligently. 

“Awh, yeah. You are. It’s okay, Daisy,” he praised, putting his mouth on you again, curling his fingers—that third one easing in with little difficulty at all. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go. I’ve got you. Always got you, angel.” 

And just like that, you’re falling for Clark Kent all over again, and he was catching you. Working you through the orgasm with the gentlest of kisses and the sweetest of nothings. A blinding, unrelenting worship of his fingers and lips, and you swear you hear him groan against you again, panting as if he just finished himself. But, he didn’t let you go. Not once. How could he? 

Your body trembled with the aftershocks of it all, and Clark’s lips lingered, kissing every quivering inch of goosebumped skin he could rich. His fingers left you so carefully as he nuzzled into the hollow of your hip.

“My Daisy,” he said again, guttural.

Wrecked, you clung to him, hands grasping for anything you could get purchase on. You didn’t have the strength for it, but Clark seemed to tell what you wanted—because, after all these years, he could still read you so effortlessly. He crawled up the length of your spent body, palms roaming as he went, pressing against your ribs, sliding up your sides under the sweat-drenched cotton of your sleep-shirt, holding you like you were the most fragile, sacred thing in the world.

It was like, to him, cradling sunlight, as he pressed his head to your chest, and your hand kept him there, threading in his lovely curls. You might not have been able to pull him up to you, but you definitely managed the adoring kiss you swept against his forehead. And, thank God, you did—because that expression he gave you afterwards, that lovesick, impossibly delicate look of his, made everything worth it. The strewn letters on the coffee table, and the ring you returned to Ben last month, and all the heartache. 

Clark, lolling his chin against the swell of your chest, kiss-swollen mouth glistening with you, the blue returning to his eyes, but not a morsel of adoration leaving. He was worth it.

“Please stay,” you asked of him fragilely.

“M’not going anywhere, Daisy,” he promised you. Delicately, Clark rolled the two of you so were on your sides, tangled up in each other. He was muttering something about the both of you needing a shower, but the feeling of his index finger tracing your spine was too distracting to care about responsible things like washing yourselves or getting him out of his ruined work clothes. “I love you,” he said again, assuming correctly that you were too out of it to listen to anything else.

You hummed contently, letting your body melt into his. “I love you, too. Always loved you."

You didn’t think you’d ever truly stop falling for Clark Kent. Now, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

[itisjustwhatitis]

laswell told you all about ghost, but she didn't say he was your walking wet dream. (18+)

you're wide-eyed as you stare at him from across the conference room table. he looks positively bored—eyes half-lidded, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his wide chest. you try not to glance t him too often from over your laptop, but it's hard when all you see in front of you is giant, big man with thighs that thick and a head that nearly grazes the top of the doorway.

he's supposed to be your guard out in the field. it's untested tech and needs field tests, real ones, and even though you're nowhere near real conflict, it still unnerves you, the thought that you need an escort this deadly to try out your new little contraptions.

you'd do anything for the job, though, even something that feels this stupid. you'd never want to disappoint laswell; and if your company is giant, awkward brutes that look good enough to eat, you think you might be volunteering for these field tests more often.

"i-i was wondering..." you clear your throat as you push your safety glasses up your nose. ghost is watching out the window, eyes focused on the test rover you have, remote-operated as you try to guide it into position. "i-i...was...i was just curious if you were..."

"spit it out, love."

"if y-you were...just...single." you laugh, shaking your head. "stupid...stupid question, i..." you bite your lip. "course you're not single..."

ghost's eye twitches at the thought. you assumed he was taken? awkward, quiet, blunt, anti-social ghost—you thought he had someone tucked away in his bed, warming his flat? if he showed you the mattress he kept on the floor and the spare chair that he used as a bedside table, he know you'd think differently.

ghost's chest puffs a little at the thought. swells just like his cock does with ego and confidence—there's a pretty girl that wants him in her mouth and in all her little holes, and if the way he strapped her too-big tactical vest says anything about her, it's that she's got great tits and a wet pussy.

you're interrupted by a soft, flashing alarm on your tablet in your hands. you gasp, shuffling towards the window, giggling with delight when you notice your device is working. laswell is going to be so excited! you bend over, leaning against the windowsill, not even realizing that the big bear you just propositioned yourself to now has a nice view of what you look like bent over. he squeezes his hands into fists as he watches. it'd take no effort at all to fit his gloved hands into your pants and shove them just enough to have you.

ghost brings you back without so much as a scratch, just as he promised laswell. you're bouncing on your toes, passing the tablet over to her, giggling and gasping and pointing to the raw data that you can show on the screen. laswell is smirking the entire time, looking over your shoulder. she's barely paying any attention to you and focusing on the way that ghost hasn't left the room yet, heavy gaze still focused on your ass as his hand twitches at his side.

trigger-happy, biting against the fleeting patience in him.

"i've got a call," laswell interrupts, standing. she puts her hands on your arms, squeezing, and your mouth closes as you stop talking, embarrassed. she smiles, patting your shoulder. "good girl, you are. why don't you debrief ghost, and he'll write it up and get back to me, huh?"

"oh—" you clutch the tablet to your chest. "o-oh yeah. of course. sorry."

"no need to be sorry," kate shrugs, gathering up her things and going to the door. "hasn't done a thing wrong, has she, lieutenant?"

no, ghost thinks. she's such a good girl.

that's why you take his fingers so nicely. jaw slack, wet eyes blinking up at him, lashes flutter as you suck soft on three scarred fingers like the sweet thing you really are. he asked you to keep your hands down, and you squeeze the sides of the chair you sit in tight with them, willing yourself not to move as you glug and suck on the sour, heavy taste of his skin. he pets your tongue, blunt fingernails grazing along the back of your mouth, and he grumbles with satisfaction when he feels your spit glob and drip down your chin.

such a wet girl, you are, everywhere it seems.

you're such a good girl laid out on the desk, too. knee bent around his hip, the other thigh as far back as you can get it so he can lean over you and fuck you with the same three fingers he just had in your mouth. he's gentle with it though, soft, calloused thumb on your clit as he brings his fingers back in such a wavy, warm motion, and your toes are curling, and you're bouncing underneath him trying to keep the rhythm steady. it's soooooooo cute seeing you this way—babbling brook of a girl, reduced to nothing but whines which his hand just past your knickers. adorable little cunt, despite the size of your thighs and the soft of your middle, you're squeezing so tight, sucking him in, and he already knows it's gonna feel too good to pull out when he's got himself cock-deep.

"s-so...so you are single?"

truth be told, even if he wasn't, he'd give it all up to have this pretty pussy, he knows that much.

he chuckles, all low and warm, and you reach up to clutch at the back of his neck, pulling him down towards you. you stare right into those dark eyes, all sad and pathetic and sweet, and you cup those cheeks over the mask.

he doesn't answer. he just tilts his head to the side, and you reach for the zipper of his cargoes.

he makes you feel like prey. like you are nothing but something he caught to serve up and eat, but you can't help but feel like you're a willing participant. you know what it is he wants, it's in those eyes, and you hope it comes. a bitter end, he's salivating for it, and you want it because you know it'll feel good, even if it kills you.

it hurts. he's big all over, but you expected as much. he's easing into you, cooing at you like you're a mare he has to tame, muttering between curses, "easy, easy," as if taking his cock isn't a fucking olympic sport, and you're going for gold.

you thought he might be too insecure to fuck you somewhere like this. where anyone could walk in and see him, but the more you take his cock, the more you realize ghost would rather be caught with his pants down than with his face uncovered, and he's pressing your thighs wider apart so he can hook his arms under your knees and fuck you hard enough to make you wail. your back arches, arms flailing until you can grab onto his forearms and dig your nails into him, and ghost leans his head back when your cunt squeezes him, getting wetter with every movement and slicking him up so much, he's having a hard time keeping steady. you like this. you like him this way, nasty and mean and taking what he wants, and he needs to feel you come so your cunt never forgets the shape of him.

your eyes roll back into your head when he hits it deep, angling your hips up with a grunt. he nearly pulls out of you so he can soak the front of his mask with your pussy, but he tells himself the most important thing is making you come around his cock, and he needs to focus, not get distracted by a sweet treat.

fuck, he fails. he pulls out, using the inside of your thigh to nudge his mask up just a little, and there are tears coming down your face when he hikes you up even more, just your shoulders touching the table, as he licks through your folds before sucking on your clit. he has to nose between your pubic hair a little before he finds it, laughing with delight when your hand falls and bangs against the table as you try to gain some composure. he breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring, and you start to cry from how good it feels when he tosses your legs over his shoulders and slips his tongue inside of you.

his head clears. the world feels smaller. there's a squirming, pretty thing gushing onto his tongue, and everything feels good again. his trigger finger is too occupied. his murderous thoughts are static noise when you're moaning like that. he doesn't dream of dark skies or loud noises or loss because you're everywhere around him, and he feels good, it tastes good, so good, i like it i like it i like it—

he groans when you come in his mouth. tongue cupped to swallow mouthfuls, like a dog drinking water, long fingers digging into your hips to keep you still as he dips his head and licks from one hole to the other.

when he sets you back down onto your back, he hisses when he realizes he came, too. cock hanging heavy, cum dribbling down his cargoes. he takes a gloved hand and gives himself a warm tug, and he grits his teeth as he feels himself coming back to life, watching you whimper there and reach down to touch your puffy clit. you use your fingers to spread your folds again, and ghost's mouth twitches, nearly a smile, as he realizes you want him to go again. going for gold, indeed. well, maybe simon's not single.

not anymore.

[itisjustwhatitis]

"y-you're gonna kill me, sweetie... freakin' kill me..." clark groaned above you, his hips ramming into you like never before as your legs bounced on his shoulders.

clark kent was a possessive man and he knew it. it was in his kryptonian genes, he swears! he can't control the moan that slips out when he successfully marks you with his scent, or the hand that sneaks into the crook of your back in public settings. he tries to, but he can't.

and you know it. you know it so well that you wanted to mess around with it.

and it was only natural for clark to fuck your brains out when he saw the "C" anklet you had on when you came home today.

it got to him, truly. it got to him because he marked you, because you're his and you're showing it off. because now the entire world knows that you, his beloved, belong to him.

he kisses your anklet, his eyes narrowed and uncharacteristically dark. "you're too cute... way too cute f'me, hmm..." and he pecs and pecs, his soft lips contrasting with the force of his thrusts, fucking into you like it's the only way for him to breath. and it might aswell be.

"c-clark, i– ah—! ohh... shit, fuck.." you couldn't even form proper sentences, your lips wobbling at the sensation of him knocking at your cervix. he so desperately wanted to claim you, fully and inside out, and the cute jewelry you had on your ankle was definitely helping.

his heavy balls tightened everytime it reflected the light, shining like the most precious of diamonds. "mine.. all mine..." he mumbled before he nibbled at the "C", his eyebrows bending in pleasure as he neared his end. his pace quickened while one of his hands migrated to your clit, rubbing tight circles to get you off.

you mewled, back arching when you felt the heat of his digits on your bud. the sight of him, blushing and drooling, utterly drunk on his possession—drunk on you—had you quickly approaching your climax, but it's when the first rope of his cum slipped its way into your womb that you finally let go.

you both cried out in your orgasms, his cock twitching with every pulse of your cunt, hips sporadically fucking his seed into you.

"mine, mine... mineminemine—" he chanted, as if repeating it would make it any more true than it already was.

[itisjustwhatitis]

Clark Kent who’s so enamoured with the idea of making you squirt that he fills you up with water throughout the day, making sure your water bottle is always filled to the brim and reminding you to hydrate as he focuses his laser vision on your quickly filling bladder. He makes sure your bladder is nice and full before carrying your giggling form to your shared bed where he makes a quick work of your clothes and gently sinks two fingers into your already dripping cunt, the soft squelching of his fingers pushing through your slick filling the room alongside your needy pants and moans. The rough pad of his thumb circles your swollen clit and he debates making you squirt right then and there, but he decides he wants you to drench his cock. So when he figures he’s worked you open enough on his fingers, he gently bullies his thick cock into your clenching cunt, flushed red tip already painting your walls with precum at what he knows he’s gonna make you feel. He uses his laser vision to make sure his cock is drilling against the right spot—that spot has your back arching off the bed, eyes crossing as your mouth hangs open in pure ecstasy. He pushes down on your tummy right over your bladder and—fuck Clark has given you many, many, orgasms but you’ve never felt like this before. It’s all too much and you feel like you’re gonna—

“S-stop! Fuck—Clark, stop! You’re gonna make me-ah-gonna make me pee-”

But he doesn’t stop. In fact, he picks up the pace, his eyes focused on where he can see his fat tip abusing that spongey spot inside of you, his hand pushing down harder. “It’s okay, baby. Let it all out f’me. C’mon, be a good girl and soak my cock…” he pants between thrusts. Your muscles contract at the soft purr in his voice, your cunt clenching around as you feel your rapidly approaching orgasm, and with just a few more thrusts your poor abused pussy is spasming and squirting, drenching his lower abdomen as he continues drilling into you at an unfathomable pace, his thrusts becoming frantic and sloppier as he bottoms out at the sight of your squirt coating him. 

[itisjustwhatitis]

the pitt + (mostly) text posts pt.6 (the robby special)

[itisjustwhatitis]

Simon Riley who needs you to be louder during sex.

You'd been together seven years when the accident happened, married for three.

You had rushed to the hospital when Price had called. And you sobbed into his chest out of pure relief when Simon had made it through surgery.

The issue? He'd lost a fair amount of hearing from the IED blast.

Simon did eventually get used to it, but he never quite got used to hearing aids. Preferring to rely on lip reading when someone was talking too quietly.

There was also the sex problem. Not that you two had bad sex. Hell, it was the best for the both of you, going at it multiple rounds at times.

No, it was the fact that while Simon loves how shy you can be, it makes it difficult for him to hear you during sex. The little whimpers and whines you would make, now silent movements of your mouth. It pissed him off to no end.

