going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.
that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.
"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"
"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"
now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"
"no, it's not a date."
"it is a date"
"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"
"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"
"it's normal? you've done it before?"
you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"
bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.
"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.
"yes i have"
"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"
you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.
he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."
Your infatuation with one firefighter brings you to the station every day. That is, until you hear him call you a handful.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Firefighter!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader — 3K
▸ WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort, fluff, miscommunication!!!
▸ A/N: i was reading dear @heldbybarnes' delicious firefighter bucky and got hit with inspo to write this in an hour at 2am. just my good ol friends miscommunication and yearning! hope you enjoy, any comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated <3
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You meet Bucky by accident. Setting off the fire alarm in your building when you’re reverse searing a steak that billows smoke like it’s nobody’s business until it touches your finicky little thing. The alarm blares loud, waking up the entire building judging by the way your neighbors are complaining through your walls — even the ones above you.
You’re wincing in apology as you open up your windows and your door, standing on one of your rickety dining chairs and attempting to shut the damn thing up.
That’s when he comes in.
Sharp lines, blue eyes that could cut you like a diamond. Shoulders that could probably body you to the ground — and you’d thank him for it. “Are you alright, ma’am?” Oh, and that goes straight between your legs.
You’ve never really been in love before. You’ve never even really dated. Your college life was spent with tearstains on your textbooks and essay papers until each piece of work contained a fat, red ‘A’ and added up to your perfect GPA. Countless hours networking with people to wriggle yourself into your dream job and now those hours are wasted behind a desk with a career that gives you carpal tunnel.
Point is — when you set your mind on something, you obsess over it until you achieve it.
Your current target? One Sergeant Bucky Barnes from FDNY Engine 205.
From the moment he stepped in and delivered that question, to the second he looked into your eyes and grinned, those sapphire eyes twinkling as he said — “That dinner looks delicious, what I’d kill for a homecooked meal,” you knew you were done for.
Ask and you shall receive.
Now, on your work breaks, you find yourself stopping by with a platter of something new you’ve whipped up. Whether it’s a hearty protein-topped salad or a smoked barbecue selection or an array of sweet treats, you bring it as an offering to the local station.
Every. Single. Day.
The first day, one guy looks at you reluctantly at your foil-covered container and you had to stand there in shame as he told you that they couldn’t accept it due to health and safety concerns.
Your cheeks were hot as you held the tray closer to your chest, ready to hightail out of there before you can embarrass yourself further, when that familiar voice came.
“Steak alarm.”
Your gaze lifted to find Bucky standing there. He’s wiping his hands on a dirty dishrag, tight shirt clinging onto his body with the sweat and… general fit of the fabric, as he made his way towards you.
He lifted the foil and his gaze widened. It felt like you were taking a nosedive straight off a cliff into the Pacific — and you enjoyed every second of it.
“Now that’s a meal.”
Then he was summoning the rest of the station to take a gander at what you’ve prepared and suddenly they’re all picking away at it and thanking you for the first proper meal they’ve had in days.
And when Bucky once again flashed you that charming smile, one that would probably set off all the alarms in this station, it was over for you.
You should be embarrassed with being so obvious — some of the other firefighters have caught on to your teensy crush. Natasha, who’s probably the most badass person you’ve ever met, shoots you lopsided smiles every time you stare at Bucky. Sam and Steve are a little less subtle as they make comments like “your wife’s here, Barnes!” and you have to flail and panic until Bucky damns them with warning glares.
It’s not as if you talk to him. They’re much too busy for that. One of those days, you walk in and they’re actually gearing up to leave. Bucky had apologized profusely before he hopped in the truck and was on his way.
Instead, you yearn silently. You tell yourself it’s enough that you can see Bucky smile every day, that you can watch him devour whatever new thing you’ve made.
But the more you see him, the greedier you get.
When he does have time, he talks you through the mechanics of his job or describes the truck in great detail — until Sam yells at him, “Nobody wants to hear about your damn truck, Buck!” Then he’s flushing and saying sorry for boring you. You tell him in honesty that he could never bore you.
Suddenly, your days seem a little brighter. Instead of the humdrum life you’ve crafted for yourself, your pulse skips every time you think of something new to make for the station. You think of them as new friends. All of them know you by name and welcome you in with no hesitation.
It feels as if you’re making strides in getting to know Bucky, in getting him to actually like you. Not necessarily in a romantic way, just as two people becoming friends.
However, as you’re approaching the station late one day (your oven was being difficult), you find that the team is already on the upper level of the base having lunch. You reach for the stairway when you hear it.
“Come on, Buck, you know she’s got a crush on you,” Sam teases. The others titter in agreement.
Heat floods your cheeks.
“Quit it, Wilson,” Bucky growls.
“What? She too much for you?” Sam presses with a chuckle.
“She’s a handful, that’s for sure,” you hear Bucky mutter.
You hear your heart hit the ground. Laughter ripples through the space but there’s a ringing in your ears and your feet are moving before you can think twice.
Handful. A handful.
All this time, you thought you were doing something nice, but you didn’t realize you were actually bothering them. The street before you blurs as tears prick your eyes. Your breaths come out shallow as you trudge all the way home, the baked goods in your hands suddenly feeling like deadweight.
It’s only when you’re in the safety of your apartment that you allow yourself to breathe. At least as much as you can. You end up clearing out that tray on your own that evening with a depressing movie on screen.
From that point, you can’t imagine coming in to face them. You can’t bear the thought of pitying looks from the team or how Bucky is probably forced to smile to welcome you. Public servants and all. The last thing you want to do is inconvenience them when they’ve got a lot on their plates.
So you stop coming. You instead bury yourself in work, taking on more responsibility to keep your mind distracted — far away from the thought of being a handful. There are some nights when that melancholy morphs into irritation, how you wish you could spite him for not telling you the truth sooner. And then you realize that it’s not on him; you chose to do this. He was simply being kind.
You had mistaken that kindness for something more.
It’s been a few days since you last came and none of them have said a thing. It’s not as if you ever traded phone numbers. At least this will be a clean slate. You can forget this fluke ever happened.
You’re trying a new chicken recipe, frowning at your box of butter, when a knock sounds on your door. Your instinct is to sniff the air, wondering if the scent has permeated through the halls and your neighbor Mr. Tilman is here to complain again.
Wiping your hands on your kitchen towel, you swing the door open to find… not Mr. Tilman.
Instead, Bucky stands at your door.
He’s still in his fire station t-shirt.
He still looks delicious.
Those eyes that you’ve grown to adore light up when they see you. He smiles softly, “Hey.”
Your throat is dry. “Uh, hi.”
He looks you up and down and you realize now your disheveled state. Hair a mess, your oversized shirt is ratty and ends at your thighs. You reach up instinctively to try and fix yourself.
“You open your door to everyone like that?” His gaze flicks to your bare legs before going back up, cheeks a little pinker.
“Um, I thought you were Mr. Tilman. He doesn’t like it when I use too many spices.”
“You open your door to Mr. Tilman like that?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement.
You fight back a smile and shake your head. “No, not usually. I was still distracted with my cooking when you knocked. Can I help you with something?”
Bucky shifts a little nervously then and you finally notice the crinkling plastic bag in his hands. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I thought you were sick so I brought over some chicken soup. I can’t cook for the life of me so I bought it. I can promise it’s safe.”
Dammit. How are you supposed to get over this man when he does things like this?
“Oh, thank you,” you swallow thickly.
“You don’t look sick though.”
“I’m… not,” you say slowly, unsure of how to approach this situation.
Your feet shuffle closer together as you look down at them instead of him. “Yeah, it’s been busy.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
You look up and laugh awkwardly. The lie goes straight past your teeth. “No, no. Just work.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow, lips tightening. He knows. You should’ve spent the past few days learning how to fib instead of moping. “Is something wrong?”
“What? No. Why would something be wrong?”
Real smooth.
Saved by the bell, your fire alarm begins beeping aggressively. You’ve forgotten your chicken. A curse slips past your lips as you hurry back in but Bucky beats you to it. He’s switching off your stove, telling you not to touch the pan, and reaching over to toggle with the alarm.
And now the two of you are in your kitchen, standing side by side watching as the oil pops in your pan and your chicken is completely burnt to a crisp.
“Well, guess that recipe didn’t work,” you joke to break the tension.
Bucky is silent for a moment before he asks quietly, “Did I do something?”
“What?” You whip up to face him.
“Is work really the reason why you haven’t been coming around?”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you choke out a laugh again, “of course.”
The smile he gives you is almost sorrowful. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Flinching, you shift your gaze away this time.
“If I did something, I want to apologize. I’d appreciate it if you told me so I can properly say sorry and so I don’t do it again.”
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you shake your head, “believe me. It’s fine.”
“Then why?”
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, teeth sinking into your bottom one. Bucky’s gaze falls briefly again to your mouth before it returns to you. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”
His eyes flicker in surprise. “Why would you be a bother?”
“You guys are obviously busy and I don’t want to intrude—”
“You don’t— you could never intrude,” Bucky interjects softly, “what would give you that idea?”
You clear your throat and shrug.
“I lo—” he stops, flushing lightly, “We love having you there. All of us. We look forward to your visits, you know. Sam won’t shut up about everything you make. We might’ve taken you for granted and I am sorry for that, but I want you to know that you could never be a bother.”
“Thank you,” you murmur softly. “I’ll, um, come by tomorrow maybe.”
“And you don’t have to bring anything all the time. You must be busy with work too. Could just swing by to chat with us. Steve also hosts weekly game nights with Nat and you’re more than welcome to join us.”
Now it’s your turn to be flustered as you wave him off. “No, no, that’s for your team.”
“People bring their plus ones too, it’s very casual.”
“Yeah, but I’m not really anyone’s plus one,” you laugh lightly.
Bucky digs his fingers into his pockets and you see that his neck and ears are stained red. His gaze shifts around the room before they fly back to you. Honest blue eyes. “You could be mine.”
Your heart skips.
“I mean, you don’t have to— I just, you know, it would be nice. Of course, you don’t have to be my plus one. You could be someone else’s — scratch that, you could be the team’s overall plus one, but I think it would be nice if you were mine…” Bucky trails off and his usually tanned skin flushes a deeper and deeper shade of scarlet.
You’re not sure how to respond to this. Just days ago, you heard him call you a handful. You thought you were too much. You don’t know what to make of this.
Is he just being kind? Maybe he feels bad that you’ve spent weeks coming around and now he wants to repay the favor.
“You know you don’t have to feel bad and invite me,” you gently say.
“I don’t—” he looks taken aback, “I’m not inviting you because I feel bad. I’m, shit, I’m inviting you because I want you there.”
“Why?”
Bucky rubs his face aggressively, groaning silently to himself. “I feel like I’m going about this the wrong way. I… really like you.” Your heart stutters again, your breath hitching in your throat. “I wanted to ask you out properly, but I wasn’t sure if that would cross any professional boundaries, given how we met. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. If I’ve misinterpreted anything you’ve done, please let me know. I just— you were coming around and the team was saying that you came around to see me — and I guess I got my hopes up.”
You’re silent, and your nonresponse makes him squirm.
Why would he— this doesn’t make any sense. You heard him loud and clear at the station, right?
“But I thought you thought I was a handful,” you whisper.
“What?” He blanches, “What would make you think that?”
“I heard you,” you admit shamefully, “last time I came around the station. I thought— I figured I was being a nuisance so I didn’t want to overstep anymore.”
The gears are turning in his mind as he seemingly retraces his steps. You see the moment he remembers. His face pales. “Oh, fuck, oh god. No, shit. No, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay! Look, it’s totally fine. I get it. I can be intense and I don’t want to put that pressure on you.”
Bucky takes a deep breath, his eyes are kind and stern at the same time as he delivers his explanation. “I only said you’re a handful because you do so much and I don’t know if I could ever do enough to return the favor. I’ve been thinking about asking you out and I haven’t really… dated in a while — or ever for that matter — and I wanted to do it right. I wanted to do right by you. Fuck, I didn’t mean handful in that way, I swear.”
“Oh.”
“God, I’m an idiot,” Bucky moans, “I’m so sorry. Shit, you must’ve thought— I’m sorry. I never want you to think you’re a bother. You’re not. You’re the best part of my day. Every day, I look forward to coming into work knowing I was going to see you in the afternoon. I prayed so that we wouldn’t get called out during those hours.”
Your lips part.
He takes a deep breath, “That first day you didn’t come, I was worried that something happened, but the others thought I would be too much if I stopped by. Not to mention, incredibly inappropriate since I know your address from that first time. But shit, I missed you that day. I didn’t realize how much I loved seeing you every day until that first day. Then you stopped coming and I couldn’t stop worrying so Nat finally unofficially greenlit me to check on you and I came straight here. But then I thought that you were sick so I stopped by to get soup and— now I’m rambling. You didn’t ask for all that. I just need you to know that you could never be a bother to me. Never. Even if you were a handful, I can’t imagine anyone else taking care of you— I don’t want to imagine that.”
“Bucky—”
“And that makes me really selfish right? But I want to be the first person you call if anything happens. If something good or bad happens, I want you to tell me first. Because I like you so, so much. I should’ve made that clear earlier. But, again, if all this makes you uncomfortable, then tell me. I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”
“Bucky!”
“Yes,” he shuts up.
“I—” you realize now that you should’ve prepared what to say, but how are you expected to respond to that? “Thank you, um, for clarifying. I don’t even know what to say. I can confirm that I was coming around mainly to see you,” you say, embarrassment written all over your face at your confession, “you’re the best part of my day too. I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.”
His face is marred by a wince as he offers you an apologetic look. “No, I understand why you did. I should’ve phrased it better.”
“Well, at least that’s cleared up,” you smile, “but I do… like you too, that is. Professional code be damned, I would’ve said yes if you asked me on a date.”
The smile he gives you is blinding and you vow then and there that you would spend the rest of your life making sure he keeps that expression on his face.
“Well, since your dinner is… unsalvagable,” Bucky begins, glancing briefly at the mess on your stove, “how about I take you out for dinner? As a date.”
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, safe words, self-image issues, insecurity, angst if you squint, unprotected p in v, rough sex, dom bucky (he fucks mean), mating press supremacy, size difference, established relationships, hair-pulling, dacryphilia, overstimulation, love marks, dirty talking, degrading, aftercare, fluff, pet names: "baby" "sweetheart" "baby girl" "doll"
⭐︎word count: 7.3k
⭐︎ a/n: remember friends, don't be afraid to use safewords! kinda proofread so we kinda die like men
synopsis:
Bucky is a good boyfriend—clingy, loving, and perfectly respectful. There’s just one problem: after months of blissful dating, you still haven’t had sex. He’s been holding back, convinced that if he gives in, he won’t be able to control himself, and that you won’t be able to handle him.
But you’re determined to put a crack in that “good boy” shell of his. Now, standing before him in the flimsy night slip he bought you, his only defense is simple.
All he has to do is not look at you.
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No one ever saw it coming, but Bucky Barnes was the picture of a perfect partner. Everyone around him knew better than to get between him and his girlfriend. To say he was in love with you was an understatement—no.
He was hopelessly devoted to you. Utterly and completely.
Despite the rough glares, the deep voice, the intimidating stature, and the whole ex-brainwashed-assassin thing, he was a total softie when it came to you. It was like taking a big, brooding Bucky Barnes, tossing him into a blender, and turning him into pure, warm mush you could drink right up.
He was clingy in the sweetest way possible. He was always close, always there for you when you needed him. He gave you the softest kisses known to mankind. He spoiled you endlessly, told you every day how beautiful you were, and made sure you never once forgot how special you were to him.
Bucky loved you. You knew that for a fact. He was good at showing it.
Except there was one problem.
Aside from all the kisses and cuddles, he never took things any further. You both had been together for a few good months now, and not once had the two of you had sex.
There were moments—more than a few—when his body gave him away with a hard-on. When you were tangled up in bed, or curled together on the couch, you felt the way his body reacted to you. When you would try to slip your hand lower, thinking maybe it’ll get somewhere, he would gently catch your wrist and say “No, sweetheart. Not yet.”
After that, you stopped making the first move. You let him set the pace for his comfort. But as the weeks stretched into months, the harder it became to ignore the feeling of insecurity creeping in.
It wasn’t like he never gave you signals. He had bought you lingerie and suggestive pajamas to wear to bed more than once. And every time you slipped them on, you told yourself, “this is it. Tonight’s the night!”
But then… it never was.
You respected his boundaries—of course you did. You loved Bucky, deeply. And you would never push him into something he wasn’t ready for. You told yourself over and over that love wasn’t measured by sex, and that what you had was still something beautiful and real.
But that didn’t make the selfish, insecure ache go away.
Because sometimes, when the lights were out and Bucky was sound asleep beside you, those stubborn thoughts crept in anyway. Ugly, unwelcomed whispers that made you wonder if maybe… you weren’t what he wanted in that way.
That perhaps, you weren’t enough to make him want you like that.
You tried to shove the feeling down, to remind yourself that the way he held you, looked at you, and loved you meant more than anything else. But it was hard to silence that insecure part of you that just wanted to feel desired—not just loved, but wanted.
Eventually, you realized you couldn’t keep pretending the feeling wasn’t there. The weight of the feeling was too damn heavy on your chest, only growing heavier each night he refuses to touch you.
You loved Bucky. God, you loved him more more than anything. And you trusted him enough to know this wasn’t something you could just bury and let fester. You’d done your research—most couples fall apart over financial strain or intimacy issues. For you, it wasn’t just about sex. It was about the self-esteem that came with it.
You didn’t understand. How could he be so loving, affectionate, and clingy, with clear physical signs of being aroused by you, yet still refuse to take things any further? There had to be something deeper he wasn’t telling you.
So, you made the rational choice to talk to him—because communication was vital in a relationship.
The two of you were curled up together on the couch, your legs draped over his, his arm lazily wrapped around your waist. His thumb drew soft circles against your skin, and for a second, you almost lost your nerve—because there it was.
That damn erection pressing subtly against your thigh, the one he always deliberately ignored.
“Bucky,” you said softly.
He hummed in response, turning his head slightly toward you. That gentle, half-asleep smile of his nearly made you want to drop the idea of confrontation all together.
But you persevered. “Can we talk about something?”
That got his attention.
He straightened slightly, blinking the sleepiness from his eyes. “Yeah. ‘Course. What’s goin’ on?”
Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too fast. “I don’t want you to think I’m upset with you,” you began carefully. “I love you. And I respect your boundaries. Always.”
His brows furrowed together, just a little—as if he already knew where this was headed but didn’t like it.
“But,” you continued softly, “I need to be honest with you. It’s getting a little hard for me. Not because I want to pressure you—never that—but because…” you hesitated, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Because sometimes it makes me feel like I’m not wanted. At least not… in a sexual way.”
There was a quiet pause, and every second that ticked by felt like it was crushing your lungs. You didn’t even want to meet his eyes—too scared of what might come out of his mouth.
The silence drowned you. Would he finally admit that he just didn’t find you attractive enough?
“What? Baby, no,” Bucky said finally, shaking his head hard. “That’s not—”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard like he was trying to compose himself. “I don’t want you to ever think that. You’re everything to me.”
But his voice was shaky, his gaze flicking away from you for a second too long. All little things, but enough to make you anxious.
“Then why…” you trailed off, trying to steady your own voice. “Why does it feel like you don’t want me?”
His jaw clenched, and you could feel his hand squeeze slightly against your arms before softening again. “It’s not like that. I just—” he let out a small, forced awkward laugh that didn’t meet his eyes. “Can we not do this right now?”
Your heart squeezed a little. Not because he was being mean, but because you could see the way he was retreating—like a door slowly closing before you could get a foot in.
“Bucky,” you pushed. “I need you to be honest with me. I’m not trying to push you into anything. But I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect me. I… I just want to understand.”
He still wouldn’t look at you.
“Why don’t you want to have sex with me?” you asked bluntly—not as an accusation, but as a plea for the truth.
Bucky’s breath hitched. He finally looked up, lips parting like he wanted to speak, but no words came out.
“I…” he faltered, his hands flexing against your waist before falling away completely. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” He let out a shaky breath. “It’s the opposite, actually.”
You tilted your head slightly, confused.
He dragged a hand down his face, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he struggled to put his feelings into words. Finally, in a hoarse whisper, he admitted softly.
“I’m scared I won’t be able to control myself.”
His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders tense and jaw tight. “You don’t get it,” he continued, voice so low it was like he was talking more to himself than to you. “When it comes to you, it’s… different. It’s not just wanting you—it’s needing you. I mean, just look at you—”
His eyes flicked up, skimming over your face, down your body, then back to your eyes with a raw honesty that made your breath catch. “You’re this soft, fragile little thing. If I make love to you, I wouldn’t want to hold back.”
Bucky looked into your eyes like he was pleading you to understand—and you did. You did understand. But under the weight of his confession, a spark stirred in your chest. A stubborn, competitive fire. Because you loved Bucky—all of him. Which meant you wanted to take… all of him, even the parts he thought you couldn’t handle.
You inhaled slowly, scooting a little closer to him. “Then… what if we set a boundary?”
He gave you a questioning look. “What?”
“A safe word,” you explained carefully. “Something that we can use if it gets too intense—if either of us wants to stop.”
You thought it was a good idea, and expected Bucky to be on the same page. But he sucked in a breath, his brows furrowing together in that familiar expression—one you knew meant he wasn’t fond of the suggestion.
“I’m serious,” you said, gently reaching for his hand. He didn’t pull away, but his fingers twitched against yours, still unsure. “I trust you, Bucky. More than anyone. And I want you to trust yourself, too. We can set the pace, we can stop whenever you want. If you feel like it’s too much—just say the word, and it’s over. No guilt. No pressure.”
He bit his bottom lip, his silence making you more anxious.
“You think it’s that easy?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t think it’s easy,” you shrugged, trailing your hand down to his, giving it a soft, reassuring squeeze. “I think it’s a start.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, the sound rough. He looked down at your joined hands with a small pout that made your chest ache. “I don’t know if I can follow that,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t know if I can trust myself to stop once I start.”
You stared at him for a moment, processing his words, before finally asking, “But… is having sex with me something you want?”
Bucky’s gaze softened, a mix of frustration and longing. He didn’t need to think about it before answering, his voice rough but honest as he looked you square in the eye. “More than anything.”
Despite everything, you believed him. There was nothing more to say, so you let it go.
Since that night, though, you couldn't help but tease him. You knew it wasn’t exactly fair, but you needed to feel something—that spark, that connection, that heat between you. So, you started to frequently wear those slutty pajamas he bought you—lingerie so barely there you might as well have been naked. You would purposefully linger just a little too long when your hand brushed against his leg, letting your fingers trail down his thigh, knowing full well what it did to him.
You would snuggle closer on the couch, wiggling so your body pressed up against his, feeling his muscles tense as you did. And when you bent over—whether to pick something up or just move around—your hips would sway a little too much, your body just a little too close to his.
The little acts were almost unconscious—more instinct than strategy, really. But they were all worked without fail. You could feel that tension from him more than ever. His body would stiffen up, his usually bright puppy eyes would darken with slightly, and his jaw would clench in a sexually frustrated away.
As the days dragged on, you had noticed how much more on edge he seemed recently. Usually when you climbed into bed in your slutty pajamas, he'd welcome you and shower you in compliments. But tonight, his blanket was pulled up to his nose, his back turned squarely toward you.
“Are you calling it an early night?” you frowned, crawling onto the mattress beside him.
He mumbled something under the covers that you couldn’t quite make out. You lifted the blanket, slid underneath beside him, and felt him instantly tense up. With a soft, sleepy sigh, you wrapped your arms around his waist, settling your hands on his lower stomach as you spooned him from behind.