Simon then began to experiment. Would it be easier to just wear his hearing aids during sex? Of course not. The damn things were so uncomfortable, but making you come? As easy as breathing.

He would start with teasing you throughout the day. Until you were practically dry humping him on the couch. Then he'd edge you until your whines were just loud enough for him to hear; though it sounded as though you were underwater.

Finally, what made your resolve crumble in Simons hands, was when he practically folded you in half. Holding a vibrator he'd spat on to your clit. Overstimulating you until you'd finished on his cock six times.

And Simon loved it. God you were so loud and pretty for him, he could finally hear you perfectly, your screams of pleasure filling his mind like a hazed fog pillowing over mountains early in the morning. Your hips writhing desperately; in an attempt to escape the pleasure or move towards it, he didn't know. He didn't care.

He could finally hear his pretty little bird sing as he filled her to the brim.

Ko-Fi ! Anything is insanely appreciated!

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

[itisjustwhatitis]

Like a rotten dog: part VI

The Hound x Handmaiden reader

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI

Summary; you get to watch the hound in the training yard. Is it any wonder you have to find a secluded spot after such a sight? also, strap on, this one is kinda longTW; much smut and much porn to be had

Please come chat to me or my inbox with any Sandor reqs. I’m very thirsty. Reblogs and comments are greatly welcomed my lords, ladies, theys, and gays

The fierce clash and the sing of steel tells you the training yard is just ahead. The amount of grunting, and the tinnitus ringing of swords tells you it’s busy. Flowstone Yard.

Alssa rerouted the pair of you, off the back of your errand.

Carrying laden trays back from the royal prince and princesses rooms. Milky porridge and clumpy oats staining the bottom of the bowls. The fruit they didn’t bother eating that their mother chided them for leaving. They favoured honey fingers and lemon cake. Much to her chagrin.

She had pinched the back of your dress and drew you over. Peeling you away from duty. Standing to watch the men beneath you, fight and train. Armour glinting in the sun. Dull from the battles the plate, and the men in them, had seen. Or had yet to see.

You stand yourselves next to the marble columns. Resting your burdened elbows on the balustrade. Sun cracked stone, warm to the touch. Past which, gave you an unhindered view of the practicing. The dust kicked up by many pairs of feet.

Then you spy the true reason Alssa dragged you over here.

You side eye her and see exactly where her gaze is lingering. She’s grinning like a empty headed fool at a cluster of guards. One sat down polishing his sword in particular. You watch her gaze lock onto him.

He was raven-haired, the style long and curled at his nape, swept off his forehead like a rogue. dark melting eyes like warm cedar. Sun kissed skin that appeared Dornish in origin. Probably a man who smelled like damn orange blossoms and sandalwood.

Looked entirely like a dashing knight all ladies were expected to crow and swoon about in fairytales or songs. He flashes a too bright, square smile when he laughs with his friends. Over the din of the clashing metal and the strike of the smithy’s iron, you hear a deep sonorous voice. A dornish siren.

He peered up the walls. Caught sight of the pair of you standing there. The way you both stood with your hair swaying in gentle curls on the breeze. Climbing trellis’ of ivy and roses from the distant gardens made the air all velvet and verdant.

Go further down and you know it would change. Punched into the sweat and warm steel and dirt of the courtyard. Dipping into the blood and iron of old sword wounds, dripping onto the dusty ground.

You watched as his smile split into a wide - and much too handsome - grin.

He gets up and his fellows laugh around him as he swept down and dipped into an overdone, courtly bow. Hair catching the meagre sun. Shot through with brown gold at the tips. He straightens and blows her a kiss that she aims to catch. Blushing like a fool.

“What’s this one’s name?” You ask. A tone of chiding tiredness, and intrigue, lay thick in your voice.

Alssa flustered a little. She cleared her throat and wet her lips. Eyes flicking to you, unsure. “Wyllam.” She picked at items on her tray in distraction.

“I see.” You understand.

“When did he happen?” You enquire further. Watching as he sets up to spar with one of the guards.

“I met him the other night. Taking wine to Lord Baelish.” She preened. Voice all high and girlish. “Isn’t he so handsome?”

You narrow your eyes at him. He was. He was too handsome.

“Aye. He is.” You concede. Carefully. You pick around your words like you were sparring with a knife. Considering what to flag or pluck out next.

One thing you’ve come to know in this life, there was rarely worse to the measure of a man, than a vain one who knew exactly how good looking he was. And knew everywhere that could get him. Between many soft girls legs and winning many favours from highborn ladies.

He spars for show with his men. Overdone gestures. Sweeping strikes. Carved intentional smiles with all the guile of flirt. All to make Alssa giggle.

“I’ll say it again; Be careful.” You warn.

“You and your griping.” She rolled her big blue eyes like a child’s marbles.

You’d seen what men like him do to silly headed girls - so mushy and drunk on love they could barely move. You knew how they could exploit with guile. To disarm with prettiness. You were not about to let Alssa wander blindly into the same mistake. No letting the dewy eyed haze of her infatuation waste your wisdom.

Your voice turns rigid. Your speech carried the bitchy bite of the famed north snow and ice that raised you.

“Men like that seek one thing from a girl. Adoration. Just make sure he doesn’t woo you onto your knees and then never let you off them.” You nudge her side.

You’re not entirely sure she hears you. She chooses not too. Love has taken her. Made her so full, there’s no room for anything else.

She is preening down at him with a smile like she’s slept with a boot-stretcher in her mouth. She holds her tray in one hand and waves. Hair swaying down her back as she blows kiss after kiss. In the slanted sun, she glowed like a spring butterfly.

By comparison, you’re sure you look like a vinegar-laced storm cloud. All hail and fury.

He sees you stood by her side. Delights you in a bow also. You roll your eyes and turn your head away. Stoic. Face as unforgiving as iron islands granite.

That makes them reel into laughter. Your coldness always amused idiot men. The northern ice wrapped stoutly around your heart and guarding your smile was their greatest challenge yet. Higher to climb than the wall. Only fools tried. Only dogs seemed to get in.

You see one of his guards gesture. He leans over and they whisper in hushed tones. No doubt the guard was filling Wyllam in on exactly whose company you are rumoured to keep.

In this place, secrets never stayed buried for long. A dead man who goes cold to his grave keeping his secrets, was indeed a sacred thing.

Here, for every little bird or spider, there were ten more you’d never even see or hear of. Spies conjured of smoke at every turn. Hiding round corners in shadows . Perched in their webs or nests ready to betray.

And clearly, you wouldn’t be taking the secret of taking the Hound as a lover, to your grave. That rumour now churned like a spark on dry hay. No survivors to its blaze.

Your eyes harden like stones when the men start to bark and woof in jest up at you. Tongues out as they panted open mouthed like canines. Wyllam appears to hush their noises with a wave of his hand. Trying to win your favour too.

You’re not stupid. You know his game. Ply you with sweetness and honey, and Alssa will see and be glad of it. Then your friend will come to him with easiness and grace. Slippery as a pearl. Soft as a summer song.

“He better not turn anymore of that nauseating shite my way.” You warn her. Spoken with dripping disdain like you had icicles hanging off your teeth.

She remarks to herself how much you sound like the Hound, there.

She laughs. A light sound. “Fear not. I think everyone in this Keep knows by now that your… interests… lie another way. In fact quite the-“

Whatever unflattering words she’d been poised to say about your tastes, had been wrenched from her.

A sharp stab of a sword and a furious deep growl takes your attention to the far side of the courtyard. Where a beast made flesh, spars with his sword against a doomed opponent. Grunting. Clash of steel as blade met blade. There’s no mistaking that figure, that fight, for any other.

If she has the handsome prince from fair stories; you had the foul beast.

A Hound sort of beast. The best kind.

Alssa watched you now. Cleverly.

Something about him took your eyes. Pinned your notice.

She watches how your smile lifts - for true this time. Not too wide, softer, restrained, curling up at the sides. Like seeing the rare December sun, flourish over the sparkling snow crusted turrets of Winterfell. It could strike the breath clean from one’s lungs.

She doesn’t recall the last time she saw you wear even a small smile, so richly genuine.

Alssa thought a moment. Seeing the two of you look at each other.

It really was like her dear mother’s old worn saying; there really is a lid for every strange old pot.

She smiles to herself. She’d told you til she was blue in the face she thought he liked you. Here is the damning proof. Looking at the pair of you like this.

Watching him fight was like seeing a furious storm made skin.

All those dreadful stories people wove about him. He fought with the true weight of his terrible legend. He always did. Even in practice. Thick as a castle wall. But kept light on his feet.

He swung his word like he was livid at the blade for not biting hard enough when it drew blood. Like he was angry at the very ground he trod on. He directed it well. His power was packed into his anger. Sheer rage. He fought with it, hands armed like axe blades.

His eyes glowed in the shade of the yard, like newly turned bronze. Even from behind the terrible maw of his helm. The jaws that cradled his face, canine and monstrous. His enemy could never tell which face was worse to gaze at- or tell which one bit less.

He sent his opponent spinning away into the dirt from a clash to the shoulder that would take limbs, if there weren’t armour in the way.

He stalked in pose. Waiting. Expecting more resistance even when the soldier was down. The fight in him not blunted yet.

The soldier he’d spun away was replaced by another who thought he’d take on the challenge.

You hear his friends jeer him on from the sidelines. He goes with his sword raised. Both hands clasping it. The Hound doesn’t take his eyes from him. You could feel his growl through the air. You knew it was laced with that sneer. The one that tests idiots to try their fucking luck.

The soldier struck first. Sandor batted him away sending him stumbling. Only for a second. He rounded and try to undercut, up to his elbow.

The Hound sniffed it coming a mile off.

Adjusted his stance. A fearful blow on the back of the soldiers arm had him nearly dropping his sword. Sandor made sure of it. Battered the side of the man’s helmet. Planted a firm boot in his back - kicked him to the dust.

Sword to the neck, a fearful growl that could curdle anyone’s spine, a warning. The opponent dropped his, to yield.

The soldiers jeered. Passing around insult and jest. No one ever dared beat the hound. Not in hand to hand combat. Not on a good day they didn’t. His sheer heft made him an impossible opponent. His ever present rage made him a deadly one.

Sandor backed off. Stalking away to a corner. Wrenching his helm off. Sweaty hair hung in pieces down his shoulders. He snagged a wine skin off a rickety table and drank it straight down. Droplets of burgundy dripping down in his whiskery-rough beard.

Alssa exclaimed something. You missed it.

You were too busy watching the way his shoulders moved in his armour. The way his armour was dull silver in the sun like old trout scales. Battered and sword scarred. Pauldrons bashed in, and gorget scratched. For his plate had seen many a war and battlefield. His hands and body littered in faded scars because of it too. A matching set. You physically ached to see more of him. To touch more of him. To explore him.

You were wet at the thought of it.

“Hmm?” You turned back to her. Not even tearing your eyes from the sight below. Him. Sweating and grunting. Looming like a terrible animal over other soldiers. Stalked off to his corner to gulp down wine, and not even revel in his victory. He didn’t seek glory. Just space.

“You are staring.” Alssa exclaimed prettily. Sharp elbow catching you in the hip.

Lusting was more like it. But you wouldn’t tell her that. She wouldn’t understand the carnal nature of your need for him. To her, love was all still purity, daisies and poetry. Your was decidedly south of that drippy inclination.

“Just admiring the troops training.” You grinned slyly.

You hadn’t forgotten his touch from the previous night. The way he’d growled at you that he’d have you again. Yet the sweet gentle way he pleaded for you to please come back. He wouldn’t quite know what to do if you didn’t. You’d a feeling he was bracing for the sting of rejection every time he looked at you.

Gods you’d prove him so wrong right now. You wanted to drag him off and ride him til your hips gave out.

Alssa frowned when she saw a soldier hobbling by the yard down below, with a cane. His leg and ankle all bandaged. His face a mess of bruises. Ugly purple and black like old sour plums. Her expression faltered a little when she realised who it was bearing such evidence of either extreme ill will, or having taken a drunken tumble down the stairs.

“Wonder what happened to him…” Alssa asked. Leaning up to try and see more. Seize onto the first shreds of gossip. It traded like currency below stairs. The more sordid the better.

You move your head. Looking across to take her meaning. Eyes following hers to land on the limping, scowling man. Who speared a look at the Hounds wide back that you’d call perfectly murderous.

It was Landar.

He’d been beaten to black and blue paste. Looked like he escaped the encounter three or four teeth lighter. Purple eye sprouting across his cheek. Bridge of his nose decorated with a bloodied fissure.

The thought aligned prettily in your head. The bloody liar. That’s how he hurt his knuckles.

Nothing to do with Joffrey’s wrath. This was all him. Him protecting you. All dogged instinct and mean teeth.

Sandor’s attention was drawn across to the limping man. He clutched at his wine skin. Gave a hate filled scowl - a warning - to the lamed guard. Who returned it with a piss and vinegar glare of his own.

You loyal silly dog. You remarked to yourself.

You watched the exchange with a slightly gladdened smile. It was nice to see the cunt finally put in his place.

He hobbles away to be near his grubby pack of friends. Twisted his head back and up to catch sight of you. Stood gazing down over the yard.

You rub a little coarse salt in the wound;

You raise your hand and gave him a friendly little flutter of your fingers in a wave. See if that doesn’t piss him off even more.

The grimace he pulls at seeing you makes your grin widen. A snarl forming across his face. He wanted to limp up there and tear your pretty throat out.

The movement catches more than Landar’s eye. Your Hound sees. Peers up and establishes eye contact. Eyes boring right into yours.

You hold them. And there’s that smile of yours again. The one he swears is tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. More meaningful now. It feels deeper- burrowed soul deep by the starting connection you shared. The ache for more that simmers in you both.

Pure fucking lust. A heady poison in its own right. Mind starved of all else. You could think of little else. Your mind snapped back to him any free minute you had.

You nod at him. Still smiling. Appeasing his performance even if he wouldn’t. He could almost hear you saying it. Could see it in the glimmer in your sharp eyes.

Well fought. Dog.

He sends you a look that speaks of mild irritation at your impertinence. Slight annoyance. As that particular trait ran through him in a steady unending vein, like metal ore hewn in rock.

Watch it, Maid.

You turn to Alssa. Best you didn’t linger too much longer. “Come on. Best get these trays back. Or Darria will kick up a fuss.”

You nudge her with your elbow. Get her to follow you.

She waves all coquettish to her Dornishman before she leaves. He clasps his hand over his heart sadly, like the world is ending.

You know Sandor sees that. Spears a glare and rolls his eyes at it. Daft flowery cunt. He slurps back more wine.

His eyes track you through the shaded halls up above. He tracks you, as you walk away. Eyes on you the whole time in the shadows. Yours on his until you too, had to look away. He knew that look. That was not merely interest. That was all flirt and guile.

Fucking electric.

You step fast. Alssa can barely keep up to you. You want to put this cursed tray down and run back. Find a shady corner. Unclasp that armour and show him just exactly what you thought of his victory.

When you find your way to the kitchens, you gladly offload the heavy tray to the boy by the basins. Darria is in her usual red cheeked furious mood. Bashing her cleaver through hare carcasses to joint them. Sticky blood glimmers black off her apron.

“Any other jobs going begging?” You ask her as you steal a plump green pear off a heaped golden bowl. Move so quick she didn’t have time to rap your hand with a wooden spoon. Smile at her around the mouthful of sweet crunchy fruit.

“Off with you. Go clean or scrub floors. Don’t need you in my way here until luncheon.” She grouses.

In other, coarser words, fuck off out my sight.

Exactly what you wanted to hear. Music to your ears.

You spin and take your leave with a grin.

Tossing half the eaten pear to Alssa as you skip back up those kitchen stairs. Holding your skirts in one hand as you licked your fingers of the juices.

She watches you go. Smiling as she takes half the pilfered fruit and turns to walk along the rabbit warren hallways to her room.

“What’s up with her?” Darria asks after you depart. Footsteps falling to fading echoes on the stairs.

Alssa blinks those big blue eyes. “Not sure.” She lies. A secret smile tucked away to herself.

“Odd bitch that one.” Darria shakes her head. Like she could care less whatever put a smile on your face like that. She carries in butchering her game. Snapping bone and stringy tendons under her knife.

You retrace your route. Back to the yard. But when you peer down over the balustrade to the courtyard, your eyes scan the soldiers and clustered space for him and come up empty.

You step back. Walk along more halls. Tread the familiar places you think he may lurk. When not on duty, he may have slunk to his rooms with a wine skin. When he wasn’t taking up some corner of the yard, polishing his weapons and scowling.

Sometimes you heard he would take himself off for the night to a tavern in the western quarter. Where he could drink a skinful of wine in relative peace, and stumble back over the cobbled streets.

You head to his rooms. Those too prove empty. Armour gone of course. Sheets puddled in the middle of his bed. Hearth cold.

You seek elsewhere. Down another winding corridor and up a turret, up onto another part of the keep. Searching endlessly for your hound.

He finds you first.

The first you know of it is the huge scarred palm clamped around your mouth all sudden. Skin smells like warm metal.

He quickly scoops you into a shadowed space. Attacked from behind. He got your scent earlier. And like any good dog, he followed his nose.

There’s a second where your fight takes hold; you nearly kick at him, sink your teeth sharp into his fingers.

“Aye. Fucking calm down. It’s me.” Comes a ursine whisper across your ear. All hot breath and tannic red wine.

Spins you. Back to a wall. Then he takes your chin in his hand. Kisses you hard. Body slamming you to a wall. Your head rings. You can smell the sweat and scent of iron beating off his armour from his practice in the yard. It’s addicting.

It’s the bite he takes of your neck, with his hand sliding to your hip that makes you gasp. High and needy. Your head tips back to the wall. Your hair grazing the rough stone. You hang onto him for dear life. He’s making you dizzy.

“I have floors to go and scrub.” You challenge with a lot of flirt on your tongue.

“And I should be on duty soon.” He counters. “Told you I wasn’t done with you.”

That coarse threat makes your nipples stiffen.

“Please fucking take me.” You simper.

Big fingers ruck up your skirts. No courtesy. No asking if you’re sure. No preamble. No game. You told him what you wanted. You smile when he does it.

He’d left his gauntlets off to do this.

You nearly die when you feel his warm hands on your thighs. They scorch and you burn.

When he finds you wet, dripping wet, you watch that sneer twist his lips. The one he uses to taunt people. Maybe he softened it a little for you- not by much. His eyes are swimming dark. Drunk brown and heady.

“This wet for an old dog. Red?” He asks in a sneer against your mouth. “Dripping down to your fucking knees.”

You’re hanging your arms around his neck like a useless bauble attached to his armour. Something decorating his front. Tugging on the back of his neck to bring him closer.

His fingers slip under your shift. Find you glistening and warm. Two fingertips sink themselves just inside your cunt. Teasing. You feel the stretch but it’s not enough. He knows it. The bastard.

“Fuck.” You gasp. A cotton soft whisper that shatters off the stone around you.

He was pulling the wetness over your pussy. Prepping you. Exploring the softness of your lips. The way you twitched and moaned for him. Taking his time; considering this was a clandestine fuck in some tucked away corner.

He had you halfway to sobs by the time he sunk his fingers deep. Seating them deep. Let you feel every scar and ridge of his massive hands. One that left your mouth gaping. He filled it with his. Grasped you close by a fistful of your dress - like he had to try and keep you here.

“That enough for you, lover?” He asks. Twisting his hand in a way that made your eyes roll back in your head. The obscene stretch. The way he made your back arch to curl into him. Clutching at him in fistfuls.

His new nickname for you didn’t go unnoticed. Lover. It poured off his rumbling tongue like the wine he loved. It’s a language you’ve never heard pulled from his lips before.

It’s soft. And yearning.

The clever way he moved his thumb to brush just-so against your clit. The pattern he holds fast too as he sinks deep. Devastates you with his size. But moves just slow enough to let you feel every motion.

He thinks how damn pretty you look like this. How wrecked. He knows he’ll reach in with his bare hands and pull the gizzards out of any man or woman unlucky enough to come across this little tryst.

The Hound pawing at his Bitch in a shadow black corner of the red keep. Out the way of the peering eyes of nobles or royalty. Somewhere the candle flames can’t reach. Inhabit a private lust fuelled moment. Two lovers on the turret stair.

And what a sight you are;

Eyes severe in the half dark. Cheeks going warm. Skirts almost up to your waist. Draping over your soft naked thighs. Mouth wide and moans tripping out your mouth that he soaked up with his tongue on yours. A furious tempest of teeth and lips. Your moans can smother and die on his tongue for all he cares.

He finds the spot that makes your eyes roll. Just like last night. Had you clenching and bucking in his arms like a wild doe caught in a snare.

“Fuckk. Sandor.” You whine. Gripping onto his arm. The other tangled in his dark hair. If it stung, he said nothing. He’d gladly take every ounce of pain you give if it means he gets to watch you cum. A pretty sight. Like those fair frolicking maidens in oil paintings or tapestries his ruined eyes never get to appreciate. This here is his reward.

“You say my name like a whore.” He teases. A hot breath at your ear. A whispered chin kissing harsh bristles at your soft neck. Abrasive enough to leave a tingling rash on your skin.

“You’re fucking me like one.” You whimper. Clasping a hand over the back of his as he moves faster, dipping a little deeper. See how high he could make your voice go.

He’s rewarded like a king. Watching your eyes roll back well and truly in your head. Eyes closing. Mouth slack. His lips find your collarbone. A kiss with your hair in the way sticking to his lips. But the wet slicking noises your cunt is making is worth more than its weight in gold.

“That’s it. Red. That’s what you needed.” He grumbles. Self-satisfaction in his voice when he spies the hitch of your breath.

His free hand comes grasping around your thigh. Up over your hip. Cradling your legs right to him so he can finger-fuck you deeper. Gathering you right to him for more. Your small noises and whimpers slap off the walls and surround you both.

He finds that somewhere inside you that feels irresistible. Too good. A sharp pleasure rips through your lower half when he curls his fingers just so. Taking the time to learn you so well.

When you cry out for gods. He chuckles. Low and mean in the back of his throat. A terrible sneer. This terrible leering dog with something pretty stuck in his teeth. That something pretty being you.

Come crawling to you. Mad with need. Pushing through the mess he made of men who dared try and take what was his. Violent and dreadful.

You’d never wanted a man more.

Desperate and urgent, your knees quiver when he withdraws his fingers and you mourn the loss of him. You tremble and your cunt clenched as you watch him suck those very same fingers right into his mouth. Spreading the sticky satin taste of you all over the bed of his tongue.

“Still taste sweet.” He huffs. He didn’t usually warm to sweet things. He has a feeling your cunt will be different. That was a sweetness he’d devour and enjoy over and over again.

You buck when he slaps them back to your clit. No finesses. But the jolt nearly made you cum right then and there. His digits all stringy with his spit. His mouth a muggy sharp reminder. Worrying red and wet bruises at your throat. Slips them right back into you.

You clench so hard around him it makes him bite down on his lower lip. Leaning in to devour your mouth once more.

Curling your thigh up close to him. Cradling your body. Huge hand going back to spreading wide around your ass cheek. Bracing you tight to the wall. Between the hard stone and his hard armour. Rock and hard place.

“Cum for me. Red.” He urges. Ever a man of simple means. No flowery words or poetry. No pouring honey into your ears. That’s what you like about him. He rather sticks to the point.

Your lungs shrivelled. Collapsing around a moan. Head thumping back to the stone as he took a bite of your shoulder joining your neck. Jasmine heady in his nose as he feels your pussy clench down hungrily and drench his fingers. His thumb on your clit remained a gentle assault until you physically had to stop him moving - a hand clasped around his wrist as the pleasure tipped along a razors edge into mean. Too much.

You urged him to slow his movements. Gasping to get your breath back. Letting the pleasure bleed slowly and lazy through your limbs. Like ink dropped into water. He withdrew his hand from you. Leaving a sticky warm brush of wetness along the inside of your thigh.

You sigh onto his tongue when he kisses you again. Happily. Curling up and around his wide body. Arms yanking at his chain mail to pull him in. Hard metal under your fingers. Scraping your nails up the back of his neck. He pets your skirts to fall around your legs once more.

“Walking around bare arsed under that shift. Can’t be blamed for coming after you can I…” He leers.

“Come after me whenever you like. I won’t say no. Not if you’re that good with your fingers.” You grin.

His hand slips inside your dress. He longingly plucks and pinches your nipple in his big fingers. Cupping the weight of your breast in his palm. Swallows it up whole with touch. “Brazen maid.” He scorns at you.

You leave his hand stuffed down your dress. Yank him in to kiss again. Soft pressing lips and the taste of you on his tongue. Salt and tang amongst the wine.

It crosses your mind that you’ve not partaken of him yet. A crime.

You speak the words against a muggy mouth as you drag your teeth slow over his bottom lip. All wine and heat.

“Enough focus on me. Hound. I think I need to see to you.”

You smile as you take to your knees in your pretty skirts. Your hands finding the fastenings of his breeches. Taking a moment to undo them. He looks like he can’t fucking believe you as he’s the one whose suddenly pressed bodily back to the wall.

You take him in your hand. Huge and thick as you remember. Pump him proudly a couple of times. Watch the way he spurts precum. Just as needy and turned on as you were. His mouth hangs slack.

When you lean in and swallow him down, the grunt that comes from deep at the back of his throat, would leave you wet for hours.

“Fuck- Red. You- Shit.” He growls. Low and dredged out of his chest all granite deep. Rumbling. He tastes like sweat and salt. All male. Warm skin.

He can’t recall the last time someone let him use their warm, wet mouth to get him off. The whores that didn’t scatter screaming at the sight of him, or spit at his feet, usually took his coin and turned to face away. Preferring a hard quick fuck from behind. Or to use their mouth or hand, shuffled as far as they can away from him. They’d rather keep distance than get up close and see that grizzled face.

You’re so lucky southern girls are all fools.

You on the other hand. You fucking gaze up at him with glittering eyes as you throat him deep as you can. Jaw aching already. You’ll work through the pain. He’s worth it. A glimmer of pride in your body when he can’t even form words.

You let him glide against the roof of your mouth. Making sure you’re getting him all good and wet. Letting him slip to the back of your mouth all sloppy. Letting the spit collect so you could use all of it on him. Treating the unloved hound to a warm wet mouth. Your mind makes a sour little joke about throwing him a bone.

You brace your hands on his huge thighs. Hands splayed. Lovingly patting the tense muscles of his meaty thighs.

Take the time to bob your head and swallow and suck him. The loudness of the slick noises and wet sounds spring off the walls around you.

You withdraw him for a second. Thick spit strings from your lips to him as you stroke him, from base to tip, circling your hand tight to jerk him for a few moments. Revelling in the huge chuff of breath that comes when you slip the head of him back in your mouth. Swirl your tongue around the swelling tip of him.

“Shit.” He pants. Big chest rising and falling. “I-“ He hesitated. Wanting to sink his hand into your hair. Unsure whether it was right. Whether he’d hurt you. “I don’t want to hurt you, Red.”

You answer him wordlessly.

I won’t break. Clegane. Touch me.

You take his hand and put in to your hair. Let him grab it in a fist. Something to hold onto as you choked him down with a sloppy gargle. One that made his body buck like a curling autumn leaf. You feel the tensions shivering in his thighs. Like he was trying too hard to hold himself back - or up.

You slide your hand up his mail. To his armour clad stomach. His hand quickly comes to cover yours. Finding and tangling with your fingers.

You can’t help the moans that throb along his cock stuffed in your mouth. The little ones that slip out your throat as he does. Between your thighs you feel yourself growing wet again. Cunt becoming a full throb that you’ll all but begging him to use later. For now, you lay all focus on him.