He immediately shuddered at your touch.
“Are you okay, baby?” you asked softly, nose pressed into his shirt, inhaling his scent.
“F-fine,” he grunted.
The contrast between your usually soft and puppy-eyed boyfriend and this pent-up, grumpy mess was amusing. Your hands subtly trailed lower, brushing the crotch of his sweatpants. He shuddered again, but didn’t pull away—he never did.
“Don’t you want to see what I’m wearing? I'm wearing one of the little night slips you bought me,” you asked softly and innocently from behind.
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Baby…”
Your hands trailed lower, your fingertips barely grazing the straining bulge beneath his sweatpants. God, he was rock hard, just the small graze of your fingertips made his hips buck and his cock twitch instinctively.
A low groan rumbled from his chest, and his eyes fluttered shut. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “If we were to set a safe word, what should it be?”
You couldn't help the small smile that curved your lips as you gave his clothed cock a subtle squeeze that made him gasp. “Well, if we’re speaking in theoretics, it should be ‘Brooklyn.’”
Your hands hovered just above him, expecting him to use the word, but he remained silent.
Instead, he took in a deep, shaky inhale. “Okay.”
Your hands slowly dropped back onto his cock, and he immediately twitched and throbbed beneath your touch. Your thumb grazed the outline of his head, and as you moved your fingertips, you felt something cool and slick.
He was leaking.
You grinned, though he couldn’t see it. “How was your day, baby?” you asked innocently, the question sounding almost taunting.
“G-good,” he muttered, subtly rocking his hips into your hand. “So... good.”
“That’s good,” you murmured, keeping your palm heavy and still against his cock. “I missed you today. I just stayed home and cleaned. I was wearing this night slip you got me. It’s so comfortable, it feels like I’m wearing nothing.”
His breath hitched. He could already picture it—you bending over to clean and pick up items, looking domestic yet tempting in that skimpy little dress. He could picture it clearly because you had been doing exactly that these past few days—purposefully teasing, purposefully taunting. Now, with your palm still against him, you were testing the last of his patience. His hips began to rock more suddenly and deeply, his cock aching for friction. He told himself he wasn’t going to lose control. He tried to convince himself that this act alone was enough for him.
As long as he didn't turn around and look at you—wearing that flimsy dress with your perky chest visible, your ass exposed—then he was safe.
All he had to do was not look at you.
“Fuck,” he swallowed hard. “Did you now?” he questioned, clearly trying to distract himself from your touch.
His cock was growing heavy and hot beneath your touch, and with the aggressive way his hips were rocking into your palm, you couldn't help but increase the pressure. “Mhm,” you drawled. “I was being very good today.”
His jaw clenched as he tried to compose himself, his back shuddering as your hand worked him greedily. “Yeah?” he breathed, straining the word out. “You were being a good girl?”
You let out a soft little whine at the nickname, your legs clenching together to soothe the warmth creeping between your thighs. Then, you lifted your leg, draping it lazily over his, pressing yourself impossibly closer so that your breast pushed against his broad back.
You peeked over his shoulder, his hands were fisted in the sheets. You knew you were being selfish, taunting him like this—but you couldn't help it. You wanted to see him break, and the cracks were becoming more and more visible.
“Bucky,” you whined, your free hand coming up to caress the soft strands of his hair. “Why won’t you look at me?”
The stark contrast between your soft, gentle caress on his hair and your greedy hand working his erection made it impossible for him to think. His mind was spinning with one thing only: to take you.
But he wasn't going to look at you. He made sure of it.
“Don’t you want to see how I look?” you pouted, squeezing your legs more tightly against his.
He took in a deep, steady breath before responding. “I’m sure you look beautiful, baby.”
“How do you know if you haven’t even looked at me?”
“Baby,” Bucky warned, his voice rough and demanding. “Don’t test me right now. I’m trying so hard to be a good, respectful man, but I—oh, fuck!” He moaned as your palm worked faster on his cock, giving it a subtle squeeze as you pumped him through his sweatpants. “Shit, baby. You better fucking stop right now or I’ll—”
“Stop what?” you cooed innocently, your head resting on his shoulder as you stroked him from behind. “I’m not doing anything bad, am I?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Don’t push it, honey. I mean it.” But despite his warnings, he had yet to say the established safe word. “Fuck—stop.”
You gasped softly, your teasing posture deflating a little with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, you mean it? Okay, okay. If my good, respectful boyfriend is feeling threatened by my hand, I definitely wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
You deliberately pulled your hand away, leaving his heavy, throbbing erection alone in the confines of his sweatpants. You even slid your draped leg off his, and the absence of your warmth made his hips spasm once, sharp and frustrated.
You paused, waiting to see if he would finally give in. When his shoulders remained tense and his body stayed still, you let out a long, disappointed exhale. Without another word, you turned back around so that both your backs faced each other.
Even though he hadn’t said ‘Brooklyn,’ you still didn’t want to risk pushing him further. You had never reached this point in your relationship where he sounded genuinely frustrated and pent up. You couldn't tell if his reaction was solely sexual frustration, or if he was actually upset.
Either way, you didn't want to gamble with the possibility of upsetting him.
You had tried. You had been trying for days, and now, you were done. Suddenly, the skimpy night slip felt like an insult to your pride and self-esteem. You pulled the blanket over your body with a shuddering sigh—a sound Bucky definitely heard.
A long, tense silence stretched between you. Both of you were completely still and neither of you dared to move. You wanted to speak up, maybe ask if you had gone too far—but Bucky was so damn quiet, you convinced yourself he had already fallen asleep.
Then, he spoke up first.
“Are you okay?”
You snuggled deeper into the mattress, trying to hide yourself even though he wasn't looking at you. “I’m okay.”
There was another pause, and you thought that would be the end of it. Then, you heard shuffling behind you. Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into soft fabric and a wall of muscle. Bucky’s warm arm curled tightly around your body and pulled you flush against him.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered into your ear. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Despite the sincerity and softness in his voice, you immediately felt his erection press against you underneath the blankets. You swallowed hard.
“You didn’t upset me, Bucky,” you explained softly, keeping your body still. “I just... I don’t want to push you or force you into something you’re not ready for. But I can’t lie and say it doesn't hurt, you know?”
You felt him stiffen behind you, his arms tightening around you just slightly. “It’s not that I’m not ready,” he explained gruffly, his voice deep and raspy. “I can take you right here, fuck. I want to take you right here—but I won’t, because I know you’re not ready.”
His hand rested heavily on your hip, his thumb circling slow patterns over the fabric of the gown as he spoke. You knitted your brows, glancing over your shoulder at him with a confused look. “What do you mean I’m not ready? I’ve been ready for a long time now.”
“I’m saying, if I pulled the blankets off you and saw you right now—wearing that slutty little dress—I’d flip that gown up and fuck you right through the mattress,” his grip on your hip tightened, his voice a low growl. “I want to, baby. I want you so badly, but I can’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Bucky,” you whispered, turning completely around to face him. He had to clench his jaw to compose himself. “I’ve told you this before. You can’t hurt me.”
“Jesus, baby. You’re not understanding me,” he grunted, his hungry eyes slowly wandering down your throat to your collarbone. “You’ll be a crying mess. You’ll be begging me to slow down, and I won’t be able to stop.”
His warnings should have scared you, but they only made you shamelessly wetter.
You bit your bottom lip, and you felt his cock twitch against your leg at the sight of your face. “Well… it’s a good thing we established a safe word, right?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I told you. Safe words are unreliable—”
But before he could finish his sentence, his words died in his throat as you slowly lifted the blanket, finally revealing yourself to him. The sight of the thin night slip clinging onto your curves, the strap falling down your bare shoulder, and the curve of your breasts poking through the fabric made his throat go completely dry.
“Fuck,” he grunted quietly—the word slipping out before he could stop it.
“Bucky, please. I can take it,” you reassured, holding his gaze. “I want to feel you make love to me. I want to feel every inch of you. I don’t want you to hold back. I can take it. Please.”
He let out a shaky exhale as his eyes fluttered shut, forcing himself to look away. You could tell it was taking everything in him to keep it together—but you also knew that just one more push could break him open completely.
So, you grabbed his hand and placed it back onto your hip, scooting even closer and batting your eyelashes up at him.
“I need you, Bucky,” you whined. “I need you so badly—it hurts. Please give yourself to me.”
His eyes fluttered open, and it was like something in him snapped. His eyes lost that usual soft, puppy-eyed glow and were replaced with something darker, hungrier. His gaze wandered down your body with a shaky breath, and as his eyes took in your whole form—vulnerable and inviting right in front of him—he couldn't hold back anymore.
He sat up abruptly, gripping the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers and yanking them down past his hips. His cock sprang free, heavy and hard, slapping against his stomach.
“I’ve been trying to be a good man—a good partner for you,” he snarled, his eyes burning with desire.
His free hand wrapped around his erection, pumping himself slowly and deeply. You watched, completely captivated, as his thumb rubbed the head of his cock, smearing the pre-cum.
“I’ve been doing so fucking good—holding out for months, trying to resist you. But fuck, you’re testing my patience, baby girl.”
“You asked for it,” he didn't ask or plead—he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly sound you barely recognized. His hand pushed the hem of your night slip up past your hip. “You told me not to hold back. Fine. I won’t.”
His lustful eyes wandered down your body, where your bare thighs lay exposed and the night slip was bunched messily around your waist. His gaze took you in completely—and you felt small and defenseless beneath his heavy presence. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, a low groan slipping from his throat as he admired you.
“Damn, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick. “I was right. You look fucking beautiful in this tiny dress.”
His fingertips caught the waistband of your panties, pulling them down in one swift tug past your legs and tossing them carelessly onto the floor. With rough hands, he gripped your legs and spread them wide—baring your wet slit to his ravenous eyes.
Despite being together for a few months, this was the first time you two saw each other completely bare, intimate, and vulnerable. All you could do was lay there mesmerized by the sheer size of him. He was big and hard in a way that should have scared you, and maybe he was right, maybe you wouldn't be able to handle him. But with your man hovering above you, practically panting at the sight of you—radiating an overwhelming need to claim you—you were determined to take every inch of him.
Bucky must have noticed your hesitation, because a smug grin tugged at his lips. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he taunted, fisting his cock in his hands. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”
His grip on your thigh tightened as he positioned his cock against your entrance, rubbing his tip up and down against your wet folds. You shuddered as he coated himself with your arousal, and you let out a shocked gasp as the tip of his cock probed and caught against your entrance before he pulled it back to rub against your slit again.
“Christ, baby…” he groaned, his cock purposefully catching on your entrance again before retreating. “You’re so damn wet. It would be so easy to just slip it in... to slam all the way in.”
Your legs instinctively tightened around his waist, gripping the bedsheets as if bracing yourself. “I-I’m ready, Bucky…”
A mocking and almost cruel laugh escaped his lips. He shook his head, probing his tip at your entrance again. “You’re not ready,” he rasped. “You’ll never be ready to take me—but it’s okay. I’m still a good man, a good boyfriend for you, aren’t I? I’m so good, I’ll even help you…” he slowly pushed the tip past your entrance, “… ease into it.”
A small whine escaped your lips as you felt his tip slip inside you. It was only the head of his cock, but it was enough to make your walls flutter tightly around him, subconsciously trying to invite him even deeper.
“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, eyes fluttering shut with all the restraint left in the world as he stilled his hips. “You’re so fucking tight, and that’s just the tip, baby…”
“Please…” you whined, “give me more.”
Bucky groaned—almost in frustration—as his hips slowly began to rock back and forth, fucking you with just the tip of his cock. You moaned beneath him, your back arching as you tried to subtly move your hips against his, attempting to push yourself deeper onto him.
“Oh, fuck, Bucky…!” you let out another moan as you pushed onto him, pulling more of his thick cock to stretch you out. It was more than just the tip, and not nearly halfway up his shaft, but it was enough to make your legs shake.
“Fuck… you greedy little slut,” he groaned, his hands finding your hips and tightening to keep you still. “You’re so fucking greedy, trying to take all of me already.”
His hips started to move as he held you still, fucking you with only what was already inside you and refusing to slam all the way in. The stretch burned, but it felt way too damn good. He was so big, stretching you full, and this wasn't even all of him.
Bucky gritted his teeth as he watched you whimper and whine beneath him. You were so tight your walls were clamping down on him, making it hard for him to move. He knew his size was hurting you, but how could he pull away when you were writhing beneath him so cutely?
Pleading for more when you could barely take what he had given you so far?
“What’s wrong, baby?” he cooed, leaning down to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”
“Y-yes…” you shuddered. “I wanted this… I can take it—oh, fuck!”
You squeezed your eyes shut as he began to push in deeper. Your wetness only made it easier for him to slide in. A low, raspy groan rumbled from his chest as he tossed his head back in pleasure, finally feeling your tight walls stretching around his cock.
He paused just before he hit the base. “Fuck, baby! God, you’re so fucking tight…” he breathed. “I need to put it all in, okay?”
Just as he was about to move his hips, he saw your eyes squeeze shut again as you braced yourself. “No,” he snarled, his voice dropping low as one hand cupped your face, shaking your head lightly. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, baby. You’re going to keep them open while I stuff the rest of my cock in your pussy. You wanted this, doll. So you’re going to get it.”
Your eyelids fluttered open, eyes glossy from tears. You looked up, and your once gentle, loving boyfriend was staring down at you like you were his prey. It was a dark, hungry gaze, as if the only thing he wanted to do was claim you, ruin you until your body was branded as his.
“I… I can take it,” you sniffled.
He smiled, a dark, wicked curve of his lips. He drew his hips back until only the tip remained inside you. He then lifted your thighs slightly, spreading you even wider for him, before he slammed forward until the base of his cock was buried deep inside you.
“Ohhh… fuck!” he groaned, letting himself be fully buried before immediately grounding his hips, rocking himself slowly against you.
Your back arched off the bed, eyes instinctively squeezing shut as he shoved the rest of his thick cock deep inside. As his hips rocked, you felt every pulsing ridge of him, and your walls clamped down on him, struggling to accommodate his large size. To say it didn't hurt was an understatement, but you were fiercely determined to take him. You wanted to prove to your boyfriend that you could be a good girl and take every last inch like you said you would.
“... Bucky!” you gasped. “T-too much… be slow, okay?”
He snarled as he leaned over you, the heavy weight of his body completely pressing down on yours. His flesh hand slid through the strands of your hair, giving it a rough tug. You winced, your eyes shooting open.
“That’s it. Look at me,” he demanded, grounding his hips against yours.
He moaned softly as he fucked himself into you. His vibranium fingers rested coolly on your hip, and you shivered at the touch despite the warmth of his body pressing down on yours. You let out a cry as he gave you one sharp, sudden thrust, your head tossing back before his grip on your hair went tighter, forcing your gaze to steady on his.
“I-I said to slow down…” you swallowed. “Y-you’re too—”
“Too big, am I?” he smiled, and it wasn’t the usual soft smile he’d give you. No. This smile was mocking, almost condescending. “I know I’m too big. But I warned you, baby. I told you you were this small little thing…” another sharp thrust that made you gasp, “... so small you can’t even take all of me.”
You tried wiggling around, attempting to make yourself comfortable—though it was futile. And the slight shifts and movements only made his cock throb harder inside you, each friction-filled rub making his shaft twitch with pleasure.
“Fuck… so… s-so small, so tiny and tight,” he grunted, his hips moving faster, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he continued to belittle you. “Thinkin’ you can take all of me… but look at you—you’re a crying, whimpering little mess.”
Bucky had never spoken to you this way. He always showered you with praise and soft words, but the sheer condescension in his voice now only made you wetter, driving an undeniable craving for more.
“M-more,” you begged despite your weak voice and legs trembling around his waist. “More… please—”
“Yeah?” he laughed, the sound sharp and disbelieving. “You want more?”
Before you could reply, his grip on your hair and waist tightened. His body fully enveloped yours, and he began pounding into you, hard and fast. You cried out, your hands desperately clutching his back as you cursed and babbled his name—but he didn't slow down for a second.
“Fuck—so fucking good, baby girl,” he groaned. “You don’t know how bad I wanted to do this…” He tilted his head down, pressing soft kisses to your neck that starkly contrasted the brutal, relentless pounding of his hips. “To grab you from behind every time you’re cleaning…” another kiss, “...throw you down on the floor and fuck you until you cry, until your throat’s raw from screaming my name.”
You were doing exactly that.
Tears welled in your eyes as he fucked you hard and deep. “Bucky!”
“Yes,” he breathed heavily. “Scream my name.”
“B-Bucky, oh my god—it’s too—I…”
“Shit, what a babbling little mess you are.”
He nuzzled his face in your neck, eagerly sucking, leaving filthy, bruising marks along your sensitive column. He was fucking you so hard and deep, mumbling dirty words into your neck—sounds you could barely distinguish over the frantic slap of skin, your own desperate moans, and the creaking of the bed beneath his assault.
Your head spun with overwhelming desire, and the moment his hand released your hair and trailed down between your bodies, his fingers finding your sensitive clit, you knew it was over. Your eyes widened at the overwhelming sensation, and your walls clenched down on his cock, tighter than ever, as you felt yourself coming undone.
“B-baby!” you gasped, clinging to him desperately. “I’m gonna—”
“You’re gonna cum, baby? Already?” he taunted, though his fingers never faltered in their relentless, merciless movement.
“Bucky… please, fuck, I’m going to come—it feels too good. Oh my god!” you gasped.
He sat up, his arms sweeping under your thighs, lifting them and folding you nearly in half. Your legs trembled, suspended in the air, while he slammed into you—deeper than before—in that punishing position.
You cried out his name, “Bucky! Oh my god—please, I can’t—”
“You can,” he grunted, his voice commanding, “and you will.”
He fucked into you, harder and deeper, indecent noises and rough words spilling from his lips in a relentless litany of lust. You felt him throb and pulse deep inside. Even through the haze, you knew he was close, too, but he wouldn’t let himself go. Not until you did.
“Fuck—come for me, baby. Now,” he demanded, the words hard and mean. “What the hell are you waiting for, sweetheart? Trying to hold out for me?”
“N-no, I…” you blubbered, his cruel, deprecating words sending an agonizing jolt of lust through your entire body.
His words alone were the final push. Your legs trembled, your eyes still wet with tears of pleasure and pain as you screamed his name. You clamped down on him, hard enough to wrench a loud groan from his chest, and came all over his cock.
“Fuck! Jesus, baby…” he snarled.
Bucky’s hips tried to continue their relentless rhythm, but he was forced to still because your inner walls were so unbearably tight. You panted and sniffled beneath him, trying to close and relax your legs, but he held them rigidly in place.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“… tired,” you whimpered.
“Yeah?” he smiled again, and this time it was with a softer adoration—his grin almost boyish. “You’re sleepy?”
You nodded.
He tilted his head, that soft admiration gleaming in his eyes. “But I haven't come yet, baby.” His free hand gently trailed to your cheek, wiping the tears away. “You’re not going to leave your boyfriend high and dry now, are you?”
“B-but…” you panted, your legs shaking uncontrollably. “I don’t think I can—”
His fingers cupped your cheeks, squeezing them to silence you. “Baby,” he warned, “I told you I couldn’t hold myself back once I started.” He then pulled his cock out slowly, the loud, wet sound of your arousal filling your ears as your face instantly warmed with embarrassment.
Before you could protest, he grabbed your hips with strong hands, hauling and flipping your body until your stomach hit the mattress with a soft thud. You yelped as his hands gripped your waist, hiking your hips and presenting your backside bare for him.
“We’re not done,” he grunted from behind you, grabbing his cock and positioning the head at your entrance for round two. “Not until I come.”
“Bucky, I—” your words died in your throat as he drove into you again in one fluid motion, filling you completely.
The stretch burned even more than before, and your cunt, overwhelmingly sensitive, forced you to bury your face into the pillows. Your hands squeezed the fabric as you arched your back, taking every painful inch of him again.
“Oh my god! T-too much…”
“But it feels so good, doesn’t it?” he moaned, fucking you deep. “Tell me how good it feels, baby…”
You were a babbling, drooling mess, barely able to form words, staining the pillows with your tears.
Bucky let out a disapproving sound from behind. His hand slunk around your waist, his finger pressing against your clit and rubbing it in rough, merciless circles. Your whole body convulsed at the sensation, utterly overstimulated as you shook and trembled. Bucky’s vibranium arm circled around your body, the metallic coolness making you tense up as he pulled your hips back and forced you to hold still.
“Tell me, baby,” he demanded, his voice raspy.
You tried to answer, you truly did, but only a ragged gasp escaped. Your eyes were fluttering, and your body trembled violently in his hold. He held you tighter, leaning down to bite softly on your bare shoulder.
“Fuck... I’m gonna cum, baby,” he moaned, his movements growing sloppy and desperate, losing all rhythm. “Christ, it feels so good, doesn’t it? You can’t even say anything because you’re so—fuck, so drunk on my cock... can’t even think straight either, can you?”
Your inner walls clenched and pulsed around his cock at his taunts, and the sensation shattered what little control Bucky had left. He gave you one final, rough thrust, his cock burying deep inside you as he let himself come undone, making your whole body jerk. Even as he held you impossibly full, his fingers never stopped their merciless pacing.
You were so stuffed with him, unable to form a single coherent thought. You weren’t sure how much you could take. He began to rock his hips again, a slow, agonizing grind against your overstimulated flesh.
“Yes, yes—you’re taking me so well, baby girl. Fuck, my cum is buried so deep—”
“...B-brook…”
His hips stilled.
His hands paused.
He held his breath, his face still pressed against your shoulder.
“W-what was that?” he rasped, waiting.
“... Brooklyn.”
The word broke him instantly.
Bucky snatched his hand from your clit and yanked his throbbing cock out in one urgent motion. A small, vulnerable whimper escaped you at the sudden, aching loss. His vibranium arm was quick and soft, turning you over. In the next moment, he had pulled you flush against his chest, both large arms wrapping tightly around your trembling body.
“Fuck, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice dry and thick with remorse.
He looked down to see your tear-streaked face and felt a sharp clench in his heart. His eyes drifted to your neck, the soft skin now riddled with dark, bruising marks left in his wake. He let out a shuddering breath, overwhelmed by the sight of you—utterly ruined by his intensity.
“Fuck,” he muttered, the curse directed only at himself. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to go that far. Are you okay? Shit…”
Your body shook, and your heart clenched at the sound of his distress.
You knew Bucky would never hurt you intentionally, but the overwhelming sensations left you physically weak. And truthfully, despite the intensity, it was the most mind-blowing sex you'd ever had.
“That was… good,” you managed quietly, your voice shaky and breathless.
He frowned down at you. “Good? Baby, how can you say that?” his voice wavered. “I… I hurt you…”
His thumb brushed the corner of your eye, wiping the wetness away. With a trembling arm, you lifted your hand, gently wrapping it around his wrist as you looked up at him.
“No… it was good,” you repeated with a breathless laugh, realizing how unconvincing you sounded. “It was good, Bucky, it was just… a lot for me, that’s all.”
His eyes softened, dropping to your hand wrapped around his wrist. He continued to soothe your cheek with his thumb. “I told you we shouldn’t have…” his voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “We shouldn’t have done this. I’m so sorry.”
“Bucky, stop apologizing,” you cooed gently, tilting your head up to press a messy, sluggish kiss to his lips. “It’s okay. You didn't hurt me.”
“Honey, look at you. You’re covered in…” he made a face, ashamed of himself. “… hickeys. And your hair’s a mess.” He raised his hand, trying to smooth the strands down.
“Bucky,” you said firmly, grabbing his hand and meeting his gaze. “Stop. I’m okay, baby.”