He can’t help the way his hips thrust a little. Seeking the pleasure of your side tongue. You swirl and suck. Hand squeezing around the fat base of him. He makes clunky noises that seem to signal he’s close. His hand tightens slightly on your hair. He would be lying if he said seeing the copper locks twirled around his fingers didn’t help get him there quicker. Fucking arousing, that.

Pretty maid letting him use her mouth to get him off.

He’s inching closer and closer to his orgasm with each swirl and suck. You move your hand on him. Use the other to sneak under his sac and cup him as you urge him on.

“Red.” He gasps. Nails near digging into your scalp. That’s all the warning he can give. You feel the minute thrusts of his hips and then the warm salty spurt of him is jerking over your tongue in a warm flood.

You swallow him down.

Only stopping when his noises grow so intense. His hand finally going slack in your hair. The sudden clack of his plated back sagging to the wall. The click and shift of metal.

You take your mouth off him. Smile as you leave your hands on his thighs as you rise to your feet.

He looks flushed. Sweaty and rumpled. Hair hanging in his face. Gazing at you like you were some great wonder of the seven kingdoms. You use your fingers to wipe away some drools of thick spit.

When you coyly lick the corner of your mouth to remove spit and the white sheen of him. He growls. Yanks you right in by your upper arm. Seals your mouth to his.

Ravaged you with a kiss that was all battle and harsh. Yet you break away gently - to breathe. And smile at him. Hand in the centre of his chest.

“Why didn’t you Tell me about landar?” You seek.

“Fuckin hells. That’s what you’re thinking right now? Gods, woman.” He states. Panting for breath. Incredulous.

He offers you the wine skin clasped to his belt to take the taste of him out your mouth.

You take it with thanks. Tip a mouthful of the rich red stuff back. Flows down your throat like fine velvet.

He idly thumbed a lock of your hair off your shoulder. Watched the flaming sway of it trail down your shoulder. His thumb trailed down the hill of your shoulder too. Likes the way his bite mark sunk its stain and indents into your neck. That most likely hard scuff of beard burn.

He grunts as he clasps his trouser falls. Readjusts his clothing. Tucking his soft cock away. Huge even when flaccid. You still eye him hungrily like you hadn’t just sucked his damn soul out through his cock. Like you wanted to get him hard again, and have him take you against the wall. Fill this turret with your moans. The sound of his hips clapping to yours.

Fucking Wildling. He’d heard they shagged like rabbits. Huge appetites to fight the cold. Now you both looked like you’d fucking mauled each other in this corridor.

He wipes the damp beading sweat off his forehead. You reach up and pluck his soft dark hair off his scarred cheek. His hair was so much softer than yours.

He speaks again when he can finally take a breath. Addresses your remark about Landar.

“Saw that cunt grab you last night on the stairs. Didn’t sit well with me.” His voice slipped into a dangerous tone. One that sounds like knives being unsheathed. He jerks his hand to the side as he refastens his belt.

He lays his hand over your hip. A big gentle bracket over your dress.

“I can defend myself. Don’t get yourself in more fucking trouble with those Lannister’s.” You remind him. Eyes turning sharp and serious. Cutting into him like frosted diamonds. Your hand lay in the centre of his chest. Body close to his. Catting up to him.

“Aye. I fucking well know you can defend yourself. Just hate that he was bothering you after you told him to sod off. Slobbering over you. Pawing at you.” He grunts. Miserly as ever.

He palms your ass. Makes you bite your lip and sway bodily to his front. All mean metal edges of him crushed to your soft dress and curves. If he looked down he can see down your dress. See the hard brush of your nipples clasped against the fabric. He wanted them in his mouth tonight. Maybe he’d let you take a seat on his ruined scarred face to thank you for getting on your knees. Though by the look on your face - he’d say you’d done it on its own merit. And gladly.

You beam. Trace your fingers playfully around his gorget.

“Only one guard I want pawing at me. Clegane.”

He barks laughter. “You really aren’t like all those southern bitches are you? Pretty ladies like that would never admit to liking what we just did.” He explains as he pinches your arse.

“Sounds stupid.” You remark. “Who can not like fucking?” You frown deeply.

Ladies who haven’t been fucked by a man like him.

Pulls you longingly into another deep kiss. His favourite wine and the faint hint of his cum on your tongue. He finds he doesn’t mind it really-

When you pull back, your smile is still filthy. Hair mussed. Eyes all bright and ferocious as flames. Like trying to grasp fire in his bare hands. It’s only dangerous and it’s going to hurt. But he finds more and more that he needs it.

“Fuck me proper. Tonight?” You ask merrily. Bold. You want to get on your knees in his bed and feel that magnificent cock pound you into the sheets as hard as he’s able. Make your eyes cross with how hard he can go with that wild strength.

He growls. Open handed slaps your ass again.

“Shit. Red. The way you keep after me. I’ll be amazed If I still have the stamina.” His good eye glares out at you.

But his curl of a smile tells you he might just try, yet.

He sags against the wall, watching for a moment of respite, as you right your dress straps and skirts before you step away.

“Find you after dinner.”

“I’ll have a bath waiting. Red.” He assures. Probably wine too. That sounded like heaven to your poor tired feet and arms after your various toils.

You’re down three steps before his speech brings you back.

“You never gave me that name.” He suddenly announced. The one he demanded in his room. The one who left the rapidly disappearing bruise on your ribs.

You turn back on the stair. Consider his words with a tilt of your head and a placid smile.

“The bastard who put the bruise on your belly.” He reaffirms.

“If I gave you the name of every cunting knight in this castle who’d bruised me or offered me insult, Clegane, there’d be none left but you.”

“Suits me.” He grumped.

You hop back up the step to come to the landing where he is. You lean up and tiptoes and yank his gorget strap down to kiss him.

He bends at the waist. Surprised. But goes where you lead him. Let’s your lips sink softly to his. Already misses the way Jasmine perfume twines around him when you’re near.

“Grumpy fucker.” You mutter lovingly against his lips in a grin. Before stepping away.

He watches you go with something close to a smile. The shadows wrap and curl around his huge back as he heads off the other way. Thread themselves in his shaggy hair. Heavy steps clicking with metal and the rustle of chainmail.

Footsteps skitter high above in the turret. Slip away across the stones like woodsmoke. A piece of shadow breaking away from the rest. Running back to their masters side. Secrets clutched in their small hands like flowers, plucked for offering.

They like to keep their web invisible. Silent and strong. Bridging everywhere. After all, not much happens in this Keep that they don’t know about. This news would be another welcome string to their bow.

Tagging some hound peeps; in the hopes this finds the right people;

@konigslittleliebling @first-edition @catsteeth @castieltrash1 @terry2227 @justagirlwholikesadam @auxmodi @proseandpretrichor @novaursa @jxckerbxtch @mydearviserra @slut4thehound @yeyinde @jaimesrighthand @daydream818 @poisonousrain222 @slowlikehoney-stronglikemusic @itisjustwhatitis @hauerhoetime @siredskies @broadsdrinkwhisky @melmightwrite

[itisjustwhatitis]

I hope you know that your Sandor & Handmaiden are my endgame. Do you have any little ideas you could share? Also please say their story is a HEA. I couldn’t take it if not.

My lady hound

Sandor Clegane x Handmaiden reader - one shot

Summary; Talk about giving the end away. I’m just desperate to write about domestic Sandor ok? HEA is my jam son. Headers by the beautiful @strangergraphics

BIG spoilers for the end of my hound x handmaiden series. Don’t read if you don’t wanna know how it (kinda) ends. Set after battle of Winterfell at the big feast to celebrate victory. Right after Sandor talks to Sansa. Idk I write this in like two hours.

“If I may interject on your fucking business…” Sansa elucidated. Elegantly throwing his earlier words back in his face. Standing with her hands splayed on the table.

Her sharp eyes. Blue and almond shaped. Clever as a cats. Peered across to where Tormund was spinning you in a circle. Sloshing whatever booze he had in his ale horn, into the cup in your hand. Spilling it all over your fingertips as he did.

His eyes followed hers. Found you at the end of her gaze.

They’d outfitted you in a warm dress. He’d not seen you in a dress in so long. Rich gold wool it was. A fur cloak and warm boots. The colour of his sigil - he felt that was a purposeful dig on their part. His Lady in his house colours.

The necklace he once gifted you glitters at your collarbone. Gold chain and the gem as green as a sapphire. It was probably just coloured glass. Yet he felt all breathless when he saw you’d kept it.

All this shitting war and death and moving halfway across the fucking seven kingdoms to find each other - you’d kept that one tiny thing stowed in your pocket. That and the dagger with the stranger carved on it. He saw the flash of it before you’d buried it in a white walkers neck.

He sinks back into the now.

Your flaming hair twisted off your face in artful braids. Silken and drying with oils in the candle light. Your smile still blinded him. Cheeks warm from drink. Clutching Tormund’s arm as he span loud tale of the bravery and ferocity of the ‘Red Bitch.’ during battle. He’d seen you cleave two walkers heads clean off in one blow. Watched you fall from the castle wall, and still rise to fight some more.

Sansa makes her words plain to the obstinate Hound.

“I’d start living for her, and not your need for hatred or revenge. If fighting the dead has taught you nothing, then it never will. Leave that pain in your past.”

“She seems a far better use of your time.” Sansa urged. Coming to a stand and taking her goblet. Staying poised like the true lady she’d grown into.

She leaves. But not before giving him a clever grin that he couldn’t work out the origin of.

You break away from Tormunds wildness, and turn your eyes to where he sat. Cloaked in misery. Even with a flagon of wine afore him. And the refusal of several whores who’d tried to perch on his knee. Even staying true to his onerous nature, with the costly victory of defeating the army of the dead sat sniping at his heels.

Your smile doesn’t dull. It never does when you see him. You move through the crowds to come to where he sits, grouching and drinking.

“Heed my advice.” Sansa warns. Before she takes her skirts and slips into the crowd. Easy as a wave rejoining the sea. Clever bird.

First that red witches warning of a desolating fall and fire, and now her. Bloody women.

He watches as Sansa bids you a parting as you meet in the cramped space of the aisle. Being jostled by drunken revelries and stumbling bodies. “Lady Clegane.” She nods.

You take the nickname with a pinch of salt. As far as you’re concerned, you’re a warrior, a bastard. Still, technically, a ladies maid. Below everything else you’ve had to become.

‘Lady’ doesn’t seem to come into it. But you don’t show your apprehension of such a title. It was better than the ‘Hounds Bitch.’ Though that name and its tethered reputation was always lurking around the corner.

So you smile as you pass her. “Lady Stark.” A polite incline of your head. And an artful curtsey.

“Do see if you can cheer him. I fear his mood remains glum as ever.”

“I shall try my best. Mi’lady. Though lord knows it’s an uphill battle.”

She appraised you warmly. Her look was all knowledge and warmth. A flick of those icy eyes sweep your face. She leans in nearer.

“And, if I may be bold, my most heartfelt congratulations. Lady Clegane.” She nods.

You swallow. Dip your head again. “You are most kind. My Lady.”

“Best of luck.” She smiles before she turns. Ever poised. And slides away with her cup to hand. Your tongue feels like chalk in your mouth.

You rejoin him. Sitting opposite Sandor as he reaches over to pour more wine in his goblet. Adjusting your skirts as you climb on the bench.

He see’s once again the toll of your injuries. Warm orange glow in candles light. Lays bare the ruination; The black eye. The deep cut on your cheekbone. Scratches and bruises on your neck. Still lovely, even shining through all the marked ugliness. He’s sure his own figure is equally as tainted with bruise and blood.

You’re limping from your storied fall off the battlement. A bandage around your wrist from a vicious bite. You’re still in pain and you’ll drown it with wine cause you’re so fucking happy and so fucking scared that you’re somehow still alive. That you’ve stared death in the blue eyes, cheated it, and spat in it’s fucking face to come out the other side.

You want to seize your life now. You’ve seen too much death and ruin. And darkness. A new chapter can reign forth.

You twisted back, looking after where Sansa had departed. Crowds swallowing her up. You turn back to him.

“She likes you.” You remark.

Sitting down properly, gently, in ode to your pains, to watch him drink and brood.

You know he was equally as fond of her and Arya. Whose absence was a mystery. But not entirely a surprise. Like your lover, she shunned crowds and any semblance of glory. She was probably sharpening her swords somewhere. Sticking to shadow. An eerie half reflection of him, almost.

“Little bird’s a fine lady now.” He grunted.

You saw her loyalty to her house. How she rose off the back of her pain. Flourished into a firm fair ruler. Surrounded by true northmen. You know a little of what that’s like.

“That little bird will be Queen of the North before long. I wager.” You surmise. “… and I’m sure you would be well within in her favours.”

You tilt your head at him. The clever way you do. The jut of your chin that spoke of your intelligence. The things you observe and piece together. You were no fool.

He scoffs. “What fucking favours, Red?”

“For trying to save her.”

“Didn’t shagging work did it.” He scorned.

“But you tried.” You held out. Sipping a little wine. Not much. Taking away the taste of blood and ash.

“I don’t need favours.” He supplies.

Then he’s shifting on the bench. Uncertain. Looking small for a man so huge. “I just need you.”

His hand tentatively finds yours on the tabletop. In flickering candlelight, in a pool of spilt ale. He joins fingers with yours. You want to wince at the grip that burns like fire. Knuckles beaten and raw from the fight.

His words hit you like a falling tonne of bricks. You knew what he wanted. What he’s always wanted. Fuck this cold place. To ride back to the capital this very night, and put a sword through Gregor’s murdering neck. That’s all he’s ever known to want.

“Sandor. Your brother….” You ask. Carefully. Watching him with set back caution.

He once told you, warned you, that you would never be safe as a couple, unless Gregor was six feet deep.

For all he knew, the mountain could come and pluck your head from your shoulders at any time if he wanted. Just to needle his brother. Everything Sandor loved was snatched away. By death or otherwise.

“I want to kill that cunt. Really. I do.”

You swallow. Bitterness clogs the back of your throat. You don’t want to say the words but they crawl off your tongue nonetheless.

“Then that means I’ll lose you.” You whisper.

Your greatest fear made flesh. Given a voice and a name. Cuts you deeper than any sword would dare.

You sit there and look at him with tears brewing in your eyes. Stony expression taking your face.

“You’re not hearing me.” He gripes.

“For the longest time I’ve wanted him dead. For what he did to me. For what he is. But that’s changed….”

“Started to change after I met you.” He announced. Quietly. Not taking his eyes off the table between you.

You frown. Sniff back your grief. Tame the tingle of tears at the back of your tongue.

“Some other cunt can die killing him. It’s not going to be me.” He awards.

“I- “ he flounders. Sipped wine. Gets more drunk. Doesn’t really know what to say. How to say. He drowns himself in wine and hopes he’ll find his bravery at the bottom of the next cup.

He looks entirely lost. His life’s purpose all twisted up and skewed. It may aswell be laying dead and scattered to dust in the snow outside. Like all the bones and decay of the dead.

“Don’t know what I’ll do now the fight is over… don’t know where to turn or what to do.” He admits.

Gritting his teeth around the words. Stating that he felt useless. He would admit that to none but you. Knows you wouldn’t abuse his weaknesses.

You nod. Watching him. Slide both hands around his. Barely cover his fingers. But you hold him fierce all the same. Your thumbs stroke his knuckles. He watches a contemplative look cross your face. He’s never seen you look so serious.

“Then I’ll tell you what you we’re going to do.” You begin.

“We’re going to leave here, tomorrow. Maybe the day after. When we have healed. We’ll travel to White Harbour. We will pay a small kings ransom for a passage and a cabin, on a ship bound for Braavos. And go and stay with my cousin, Tallin, and his wife Yves, in the villa on their vineyard.”

He eyes you carefully. Eyes glitter candlelight gold. He would really like that.

“Away from swords and fighting and all the horrible fucking death we’ve choked on the past few years. The friends we’ve had to bury….” He sees tears shake your eyes.

“We will go somewhere where there are always blue skies… And wine. Where we can lounge in the sun. And not have to answer to anyone. And we can, just, drink, eat, and fuck…”

You shake your head and sigh. Voice heavy with emotion. You bite your bottom lip. Very much dreading what you need to say next. Tears spill down your cheeks. They sparkle in the half-light. He looks apprehensive of you.

“Because frankly, I need all the peace and quiet I can get…. Before I have give birth to our baby.” You say.

He lowers his wine goblet.

You could’ve knocked him down with a feather. Eyes wide and fearful, like you were suddenly a pillar of flame to him.

“What?” He drawls.

You hold his eyes. Fear trembles your ribs. You felt it before battle. Hands cold and shivering. Spine deep and chilling. Curling round every nerve like a venom spitting serpent. And you feel it now-

“The Maester told me. When he was seeing to my wounds. Reckons I’m around two moons gone, now.”

His mind is whirling back through the weeks leading up here. The fact you were sore headed and snappy some mornings. Off your food and off any large glass of wine he offered.

Catching you feeling nauseas a lot more. Thinking it was the shit fish stew or the blackened bread making you ill. You were sick into the snow before the battle too. You tried to hide it but he saw. Darted off to puke into a corner with your hand on a nearby barrel. Blamed it on nerves. It all slots into place.

He watches you sit there. Looking more scared than you were facing down the dead, small and shrunken in your seat. Nerves twisted up all mean.

He rises from his seat. Leaves the wine where it is. Rounds the table and towers before you. Hand on the wood like he was steadying himself.

“For true?” He asks you. Eyes so intent on you. You feel like they’re stripping your skin. His voice as soft as clouds.

You nod. “Aye. For true.”

Uncaring for those carrying on the revelry in swathes around him.

He drops to one knee and two massive hands are suddenly cradling your neck. Holding you so tight his hands tremble. Tears swipe again down your cheeks.

“You went through that shit war with my babe in your belly and you never fucking thought to tell me?” His voice trembles with both anger and terrible gut deep fear.

You clutch his wrists where he held you. Wet your lips. “I didn’t know for certain til tonight.”

“You’re not angry?” You seek

“Fucking livid you went through that, and kept it from me. I could skin you.” He growled.

“Angry that it’s happening.” You checked. Unsure.

He snorts a derisive sound at you. Reaches over. Splays his large hand right over your belly where you sat.

“No. Red…” He muttered softly. “It’s not anger I’m feeling right now.”

You leaned in. Pressed his forehead to yours.

“My fucking luck I fall for a goddamn wildling with red hair. Seven knows what that babe will be like. Fucking feral I bet.”

You laugh. It sounds so foreign. It burst out of you like a split vein. You realised you haven’t laughed in months. The movement feels rusty against your teeth and mouth.

You slide your hand down his arm to his shoulder. One brow arches. Acidly.

“With your damn heft? It’ll be a miracle if I survive the little fucker coming out of me.”

He chuckles. “You’ve survived much worse than that. Red.”

You stroke your thumb against his good cheek. He draws you right in. Clasps a hand around your back. Puts his face in your shoulder. Breathes in the unfamiliar soap and the wool of this strange dress garbing you.

When you pull apart. You skid away tears with the palm of your hand. Just in time to see an inebriated figure, swaying, at the foot of the table you occupied.

It was Lord Tyrion. Very in his cups and all moony eyes that spoke of liquor sunk heavy on his breath. Drunk eyes gazing hearts at the pair of you.

“I understand I am to offer congratulations. Lord and Lady Hound. You are due a pup I hear. Though for your sake, lady. I hope not a litter.”

“Watch it. Imp.” Sandor barks. Staying knelt. His hand on your belly like a brand. Fierce protection. The shield of his body to you and his babe.

“Time has not dulled the fury of your bark so I see.” He snips back.

You smile sweetly at the drunken man. “We thank you. My Lord. For your well wishes.”

“I don’t.” Sandor scowls. Eyes narrowing.

If Tyrion heard him, he made no show of it.

He points at you. Sloshes the drink in his cup. Some of it spills on the floor. “I always did like you. Lady Clegane.” He hiccups. “The beauty to temper the beast. And the child should have atleast one non-hideous parent.”

Sandor gruffs. Twisting to the Lord. Addressing his impertinence.

You palm his shoulder. Getting him to stay still. Stay down. And lose the urge to leap up and fight.

“Don’t be so ferocious. We are celebrating!” He opened his arms. All joy and candour on his face. His smile was wide and boyish under that thick beard.

“I feel I should also mention, before you scurry away to have your numerous pups, that the North and our Queen should like to repay you, most generously, for your service. I hear there’s a castle tower not a half days ride from here that should suit. Comes with a living. And a title. You’d be rich ten times over.”

You are heartened by the offer. “We are shortly bound for Braavos. My Lord Tyrion. Somewhere warm for a few months for the babe. But we will be delighted to consider your gracious offer.”

Tyrion nodded. Swayed on his feet again. Stepped off. Walked shakily to fetch another drink. But he paused and whirled back.

“However did you get so lucky, you old dog?”

His scowl made Tyrion smirk as he staggered away.

You smile. Rub Sandor’s hand over yours. Which found its way back to your middle.

“Come on. I think you, and you….” He jabs his finger at your middle in gesture “…Need some goddamned rest away from the drunk fools.”

You creak to your knees. He holds your elbow. Helps you stand. Gets his hands on you to help and touch however he can.

“You don’t have to be a mother hen just yet.” You pat his chest. “I’m not that ailing.”

A curl of a smile comes forth. Makes his eyes flicker with the candles light. Dancing brown and gold.

“I know that. Just thought that dress would look much better off, than on. Best see how it looks on our floor.” He charms all brusque.

Laughter makes your cheeks warm. “Cheeky git.”

For once in his life, he finds he didn’t drift off to sleep thinking of hate or revenge. Even in his sleep that night. His hand never left your belly or hip.

Little bird was right. Turns out he did have some learning still to be done.

tagging some hound peeps - i'm new to this guy - be gentle with me! I've tagged based on all the wonderful hound fics i've read off you guys -- @konigslittleliebling @first-edition @catsteeth @castieltrash1 @terry2227 @justagirlwholikesadam @auxmodi @proseandpretrichor @novaursa @jxckerbxtch @mydearviserra @slut4thehound @yeyinde @jaimesrighthand @daydream818 @poisonousrain222 @slowlikehoney-stronglikemusic @itisjustwhatitis

[itisjustwhatitis]

"Heat's gettin' t'me."

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader. Summary: Seems the heat's gettin' to Arthur. Tags: 18+ MDNI, p in v, kissing, just pure sex, sort of getting caught?, Abigail sees a glimpse of it. Word count: 1,019. Author's Note: This was a request for my mini prompt sprint, and surprise, I got carried away because I was excited!!!! Ao3 Link.

Weeks upon weeks of running from the lawmen, of enduring the sweltering heat, of comforting folk, of rationing both food and patience- it had sapped every last drop of Arthur’s lifeblood. Since the gang had nestled themselves within the sun-soaked, rickety bones of Shady Belle, he had spent a lot of his time helping everyone else get settled and sneaking in the occasional nap behind a wagon. He would usually be accompanied by you, spread over him beneath the cool shadows of a swaying tree, both of your hats shielding your faces.

The warmth had brought you both to the shade of his room, your sticky bodies to his cot, and his hard girth to the lush pool of your cunt. Reduced to a mangle of grabbing hands and eager mouths, the salt of sweat and the fresh cut of rum dances amidst your lapping tongues as Arthur pinches his nails into your rear and whines.

"Yeah-"

"Yeah?" You breathe, grabbing at his shoulders, the sheeny skin making your palms slide with each bounce of you in his lap.

"Yes- that's it-"

With an excited hum into his ear, you squeeze around his length and his eyes roll back, his jaw dropping open.

"Fuck, please- do that again-"

Repeating the movement, you also arc your hips back, drawing it out and moaning at the pull of your cunt around his cock. Arthur's gaze floats over your flushed face and behind you to the ceiling, blissful.

"Oh, like that, yes- good girl," he groans, strangling through a swallow. Your response is a shaky whimper, each nudge of his cockhead quivering through your gut. His heels thump into the cot behind you, and his thighs twitch as a stream of arousal runs through to his seat, thick and hot. "Get here," he gasps, and paws his way up your back before pulling you flush to him, your skin tacking together.

Feeling his muscles flex around your waist and over your back, you mouth at his shoulder, your moans tickling his skin. When you increase the rock of your hips, Arthur cries out, his head landing back against the pillow, strands of his damp chestnut hair falling away from his forehead. One of his hands moves to hold your rear, guiding the call and response of your hips, urging his cock up into the fluttering walls of your cunt.

With each thrust, Arthur's breaths louden, and you look up to see his eyes drift shut, his mouth parted. His hand on your back rubs up and down, gripping and squeezing at your softness. Pressing his palms into your skin, he pushes and pulls, coaxing you into going faster. A long and needy moan slips from you, vibrating through him.

"Arthur!"

"Tha's it, my girl- fuck me nice, c'mon," his voice leaves him hoarse, desperate, the order resonating over the sloppy meetings of your wet cunt and his groin, syrupy with your joint arousal. Huffing, you keep pace, gripping his shoulders. The tangy scent of his shining skin coupled with the strong undulation of his abdomen against your aching clit spurs on your cupidity and your gasps tighten. He glances down at you to see the familiar pinch in your brow and feels your gentle tremors around his cock. His eyes heavy, his brow furrowing as an almost pained groan rips through him.

"Gonna come, ain'chu?" He asks, the words almost stolen by the broken moan that bursts from his throat when you grind down onto him, hard, with an affirming hum. Your hands scramble to the bedframe above his head, gripping, the metal knocking against the wall each time you rock. At the sensation of his cockhead kissing the softness of your sweet spot, pleasure flickers through Arthur's body. His lashes flutter as he shivers and strains, "Christ! I'm-"

With a string of mewling breaths, you fall over the edge, your cunt convulsing around his girth as your orgasm swims through you. Your skin boils, the stuffy summer air sucking into your lungs, your cum coating his cock as his hands clumsily move to hold your shaking body.

"Arthur, you okay in there?" Karen's tentative voice calls through the door as she raps her knuckles against it. Thoroughly in the throes of indulgence, Arthur's only focus is the coiling pressure growing amidst his rolling hips.

"Arthur, fuck- fuck-" you whimper quietly as you ride yourself through waves of pleasure.

The draw of your cunt makes Arthur grit his teeth in tandem with the tautening of his balls, growling noisily as he plunges into the delicious depths of his release, spilling warmly and thickly up into you, "Oh, shit-!"

Another voice sounds through from outside, unnoticed from within the glowing haze stripping your thoughts of all coherence. "Maybe the heat's gotten to 'im, sounds unwell." Between the slowing knocks of the bedframe into the wall and mingling laboured breaths, the door creaks open. A gentle, concerned call of Arthur's name from Abigail snaps off into a guffaw at the sight of him. Flushed, groaning, all bare and brawn as he fucks his spend up into you whilst you whine against his neck, weakly grasping at the bed frame. The door quickly shuts again. Abigail's voice sounds through the wood, giggles breaking through as she talks over Karen who is still asking whether something is wrong, "Oh, the heat's definitely gotten to 'im. Get back downstairs."

Gleaning fragments of the women's hushed gossiping as they amble back downstairs, Arthur lets out a groaning laugh as you release the bedframe and slowly slip his softening cock from your dripping cunt. Kissing your way up his neck, you give a quiet and satisfied hum.

"What're you laughin' at, Mister?" You murmur as he lazily turns you both sideways, planting a few messy kisses to your head. He trails his fingertips over your waist, admiring the shine to your skin and the glimmer of his spend saturating the dark curls between your thighs as his hand reaches your hip. His tongue runs over his lower lip, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

"Seems the heat's gettin' t'me."