You gently moved his hands away from your hair and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. He let out a ragged sigh at the feel of your lips. “It was good. Really good,” you continued, your voice shaky but sincere. “And I want to do it again, and again, and again. More times than I can count. I just needed a little break, okay?”
He pursed his lips, clearly wanting to argue, but he held back. He looked deep into your eyes before nodding quietly. “Okay,” he repeated, but the word was strained, as if he were trying to ground himself. “Okay. I understand.”
A long pause followed—a silent moment where you two simply stared into each other’s eyes. He occasionally leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek, his finger dragging over your face reassuringly and gently, as if you were the most fragile thing in the world, and he hadn’t completely ruined you just moments ago.
“I know you said it was okay,” he whispered. “But I still feel like shit for losing control.”
You gave him a tired smile, your hands rising to cup his cheek. “But you listened to the safe word,” you pointed out. “You stopped the minute I muttered it, and you were just over here telling me that safe words were ‘unreliable.’”
He exhaled, breath shaky. “I know. As good as it felt, I didn’t want to hurt you. God. That’s the last thing I want to do.”
You leaned in, pressing a soft, slightly wet kiss directly to his lips—a gesture that held none of the rough lovemaking and only pure, quiet affection. “I know that, Bucky. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”
He looked down at the state of the night slip, now messily bunched around your waist with the strap falling loose from your shoulder. Your hair was disheveled, your neck was marked with bruises from his lips—and yet, to Bucky, you were the most beautiful and precious thing he had ever laid eyes on.
“This…” his fingertips fiddled lightly with the lace hem. “This dress is very dangerous.”
You smiled. “You were the one that bought it for me.”
Bucky huffed a laugh.
“I know. And all I had to do was not look at you.”
thank you for reading <3
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pairing: brother's best friend!bucky barnes x f!reader, AU setting
summary: It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know.
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with minor plot, childhood frenemies to lovers, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, dacryphilia, mean bucky, size kink, brat taming, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, jealousy, use of petnames (sweetheart, baby, angel etc.), reader described having hair bucky can twirl and as being smaller than bucky, no use of y/n, lots of cursing, bucky convinces reader to let him hit it raw (idk if that's a warning lol), moodboard pics do not depict reader
word count: 11.1k
a/n: idk if this is deranged in a hot way or just deranged but i hope you enjoy lmao. bucky is very mean in this and invades reader's privacy so stay away if that's not your thing!!
The abrasive, thrumming buzz of the lawnmower lets you know he’s back. You stop tapping on your phone, pausing for just a moment while you try to resist the urge. You fail. You pull up to your knees and peer out the window beside your bed.
Bucky is in your back garden, driving forward the shabby rusted lawnmower that lives in your shed. The one that has likely never been used by anyone but him. He’s not shirtless like he sometimes is - he’s in a black t-shirt - but you swear you can make out the muscles of his strong back even from this distance. The way they clench and tense with mild exertion. A heat settles low and deep in your stomach.
He’s waving before you realise you’ve been caught. You roll your eyes - exaggerate it a bit so you know he can see - and slump down on your bed again when he gives you a slanted smile.
The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.
You can’t keep doing this to yourself.
Or, rather, he can’t keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, it’s so much worse when they’re not.
Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbour’s house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.
Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ‘no’, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.
On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.
Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still won’t.
You’re not really sure what is up with Bucky’s family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.
Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Bucky’s room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your mom’s overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they don’t know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.
It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.
And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one you’re experiencing right now.
It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.
You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - they’re blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.
What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of What’s-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.
You never looked at him the same.
It’s not for lack of trying.
God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes.
Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. You’re sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.
But you have graduated now. You’re back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. It’s remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today.
And you’ve tried everything there is to try. You’ve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.
At Wanda’s recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.
You know it’s a stupid idea. It won’t work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.
The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasn’t ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Bucky’s strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that you’re lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.
You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up.
Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. You’re just a little floating head above the window sill. He can’t make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.
You’re back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.
He doesn’t need to be here, if he’s being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and there’s not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isn’t exactly a paradise, but it’s not bad either.
You won’t be here forever, though. He’ll take what he can get in the meantime.
He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard.
He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull.
His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions haven’t. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. It’s much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.
You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.
He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to “stop being such a pain in my ass”, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.
He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.
He’s sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether it’s yours or his, he can’t remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good.
He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what you’re doing right now. He wonders if you’re on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if you’re wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.
He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.
He imagines Matt as some football player. He can’t picture a face - just some obscure blur - but he’s probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He can’t see you going for someone without good grades.
Bucky’s grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. It’s probably the only reason he graduated high school.
Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. He’s probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel.
But that’s a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now he’s thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend?
Obviously not. But it’s a nice thought.
You probably don’t do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. You’re too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.
He doesn’t even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. You’re arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but he’s also just a man.)
Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isn’t strictly sexual - in fact, it’s mostly something else - but he’s not sure how to define it. He likes you, except ’like’ doesn’t seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So it’s easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself it’s all he wants.
He has run out of patience. You still haven’t come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.
He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you don’t hear his footsteps and think he’s eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesn’t.
He can’t remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room.
The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.
He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.
Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesn’t.
This is your diary.
The first entry is from three weeks ago.
22 May
I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didn’t want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. It’s not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. I’m just glad it’s over.
I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I don’t. I’m just relieved and feeling awkward. I don’t think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.
Bucky can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.
23 May
My family are ditching me. They’re all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I won’t be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.
He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, it’s kind of cute.
Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesn’t quite believe them when they say it’s not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.
23 May
Now that I have thought about it, I can’t stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said he’s going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while they’re gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think I’ll die if I have to see him do something like that again.
Bucky’s grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that he’s done everything else - he had forgotten about that.
He wasn’t aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word ‘porno’, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.
24 May
I might be going insane. I shouldn’t have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think it’s a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers aren’t big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Bucky’s fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.
The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didn’t black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.
25 May
This stupid diary isn’t doing shit. It’s making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Bucky’s stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until I’m an inch from passing out. Maybe that’s all I need to get this out of my system.
26 May
Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.
Bucky looked so angry. I think that’s why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending he’s my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guy’s name too.
Bucky hasn’t forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.
28 May
Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I haven’t gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-
“Fuck,” he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. He’s not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.
Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isn’t so prissy after all. He’s a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.
He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like he’s won some game that he didn’t even know he was playing. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it.
You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he can’t help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasn’t finished.
14 June
He came around with the lawnmower again. It’s getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-
He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.
-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. I’m so fucking wet. I’m going to have a long, cold shower and tonight I’ll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.
Then and there, Bucky decides that won’t be happening.
You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. He’s probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.
And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.
Except it’s not there.
You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure they’re not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t carry it in with you. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.
You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except that’s not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your mother’s hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.
You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, don’t let him find it. Please don’t let him find it.
You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didn’t touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.
Your parents’ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isn’t there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadn’t even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, you’re absolutely certain of. But you’re running out of options.
You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.
Your fingers linger over the wood of Bucky’s bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and it’s untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.
He’s lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesn’t move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. You’re distracted by it momentarily. You didn’t think this would be his sort of thing.
“What’s up?” he asks you, still not looking your way. He didn’t shower. He’s still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.
“Just saying hi,” you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.
He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. “Just saying hi.”
You nod. His smile breaks free then, but it’s not altogether a nice one. “Well, hi,” he says.
“Hi,” you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.
“What’s got you all buggy?” he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. He’s not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didn’t.
“I’m not buggy.”
“Yeah y’are. You got bugs.”
“You got bugs,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”
He laughs. “Alright, you don’t got bugs. I have bugs ‘cause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?”
Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. “Maybe I just wanna talk to you.”
“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. You nod.
“Yeah,” you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. “So what have you been up to?”
“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. “You know what I’ve been up to. You saw me out there.”
“Duh,” you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.
“Duuuhhh,” he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. “Why’d you ask then, smartass?”
“I meant, like, after that.”
“After I finished the lawn?”
You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.
“Not much. Watched this,” he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. “Did a bit of light reading. What about you?”
Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. “I’ve been in the shower,” you say casually. “What are you reading?”
“Long shower,” he says.
“Well it was an everything-shower,” you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.
“The hell is an everything shower?”
“Don’t be dense. It’s literally in the name. It’s called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.”
His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.
“A-as in,” you stammer. “You do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.”
His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. “Right. That kind of everything.”
Your face heats up. There’s a brief pause.
“So what are you reading at the mo-”
“Y’know I think you’d like this,” he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You can’t help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.
“Why is that?” you ask.
“There’s this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. She’s been working there five years and she still cries every time. She’s like you.”
“I’m not like that.”
“Yes you are,” he laughs and the sound travels through you. “Remember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?”
You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead.
“I was sixteen-”
“And if you’re tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say you’re full of shit.”
You look at him resentfully. “Like you’re any tougher. You’re the one who saved him.”
“Well you know I can’t help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. You’re a pretty crier, sweetheart.”
You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and you’re forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though it’s at your expense. You know instinctively that you’ll be failing at your new resolution tonight.
“Shut up. Don’t be weird,” you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and there’s something in his expression that you don’t like.
“So you said you were reading something?” you say. You’re aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.
“Mhm,” he says, nodding once. The programme can’t be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.
“I didn’t think you liked reading.”
“I have a newfound appreciation for it.” He smiles at the screen and maybe you’re feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise.
“What are you reading?”
Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.
“Don’t worry about it. ’S’too dirty for you, sweetheart.”
You really fucking hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, don’t let him have the book.
Your voice comes out weak and fractured. “Are you… reading smut?”
He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. “That what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.”
“Bucky,” you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. There’s a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. “What are you reading? Please.”
He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.
You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.
But then you’re rolling forward, hardly aware of what you’re doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually you’re played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re saying.
Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didn’t mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him.
You suppose it’s better that he’s laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful.
“Where did you get that?” you bark.
“Your room,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “Interesting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?”
“Fuck you!” you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. “You had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!”
Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch.
“Like I said,” he says sternly. “Don’t be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re an inch from passing out?”
You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.
“Fuck you,” you say again with considerably less vitriol.
“I will,” he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. “If that’s what you want.”
Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. You’re not sure if he’s messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.
“Got nothing to say now? That’s ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Let’s look.”
He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.
“I came home from college today,” he starts to read, voice low. “Everyone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I don’t know how it’s possible but he’s so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what he’s like in bed. I don’t think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.”
He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.
“You’re goddamn right I do,” he says, smiling as if he’s talking about something totally innocent. “You want me to show you, sweetheart?”
Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. You’re still suspicious. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.
He huffs an impatient sigh. “Don’t go dumb on me already, silly girl.”
He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.
“Why don’t you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.”
You’re not sure what you’re doing, but at this point it’s easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.
“I want him so bad. I think I’ll die if I don’t have him. The orgasms I’m giving myself aren’t enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. I’ll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. I’m going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.”
Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.
“Fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.
Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.
You’re in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined.
If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?
He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. You’re already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. You’re high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.
“You ready to admit it yet? That you want me?”
“I want you,” you breathe. It’s almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.
You feel his smile spreading against your own face. “I know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”
Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.
He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesn’t fumble even remotely with the clasp.
Once you’re bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.
A moan slips out at the sensation. So that’s what that should feel like.
“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you.
“Want you too. Wanted you since we were kids.”
You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.
“Since when?”
“Just fuckin’ told you,” he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. It’s a distraction tactic.
“No but when? What age?” Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. You’re soaked through.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.
“Yes it does. Tell me,” you say. Because you’re muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - you’re stubborn.
He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. You’re not.
“Was sweet on you when I was ten,” he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.
“Isn’t that when we first-”
“Yes.”
The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still haven’t lost your head completely.
“You’ve liked me since we first met as little kids?”
He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so you’re on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.
“Can you shut the hell up for two seconds?” he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Tryna do something here.”
You laugh at him, but it doesn’t last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - you’re struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.
He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. “You see how fucking desperate you are?” he asks. “Barely touched you and look how you’re reacting. Nobody’s ever touched you right, have they?”
You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. It’s almost predatory.
“Poor thing,” he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. “I can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait ‘till I get my cock in you.”
The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didn’t quite cover it.
None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?
He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.
“Y’feel so fucking tight,” he grunts, eyes on your lips. “This what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?”
You nod, but it’s not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.
“Yes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.”
“For how long?” he demands.
“I- what?” you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.
“How long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?”
Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you don’t answer him, he will stop again. And that’s a lousy deal.
“A long time,” you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.
“Fuck, sweetheart. Should’ve told me. Wouldn’t have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Would’ve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldn’t have had the time to write in that silly little book. Would’ve put you in your place.”
“Put me in my place?” you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you can’t concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasn’t so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.
“Yeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well I’ll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when they’re home.”
There’s something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. You’re not sure if you’ve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.
Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even make a show of it - he’s not even trying to make you watch him. He’s just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.
When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but you’re not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.
He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.
You’re still a little mad at him over that boorish ‘putting you in your place’ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.
He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and it’s not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didn’t think it would be this pretty. You didn’t even know a cock could be pretty.
It’s huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. It’s very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. “Feelin’ shy?”
Your mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know how much…” you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. You’ve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?
“Y’don’t know if it’ll fit?” he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.
“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to break you. Not this time, anyway.”
Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.
You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.
“What the hell, Bucky? Don’t-”
He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. “I know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. I’ll let you play with it as much as you want. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?”
You’re back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.
He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.
“Good girl,” he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. “My good girl You’re so sweet when you’re doing what I tell you to. Wish I’d known I could shut you up like this.”
You’re trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, it’s just turning you on more.
Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. “Condom,” you gasp. “In my room.”
Bucky laughs against your neck. “You think I’m wearin’ a rubber with you?”
“Wha- yes?”
“Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart, I know you’re on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.”
“What were you doing in my-”
“I’m clean, just got checked. And I’m willing to bet you’ve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.”
You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and you’re squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You don’t say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.
“Yeah?” he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. “You gonna let me skip the rubber?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just stop fucking around Bucky. Please.”
He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. It’s leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.
“Such a good girl,” he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. He’s thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if he’s trying to comfort you, but it’s still coming across slightly patronising. “Letting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.”
You’re loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. It’s starting to feel good - more than good. But he’s still not in all the way. You have no idea how you’re going to take him.
His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.
“This what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?” he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this.
He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. “Answer.”
“Yes,” you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. “Pictured you every time.”
He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. You’re filled to the brim with him. “I know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.”
Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. It’s creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. It’s all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you can’t help but love.
“It’s okay, angel. I’m no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.”
Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where you’re taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.
He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. “Always been such a crybaby. You’re so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.”
It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.
“I know, baby. It’s so much, isn’t it? I know,” he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. It’s not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You can’t work out exactly what you’re feeling, and you know that now isn’t the time to figure it out anyway.
Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You can’t stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when he’s still pretending he hasn’t lost an ounce of control.
“Stop with those fuckin’ eyes,” he grunts, catching your gaze. You’re still teary-eyed and pouty. “Gonna make me lose it early.”
The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.
“Turn around,” he bites out.
With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You don’t disobey a man at either point.
You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you don’t feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.
When you finally do feel his touch, it’s his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.
“What you whining for now?” he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.
“Put it back in,” you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. You’re no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. You’re too far gone.
He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. “You need it that bad?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
He laughs low. “Still so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?”
You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.
“That’s it,” he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. “Knew you’d take my cock like this. Knew you’d feel this good, just didn’t think you’d be this fucking dirty.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I need you,” you moan. You’re obscurely aware of the fact that you’ll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. “Needed you so bad.”
“Yeah?” he grunts. “Why don’t you tell me what you needed so bad?”
Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. “I- no, Bucky, I can’t-”
“Let me help you out.”
His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. You’re still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.
“Read.”
Your head spins back, even though you can’t see him from this angle. He can’t be serious.
One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.
Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.
“Matt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!”-
Bucky’s hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.
“- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until I’m dripping with his…”
You can’t go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and you’re already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.
“Jesus, you have a thing for this shit? That’s real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. You’re the only one who is gonna take it from now on.”
You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. He’s panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you can’t do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.
“Aw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Can’t help but give you what you want. You want my cum?”
You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.
“Fuck, yeah you do,” he growls. “Such a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.”
With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.
A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. It’s either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.
You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.
You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but you’re sure you’re likely giving as good as you’re getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what you’re saying.
Bucky wasn’t lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. You’re sensitive and sore, but there’s something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises it’s making are obscene.
Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.
“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.
“Uh huh” you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.
You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.
“Thought you said you weren’t gonna break me,” you say sardonically.
He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. “Might have gotten carried away.”
You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesn’t work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.
“You really meant that?” you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. “About wanting me since we were kids?”
“Hell yeah,” he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. “I was so crazy about you when we were kids. Can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“How could I know? You were always so mean to me.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means in kid-language.”
“You still are. Sometimes.”
He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. “Old habits.”
You nod, but you’re still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago.
“I’m sorry for reading your diary,” he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t regret it, because I don’t know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.”
It’s so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. He’s looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe it’s the two orgasms.
You still don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. “Just wait ‘till I get my tongue on you.”
You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.
Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.”
a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao
you push him into the archive room of the daily planet , the two of you laughing with every stride , clark’s glasses are at the tip of his nose threatening to fall down . he pulls you into his arms before gently pinning you against the wall , his hands roam around all over your body , your lips placing small pecks on his neck and his face as your breathing hitches with every touch
clark fumbles to unbutton your jeans , looking over his shoulder whenever he hears footsteps from outside , but it doesn’t take long till his thick fingers are in your already wet pussy . your head is slightly tilted up , mouth gaping and threatening to make noises due to clark’s fingers shoving and rubbing your clit . he started to kiss your neck , sucking on the skin leaving purple and green marks in very seeable places and well he didn’t stop there
after your fingers made their way to his soft curls he somehow couldn’t take it anymore , he may or may not have let out a pretty loud groan . you both stopped and laughed but when no one walked passed or tried to open the door clark took that as his sign to keep going . ‘ wait wait , c - give me a second ’ he didn’t even realize you were already dripping , his fingers coated with your slick ( that’s the thing about him , he can get anyone to finish quickly ) . he was about to go in for round two -
‘ hey lovebirds ! ’ lois ‘ either go home and fuck or get to work ! ’ you two stifled a laugh in between a kiss , waited a good five minutes and walked out in shame . clark not so much , i mean he was still licking your slick off his fingers
✦ Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader
✦ Genre: Fluff, Married Life, Domestic Softness, Tiny Panic + Humor
✦ Summary: Bucky Barnes has one rule: the ring never comes off. Except… one day it does. Chaos, panic, and way too many witnesses follow.
✦✦✦✦✦✦
Bucky had rules. Simple ones.
Don’t touch his knife set. Don’t leave mugs in the sink. Don’t interrupt him when he’s watching The Godfather for the millionth time.
But his most important rule?
The ring never comes off.
It didn’t matter if he was showering, sparring, or suiting up for a mission. The wedding band stayed glued to his finger. He swore if HYDRA came back from the dead and tried to strip him down, they’d have to pry it off his cold, metal hand.
So when he looked down mid-mission and saw bare skin where his ring should’ve been, Bucky Barnes froze.
Actually froze. Like a deer in headlights except the deer had super serum and a gun strapped to his thigh.
“Uh, Buck? Little busy here,” Sam’s voice crackled through the comms, reminding him that, yes, there were still bad guys shooting at them.
Bucky ducked behind cover, heart pounding louder than the bullets whizzing past. His gloved fingers pawed uselessly at his left hand. Empty. Naked. Betrayed.
There was a beat of silence. Then—
“…are you serious right now?”
Bucky peeked around the corner, eyes wide with genuine panic. “I lost it, Wilson. The ring. MY ring. My wife’s gonna kill me!”
“Pretty sure the mercenaries with rocket launchers are higher on the kill list, Barnes.”
“No, you don’t get it!” Bucky clutched his chest dramatically, ducking back as another round of fire rained down. “She trusted me with forever, Sam. Forever! And I lost it in the middle of a warehouse filled with goons named Chad!”
“Chad??”
“That guy looks like a Chad, don’t argue with me!”
Natasha’s dry voice cut in over comms. “You are unbelievable. Focus, Barnes.”
But Bucky was spiraling. He was already imagining the conversation.
‘Hi, doll, mission went fine, by the way I lost the one symbol of our eternal love in a puddle of questionable motor oil.’
Yeah. No. Divorce papers, instant.
By the time the mission wrapped up, he was still muttering about it, crawling around the floor like an insane raccoon while Sam and Nat dragged unconscious mercenaries to SHIELD vans.
“Barnes, it’s a ring, not the Infinity Stones,” Natasha said.
“You don’t understand,” he moaned, face half-buried in the dirt. “It’s the ring. THE ring.”
Sam shook his head. “You are so whipped.”
When Bucky finally got home, he was still sulking, shoulders slumped, looking like someone had stolen his puppy.
You were curled on the couch, waiting for him, still in pajamas. The second you saw him, your face lit up. “Hi, baby.”
He whimpered. Actually whimpered.
“...what’s wrong?” you asked, sitting up straighter.
“I messed up,” he mumbled, sitting down beside you like a kicked dog. His hands fidgeted, bare finger flashing like a neon sign. “I lost it, doll. I lost the ring. Our ring.”
You blinked. Then blinked again. “…that’s what you’re upset about?”
Bucky’s jaw dropped. “That’s—what—of course that’s what I’m upset about! That’s our marriage, doll. That’s forever. That’s—” he cut himself off with a dramatic groan, burying his face in his hands. “I’m a terrible husband.”
Your lips twitched. You tried to hold it in, you really did. But the sight of the world’s deadliest assassin curled up like a sad cat over one missing piece of jewelry… yeah, the giggle escaped.
“Doll!” he gasped, peeking out from between his fingers. “You’re laughing at my pain?”
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, though your shoulders were shaking. “It’s just—you’re so cute when you panic.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “This is not cute. This is tragedy.”
You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “It’s a ring, Buck. I promise I won’t divorce you over it.”
“Don’t joke about that,” he muttered, clutching you like you might actually vanish.
You bit your lip, then grinned. “What if I told you…” You reached into the drawer of the coffee table, pulled something small and shiny out, and held it up between two fingers. “…that you left it on the sink this morning?”
Bucky’s entire body froze. Then his eyes went comically wide. “…you—what—how—”
“You were washing your hands. You took it off so you wouldn’t get soap under it.”
He stared. Then slowly, slowly, his shoulders sagged with the most dramatic sigh in human history. “You’re telling me… I had a meltdown in front of Wilson and Romanoff… for nothing?”
You were laughing so hard now you could barely breathe. “Oh my god, you poor baby.”
Bucky grabbed the ring from your hand, shoving it back on his finger with the reverence of a man returning Excalibur to its rightful sheath. Then he pulled you into his lap, arms crushing you against him.
“Never again,” he mumbled into your neck. “Never leaving this thing again. They’re never gonna let me live this down.”
“Definitely not,” you agreed, giggling into his hair. “Sam’s probably already making memes.”
Bucky groaned, but when you kissed him, he melted instantly, all his dramatics vanishing into soft warmth.
And when he whispered, “Mrs. Barnes,” against your lips, ring pressed tight between your hands, you knew he meant it.
The only thing they are good for is bringing their Omegas pain and forced submission. They were dangerous, reckless and cruel. There wasn’t an ounce of kindness in any of them.
She didn’t need an Alpha and she certainly didn’t believe in that True Mates fairytale. That was just some fabricated fable Alphas made up to trick innocent doe-eyed Omegas. She wasn’t going to fall for that.
Not again.
No Alpha would ever get her to believe that love truly exists.