Tags for my sweethearts: @thundermartini @zae-heeyyy @pinescent-and-gingerbread @dauhtrofsevnthshe @arthurmorganist @thesweetestapplepie @thoughts-of-bear @kayyqua @thedilfdiaries @mrsarthurmorgan7 @sensitivegamergirl @kieranduffysgirl - Apologies if I miss anyone, just dm me or comment below to have me tag you <3

[itisjustwhatitis]

cw: smut no plot 🤍 18+ mdni pls

pairing: John Price/fem!reader

Price likes fucking you deep and slow, rocking his fat cock into you in the middle of the night. He can’t get enough of feeling you squeeze down on him as he humps your gooey pussy, tells you he’s been thinkin about it all fucking day, pretty. He gets off on how your whines get breathy and eyes roll to the back of your head when he’s got you like this. His heavy hips smacking against yours with his full weight, stuffing you full and making you feel every single inch.

He can’t see it now, not when he’s pushed you on your stomach with a big hand on the back of your neck, but he knows your brows are knitted and lookin’ like you’re about to cry over how good it feels. You get all embarrassed every time he coos at you, his baby, unable to control it when he makes it so good for you.

Like you know he’s thinking about it, you shyly peek at him over your should and fuck- yeah, fuck there you are. Eyes fuck-drunk and lidded, hair falling over your face as you look back at him. His pace slows to a crawl, unable to squash the goofy grin that pulls at his cheek when he sees his pretty baby needing him.

“Hi baby.” He coos at you, leaning down and plastering himself to your back. You shiver feeling the thick pelt of his chest pressing up against the sensitive skin of your back, his tip kissing your little sweet spot. He groans against your ear when you tighten up, chasing the feeling with a deep swivel of his hips and feeling you leak around the thick plug of his cock. He can feel it drip down his heavy balls, tucked against your throbbing clit.

He presses sloppy, wet kisses to your shoulder all the way to your cheek. A hairy arm closes around your head, under your chin as he turns your head to plant a wet open mouthed kiss on you. Hand on your jaw as he licks against your tongue, messy and gross. Your answering moan is broken and wet and it makes his cock throb in you.

He can’t help it, he wants more. Wants it deeper. The weight of him keeps you pinned as he widens the space between your legs with a meaty thigh, deepening your arch. Your hands follow his unconsciously when he reaches up, needing to touch, feel his steady strength as he grips the head board. He lets you cling, silently gushing over how sweet you get when his cock is this deep in you.

“Hush now, let me have it-fuck- just like this.” He drops his head to kiss down your back, groaning when your nails dig into his forearm. A hairy thigh hooks around your own, locking you together. It was all the warning you were going to get that he had no plans on staying slow and sweet with you.

“Hold on pretty, just hold on to me.”

[itisjustwhatitis]

Baby, I’m a Dog. I’m a Mutt [M]

Sandor Clegane X Velaryon Reader

Romance Trope - Fake Marriage (Happy Ending)

SUMMARY: Clegane is tired of the constant torture and ridicule from Joffrey, so he lies, he says that he betrothed to a beautiful lady. Only problem is… he isn’t.

WARNINGS: Nonexplicit Smut

Romantic Trope Series

⸻

The Red Keep’s great hall shimmered under candlelight, but there was little warmth in the air.

Wine flowed like blood. The court was in good spirits, or so it seemed on the surface—laughter crackled like lightning across the tables, nobles and knights crowded together, picking at meats and gossip alike. The King, Joffrey Baratheon, sat perched on the Iron Throne as if born to it, his legs spread arrogantly, a goblet clutched lazily in one hand.

Sandor Clegane stood at the edge of the feast, not seated, not speaking. Always the outsider.

He didn’t drink.

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t belong.

The firelight played across his maimed face—one side scarred and melted, twisted and raw. His good eye glared through the shadows beneath his brow. He stood in his armor, as always. Guard, dog, monster. They never let him forget.

Nor would they tonight.

Lord Lannister’s cousin, some minor lordling fat on inherited power and richer wines, wiped grease from his chin and smirked across the room. “Tell me, does the Hound sit or sleep, or just lean against stone walls like a beast on watch?”

Chuckles followed. Another chimed in—one of the Reachmen. “He’s too big for the chairs. Wouldn’t want him breaking one and bringing the whole court down with him.”

“And the smell,” said Ser Hobber Redwyne, fanning his face dramatically. “Gods, no wonder his horse has a temper.”

A louder laugh broke free. Even a few of the small council members smiled behind raised goblets. Ser Meryn Trant chuckled, lips red with wine.

Sandor didn’t move. But his fingers twitched at his side.

“I think the Hound needs a wife,” Joffrey said suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter like a dagger coated in honey. “Every beast needs a handler, does he not?”

Cersei lifted an eyebrow, swirling her wine. “I doubt any lady in the realm is that desperate.”

Tyrion said nothing, eyes fixed on the table, jaw clenched.

Jaime sipped his wine slowly, expression unreadable.

Sansa looked up, startled, her pale eyes flitting from Sandor to the King.

Sandor Clegane stood still. But the hall could feel the simmer beneath his skin.

“I’ve made my decision,” Joffrey announced. “We’ll host a tourney. A grand one. The winner will receive the hand of the most fearsome creature in King’s Landing.” He grinned down at Sandor. “Assuming she’d have you.”

The laughter now was raw, unfiltered. The kind meant to wound.

The Hound’s voice came then, slow and dangerous: “Careful, boy.”

That silenced some.

But not Joffrey.

“Oh? Did the dog just growl?” He rose from his throne, steps echoing down the dais. “Do you bite now, Sandor? Or has someone finally trained you to heel?”

Sandor’s eye narrowed.

“I wonder,” Joffrey mused, circling now like a cat around a chained lion, “do you think yourself capable of love, Hound? Of being loved? Or are you simply too… grotesque for it?”

The word hung there. Grotesque.

No one defended him.

Not Jaime. Not Cersei. Not even Tyrion.

He was alone in it—as he always had been.

A few courtiers looked away in mild discomfort. But not enough. Not loud enough. Not brave enough.

Sandor’s mouth curled slightly—not into a smile, but a grimace that twisted his burned cheek further. His hands clenched, knuckles cracking.

Then, softly, “You think love is sweet, boy?” His voice was smoke and gravel, deep as a pit. “You’ve never known the taste of it.”

Joffrey tilted his head. “Oh? And you have?”

Sandor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He turned from the King with a grunt and started to walk away.

“Oh, don’t sulk,” Joffrey called after him, delighted. “I’ll throw you a feast! You may even bring your beloved, if you ever find one. Just make sure she’s housebroken.”

The final round of laughter swelled again, vicious and echoing.

And Sandor kept walking. Past the flickering torches. Past the gold-draped sycophants. Past the courtiers who only knew how to laugh when the King laughed.

His boots struck stone, hard and fast.

But something in his chest ached. Not with shame. Not with fear.

With rage.

He had endured worse. He would endure more.

But tonight, something inside him cracked.

And tomorrow, they’d all see what happened when a dog stopped playing tame.

The night stank.

Flea Bottom was crawling with its usual sickness—wine, sweat, spoiled meat, cheap perfume. Sandor Clegane shoved through it like a bear through smoke, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A drink. A warm body. Something to get through the night.

No. That was a lie.

He was looking for a woman. Any woman. Someone willing to pretend—for a fee, a favor, a kindness he’d never earned.

Someone to be seen on his arm come morning. Someone to laugh and smile at him as if she meant it, if only for a few hours. To fool that golden little cunt on the throne, and the whole court with him.

And not a single one would touch him.

He’d tried. Quietly. Bluntly. With gold in hand. One had recoiled the second she saw his face, like his scars were contagious. Another told him flat out, “I’d rather fuck a corpse. At least they don’t smell like burnt leather.”

That one he nearly backhanded—but he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to. Because her laugh reminded him of the court’s.

He stormed out of the brothel, steam rising from his breath. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her until he slammed right into her.

A soft body. Perfumed. Warm.

She gasped and stumbled back half a step, steadying herself with elegant poise, not so much as a wrinkle in her silks. “Gods—my apologies.”

Her voice. Clear, soft, not like the others. A voice made for poems. She looked up at him, eyes wide, not with fear—but surprise. Curiosity.

He blinked. He opened his mouth, and—

“Marry me.”

The words tumbled out like they’d tripped over his teeth.

Her brows shot up. A breath of a laugh escaped her. “What?”

He was already regretting it. Already burning beneath his armor. But fuck it. “You heard me.”

She laughed again, this time fuller, richer. “Is this your usual approach, Ser? Should I feel flattered or alarmed?”

Sandor scratched the back of his neck, his massive hand nearly swallowing it whole. “I’m not good at this.”

“Proposing?”

“Talking.”

She studied him, amusement curling at her lips. “You’re serious.”

“I just—” He sighed. “I need someone. For a few days. A week. I don’t know. To stand next to me at court and pretend they don’t want to vomit when I breathe.”

Her smile faded slightly—not gone, just softer now. She tilted her head. “You barely know me.”

“I’m not asking for your maidenhood,” he growled. “Just your time. Maybe a laugh if you’ve got one to spare.”

“And if I say no?”

He looked away. “Then I’ll go back to begging whores who spit at me.”

A silence stretched between them.

Then, her voice—gentle again. “Look at me.”

He did.

Her eyes met his without flinching. “Fine.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You may have my hand.”

Sandor stared, blinking once, twice, like he’d misheard.

She extended it—palm up, elegant and self-assured. “But only if you give me your name first, Ser.”

He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Clegane. Sandor. Ser Sandor Clegane.”

Her brows lifted, amused. “The Hound?”

He waited for the sneer. For the wrinkle of the nose. It didn’t come.

Instead, she bowed slightly, graceful and proud. “Lady Velaryon. House Velaryon.”

He blinked again. “A lady.”

“You don’t say,” she teased, looking down at her silks. “Was it the embroidery that gave it away?”

He coughed. Might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. “Meet me at the Red Keep tomorrow. You’ll know when.”

She tilted her head, watching him carefully. Then: “I look forward to it, Ser Clegane.”

She walked away into the darkness, the hem of her cloak whispering against stone.

And Sandor Clegane stood there, swaying just slightly, feeling like he’d just been hit in the gut and kissed on the cheek at the same time.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, touching his face like something might’ve changed.

Then he laughed. A dry, rough sound.

He’d either just met the cleverest woman in Westeros… or the cruelest.

But she said yes.

And that was enough—for now.

It had been thirty agonizing minutes.

The throne room was a furnace of tension and gilded cruelty. Sunlight spilled through the high stained-glass windows in soft shafts of color, but no warmth touched Sandor Clegane. He stood stiff as stone in the shadow of a pillar, half-shrouded in the folds of his dark cloak, arms crossed over his broad chest.

He had never felt smaller.

The Red Keep’s courtiers were already whispering, like insects buzzing too close. Their silks rustled, their jeweled fingers fluttered as they leaned in with rehearsed sympathy and barely veiled amusement.

“I suppose she drowned on the way here,” one lord quipped dryly.

“Or perhaps she changed her mind. I know I would have,” a lady replied with a titter, her bracelets clinking like bells.

Cersei sipped from her goblet and tilted her head toward the King, voice lazy and amused. “You must admit, Joffrey… if someone were to make up a lady-love, claiming she’s from a powerful house would be the way to do it.”

“She’s not coming,” Joffrey declared, loudly enough for all to hear. He lounged in the Iron Throne like a bored vulture, golden hair gleaming, fingers curled in irritation. “No woman in her right mind would willingly claim the Hound. Let alone kiss him.”

A low murmur rippled through the throne room. No one dared laugh—yet—but the tension begged for it.

Sansa looked stricken. “Please, Your Grace—”

“Please?” Joffrey mocked. “Please, your Grace, don’t be cruel? Shall I give him a doll to cuddle in her absence, little dove?”

Her face flushed red, but she said nothing else.

Tyrion, ever perched like a cat at the edge of danger, gave a sigh and stood from his seat. “Perhaps the lady is simply delayed, Your Grace. Seas do not always obey your schedule.”

“Delayed,” Joffrey scoffed. “Or invented. I say we give the dog a bone and send him back to his kennel.”

Tyrion’s brow twitched. He glanced toward Sandor.

The Hound didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the weight behind his silence could flatten a castle wall.

He should have known better. Of course she wasn’t coming. Maybe it was a joke, or worse, a pity game. What had he expected? That a woman like her—a lady of elegance, sharpness, born of salt and silver—would really stand at his side before all of King’s Landing?

Then—

The great doors creaked open.

Every head turned.

Two knights pulled the towering iron doors aside, and warm sunlight spilled across the marble floor. A hush fell so quickly it was as though the entire room had been dunked underwater.

A herald’s voice rang out:

“Announcing—Lady Velaryon. Of House Velaryon.”

There was a pause. Audible surprise.

The name echoed, rippling through the nobles like a stone dropped in still water.

Cersei turned slightly, golden brows raised.

“Velaryon?” Joffrey repeated, frowning. “They said she was of House Velaryon?”

No one answered. No one could.

Because she stepped into the light like it belonged to her.

Her gown was sea-green and threaded in silver, the colors of the Driftmark coast. The silk clung to her body with practiced elegance, bell sleeves trailing behind her like mist over waves. She wore no crown, no heavy jewels. Just the ripple of wealth in her stitching and the way she carried herself—head high, shoulders regal, her walk deliberate and unhurried.

And her hair… it wasn’t braided in the old style. It fell loose, free down her back, with only a single pearl-pinned wave tucked behind one ear. A quiet rebellion.

The court murmured as she passed. No one seemed to know who she was.

But she commanded their silence all the same.

At the foot of the Iron Throne, she bowed deeply.

“Your Grace,” she said with a soft, velvet voice, eyes raised to Joffrey. She dipped her head again to Cersei, then offered Tyrion a gentle nod. The Queen Mother blinked. Sansa stared.

No one spoke.

Then she turned toward the shadows.

Toward him.

Sandor stiffened, suddenly aware of how large and dark and ugly he must seem compared to her elegance. He expected hesitation. Disgust. The reveal of the prank.

Instead, she smiled.

Soft, amused. Real.

She walked to him with grace that curled around every movement, her bell sleeves sweeping behind her, the scent of salt and sandalwood in her wake. The sound of her heels against stone echoed like a heartbeat.

When she reached him, she looked up.

And before he could say anything—before the doubt in him could open its mouth—she said brightly, “My dear, you look like a brute.”

The court gasped.

She reached up with calm hands and cupped his face, one palm resting against the burned side of his cheek like it was made of porcelain, not scarred ruin.

“Smile,” she added, her voice dropping. “Why don’t you?”

He blinked, stunned. Her hand was warm. Gentle. Real.

And for the first time since entering that gods-damned room, a low sound escaped his chest.

A laugh.

Rough and brief—but real.

He turned away, lips twitching against a grin, cheeks flushing beneath the scar. “You’re late,” he muttered.

“I know.” She smiled. “But I came.”

The King stood, face souring. “Kiss him,” Joffrey commanded. “Kiss your mutt. If this so real!”

Cersei said nothing. Tyrion narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t have to,” Sandor mumbled, pulling back slightly.

But she leaned in with a grin, loud and warm and confident.

“Well,” she said to him, voice lifted to the court, “kiss me, mutt.”

He froze.

Gasps again. Whispers.

Then she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his—rough, sudden, heated. His lips parted, and it was awkward, but she didn’t shy away. Her hands braced against his chest like she meant to stay. When they broke apart, her thumb brushed over his chin.

“You don’t have to be so rough,” she whispered, eyes twinkling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The court was in chaos now—half-shocked, half-horrified.

“This is a joke!” Joffrey barked. “I demand proof—bedding ceremony, this very night!”

The room went dead still.

Cersei looked mildly intrigued.

Tyrion groaned under his breath.

But she turned back to the throne, smiling sweetly. “If that’s what you desire, Your Grace,” she said without blinking. “It would be no hardship. Making love to my husband isn’t a problem.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

Gasps erupted.

Tyrion stepped forward quickly. “That’s quite enough.”

But she wasn’t done.

“We will wed tomorrow,” she said, smiling now. “If Your Grace would be so gracious as to host.”

The court didn’t know whether to bow or faint.

But Sandor?

He just stared at her, a thousand questions screaming in his chest.

And all of them quieted when she reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his.

The chambers were smaller than hers at home.

That was the first thing she thought when the door closed behind her with a soft thud. No open arches to the sea. No breeze to sweep through silk curtains. The walls here were heavy with tapestries, stone cold beneath her bare feet. A single window let in slanted light from the courtyard torches below. The fire was already lit in the hearth, but it did little to warm the quiet.

She walked slowly across the room, her bell sleeves dragging behind her, her sea-silver gown whispering secrets to the stones.

At home on Driftmark, her chambers were open and wide. Her bed had no curtains. The ocean could be heard in every breath. She missed it. The salt. The freedom. The space.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t turn, only smiled faintly at the window as the familiar heavy steps moved inside.

Sandor.

His presence always came before the sound — a weight in the air, a pull behind the ribs. He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. He never did things gently.

“You’re alone,” he said gruffly, like it offended him.

“I prefer it,” she replied.

There was a beat of silence behind her. She could hear his breath — short, sharp. Pacing. Boots scraping faintly against the stone.

“You’re a stupid girl.”

She turned now.

He was tense, jaw set, the torchlight throwing gold across his burn-scarred face. His hands were clenched at his sides. His voice shook with something like anger, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—they searched her like he needed an answer that could unmake him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Why would you—this is just supposed to convince them.”

She stepped toward him.

Elegant. Calm.

“Relax, I said yes remember.” she said, as if reminding him.

He blinked, like he still couldn’t believe it.

“You’re playing some game ,” he said. “I’ve seen better men ruined by court women and their pretty lies.”

“Do I lie?” she asked gently, stopping in front of him. “You asked me to marry you. Now I am accused of playing games.”

He didn’t answer.

She tilted her head, one brow raised. Then, in a whisper, like she was teasing the sea, she added, “Kiss this stupid girl goodnight.”

His lips parted.

His eyes narrowed, searching her face. She wasn’t mocking him. Not playing. Just standing there, daring him, velvet and salt and moonlight.

When he didn’t move, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Not softly.

She yanked him to her.

And he broke.

Sandor kissed her like he had waited his whole life for someone to choose him. It was not gentle. It was fire licking through storm, rough hands grasping her waist, mouth crushing hers, his breath hot and uneven. She gasped against him, and he took it, deepened it, hands sliding into her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.

But she didn’t.

She held him right back. Firm. Certain. Her fingers gripped his tunic, her lips moved with his, slow and hungry and sure.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead fell to hers.

They stood there, breathless.

He hadn’t meant to lose control. But she didn’t seem to mind.

She smiled softly, still catching her breath. Her hands slid down his chest until they rested just over his heart.

“Good night, my dear,” she whispered, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sleep well. For me.”

She turned and walked toward the bed, slowly beginning to unlace her sleeves, unhurried.

And Sandor Clegane, who had known fire, war, blood, and scorn—stood in the glow of the firelight, utterly wrecked by the way she had said my dear.

He didn’t say good night.

But he watched the whole time.

And he didn’t leave until the fire burned low.

The bell only rang once.

Not the high, rolling peal of a royal wedding, nor the trumpets and fanfare of noble procession. Just one solitary ring from the Sept tower—a sound more solemn than celebratory. It echoed over the courtyard like a final breath held in reverence, and drifted away like mist over Blackwater Bay.

Sandor stood alone near the altar, stone still, arms rigid at his sides.

The red of the Sept bled around him—candlelight flickering off tall marble columns, golden pools dancing on the polished floor. Above, the Stranger loomed down from painted glass, its expression unreadable. If Sandor noticed it at all, he gave no sign.

His leathers were brushed. His beard had been trimmed—poorly. A new surcoat had been thrown over his shoulders, black with the faintest sigil of House Lannister sewn into the hem, as was custom now, though he wore it like a man wrapped in old wounds. Sweat clung beneath the cloth. His hand opened and closed once, fingers flexing like he might rather have a sword than a wedding band.

He expected jeers. Or silence. Or worse—Joffrey’s laughter.

What he did not expect was honor.

The first to enter were the Velaryons. The banners of sea-green and silver unfurled behind them like ocean mist rolling in. They did not slink like defeated guests, nor storm like insulted nobles. They walked with the slow, regal confidence of people who belonged anywhere they stepped, salt-touched and sun-warmed, like they had brought the very sea with them.

At their head walked her father.

Tall, proud, and carved from the bones of ships. His cloak was pinned at the left shoulder, fastened over a neatly wrapped stump where his arm had once been. The stories had spread in whispers: a kraken, they said, rising from the depths during a storm when his daughter was just a girl. He had shielded her with his own body. His arm had not survived—but she had. And that, he always said, was the trade he’d make again.

When he reached Sandor, there was no scorn in his eyes. No fear. Just a long, steady look, as if weighing not the man’s title, nor face, but his spine.

Then the old sailor placed his hand firmly on Sandor’s shoulder.

“She laughs like her mother,” he said in a low, rough voice. “And she’s got my fire. Keep her laughing, and she’ll forget to set the world alight.”

Sandor couldn’t speak. Only nodded once, mouth slightly parted, startled by the warmth in the gesture.

A beat later, her ladies-in-waiting filtered in, all of them cloaked in the sea tones of her house—dusted jade, pale green, glistening silvers like salt crusting over pearls. One of them, younger than the rest, blushed furiously when Sandor glanced her way and whispered behind her palm, “He’s not as beastly as they say.”

And then she arrived.

The entire Sept seemed to still.

She didn’t just enter. She filled the room. Like light. Like tide. Like something ancient and elegant walking barefoot from the sea.

Her gown was soft seafoam green with long bell sleeves that whispered when she moved. The silk clung to her body as if the dress had been sewn straight to her skin. Her hair was not braided as tradition demanded. It fell freely in soft waves, the only decoration a pair of silver combs at her temples that caught the candlelight as she passed. Every inch of her was noble, but she carried herself like someone who had never once doubted her place in the world.

She did not stop at Joffrey.

She did not bow.

Her smile did not falter as she walked straight to Sandor.

He couldn’t breathe.

She was real. She hadn’t fled. She wasn’t some joke the gods were playing. She walked to him with a smile like moonlight over calm waters and placed a kiss—a real kiss—on the burned side of his cheek.

“Steady,” she whispered against his skin, her breath warm. “You’re not dreaming.”

He felt the words in his bones.

The ceremony moved on without pause. The septon droned about sacred unions and the joining of souls, while courtiers whispered behind hands, the Queen sneered from her seat, and Joffrey sat cross-legged, eyes rolling at every mention of duty. He sighed loudly, exaggerated and boyish.

“Let’s move it along, old man,” Joffrey muttered. “Before the dog chews his own leash.”

But the septon continued. And when it came time to speak, she did not hesitate.

“I do,” she said clearly.

Sandor’s voice was hoarse when it followed. “Aye.”

Then, soft-footed and without fanfare, the maester stepped forward.

It was the law, after all. The King had requested confirmation of her purity. And she, raised by the salt and waves, did not flinch at customs steeped in rot. Her maid followed her from the Sept with quiet dignity. And when she returned, her head held high, her cheeks a little warmer, she looked not like a woman humiliated—but like a queen who had simply walked through fire untouched.

“Untouched,” the maester said aloud to the gathered court.

Joffrey raised a brow, unimpressed. “Well then,” he said with a sneer, “go and make it true.”

They left to jeers. Laughter. Betting whispers from the back of the hall.

But none of it mattered once the doors closed behind them.

The room was heavy with candlelight, thick with the scent of fresh linens and rosewater, though neither masked the storm rising in Sandor’s chest. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the last whispers of the court like a stone dropped into deep water. At last, they were alone.

He didn’t look at her

Not at first.

His boots thudded against the floor as he paced once, twice. Then, with a growl barely audible, he began unbuckling the leather strap across his shoulder, the motion sharp and practiced. He didn’t savor it. He wasn’t unwrapping a gift — he was bracing for the blow. The pity. The disgust.

He didn’t want her to see.

When he finally turned, she had already shed her veil, fingers toying gently with the combs in her hair, letting them fall one by one onto the low table. Sea-colored silk clung to her body like a second skin, the long bell sleeves dragging as she stepped out of her slippers and walked toward him without hesitation.

He avoided her gaze, hands moving too quickly now — to the belt at his waist, the buckle of his trousers. Get it done, he told himself. Get it done before she changed her mind.

“Stop.” Her voice was stern.

Sharp as the edge of a broken shell.

He froze, his fingers stiff above the leather. Slowly, his eyes flicked to hers — searching for mockery. For hesitation. For that look they all wore eventually: one glance at his face and the soft recoil, the twitch of revulsion, even when they tried to hide it.

But it wasn’t there.

Only stillness. Power. Patience.

And when she took a step forward, he took one back, his lips parted like he’d just taken a blow to the stomach. “I knew it,” he muttered hoarsely, the words slipping out of him before he could stop them. “Thought maybe you—maybe you looked at me like I wasn’t—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

She chuckled.Softly. Slowly. Like it had bloomed in her throat and poured through the room like warm wine.

“My Hound,” she said, her voice no longer sharp, but velvet-wrapped and thick with promise. She stepped closer again, her bare feet silent against the stone. “Please. Be gentle. Be slow.” Her hands slid up his arms, her palms steadying him. “I want to feel every bit of you.”

Something in him unraveled then.

Something tight and wound and aching that had never loosened, not once in all his years.

She kissed him slowly, her lips brushing his like she’d waited her whole life to know his mouth. His first instinct was to take it — to devour — to grab her hips and shove her down, take her from behind like he was used to, like it was easier not to see. His fingers dug into her waist before she pulled back, whispering a quiet “No.”

She climbed into his lap, straddling him with gentle precision. Her thighs spread over his, her skirts pooling at their hips. She cupped his scarred face between her hands and guided his mouth back to hers. The kiss deepened — not rough, not wild, but aching and tender and full of every unsaid thing that had built since the moment they met.

He tried to speak, but it came out coarse, needy, unfiltered. “Fuck… you feel so warm.”

Her smile curled into his mouth.

“Tell me,” she whispered against his lips, “tell me what you want.”

“To give you my seed,” he rasped, breath ragged, “a son, if you allow me.”

“Yes,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him with sinful grace. “Yes, my love. Give me your heir.”

He groaned, head dropping into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses into her skin as she guided him in, inch by slow inch. Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she cupped the back of his neck, holding him there, whispering praise as his hands trembled on her hips.

“You’re inside me,” she murmured, voice thick and heavy, “so deep, gods, I feel you in my bones. That’s it. My good, strong husband…”

And he lost himself.

He moved with desire now, each thrust slow, drawn out, his forehead pressed to hers as she rode him to completion. When she felt him start to shake, she kissed him harder.

“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words rasping up from some deep, unused place inside him.

She pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you too.”

He held her until the candle guttered out, until sleep dragged him down with her body curled against his chest and his arms locked tightly around her waist, like he feared she might vanish come morning.

The next day, the air inside the Red Keep hung thick with anticipation. Court was assembled early, robes gathered, wine poured, mouths whispering.

Joffrey lounged lazily in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm, smirking. “Well? Was the dog house-trained?”

A lone voice cleared his throat. One of Sandor’s sworn men — red-faced, eyes darting to the floor. He bowed low.

“It was… consummated, Your Grace.”

Joffrey scoffed. “He probably mounted her like a stray. Gods, I pity the girl—”

“She was on top,” the guard mumbled quickly.

The room went still.

He swallowed thickly. “She said—uh… she said, ‘My Hound, please… be gentle and slow. I want to feel every bit of you.’”

Silence.

Then a loud, cracking laugh from Tyrion, who nearly choked on his wine.

Sansa turned sharply, her cheeks burning, though the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

Even Cersei narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight, as if trying to decide whether the embarrassment or the scandal was greater.

Joffrey slammed his palm down against the arm of the throne, face twisted in rage. “Summon her!” he shouted. “I want her brought to me. Now.