And then, James Buchanan Barnes walked into her life.
chapter summary: As the Avengers team medic it's your job to take care of everyone. So why does Bucky feel like he gets special treatment? Surely a medic wouldn't know the exact way he likes his tea.
word count: 4.0k+
pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
notes: this is sometime post civil war but the avengers are a big happy family :)
i just love the idea of medic!reader, and a reader who take cares of bucky even when he thinks he doesn't deserve it
warnings/tags: medic!reader, mentions of violence, mentions of blood/injuries, fluff, angst, possible inaccurate depictions of medicine
The quinjet’s rear ramp hissed open onto the compound’s flood-lit tarmac. Everyone scattered toward post-mission routines—Thor to the kitchen, Natasha to the debrief, and Tony already complaining about “arrow residue” in his repulsors. Bucky tried to drift with the crowd, jacket pressed close to hide the dark bloom seeping through his side.
“You can limp faster than that, Barnes.”
You fall into step beside him, sweatshirt sleeves shoved to your elbows, med bag bumping your hip. Bucky answered with his best frown. “Took a scratch, that’s all.”
“Scratch?” You tugged the jacket hem and the fabric stuck to his ribs with an audible peel. “That’s shrapnel and at least two stitches.”
“Good thing I only need one.”
“Math is not your strong suit tonight. Med bay—now.”
He could’ve kept walking, you’d seen him yank bullets with pliers before. But the way you were already cataloging his breathing, the way your fingers hovered without quite touching—something in him unclenched. So he followed.
---
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you snapped on gloves, murmuring absent comfort. “Top bunk’s free if you need to crash after.” Bucky eased onto the exam table, metal fingers curling off the edge.
“You really hate me, don’t you?” he grumbled while you cut away the ruined shirt.
“I don’t hate you,” you said, then winced theatrically. “I just hate that you treat medical like a voluntary suggestion.”
“That’s a lot of sugar-coating for ‘pain in my ass.’”
“Sugar-coating? You take two sugars in your tea.” You sterilized the wound, and he hissed. “Hold still.”
He did, but only because you asked. Because the gentle press of your palm over gauze was somehow louder than the sting of antiseptic. Because—though he’d never admit it—he trusted those hands more than the vibrating hum in his own metal arm.
“Shrapnel’s shallow,” you said finally, suturing. “You’ll live to brood another day.”
“Lucky me.”
You tied the final knot, slapped a gauze pad over it, then—softly—tapped his knee. “Go shower. I’ll re-dress it in the morning.”
“Thought you were off tomorrow.”
“Barnes, I saw you take that hit through a concrete wall. I’m not clocking out until I know you didn’t bleed through the mattress.”
He opened his mouth—some dry retort about over-caring—but you were already disinfecting the tray, back turned, humming off-key.
---
Bucky padded into the kitchen wearing sweats with damp hair, intent on pilfering chamomile. The compound was dark but for the fridge glow and the soft blue of tablet screensaver fish.
A lone mug waited by the kettle. Steam coiled up, lazy with two sugars stirred in.
There was a sticky note with your handwriting: “For not bleeding on the mattress. —Night watch”
He stared and noticed the tiny doodle of a star in the corner with five uneven points. The soft spot in his chest, poorly armored, thudded once.
He made himself a second mug—because the first felt too much like you standing there—and carried both down the hall.
---
The only light came from the vitals monitor you’d dragged over “just in case.” You were slumped in the visitor chair, hoodie hood halfway over your face, but awake—eyes on the empty bunk you assumed he’d take.
Bucky set the untouched mug on the table and slid the other toward you. “I figured you could use a refill.”
You blinked up, sleep-rough voice. “I thought you hated chamomile.”
“Growing on me.”
A beat. Then your gaze dropped to the clean bandage at his ribs, then to the tea. “Vitals look good,” you said quietly. “Pain level?”
“Manageable.” He nudged your foot with his socked one. “Go sleep in a real bed.”
You made a face. “Orders?”
“Suggestion.” His mouth twitched. “I hear those are optional.”
You laughed—soft, tired, the sound a little cracked around the edges. But you stood, stretching. “Fine. Wake me if it starts hurting worse.”
He saluted lazily. “Yes, doc.”
Before you left, you hovered in the doorway, studying him like another chart to file. Bucky lifted the mug in thanks.
When the door whispered shut, he exhaled into the quiet. The compound was never truly silent—vents sighing, arc reactor pulse traveling the pipes—but tonight it felt close. Close enough that he could hear the scrape of your chair being pushed into a corner, the distant thump of your sneakers heading for the dorm wing.
He took a sip. Too sweet, like always. But he didn’t mind.
Across the room, the monitor’s soft beep kept time with his heartbeat—steady, unhurried. Unusually calm.
Maybe he’d never say it out loud, maybe you’d never ask, but the truth sat warm in his hands—for someone who used to be a weapon, he was surprisingly okay being someone’s patient.
And maybe, just maybe, you were becoming the safest place he’d ever been patched back together.
He lay back, closed his eyes, and let the steady beep carry him toward sleep. No dreams, no ghosts—just chamomile with two sugars cooling on the bedside table.
---
When you walked into the kitchen, Wanda was already massaging her temples. Before you could ask why, she spoke. “Apparently, Clint’s midnight snack was the last of Thor’s Pop Tarts.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow from the coffee machine. “That man has a death wish.”
You shrugged out of your hoodie, sleepy grin in place. “‘Again’ has to be implied. What flavor?”
“Frosted cherry,” Wanda muttered, as if reciting a crime scene. “Thor’s favorite.”
Bucky whistled. “Clint better start running now.”
You laughed, then popped open the cabinet beside him and grabbed a mug—one of the few without cracks or Stark-brand snark printed on it. You poured coffee for yourself, then, almost absently, reached around and refilled Bucky’s too. Two sugars and a quick stir. Your left hand remained braced on the counter while your right did the pouring. He noticed the way you didn’t ask if he wanted more—you just did it, then dropped a tiny packet of vitamin C gummies next to his mug like it belonged there.
He blinked. “Uh… thanks.”
“Breakfast of champions.” You nudged the gummies closer. “Take those.”
Wanda smirked into her own cup. “Mother hen back at it?”
“Hush,” you said without heat, already fishing in the fridge. You snagged strawberry jam—he liked that brand, the one with whole berries—and set it next to the toaster before sliding two slices of rye into it, same as last time.
Bucky’s eyes flicked to Sam and Steve, who were locked in an animated debate over training schedules and paying zero attention to you. No one else seemed to be getting stealth-medic treatment.
The toast popped. You buttered it, then passed the plate his way. “Eat. Protein shake later if you’re still looking pale.”
“I’m not pale,” he muttered.
You tapped the inside of his right wrist, just where yesterday’s IV line had been. “Humor me.”
Steve reached for the jam and found an empty spot—your hand was there first, sliding it to Bucky. Steve redirected to peanut butter without comment.
Bucky sipped. Sweet, perfect. “You remember how I take it?”
You shrugged. “Memory’s my job.”
“Don’t see you memorizing Clint’s coffee,” he mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” He bit into the toast.
Thor stormed in then, cape swinging. “Who has eaten the sacred pastries of Pop-Tart?” he bellowed.
Clint darted behind Vision like a toddler hiding behind a sofa. Chaos erupted—Wanda sighing, Vision tilting his head, and Tony strolling in with an energy bar and an amused grin.
You, unfazed, passed Bucky two ibuprofen tablets, whisper-soft: “Take with food.” Then you patted his left shoulder once, and crossed the room to break up Thor’s thunderous rant before it hit Category Five.
Bucky watched you go, tablets warm in his palm. Nobody else got those taps, that quiet voice.
Steve elbowed him. “You spacing out?”
Bucky slid the pills into his mouth and chased them with sweet coffee. “Just thinking.”
“Anything good?”
He watched you over by the fridge, coaxing Thor into accepting a toaster strudel peace offering. You glanced back once, checked the bandage line beneath his tee, subtle as blinking, then returned to the thunder god.
“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Good.”
Sam squinted. “Why’re you smiling like that?”
Bucky’s face smoothed. “I’m not.”
Steve chuckled. “Sure, pal.”
The kettle hissed again—fresh water. You were already setting out a chamomile bag beside it. Just one cup this time. For him. Bucky swallowed more toast and decided maybe gummies at 0800 weren’t so bad.
---
Tony paced, ranting about arrow residue again while you stood on a step-stool rewiring Bucky’s prosthetic calibration dock.
“This will cut recharge time by half,” you told him, finishing with a screwdriver flourish. “Left side ports were overheating.”
Tony paused. “You don’t do house calls for my suits.”
You shrugged. “Your suits don’t bleed.”
Bucky’s throat tightened. He flexed the metal fingers experimentally and they were already smoother.
---
You nearly collided with him outside the med bay, arms full of supply boxes.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He took the heavier crate with his left arm while you kept the lighter. Inside, you labeled shelves while he stacked gauze packs. “Dinner?” you asked without looking up. “Kitchen has turkey chili. I set aside a bowl, no beans.”
He stilled. “You remembered that?”
“Try forgetting a thirty-minute rant about legume betrayal,” you teased.
He coughed, embarrassed. “Wasn’t a rant.”
You just smiled, scribbling a date on a vial.
He noticed: no one else had personalized bowls waiting. No one else’s preferences pinned to sticky notes.
---
Bucky exited the shower, his shoulder stiff. You were leaning against his door with a pill bottle in hand. “Forgot your evening dose,” you whispered. “Take with water.”
He accepted it. “You chasing everyone around like this?”
“Only the stubborn supersoldier who forgets he’s breakable.”
A beat hung between you. He swallowed the pill and handed the bottle back. “Thanks,” he said, soft.
You patted his metal wrist—short, warm contact that didn’t clang like steel should. “Sleep. I’ll check the bandage tomorrow.”
You pushed off the wall, heading for your quarters. Bucky watched you go, mind replaying the day’s subtleties: the mug, the toast, the custom dock fix, the bean-free chili, the midnight meds.
He’d been trained to notice patterns—threat vectors and escape routes. Tonight, all he saw were gentle fingerprints no one else seemed to receive.
He brushed the healing edge of his sutures, feeling the ghost of your careful pressure. The soft spot inside his chest thudded, confused.
With a quiet sigh, he stepped into his room, door sliding shut behind him. The compound settled, vents humming. Somewhere down the hall, your laugh floated out of a late-night movie with Wanda.
He found himself smiling at the sound—unbidden, uncomplicated—then shook his head, still not quite understanding why any of it felt different.
But he noticed. Oh, he noticed.
---
The mission had been small. Routine, even. Just recon, in and out. But somehow, recon turned into a shootout, the shootout turned into a building collapse, and the building collapse turned into Bucky sitting on a gurney again, shirtless, with dried blood streaked down his spine.
You weren’t saying anything.
That was the part that made him nervous.
You were always talking. Even if it was just quietly—nagging, joking, grumbling about the lack of gauze. But now you were just… cleaning.
“I’ve had worse,” he offered.
Your latex gloves snapped as you peeled them off and tossed them into the waste bin. “You didn’t say you were hit,” you said flatly. “You walked off the quinjet, sat through debrief, and then I found out from Steve that there was blood on your back.”
Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. “…It didn’t feel like a big deal.”
You grabbed a new pair of gloves, and didn’t even meet his eyes.
He winced. “Okay, maybe not the best choice of words.”
“I’m not mad,” you said, finally stepping forward with fresh antiseptic. “I just—if there’s something wrong, I need to know. That’s literally my job.”
“I know,” he said. Then quieter, “Didn’t want to make a fuss.”
Your fingers slowed. You sighed. “You never do. That’s the problem.”
The sting of antiseptic burned, but he didn’t flinch. Just watched you—how focused you were, how your brow furrowed when you worked, how you used your bare palm to gently steady his vibranium shoulder without hesitation.
---
Bucky wandered in, shirt finally replaced, hair still damp. You were at the stove, humming. Something savory simmered in a pot, and when you turned, your expression softened. “Sit. You look like hell.”
“I feel like it,” he muttered.
You slid a plate across the counter. Roast chicken, soft rolls, roasted potatoes. All stuff he actually ate. You didn’t even ask.
“No peppers?” he said quietly.
You shot him a look. “I learn.”
He glanced toward Wanda, who was eating leftover takeout. Sam was microwaving a burrito. Steve had a protein shake. Natasha wasn’t even around.
Just you, making an entire meal—for him.
“Did you… cook this just for me?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You didn’t answer right away. Just poured him water, nudged it toward him, and said, “you didn’t eat after the mission. Figured you’d need something.”
That was all.
No smile, no brag. Just facts.
He stared at the plate. Then the water. Then you.
And suddenly, it clicked. Really clicked. You didn’t do that for anyone else. He watched as you turned back to the stove, scooping out a second helping for him without asking.
---
“Left arm up.” You raised your voice slightly over the compound’s gym speakers, watching Bucky jog to a halt near the sparring mats. He’d been training with Sam—light footwork drills, nothing too intense—but you’d caught the wince when he landed on the wrong foot. Twice.
Bucky didn’t argue. Just stood still while you tugged his sleeve up past his elbow. The metal gleamed under the overhead lights, scuffed from friction burns. You pressed your fingers to the joint just above his wrist.
“Feels fine,” he said, too quickly.
You didn’t look at him. “You ever consider letting me finish an exam before making declarations?”
“Not really.”
You held out your hand. “Knife.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Back of your waistband, Barnes. Don’t pretend it’s not there.”
With a grunt, he pulled the hidden blade and handed it over. You set it beside the med kit you’d brought out for him, then gently tilted the arm back and forth, checking the rotation.
“I adjusted the resistance last week,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Feels like it’s dragging again. Could be a wiring imbalance.”
“You’re the only one who notices stuff like that,” he said before he could think better of it. You glanced up. He didn’t move. “…I mean,” he continued, “I don’t think Tony even knows how this part works. But you always—”
“That's because you clench your fingers when you're in pain,” you interrupted, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Metal doesn’t bruise, but tension still shows.”
You flexed his hand slowly with both of yours, checking the motor response. Warm hands on cold vibranium.
Across the gym, Sam watched for a beat before wisely deciding now was the time to disappear.
---
He came back from the shower and found the bandage drawer in his bathroom neatly restocked. Same with the small jar of the eucalyptus balm you’d quietly started using on the nerve scars along his shoulder. He never asked for it. Never mentioned when it ran out. But there it was.
A sticky note sat on the lid, folded in half.
“Start with a thin layer. Don’t overdo it or you’ll smell like a tree. —Y/N”
Underneath was a doodle of a tiny pine tree with a frowny face sat in the corner. He set it down, sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed his hand over his face.
You were everywhere, quietly.
In the gym, reminding him to stretch after missions. In the kitchen, always placing the sugar on his side of the table. In the med bay, adjusting the light so it wouldn’t buzz when he sat under it. In the way Wanda handed him a book and said, “Y/N thought you’d like this one.”
You never called attention to any of it. Never asked for anything back.
And somehow, it all hit him right now, in the silence of his own damn room.
You weren’t just being kind.
You were being kind to him.
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. The balm sat next to him, untouched.
And suddenly, all he could think was:
When did I start needing her?
Not just the medical part. Not just the stitches and the vitamins and the “take your painkillers or I’ll sedate you myself” threats.
But you.
All of it.
He grabbed the sticky note again, turning it over in his hand.
Then grabbed the balm, because yeah, maybe he did smell like a tree. But if it meant you’d still be hovering nearby tomorrow, clipboard in hand and eyes soft with concern?
He didn’t mind at all.
---
You were in the med bay, updating reports and reorganizing supplies. Calm, routine stuff. A protein bar sat on a napkin next to your tablet, but you hadn’t even taken a bite.
The team had been deployed on a perimeter sweep near Budapest—low threat, minimal risk. You hadn’t worried… until the comm crackled to life.
“Y/N.” It was Steve. His voice was tight. “We need med bay prepped. ETA fifteen minutes.”
You were already standing. “What happened?”
There was a pause. “Bucky’s hit. Left side. Took a hit shielding Nat from debris. We’ve stabilized him, but he’s not great.”
Not great.
Your stomach dropped. “Vitals?”
“Still with us. But you’ll need to dig deep.”
You were already moving. Vitals cart on, sterilizers heating, IVs prepped, and sutures laid out. You opened the drawer with the trauma shears and had to stop—both hands braced on the metal edge as your throat locked tight.
A cold rush of adrenaline prickled your skin.
He’s still with us.
But “not great” was a hell of a distance from okay.
You scrubbed your hands, twice, and blinked hard. A few tears fell anyway, streaking silently down your cheeks before you wiped them off and pulled your gloves on. No time for panic. No time for feelings.
You weren’t his person. But somewhere along the line, he’d become yours.
---
The rear ramp dropped. Tony hovered in with the stretcher as Sam helped guide it. Natasha’s jaw was set, her hands smeared with blood—his blood.
And there he was.
Unconscious. Pale. Lips slightly parted like he was stuck in a breath. His vibranium arm was twitching involuntarily.
You snapped into motion. “On the table—now. Hook up the monitor. Nat, give me the full report while I—damn it, someone get this vest off.”
Natasha rattled off the damage as you cut open the combat suit. Shrapnel through the lower left ribs. Vascular trauma. Debris burn across the shoulder. One lung likely bruised.
“Vitals are dropping,” Steve muttered. “Y/N—”
“I know.” You clamped gauze to the worst bleeder, then barked, “Steve, scrub in or get out.”
The room cleared fast.
You didn’t notice your hands trembling until you felt the blood pooling under your glove, hot and sticky. You dug in anyway.
---
He was stable. Bandaged and hooked up to monitors. His chest rising and falling, slower now. Normal. You sat beside him, stripped of your gloves and gown, hands raw from scrubbing, and eyes blurry.
You hadn’t left. Hours had passed. Everyone else had, but not you.
“You okay?” His voice rasped through the quiet.
You startled, looking up—Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded but open, watching you.
You sniffed, tried to smile. “You’re awake.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” You exhaled, shoulders dropping. He blinked slowly. “Your eyes are red.”
You rubbed your sleeve across your face. “Long day.”
His brow furrowed. “Y/N.”
“I’m fine.”
“You were crying.”
“No, I—”
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low but steady. His vibranium arm, clumsy but precise, reached up and caught your hand. Gently tugged.
You tried to resist, just a little.
“C’mere.”
You let him pull you. One second you were sitting stiffly in the chair, the next you were curled against his good side, your forehead tucked under his jaw, cheek pressed to the edge of his shoulder.
He held you. A warm, real, heartbeat under your ear.
“I told you not to be a hero,” you whispered into his collar.
“Wasn’t trying to be. Just saw Nat about to get flattened.”
“You took a rebar to the ribs, Barnes.”
“Still breathing, aren’t I?”
You let out a weak laugh—half sob, half laugh. His hand came up and cradled your head gently before he pressed a kiss to your hairline. “I’m okay.”
“You weren’t,” you said, voice cracking. “Not for a while. You weren’t.”
His hand never stopped stroking your hair. “But I am now. Because you’re here.”
You gripped his shirt harder, hiding your face. “Don’t do that again.”
He didn’t say anything. Just held you closer. And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—you finally let yourself fall apart. And he didn’t let go.
---
The med bay was quieter than usual.
Bucky was sitting up now, monitors off, bandages fresh. He’d been cleared for light movement earlier that morning, and now he sat on the edge of the bed, tugging awkwardly at the edge of his hospital tee like it was itching.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him. “Looks like you’re getting ready to make a break for it,” you said lightly.
He looked up, lips twitching. “If I had my boots, I might try.”
“You’d make it about ten feet before collapsing.”
“Worth it.”
You pushed off the frame, stepping into the room. There was a new cup of tea in your hand—same chipped mug, same two sugars. You set it down beside him on the table without a word.
Bucky stared at it for a second, then up at you. “I’m getting the feeling you’re trying to fatten me up,” he said.
You shrugged. “Easier target.”
That earned a quiet laugh. He picked up the mug and sipped, but his gaze didn’t leave you. “You didn’t sleep,” he said after a beat.
You blinked. “I did.”
He gave you a look. “Y/N.”
You sighed. “Okay, maybe not a lot.”
“You stayed with me. Again.”
“I always stay with patients.”
“No, you don’t.”
Silence. He set the mug down, slow and deliberate, and reached for your wrist—not fast, not demanding, just enough to make you stop retreating. You let him take your hand.
“I remember,” he said quietly. “When I woke up. You were crying.”
You swallowed. “You were bleeding out. I didn’t know if I was gonna lose you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I could’ve.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “But you didn’t.”
Your breath hitched. “I can’t lose you, Buck,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I can’t.”
He tugged gently, pulling you between his knees, one hand still cradling your fingers, the other resting lightly against your hip.
“You’re not gonna,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. Not from you.”
Your eyes were glassy again. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It is,” he said. “Now it is. Because this—” his vibranium hand tapped his chest, just above the fresh bandage “—hurts like hell. But not half as bad as seeing your face when I woke up.”
Your breath caught.
And then he leaned up, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his—warm, careful, steady. Like a promise being made in real time.
When you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed to his. His eyes were half-lidded, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“You kiss all your patients?” he whispered.
You let out a breathy laugh. “Only the ones who try and disobey medical orders.”
He grinned, a little crooked. “I wasn’t gonna disobey.”
You arched a brow. “Liar.”
He kissed you again. This time a little firmer, more sure. And when you pulled away again, his arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you close.
clark kent, fem, suggestive, 0.5k — supa dupa old draft
Your (almost) first time with Clark, you can barely focus with the way he’s kissing and holding you.
His big hands creep up under your soft nightgown, accompanied by his quiet “Okay?”s or “May I?”s that make you shiver. He presses sweet kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbones, completely enamored by you. You feel all too comfortable on his not-quite-soft but also not-quite-firm mattress, propped up on his plush pillows, and the thought of going to fourth base with someone so dreamy tenses you up.
You haven’t gone that far in a while, and it feels like falling with no safety net in sight—and it is—which is why you stop.
“Clark,” you sigh. Your fingers suddenly curl around his shoulder, wrinkling up his cotton sleepshirt, and you squirm under him. “Clark, Clark, Clark—wait.”
He stiffens, lips hovering just above your sternum before he lifts his head of curls—glassy eyes meeting your wide ones. “Hmm?” He kisses your cheek, reassuring and present.
“What if I don't want to?” You ask, meeting his gaze. You look worried, and he wants nothing more than to press away the furrow between your brows.
He hums, propping himself up on his elbows above you—there it is, that curl again. You expected him to smile, laugh even, but instead he looks completely earnest. “Then we don't have to. We won’t do anything.”
“Clark,” you whine, turning your head into his pillows with embarrassment. You can already feel the warmth creeping up your neck, and his concern builds tenfold. “It’d be rude to blue-ball—”
“Don’t you worry about that,” he cuts in, leaning down to kiss your head before dropping onto the mattress beside you. He still feels your pout when he pulls you into him, so he presses, “Honey.”
“Sorry,” you blurt out, shaking your head. “Sorry, I—”
“You're not doing anything wrong.” His warm palm rubs your back, grounding you. Up, down, up, down. “And you're not blue-balling me. You could never, sweet girl. Look at you, it's already more than enough having you like this.”
Your cheeks burn hotter than before, and you wonder if he can feel your skin scalding his—it must be why he’s so warm, right? “Are you—are you sure? I can -”
He tuts, patting your shoulder like you’re an insolent child—but it’s packed with care, and Clark is never condescending to you, or to anyone, for that matter. “Nope, nope. Don’t do anything. Let’s do what you want to do, huh? I know there’s an idea in that head of yours.”
You roll the question around in your head; inspect it, dissect it, turn it every which way. But Clark never makes you feel less than worthy and beautiful, so why hold your tongue? Besides, his gentle hands are already unraveling the tension in your muscles, squeezing your forearms here and there. It’s profound yet simple, his love and care for you.
“Mmm…” You bite the inside of your cheek, pensive. “Love Island? I dunno, I’ve missed the last few episodes, and it's all Cat talks about.”
Tugging on his shirt, you add, “And we can make a cheese board.”
He smiles, nosing your temple. So much relief fills him when he knows you’re starting to relax again. “Sounds good to me, baby,” Clark says, already moving to sit up, and pats your hip for you to do the same. “C’mon, up. I need your opinions on it before you fall asleep.”
Notes: Wrote this so quick please don’t judge… Check out my masterlist and Kent Fam of 3 masterlist!!
Summary: You thought it was embarrassing how easily you blushed, but Clark ought to find it adorable.
Warnings: Clark showering you with acts of love and through words, including in the bedroom... Soft! Clark all around, loves and LOVES to compliment you, him talking you through it, creampies, passionate sex!
Clark always finds you blushing to be one of his favorite little traits of yours whenever he acts on anything towards you.
The first time he asked you out at your doorstep, your favorite pink lilies in one hand, asking you to be his, as your cheeks rose into a pink hue that made you in awe as you’d never felt before. “How did you know these were my favorite?” you stammered out of a quiet shock, the kindness you never knew that was deserved for you.
And he took notice right away. Your cheeks that heat up, your soft smile from your lips that makes him fall more into you every time.
“Of course, I remember you mentioning them to me not long ago, Is–Is that okay?” as he pushed his glasses towards his face, the wary question as he met your gaze for an answer.
“More than okay, Clark.”
---------------
Or the time he knew your order by heart at the Deli down the street from the Daily Planet.
No hesitation in his voice to the Deli man. “Can I get a toasted ham and cheese on wheat, easy mayo, extra pickles?” he said smoothly before, “Make that two, thank you.”
And by the time he arrived at your desk, bag in hand, your cheeks heated with the same pink tint that he loved. “How did you know what I get?” as you softly smiled before taking the sandwich out of his hands.
“Hmm I just know,” shrugging off like it was nothing much to think about, but in reality, his heart fluttered from the joy of your reaction.
Where the two of you quietly enjoyed lunch together at your desk, talking about the day ahead of you in peace.
---------------
Even compliments you couldn’t stop your cheeks from heating.
And Clark couldn’t help it, you were beautiful and did everything so well. The compliments that roll off his tongue with ease, showering you with love.
“Your top is nice today, sweetheart.”
“The meal you made tonight was delicious.”
“You look beautiful always.”
Dare to say your face was beaming pink—caught off guard by it in the best way possible. Yet Clark always loved it, as it sometimes felt embarrassing to you at times.
“This is so embarrassing Clark-I don’t know why I get pink all the time!” you huffed before covering your face in a slight embarrassment, feeling the need to cover your face from the rest of the world.
“It’s not embarrassing, it’s cute sweetheart—it's what makes you, you,” as he pulled you into his arms and you gladly accepted, letting him kiss the crown of your head out of reassurance. “I love it about you, never be embarrassed.”
---------------
In bed was different.
Clark, who loved to bring it out of you, every single expression formed on your face, the fluster you get in the moment, within the thick air that consumes both of you, bodies that were nearly conjoined together.
His cock that drags in and out of you, pulling every sound from your lips, a beautiful sound that he only gets to hear. The way your face contorts in pleasure, where the veins from his shaft are felt in your insides.
“Mmmph C—Clark!” you meweled out, your legs that were brought higher around his waist, the classic missionary position where he can see all of you, especially the faces you make just from him, where he gets to compliment you all he wants while watching you.
“I know, I know, sweetheart. Doing good just for me,” he groaned in your ear before nibbling a part of your ear, as you felt his head hitting the sweet spot over and over. “You're so beautiful for me, everything about you, honey. Thank you for letting me praise you like this.”
And the most intimate compliment, where your cheeks rose in a pink hue, where your moans filled the air as you were slowly coming to a release.
“Ngh— Clark I-I’m close!” you stammered before hiding into the crook of his neck the ecstasy that was leaving you a moaning mess.
“Honey let me see, don’t hide, let me see that beautiful face when you come, hmm?” he reassured with a soft huff, swiftly tapping the side of your head to bring your attention back to him, where he can watch you.
Hips snapping with every thrust, his eyes connecting with yours, feeling the way you squeeze around him from a release that makes his breath hitch every time.
And all came crashing down on you. The moan from the feeling that left you shaking from the orgasm that was drawn from you, your eyes that fell closed as you felt his white sticky load in you right after his release.
His cock that stilled in you for a moment, where the heavy breaths from both of you were slowly settling down, where Clark reached to connect his lips to your face, kissing all over, before reaching your lips. “I love you,” he whispered before taking note of your daze, your cheeks pink, the smile that was left across your face that was just for him.
And he would definitely show how much he loved you every night if he could.
𝒲arnings.. nothing but fluff :3 i’m really bad at dialogue so beware based off this post
clark has been planning this moment for nearly a month ꒰ not including when he bought the ring ꒱ he just really wanted it to he absolutely perfect for you. it’s what you deserved from him. you’ve put up with superman leaving mid date to go save the world, you’ve put up with clark kent having to stay late at work to finish a article. you most definitely deserve a proposal you’ll in the future tell your kids about with fondness.
and that’s what clark was planning, he set up your apartments rooftop with pink lilies and some take out from this restaurant you and clark tried when he flew you to paris for your 3 month anniversary, something you’ve been craving since. it was perfect all up until he had you standing in front of him, it should be so easy to just get on one knee but as he saw you looking up at him confusion laced in your pretty big eyes he just forgot everything, his long speech he spent 2 weeks writing and perfecting, it all just went blank.
he didn’t know what to do so whatever small idiotic braincell that was left in his dumb alien brain decided to just fall to his knees urgently while pulling the ring box out of his pocket. it wasn’t graceful and you looked even more confused then you did before just now that confusion also has concern laced in between it.
“oh my god!! clark sweetie is everything alrig. . .” your voice fades out as clark practically yells out please and shoves the open ring box in front of you. he lets out a few more mumbles of words some nearly inaudible but you’re pretty sure you can make out “please. . . just please, honey.”
your laugh is what snaps him out of whatever trance he was in, you’re laughing at him is his first thought but it ends up making him laugh to because golly he looks ridiculous. he didn’t even ask you if you wanted to marry him!! that’s the main part of it all and he just forgot ?? it’s silly and so very clark kent.
you can barely get the words out in between your giggles but you finally get them to die down a little just to tell clark the few little words he’s been dying to hear since he planned this whole thing. “yes, i’ll marry you, even if you didn’t exactly ask me.” he imagined this very moment so many times over and over again, even your sly little comments! but nothing could ever beat hearing it leave your lips with a big dopey smile. no amount of planning could have made this moment any more perfect, even if he messed up the whole actually asking you part.
gym teacher!Clark Kent x teacher!fem reader headcanons
gym teacher!Clark Kent who all the teachers swoon over in the break room, who always has to hide his smile whenever he comes in to eat his lunch because he knows what you all were just talking about (because super-hearing, duh)
gym teacher!Clark Kent who always has a full report ready for you when you pick up your class, telling you “Johnathan really improved his time on the mile today!” or “Isabel gave everyone high fives at water break!” and beaming like a proud father
gym teacher!Clark who makes PE fun for everyone, who’s always kind and understanding of every kid’s limits
gym teacher!Clark who makes PE fun with holiday activities and other themed events, including his famous “superhero day”, where he plans activities like smashing through “walls” made out of foam bricks, while stressing all the while that these are foam and “just because Superman does something doesn’t mean it’s safe for you to do too”
gym teacher!Clark who always runs along with the slowest kid on the track so they don’t feel bad or left out
And of course you’re swooning along with the other teachers because not only does he have muscles for days, not only is he kind and sweet to you and the kids, but he’s also so smart and perceptive
gym teacher!Clark who always notices when you change your hair or wear new jewelry and is always the first to compliment you
gym teacher!Clark who seems to know the history of every sport and teaches the kids about their origins
gym teacher!Clark who helps little kids tie their shoes and puts band-aids on their skinned knees. He even has different themed ones and lets the kids pick whichever one they want (and of course he has Superman ones)
gym teacher!Clark who is always doing research on child development and on what exercises are best for kids to do
gym teacher!Clark who’s always using his Ma and Pa’s sayings around the kids to the point where you start hearing them say them to each other around school
They imitate other things about Clark too, like his speech patterns. When you first hear one of your kids say “golly” you’re completely floored
gym teacher!Clark who asks you one day in the break room if you liked PE as a kid, to which you say, “no, but I think I would’ve liked it a lot more if you were my teacher”
He smirks and you rush to correct yourself
“No, not like that— I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant that you make PE fun”
gym teacher!Clark who becomes determined to get you to like sports, so he takes it upon himself to take you out around Metropolis and introduce you to every sport he can to find out what you like
He’s actually so earnest and sweet about it that you find yourself having fun even if you don’t enjoy the sport you’re playing
One day, after he took you to play dodgeball at a trampoline park, you finally pluck up the courage to ask if you can count these outings as dates, and he says, “I was hoping you would ask that”
Description: You and Clark have been friends for years but you don’t know why everyone thinks you’re together
Word Count: 1.2k (just a cutesy short one)
The daily planet was bustling with activity, busy noises of people talking, keyboard typing and calls buzzing in the atmosphere. Sunlight beamed in through the large windows of the office as the sun rose higher and higher into the bright blue skies.
You stood at the little kitchenette marble counter where the coffee maker was placed, adding whipped topping in your customized unicorn coffee mug, blissfully humming under your breath. Lois stood next to you, clad in her usual black pants and a blazer, adding 5 tablespoons of sugar to her own daily planet cup but paused when Clark walked over.
His hand moved to your waist, palm softly gripping there to move you aside so he could grab a spoon for himself. His hand stayed on your waist for a few moments before he removed it to stand next to you. “Morning.” He smiled at you, bright blue eyes crinkling at the sides behind those big frames, tall figure clad in a dark blue suit today.
You smiled back, staring up at his tall frame. “Morning, Clark. How was your weekend?” Leaning your back into the marble counter, you sipped from the mug watching Clark mix his own coffee.
“The weekend was great, actually. My parents came over to visit- still here. Ma’s planning on buying me a small dining table and chairs and a few more things which she thinks I desperately need.” He laughed but there was a hint of affection in his tone.
You widened your eyes, slightly dramatic. “All the way from Kansas?? Just to buy you furniture too?” You were in awe of the love his parents would shower him with.
“Yea! I showed her a picture of the apartment and she said ‘it’s too empty and dull’ and they flew out to make my place more like ‘home’.” He trailed off with the details, long fingers lifting to brush some strands from your face, tucking them behind your ear. You two laughed and chatted before work started.
He asked about your weekend and you relayed everything that had happened in the two days. Your hand moved to his chest to straighten his tie before it lifted higher to fix his crooked glasses.
Meanwhile Jimmy, Lois and Cat just stared at the two of you with different reactions each, at both of your casualness….? Jimmy stared with his eyes blown wide, news photographs forgotten on the table. “What- why- how are they so casual about this??”
Lois’ perfectly shaped brow raised, lips twisting in annoyance. “They are both idiots. That’s what this is….neither of them can see it.” She scoffs, shaking her head at both of y’all’s obvious and oblivious stupidity. “They’re both blind.”
“Blind in love!” Cat whisper-yelled, clapping her hands together with a wide grin on her face. “It’s a process, Lois….the process of falling in love…the moments…the realization. Oh cute!” She wiggled her manicured fingers in your direction.
It was a housewarming party at Jimmy’s new apartment, a pot luck everyone had decided to celebrate this new accomplishment. It was his very own place, no roommates, no family, just him all alone being an independent person.
As amazing as the gathering was with close friends from work, unfortunately with there being only one couch and 3 chairs, there wasn’t enough space to sit for you. “Hey, no. Sit there I’ll stand…..or sit on the table.” Jimmy laughed and called you over to take his seat but you waved him off. “It’s fine, Jimmy….I’ll just sit here..” With a smile you walked over to the couch where Clark, Perry and Cat were and sat on the arm rest on Clark’s side.
The arm rest was wider with a soft velvety material, making it easier for you to sit there with some ease at-least. Clark’s arm moved behind you and he wrapped it around your waist, resting a large palm on the side of your thigh. You two shared an easy going conversation, taking bites of your food between sentences, however the rest of the party had frozen in our spot at the sight of you two cozying up together.
While the others were a little used to this being your daily routine, Perry however stared like everyone had grown two heads. He stared at the two of you until you two felt his stare on your skins like a burn, and paused your conversation. “What happened?” Clark asked.
Perry’s gaze flitted between the two of you, lips lifting in a confused frown. “Are you two-“ he points between them with a finger, “- dating or something?”
Everyone in the room held their breaths but you two just stared at him for a good minute before bursting out laughing. “What?!” You snorted. “Perry? What- no! Hah! No….why would you say that?” Clark shook his head with a smile, a big laugh waiting to spill.
“Perry, where did that even come from?” The usually awkward and shy guy now looking like his face is gonna fall off from laughter.
They all just stared at you two, the question ‘why would you think that’ sounding ironic considering the position you two were sitting in. Clark’s arm around your waist, hand rubbing your thigh, your bodies leaning close into each other’s warmth, your head almost on his chest and your hair almost in his face.
“Right…..” Lois muttered. “Yeah no idea why anyone would think that.” Her eyes rolled back. Cat only snickered.
It was an autumn evening, all greenery replaced by browns, oranges & red shades and the trees shedding leaves on the sidewalk which the two of you walked on.
Clark’s one hand was shoved in the pocket of his brown jacket, and one held your hand, rubbing his thumb over your skin. It was just a friendly stroll which you two would often go out for on the weekend evenings.
The two of you had grabbed coffee from a nearby cafe which was probably more expensive than it should’ve been. “I can’t believe Perry thought we were dating.” He laughed, shaking his head.
“I know right?! I wanna know what went through his head.” A snort left your mouth. “That’s so weird honestly.”
“It kind of is, yeah but Perry is- I mean he’s aging…..”
“He’s old now.” You finish his sentence and he nods.
“Even Lois asked why he’d say that.” Clark added as the two of you reached a bench nearby and sat together. His arm rested on the back of the bench, behind you and wrapped around your shoulder.
“Who knows what goes through old Perry’s head.”
Clark and You were clearly very oblivious to the chemistry and tension between the two of you- or maybe you knew and were playing pretend. Whatever it was, everyone around you shipped it but were also sick of you two being ‘just friends’ because clearly you weren’t just that.
Maybe one day Cat would straight up tell you two to date each other, or Lois would slap the back of both your heads and tell you two to act right, or maybe Jimmy would somehow slip up and you’d both end up shocked but for today….you two were going to enjoy your coffee as just two friends who were very very touchy.
A/N:
Friends to lovers is actually so cute! I love it….the close proximity and everyone seeing it but them.
Maybe I’ll write one with Clark x reader friends to lover confession??
Pairing - WC: David!Clark Kent x gf!Reader | 3.75k
Summary: Loving Clark Kent means loving Superman too, even when the city steals him away on the nights you wanted him most.
Tags: 18+, smuuuut, praise kink, oral (m receiving), kinda cock worship?, deep throat, wet and filthy, saliva as lube, nipple/breast play, tugging on hair, suit stays mostly on, cum swallowing, filthy use of lipstick, lovesick!Clark, needy!reader, established relationship, f!hair mentioned but no style, color, length described, reader wears a dress, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey/hon)
took all day to write this, frantically with one hand. i'm sorry I don't have it in me to edit. you get whatever my lil brain gives. Thank you @honey-on-your-tongue for talking some sense into me to just write
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
You’d been waiting for Clark to come home for two agonizing hours.
Your little black dress miraculously hadn’t wrinkled despite your nervous pacing, dramatic sighs, the way you kept sinking onto the couch only to stand again, too restless, too warm, too annoyed to sit still for more than thirty seconds.
Every slow lap from the couch to the tall windows and back again only made the ache between your thighs grow slicker, more insistent, your body winding itself tighter around his absence.
By the millionth trip to the hallway mirror, you dropped all pretenses and admitted you weren't fixing anything, just needed somewhere to channel all that restless heat.
The earrings caught the low light as you tilted your head, and your mind instantly supplied the filthy image of them swaying and tinkling while Clark’s hands fisted your hair, guiding you as you rode his cock deep and desperate.
Your perfume had warmed against flushed skin, the pulse beneath it fluttering wildly at every elevator groan or passing footstep—imagining his face buried there instead, licking, sucking, nipping marks into your throat while he growled your name.
Even your lipstick, a shade worn with the purpose to make Clark stammer half his sentences and forget all the manners Ma drilled into him, remained exactly where you’d painted it. No matter how many times you licked and pressed your lips together.
You leaned closer to the mirror, pouting, dragging your palms down your waist and over your hips exactly the way you wanted his to: rougher, needier, gripping, squeezing, digging hard enough to leave faint bruises that would heal under his apologetic kisses later. You adjusted one strap, one that hadn't even moved a single inch, imagining his fingers slipping beneath and yanking it down, too.
Pathetic, you thought. Absolutely pathetic. Dressed up and wound this badly for him.
You pictured exactly how he would’ve gone. He’d come through the door giddy and grinning, still windblown from the city, broad shoulders filling the entryway, keys clinking into the bowl. One shoe off, hand still on the doorknob, glasses slipping down his nose as a sweet greeting died in his throat: “Honey, I’m ho—oh gosh,” in that deep, raspy voice.
Or, “Sweetheart," in that strained, drawn-out way that somehow sounded like profanity.
Or your name, whispered as if he’d just found nirvana in the hallway of his own apartment.
His eyes would’ve gone to your face first because he was a good man, but not that good. They would've dropped to your throat. Then your dress, to the inviting plunge of cleavage, the curve of your waist beneath your own restless hands. Then, inevitably, helplessly, back up to your shaded lips that made him so lovesick and stupid.
In two strides, Clark'd pressed you against the wall, hands sliding under your dress to find you already soaked, fingers teasing your clit while he groaned against your lips and you moaned reminders about dinner plans.
Nothing big or expensive.
Just you and him, a candle-lit table, his hand warm at the small of your back, thumb brushing the curve of your hip, fingers pinching the meat of your ass whenever he thought no one was looking. You’d lean into him, swat his chest playfully, tug him down by the collar to kiss the hinge of his jaw, and feel the sharp catch of breath against your cheek. Let your ankle stroke against his inner thigh under the table. Watch him try to keep his voice steady while you playfully smiled at him over your menu, like you hadn’t already decided the night would end with a much sweeter, messier kind of pie for dessert.
But by minute fifty-three, a new scenario had taken over.
A slow turn in the hallway.
A sharp, lifted brow.
Maybe a wounded little, "Oh, baby. You remembered where we live?" if you felt especially cruel enough.
You’d make Clark work for your smile, let him chase you around the apartment with those apologetic, puppy-dog eyes, scolding him to freshen up. Let him put those big hands on your hips, press up behind you, and murmur apologies against your neck until you believed him. Maybe allow him to press a kiss or two to your shoulder, your wrist, the corner of your mouth.
Maybe you’d even let him drop to his knees and eat you out right there against the wall, your fingers in his thick mess of hair, riding his tongue until you came with his name on your lips.
Maybe allow him to do it over and over, until you finally let him off the hook like always.
Because this wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last.
It came with the territory of loving Clark Kent, and the heavier territory of loving Superman. Missed reservations, movies paused halfway through, solo showers. Sometimes the whole city seemed to reach for him at the same time you did, and the cruel, noble thing was that you usually stepped back first.
You knew that. You loved that about him. You hated that about him a little tonight.
And because you knew Clark, because you loved him, because you were not interested in building any argument out of a rescue he couldn’t ignore, you hadn't checked the news.
Hadn’t opened your phone to search "Superman". Hadn’t refreshed the Planet’s breaking alerts or texted Lois. Hadn’t doom-scrolled shaky footage of smoke or sirens or blue-and-red blurs cutting through the sky.
You’d left your phone face down next to your purse like that made you mature, responsible, as if ignorance could quiet your wild imagination from filling in every possible reason he wasn’t home yet.
If there was a reason, he would tell you.
If there was blood, he would hide it badly.
If there was guilt, God, it'd be written all over his face.
-
You were still leaning toward the mirror, blotting your lipstick again, when the balcony door exploded inward.
Okay, not literally, but the force of Clark’s landing hit the apartment like a thunderclap. The curtains snapped like a whip. Your lipstick tube jumped clean out of your fingers and struck the floor, rolling beneath the console table as you stifled a yelp.
Then came the frantic scrape of the door, the rush of cold night air, and Clark’s boots hitting concrete, then hardwood, too fast, too heavy, every step like a hammer striking stone.
Your heart lurched into your throat as you spun around, shocked silent.
Clark was already pacing, one hand dragged through his raven hair hard enough to displace the stubborn curl at his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he’d flown across the edges of the vast universe holding his breath. He looked wired. Furious. Worn down to the bone. Like whatever happened out there sunk its claws into his shoulders and followed him home.
Every thought of playfully guilting Clark vanished clean out of your head.
"…Clark? Baby?" you breathed, nose crinkling as a burnt aroma curled around your senses. "What's wrong? Are you—?
At the sound of your voice, he turned so sharply he nearly tripped over his own boots.
It nearly broke your heart, the way his frantic blue eyes settled over you, softening just a touch. The dress. The earrings. The lipstick. The two miserable hours written all over your face. For one suspended second, he looked exactly like the Clark you’d imagined in the hallway, stunned, lovesick, and ruined by the sight of you.
Then guilt struck his features like lightning.
"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out in a breathless rush before you could say another thing. "I know I'm late. I know. There was a—a chemical fire and—and the containment team couldn’t get close enough without getting hurt, so I had to—the whole building was about to—Gosh, the entire east wall was ready to buckle, and I tried to be fast, I really did, but if I moved too fast the firefighters would probably turn to mush—and I couldn't do that—-"
He gestured helplessly, pacing again, the apologies and explanations spilling out of him like an avalanche burying any hope of organizing his thoughts.
That’s when you noticed the scorch marks.
His blue suit stretched tight across his shoulders, dark with sweat and smoke. His cape fluttered behind him in a singed, ragged mess, the bottom edge frayed. Black streaks of soot smeared across his chest, across his family crest, across the strong line of his jaw. It was his abdomen that made your stomach twist.
The fabric had been eaten clean through, the edges curled and blackened like something caustic splashed him. Beneath it, his skin was whole. Thank goodness. Smooth and unbroken under the ruin, still Clark, still impossibly untouched in the ways that should have reassured you.
But it didn’t. While the suit was destroyed, your Clark was still shaking.
“—and I knew we had dinner reservations,” he bemoaned, both hands moving now, one pinching the bridge of his nose, the other clenched around something you hadn’t got a good look at yet. “I knew, I swear I knew, and I kept thinking I could still make it if I just got everyone out. Then a second tank ruptured, and I thought, "Good Gosh, are there no other heroes out tonight," then I felt horrible thinking that, so I went back in, and—”
You frowned, worried.
Of course you were.
Always, when it came to your Clark.
But standing there with your pulse in your throat and between your thighs, taking in the ruined suit clinging to him like a second skin, the ash on the same cheekbones you kissed this morning, the heat coming off his body in waves, the raw, breathless guilt in his voice…some low, terrible, needy part of you curled awake and wanted.
Wanted him closer. Wanted your hands on him. Wanted to peel the ruined suit off inch by inch and find out how much of that frantic, superhuman energy he could spend on you.
You bit the inside of your cheek, frowning deeper, looking as grave as Clark felt.
Then his left hand shifted against the moonlight, and you finally saw them: flowers.
A bouquet of deep red roses, crushed almost beyond dignity in his tense fist. The stems were bent. A few petals had scattered across the balcony tiles during his landing, bright as little drops of crimson against the concrete and hardwood.
“Clark," you interrupted, lips slightly parted.
He stopped mid-stride.
You pointed. “Flowers?”
He blinked, looking down at his own hand as if he’d never seen it before.
"Fl—oh. Yeah." He sighed, shoulders sinking. "Bought them just after clocking out. Called ahead, was supposed to drop them off, have the waiter bring them out before the appetizers, or when you sat down. I hadn't decided. I was going to pretend I had no idea what was happening, which sounds so silly saying it aloud— because—because you always know when I’m lying, but I thought maybe if I did it badly enough, it would be charming—"
Endearing, utterly charming, painfully attractive word vomit paired with disheveled hair, ragged breaths, smoke-smudged skin, and the kind of rippling muscles the ruined suit was doing absolutely nothing to hide.
Shit. You wanted him now.
"—I guess we’ll never know, because I’m two hours late and the roses are destroyed and I smell like a poorly managed high school chem lab—"
"Clark, stop!" you called, firmer than you meant to.
The rambling died in his throat.
His eyes lifted to yours, then moved over you slowly this time, not in panic or apology, but with a stunned, helpless heat that landed everywhere his hands desperately wanted to. Your face. Your lips. The line of your throat. The dress hugging your waist, your hips, the soft rise and fall of your breasts as your breathing changed under his attention.
Ah, there he was. Not exactly the fantasy. Arguably better.
Very late, soot-streaked, holding ruined flowers, staring at you like the whole burning city had fallen away and left him with nothing but this apartment, this hallway, and you.
Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.
"Sweetheart,” he swallowed faintly, drawling it out like a curse.
Swallowing a moan, you asked instead. "Did everyone make it out alive? Safe?"
He nodded, still staring.
"Then it's okay, everything is okay, promise." Clearing your throat, you stepped toward him quickly. "What's important is you are home, too. Alive and safe. What you need is to get out of that suit. It's ruined."
"I can fix it,” he countered, still watching your lips with that dazed expression. "The suit, I mean. Gary can—"
"The Fortress is thousands of miles away."
You stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the smoke and something metallic and sharp tingle in your nostrils. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, to see the soot caught in the laugh lines and dimples beside his mouth, to watch his unmarked skin shift and tense beneath the torn, ruined fabric every time he breathed. "We can deal with it tomorrow."
Clark glanced down at himself, brows pinched. "Right. Tomorrow. I'm sorry, I should probably—"
"Clark?" you nearly whimpered.
"Yeah? What is it?"
"Shut up."
You rose onto your toes, caught the back of his neck, and pulled him down, snuffing further protests.
For half a second, he held still, too careful, too Clark, one ruined bouquet hanging limply at his side, and the other hand hovered near your shoulder. Then you kissed him harder, one hand sliding into the damp hair at his nape while the other curled into the collar at the front of his suit, and whatever restraint he had left cracked.
Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your chest.
His free hand found your waist, still trembling with leftover adrenaline, and yanked you flush against him, no longer gentle. You felt every hard inch of him: the solid wall of his chest, the ridges of his abs through the torn suit, and the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock already straining against your belly. He tilted his head, lips parting wider, tongue sliding hot and urgent against yours.
The kiss quickly turned hungry, messy, open-mouthed with his apology, with your impatience, with the two hours you’d spent wanting him and the whole ruined night he’d carried home in his chest.
Soot from his jaw smudged your cheek. Your lipstick smeared across his mouth and chin as he chased the connection, sucking on your tongue before nipping your bottom lip hard enough to make your knees buckle and a fresh wetness to flood your panties.
One of his hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling you tighter so you could grind against the rigid length of him.You moaned into his mouth, nipples tightening against his chest, your soaked cunt throbbing with every roll of his hips.
God, you wanted nothing more than for Clark to rip the dress off and fuck you right here, bent over the console table or legs wrapped around his waist with your back pressed against the windows, taking every thick inch until you were dripping down his cock and screaming his name.
You broke the kiss only enough to breathe against his lips, one hand still fisted tight in his hair, tugging just the way you knew made him weak.
“Baby,” you murmured huskily, lips brushing his. “I can help take the suit off.”
Bracing his thighs, you lowered yourself to your knees before he could argue, the movement making your earrings sway and tinkle softly just as you'd imagine.
The position put you at eye level with the scorched gash in his suit. You reached up, fingers hovering over the blakened edges, and began carefully peeling it away from his skin. The material, though thick and clinging stubborn even in pieces, gave way under your persistent hands.
Beneath it, Clark's abdomen was warm. Whole. Trembling when your knuckles grazed along his hip bone.
Above you, Clark made a sharp, strangled groan and immediately looked away, jaw rigid, the ruined bouquet still clutched in his white-knuckled grip as the last thread of his composure.
Pursing your lips to stifle a giggle, you worked the torn section free, exposing more of him: the ladder of his ribs, the hollow of his pelvis, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. You let your gaze follow that trail hungrily, licking your lips.
Sure, the suit was always tight, but now it was impossible to miss the pronounced ridge of his erection, pressing against the red fabric of his briefs, curving and straining upward, the thick head already leaking.
Oh, your poor, guilty, late, soot-streaked Superman, trying so hard to be polite when his body had very clearly remembered what yours had been aching for the last two painstaking hours.
"Hmm, I know you like what you see," you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, pulse fluttering wildly at your throat.
A choked sound tore from his heaving chest.
"I—you—it's the dress," he stammered, his free hand hovering near your cheek, fingers twitching. You spared him the pain and leaned into his touch, letting him cup your face.
"The dress?" you blinked up, wide-eyed, mock-innocent, drawing your shoulders forward so your cleavage spilled forward.
"And the earrings. Plus, your smile. Your voice. That lipstick," he finally admitted, almost desperate. "And you. Mostly you. Entirely you, actually. You're so beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even during the fire, I kept picturing you waiting for me, and I was late, and the reservations, and the roses, and—"
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, abdomen tensing. “The reservations. Can we still—”
“Dinner’s not happening tonight,” you explained gently, glancing at the wallclock with exaggerated sorrow. “The restaurant stopped seating twenty minutes ago. Hell, even fifteen minutes after our reservation lapsed.”
His shoulders sank once more, thumb stroking your cheek with heartbreaking tenderness when you glanced up at him. "Yeah, I figured."
"But," you continued, curling your fingers into the waistband of his suit, tugging it down. "I am hungry."
The sound Clark made when his thick, flushed, slick-at-the-tip cock sprang free was half groan, half profanity prayer.
You wrapped a hand around the base, fingers barely meeting, pumping him a few times before notching the fat head between your parted lips. The sight of him, so hard and leaking in your palm, made your mouth water with primal anticipation.
Leaning in and parting wider, you licked a slow, wet stripe up the underside, tracing every vein from root to tip. He was proportional to everything else about him. Which meant he was a lot, and received a lot of attention.
Clark’s entire body jerked with every drag of your tongue. The hand grasping the flowers eventually let go. Petals scattered as he gripped the back of your neck with that perfect blend of gentleness and desperate strength you’d fantasized about.
"Oh," he begged. "Hon, please."
Drawing a breath, you took him past your plush lips and into your warm mouth.
For a moment, you stayed still to feel the weight of him on your tongue. To savor the taste of salt and skin. You sighed dreamily, eyes rolling back, hollowed your cheeks, and sank down, down, down, until your nose buried into the thatch of dark hair at the base, until the head nudged the back of your throat and you had to pull back just enough, gasping, gagging, drawing more breath.
Your eyes watered, paying no mind to wipe them away. Saliva pooled messily down your chin, over his balls, dripping onto the valley of your breasts. You went right back, messier, wetting, pushing further until your throat fluttered and squeezed around his thickness. Your earrings tinkled with every enthusiastic bob of your head.
“Baby—you're— incredible,” Clark managed, each word bashful and strained between ragged breaths.
The hand cupping your cheek slid down your shoulder with a grunt, thumb tracing your collarbone before tugging the strap of your dress gently until it fell, then the other. The fabric peeled away onto your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. His broad, callused palm groped one immediately as he groaned.
"Your mouth, the way you take me—so deep—that lipstick—"
You whimpered around his cock at the praise, the high-pitched vibrations making his hips twitch. Lipstick smeared across his shaft in streaks, marking him exactly the way you’d imagined while waiting. You took him to the root again, throat fluttering around his thickness, swallowing deliberately so the tight muscles milked him. Your pulse raced against his cock with every heartbeat.
"Gosh—" His hips bucked involuntarily harsher that time. He immediately stilled, a flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry, sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to—”
Clark’s hand tightened at the back of your neck, the other gripping your shoulder, holding you steady as his thighs trembled beneath your touch, with the willpower not to fuck your face the way he fucked your cunt.
“No—more—sorry's,” you quickly warned when he tried to apologize for another sharper buck, sucking harder in retaliation despite the radiating ache in your cheeks and jaw.
The wet, rhythmic squelching of your mouth working him filled the room. You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue swirling through the leaking fluid, then took him whole again.
His hand on the back of your head, then loosened, then tightened again, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away. He was babbling praises now, sweet praises spilling from his lips between raspy moans.
"You’re so good to me—so darn good—how are you so good at this—your mouth, your tongue—" A guttural sound broke his sentence in half when you swirled your tongue at the base, curving your head. "You look so beautiful like this. W-with that darn lipstick, I said that — alright r-right? I wanted—I want you all night. All day. Every second I was out there. I couldn't stop—"
Through his ramblings, his generous, callused fingers dragged through the thick strings of saliva dripping down your chin and onto your chest, using the messy spit as slick, warm lube to glide over your skin. He spread it across your stiff nipple in slow, meaningful circles, making them glisten.
His palms traded sides, giving attention to the neglected breast, sending sparks straight to your clenching cunt, the perfect counterpoint to the frantic, greedy rhythm of your mouth. The wet heat of your mouth, the cool air on your skin, the rough pad of his thumb made you moan louder and longer than before.
"Yes," Clark hissed. "Yes, jus'—just like that, hon. I love—when you sound like that. I love—when I can feel it. When you—”
You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue darting out and swirling, then sank back down, taking every inch until your nose pressed against his pelvis and you swallowed around him.
Clark’s eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped beneath his filthy sweat-slicked skin. "I’m—I can’t—Hon, you’re going to make me—I'm gonna—ohh sh—shoot—"
His words dissolved into breathless moans. Low. Broken. The kind of sounds you'd happily spend eternity coaxing from him. You felt him familiar throb against your tongue, thick and pulsing. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripping your shoulder hard enough to leave faint bruises that would be soothed under his kisses later.
With a broken cry that rattled through his chest, Clark came.
Hot, thick spurts flooded your throat in heavy waves. You swallowed every drop, throat fluttering and milking him while your lipstick left fresh smears along the shaft.
You kept sucking gently long after, lazily nursing him through the oversensitivity until his legs shook and soft, blissful whimpers slipped from his lips.
Only then did you pull off his massive length with a wet pop, thin gleaming strings of saliva and cum connecting your swollen, glossy lips to his still-twitching cock, dripping meassily onto your breasts.
Clark stared down at you like you’d hung the moon, the stars, and made the sun rise every day just for him, blue eyes dazed, tender, overflowing with love. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears and spit from your cheeks and lipstick-smeared lips as you caught your breath, all while whispering hushed words of praise and affection that made your cunt clench and squirm to once again chase that heat.
Suddenly, he lifted you by the waist, pressing your bare back against the cool window. The glass fogged beneath your heat as he dropped to his knees, rucking your dress high up onto your waist. Your legs draped instinctively over his wide shoulders, heels digging between his shoulder blades.
"I need—" he started, and then stopped, nuzzling against the soaked crotch of your panties, inhaling deeply, lips nipping at your swollen clit through the fabric with silent, pleading permission.
"I know, baby," you cooed, carding your fingers through his thick, messy curls, tugging just right. Your voice was deliciously raspy from how thoroughly you’d taken him. "You’re hungry. I can help with that, too."
The soot-stained suit still hung off him in tatters.
Scattered rose petals littered the floor around you both like crimson confetti.
A nice fanfic because the next one might be a bit too much…
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: Clark Kent never gets sick. At least, that’s what he always tells you. But after a brutal battle leaves Superman weakened in ways no one expected, you’re suddenly forced to take care of the strongest man in the world through a fever that shakes buildings, freezes floors, and leaves him trembling in your arms.
Warnings: Fluff and romance
WC: 2,900 words approx.
The work trip had only one goal: It was normal that when people transitioned from the spring to the autumn season, they got sick. You, more than anyone, knew that very well. That was why you took care of yourself as best you could, because you hated injections. It was a trauma you'd had since you were a child, due to your weak immune system. They had to give you shots for almost two full weeks, and for a twelve-year-old girl, you had to admit it was a real trauma. So, to avoid going through the same thing again, you took a packet of vitamin C every morning. And there was no problem with that, because that way you managed not to get sick.
Now that you had a boyfriend like Clark, it was clear that you always sought to take care of both of you. Ever since you moved in with him, you kept up your morning vitamin routine. And even before you found out his big secret—that he was Superman and led a double life—Clark took his vitamin with you. So you would prepare two glasses with the dissolved vitamin powder, and he would drink it without complaint. He never said anything, never grumbled. He just smiled and drank it while looking at you affectionately.
That lasted until he told you his secret, in the middle of the living room, sitting together on the sofa. He looked at you with fear, having revealed something so monumental, as if he thought you might get scared or angry. But you just stayed silent for a moment, thinking.
"So you can't get sick?" you asked, staring at him.
Clark smiled, feeling very relieved to be able to tell his secret to the most special person in his life. "No," he said, and very carefully tucked your stray hair behind your ear.
You frowned, a little confused. "And if you can't get sick, why do you take the vitamin I give you to prevent getting sick?" you asked, looking at him curiously.
His cheeks flushed deeply, so much so that he hesitated a bit before answering. "Well… it's a routine I enjoy sharing with you," he admitted with a slightly shy smile.
You smiled too, because you found it very endearing. From that moment on, Clark stopped taking the vitamin, since he truly didn't need it. But that didn't stop you from still taking care of him just the same. If you went out and it started to rain, you would take off your coat and give him his to put on.
"Beautiful, I don't get sick," he would say, laughing a little.
But you would look at him with those eyes he could never refuse. "But we match," you would tell him. And it was true, because you both had blue coats, so he would put it on just to keep you at ease.
In winter, when the cold was too harsh, you would wrap his scarf around his neck before going out. And on sunny days, you would put on your cap and he would do the same, because you had bought an identical one for him. He always told you the same thing: "I can't get sick. I'm strong." But you still weren't entirely sure. To you, he was still Clark, your boyfriend, and you wanted to protect him just as he protected you.
Even so, for several days you had known that the Justice League was facing a very powerful enemy. The news said Superman was having difficulties, and that left you on edge, very nervous. You worked in a call center office, and whenever you could, you checked your phone. But there was no message from Clark. He had gone three days without rest, and you were very worried about his health. When you got home that night, you realized it would be your fourth night without sleeping beside him. You missed him terribly.
You sighed and paced back and forth across the living room, not knowing what to do. The sun set completely and everything went dark. Then you heard a thud at the window. You saw Green Lantern helping Clark inside, stumbling, almost falling.
"Here's your woman, Clark," said Guy Gardner, the Green Lantern, and then he looked at you.
"Guy? What happened?" you asked, running toward Clark, who was moving very slowly, as if struggling to put one foot in front of the other.
"I'm fine," Clark said, but you heard something off in his voice. You noticed he didn't pronounce the letter 'e' correctly.
"You're not fine," Guy said. "His exposure to the enemy—by the way, we already defeated him—weakened him a lot." Guy placed him on the sofa you pointed to. "And you could say, in human terms, he has a fever."
You looked at Clark, who was pale and shaking slightly. You were about to touch him, but Gardner stopped you with his hand. "He's boiling. He can't cool down on his own until the sun rises in about eight hours," he explained.
You nodded, looking at Clark with concern. "I suppose it's like a human cold, right?" you said.
Gardner nodded. Just then, Clark sneezed. It was such a powerful sneeze that the whole apartment shook, and even your crystal vase fell to the floor and shattered.
"Sorry," Clark said, sniffling hard.
"I'll handle it," you told the Green Lantern, your voice firm.
"You sure?" Guy asked. You nodded again. "Anything happens, you know how to contact us. Good luck with your man and his sudden changes," he said, and flew off swiftly through the window.
You closed the window and started thinking. "First, we'll bring your temperature down," you announced, moving quickly. "I'll get the blankets out here, and we'll change your clothes."
"I'm fine," Clark said again, but his voice sounded weak. Then another sneeze shook the air, and this time a picture hanging on the wall fell down, making you jump. "Sorry," he whispered, sniffling again, a small pout on his lips. He looked like a big child who didn't want to cause trouble.
You ran to the bedroom and brought everything to the living room: blankets, a pillow, his pajamas. First, Clark lay down on the sofa with a pillow, with nothing covering him. You placed a large bucket with water and a lot of ice, too much ice. You reached out to touch his forehead, and barely grazing his skin, you had to pull away immediately. It burned as if you had touched a lit stove.
"Oh, Clark," you said, your eyes wide. "You're super hot. I can't even touch you."
He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "I know… it hurts," he whispered, and another sneeze made the windows rattle. This time, a glass on the table fell and rolled across the floor, but luckily it didn't break.
You carefully took the cloth, dipped it in the ice water, and brought it close to his skin. The moment the cold cloth touched his forehead, it started to steam slightly. The ice melted instantly. You had to wet the cloth again and again, nonstop. Every time you placed it, he sighed in relief for a second, but then groaned again as the heat returned.
"Again," he asked, his voice broken. "Put it on again, please." And you did, over and over, without tiring. Your hands were already red from constantly plunging them into the icy water, but you didn't care.
Nearly an hour passed like this. Clark sneezed every few minutes, and each sneeze made the furniture shift slightly or caused something to fall. At one point, he sneezed so hard that the ceiling lamp swayed as if an earthquake had hit.
"Sorry, I'm sorry," he said, his eyes teary, pouting again. His lower lip trembled. "I don't want to break anything, love. I don't want to…"
"It's okay," you told him, gently wiping the cloth across his face. "The things don't matter. You're the one who matters."
When the cloth finally started to stay cold on his skin for longer, you felt brave enough to remove his suit. Very carefully, you began taking it off him. He could barely move, so you had to help him by lifting his arms little by little. You left him in just his underwear, and at that moment, his skin changed completely. Suddenly, the heat vanished as if someone had extinguished a fire.
"I'm cold," Clark whispered, and his voice sounded so small it broke your heart. "So cold, love."
He began to tremble uncontrollably. His teeth chattered together, making a tiny sound. His lips turned purple, and his face became as pale as snow. You touched him, and this time it was like touching a block of ice. You were a little frightened, but you remembered what Guy had told you: sudden changes.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," you said, rushing to get more blankets. You grabbed every single one you had in the closet, even the oldest and thinnest. You piled them on him one by one. First one, then another, then another. Clark was still shivering, so you added two more. You lay down beside him on the sofa and held him tight, rubbing his arms and back to warm him up.
"Don't let go," he said, his voice breaking. "Please, don't let me go."
"I won't let you go," you promised, squeezing him tighter.
Several minutes passed until he finally stopped trembling. He sighed deeply and buried his face in your neck. "Stay with me," he whispered. And you stroked his hair, kissing his head every so often.
Suddenly, Clark coughed. It was a dry, harsh cough, and as he coughed, a blast of icy wind came from his mouth, freezing a patch of the floor. You looked at the ice, then at him. His eyes were wide, frightened.
"I'm so sorry," he said, and again he made that pout with his lips, like a child who has just accidentally broken something. "I don't want to hurt anything."
"It's nothing, Clark," you told him with a calm smile. "I'm going to make you soup and tea for the cough. But first, I need you to blow your nose."
You handed him a clean cloth, and he blew his nose. It was a very loud sound, like a trumpet, and as he did, another sneeze shook the living room. This time, the vase on the shelf fell and shattered into a thousand pieces.
"Oh no," Clark moaned, and a tear escaped down his cheek. "Everything breaks. I'm a wreck when I'm sick, and the neighbors are going to come and complain to you."
You knelt in front of him and wiped the tear away with your finger. "Hey, look at me," you said, affectionate but firm. "You take care of everyone, all the time. Now it's my turn to take care of you. If things break, that's fine. If the neighbors complain, I'll find an excuse. Do you understand?"
Clark nodded, but he was still pouting. "Do you still love me even if I break all your things?"
"I love you even if you break the whole building," you told him, and he let out a weak laugh that ended in another cough.
You went to the kitchen and prepared a hot soup and some tea. When you returned with the bowl and the cup on the small table, Clark was calmer, but still very weak. You helped him sit up a little, placing a pillow behind his back.
"Here, eat slowly," you told him, bringing the spoon closer.
He ate very slowly. Every other spoonful, he would sneeze or cough, and you already had the cloth ready to cover his mouth or wipe his nose. At one point, while eating, he started talking to himself, his eyes half-closed.
"My mom… my mom makes soup like this," he murmured, and then smiled goofily. "But you make it better… don't tell her."
You smiled, knowing he was delirious again. "I won't tell her," you whispered.
"And flowers… you like yellow flowers," he continued, moving his head from side to side. "I'm going to buy you a whole field of them. An entire field just for you. Would you like that?"
"I would love that," you replied, giving him another spoonful of soup.
"And peaches," he added, his eyes glossy and unfocused. "You like peaches. I'm going to bring you peaches from space. The peaches from Krypton are the best… though I don't know if there are peaches on Krypton." He paused, confused. "I don't think there are. But I'll get you some anyway."
You couldn't help but laugh softly. He was so adorable, talking in his sleep. He finished the soup and drank all the tea. Then you used your last remedy: two packets of vitamin C. He took them whole, and as he swallowed them, he made a face like a child given bad-tasting medicine.
"Disgusting," he protested, frowning. "Why do I have to take this if I'm already getting better?"
"Because I said so," you answered, and he made another pout, but this time softer, more like a pretend one.
Finally, he managed to half-open his eyes. They were teary and blue, and they looked at you weakly. He was very depleted. You had never seen him like this, so sick.
"I never get sick because I'm strong," you repeated what he always said, but this time with tenderness.
He sniffled, and that made you smile. "When the sun rises, you'll get better," you whispered, stroking his cheek again.
"I hate being like this," he said in a small voice. "I hate not being able to hug you tight because my arms are shaking. I hate sneezing and breaking things. I hate you seeing me so weak."
"You're not weak," you told him, taking his hand in yours. "You're sick. It's different. And I don't mind seeing you like this, because I've looked like this many times myself, and you never left me alone."
Clark looked at you with his big, wet eyes. "Will you stay with me until the sun comes out?"
"I'll stay," you said without hesitation.
"And do you still love me even when I pout?"
You smiled and touched his nose with your finger. "I love you more when you pout."
He smiled weakly and then yawned. "Take the vitamins again," you said confidently, leaving no room for doubt.
"I just need a little sunlight," he replied, shaking his head slightly, but without letting go of your hand.
"And vitamins," you said, and then yawned without being able to stop it.
"Go to sleep, you're tired," he said, his tone a little ashamed.
You shook your head. "You're here. I've spent three days alone in the bedroom. I want to be with you," you admitted, looking into his eyes.
He nodded, understanding. Then you stayed by his side, curled up next to him on the sofa, one hand on his chest to feel his breathing. Clark sneezed two more times, but they were softer now, and you wiped the cloth without saying anything, just kissing his shoulder. He made a small pout each time, as if apologizing, and you just smiled at him.
The hours passed like that, until four-thirty in the morning, when he finally managed to fall asleep. You fell asleep on the small sofa, with a blanket over you, but without letting go of his hand.
When you woke up, you turned over and felt that you were in your bed. You opened your eyes and sat up immediately, so fast that you felt a little dizzy. You looked at the clock: it was eight-thirty in the morning. You had barely slept four hours. You blinked, trying to wake up properly, and walked to the kitchen. Things were already prepared: bread, juice, everything tidy. Then you turned and saw Clark sitting on a chair, looking out the window. The sun was shining directly on his face, and he looked rested.
You smiled and approached without making a sound. You placed yourself behind him, without moving him. He tilted his head back to see you, and you kissed his forehead. It was normal, no fever.
"Did I wake you?" he whispered, his voice calm.
"No, I just got up and you weren't in the living room anymore," you said, wrapping your arms around him.
"As soon as the sun came up, I carried you to bed and came here to recharge. I didn't want you to sleep badly," he explained. He pulled back slightly and stood up to come closer to you. "Let's go sleep. Yesterday was a very long night for you," he said as his thumb gently traced the dark circles under your eyes. "Thank you for taking care of me," he added, holding your cheeks in his large, warm hands.
You smiled, your cheeks squished by his hands. "I would do it my whole life," you admitted without hesitation.
He smiled and kissed you softly. "Now you have to listen to me when it rains or gets cold, and always take your vitamins," you said, pointing to the spot where the vase and the pictures used to be, which were gone now because they had broken. "Otherwise, next time you'll end up destroying the whole apartment."
"Yes, sorry," he said, laughing softly as he took your hand and led you toward the bedroom.
They lay down together, and he hugged you tightly. You closed your eyes, feeling at peace, and the two of you slept again, finally resting.
A run on the classic "three times that Superman saves you and the one time you save him". Before the first time he saves you, while working at your new job in a record store, you meet Clark, who might just be the man of your dreams.
wc. 9.8k | My Masterlist | Next Part
notes. This is my first work for Clark Kent/Superman! ahhh! I hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think!
tags. clark kent (superman) x fem!reader, hurt/comfort, angst, close to the movie AU, mentions of a deceased father, some violence, clark being a cutie.
After quitting your office job, you took a pretty significant pay cut to work at a record store in the heart of Metropolis. It was the only record store in the city before heading toward Gotham, so getting the job felt like somewhat of an accomplishment.
It wasn’t a big store, or even that popular, but the music scene in Metropolis held Metrecordlis in the highest regard. It was a sort of sacred ground where most people forgot their day to day lives and just got to come in and browse while listening to music.
Once upon a time, your father would bring you too and the two of you would pick out some random records to bring home.
Those nights after dinner, the two of you would go into the living room and listen to the records you bought in their entirety. No words would need to be spoken as the music overtook the two of you in ways you couldn’t describe.
You’d done that every week up until he passed away.
And even a year later, you still hadn’t quite found your footing.
Grief made it hard to get up some mornings, while other mornings felt totally normal. You knew logically that a loss that significant would make you feel deeply, but it was still so suffocating to not know when something or someone would trigger you. Especially since every-day life was tied into your father like air.
Even at home, you kept his TV on and his door closed like he was still in there resting. Sometimes pretending made things easier, but not always.
Most days were mundane at this record job for you, but definitely more interesting than the office. You actually liked your coworkers and manager for the most part. And you got to meet all kinds of interesting people that walked through. It made for great distraction most days.
You saw just about everyone there was to see come through the store; business execs, mothers and fathers, fitness gurus, influencers. Everyone came through to look for their music they loved.
And just being in Metropolis itself was bound for some chaos too.
It made things even more interesting having the newly formed Justice Gang around. Trouble did seem to find the city at some inconvenient times, bringing the craziest things like giant monsters and mutants. But the Justice Gang did a pretty good job of keeping the city safe.
Most of the thanks went to Metropolis’ hero, Superman.
You admired Superman a lot after your Dad’s passing. Or at least the way he was portrayed on TV - resilient and indestructible. You envied that, wishing you could be just as strong.
The chime above the door sounded, causing you to snap out of your deep thoughts.
It hadn’t been a busy day, and in your downtime, you had let yourself get caught up in your memories. It was one of the parts of the job you disliked the most - having so much time alone - but there wasn’t much the customers could do about your own wandering thoughts.
Putting on your best customer service face, you approached the man who’d walked through the door.
The first thing you noticed was how tall the man was. Even slightly hunched, he towered over the gondolas that held the records.
Next, you noticed how ill-fitted his suit was. It looked like the heavy tweed of his suit jacket just fell over his shoulders, as well as the pants. For someone his size, he was being swallowed by his clothes, which felt… off.
And lastly, when he spotted you approaching him, he locked his eyes with yours. You couldn’t help but notice that they were bright blue, brighter than you think you’d ever seen. Even with just a glance, his eyes held something so deep and sincere. It almost felt otherworldly.
This man’s gaze made you stop in your tracks, your heart starting like a motor.
He was handsome.
It had been a long time since you’d found attraction in anyone, and even then, it still took a while for you to see features that felt striking to you. But with this stranger, you were nearly dumbstruck.
“Can I help you find anything?”
The words finally left your mouth without your volition as more of muscle memory. Months of asking the same dull question helped you here, as your brain felt as though it were turning to mush.
“Yes ma’am.” The man’s voice was velvety and rich with the smallest country twang in it. He was starting to smile wide at you, “I was looking for any old Johnny Cash records.”
It was like his voice encompassed you, surrounding you with warmth. Just like his eyes, it wasn’t like anything you’d herald before, and it took you more by surprise than you’d anticipated. It took a moment before his question fully registered in your mind.
“Oh,” you breathed, shaking your head to try and put you back into customer service mode, “Yes. You can follow me. Everything is alphabetized by last name.”
He gave you a grateful smile before you led him the short walk to the country section. Once there, you awkwardly stood off to the side, allowing the handsome stranger to look for himself. There were a lot of “C” names, so both of you started to sift through the records after a few moments.
“So, you’re a country fan?” you asked, albeit quietly.
You tried not to cringe at yourself as you chanced a look his way. He was still smiling, dimples forming at the corners of his mouth. As if he couldn’t get even more handsome.
“Kinda. I like it just fine, but not as much as my Pa. I’m grabbing these records for his birthday coming up.”
You nodded, “That’s kind of you.”
“Sort of…” The tall stranger shrugged once, but his smile didn’t waver, “I kinda messed up and his records got damaged a while back, so I’ve been slowly rebuilding his collection for him. It’s been slow going though. I’ve been busy, and he doesn’t live around here, so I’ll have to fly these out to him.”
A sad sort of longing crossed his features as he spoke about his Pa. It didn’t dim his eyes, but it made them look weary. It made you think of your own father and how you would’ve done the same for him.
Shaking the thoughts away before you could get sad, you plucked out a sleeve of an old Johnny Cash album with a small, triumphant smile, handing it to the stranger.
“Hey, well, at least you’re trying for him,” You said gently, “Even if it was a mistake on your part, your Pa must really appreciate the effort you’re putting in to rebuild it.”
Once again, the blue eyes met yours and another smile graced his face, taking the record from your hands,
“Thank you…” Just barely, you could see his cheeks growing a dark crimson, “Now you’re the one being kind.”
You felt your face doing much of the same and you shrugged back at him, “I’m just trying my best.”
He stood there for a long moment, just staring at the album, his large fingers fiddling with the paper cover. It was like he was thinking of more things to say, but couldn’t quite get them out. It would’ve been comical had you not been in much of the same boat.
Finally, he murmured, “I never got your name.”
Just above a murmur, you gave him your name and he hummed aloud with a larger smile than before. The small sound to him nearly reverberated the entire store, but no one else but you seemed to notice that.
“Clark.” He outstretched his hand immediately, and an air of confidence suddenly surrounded him. Your hands met and it was much more firm than you’d expected. It was even more surprising just how warm his skin was, “Clark Kent.”
The name was instantly familiar to you, “Like the Daily Planet reporter?”
Ever so slightly, his eyes lit up.
“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” He said with a short nod and an awkward laugh, “So you read the news.”
A laugh escaped you too, “I do. My Dad kept the news on all the time, so I kinda just gravitate towards keeping up with everything, plus there’s a lot going on here. You kinda gotta know the news in order to not get eaten by something alien… even if a newspaper is expensive these days.”
Clark let out a small chuckle, more sure this time as he held up his hands in defense, “Listen, I just work there.”
The two of you gave a smile to each other once again. The two of you stood there for a long few moments just looking and staring until you realized neither of you had made another move. You motioned for him to follow you again, starting to head toward the register when he stepped to your side.
“If you don’t mind helping me find one more thing,” He said quickly, nearly stumbling over his words, “Do you have The Mighty Crabjoys?”
Furrowing your brows in confusion, you looked him up and down. He was more the nerdy type than anything with the big glasses and swallowing suit. You didn’t think he seemed the type to like pop punk bands.
You smirked, deciding to tease him, “Don’t tell me that’s for your Pa too.”
“No, it’s for me,” Clark shook his head, biting back a laugh, “But there seems to be some judgement coming from you about my taste in music. Not so nice now, huh?”
Laughing again, you also held up your hands in surrender,
“No judgement, Mr. Reporter, but I wouldn’t have pinned you as a Crabjoys fan.”
“I enjoy them a lot,” he said with a small huff, “I need something to pump me up when I’m working on an article.”
You rolled your eyes and nodded your head toward the pop-punk section, “Follow me then, Mr. Kent.”
As you turned, he let out another hum. His voice, even with small sounds, made you feel warm inside. You could still feel that same buzzing energy from him, like a beam of light bursting through a pitch black room. All of your thoughts went to how you wanted nothing more than to be enveloped by whatever he was giving off.
You led him to the pop-punk area and began searching through the “M”s until you found exactly what you were looking for fairly quickly. You pulled the sleeve from its place and handed it to the much taller man standing beside you.
Clark bit his lip for just a second to try and hide the small smile that formed.
You on the other hand weren’t hiding your grin anymore, “Anything else I can help you find?”
He let out a small sigh and held out his collection of records for you, “I guess this will be it, thank you, ma’am.”
You both smiled at each other a little longer than necessary before you walked him to the register. Albeit, your pace slowed, feeling abnormally sad that your time together was coming to an end. Your limbs felt like they were moving at their own pace; becoming noodles as you got to the counter and started to ring up the incredibly handsome man’s items.
Adjusting his glasses, Clark cleared his throat, “Are you new?”
You nodded, “Kinda. I’ve only been working here for a couple of months. Why?”
“Just curious. I haven’t seen you before,” He shook his head quickly, “It’s not that I come in here that often, but it’s been the same people here for so long. The other guy that works here, B-Dog, is a really fun guy. Met him a couple of times.”
Laughing, you nodded, “He’s certainly a character.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here today instead.”
His murmur was almost too quiet for you to hear, but when it hit your ears, you began to reel. You could feel your cheeks heating up again. You tried to hide your growing flush from him by ducking below the counter to grab him a bag for his purchase.
You took a deep breath, trying to convince yourself that a little flirt was nothing serious. You popped back up quickly, giving him a genuine smile.
“I’m glad you’re here today too. It’s been really nice talking with you.”
Clark smiled wide at that as he reached into his pocket. A confused look took over his face, and after tapping his suit pockets for a few seconds, he let out a defeated sigh.
“Shoot…” He whispered, “Silly me. I think I left my wallet at home. Would you be able to keep these for me?”
Those piercing blue eyes gave you an almost pleading look, and you couldn’t help but nod in response almost automatically.
“I can put them on hold for two days.”
There wasn’t actually a policy for that.
“Perfect,” he smiled wide, biting his lip, “And will you be working in those two days?”
The prospect of possibly getting to see him again was more than exciting. With your heart hammering hard against your chest, you felt like you could barely breathe enough to answer him. Eventually, you managed to speak again, “I’ll be here tomorrow… Nine to six.”
“Good, Thank you,” your name rolled off his tongue, “It was a pleasure meeting you today.”
This time, you were the one to hum in response “The pleasure’s all mine.”
With a small, final smile, he rushed out the door, calling over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow!”
No one else seemed to hear the boom of his voice; it was like it shook the entire earth. But as you looked around to see if anyone else was stunned, it was like you were the only one encapsulated by him.
So, you chalked it up to just having a small, tiny crush.
***
The next morning, grief had other plans for you.
It struck you hard especially after good days, making it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. Some days felt real and normal, while others felt fake. And now everything felt just a little too fake for you.
Waking up in the apartment was always the hardest part. As you got ready for your day, you felt yourself going through all of the motions, but almost as if your head were underwater the entire time.
It took so long for your brain to catch up sometimes, and you wished desperately that you could just bounce back and put on a brave face. You allowed yourself to cry to try and relieve some of the pressure in your mind, but it only proved to make your head even more foggy than before.
Some solace came from the news. Trying to distract yourself, you turned the TV on and tried to look for the good in life.
Superman, the protector of your city, had done it once again from a comet-like entity. And again, you found yourself wishing you could’ve been more like him. He seemed to do it all, and he did it with a smile on his face. Obviously you didn’t have the powers he had, but you figured he must’ve been so strong mentally just as much as physically.
Once you got to the store later in the morning, you helped open slowly and did everything that was asked of you. It was a decent distraction for you as well, but sometimes the feelings were just a little too heavy.
As the day progressed, busier than the day before, you successfully had gotten your mind off of some of your sadness, but had nearly forgotten about the tall man and his records from the day before.
You had made yourself too busy to greet Clark when he walked in sometime after five. One of your other coworkers had greeted him and retrieved his records from the back. Feeling slightly defeated, you tried to stay out of their way, letting your coworker have the sale.
However, nearly moments after you’d thought that, you felt his warm presence before you saw him approach you. When you saw him, it was like your entire demeanor changed.
“Hey there!” He greeted you with a chipper voice, “I was beginning to think you weren’t here today.”
You chortled, but it didn’t feel as genuine as the day before, “Yeah. Barely made it.”
Clark’s voice dropped almost immediately, “Barely, huh?”
The sudden mood change shocked you a little. You hadn’t expected him to take you so seriously.
Not wanting to sour the mood between the two of you, a small tug happened at the corner of your lip as you nodded, “Guess I’m not feeling the greatest today.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
His voice cut deep; inviting and enveloping just like the day before. It was welcome, but the warmth made you want to cry again. There was something about Clark that felt so familiar; nostalgic even, that it reminded you of spending your days in the sun as a kid.
He frowned when you didn’t answer right away, “Anything I can do to help?”
Gently, you shook your head, “That’s very sweet of you, but… no, I’ll be okay.”
“I’ve got tylenol in my bag.”
That made you laugh the tiniest bit, much more authentically, “It’s okay, Clark. Thank you. I’m just… a little sad. Nothing I can’t deal with.”
“I have no doubt.” A soft smile graced his lips, “I’m sorry you’re sad. I wish I had some magic pill to cure that.”
“Talking to you has been really helpful,” You murmured, hoping he wouldn’t hear you, “It’s made this day a little brighter.”
Before Clark could respond, your coworker B-Dog came back around, looking for Clark, but saw that he was talking with you. Luckily, Clark let him know that you’d been the one to initially help him, so your coworker relinquished the records to you to ring him up. You began leading him to the register again, feeling a small air of confidence arise in you.
When you turned at the counter to ring up his items again, you noticed a small dusting of pink overcoming Clark’s cheeks. Just your luck, he’d obviously heard you before, but he thanked you anyway. Quickly, he swiped his card to pay, keeping his eyes to the floor.
After taking his purchase from you, he still made no move to exit. He stood there, somewhat awkwardly, staring at you with a sort of battle going on behind his eyes.
“S-Sorry.” Clark stammered, “I know this is very forward, so forgive me, but you’re very pretty.”
This time, you knew your cheeks were burning too as soon as the words left his lips. Your mind went haywire as you were now the one to stare right back at him. You mumbled something of a thank you as you felt it leave your throat, but it was incredibly incoherent.
Clark was the one to laugh this time, breathlessly, like he was trying to catch up with himself as well.
“I-I’m sorry. I know that was brash.”
“No, it’s okay. I just don’t get compliments very often,” You said quickly, trying to regain your composure, “Thank you… you’re handsome yourself.”
He smiled wide as the nervous energy expelled off of him, “Would you like to get lunch sometime with me? I know it can’t cure sadness, but maybe being near you would help a little. You know… like you said.”
Biting your lip, you nodded, “I’d love that.”
“Great!” Clark had said it a little too enthusiastically; too loud for the space. He cleared his throat again, speaking at a much more normal volume, “What day are you free next?”
“Friday,” You said, slightly winded, “I’m off Friday.”
“I could take you out on my lunch break. Guess it’ll even it out for disrupting your work time here.”
“This is far from disrupting me,” you said with a short laugh.
“How does noon sound?”
“Sounds like a date.”
You gave Clark a smile, the blush never leaving your cheeks.
“Yeah, sure does,” His voice cracked, “Um… how will I get in contact with you?”
Smirking, you thought of teasing him again, if only to make him blush more.
“I guess you can have my number.”
He smirked, shaking his head, presumably at himself, “I’ve forgotten how to talk to people.”
You were already writing your phone number on a post it note. You quickly tore it off and put the sticky side just below his pocket protector on his ill-fitted suit jacket. You weren’t normally this forward either, but it felt fun - exhilarating - to be so free with someone.
Clark’s smile got wider as he took off the sticky note and peeked at it before stuffing it in the pocket. He adjusted his glasses before looking back at you.
“Thank you again,” it was like velvet as he said your name, “See you Friday?”
“See you Friday.” You nodded.
Leaving it at that, he walked out the door, but not before turning back to look at you once again. You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you watching him trying to balance all of the things in his hands as he gave you a small wave.
The light of the day sort of shifted after that, and you were left back to work and your own thoughts. The grief had still been there, quieting for a while as you spoke to Clark, just waiting to rear its ugly head back out. It seemed to come crashing back down as soon as he was out of sight.
You excused yourself to the bathroom, just to give yourself a few extra moments alone and to allow some tears to escape.
It was strange always feeling this whiplash of emotions especially after something so good.
However, not even a minute after the tears had sprung, your phone dinged in your pocket. You dug it out, managing a smile as you read the message:
This is Clark! I look forward to helping you cure some sadness Friday!
Wiping away your tears with your palm, you felt as though he was already trying.
***
Friday came around much quicker now that you had something to look forward to. Most weeks, mundane as they were, tended to drag on. So, this was certainly a welcome change.
You woke up feeling a lot better than you had in a long time; you felt giddy and excited for what felt like the first time in forever.
Admittedly, you’d only been on a handful of dates, and none of them had gone very well, so you were hopeful this would change too.
The two of you had been texting back and forth since you’d given him your number. Most of your messages were about the date and other details, like where to meet. But sometimes, you’d both delve off into other things, like talking about your days or tiny flirty messages back and forth.
This felt different.
As you got ready, you made sure to wear some of your best clothes and put on the best smelling scent you had before walking out the door. You wanted to put in effort for yourself since it’d been so long, and in leaving the house, you felt fresh and confident.
The walk to the little cafe you decided to meet at felt excruciating long, like trudging through a dream. It felt like no matter how long you walked, you weren’t getting anywhere. You kept forward though, pure determination keeping you going.
You felt your phone ding in your hand and you lifted it to see the message:
Just made it. I’m in the third booth from the back.
Beside the text was a little winky face. Again, you smiled, luckily right around the corner.
Trying to be as confident as you felt, you strode into the little cafe. You scanned the room for only a second before your eyes landed on the tall figure - already seated at a booth - waving you over. You couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped your mouth as you made your way over to him. Awkwardly tall against the booth, he still clambered out of the seat to greet you, giving you the utmost respect.
“It’s nice to see you again.” He said as you approached, motioning for you to take the seat across from him, “I haven’t ordered yet. I thought I would wait for you.”
“Thank you Clark,” You said as you sat, “It’s nice to see you again too. And it’s even nicer of you to sacrifice your lunch break for me, no less.”
Clark gave you a wide, toothy grin, letting his dimples show and his accent pop out.
“It was nothin’. I usually take my time for lunch most days, anyway.”
Surrounded by his warmth, especially being in the booth with him, you felt a lot closer than you were; more intimate than talking in the record store.
You had some time to scour the menu before the waitress came by to take your orders. It was all mostly breakfast, so you settled for a small fruit salad and toast. Clark on the other hand got the works: a large breakfast, complete with eggs, toast, hashbrowns, bacon, and a small stack of pancakes.
As the waitress walked away to put in your orders, Clark sat back in the booth, giving you a funny look, “Fruit salad and toast?”
Again, you felt your cheeks burning, “There seems to be some judgement coming from you about my food choices.”
He shrugged, smirking, “A little. Doesn’t seem like much of a breakfast.”
“Well, it’s lunch,” you chided, “And it’s not much of a meal, but it’s better than the greasy breakfast food.”
Clark’s mouth fell open like you’d just said the most shocking thing in the world. You bit your lip, trying your best not to laugh as his hands started to frenzy around him.
“What?!” he guffawed, though a grin still evident on his face, “What’s wrong with greasy breakfast food? You can’t tell me you don’t like pancakes or waffles. Everyone likes one or the other! There’s, like, a whole stupid song about it…”
Another laugh escaped, “There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s just not my preferred food choice.”
“But fruit salad and toast?”
“What’s to say I just wanted something small? This is my first date in a long time, after all, I’m a little nervous.”
Clark didn’t say anything for a moment, only letting his smile widen slowly. He cleared his throat, “I haven’t been on a date in a long time either. I suppose I’m a bit nervous too.”
“I’m relieved to know I’m not alone,” you murmured.
The conversation flowed easily for a while until your food was sat down in front of you a few minutes later. The country twang in his rich voice came and went as you’d spoken, sparking your next question.
“Where are you from, Clark?” You asked, beginning to prepare your toast the way you liked it, “Pa doesn’t sound like a Metropolis term.”
“Because it’s not.”
You glanced over at him to see that almost all of his eggs were already gone. Holding in a laugh, you let him continue.
Swallowing his food, he took in a deep breath like he was about to reveal a secret, “I’m from Kansas. My Ma and Pa raised me on their farm and I moved here a few years ago for work.”
The answer still felt vague, like there was more to be said, but you didn’t press him further.
Instead, you hummed back with a small smile, “That makes a lot of sense.”
“Being from Kansas?”
Clark shed his suit jacket off to the side, leaving him in just a light blue button down shirt. You watched as he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and you came to realize you were getting a little lost.
His arms were… huge. As he crossed them to get his other sleeves, it was like all of his muscles pulled at the thin fabric of his shirt, barely able to move and mold with him. The ill-fitted suit suddenly made even less sense as it obviously did him no justice.
The man in front of you looked at you, clearing his throat when he noticed you watching him without any words.
Speaking without volition, you blurted out, “Well, you definitely have a farm-boy physique. But... no, it's your southern hospitality.”
Clark laughed aloud, the room booming again.
He shrugged, trying to be modest, “I threw hay barrels around for a long time.”
“Do you miss Kansas?”
“Every day.” He admitted softly, "Sometimes, I wish I had stayed. But… most days I’m really proud of my work that I do here in Metropolis.”
“Then you must really like writing for the Daily Planet. You’ve gotten to interview some pretty cool people.”
A smirk graced his face as he cut into his pancakes. He hiked his glasses up his face with his finger, shielding himself for a second before speaking, “You’ve read my work?”
“I have. I like your articles about Superman.”
“Superman, huh?”
It was like his pace slowed significantly; taking slower and more deliberate bites of his food as his eyes perked up to you. He seemed to watch you and study your reaction.
You took a small bite of fruit, “You make him sound really… human. I like the thought of that; being able to do anything, but still having the capacity to be kind and compassionate.”
Clark nodded, speaking softly, “I think it’s important for people to see that too. He’s just like everyone else.”
It gave you pause again as you locked eyes, a charming smile gracing his lips. You couldn’t help but let yourself smile too. It was almost making your cheeks sting with how much he made your lips curl up, but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to.
“So,” he started as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, half of his food devoured, “You got a long round of questions. Mine starts now: Where are you from?”
And again, your mouth curved up, “I’ve lived in Metropolis all my life. I am a born and raised metropolitan.”
“We just call you folk city slickers back home.” He chuckled, “You must be close to your family then.”
Biting your lip, you knew something like this would eventually come up. There wasn’t a use in being so vague, so you came out with it, trying to mask the grief that started to travel through your body.
“I was. I don’t have any immediate family here. It was just me and my dad, but he passed away last year.”
Another look overtook Clark that you couldn’t place. You hadn’t told many people about your father, expecting a lot of pity looks, but this wasn’t that. He was looking at you like he understood very well. It had been difficult to talk about your father without getting emotional, but with Clark, you were able to keep calm.
“Gosh,” he murmured, “My condolences.”
You tried to smile through your growing sadness again, trying not to let the mood drop too far, “It’s still a little fresh, but I’ve been okay. Thank you.”
“Of course.” Picking up that you didn’t want to speak on the subject anymore, Clark gave you a polite nod before pivoting completely with his next question. “Have any pets?”
His bright eyes trailed you as he took in another big bite of his food, now blatantly gauging your reaction. You were grateful he didn’t press further about your past with your dad.
“Do fish count?”
“Sure,” he shrugged, “Do you like your job?”
“Are you investigating me?” you asked with a small chuckle. Clark didn’t answer, simply motioning for you to continue through his mouthful of food. “I like my job most days. I like it better than the office job I had before.”
He swallowed, “What do you like and dislike most about your job now?”
“You are investigating me,” you mused, “I love music and people who also love music. I don’t like sales tactics.”
"Is that what was wrong with the office job?"
"Kinda" you sighed, "Just needed a change of pace."
“So you take pride in sharing your passion with people.”
Your brows furrowed at him curiously as you nodded slowly, “I guess so.”
Another smile graced his face, making his dimples show.
The two of you ate and talked for a little longer with more basic getting-to-know-you questions. He asked things like what your favorite color was, or your favorite movie. Even with the most mundane questions, however, he looked as if he were filing every bit of information away for later.
His raven hair fell in a curl over his forehead as he moved, and all you could think of was reaching forward and putting it back in place. As much as it pained you, you kept your hands to yourself.
Towards the end of the date, Clark happily paid for the both of you, waving you off with a short, “You can pay for me next time.”
As you stood together from the small booth, you took a deep breath and asked him, “Can I walk you to work?”
He flashed you a toothy grin, “I’d love that.”
The short walk to the Daily Planet was filled with extra questions, but mainly it served as an excuse to be around him more. The feeling of warmth he radiated was addicting, making you wonder why herds of people weren’t following him around for it.
And all too soon, your walk came to an end.
Both of you stood in front of the massive building, making no moves to go further. Neither of you said anything for a long while as exchanged short, shy glances. You didn’t want the date to end, and you were silently cursing yourself for it being such a short meeting.
“When can I see you again?”
Clark was the first to break the ice, asking in a fast, hushed voice. Pushing his glasses up on his face nearly covered the blush that was forming on his cheeks.
“That is, if you want to see me…”
Your face was doing much of the same as you nodded back at him, “I do. What about Sunday?”
“We could have dinner?”
“It’s a date.”
Smiling sheepishly, Clark’s hummed, low and deep, just like the day you met him. Slowly, he upturned his hand to you, silently asking for you to take it. Once you did, he brought it up to his lips slowly, leaving a light kiss along your knuckles. You were already reeling from that, but as he pulled his hand away - in one swift movement - he leaned forward to leave a kiss on your cheek.
“This has been the best lunch I’ve had by far.”
“I’m glad. Very glad.” you stammered.
“See you Sunday?”
“Yeah," you breathed out, "See you Sunday.”
With another big smile, he backed away toward the entrance of the building, nearly stumbling when his eyes wouldn’t leave you. His large, clumsy limbs flailed as he waved at you, and you couldn’t help but giggle. You waited until he was inside before making your way back to your apartment.
At that moment, you felt like the luckiest person in Metropolis.
You’d been on dates with others - plenty, actually - but had never felt the way you did on that one. Not even by a mile. Even in just that short time, he made you feel seen and listened to without having to blurt out every aspect of your life.
Even being near him made you feel giddy, like a child with a crush.
What left you even more dumbfounded is that Clark seemed to like you back, like he felt just as happy and carefree with you. And that was refreshing.
Almost as if to solidify your thoughts, you got a text almost as soon as you closed your apartment door.
Hope you made it home safe. I can’t stop thinking about our date. I’m very excited for Sunday!
A bunch of emojis flooded in after: smiley faces, sunshine, and little hearts.
You held the phone close to your chest and let out a small squeal of joy. Clark really did have a way of curing sadness.
***
Sunday came before you knew it. In those near 48 hours, you were glued to your phone, responding and waiting on messages from Clark about when and where your Sunday date would be. You’d been texting even more since your date, and every text was like a breath of fresh air.
The two of you decided - well, Clark decided - on a nicer, more upskaled restaurant in the heart of downtown. He made reservations for the two of you and everything.
It wasn’t until Sunday morning leading up to your date that something started to feel… off.
Leading up to your date in the evening the both of you still had to work. To you, it was a nice distraction from the nerves pooling in your stomach. Your heart beat wildly against your chest the entire day any time you thought of the nerdy, dark-haired man.
Throughout the day, you and Clark continued to talk intermittently, but you notice he’d pulled back somewhat pretty early in the day. The messages he sent were still sincere and enthusiastic, but shorter and less frequent than they had been.
You thought that maybe he was just having a busy day. And very desperately, you tried not to think about what else it could be.
Once work was done, you had some time to go home and get ready for your date. However, that weird feeling that something was wrong kept popping up. So when you entered your apartment, you stood in the living room, typing out a message to Clark.
We’re still on for tonight?
You decided to take a shower as you waited for his answer.
Despite the strange feeling, you were beyond excited to go on another date with Clark. It had been a long time since you’d looked forward to something like this. You found yourself even wanting to put effort into how you looked; making yourself look as good as you felt. It wasn’t something you’d felt in such a long time.
After your shower, you could feel anxiety building as you checked your phone. Luckily, there was a text waiting for you from Clark:
Of course! I’m still at work, but I’ll get off soon!
A sigh of relief left you as you shot back another text, confirming that you’ll see him at the restaurant.
Before long, you were checking yourself out in the mirror, putting on your last touches of jewelry and accessories. Another weird feeling washed over you, despite Clark’s confirmation, but you thought of it just being your nerves.
As you locked up your apartment, you took in a large breath, looking at the time and making sure that you were still on time for the reservation. You glanced at your messages, but the screen remained blank after the last message you sent.
Although you didn’t know him that well, it didn’t seem normal.
Still, you sent another quick text, telling him you were on your way to the restaurant, hoping he would respond to you when he could.
Throughout the train ride downtown, the feeling that something wasn’t right was growing deeper in your abdomen. Especially with the radio silence from Clark. It had already been almost an hour since you’d last heard from him and normally he wouldn’t have gone that long without sending you something back already.
Still, you persisted.
At the restaurant, you kept a brave face as you approached the counter. Part of you thought that maybe your date was already there, waiting for you at the table he reserved. But it was no such luck as you looked around the mostly vacant restaurant.
You smiled at the hostess, giving her the name “Kent” and the reservation time. You felt a small rush of relief as she nodded to you, leading you back to a booth. She placed down two menus before giving you a polite smile back.
“Still waiting for your guest?”
You tried to sound confident, “Yes, he’ll be here soon.”
She gave you a solemn look before nodding and taking your drink order. Still hopeful, you decided to order a glass of red wine. As she walked away, you looked around at the few couples that littered the place before pulling out your phone.
You sent another message, telling him you were there. But there was nothing in return.
Feeling your heart pounding in your chest, you didn’t want to give up just yet. Although something felt wrong, you knew Clark wouldn’t put in effort to make reservations just to stand you up. He’d been so sweet to you that this didn’t seem like his character.
But then again, you didn’t know him like that.
Against your better judgement, you still waited. And waited. And waited.
After an hour, you felt more embarrassed than anything. The waitress had come up and asked you if you were waiting still, and each time you would nod, asking for another glass of red wine. Three glasses later, the waitress set a small appetizer down in front of you for free.
Your heart couldn’t take it anymore.
Just as you were gathering your things, ready to go to the front to pay, your phone dinged. Reaching for it, you finally got some form of an answer by text.
I’m so sorry. I got so caught up at work, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you–
Without reading the rest of the message, you stuffed your phone in your purse, not wanting to read any excuses. You finally asked for the check and paid for your wine, keeping your head low as you slowly made your way out of the restaurant.
The waitress, and you were sure any of the patrons, were giving you sad looks, only making you feel worse. You took a mental note that you would never go there again out of pure embarrassment.
You held your tears in until you were fully out of view of any prying eyes, but as soon as you were out the door, the dam broke and it was like a waterfall fell over your cheeks. You tried to wipe them away to no avail, only for more to continuously fall.
As you walked home, you tried to cover your face with your hands, trying to focus on simply getting to the apartment. The subway had too many eyes, and you didn’t want anyone else to see you. With your eyes casted to the ground, the walk felt like an eternity.
Halfway home, you passed by some men sitting on some apartment steps. You kept your head low, hoping no one could see your tear stained cheeks. Still, a low whistle sounded from one of the men who stood up, trying to get your attention. Typical of a lot of men in Metropolis, but you never budged, you simply ignored them, continuing on your walk.
But a little ways away, you could hear footsteps behind you and low murmuring as the men talked to each other. You tried to quicken your pace, feeling that they were trailing behind you fairly quickly.
Your heart started to thud fast against your chest as you lengthened your stride. Easily, however, they were able to keep up, some of them being much faster.
“Hey!” One of the men chimed behind you, “Where you going?”
You kept walking, ignoring him again. With just your luck most of the shops you passed were closed and no one else seemed to notice or care that these men were following you. Taking in a large breath, you remained forward, using all of your strength to speed up.
“This is a nice view back here. I would love to see the front.”
Another man said, or maybe the same one. It didn’t matter though, and you didn’t dare to look behind you.
You were almost at a job, but judging by their footsteps, you knew they were still gaining on you. The tears that you’d been trying to keep in were freely flowing down your cheeks, creating a harsh sting against the cool night air.
As a hand caught your shoulder, you let out a yelp, and in an instant, he showed up.
Superman.
You heard the commotion before you even had the chance to turn around. There was a smack and a groan as some of the bystanders around you finally started to turn their heads. As you finally looked behind you, there was Superman with his hand around the neck of who you could only assume was the man that grabbed your shoulder.
From where you stood, you couldn’t see the strong man’s face, but you knew it was Superman just by everything else. You could obviously see how big and tall he was, but you could also feel the presence and power he had.
The three other men were watching in horror as the large meta-human stood incredibly still, his cape flapping lightly in the wind as if he were waiting for them to speak first.
“Fellas.” His voice was loud and pointed. He let the man by the neck go, shoving him towards his friends, “Why don’t you run home?”
As the men scampered off, Superman watched for a moment, crossing his arms in front of him before turning to face you.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
Words and thoughts weren’t coming easily as you stared possibly for too long. The super hero in front of you started to smile wide, dimples poking out of the corners of his lips.
A soft buzzing noise began in the back of your brain, low and soft, like it was trying to grab your attention. Maybe it was the combination of everything that had happened that day; the shoddy communication with Clark, him standing you up, the men, and now Superman, but you couldn’t hold your tears in any longer. The dam broke once again as tears spilled from your eyes.
“I don’t know,” you sobbed.
Superman’s eyes softened as he uncrossed his arms, making himself just a bit smaller for you.
“It’s okay to not know.” The large meta-human motioned to a bench along the sidewalk about a block away, “Want to talk?”
Nodding at him, he gave you a kind smile before leading you over to sit. As he sat beside you, you could immediately feel the inhuman warmth radiating off of him. It felt almost familiar but not enough to come to mind.
Instead, you thought of your father.
Superman didn’t say anything or make you feel like you needed to talk back at him. He simply sat with you and waited until you were ready.
When you did finally speak, you tried to deflect off of your sad feelings, “Aren’t you supposed to be out saving the world?”
The question came out more accusatory than you’d wanted, but it didn’t seem phased as he answered.
“The world starts with the people in it.”
Without pressing, he waited again for you to continue talking. You took a deep breath, shaking your head at how ridiculous it was to be telling Superman of all people your mundane problems.
“This sounds so stupid saying this to you,” your laugh was wet as you tried to gain composure again, continuing, “I got stood up by a guy I really liked. And then this happened. But… this guy felt really different. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“That’s not stupid.” His voice became quieter like it was just for you, “The only thing that’s stupid is the guy that stood you up.”
You sighed, nodding, “Guess so. I got so frustrated and embarrassed. I think he tried to apologize, but I didn’t read his messages.”
“You have a right to be angry,” Superman caught your gaze and you weren’t sure if you ever noticed that his eyes were blue, “Regardless of if he apologizes, you don’t have to accept anything else from someone that wronged you.”
You thought for a moment.
“I don’t want to feel angry though, and maybe that’s naive. But everything was going really well until a few hours ago.”
Superman sighed, cautiously placing a hand on your shoulder. That same warm familiar feeling washed over you once again as you leaned in to him.
“I can’t offer you much, but I can offer you my opinion.” Nodding lamely, you urged him to continue, “It sounds cliche, but trust yourself. He miscommunicated and made you upset, rightfully so. If you feel like this bond you’ve made with him has severed beyond repair, don’t read the message, and don’t waste anymore energy on just some guy. But on the other hand, maybe he had a valid excuse and now he’s trying his best to apologize. It’s ultimately up to you to decide whether you give him the benefit of the doubt or not.”
For a long moment, you stared at the super human before you in complete awe. You’d looked up to him for a while, and here he was in the flesh giving you advice.
“What would you do?”
Superman laughed, his voice echoing through the city.
“I have a bad habit of giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. It’s hard not to want to see the good in people. And who knows, maybe now he knows that he should’ve made time for you.”
You didn’t say anything to that, studying him again. The low buzzing in your head was getting slightly stronger; his blue eyes and dark hair were setting off sparks of something that you couldn’t place. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t grasp what was so familiar.
After a few moments, your head started to ache. You shut your eyes for a second to recalibrate, giving up on trying to figure anything else out for the night.
Certainly, he noticed you taking the moment, “You should rest.”
He stood up from the bench and outstretched his hand to you. Gently, you took his offered hand, standing to face him. For someone so strong, he was incredibly gentle as he helped you up. He gave you a wide smile, standing tall once you were on your feet.
“Thank you, Superman.” You sighed, “You’ve done so much for me tonight. Not only saving me, but taking the time to talk to me too. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am, but you don’t need to thank me. I’m just a guy trying to do what’s right.” He nodded to you once, beaming at you, “If you ever need to talk again, I’m just a shout away.”
You nodded back and before you knew it, Superman was flying off into the evening sky.
Swiftly walking the rest of the way to your apartment, you felt more at ease than you had before. Once you got inside, you felt like you could breathe again finally.
Still feeling utterly conflicted, you cleaned yourself off and threw your outfit in the hamper before finally crashing onto your couch. You didn’t let the tears well in your eyes this time as you pulled out your phone.
Thinking over your conversation with Superman, you mulled over what you wanted to do with Clark.
On one hand, he had stood you up. Plain and simple, that was a really awful thing to do. You’d felt so embarrassed and stupid at such a nice restaurant that it would make sense to cut him off much like he did for you.
But Clark felt… different. That feeling you got while you were with him was unlike anything else you’d felt with someone before. He’d been so sweet before that there must’ve been something wrong for him to not show up.
You thought of what Superman said about giving people the benefit of the doubt. And you came to the conclusion that if the most powerful man on earth could give people a chance, you could too.
Finally, you opened up your phone to your unopened message from Clark.
I’m so incredibly sorry. I haven’t stopped thinking about you, but I’m still caught at work. I hate to think you’re waiting for me, and I understand if this is inexcusable. It’s not my intention to leave you hanging. I’d love to try again.
You sighed heavily before typing out a reply: Can we talk?
Mere seconds after you hit send, your phone was ringing. It almost would’ve been funny had the situation been a little lighter.
“Hello?” Clark sounded first, your name slipping quietly from his lips.
“Hey.” You said timidly.
“Listen, before you say anything, I’m really sorry. I-I know I messed up really big. I get caught up with work like that sometimes, and I should’ve warned you instead of making you think I was leaving you high and dry. It’s not an excuse for being a jerk, but I thought I should at least offer you an apology.”
Tears pricked at the back of your eyes again, but none fell. You were too tired to let anything else out, “I waited over an hour for you, Clark.”
“Gosh,” He sighed, “I… I understand if that was too much.”
“I really like you… but right now, after this, I-I really don’t know.”
“It’s okay to not know.” He murmured.
Lightning zapped at your brain again and you furrowed your eyebrows, trying to shake it away as you didn’t want to think too hard. Clark waited silently on the other end of the line for you to speak. Hesitantly, you took in another deep breath.
“Clark?”
“Yes?”
He answered like you took his breath away
“Can we try again… like you said?”
He let out an audible sigh - like he was finally releasing the air he’d been holding, “Of course. Yes, we can try again. Thank you. Wherever you’d like and whenever you want, I’m all yours. I’ll even take off work for the day.”
You let out the smallest laugh, “You don’t have to do that much.”
Clark let out a hum of thought over the phone like music to your ears, “What about now?”
Your eyebrows nearly shot to the ceiling.
“Now?”
Over the receiver, a low chuckle sounded, “I can pick up some wine and a midnight snack?”
Your heart began to speed and stutter, your head already beginning to whirl. In your silence, Clark’s voice dropped even lower to a murmur, speaking again before you had the chance to overthink it.
“You can say no to tonight and we’d still make time for another date. I just want to make things up to you.”
“Okay…” you bit your lip, beginning to feel that giddy feeling again as before, “But you better bring a red.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Once you hung up, it only took about fifteen minutes before there was a knock at your door. You ran out of your bathroom to answer the door, having thrown on a more casual outfit than your pajamas.
At the door stood a very disheveled Clark, like he’d been running around. His curly dark hair was in disarray and he was still in his ill-fitted work suit. He held out a bottle of red wine, a bag of snacks, and a large bouquet of flowers. You looked at him incredulously as he beamed a large smile back at you.
“Can I come in?” He said breathlessly.
A giggle escaped you as you stepped aside, letting the tall man walk through your door. He placed the items he brought on the nearest surface except for the flowers, which he held back out to you.
Clark said your name quietly, catching your gaze, “I can’t express to you how genuinely sorry I am. Any excuse I give is not enough. I wanted to be there, but I wasn’t.”
Carefully, you took the flowers from him, but before you could pull away, he enveloped your hands with his. His strong fingers squeezed yours with a soft pressure, gazing into your eyes with his deep ones.
“You’re here now,” you whispered.
His eyes flickered down to your lips. Your heart started to dance in your chest as he placed one of his hands along your cheek. He was hesitant, like he was testing the waters with you. Although he wasn't fully forgiven yet, you couldn't find yourself to pull away.
“Can I kiss you?” His voice was just above a whisper.
You nodded once, but he didn’t move immediately.
Ever so slowly, you pressed your lips together, like you were savoring every second. It was a quick, small beck before you pulled away to look at each other.
And for a moment, things felt blissful again.
No words needed to be spoken as you leaned in again, pulling him to you. The second kiss was longer, more intimate and slower… hungrier. But he didn’t make any moves to go any further. He was content with your lips, keeping you grounded as he molded to yours. He began to smile into the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist.
The two of you kissed for a few moments longer, only pulling away when you needed to get air.
Soon, the two of you were sitting on your couch with two glasses of wine in hand, eating your snacks as you slowly fell into a comfortable rhythm of talking and getting to know each other again. It felt like you could talk about everything and nothing with him all at once.
And after a while, it was like the forgotten dinner never happened.
Sometime in the night, Clark stood up from your couch to inspect the bookshelf of records you owned.
“Golly, you have quite the collection,” He mused aloud.
Clark walked over to the record player and carefully opened it up. The last record you’d been playing - The Righteous Brothers - was queued already and Clark simply pressed the play button.
“It was both me and my father’s collection.” you said as music started flowing through your speakers.
“Unchained Melody.” Clark hummed, “My Pa loves this one.”
“Mine did too.”
Clark outreached his hand to you and for a moment, you had a flash of deja-vu back to your conversation with Superman. That moment with the super human felt like a lifetime ago, but in reality it had only been a few short hours. That low buzzing started in your head again, but this time, you could feel something poking and prodding as you looked at the man in glasses before you.
But the thought that crossed your mind was impossible.
Instead of thinking too hard, you took Clark’s hand, letting him help you off the couch. Ever patient, he waited for you to get closer before wrapping his arms securely around your waist, placing his chin on your shoulder as you swayed to the song.
“If you'll let me fix things,” He whispered, “I want to be yours if you’ll have me.”
You smiled wide, nodding.
“I’d love that.”
end a.n. believe it or not, this is only the first part! if you made it this far, let me know what you thought or if you would like to join my superman taglist! I like feedback, and tbh, if you have your own ideas for this series, send them my way!
(taglist).
“i’m sorry,” clark chokes out as his hips stutter against you slowly. “i’m so sorry.” he continues to cry on top of you as his cock plunges into your tight cunt. you can’t really figure out why your boyfriend is exactly crying; you’re dazed from clark pulling two orgasms from you. he really has nothing to be sorry for.
“i’m being selfish with you.”
“it’s okay, clark.” you coo up at your whiny boyfriend, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, letting your fingers wrap around clark’s loose, dark curls.
“you just feel really good.” he cries out, rutting his hips against you. you couldn’t help but feel dizzy at the sight of clark crying just because you feel good around him. it was intoxicating.
the thought of your strong, heavily muscular boyfriend crying and falling apart from just touching you was overwhelming. it was exciting. you never had anyone so obsessed with you the way clark was.
“you’re perfect,” he stutters out, his hips still rocking hard. your heart swells at his words; he was always so sweet to you. clark always made sure you were taken care of; he always put you first.
“i could stay here forever.” clark’s large hand wraps around your thigh, hoisting your leg up higher around his waist as he thrusts in deeper.
you blink up at clark, his face screwed up in pleasure, his body glistening in sweat, and a single dark curl falls in front of his eyes.
“baby, i need—“ he sucks in a harsh breath, moving his hips over and over, hitting the spot that always made you shiver as his fingers dig into the back of your thigh.
“you need what?” you ask, trying your hardest to actually focus on clark and his words. “what do you need, baby?”
“use your words.” you coaxed, trying to get him to repeat himself as you wipe his falling tears from his flushed cheeks.
your words pull a shudder out of clark, his words getting stuck in the back of his throat, being replaced with a groan.
“come on,” you try again, your hand gently pulling on his hair. “tell me.”
“i need to come, please.” clark whimpers, his blue eyes looking brighter than they usually are from the crying. you take pity on him, leaning up you lazily place a kiss on clark’s jaw. “go ahead, baby.” you murmur into his skin.
with your approval clark picks up his pace, trying to reach his high he’s been chasing for the past hour. with just a few sharp thrusts, he spills into you with a deep groan.
“you’re amazing, baby.” clark slurs, his head falling onto your chest, kissing you there softly. “you’re so nice to me.”
a/n: i don’t know how i feel about this one, guys