The Red Keep’s throne room was cold in the morning light. Not cold in temperature—though the stone still held the chill from the night—but in presence. It was the way the light filtered down like judgment, the way the Iron Throne sat jagged and too high, the way silence clung to the walls like it was listening.

The doors creaked open.

She walked in alone.

No guards. No fear. Just the sound of soft silk brushing the floor, her sea-green skirts gliding like mist over stone, bell sleeves floating at her wrists. Her hands were clasped before her, posture straight, unshaken. Her silver hairpins caught the light as she bowed her head, not too low, not too long—just enough to be respectful, not submissive.

Joffrey looked at her like one might a puzzle that refused to be solved.

She was far too calm.

Far too lovely.

Far too untouched by the cruelty he had come to expect from the world he bent beneath him.

“You,” he said, voice sharp and uncertain. “You can’t possibly mean it.”

Her head tilted slightly, smile warm, unbothered. “Mean what, Your Grace?”

“That you’d lie with him. With a dog.” His voice rose. “You expect me to believe a lady of your name and standing would lower herself to that?”

She offered him a gentle shrug, silk whispering as she moved. “Do you take me for some fool?”

He snapped upright in his throne, jaw clenched. “Yes! I—”

“I take you for a king,” she said, cutting in with soft authority. “Whether you are a fool or not… is up to you.”

The throne room froze.

Even the guards glanced at each other, uncertain if they should breathe.

Sandor had been standing stiff and silent beside the dais—let out a short, amused breath. A low rasp of a laugh he didn’t bother to hide.

Joffrey’s face twisted. He rose, nearly knocking his goblet from the arm of the throne. “You—”

But she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she turned to Sandor, her voice kind but sure, as if they were alone.

“I would like to take him home with me. To Driftmark. My home.” She turned back to Joffrey. “I will leave twenty guards behind. And gold, if that is your price.”

Joffrey scoffed, lips curling. “I don’t need your coin for that pity of a man.”

The words hung, suspended.

“So be it,” she replied. Calm. Clean. Final.

And they turned to leave.

Her chambers were already being packed when they returned.

Her maids worked in silence, folding fabrics, fastening trunks. The air was warmer here, filtered through gauzy curtains that fluttered against the stone window frames. She moved through it easily, barefoot, shedding the tension of the court like a cloak left behind.

The door to her chamber clicked gently shut behind them. A servant had lingered to bow, then gone without a word. Outside, the keep still moved like a stirred anthill — talk of the Velaryon bride, the dog-husband, the Driftmark exit. But in this room, time had slowed.

The warmth hit Sandor first — the difference. The air inside wasn’t the cold stone of the barracks or the reeking stalls of the city. No, this smelled of orange blossom and salt, of soft powder and faint perfume. The sea lingered on her belongings, like her homeland refused to let her go.

His boots sank into a thick woven rug, seafoam green, surely imported, and he felt out of place already. He lingered at the threshold like a soldier returning to a battlefield, stiff and unsure. Her back was to him, delicate fingers unfastening a silver clasp at her collar.

“My rooms at home are bigger,” she said softly, not looking back. “Higher ceilings. Open air. You can hear the gulls and smell the tide. And my windows… you could lean right out over the cliffs and let the wind wrap you like a shawl.”

Her voice was wistful. Not bragging. Just remembering. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the silk of her gown. Sea-green, again — the color suited her. Or perhaps she suited it. She belonged to it.

She wasn’t made for stone walls and whispers.

She turned slowly.

The dress had loosened at the collar. Her hair had fallen a little, tendrils slipping over her collarbone. Her eyes searched his face—those bruised, stormy eyes, too clever for their own good.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “Did Joffrey’s venom sink that deep?”

“No.” The word was low. Hard. “It ain’t him.”

Her brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly.

Sandor’s hands moved toward his pocket without thinking. His fingers fumbled against the worn leather pouch at his belt, callused fingertips scraping the seam. It felt heavier than usual. Wrong in his hands. Like it wasn’t meant for this.

Still, he pulled it open. The sound was loud in the silence — the coins inside shifting like bone dice.

Her eyes dropped to it.

“I should… pay you.” The words scratched at his throat like gravel. His eyes burned. He didn’t look at her. “For pretending. For being kind. For making me feel like—like…”

His voice cracked, the rest lost to the air.

“I thought I could walk away,” he muttered, jaw tightening, “but… fuck, I don’t want to.” She watched him. His face was turned half away, his mouth a grim slash of regret. But his hands were trembling, white-knuckled around the coin pouch.

Her chest ached.

She crossed the space between them in silence. Each footstep was soft — not because she was afraid, but because she was deliberate. She moved like water: graceful, slow, unable to be stopped.

Her hand touched his, gently, just enough to still his fingers.

“Sandor,” she whispered.

He glanced down at her, face unreadable — except for his eyes. His eyes were wide, helpless.

She took the pouch from him and set it on the low table beside them without breaking his gaze.

“You can still be sworn to my father,” she said softly. “Still serve my family, if that’s what you want. No shame in that.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. His shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for the goodbye.

“But you’re still my husband,” she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You still hold that title. And if you want it, my lord—” she reached up, cupping his scarred cheek with one warm, steady hand “—you may keep it.”

His breath caught. His hand twitched at his side. “Don’t mock me,” he muttered hoarsely

She stepped closer. Pressed her body against his.

“Your brute charm…” she smiled, voice like silk against his throat, “…has worked on me.”

He made a broken sound—half breath, half laugh—and then she felt his arms come around her, not forcefully, not desperate, but like the closing of a door against the cold. His head lowered into her shoulder, resting there a moment as if he didn’t quite believe she was real.

Her hand moved through his thick, dark hair. “You’re mine,” she whispered.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

“You’re mine.”

[itisjustwhatitis]

it makes me genuinely upset how adorable this man is like omg weren’t you a meth head

[itisjustwhatitis]

I want the sad Ronin I'm afraid

[itisjustwhatitis]

When a Man Loves a Woman - Joel Miller

Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Tags: 18+, Smut, Porn Without Plot, Dom/Sub, Older Man/Younger Woman, Kitchen Sex, Handjob, Possessive Behavior, Secret Relationship, and Sweet ol' Tommy Miller Makes an Appearance.

Summary: You weren't ready for Joel to leave for patrol, so you found a way to make him stay, at least for a few extra minutes. It's not like anyone will notice, right?

The older, ruggedly handsome man stands over you with a revolver holstered to his side and a handheld radio clipped to his leather belt. At the base of the counter, beside your bare feet, sits a canvas backpack and a bolt-action rifle. Your panties are around your ankles, and the day's obligations completely vanished from your mindset.

A wrinkle forms between his brows while those dark, heavy-lidded eyes sweep over your curves, a perfect masterpiece. You were far too gorgeous for his rough, calloused hands to touch you in such a disgraceful manner.

The stagnant, lingering aroma of musk envelops the room, overshadowing the once inviting scent of freshly brewed coffee. An old, ceramic mug, reading in bold letters, Jackson Hole, Wyoming, rests directly beside your head. Its warmth begins to fade, forgotten amidst the passionate intercourse.

You bent over the kitchen counter, vulnerable and powerless, with your hands restrained behind your back, used to his disposal, like a ragdoll, everything you had desired to be to your neighborly companion, Joel Miller.

On this particular morning, patrol schedules had entirely slipped out of your mind, expecting to wake up, wrapped in his arms and tangled in the sheets; instead, you were disappointed to find an empty bedside and a heat emitting between your thighs. You couldn't relieve this ache alone, not when your partner is downstairs, preparing for his day.

The muscles in his arms were flexing, beads of sweat descending along his lower back from the physical exertion, making his shirt cling to his torso like a second skin, though he didn't cease the smooth, steady thrust of his hips. He continues to relentlessly rut into you, just as you had so desperately begged for.

Ragged breaths descend past your lips, creating a faint layer of condensation on the counter while his thick erection stretches you apart. It felt nice to take him entirely, to know your fellow patrol member has made you into his perfect little cock sleeve. He has ruined you for any other man, swearing you'll never have a dick like this again, and you recognize that to be the truth.

"You know, sweetpea... I wonder what the community would think if they peeked in the window and saw Miss Wymoin' bein' such a naughty girl for an old man."

His naturally curved cock repeatedly strikes the deepest parts of your cunt, making tears brim within your eyes. Only capable of letting out a series of loud, sensual moans, a tantalizing melody of satisfaction.

Before you had begun this secret love affair, the single father in his late 50s had experienced quite the dry spell. He had even come to terms with the possibility of never being intimate with another individual again, and as much as he yearned for love, it was simply a late-night fantasy.

Joel would never expect a significant figure in the community, appointed to the council and trusted to uphold a respectable reputation as the future of Jackson, to act out some of his most risqué desires.

A deep growl rumbles in his throat, watching from above as motion ripples through your soft skin and knees buckle under the pressure. He wraps his arm around your body and presses his palm into your stomach, before snapping his hips to feel the bulge inside you.

"Mh, poor thing's gonna be so sore from takin' this big cock... Gonna have to put on a brave face, ain't ya, baby?"

You nod obediently, his deep, southern drawl adds fuel to the fire, residing within the pit of your stomach.

His words fall on deaf ears; you only realize afterward, in a moment of clarity, what he meant.

Johnathan, a saddle hand with an unmistakable crush, will see you in the stables today, and perhaps, his not-so-subtle approach will finally get the point across. You belong to someone else. If the hickies scattered across your neck aren't enough of a giveaway, maybe it'll be the noticeable limp in your step.

Your warmth squeezes around his cock as you approach the orgasmic threshold, practically withering beneath him when the sweet release you'd been longing for washes over your being.

“Oh fuck, that’s it... That's it, baby. You did so well for me." Joel praises, lifting you upright against his chest, feeling your body spasm with aftershocks. He kisses along the valley of your neck, provoking a small, desirable sigh past your lips.

He reaches between your bodies and gently slides out of your tight pussy, before leaning down to pull your panties up, causing his release, splattered upon your abdomen, to smear across the soft material.

You shift your body to face him, almost instantly activating a soft, pleading expression, used to your advantage at times like these, but as if you won’t get everything your heart desires.

“You wanna be of service?" He questions, cocking his head to the side, and staring into the depths of your eyes.

It was absolutely filthy how much he was enjoying this…

You nod softly, lacing around his magnificent erection and rolling down his foreskin, examining every single feature of the reddish, near-purple tip, dribbling out a white bead of pre-cum. He was already glistening with your slick when you began stroking him, feeling his hips jerk into you with a raw, primal desire.

You scoop some arousal onto your fingers and bring them between your lips, letting the salty yet sweet cum hit your tongue, listening to him groan in disbelief before grasping your jaw and capturing you in a feverish kiss.

He was smooth and tender to the touch, naturally resistant to the dry summer air, moving with an intoxicating rhythm. He slips past your lips and teases the roof of your mouth, savoring his essence on your tongue.

In a possessive manner, he wraps his hand around your throat, grounding you in place as desire flows through his veins. "F-finish on me, Joel~" you whimper against his lips, pushing him over the edge, feeling his warm release shoot across your pelvic region.

He let out a low, gruttural sound, caught in the intensity of his orgasm before inevitably bowing his head into the crook of your neck, tired breaths slowly synchronizing with yours.

-

The dishcloth used to clean each other now lies, discarded on the counter. You lean back in a flannel, sipping cold coffee as you observe Joel, slinging the backpack and rifle over his shoulder, a weight of responsibility you are all too familiar with.

"I'll give you a nice massage later." You promise sweetly as you step over and gently rub his lower back, aware that he may be stiff from this morning, not to mention the aches and pains he gets after patrol.

"I'll be fine, darlin', don't you worry your pretty little head. Just take it easy today, 'right?" He reassures you with a wink, making a smirk spread across your face.

You follow him to the entryway and lean your shoulder against the wall, rocking your foot on the floorboard. Unbeknownst to you, this relaxed posture accentuates your natural physique. Quite a sight for the older man, who glances over his shoulder with his hand lingering on the door handle, wishing he could stay longer. He could get used to spending the rest of his days with a pretty thing like you.

"Mhm, sure thing. I'll make Johnathan do all the hard work..." You conceal a cheeky grin behind the rim of your mug. His tongue darted out across his lips, realizing you'd caught on to his jealousy amid sex.

A loud, abrupt knock interrupts his thoughts, making him flinch and swing his head around, unlocking the door to be greeted by the last person he wanted to see, his younger brother, Tommy Miller.

The porch creaks under his worn leather boots, shifting back while he lowers his fist to hook upon his belt.

"Well, I'll be damned, where the hell have ya been? Everybody's been waitin' on you. I finally had to send the patrol team-" Tommy furrows his brows, diverting his attention toward an unexpected sight.

You give a small, cordial wave, and almost recoil in embarrassment. There was no possible way to pass this off as a "friendly interaction," especially when you were standing in your panties and a wrinkled flannel you had plucked from his laundry basket.

“Oh, uh. My apologies, I didn't expect you to have company over."

He tips the brim of his vintage cowboy hat in a classic salute, and those dark brown eyes catch a glimpse of your soft, supple thighs in the gesture, making a fevorish heat blossom in your chest. You had to admit, the Millers had a charming way about them, but you possessed the prize stallion.  

"Just get movin', will ya?" Joel mutters in irritation, knowing from the shit-eating grin on his brother's face that he'll probably never hear the end of this.

Just before he stepped outside, he turned toward you with an arm extending outward, fingers outstretched, waving you on in a silent request for your embrace. It wasn't long before you strode over, standing on the balls of your feet to kiss him gently, while driving your hand through his soft, gray curls.

In the distance, Tommy leans into the wooden porch post with arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head in pure amusement. His irritation had cooled down. Infact, he was impressed and astonished, never thinking he would see the day when the hardened man roped into a relationship.

Joel Miller Smut Taglist: @cutesyscreenname @milly-louise @joeldjarin @bohnerrific69

Taglist Form | Message to be removed <3

[itisjustwhatitis]

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists: