× RESIDUAL NERVES ¦ Bucky meets that new member everyone keeps talking about and praising... and is the moment his eyes land on her when he remembers those words his mom used to tell him. | here | 811 words
× I ALMOST DO ¦ Bucky loves his best friend. Can't see his life without her. Truth is, he's too scared to share certain feelings until it's too late. | here | 1.3 k words [ Part 1 ]
× HALFWAY ¦ He would wait for her to heal, to get better. That's what love does and after all, he's been in love with her for a long time, he could wait all his life, if she wants him as well. | here | 1.3 k words [ Part 2]
× SUITS ¦ She loves his best friend in suits and with his new congressman side job, it's harder to hide her thoughts. It's such a good thing Bucky is an idiot who's too blind and just thinks it's friendly banter. | here | 1.1 k words
× NOT ENOUGH RIGHT NOW ¦ Bucky has been dating his lovely girlfriend for five months already and even then, he's still too scared to touch her the way he wants because, what if he hurts her? | here | 973 words
× RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP ¦ Such a cliché moment. They both say it's way to release the stress after missions but then it was almost every night. Both trying too hide their feelings for a long time until it's hard. | here | 890 words
× I JUST WANT YOU ¦ There's nothing more that Bucky Barnes loves after making love to his girlfriend... except after care. He loves how soft, secured and loved he feels with her. He always gotta let her know. | here | 1.1 k words
× GOT THE WHOLE BLOCK LOOKING LIKE YOU ¦ Bucky Barnes never thought he would have normalcy in his life after Hydra. Then, he never thought he would fall in love. And now, he wants everything with her, including many kids. It's just he's shy to share his thoughts. | here | 1.5 k words
× RISK ¦ Bucky Barnes thinks his neighbor it's the prettiest woman he has ever seen, always a pleasure talking with her and because of that, they gotta stop talking. The last thing he wants is her getting hurt because of him. | here | 983 words
× GIGGLING INSIDE ¦ There's something everyone knows. Bucky Barnes can't stand her. It's not that he's rude but she's the only teammate he doesn't like interacting with. No one knows Bucky is a mess because of her. Always giggling inside like a teenage girl. | here | 1.8 k words
× ENDLESS FEBRUARY ¦ Bucky Barnes is finally having some peace in his life. He has a lovely girlfriend, share their world together... so why is that dreadful day from February 1945 still coming around to torment his mind? | here | 1.9 k words
× A LOT OF WORK ¦ He wasn't looking for her but somehow, Alpine was that match Bucky needed in his life (besides his girlfriend) to feel complete. | here | 1.4 k words
× EXCLUSIVE ¦ He can't imagine himself with anyone that isn't his girlfriend. Seems imposible. Bucky Barnes is just deeply in love with her. | here | 1.3 k words
× HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY, HONEY ¦ A soft day with a very in love Bucky Barnes. He wants to give it all the cliché things to his girlfriend. | here | 857 words
× SIDELINES ¦ Bucky rarely gets injured during missions until that day. He thought the injury was the worst thing ever until he founds out who's gonna be his replacement, "taking care" of his best girl. | here | 2.2 k words
× SAFE ¦ A simple question with his therapist makes Bucky Barnes realize who is his safe place. | here | 1.7 k words
× AS SLOW AS YOU NEED ¦ Despite all of the trauma, Bucky Barnes decides to see the good in things... especially with you. Not caring if you're a bit grumpy. | here | 3.6 k words
× WHEN YOU CALL AGAIN ¦ Friends don't kiss. Friends don't miss each other the whole day. Friends don't stay at 2 am talking. Friends don't make love... so why Bucky Barnes insisted on calling her that? | here | 860 words
× FORTY-SEVEN SECONDS ¦ Mission was supposed to be simple. She was going inside the building. Bucky was gonna be protecting her from another one. Bucky felt something was wrong. He should've know better. | here | 2 k words
× AND THE WORLD HAS SOMEHOW SHIFTED ¦ Days used to be gray for Bucky Barnes... until he sees the light in her. Now she's here shining in the starlight and it's like the sky is new and it's warm and real and bright. | here | 1.6 k words
× YOUR EYES WHISPERED, "HAVE WE MET?" ¦ Why is Bucky Barnes constantly dreaming about a woman? Were those scenarios real? Was that truly his past? Why is he feeling like something is missing in his life? | here | 1.7 k words
× RUN AWAY ¦ +18 ¦ Even in moments of happiness, Hydra finds a way to get inside Bucky's head. After an intense, vulnerable moment, some old fears resurface, making him question if he’s done something wrong. | here | 3.1 k words
× HOME ¦ In a half-unpacked apartment filled with boxes, stray knives, and swing music, Bucky and his girlfriend share a pizza on the floor, some kisses and discover that home isn't about the furniture. Between old habits, new beginnings, and a dance neither expected, they're figuring it out—one reluctant twirl at a time. | here | 1.7 k words
× MARCH 10TH ¦ No nightmare. No trigger. That's when it was obvious that Hydra didn't just steal Bucky's past. They tried to steal his birthday too. But this year? The clock hits midnight in her arms instead. | here | 3.5 k words
× MORE THAN WORDS ¦ She thought they were just cleaning out his apartment. Old photos, dusty boxes, memories Bucky never quite sorted through. Then she found a small wooden box and dozens of letters, all in his handwriting, all with your name on top. He never meant for you to read them. Too embarrassing. Too honest. But now? His apartment isn't the only thing getting thoroughly unpacked. | here | 2.6 k words
× HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MY LOVE ¦ Bucky Barnes doesn't do big speeches. He does quiet mornings, stolen afternoons, and handwritten proof that she's the best thing that's happened to him since he got his life back. Best birthday ever? Yeah. Definitely. | here | 2.2 k words
× I'M JUST TOO SOFT FOR ALL OF IT ¦ The world is loud. Missions, expectations, voices telling Bucky Barnes he should be more, do better, get fixed already. So he goes to the one place where the noise stops. A home that smells like her. A kitchen with a humming stove. Someone who doesn't ask what's wrong, just offers a mug and a choice: talk about it, or pretend the world doesn't exist for a while. | here | 2.9 k words
× WARM IT UP ¦ +18 ¦ The problem with being a man out of time wasn't the tech or the history. It was the quiet. And Bucky had been drowning in it. Seventy-four years without being touched. Then a cookout, a porch swing, and a woman who owns the calmest eyes he has ever seen asked the right question and changed everything. | here | 3.6 k words
× ACTUALLY ROMANTIC ¦ +18 ¦ Three days in a mission that ran long, a shoulder that won't quit aching, and the kind of exhaustion that sleep alone can't fix. He comes home late and finds her still awake, still waiting, still wearing that sleep shirt he loves. What he needs isn't rest. Not yet. It's her. Slow, quiet, the kind of desperate that doesn't need words. Her. Only her. He always needs her. | here | 5 k words
× SELFISH ¦ She went back to 1943 for a mission. Forty minutes. In and out. Simple. Except she saw him... young, whole, before the train, before Hydra, before everything. He looked at her like she was a miracle. And she walked away. Leaving him. Because saving that Bucky would mean losing hers. Now she's home, drowning in guilt, confessing the worst thing she's ever done. | here | 3.7 k words
× HOLD ON TO THE MEMORIES, THEY WILL HOLD ON TO YOU... AND I WILL HOLD ON TO YOU ¦ Bucky Barnes remembers too much about the Hydra days but no one warned him about which things he could forget. And new nightmares are there because he forgets things that happens with her and they're slipping through his fingers. He doesn't want to forget her. | here | 4.2 k words
× 'S TOO MUCH ¦ +18 ¦ There's a small detail between The Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes. The first one was quiet and stealth was injected in his veins. The second one didn't know how vocal he could be until he had his girlfriend exploring him and his sounds are delicious as hell. | here | 329 words
× ONES AND ZEROS (AND YOU) ¦ +18 ¦ Bucky Barnes can't stand his phone, the way it makes him feel like a man left behind by time. But his girlfriend is patient. She always have been. So he learns. Just a little. Just enough. One night, alone, he figures out something small. Something stupid, probably. Just a picture. Just her face. Turns out, the hardest thing to learn isn't technology. It's letting someone see how much you love them. | here | 7.3 k words
× HONEY ¦ Bucky Barnes in a suit should be illegal. His girlfriend knows this. She also knows they don't want kids but every time he comes home wesring those suits, tailored perfection, her hormones are out of control. Bucky notices. He's got enhanced senses, way too much love for her and he's about to discover that traitorous biology is a two-way street. It's maybe in their cards anymore? | here | 3.8 k words
× AM I ALLOWED TO CRY? ¦ Late-night texts and stolen clothes have led her lying alone in the dark in her apartment, Bucky's stolen sweatshirt wrapped around her, wondering if wanting him is dangerous. When he shows up at her door looking like a winter sky before snow, she realizes the hardest mission might be admitting that the word mine feels less like a brand and more like coming home. | here | 4.6 k words
× SOMETHING OTHER THAN FINE ¦ Bucky doesn't cry. Not during the war, not during seventy years of Hydra, not even in Wakanda when all the pain was behind him. The part of him that knew how broke a long time ago, or so he thought. When he shows up at his neighbor's door on an ordinary Tuesday, falling apart, she don't ask questions. She just hold him. And for the first time in decades, the tears come and he let's himself go. | here | 9.6 k words
× SHOULD HAVE KISSED YOU ¦ Bucky is nineteen and hopelessly in love with his best friend. He has a hundred chances to kiss her, a thousand moments on fire escapes and in rainstorms but the fear of losing her keeps his mouth shut and his heart aching. Then war tears him away, and years slip through his fingers like smoke. When he finally comes home, it's too late and her last letter holds four words that change everything: I should have kissed YOU. | here | 7.8 k words
× LIKE I'M WORTH SOMETHING ¦ +18 ¦ Bucky walks through the door with a buzz cut and no warning, bracing for his girlfriend's disappointment, already spiraling into self-doubt. But the silence isn't rejection. It's her being shocked, her brain short-circuiting. And what a way to show how much she loves it. | here | 5.5 k words
× INAPPROPRIATE THOUGHTS ¦ The gala was supposed to be about donors and diplomacy but the moment Bucky walked in, black suit, black silk shirt with two buttons undone, his girlfriend was gone. And he knows it, the smirk says it all. Now she's dragging him into the garden, mascara ruined, because some statements don't need words. They need hands. And maybe a dark corner. | here | 9.4 k words
× SOFT ¦ Four days of surveillance, shared walls, and no touching in a mexican safehouse that is practically a shoebox can undone even as strong as Bucky. Watching you through a sniper lens for too long makes him drop to his knees like you're something sacred. And he's yours. Completely, devastatingly yours. | here | 2.2 k words
× DOWN BAD ¦ +18 ¦ The movie ended. The popcorn spilled. And suddenly you were on your knees between Bucky Barnes's thighs, looking up at him through your lashes like you had all the time in the world. Only whimpers, broken prayers, tear-streaked confessions of how embarrassingly down bad he is for you was the only sound. | here | 5.1 k words
× LITTLE HELPER ¦ Bucky Barnes helps you bake a tres leches cake. He doesn't tell you why it matters so much, not at first at least. But the kitchen holds more than just flour and sugar tonight, you then know it also holds memories he thought he'd lost, and the beginning of something he never thought he'd find. | here | 4.9 k words
× SHORTS ¦ +18 ¦ You usual and normal late-night gym sessions take a turn when Bucky shows up in those shorts and a pink shirt that leaves you completely wrecked. What starts like an innocent workout "help" quickly escalates into years of pent-up feelings finally boiling over. Because apparently, the best way to confess your love is to make your best friend absolutely feral over your thighs. | here | 3.7 k words
× OFFSIDE ¦ +18 ¦ When an enthusiastic fan drags you to her brother's game, months of carefully maintained distance collapse into an undeniable connection. What starts as reluctant curiosity becomes something far more intimate and far more complicated. | here | 5.9 k words
CLARK KENT
× YOU'RE OKAY. I'VE GOT YOU. ¦ Clark Kent is in love with her. So much sometimes it scares him there might be a time he hurts her. It's always such a good thing she's always there to show him her love. | here | 1.1 k words
× HEARTBEAT ¦ Clark has faced world-enders and gods. But tonight, a villain weaponized his deepest fear. Now he's shaking in your living room, needing to feel your heartbeat. You don't ask questions, just hold him, strip away the Kryptonian armor, and remind him that he's allowed to fall apart. Because even Superman needs someone to bring him home. And you're right here. Always. | here | 6.9 k words
× MISSING YOU ¦ +18 ¦ Four days. Clark has survived villains, disasters, and a cat in a tree. But coming home to an empty apartment? That's his breaking point. He really tried everything but nothing works. Tonight, he breaks while naked on the couch, your tank top pressed to his face, he falls apart like a pathetic and horny man, whispering your name like a prayer. | here | 2.8 k words
× WAITING FOR YOU ¦ +18 ¦ Clark Kent is a man who hears everything—every heartbeat, every whisper, every secret the world tries to hide. But when he's lying in bed with his sleeping wife, he hears something he's never heard before. Something tiny. Something impossibly fragile. Something that changes everything. | here | 7.5 k words
the dialogue in waiting for you has me tearing uppp that was so sentimental and truly so heartfelt i love the way you write clark so much ♥️♥️
thank you so much💖 i stayed away from going too deep into how long they'd been waiting for their baby because i know that can be a really emotional and personal experience for a lot of people, and i didn't feel comfortable writing about something i haven't experienced myself. i wanted the story to be more about clark and baby!kent's relationship and all those little moments in between. thank you for reading, baby!!
Clark moaning the pet names he calls his gf made it so much hotter like he couldn’t help himself but call out for his baby 🤭
he's just a horny man that's so in love, isn't he? plus, i always try my best to not have (y/n) here hehe so i'll die with the cute pet names💕 thank you for reading, love!!
what did your user used to be? i fear im losing my mind😭
ah baby, i am seeing this like way too late but i used to be "harveystan" but with rumors about sebastian not being Harvey, didn't want to end up like a clown and changed it hehe
Note I've been dying for something like this and finally, I don't know, it's pure fluff and Clark dealing with a crush and I love him way too much it's insane. There's just a hint of smut but nothing explicit, finally haha I am so sorry for the mistakes, the typos and everything in between.
"You’re fine."
That’s what Clark tells himself every single morning before he walks through the glass doors of the Daily Planet. He’s fine. He’s a professional. He’s an award-winning journalist who has interviewed presidents and exposed corruption and once talked a jumpy man off a ledge with nothing but his voice and a well-timed metaphor. He has faced down Lex Luthor, traded blows with many different villains without flinching, and even take care of his cousin while she was drunk.
He can handle a crush.
He adjusts his glasses, one of his many nervous habit, and steps into the bustling newsroom. The scent of stale coffee and printer ink hits him like an old friend, familiar and grounding. Typewriters clack their staccato rhythm, phones ring in a discordant symphony, and somewhere in the corner, someone is arguing loudly about the city’s new zoning laws. It’s chaos, it’s beautiful, and it’s home.
And there you are, standing by Perry White’s office, a tablet in one hand and a red pen in the other, looking at him with those eyes that make his brain short-circuit like a bad transformer. You’re wearing that navy blazer he likes, the one with the subtle gold buttons that catch the fluorescent light just so, and your hair is pulled back in that way that makes him want to run his fingers through it, to free those waves from their confinement and watch them spill over your shoulders. He absolutely cannot do that because you are like his boss, basically, and because he’s supposed to be a professional, not a lovesick teenager.
“The Kent’ file,” Perry booms, emerging from his office like a bear roused from hibernation, his voice carrying across the newsroom with the force of a tornado. “Where is it?”
Clark’s heart does a little jig, a complicated rhythm of hope and anxiety. “Right here, Chief.” He holds up the manila folder with what he hopes is a steady hand, and Perry snatches it with the enthusiasm of a man who has consumed six cups of coffee before nine AM and is running on pure caffeine and spite.
“Good. The Metro piece. You got it done?”
“Just needs a final review.” Clark’s voice is steady, even though his pulse is racing. He knows what comes next. It always comes next.
Perry grunts, already flipping through the pages with the kind of speed that comes from decades of experience, his thick fingers moving like they have a mind of their own. Then he does something that makes Clark’s stomach drop through the floor, plummeting somewhere toward the basement level. He hands the folder to you.
“Give it a look. You know what I want.”
You take the folder with a simple nod, and Clark watches as you walk to your desk—the one that’s situated perfectly in his line of sight, which is either a blessing or a curse, depending on the day and his current state of emotional vulnerability. You’re not technically his boss, not in title, but Perry trusts you with everything. You’ve been at the Planet for as long as Clark, but you have this way of seeing through bullshit that makes Clark both terrified and deeply, helplessly attracted. You can spot a weak source from a mile away, you can smell a lie like blood in the water, and you have a red pen that could make grown journalists weep.
Clark watches you open the folder. Your brow furrows slightly as you read, a tiny vertical line appearing between your eyebrows, and Clark’s heart does that thing where it tries to climb out of his chest, through his throat, and directly into your hands. He can already picture it; You’ll find something wrong. You always find something wrong. And then you’ll call him over, and he’ll have to stand there while you point out his mistakes with that calm, measured voice, and you’ll be so close, and he’ll forget every word you say because he’s too busy memorizing the way your lips move, the little quirk at the corner of your mouth when you’ve found something particularly horrific, the way your pen taps against the paper when you’re thinking—
“Kent!”
Clark nearly jumps out of his skin, his whole body jerking like he’s been zapped with a live wire. “Yes, Chief?”
“I said, get over there. She’s not going to bite.” Perry’s voice is gruff, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes that Clark absolutely does not want to examine too closely. The old man sees everything. It’s one of the reasons he’s such a good editor. And also one of the reasons Clark is constantly terrified of him.
If only she would, Clark thinks, and then immediately hates himself for thinking it. He’s a grown man. A reporter. A man who has seen the literal worst of humanity and still manages to find hope in the darkest corners of the world. And yet, when it comes to you, he’s reduced to a bumbling mess of awkward glances and poorly concealed heart eyes, a teenager with his first crush instead of a seasoned journalist with a Pulitzer under his belt.
He makes his way to your desk, and his palms are sweating. His palms are sweating. He’s Superman. He can bench-press a building. He has heat vision and freeze breath and the ability to fly faster than a speeding bullet, and his palms are sweating because he’s walking over to talk to the woman he loves likes.
You look up at him as he approaches, and there’s that expression he can never quite read. Professional, yes. Warm, maybe? Or is that just wishful thinking, his desperate heart projecting what he wants to see? He’s never been able to tell with you, and it drives him crazy in the best and worst ways.
“Clark.” Your voice is smooth, measured, like warm honey poured over ice. “Sit.”
He sits. He always sits when you tell him to. It’s pathetic. He knows it’s pathetic. Lois has made fun of him for it at least fourteen times, and Jimmy has started keeping a running tally of how many times Clark goes to your desk in a single day. The record is seventeen, and that was a particularly bad day when Clark had somehow found seventeen separate reasons to need your opinion on various things. Jimmy has the tally pinned to his cubicle wall, and Clark has seriously considered using his heat vision to destroy it, but he’s not that petty.
Or maybe he is. He’s still considering it.
“There’s a problem with the sourcing on page four,” you say, and Clark nods along, pretending to understand. He’s too busy noticing the way your fingers tap against the desk, the small silver ring on your middle finger that he’s never seen before—was that new? Had he missed it?—the way the morning light hits your face and makes you look like some kind of ethereal being who has descended from a higher plane to torment him specifically.
“The source is anonymous, but it’s not properly attributed. You can’t just say ‘a source close to the mayor.’ You need to give context. Who is this source? What’s their relationship to the mayor? Why should we trust them?” You’re looking at him with that sharp, analytical gaze, and Clark is nodding like one of those bobblehead dolls Lois has on her desk.
“Right. Yes. The sourcing.” He clears his throat. “I can fix that.”
“And the lead is weak. You buried the most interesting fact in the third paragraph.” You flip to the front page, and your pen circles something. “This bit about the budget discrepancy? That’s your hook. That’s what’s going to make people read. You’ve got it buried under three paragraphs of setup.”
Clark leans in to look at what you’re pointing at, and he catches a whiff of your perfume. Something floral, something light, something that makes his head spin. He nods again, not trusting his voice.
“I’ll fix it.”
You look at him, and there’s something there—a flicker of amusement, maybe, or exasperation. He can never tell. You hand him the folder, and his fingers brush yours, and he swears he feels a spark, a tiny electric shock that travels all the way up his arm and settles somewhere in his chest.
“Make the changes and bring it back by noon.”
“Absolutely. Noon. I’ll be there.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re already here, Joseph.”
“Right. I mean—yes. Noon. I’ll bring it.” Great job, Kent. You’ve managed to sound like a malfunctioning robot just because she used your second name. Smooth. Real smooth.
You smile—just a small one, barely there, a ghost of a thing—and Clark’s heart does a triple axle followed by a quadruple lutz, followed by a complete and total meltdown. He stands up too fast, his knee knocking against the edge of your desk, and nearly sends a stack of papers flying. You steady them with a hand that somehow ends up on his forearm, your fingers warm against his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“Careful, Kent.”
“I’m always careful,” Clark says, which is a lie. He is the opposite of careful. He is a mess. A disaster. A man who has saved the world hundreds of times but cannot function in the presence of the woman he loves likes. He’s faced down alien invasions and interdimensional threats and he didn’t break a sweat, but one touch from you and he’s a puddle on the floor.
You pull your hand away, and Clark walks back to his desk in a daze, his feet moving on autopilot while his brain is still stuck in a loop of your smile.
Lois is waiting for him, arms crossed, a smirk on her face that he’s learned to dread. It’s the same smirk she gets when she’s about to expose a corrupt politician or when she’s figured out something incredibly embarrassing about him.
“Let me guess,” she says, her voice dripping with amusement. “She pointed out your mistakes, you nodded like an enamored bobblehead, and now you’re going to spend the next three hours rewriting the piece to perfection just because she asked you to.”
Clark adjusts his glasses, pushing them up his nose in that nervous habit he’s never been able to break. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m just doing my job, Lane. And it’s gonna be like two hours.”
“You’re hopeless, Kent.”
“I am not—”
“You have heart eyes,” Jimmy interjects from his desk, not even looking up from his camera, where he’s reviewing photos from yesterday’s press conference. “Like, full-on cartoon heart eyes. It’s honestly kind of adorable, in a sad way.”
“Jimmy—”
“She could ask you to rewrite the entire Constitution and you’d do it with a smile,” Lois continues, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Actually, you have done something like that. Remember that time she asked you to redo the city budget breakdown four times?”
Clark opens his mouth to protest, then closes it. He does remember. The city budget breakdown was a nightmare of numbers and spreadsheets and confusing municipal jargon. But you had been so patient, walking him through each correction with that calm, steady voice, and you’d been standing so close that he could smell your perfume, and your hand had brushed his when he reached for a paper, and he’d forgotten how to do basic arithmetic.
“I hate this,” Clark mutters, sinking into his chair.
“No, you don’t,” Lois says, her voice softening just a fraction. “You love it. You love every second of it. That’s the problem.”
Clark doesn’t bother denying it. He’s past denial. He’s in the stage of acceptance where he knows he’s doomed but can’t do anything to stop it. He opens the folder and starts making the changes you asked for, and because he’s Clark Kent, he makes them perfectly. He triple-checks each source. He moves the lead to the first paragraph where it belongs. He tightens the prose until it gleams like polished glass.
By the time noon rolls around, he has a masterpiece. It’s the best piece of journalism he’s written in weeks, and he knows it, and he knows it’s because you pushed him to be better. You always push him to be better.
He brings it to your desk, and you take it with a small nod, flipping through the pages with that same sharp attention to detail. Clark watches you read, watches your eyes move across the words he’s written, and he feels like he’s holding his breath.
“This is good, Clark.”
“Thank you.”
“Really good.” You look up at him, and there’s that flicker again. Something warmer. Something he’s afraid to name. “I’ll get this to Perry.”
Clark nods, and then he does something he always does. He waits. He hovers there like a lost puppy, hoping you’ll say something else, something that will let him stay a little longer. It’s pathetic, and he knows it’s pathetic, but he can’t help it. Every moment with you is a gift, and he wants to stretch them out as long as possible.
You don’t say anything else. You just turn back to your work, and Clark walks back to his desk, heart eyes firmly in place, a dreamy smile on his face that he can’t seem to shake.
Jimmy takes a picture. Clark hears the shutter click, but he doesn’t even care.
The rest of the day is a blur of deadlines, interviews, and Clark trying desperately to focus on anything other than you. It’s impossible. Every time he looks up, you’re there, a constant gravitational pull that he can’t escape. You’re like the sun, and he’s Icarus, flying closer and closer even though he knows he’s going to burn.
At five, Perry calls a staff meeting, and Clark finds himself sitting across from you. You’re taking notes, your pen moving across the page in that graceful, efficient way of yours, and he’s trying not to stare, but he’s failing miserably. He watches the way your pen moves, the way you occasionally tap it against your chin when you’re thinking, the way your brow furrows when Perry says something particularly interesting.
Perry is talking about something—the new mayor, maybe, or the upcoming election, or that scandal with the city council—and Clark is nodding along, making the appropriate noises, but he’s not really listening. He’s too busy cataloging the tiny details, like the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the way you smiled at something Lois said, the way your knee is right there, so close to his under the table.
He shifts in his seat, trying to put some distance between you, but he’s not very good at subtlety. His knee bumps yours, and you glance up at him, and Clark’s face goes red. He can feel the heat creeping up his neck, and he knows he probably looks like a tomato.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“It’s fine,” you say, and there’s that look again. The one he can’t decipher. It’s there and gone in an instant, but he saw it, and he’s going to be thinking about it for the rest of the night.
The meeting ends, and everyone disperses, grabbing coats and bags and making plans for the evening. Clark lingers, hoping for a moment alone with you. He hovers near the coffee machine, pretending to be very interested in the quality of the office’s terrible brew.
It doesn’t happen. You’re talking to Perry, and then you’re talking to Lois, and then you’re gone, out the door and into the elevator before Clark can even form a coherent sentence.
He sighs. He packs up his things. He does the slow walk to the stairwell, because he doesn’t take elevators, he can’t risk getting trapped in one again, and then he does the even slower walk to the roof.
The sun is setting, painting the city in shades of orange and gold, the skyline turned into a silhouette of steel and glass. Clark stands at the edge of the building, letting the cool breeze wash over him. For a moment, he’s not Clark Kent, bumbling reporter. He’s Superman, protector of Metropolis, a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
But even Superman has problems. Even Superman can’t figure out how to talk to the woman he likes without making a fool of himself.
He changes quickly, a blur of motion, the red and blue materializing like magic and then he’s flying, soaring above the city, letting the wind carry him. The air is cold up here, sharp and clean, and it helps clear his head.
It’s freeing, up here. There’s no awkwardness, no heart eyes, no Perry White demanding rewrites. There’s just the sky and the city and the knowledge that he can do anything.
But even up here, he can’t stop thinking about you.
Patrol is quiet. A few muggings, a car accident, a cat stuck in a tree that he rescues because he’s a sucker for kind old ladies. He heard something happening in Central City but when he got there, Barry had everything under control. By the time he’s done, it’s nearly nine, and he’s exhausted. His muscles ache, his head is pounding, and all he wants is a hot shower and his bed.
He lands on the fire escape of his apartment and slips through the window. His apartment is dark, the usual bachelor gloom, but there’s a warm glow coming from the kitchen, and the smell of something delicious is wafting through the air. Garlic and tomatoes and herbs, and something else, something sweet.
Clark freezes.
Then he smiles. A slow, spreading smile that starts in his chest and works its way up to his face.
He walks into the kitchen, and there you are, standing at his stove, stirring a pot of something that smells like heaven. You’re wearing one of his shirts. His favorite one, actually. The soft blue one that’s seen better days, the one he’s had since college. It’s oversized on you, hanging off one shoulder in a way that makes his breath catch. Your hair is loose, falling around your face in soft waves, and you look so natural here, like you belong in this space, in his space.
Clark leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, and watches you for a moment. You haven’t noticed him yet. You’re humming something soft, swaying slightly to the music only you can hear, and Clark’s heart is so full it might actually explode.
“Hey,” he says softly, not wanting to startle you.
You turn your head, and your face lights up in that way that makes his knees weak. It’s the smile you save just for him, the one that reaches your eyes and crinkles the corners. “Hey yourself. How was patrol?”
“Quiet.” He crosses the room, wrapping his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your neck. You smell like his soap, meaning you took your usual bath at his apartment and the realization makes something warm and possessive curl in his chest. “You didn’t have to cook, baby.”
“I wanted to.” You lean back against him, your body fitting perfectly against his, and Clark feels the tension of the day melt away. “You had a long day. I figured you’d be hungry.”
“I’m always hungry.” For you, he wanted to say, but not yet. Maybe later, when he’s not actually famished.
“That’s what happens when you save the world.” Your voice is teasing, and Clark can feel your smile against his cheek.
Clark laughs, burying his face in your hair. He’s been doing this for five months, and he still can’t believe it. He can’t believe you’re here, in his arms, in his apartment, wearing his shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He can’t believe you know his secret and you love him anyway.
He thinks back to the office, to the way he falls apart every time you look at him, to the way Lois and Jimmy make fun of him for his obvious, pathetic crush. They have no idea. None of them have any idea that you’re his. That you’ve been his for months.
"Did you like fixing the piece from today?" you ask, turning in his arms to face him. Your hands come up to rest on his chest, and Clark's heart does that familiar stutter.
"Of course I did. You asked me to."
You smile, and it's the smile that gets him every time. The soft one, the one that makes him feel like he's the only person in the world. "I was pretty harsh on you today."
"I liked it."
"You liked it when I criticized your work?"
"I like everything you do." It's cheesy, and he knows it's cheesy, but he doesn't care. He's past caring. He's with you, and that's all that matters.
“I saw you picked up the Carmichael piece,” you say, looking up at him. Your fingertips were tracing the ‘S’ on his chest, and Clark’s heart does that familiar stutter. “The one about the waterfront development.”
Clark feels the heat creep up his neck. “I, uh. Yeah. I thought it might be interesting.”
“Interesting.” You raise an eyebrow, and there’s that knowing smile on your face. “You hate waterfront development stories. You told me last month they were the most boring thing you’ve ever had to cover.”
Clark’s blush deepens. He can feel it spreading across his cheeks, down his neck, probably making him look like a tomato. “Well, I mean, it’s not that I hate them. They’re just—”
“Clark.” You’re grinning now, full and bright, and he’s completely caught. “You picked it up because I mentioned I was following the story. Because I said I was interested in the environmental impact angle.”
He opens his mouth to deny it, but the words won’t come. Because it’s true. He had been in the break room last week, getting his third cup of coffee, and he’d overheard you talking to someone about the Carmichael development. You’d been so passionate, so animated, talking about the potential ecological damage and the community pushback. And Clark had been mesmerized, watching you, and then he’d gone back to his desk and immediately started researching the story.
Now you’re looking at him with that soft expression, the one that makes him feel like he’s the only person in the world, and he can’t find the words to explain himself.
“You did it for me,” you say, and it’s not a question. “You picked up that piece because I was interested in it.”
Clark rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture he’s never been able to shake. “I just thought—I mean, you were so passionate about it, and I wanted to—” He trails off, feeling foolish. “I wanted to do something that would make you happy.”
Your expression softens impossibly further. “Clark.”
“I know it’s silly,” he continues, the words tumbling out now. “It’s just a story. But I heard you talking about it, and you had this look on your face, and I thought maybe if I wrote about it, we could talk about it. You could tell me what you think about it, and I could learn something from you, and—” He stops, realizing he’s rambling. “And I just always want to do what you like. Even when you don’t ask me to.”
You’re quiet for a moment, and Clark’s heart is racing. He’s said too much. He’s been too honest. He’s probably scared you off with his pathetic, lovesick confession.
But then you’re kissing him, soft and sweet, and Clark’s brain short-circuits completely.
“You’re impossible,” you murmur against his lips.
“I know.”
“You’re the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.”
“I know.”
You pull back, and you’re smiling, and there are tears in your eyes. “I love you, Clark. I love you so much it’s ridiculous.”
Clark’s heart swells. “I love you too. So much.”
“I know.” You laugh, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “You have those pretty heart eyes.”
“I have heart eyes.” He laughs too, pulling you into another kiss, and the rest of the world melts away.
You kiss him, soft and sweet, and Clark feels like he’s flying even though his feet are firmly on the ground. “Dinner’s almost ready. Go change your clothes my Superman and the go and sit down.”
“I can help.”
“You can change and sit down.” You push him gently toward his bedroom, and Clark obeys because he always obeys you, even when he’s Superman. “I’ve got it.”
He changes quickly, putting on a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt and the goes back, sitting down, watching as you move around his kitchen with practiced ease. You know where everything is. You’ve been here a hundred times, and still, every time he sees you here, it feels like a dream. You open the fridge—he really needs to clean that out—and pull out a bottle of wine, and Clark watches the way the light plays across your features.
You bring over two plates, setting one in front of him before sitting down across from him. It’s something simple—pasta with a rich tomato sauce, a salad on the side, a sprinkle of parmesan cheese on top—but it’s perfect because you made it. The sauce is the same recipe you’ve been perfecting for months, the one that’s become his favorite.
“This is amazing,” Clark says, taking a bite. The flavors burst on his tongue, rich and savory and perfect.
“You say that every time. It’s just pasta, baby. Could have done something better but barely had the time.”
“It is true every time, honey. I really appreciate you doing this for me, thank you.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and that’s all Clark cares about. He eats, and you eat, and it’s comfortable and easy and everything he’s ever wanted.
“So the Carmichael piece,” you say, twirling pasta around your fork. “What angle are you taking?”
Clark brightens. He’s been thinking about this all week. “I was thinking about doing a deep dive into the environmental impact study. The company that’s developing the waterfront has been pretty secretive about their findings, and I think there’s a story there. Maybe something about the community opposition too. I talked to a few residents who are organizing against it.”
You’re looking at him with that sharp, analytical gaze, and Clark feels a thrill run through him. “That’s a good angle. The environmental impact study is public record, but most outlets have been ignoring it. You could really dig into that.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” He’s so happy he could burst. You like his idea. You think it’s good. “I was hoping you might want to look at it when I’m done. Give me your thoughts.”
“I’d love to.”
Clark beams. He can’t help it. You’ve given him your approval, and it feels better than any award he’s ever won.
After dinner, Clark clear the dishes, and you tries to help, but he shoo you away. So you sit on the couch, watching as he moves around his kitchen, and even then he realices that this is it. This is what happiness feels like. It’s not flying through the clouds or saving the world. It’s this. It’s you. It’s coming home to someone who loves you.
After a while, you curl up on the couch together, your head on his chest, his arm around your shoulders. The TV is on, some movie Clark isn’t paying attention to, because he’s too busy paying attention to you. Your fingers are tracing lazy patterns on his chest, and Clark feels like he’s floating.
“I was thinking about today,” you say, your voice muffled against his shirt.
“What about it?”
“The way you looked at me.” You tilt your head up to meet his eyes. “Like you were completely gone on me.”
Clark’s face heats. “I don’t look at you like that.”
“You do. You have heart eyes, Clark. The whole office knows.”
“I do not have—”
“Lois told me. Jimmy showed me the pictures and Cat is already planning a date for us.”
Clark groans, dropping his head back against the couch. “I’m going to kill them.”
“You’re not going to kill anyone.” You laugh, and it’s the best sound in the world. “But you have to admit it’s a little funny.”
“It’s humiliating.”
“It’s adorable.” You sit up, straddling him in one fluid motion, and Clark’s brain short-circuits. Your hands are on his shoulders, your knees on either side of his hips, and you’re looking down at him with that smile that drives him crazy. “I love that you still get flustered around me. Even after all this time.”
“I can’t help it,” he admits. “You’re you. You’re incredible. And I’m just—”
“You’re just the most wonderful man I’ve ever met.” You cup his face in your hands, and Clark’s heart is racing, beating so fast he’s surprised the whole building can’t hear it. “You’re sweet and kind and you save people for a living. And you look at me like I’m the only person in the world.”
“Because you are.” Clark’s hands find your hips, holding you close. “To me, you are.”
You kiss him, and it’s slow and deep and perfect. Clark’s hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, and you let out a soft sigh against his lips. The kiss deepens, and Clark feels like he’s drowning in the best possible way.
“Clark,” you murmur, breaking the kiss to press your forehead against his.
“Mm?”
“I love you.”
He smiles so hard. You’re not one to say it a lot. You’ve shown him in a hundred different ways—in the way you hold him, the way you look at him, the way you’re always there when he needs you—but don’t say it a lot. And he feels like his heart has stops and restart all at once everytime it happens.
“I love you too,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “So much, honey.”
“I know.” You smile, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “You have heart eyes.”
“I have heart eyes.” He laughs, pulling you into another kiss, and the rest of the world melts away. It’s just the two of you, together, in the warm glow of his apartment. The city could be burning down outside and he wouldn’t notice. The world could be ending and he wouldn’t care.
“Show me,” you whisper against his lips. “Show me how much.”
Clark doesn’t need to be told twice.
He stands, lifting you easily in his arms, and you laugh, wrapping your legs around his waist. He carries you to his bedroom, lays you down on the bed like you’re something precious, something to be cherished. And he does. He shows you exactly how much he loves you, with every touch, every kiss, every whispered word.
Later, when the movie is long over and the city has gone quiet outside his window, Clark lies awake, watching you sleep. Your hair is spread across the pillow like a dark halo, and your face is peaceful, and he’s never felt more content. He traces the line of your shoulder, the curve of your arm, and you stir in your sleep, curling closer to him.
He thinks about the office, about the teasing and the heart eyes and the way he falls apart every time you look at him. They think they know. They think they’ve got him figured out.
But they don’t know about this.
They don’t know about the quiet nights in his apartment, the stolen kisses in the stairwell, the way you know his secret and love him anyway. They don’t know about the way you hold him when he’s had a bad day, or the way you make him laugh, or the way you look at him like he’s something special.
They don’t know that he’s yours, completely and utterly.
And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
The next morning, you wake up to find Clark already up and moving around his apartment. The smell of coffee drifts in from the kitchen, and you smile, stretching like a satisfied cat. You find him at the stove, making scrambled eggs, and you wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss to his back.
“Morning,” you say, murmuring against his skin.
“Morning.” He murmurs, taking one of your hands that was on his abdomen, intertwining your fingers. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Too much on my mind.”
“Everything okay?”
He turn in your arms, facing you down. “Everything’s perfect. I was just thinking about last night.”
Clark’s face warms. “Me too.”
“I meant what I said.” You cup his face, your thumb tracing his cheekbone. “I love you, Clark. All of you. Clark Kent and Superman and every version in between. I love everything about this.”
His heart swells. “I love you too. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.”
You kiss him, soft and sweet, and Clark thinks he might die from happiness. But then you pull away, grinning. “Now let’s eat breakfast. We’re going to be late.”
“I don’t get late,” Clark says, but he sits down to eat anyway.
Clark walks into the office at eight AM, and Jimmy immediately holds up his camera.
“Smile, Kent. I need evidence of the contrast of your heart eyes before and after you see our boss.”
“Jimmy—”
“I’m serious. It’s for the office pool. We’re taking bets on how long it takes you to get flustered.”
Clark adjusts his glasses, trying to look professional. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Lois snorts from her desk. “Sure you don’t.”
The elevator dings, and you walk in, looking fresh and professional, not a trace of last night on you. Clark watches you walk past his desk, and his heart does that familiar flutter. You’re wearing that black blazer, and your hair is pulled back, and you look so beautiful it hurts. He’s looking at you as if he didn’t kissed you one last time around the corner.
“Good morning, Kent,” you say, stopping by his desk.
“Morning.” He clears his throat. “I started working on that Carmichael piece you mentioned. The one about the waterfront development. I’ve got some initial research done if you want to take a look.”
Your eyes were on him, and then that smile spreads across your face. The one that makes his knees weak. “You picked up the Carmichael piece? Because I mentioned I was interested in it?” After last night, you thought he wasn’t actually gonna do it.
Clark feels the blush creeping up his neck. “I just thought... you were so passionate about it. And I wanted to write something you’d enjoy reading.”
You’re staring at him, and there’s so much warmth in your expression that Clark feels like he’s standing in sunlight. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
“I’m just—”
“You’re just the most thoughtful man I’ve ever met.” You lean in, lowering your voice so only he can hear. “I love you, Clark.”
His face goes red, but he’s smiling too. “I love you too.”
You walk away, and Clark watches you go, his heart eyes firmly in place.
Jimmy takes the picture and now Clark really doesn’t care.
Later that afternoon, Clark is in the break room, staring at the coffee machine like it holds the secrets of the universe. He’s tired—really tired—and the coffee might as well be water for all the good it’s doing him.
You find him there, leaning against the counter, and you slide up next to him.
“Rough day?”
“Long night,” he admits.
“Patrol?”
“Oh, nothing like that. My pretty girlfriend kept me up the entire night and I could never say no to those beautiful eyes of hers.”
You laugh, and it’s like sunshine. “You’re such a softie.”
“I know.” He looks at you, and there’s so much love in his eyes that he’s surprised you don’t get overwhelmed by it. “But I don’t care. Not when I get to come home to you.”
You smile, and you lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Clark. Even if you do have heart eyes that makes everyone roll theirs.”
“I love you too.” His hand finds yours, and he squeezes it. “Now go, before someone sees us…. boss.”
You wink, and you’re gone, leaving Clark alone in the break room with a smile on his face that he can’t seem to shake.
He walks back to his desk, and Lois takes one look at him and shakes her head.
“Disgusting,” she says. “Absolutely disgusting. You’re like a lovesick puppy.”
Clark doesn’t even bother to deny it.
Because he is. He’s completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with you. And the best part is, you love him back.
Note I don't even know what this is, you guys. I wanted to post this when the world cup started but then things happened and then my team was eliminated last sunday and now i am sad. Anyways, Bucky is a football/fútbol (i can't call it soccer) player here and reader is a singer... why is she a singer? the real question is, why not? Also, Becca being the best wing woman? We love to fucking see it. There's smut here, it's very soft and barely there but it's there so, be aware.
The roar of the stadium was a physical thing, a wave of sound that vibrated through the concrete and into the very marrow of your bones. You’d felt it a thousand times from the stage, a different kind of energy, a different kind of love. But this was something else. This was raw, primal, and utterly centered on twenty-two men chasing a ball. You were tucked away in the family box, feeling like a fraud in a sea of jerseys and painted faces, all thanks to a persistent, and frankly, terrifyingly enthusiastic, young woman named Rebecca Barnes.
Her grip on your arm was like a vice, her eyes wide with a star-struck fervor that was both endearing and slightly alarming. “Oh my God, oh my God, he’s looking this way! Did you see that? He just winked! I think he winked at you!”
You followed her gaze to the pitch, where her brother, Bucky, was indeed jogging back into position, a stray lock of dark hair plastered to his forehead, his focus absolute. He hadn’t winked at the box; you were certain of it. He was too locked in, a predator on the hunt. But you couldn’t bring yourself to crush Becca’s spirit. She was the reason you were here, after all.
It had started with a simple, direct message on Instagram. A string of emojis, a gushing declaration of love for your latest album, and a plea for a signed poster. You had a soft spot for earnest fans, and her profile, a collage of your album art and her brother’s football stats, was a clear indicator of her two main obsessions. You’d sent the poster, and a short, friendly note. A week later, you were the subject of a near-daily barrage of messages from her, culminating in a surprisingly persuasive argument for why you should attend a match.
"It’s not just a game, it’s a cultural experience! And my brother is the best player on the team, I swear. You’ll get to see a real athlete in his element. Please? For me? For the signed poster?"
The request had been so absurdly earnest, and you were so desperately bored of the endless cycle of studio sessions and promotional interviews, that you’d said yes. And now, here you were, watching the man himself, James Buchanan Barnes, or “Bucky” as everyone called him, orchestrate the game with a quiet, devastating intensity.
He wasn’t a flashy player. There were no showboating tricks or flamboyant dives. His game was built on grace and power, a deceptively languid stride that exploded into breathtaking speed. He’d receive a pass, control it with a single, effortless touch, and then send it screaming across the pitch to a teammate with laser-guided precision. He was the fulcrum, the quiet engine that made the entire machine work. It was captivating. And you absolutely hated how captivating you found it.
The media had been having a field day since the first grainy photos surfaced of you leaving a charity gala together three months ago. You’d been seated at the same table, a stroke of luck for the gossip columns, and a single, perfectly timed photograph of him leaning in to hear you over the din of the crowd had ignited a wildfire of speculation. "Sunshine Girl and Winter Soldier!", "Barnes’s New Flame?". The rumor mill had been churning ever since, and your publicist was having a coronary. The constant use of your nicknames were a lot now and you’d done your best to quell the speculation, issuing a brief, diplomatic statement about a chance encounter and a shared acquaintance. He’d done the same, a clipped, dismissive reply to a reporter’s question that you’d seen on a sports highlights reel. You’d scoffed at his curtness, even as a tiny, traitorous part of you felt a prickle of… something. Annoyance, you’d told yourself. Pure professional annoyance. That night at the gala, you’d exchanged perhaps five words, polite nothings about the food and the acoustics of the hall. It had been nothing. Absolutely nothing. And yet, you’d found yourself scrolling through photos of him later that night, cursing your own curiosity.
The match ended in a decisive victory for his team, Barnes scoring the final, stunning goal with a shot so powerful it seemed to bend the air around it. As the final whistle blew, Becca, who had been practically vibrating with excitement, looked at you with pleading eyes. “You have to come to the afterparty! Please? It’s at the hotel where theyre staying. Everyone will be there, and Bucky will be so happy to see you.”
You opened your mouth to politely decline, to cite the need for an early night, but the words died on your lips. You saw him then, jogging over to a section of the stands where some children were waving. He signed a jersey, his face breaking into a genuine, unguarded smile that softened the hard lines of his jaw. It was a disarming sight, a flash of kindness that felt entirely at odds with the taciturn, intimidating figure you’d been building in your head.
Becca followed your gaze, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “He’s not usually like that, you know. With the press, I mean. He loves seeing the fans, mostly the young ones. He’s always so… closed off. But ever since that gala, he’s been different. Quieter. He doesn’t talk about it, but I can tell. He asked me about you, you know. Casual, like he didn’t really care. But I know my brother.” She paused, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s been a long time since I saw him that captivated by someone. He’s not the type to have flings. He’s so careful, so private. It’s not like he’s checking out women left and right. I’m almost sure it’s been a really long time since he went out with anyone. You should’ve seen him that night at the gala. He couldn’t stop looking at you.”
You felt a flush creep up your neck. “It was just a conversation, Becca. Barely even that.”
“Sure,” she said, her tone dripping with amused skepticism. “Just a conversation. It’s been just a conversation the, what? Twenty times you have seen each other in just three months? That’s why he’s been acting like a grumpy bear for three months, right? Come on. One drink. For me?”
“Fine,” you heard yourself say. “One drink.”
The private club was a haze of dark wood, low lighting, and thrumming bass. The atmosphere was raucous, a celebration spilling over with champagne and triumphant back-slapping. You were a fish out of water, a creature of spotlights and silent recording booths, not this boisterous, testosterone-fueled environment. Becca was immediately swept away by a group of friends, leaving you to fend for yourself.
You were nursing a glass of the rosé wine Becca loves talking about, trying to find a corner to disappear into, when a large, warm presence materialized at your back. “You came.”
His voice was a low rumble, laced with the barest hint of surprise. You turned. Bucky Barnes, no longer in his kit but in a simple, dark henley and jeans, looked even more formidable up close. He smelled of soap and expensive cologne and a faint, clean musk that was entirely his own.
“Your sister is very persuasive,” you replied, your voice cooler than you intended. “She’s also very observant.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “That she is. She’s been talking about you for months. She claims you’re a big deal.”
The statement was blunt, almost an accusation. You bristled. “It’s not a competition, Barnes. I’m just a person who makes music.”
“So I’ve heard.” He took a sip from the bottle of beer in his hand, his gaze never leaving yours. It was unnerving, this directness. “You’re good. I listened to your album. The new one.”
The admission caught you completely off guard. You’d assumed he was just humoring his sister, that your career was an abstract concept to him, a distant world he had no interest in. “You did?”
“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, his lips twitching. “I have ears. And Becca has a very loud speaker system. It was hard to avoid. Has been non-stop at the apartment since last week you released it.” He paused, his eyes searching yours. “But I didn’t want to avoid it. The song about the city at night. That one stayed with me.”
You remembered the song. It was a deeply personal one, written during a period of intense loneliness, about the feeling of being surrounded by millions of people and yet completely, utterly alone. The fact that he had not only heard it but connected with it sent a strange thrill through you. “That’s… actually really kind of you to say. Thank you.”
He nodded, a small, almost shy gesture that was so at odds with his public persona. “I mean it.” He gestured with his beer bottle towards a quieter corner. “Want to get out of this chaos?”
You should have said no. You should have cited your impending departure, your need for a quiet night. But the press of bodies and the relentless chatter were suffocating, and the idea of a moment’s respite with someone who, despite your best efforts, you found increasingly intriguing, was too tempting. You followed him to a small, secluded balcony overlooking the city skyline. The cool night air was a balm on your heated skin.
“Thank you,” you said, leaning against the railing. “For the rescue.”
“Don’t mention it.” He stood a respectful distance away, but his presence was immense, filling the small space. “Becca got a bit carried away, I’m guessing. She’s a force of nature.”
“She’s wonderful,” you said, and you meant it. “She reminds me of myself a little, when I was her age. All that passion and energy.”
He was quiet for a moment, studying the city lights. “We lost our mom a few years ago. I had to step up, be the parent and the brother and I try to be the brother mosto f the time. She was only thirteen and… sometimes I think she clings to things, to people, because it’s easier than being alone. She’s nineteen now but I still see that little girl, you know?”
The confession was unexpected, a crack in his carefully constructed armor. It made you see him in a new light, not just as a sports star or a reluctant acquaintance, but as a man who had shouldered a terrible burden and tried to protect the person he loved most. The way he’d been at the gala, the way he’d looked at you across the table, suddenly made a different kind of sense. He wasn’t just an aloof athlete; he was a man who carried weight, who chose his connections carefully.
“That’s why you took her to the game?” you asked softly. “Because she wanted to go?”
He shook his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips. “No. I didn’t take her. She avoids that most of the time but she wanted you there, said she wanted to see if you were actually a real person because she has only seen you in the parties.” He laughed, a low, gravelly sound that did something strange to your stomach. “She just has a way of getting what she wants. She’s a lot like you, I think. You didn’t want to come, did you?”
“No,” you admitted, surprising yourself with your honesty. “But I’m glad I did.”
He turned to face you then, and the air between them grew thick, charged. His gaze traveled over your face, pausing on your lips before meeting your eyes again. “The press is having a field day, you know. Has been since that gala.”
“Tell me about it,” you scoffed. “My publicist is convinced I’m going to get eaten alive by the tabloids. She nearly had a heart attack when those photos came out.”
“They’re saying we’re a couple,” he stated, a hint of something unreadable in his voice. “Again.”
“They’re saying a lot of things,” you countered, trying to match his dismissive tone. “It’s just gossip. It’ll blow over.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, but his voice was quiet. “It will.” He took a step closer, and you were suddenly acutely aware of every inch of space between you, or the lack thereof. He was close enough that you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the flecks of lighter blue in his irises. “But what if I don’t want it to?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. This was a terrible idea. He was a public figure, just like you. Getting involved would be a PR nightmare, a tabloid frenzy. But the look in his eyes, that potent, focused intensity that you’d first noticed at the gala, was making your brain short-circuit. He wasn’t looking at you like you were a conquest, a notch on his belt. He was looking at you like he’d been waiting, like this moment had been building for months.
“You’re a public figure,” you managed, your voice a little breathless. “We both are. This is insane. People will talk.”
“Most things worth having are,” he murmured, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. The touch of his fingertips on your skin was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. “The press, the speculation, the whole circus… it doesn’t matter. Not if you don’t want it to. And I don’t. I’ve been thinking about you since that night at the gala. Couldn’t get you out of my head.
He was so close now, his scent enveloping you, the heat of his body a palpable force. Your logic was screaming at you to pull away, to laugh it off, to retreat to the safety of your carefully constructed world. But the rest of you, the part that was tired of being alone, of the constant performance, was whispering something else entirely. The memory of how he’d looked at you across that crowded room, the way he’d leaned in, the brief, electric brush of his fingers against yours as he’d passed you a glass of champagne—it had all been simmering beneath the surface for months.
“James…” you started, but the protest was weak, a mere whisper.
“That’s my name,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Say it again, please.”
And then his mouth was on yours. The kiss wasn’t gentle or tentative. It was demanding, possessive, a claim. It was the culmination of months of denial, of stolen glances and suppressed curiosity. His lips were firm and warm, tasting of beer and something uniquely him. Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. A shudder ran through him at your touch, and he pulled you closer, deepening the kiss. His hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, and he kissed you like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could sate a hunger he’d been carrying for far too long.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and dazed, he rested his forehead against yours, his breathing as ragged as your own. “We should probably go inside,” he muttered, but he made no move to let you go. “Before someone sees. I don’t want to share this. Not yet.”
“Probably,” you agreed, but you were still clutching his shirt, your body humming with a need you couldn’t name.
He didn’t take you inside. He took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and led you away from the balcony, down a quiet hallway, and into a small, private room that was clearly reserved for him. It was a simple space, a leather couch and a table, a far cry from the opulence of the club at the hotel. . His grip was firm, possessive, his thumb tracing idle circles on the inside of your wrist as he pulled you along. The private room was a small, simple space, but he didn’t stop there. He guided you through another door, one you hadn’t noticed, and suddenly you were in a different world entirely.
He pushed it open, revealing a bedroom—his bedroom, you realized with a jolt. It was surprisingly minimal, all dark wood and crisp white linens, a king-sized bed dominating the space. A single, soft lamp cast a warm glow over the room.
As soon as the door clicked shut, the world outside ceased to exist. The noise, the lights, the pressure—it all melted away. The only thing that remained was the heat of his gaze, the rapid beat of his heart against your palm as you traced the hard line of his jaw.
“You’re a menace,” you breathed, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. “Leading me to your bedroom like this.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he whispered, his voice husky as he leaned in to kiss your neck. “But I’ll take it. Coming from you. You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this. About you. I’ve been going out of my mind. Three months of watching you on every screen, hearing your voice on the radio, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”
His mouth was on your pulse point, a hot, wet sensation that made your knees buckle. You could feel the sharp edge of his teeth, the soothing flick of his tongue, and it sent a sharp bolt of pure, unadulterated want straight to your core. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, a soft gasp escaping you as he found a spot that made your vision blur.
“You smell incredible,” he murmured against your skin, his words a warm puff of breath that raised goosebumps on your arms. “I don’t think I’ve been able to think clearly since you walked onto that balcony. Since the gala, really. You ruined me.”
He pulled back, his eyes dark and hungry as they roamed over your face, your body. He was searching for permission, for a sign that you wanted this as much as he did. You answered by pulling him down for another kiss, this one slower, deeper, a promise whispered against his lips.
His hands moved from your hair, tracing a path down your spine, the heat of his palms searing through the thin fabric of your dress. He found the zipper at your back, his fingers fumbling for a moment before he let out a frustrated growl against your lips. “This is a very complicated dress,” he mumbled, his accent thickening with his frustration, a fact that sent a surprising thrill through you.
“It wasn’t supposed to be easy,” you whispered, your voice laced with a giddy, breathless laughter. “But it’s gonna be worth it, James.”
He finally managed to undo the zipper, a low sound of triumph rumbling in his chest as the fabric loosened. The dress slithered down your shoulders, pooling around your feet in a whisper of silk. He took a step back, his gaze dropping, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face as he took in the sight of you in just your lace underwear.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice reverent. “You’re trying to kill me, honey. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
He reached for you again, his hands possessive, his touch sending jolts of pleasure through your body. He unhooked your bra with surprising dexterity, his thumb ghosting over your hardened nipple, making you gasp. He lowered his head, his hot mouth closing around the peak, his tongue swirling and teasing until you were a trembling mess in his arms. The scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin was a delicious friction, a contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. He lavished attention on both breasts, his hands cupping and kneading, his mouth worshiping, and you could feel the evidence of his own desire pressing insistently against your thigh.
“Bucky, please,” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for, only knowing you needed more. “I need you.”
He answered your plea by sweeping you off your feet, carrying you the few steps to the bed and laying you down with a surprising gentleness. He loomed over you, a dark silhouette against the dim light, and the sight of him, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a raw hunger, took your breath away. The white sheets were cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his body hovering above you.
He shed his shirt in a single, fluid movement, revealing a canvas of taut muscle and pale skin, his body honed to a perfect edge of athletic power. A trail of dark hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans, and your fingers itched to touch him, to trace the lines of his body. You reached up, your hands gliding over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the muscles jump beneath your touch. He groaned, his eyes closing for a moment, as if your touch alone was enough to undo him.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice strained, “how long I’ve wanted to feel your hands on me. I’ve replayed that night at the gala a hundred times, wondering what it would be like if I’d just had the courage to ask for your number. Wondering what you’d feel like beneath me.”
He lowered himself, his lips tracing a path down your stomach, leaving a trail of searing kisses. He paused at your navel, his tongue dipping in, and you shuddered beneath him, your fingers threading through his hair. He worked his way lower, his mouth hot and demanding, his stubble leaving a delicious burn on your sensitive skin. He reached the waistband of your panties, his fingers hooking into the delicate fabric and pulling them down, his movements slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. He discarded them carelessly, his focus entirely on the expanse of skin now bared before him.
He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing your legs apart, and the sight of him there, his dark hair contrasting with your pale skin, was almost too much to bear. He looked up at you, his eyes hooded and dark with desire. “I’ve been dreaming about this,” he admitted, his voice a low, rough growl. “About tasting you. About hearing you fall apart because of me.”
And then his mouth was on you, and coherent thought became impossible. His tongue was a revelation, skilled and relentless, finding every sensitive spot with devastating precision. He licked a broad, flat stripe up your center, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it gently into his mouth. The sensation was electric, a sharp bolt of pleasure that made your hips buck against his face. He groaned against you, the vibration sending another wave of sensation through your body.
He was methodical, almost reverent, his mouth working you with a focus that bordered on obsession. He alternated between broad, languid licks that had you writhing and quick, targeted flicks of his tongue that made you gasp his name. He slid one thick finger inside you, then another, curling them just right, finding that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. He pumped them slowly at first, matching the rhythm of his tongue, then faster as your moans grew louder, more desperate.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. “I want to see your face when you come.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze as he continued his assault on your senses. The sight of him between your thighs, his lips slick with your arousal, his eyes burning with a possessive hunger, was enough to push you over the edge. Your climax hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, your back arching off the bed as a cry tore from your throat. He didn’t stop, his tongue continuing its relentless rhythm, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until you were a trembling, gasping mess beneath him.
When the waves finally subsided, he crawled back up your body, his skin slick with sweat, his eyes hooded with a deep, possessive satisfaction. He kissed you, and you could taste yourself on his lips, an intimacy that was both shocking and utterly perfect. He was hard against your thigh, the evidence of his own desire impossible to ignore, straining against the denim of his jeans.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice raw with need. “Tell me, and it’s yours. Anything.”
“I want you,” you managed, your voice still breathless. “I want all of you. Please, Bucky.”
He rolled off the bed, his movements quick and purposeful. He crossed to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer and retrieving a foil packet. He held it up, his eyes meeting yours, a question in his gaze. You nodded, your eyes never leaving his, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a small, approving smile.
He returned to the edge of the bed, his fingers working the button of his jeans with deliberate slowness. He pushed them down, along with his boxer briefs, and you finally saw all of him. He was beautiful, every inch of him, his cock thick and straining, the tip glistening with evidence of his arousal. The sight of him made your mouth water, made you ache with the need to feel him inside you.
He tore the foil packet open with his teeth, a gesture that was unexpectedly primal, and rolled the condom on with practiced ease. He wasn’t shy about it, not fumbling or awkward. He handled it with the same confidence he brought to everything else, his eyes never leaving yours. He was a man who knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it, and the knowledge that what he wanted was you sent a thrill of pure, unadulterated power through your body.
He crawled onto the bed, covering your body with his, the heat of him searing against your skin. He positioned himself between your thighs, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance, and paused, his eyes searching yours.
“Look at me,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to see your eyes when I’m inside you. I want to remember this. Every fucking second.”
You held his gaze as he pushed into you, a slow, deliberate thrust that stole your breath. He was big, stretching you in a way that was almost overwhelming, but the fullness, the completeness of it, was intoxicating. He stilled for a moment, giving you time to adjust, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged.
“You feel amazing,” he groaned, his voice a low, guttural sound. “So perfect. Like you were made for this. For me. Fuck, I’ve been dreaming about this for months. You have no idea.”
He began to move, a rhythm that was both powerful and controlled, a testament to his athletic grace. Each thrust was a deep, deliberate stroke, hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars. He was a man possessed, his focus absolute, his every movement designed to bring you both to the edge and beyond. His hands roamed your body, gripping your hips, sliding up to cup your breasts, his touch possessive and reverent all at once.
“You feel so good,” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and raw. “So tight. So perfect. I could stay inside you forever, you know that? Just like this.”
He shifted his angle, and a new wave of pleasure built within you, coiling tight and fast. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his back, your nails raking across his skin as you felt yourself soaring. He groaned at the sensation, his thrusts growing deeper, harder, more urgent.
“That’s it,” he urged, his voice a husky growl. “Let go, baby. I want to feel you come undone for me. I’ve been waiting so long to see you like this.”
He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down in a circular motion that made you gasp. The dual sensation—his thick length filling you, his thumb working your sensitive nub—was too much, too good. You felt the pressure building, a coil winding tighter and tighter in your belly.
“Bucky, I’m going to—” you gasped, the words dissolving into a moan.
“That’s it,” he commanded, his hips never slowing. “Come for me. Let go. I’ve got you, honey.”
His thrusts became more erratic, more desperate, and you knew he was close too. The thought of him losing control because of you, because of the way your body felt wrapped around him, sent you hurtling over the edge. Your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave, your vision going white as you cried out his name, your body clenching around him in a series of rhythmic, pulsing contractions.
The sensation of you coming undone around him was too much for him to bear. He thrust into you one last time, a deep, grinding stroke, and you felt him shudder, a low, ragged cry escaping his lips as he spilled himself inside you, buried as deep as he could go. His hips continued to twitch, small, involuntary thrusts as he rode out his own climax, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, his weight a warm, comforting presence, his heart hammering against your chest in a frantic rhythm that matched your own. He pressed soft, lazy kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, as if he couldn’t get enough of the taste of your skin. His hands roamed your body, gentle now, soothing, as if he was memorizing every curve, every plane.
Finally, he propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. His eyes were soft, almost reverent, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a slow, satisfied smile. “Well,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “That was better than the game and we know that was really amazing, I did great there.”
A surprised laugh bubbled out of you, breaking the tension. “Humble,” you teased, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “Very humble. You’re a jerk.” You say, knowing he’s joking.
“It’s not a competition,” he said, echoing your earlier words, his smile widening. “But if it was, I think I just won.” He paused, his expression softening. “I’ve been thinking about this for months, you know. I didn’t think it would actually happen. I didn’t think you’d ever want me.”
You traced the furrow between his brows, the worry lines that had settled there, and felt a surge of affection so powerful it nearly stole your breath. “I didn’t think you’d ever want me either. You seemed so… uninterested at the gala. Like I was just another person in the room.”
He laughed, a low, self-deprecating sound. “Uninterested? I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I was terrified you’d notice. I spent the whole night trying to find an excuse to talk to you, and when I finally did, I said something stupid about the food. I’ve been kicking myself for three months.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your own face. “The paps are going to have a field day when they find out I was in your private room for an hour.”
“Let them,” he said, the earlier anxiety gone, replaced by a newfound certainty. He kissed the tip of your nose. “Let them talk. It’s just noise. You and me, we’re something else. Something real.” He paused, his expression growing serious. “We’re gonna be here way more than an hour, honey.I think Becca’s going to lose her mind. She’s been shipping us since that gala.”
You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “Don’t remind me. She’s really been going non-stop, saying that youre great all the time and not a dipshit like most football players.”
He laughed, a full, genuine sound that you could feel vibrating through his whole body. “Let her. She’s just that enthusiastic. She’d probably be a good wedding planner. Has a lot of energy.”
“And a lot of opinions,” you added, laughing along with him. The sound of your laughter mingled in the dimly lit room, a perfect, private harmony.
He didn’t move right away. He stayed above you, his body a warm, solid weight, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. He kissed you again, softer this time, a slow, languid kiss that held no urgency, just a deep, quiet contentment. His hand slid down your side, over your hip, cupping your thigh and hitching it higher around his waist. He was still inside you, softening but still present, and the intimacy of it made your heart ache.
“I don’t want this to be just tonight,” he murmured against your lips. “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and pretend this didn’t happen. I want to see you again. I want to take you on a real date, somewhere without cameras and screaming fans. I want to get to know you, the real you, not the version of you that the world sees.”
You looked up at him, at the vulnerability in his eyes, and felt something shift deep in your chest. This wasn’t just a hookup. This wasn’t a one-night stand. This was a beginning, a tentative, fragile beginning to something that could be so much more.
“I’d like that,” you said softly. “I’d like that a lot.”
He smiled, a real smile, one that reached his eyes and made him look years younger, carefree in a way you hadn’t seen before. He kissed you again, and you could feel the promise in it, the hope of something new.
Later, he rolled off of you, his body leaving yours with a reluctance that was palpable. He disposed of the condom in the small bin beside the bed, his movements unhurried, and then returned to you, pulling you into his arms. He tucked you against his side, your head on his chest, his hand stroking your hair. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was a soothing lullaby, and you felt yourself drifting, wrapped in warmth and the scent of him.
“I’ll drive you home,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “If you want. Or you can stay. There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. I keep them for Becca, but you can use one. Whatever you want.”
You tilted your head up to look at him, at the man who had been a reluctant, frustrating presence in your life for months, now looking at you like you were the only person in the world. The fame, the scrutiny, the endless performance—it all faded away. There was only him, and the promise of more. “Okay,” you said, your voice a quiet whisper. “Yeah. I’d like to stay. I’d like to wake up with you.”
He smiled, that devastating, unguarded smile, and pulled you closer. “Good. Because I wasn’t really planning on letting you go anyway.”
And as you lay there, wrapped in his arms, the soft glow of the lamp casting dancing shadows on the ceiling, you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was just the beginning. The months of denial, the forced indifference, the careful distance... it all crumbled away. There was only him, and the weight of his arms, and the knowledge that whatever came next, you’d face it together.
Note Wrote this a couple weeks ago, when Sebas was out there showing those fucking legs and... yes. I am so sorry for the mistakes but been having a busy week and this was in my drafts, just waiting to see the light hehe
The gym was empty at 3 AM. That was why you’d chosen it—the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant thrum of the building’s HVAC system, the way the mirrors reflected nothing but polished concrete and gleaming equipment. No prying eyes, no judgmental stares, no Natasha smirking from the treadmill or Sam offering unsolicited advice between sets. Just you and the punching bag. And the ghosts you were trying to punch out of your head.
You’d been at it for an hour already, sweat soaking through your sports bra and tank top, hair plastered to your forehead in unruly strands. Your knuckles were raw even through the wraps, but you didn’t care. The rhythmic thud of fist against canvas was meditative in its brutality. Each impact drove away another thought—the mission that had gone sideways, the close call that had left you breathless, the way Bucky’s hand had found yours in the quinjet when you thought neither of you would make it out.
That last thought made you punch harder.
The door to the gym hissed open, and you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You’d know that footfall anywhere—the slight drag of his left foot, the way he landed heavier on his right side to compensate for the weight of the arm. You’d catalogued every sound Bucky made over the past two years, filed them away in some secret part of your brain that you refused to examine too closely.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” you asked, not pausing your assault on the bag.
“Something like that.” His voice was rough, sleep-roughened, and it sent a familiar shiver down your spine. “FRIDAY said you were down here.”
Not just any shorts—deep red gym shorts that ended well above his knee, exposing thighs that should have been illegal. Thick, muscular thighs slightly dusted with dark hair, the kind that made you think about what it would feel like to have them holding you down against your bed… Stop it, you told yourself fiercely. He’s your best friend. Your best friend who you sometimes kiss when you’ve had too much whiskey or when you’ve both nearly died and the adrenaline is still singing in your veins. That’s all.
You finally turned, and the words died in your throat.
Bucky was standing in the doorway, and he was wearing shorts.
But the shorts were only the beginning. His t-shirt was pink—actual pink, a soft rose color that should have looked absurd on a hundred-year-old assassin but instead made him look devastatingly soft. And it was tight, hugging the broad expanse of his chest, the defined cut of his shoulders, the narrow taper of his waist. The same t-shirt you gifted him on his last birthday just because you said he would look so fucking good.
You’d never seen him in anything that fit him properly. He always wore loose joggers and baggy t-shirts, like he was trying to hide himself from the world. Like he was still fighting that battle with his own reflection.
This was different. This was intentional. This was Bucky showing up, baring himself, trusting you to see him.
And you were absolutely, completely, catastrophically short-circuiting.
“You’re staring,” he said, and there was something in his voice—a hint of satisfaction, maybe even a little cockiness. His lips twitched, threatening a smirk.
“I’m… you're—“ You gestured vaguely at his entire existence. “What are you wearing?”
“Clothes.” He walked past you toward the weight rack, and you watched the flex of his calves, the shift of muscle in his thighs. “People wear clothes to the gym.”
“Not those clothes. Not you.” You were still staring. You couldn’t stop staring. “You look like… you look like—“
“Like what, honey?” He’d picked up a pair of dumbbells and was doing curls now, and if you’d thought the pink shirt was devastating, watching his biceps flex under the thin fabric was a whole new level of torture.
“Like a Pinterest thirst trap or those Tik Tok trends that Lena loves to make fun of it.” you blurted out.
He laughed—that low, surprised laugh that always made your stomach flip. “A what?”
“Forget it.” You turned back to the punching bag, hoping the flush on your cheeks could be attributed to exertion. “You just look different, that’s all.”
“Different good or different bad?”
You didn’t answer, because the truth was too dangerous. Different devastating. Different I want to climb you like a tree. Different how have we never gone further than kissing when you look like that.
Instead, you threw yourself back into your workout, focusing on the bag, on the burn in your muscles, on anything but the way Bucky’s thighs flexed when he did lunges.
It didn’t work.
He’d moved to the squat rack, and you could see him in the mirror—the way the shorts rode up just slightly when he bent his knees, the way his shirt pulled across his chest when he lifted. He caught your eye in the reflection and winked.
Winked.
Bucky Barnes, who still flinched when people touched his left shoulder, who sometimes woke up screaming and wouldn’t let anyone near him for days, who’d once confessed to you in a whiskey-soaked whisper that he didn’t think anyone would ever want to see him clearly—that Bucky Barnes was strutting around the gym in barely-there shorts like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“Your form’s off,” he said, straightening up from the squat. “You’re leaning too far forward.”
“My form is fine.”
“It’s not.” He walked over, and suddenly he was behind you, his chest nearly flush with your back, his vibranium hand coming up to press against your hip. “You’re not engaging your core. Here—“
His right hand settled on your stomach, and you forgot how to breathe.
“Breathe into it,” he murmured, his lips close to your ear. “Feel the tension here.” His fingers pressed slightly into your abdomen, and you could feel the calluses on his palm through the thin fabric of your tank top. “Then push from your hips, not your shoulders.”
You tried to follow his instructions, but all you could focus on was the heat of him behind you, the scent of his soap and something underneath—something that was just him. His thumb traced a small circle against your hip, and you had to bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
“There you go,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Better.”
He didn’t move away. His chest was pressed against your back now, and you could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat, or maybe that was your own heart trying to escape your ribcage.
“James,” you managed, and your voice came out wrecked. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Unless you want me to stop?”
You should have said yes. You should have stepped away, laughed it off, gone back to your corner of the gym and pretended that your heart wasn’t about to beat out of your chest. That was what you’d always done, what you’d always been too scared to risk.
But you were tired. Tired of pretending, tired of lying to yourself, tired of wanting so badly it felt like a physical ache in your chest.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered.
His hand slid from your hip to your waist, turning you to face him. And then you were looking up into those impossibly blue eyes, the ones that had seen too much and yet still managed to hold so much warmth when they looked at you.
“You know,” he said, and his voice was different now—softer, more hesitant. “I’ve wanted to do this all day. Ever since I put this stupid shirt on.”
“This isn’t stupid.” You reached up, fingers brushing the pink fabric at his shoulder. “You look—Bucky, you look incredible.”
“Yeah?” He ducked his head, and there it was—that flash of shyness that always made your heart clench. “I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe you’d think it was weird. Me trying to… I don’t know. Feel comfortable in my own skin.”
“I could never think that.” You stepped closer, your body flush against his. “I think you’re the bravest person I know.”
He made a sound—half laugh, half something else—and then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t like the other times. Those had been slow, tentative, like you were both testing the waters. This was hungry, desperate, like he’d been holding back for years and the dam had finally broken.
His hands came up to cup your face, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. His tongue swept against your lower lip, and you opened for him eagerly, drowning in the taste of him. He tasted like coffee and mint and something dark and sweet that you wanted to bottle and drink forever.
You fisted your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your mouth. The sound went straight to your core, made you press your thighs together.
“That’s it,” he breathed, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down your jaw. “Wanted it like this so bad. Want you so much, baby.”
“Then have me.” You arched into him, and he made that sound again—low and guttural and so incredibly hot. “Bucky, please—“
“I’ve got you, pretty face.” His hands slid down to your thighs, and then he was lifting you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist automatically. The shorts had ridden up even further, and you could feel the heat of his skin against yours, the hard length of him pressed against your core through both your clothes.
“Not here,” you managed, even as you rocked against him. “Someone could—“
“I know.” He was carrying you toward the door, and you were grateful that the gym was on the same floor as the residential quarters, that his room was only down the hall. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
The walk to his room was a blur. You were aware of the cold air in the hallway, the way he was still kissing your neck, the way his hands were gripping your thighs like he was afraid you might disappear.
He kicked the door to his room open, and you both tumbled inside.
The room was dark except for the faint glow of the city through the windows. Bucky set you down gently, and for a moment you just stood there, breathing hard, looking at each other.
His eyes were dark with want, but there was something else there too—a vulnerability that made your chest ache. He was still shy, still uncertain, even after all of this. You reached up and touched his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of stubble, the warmth of his skin.
“I want this,” you said. “I want you. But only if you want it too.”
“God.” He laughed, but it was shaky. “I’ve wanted this for so long. I just—I didn’t want to ruin things. You’re the only good thing in my life, and I thought if I pushed too hard—“
“You could never ruin things.” You pulled him down for another kiss, softer this time. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed you like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning. His hands found the hem of your tank top, and he pulled back just long enough to tug it over your head. His breath caught when he saw you, and his eyes went dark.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your sports bra was next, and then his hands were on your breasts, calloused and warm and so careful. You arched into his touch, gasping when his thumb brushed over your nipple.
“Bucky—“
“Tell me what you want.” His mouth found your throat again. “I want to hear you say it.”
“I want you.” You were pulling at his shirt now, desperate to feel his skin against yours. “I want all of you. Please.”
He pulled off the shirt in one fluid motion, and you had to stop and stare. You’d seen him shirtless before—it was impossible not to in a compound full of supersoldiers—but never like this. Never with the knowledge that you were about to have him.
His chest was a masterpiece of muscle and scars. The vibranium arm caught the light, gleaming dully, and you reached out and traced the line where metal met flesh. He stiffened for just a moment, then relaxed into your touch.
“Does it hurt?” you asked softly.
“Not when you touch it.” His voice was rough. “Never when you touch it.”
You kissed the seam, then his shoulder, then his collarbone, working your way down his chest. He shuddered under your lips, his hands carefully touching your hair.
“You’re going to kill me,” he groaned.
“Not yet.” You looked up at him through your lashes. “I have plans for you.”
His laugh was choked, half-desperate. “Fuck, I love when you talk like that, always makes me so hard when you use that voice to threaten people.”
You were both undressing each other now, clothes discarded on the floor in a messy trail toward the bed. His shorts were the last to go, and when you saw him—all of him—you had to swallow hard.
“You’re staring again,” he said, but his voice was breathless, and there was that shyness creeping back in.
“I’m appreciating.” You reached out and wrapped your hand around him, and he gasped, his hips bucking into your touch. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” His hand covered yours, guiding you. “Not a problem. Just—fuck, sweetheart, if you keep doing that—“
“Then don’t let me keep doing it.” You released him and stepped back, letting your eyes run down his body. “Unless you want to come right now.”
“Not a chance.” He was on you in a second, pushing you back onto the bed, his body covering yours. “I’m not done with you yet.”
He kissed down your body slowly, reverently, like he was memorizing every inch of you. His mouth found your breasts, and you gasped as he sucked your nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak.
“Bucky—“
“Shh.” He moved to the other side, giving it the same attention. “I’ve got you. Just let me—I’ve wanted this for so long, sweetheart. Wanted to taste you.”
His mouth continued its descent, over your stomach, your hips, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You were trembling by the time he reached your core, your hands fisted in the sheets.
“Look at you,” he murmured, and his breath was hot against your slick heat. “So wet for me. All for me. Did I make you this wet, honey? Are you this sweet always?”
“Bucky, please—“
He didn’t make you wait. His mouth closed over you, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed. He was so good, so thorough, his tongue working you with a skill that made your mind go blank.
And he was moaning—actually moaning, low and hungry, like he was the one getting pleasure from this. The vibrations from his voice sent shockwaves through you, and you could feel the pressure building, coiling in your core.
“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Please don’t stop—“
He doubled down, his vibranium hand coming up to hold you open while his tongue worked you mercilessly. The contrast of temperatures—cool metal and hot mouth—pushed you closer to the edge.
You came with a scream, your vision whiting out, your body shuddering through wave after wave of pleasure. Bucky worked you through it, only pulling back when you started to whimper from overstimulation.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and his face was flushed, his lips slick with you. “Look at you. So beautiful when you come.”
You pulled him up, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue. “I need you inside me,” you said against his mouth. “Now. Please.”
He reached for the nightstand, fumbling for a condom, and you watched as he sheathed himself. He was trembling slightly, and you could see the vulnerability in his eyes again.
“Sam bought me these as a joke a couple weeks ago,” he said, smirking while positioning himself at your entrance. “Tell me if I hurt you, baby and I’ll stop. I haven’t done this in like seventy years and I think I can’t control myself.”
“You won’t hurt me.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I trust you, Bucky. I trust you completely.”
His eyes went soft, and he leaned down to kiss you as he pushed inside.
You both groaned at the sensation—the stretch, the fullness, the way he fit inside you like he was made for you. He paused once he was fully seated, giving you time to adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.
“You feel,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You feel like everything. Like coming home.”
“Move,” you begged. “Please move, Bucky.”
He did, setting a slow, deep rhythm that made your toes curl. Each thrust hit that perfect spot inside you, and you could feel another orgasm building already.
“You’re so tight,” he groaned, his hips picking up speed. “So perfect. Fuck, sweetheart, I’m not going to last.”
“Then don’t.” You clenched around him, and he moaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. “Come with me. I’m close—“
“Look at me,” he demanded, and you opened your eyes to find his gaze burning into yours. “I want to see you when you come. Want to see what I do to you.”
That was all it took. You shattered around him, crying out his name as pleasure ripped through you. He followed moments later, burying himself deep as he came with a groan that was almost a sob.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. He was still inside you, still breathing hard, his face buried in your neck. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, rapid and strong.
Slowly, he pulled out and disposed of the condom. Then he was back, pulling you into his arms, tucking you against his chest.
You lay there in the silence, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. The weight of what had just happened settled over you, and you felt a sudden flutter of anxiety.
“Hey.” Bucky’s voice was soft. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“I just—“ You swallowed hard. “Is this going to be weird now? Between us? I don’t want to lose you.”
He pulled back, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “Lose me? Sweetheart, you couldn’t lose me if you tried.” He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. “I’m in this. I’ve been in this. I’ve been in love with you for years.”
The words hit you like a freight train, and you felt your eyes well up. “Years?”
“Years.” He smiled, and it was that rare, genuine smile that made him look like the man he used to be. “I was just too scared to say anything. Figured I’d screw it up somehow. But then you looked at me in those shorts—“
You laughed, the sound watery. “I almost had a heart attack.”
“I know.” His grin was smug now. “That was the point. Not giving you a heart attack but like, make you wet by seeing me in these and fuck, baby, never thought you would be into seeing my legs.” He grins and laughs, kissing your forehead.
You swatted his chest, and he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips. “I love you too,” you said quietly. “Just so you know. In case that wasn’t clear.”
“Oh, it was clear.” He pulled you closer, tucking you under his chin. “I’m kind of a spy. I notice things.”
You snorted. “You’re an assassin, not a spy. There’s a difference.”
“Not according to Peter.” He was quiet for a moment, his hand stroking your hair. “So… what now? What does this make us?”
“Partners, like always,” you said, and he tensed, so you quickly added, “In every sense of the word. If you want.”
He relaxed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah. Yeah, I want that. I so badly want to be your boyfriend, honey.”
You lay there in the dark, wrapped up in each other, and you thought about all the kisses that had come before—the tipsy ones at parties, the desperate ones after missions, the ones that were just because you couldn’t resist. All of them had been leading here, to this moment, to this man who had become your entire world.
“I have to warn you,” he murmured, his voice drowsy. “I’m going to be insufferable about this.”
“About what?”
“About you.” He kissed your forehead. “I’m going to kiss you in the kitchen and hold your hand in the common room and make Steve and Lena gag with all the PDA.”
“I’m counting on it.” You snuggled closer. “But for now, can we just… stay here?”
“Stay here,” he repeated. “I like the sound of that.”
His breathing evened out, and you knew he was falling asleep. You listened to the steady rhythm, matching your own breathing to his, and felt something settle in your chest.
For years, you’d been dancing around each other, too scared to cross that line. And now you were here, in his bed, in his arms, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Outside, the city was waking up, the sky starting to lighten. But inside, in the quiet of Bucky’s room, you were exactly where you belonged.
“Hey, Buck?” you whispered, barely awake yourself.
“Mm?”
“I’m glad you wore those shorts.”
His laugh was sleepy, warm, full of love. “I’m glad I did too.”
And you fell asleep with a smile on your face, wrapped in the arms of the man you loved, finally home.
Note This small piece deals with brief mentions of fertility struggles, negative tests, and the emotional weight of wanting a child for a long time. While it's ultimately a happy and fluffy story, those themes are present in the background. If you're sensitive to discussions of infertility or pregnancy loss, please be aware of it. Smut is there but like, barely, more fluff and everything with aftercare and lots of emotional intimacy. Also, Clark cries a lot because he loves his wife and baby so much, it's very soft and sweet.
The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across the bedroom, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. Clark lay propped against the headboard, one arm tucked behind his head while the other held his phone at a comfortable distance, the screen illuminating his chiseled features as he scrolled through the day's news with half-lidded eyes. The quiet hum of the city at night filtered through the reinforced windows of their Metropolis apartment, but he'd long since learned to tune out the cacophony of the world outside these walls.
Beside him, you were a portrait of peaceful slumber—your dark lashes fanned against your cheeks, your lips slightly parted, one hand curled loosely against his chest as if even in sleep you needed to anchor yourself to him. The sheet had slipped down to your waist, revealing the gentle curve of your shoulder, the soft rise and fall of your breathing. You'd fallen asleep nearly an hour ago, exhausted from another long day at the Daily Planet, and he'd been content to simply exist in this space with you, to feel the warmth of your body against his side, to listen to the steady rhythm of your heart.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Your heartbeat was as familiar to him as his own—he'd memorized its cadence years ago, could pick it out of a crowd of thousands without hesitation. It was the sound of home, of safety, of everything good in his life. He'd spent countless nights with his ear pressed to your chest, listening to that rhythm as you ran your fingers through his hair and whispered sweet nothings into the darkness.
But tonight, as he scrolled past another article about LexCorp's latest questionable acquisition, something made him pause.
Not your heartbeat. Something else.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
He frowned, his thumb stilling on the screen as he cocked his head slightly, straining to identify what had caught his attention. At first, he thought it might be a neighbor's late-night television, or perhaps the distant thrum of a passing helicopter—the kind of ambient noise that usually faded into the background of his consciousness.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
No. This was different.
Clark lowered his phone slowly, his brow furrowing as he focused his attention inward, filtering through the symphony of sounds that constantly bombarded his superhuman senses. The refrigerator's gentle hum. The traffic several blocks away. A couple arguing in the building next door. The soft whisper of the wind against the windowpane.
And then—there it was again. So faint, so impossibly delicate, that he might have missed it entirely if he hadn't been specifically listening for it.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
His breath caught in his throat.
It was a heartbeat. A tiny, rapid heartbeat, fluttering like a hummingbird's wings, so different from the slow, steady rhythm of your heart that he almost couldn't believe what he was hearing. It was buried deep, muffled by layers of tissue and muscle, but it was undeniably there—a perfect, rhythmic pulse that seemed to sing with the promise of new life.
Clark's hand trembled as he set his phone aside, his entire body going still as he directed every ounce of his concentration toward that fragile sound. His enhanced hearing allowed him to perceive things no human could ever dream of—the whisper of a butterfly's wings from a mile away, the quietest secret spoken in a crowded room—but this was something else entirely. This was a secret whispered by the universe itself, and it was happening inside the woman he loved more than life itself.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The tiny heart beat on, impossibly fast, impossibly strong for something so small.
“Baby,” he breathed, the word barely a whisper, not wanting to disturb your sleep. His eyes had gone wide, and he felt a familiar pricking sensation behind them—the precursor to tears that he could never quite control when it came to you.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
He pressed his hand gently against your abdomen, his palm resting over the place where your child was growing, and he felt his heart swell until he was certain it might burst from his chest. All those years of hoping, of waiting, of wanting—you'd talked about it so many times, lying in bed just like this, your head on his chest as you dreamed about the future. He'd watched your eyes light up whenever you saw a baby in the park, had held you when the tears came after negative tests, had whispered reassurances that your time would come and now it finally had.
Clark pressed his lips together hard, trying to contain the sob that threatened to escape, but a single tear escaped anyway, trailing down his cheek and dripping onto the pillow. He didn't want to wake you—God, he knew you needed your rest—but he couldn't stop staring at your face, at the peaceful expression that was completely unaware of the miracle growing inside you.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Your child. His and yours. A perfect blend of two worlds, two souls who had somehow found each other despite every obstacle the universe had thrown in their path.
He remembered the night you'd first admitted you wanted children—it had been after a particularly harrowing mission, one where he'd almost been lost to the phantom zone, and you'd held him so tightly that even his Kryptonian skin had felt the pressure. “I want everything with you,” you'd whispered against his neck, your voice thick with emotion. “I want the whole damn dream, Clark. House in the suburbs, picket fence, a baby—maybe two—and a dog that sheds all over the furniture. I want it all.”
And he'd promised you, right then and there, that he'd give you everything you deserved.
Three years of trying. Three years of hope and disappointment, of doctor's appointments and ovulation tests, of holding you when you cried and telling you that it would happen when it was meant to happen. Three years of wanting so desperately to give you the family you craved, the family he craved, that he'd sometimes found himself praying to Rao, to God, to anyone who might be listening.
And now...
Clark pressed his forehead to your shoulder, his whole body shaking with the effort of containing his joy. He could feel the baby's heartbeat so clearly now that he knew what to listen for, that fragile thrum of life that seemed to echo through his very soul.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
“I know,” he whispered against your skin. “I know, little one. I hear you.”
You stirred slightly, a soft murmur escaping your lips, and he froze, not wanting to wake you. But you simply shifted closer to him, burying your face in the curve of his neck, and settled back into sleep.
Clark wrapped his arm around you, pulling you as close as he dared, and let his mind drift over the realization that was still washing through him in waves. A baby. Your baby. He was going to be a father—a real father, not just a hero who saved the world, but a man who would teach his child to ride a bike, who would read bedtime stories, who would be there for every scraped knee and broken heart.
He thought of his own parents, Martha and Jonathan, the two people who had given him everything even when they had so little. He thought of the way his mother had looked at him with such unconditional love, the way his father had taught him that true strength wasn't about power, but about compassion. He thought of how they'd be over the moon when they found out—Martha would probably start knitting tiny sweaters the second she heard the news, and Jonathan would get that proud, misty-eyed look he got whenever Clark did something that made him feel like he'd done right by his son.
He thought of your parents too—the way your mother's face would light up with joy, the way your father would probably pretend to be gruff about it before pulling you into the tightest hug imaginable. They'd be the kind of grandparents who spoiled their grandchild rotten, who'd show up with armfuls of gifts and stay for hours just to hold the baby.
And then there was Jimmy—goofy, loyal, wonderful Jimmy, who would absolutely be the world's most ridiculous uncle. Clark could already picture Jimmy showing up with a camera, taking approximately ten thousand photos of the baby's first everything, teaching them terrible jokes and sneaking them candy when their parents weren't looking. Jimmy would probably try to teach the baby how to do a “sick kickflip” on a skateboard before they could even walk, and Clark would have to be the one to intervene, rolling his eyes while secretly loving every second of it.
And Lois—grumpy, brilliant, fiercely loving Lois—who would pretend to be above all this baby stuff, who would roll her eyes at the “gushy” things and insist she was far too busy to be an aunt. But Clark knew her better than that. He knew she'd be the first one to volunteer for babysitting duty, the one who'd show up with age-appropriate books and stern lectures about proper nutrition, the one who'd threaten any potential bully with a Pulitzer-Prize-winning exposé on their family's dark secrets. Lois would spoil that baby absolutely rotten, and she'd deny it with every breath in her body.
And then there was Kara—his cousin, the other survivor of Krypton, the fierce and wonderful young woman who had found her way to Earth and into his heart. Clark smiled at the thought of her holding his baby, of teaching them about their heritage, of being the cool, kickass cousin who could fly and punch through walls and still have time to braid their hair and give them advice about boys or girls or whoever they ended up loving. Kara would be the one who understood what it was like to carry the weight of two worlds, the one who could tell them stories about Krypton that weren't sad and heavy, but full of wonder and beauty and the kind of hope that made a person believe in impossible things.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
“You're going to have so many people who love you,” he whispered into the darkness. “Your grandma Martha is going to knit you so many blankets you won't know what to do with them. And your grandpa Jonathan—he's going to teach you about hard work and honesty and what it means to have a good heart. He's going to tell you stories about Kansas, about cornfields and sunsets and the way the world looks when you're standing on a hill and you can see forever.”
He paused, swallowing hard against the emotion clogging his throat.
“And your other grandparents—your mom's mom and dad—they're going to spoil you so much. Your grandma's going to make you all her famous cookies, and your grandpa's going to teach you how to fix things, how to build things with your hands. And they're all going to look at you and see the best parts of everyone they love.”
He laughed softly, imagining the chaos.
“And your Uncle Jimmy—he's going to be the silliest uncle in the history of uncles. He's going to teach you bad jokes and show you how to take the perfect picture and probably try to make you his assistant for some wild scheme. Your mom and I are going to have to keep an eye on him, I'm telling you. And Auntie Lois—she's going to pretend she's too busy and too important for all of this, but she's going to love you so much it scares her. She's going to bring you books and teach you big words and threaten anyone who even looks at you wrong. She's going to be the most fierce aunt you could ever imagine, and she's going to spoil you absolutely rotten, even if she'll never admit it.”
He paused, feeling his heart swell even more.
“And your auntie Kara—your dad’s cousin. You might think she’s a bit crazy but she’s going to be amazing. She’s going to teach you about where we come from about Krypton, about Rao, about the House of El. She’s going to show you that being different is something to be proud of, not something to be ashamed of. She’s going to be the one who understands what it’s like to carry the weight of a whole planet on your shoulders, and she’s going to hold your hand through all of it. Plus, she’s going to be the coolest auntie ever—she can fly, she can bench press a building, and she has the best taste in music. You’re going to think she’s the coolest person in the universe, and honestly, you’ll be right.
The baby's heart continued its rapid rhythm, and Clark let himself imagine what they'd look like—your child, with your fierce intelligence and maybe his own stubborn streak. He imagined tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb, imagined the first smile, the first word, the first step. He imagined teaching them about the stars, about the legacy of Krypton, about what it meant to be a symbol of hope.
He imagined you, glowing with the beauty of impending motherhood, your hand resting on your belly as you talked to the life growing inside you.
The thought made him ache with a love so profound it hurt.
“I love you,” he whispered to your sleeping form, pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead. “I love you both so much it terrifies me.”
He could have stayed awake all night, just listening to that tiny heartbeat—and he almost did, staying perfectly still until the first rays of dawn crept through the curtains. But eventually, exhaustion won out, and he allowed himself to drift into a light sleep, his hand never leaving your abdomen.
The next few days were the longest of Clark's life.
He woke before you every morning, careful not to disturb you as he slipped out of bed first and headed to work at the Daily Planet together, where he spent his days pretending to focus on stories while his mind drifted back to that tiny heartbeat. He wanted to tell you—God, he wanted to scream it from the rooftops—but there was something special about this moment, about being the only one who knew your secret.
It felt sacred.
So he kept his silence, watching you with new eyes as you went about your daily routine. He noticed the way you'd started pressing your hand to your stomach when you thought he wasn't looking, the way you'd been avoiding your morning coffee. He noticed the slight pallor to your skin, the way you'd been more tired lately, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot.
He caught himself staring at you across the newsroom, and when you caught his eye and smiled, he had to look away before you could see the tears threatening to spill over.
“Everything okay, Smallville?” you asked him once, your brow furrowed with concern. “You've been acting weird all week.”
“Just tired,” he lied, and the guilt made his stomach twist. “You know how it is. Big story brewing.”
You accepted the excuse with a skeptical look, but you didn't push, and he was grateful for that small mercy.
Seventeen days after he'd first heard it, Clark came home to find the apartment dark, a single candle flickering on the dining table, and you standing in the center of the room with your hands clasped behind your back.
“Hey, you,” you said softly, and there was something in your voice—a tremor, an excitement—that made his heart start to pound.
“Hey,” he replied, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it by the door. “What's all this?”
You bit your lip, and he watched your eyes grow bright with unshed tears. “I have something to tell you. Something I've been wanting to tell you for—God, Clark, I've been counting down the minutes.”
He crossed the room in two steps, his hands finding your waist, his forehead dropping to yours. “What is it?” he asked, even though he already knew, even though he'd been waiting for this moment for almost three agonizing weeks.
You pulled a small object from behind your back—a small teddy bear wearing a baby onesie, impossibly tiny, with the infamous ‘S’ printed across the front in bold letters—and held it up between you.
“I'm pregnant,” you said, and your voice cracked on the last syllable. “We're having a baby, Clark. I found out a few days ago, and I've been dying to tell you, but I wanted to do it right, wanted to make it special, and—”
You didn't get to finish the sentence, because Clark's lips were on yours, kissing you with a tenderness that made you gasp. He tasted the salt of your tears—and his own, he realized, because they were streaming down his face unchecked, soaking your cheeks, your lips, everything.
“I know,” he whispered against your mouth. “I know, baby. I've known since that night.”
You pulled back, your eyes wide with shock. “What? How?”
“Like three weeks ago,” he said, and his voice was thick with emotion. “You were sleeping after that Gala, and I was just—just lying there, listening to your heartbeat like I always do, and I heard something else.”
Your hand flew to your mouth. “You heard—”
“It was so faint, so small, but it was there.” He pressed his hand to your abdomen, exactly where he'd felt it before. “A heartbeat. Tiny and fast and perfect. Our baby's heartbeat.”
You stared at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable, and then you burst into tears—great, heaving sobs that shook your entire body. “You've known for that many days? And you didn't say anything?”
“I wanted you to have your moment,” he said, pulling you into his arms, cradling you against his chest. “I wanted to see your face when you told me. I wanted—”
“You idiot,” you sobbed, but you were laughing too, your hands fisted in his shirt. “You beautiful, wonderful, impossible idiot.”
“I love you,” he said, and he meant it more than he'd ever meant anything in his life. “I love you so much, my love.”
You pulled back, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs wiping away the tears that still streamed down his cheeks. “I love you too, Clark. More than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring every second. Your lips parted beneath his, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a dance that was as familiar as it was electric.
“When did you find out?” he asked when you finally broke apart, his forehead still pressed to yours.
“Like four days ago,” you admitted, a watery laugh escaping you. “I have been feeling weird for lm weeks and I took the test that morning, after you left for work and I had the day off. I must have stared at that little pink plus sign for an hour before I could move.”
Four days. You'd known for four days, and you'd kept it to yourself just so you could give him this moment. Clark's heart swelled with love for you, this incredible woman who had somehow chosen him, out of everyone in the universe.
“Four days,” he repeated, shaking his head in wonder. “We've been keeping the same secret from each other.”
“Great minds think alike,” you said, and then you were pulling him toward the bedroom, your hand in his, your steps quick and eager.
“Sweetheart—” he started, but you cut him off with a look.
“I need you,” you said simply, and there was no room for argument in your voice. “I need to feel you, Clark. I need to—I need to celebrate this.”
He needed that too, he realized. Needed to show you, with his body, just how much this meant to him. Needed to worship you the way you deserved.
The bedroom was bathed in moonlight when you reached it, silver light filtering through the curtains and casting shadows across the bed. Clark laid you down gently, reverently, as if you were made of spun glass, and you laughed softly at his care.
“I'm not going to break,” you reminded him, reaching up to pull him down on top of you.
“I know,” he said, but he couldn't help the careful way he touched you, the way his hands traced the outline of your body as if memorizing every curve. “I just want to be gentle. I want to remember every second of this.”
Your eyes softened, and you reached up to stroke his cheek. “I know you do. But I also know you, Clark Kent. I know that sometimes you need to lose control a little.”
He groaned at your words, his body responding immediately to the promise in them. “Honey—”
“Shh,” you whispered, pulling him down for another kiss. “Just love me, Clark. Love me.”
And he did.
His hands found the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head with careful precision, revealing the soft expanse of your stomach. He pressed his lips to the skin there, kissing the place where your child was growing, and heard the tiny heartbeat flutter.
“Hello, little one,” he murmured against your belly, and he felt you shudder beneath him. “I'm your daddy. I've been waiting for you for so long. Your mommy and I—we've been dreaming about you for years.”
“Clark,” you breathed, and your voice was thick with emotion. “God, I love you.”
He kissed his way up your body, pausing at your breasts, at the hollow of your throat, until he reached your lips again. “I love you too,” he said, and then he was kissing you with all the passion he'd been holding back for three days.
Your hands found the buttons of his shirt, working them open with practiced ease, and he shrugged the fabric off his shoulders as you tugged it away. Skin met skin, and the heat of you against him made his head spin. He could feel every inch of you pressed against him, could feel the softness of your curves and the strength of your arms wrapped around his neck, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to take you right then and there.
“I need you,” you said again, your hands fumbling with his belt. “I need you inside me, Clark. Please. I need to feel you—I need to feel connected to you. I’m so ready.”
He helped you with his pants, kicking them away along with his boxers, and then he was bare above you, the moonlight painting his muscles in silver and shadow. You were beautiful beneath him, your hair spread across the pillow like a dark halo, your eyes dark with want, your lips slightly parted as you looked up at him with so much love it made his chest ache.
“Are you sure?” he asked, even as his body screamed at him to take you. “I don't want to hurt you, or the baby—”
“I'm sure,” you said, and there was no doubt in your voice. “Everything is Fine, Clark. I just want you now, my love.”
He almost laughed and cry at that, at how perfect you were, already thinking ahead, already making sure everything was in order. “You're so incredible, you know that? Every single day, I'm amazed by you.”
“Now stop talking and make love to your wife,” you commanded, and he couldn't help but obey.
He entered you slowly, inch by agonizing inch, watching your face as you adjusted to the feeling of him. Your lips parted, your eyes fluttering closed, and you let out a soft moan that drove him wild. He felt your warmth surround him, felt your body accept him so perfectly, so completely, and he had to pause for a moment just to catch his breath.
“You feel so good,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours. “So perfect, sweetheart. Every time—every time it feels like the first time. Like I'm seeing the stars for the first time.”
“Move,” you urged, wrapping your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back. “Please, Clark. Move. I need to feel you.”
And he did.
He set a slow, steady rhythm, each thrust deep and deliberate, designed to make you feel every inch of him. Your hands clutched at his back, your nails digging into his skin, and you arched beneath him, meeting his movements with your own. The sounds you made—soft gasps and moans and whispered words of love—were the most beautiful music he'd ever heard.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly, and your eyes opened, meeting his. “I want to see you when you come. I want to watch your face, baby.”
“I'm close,” you gasped, and he could feel you tightening around him, could feel the telltale flutter that signaled your impending climax. Your eyes were locked on his, and he could see the love shining in them, could see how much this moment meant to you.
“Come for me,” he urged, reaching down to circle your clit with his thumb, his movements precise and perfect. “Come for me, my love. Let me feel you. Let me feel us.”
You shattered around him, your body convulsing with the force of your release, and he watched your face—watched the way your eyes rolled back, the way your lips parted on a silent scream, the way your whole body seemed to light up with pleasure. And then he followed you over the edge with a groan, burying his face in your neck as he spilled inside you, his hips driving into you with deep, shuddering thrusts that seemed to go on forever.
“I love you,” he gasped against your skin, his voice broken and raw. “I love you so much. You're everything to me. Everything. I love you, I love you, I love you—”
He collapsed on top of you, careful to keep most of his weight on his elbows, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as you both came down from the high. He could feel your heart racing against his chest, could feel the way your body trembled beneath him, and he pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, whispering words of love and devotion against your skin.
“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “So beautiful, and so perfect, and I don't deserve you.”
“Don't say that,” you whispered back, your fingers threading through his hair. “You deserve everything, Clark. Every good thing in the world.”
He lifted his head to look at you, and he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face—the kind of smile that made his cheeks ache, that made him look like the farm boy from Kansas rather than the Man of Steel. You looked so content, so peaceful, your hair a mess and your skin flushed, and you'd never been more beautiful to him.
“Can I get you something?” he asked softly. “Water? Tea? I can run you a bath, if you want.”
You laughed, a beautiful, joyful sound. “You're going to spoil me even more now, aren’t you?”
“That's the plan,” he said, kissing your forehead. “For the rest of our lives.”
He carefully pulled out of you, and you winced slightly at the loss, making him frown with concern. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“I'm fine,” you assured him, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “I'm more than fine. I'm perfect.”
“Let me take care of you,” he insisted, and before you could protest, he was lifting you into his arms, carrying you to the bathroom as if you weighed nothing. He set you down gently on the closed toilet lid and started running the bath, testing the water temperature with his wrist until it was perfect.
“Clark, you don't have to—” you started, but he cut you off with a look.
“I want to,” he said simply. “Let me do this for you. Please.”
You nodded, your eyes shining with unshed tears, and he helped you into the warm water, the gentle steam rising around you. He took his time washing you—his hands gentle as they smoothed soap over your skin, his touch reverent as he cleaned every inch of you. He paid special attention to your abdomen, his palm pressing softly against the place where your baby grew, and he pressed a kiss to your wet skin.
“I can't believe you're really in there,” he whispered to the baby. “I can't believe you're ours.”
“You can hear them?” you asked, and your voice was soft with wonder.
“Their heartbeat,” he confirmed, looking up at you with tears in his eyes. “It's so tiny, so fast. Like a hummingbird. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.”
You reached down to touch his hand, your fingers intertwining with his over your belly. “Thank you,” you whispered. “Thank you for wanting this with me. For choosing me.”
“There was never any choice,” he said, echoing your words from earlier. “It was always going to be you. From the moment I met you, it was always going to be you.”
After the bath, he dried you off with a soft towel and helped you into one of his T-shirts—the one you always stole, the one that smelled like him and comfort and home. He carried you back to bed and tucked you in, making sure you were comfortable before he climbed in beside you.
“Sleep,” he whispered, pulling you close so that your back was pressed against his chest, his hand resting on your belly. “I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere.”
“Promise?” you asked, already half-asleep.
“I promise,” he said, and he meant it with everything he was.
As your breathing evened out, Clark lay awake for a while longer, listening to the two heartbeats that meant everything to him. Yours, steady and strong, and the baby's, quick and full of promise. His hand remained on your abdomen, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the skin, feeling the warmth of the life growing there.
“Thank you,” he whispered to you, even though you couldn't hear him. “Thank you for this. For everything. For being you.”
He thought about his parents again, about the phone call he'd make tomorrow, about the way his mother would cry with joy and his father would pretend he wasn't crying while clearly being a mess. He thought about your parents, about how excited they'd be, about how your mother would probably start planning a nursery before you'd even hung up the phone.
A family. His family. Surrounded by so much love it was almost overwhelming.
And as the moonlight continued to stream through the windows, painting the bedroom in silver and shadow, Clark allowed himself to dream of the future—of a child with your laugh and his stubbornness, of a home filled with love and laughter and all the chaos that came with raising a baby. He dreamed of Christmas mornings and summer afternoons, of bedtime stories and first steps and all the little moments that would add up to a beautiful life.
He pressed a kiss to your hair, then another to your shoulder, and he let his hand rest on your belly, feeling the tiny heartbeat that had changed everything.
“Welcome to the world, little one,” he whispered into the darkness. “We can't wait to meet you. Your whole family is waiting for you—all the grandparents, all the aunts and uncles, everyone who's going to love you so much. You're already so loved, and you're not even here yet.”
And somewhere, in the quiet space between sleep and waking, he could have sworn he felt the baby respond—a flutter, a shift, a tiny movement that might have been his imagination but felt absolutely real.
His family. His whole world, right here in his arms.
Clark kissed your hair one last time, let his hand rest gently on your belly, and felt the most content he'd ever been in his life.
“I love you,” he whispered one more time. “Both of you. Forever.”
And as sleep finally claimed him, he dreamed of the future—of tiny fingers and toothless smiles, of first words and big dreams, of a life filled with the kind of love he'd never thought he deserved.
It was everything he'd ever wanted, and more.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The tiny heartbeat continued its perfect rhythm, and even in his sleep, Clark smiled.
Six weeks later, Clark had come home from a particularly long day at the Planet—there’d been a breaking story about some corporate scandal that had kept everyone late, and he’d been forced to pretend he needed to take the subway home instead of simply flying—and found you already asleep when he’d slipped into bed. You’d been exhausted lately, Perry being the incredible boss, saying he’s the baby’s third grandfather and letting you end up your days earlier. Your body working overtime to create new life, and he’d learned to let you rest when you needed it.
Sleep wouldn’t come for him. His mind was too full—full of you, full of the baby, full of the future they were building together. So he simply lay there, his back against the headboard, one arm wrapped around you while the other rested on your abdomen, feeling the gentle rise and fall of your breathing.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Your heart, steady and strong.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The baby’s, so much faster, so much more fragile.
He’d become addicted to that sound, he realized. He’d started counting the hours until he could come home and listen to it again, until he could press his palm against your belly and feel the flutter of new life beneath his fingertips. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever experienced, and he couldn’t get enough of it.
“Little one,” he whispered into the darkness, his voice so soft it was barely a breath. “Your mom’s asleep, so it’s just you and me right now. I hope you don’t mind.”
The baby’s heart continued its rapid rhythm, and Clark smiled.
“I don’t have a lot to offer you, you know,” he continued, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your skin. “I mean, I can promise you the world—literally, I guess. But what I really want to promise you is something simpler. Something better.”
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
“I want to promise you that I’m going to love you with everything I have. Every single day, for the rest of my life. I’m going to be there for every scraped knee and every broken heart. I’m going to teach you how to ride a bike and how to tie your shoes and how to look up at the stars and feel like you’re part of something bigger than yourself.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head.
“Your mom is probably going to be better at this than I am. She’s so good at the important stuff—the talking, the listening, the knowing exactly what to say when everything feels impossible. I’m just going to try to keep up with her.”
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then settled back against the pillows.
“But you know what the best part is? You get to have her as your mom. I’m serious, little one. Your mom is the most incredible person I’ve ever met. She’s so brave, so smart, so determined—she doesn’t let anything stop her. When she wants something, she goes after it with everything she has, and she doesn’t give up. She’s going to teach you how to be strong, how to stand up for what’s right, how to fight for the things that matter.”
He felt his throat tighten with emotion.
“She’s also the kindest person I know. She’ll hold you when you cry and never make you feel silly for it. She’ll stay up all night with you when you’re sick, reading stories or singing songs or just sitting with you so you don’t have to be alone. She’s going to look at you with so much love in her eyes, and it’s going to make you feel like you can do anything in the world.”
He paused, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.
“And honestly? I still can’t believe she chose me. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand it. She could have had anyone—anyone in the world—and she chose me. A farm boy from Kansas who didn’t even know who he was until she helped him figure it out. She saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself, and she never stopped believing in me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”
The baby’s heartbeat seemed to steady slightly, and Clark felt a warmth spread through his chest.
“I’m going to love you so much,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “I already do. I’ve been waiting for you for so long, little one. Your mom and I—we’ve been wanting you for years. There were so many times when we thought it might not happen, when we thought maybe we weren’t meant to be parents. But you’re here. You’re real. And I can hear you, and I can feel you, and I already love you more than I thought it was possible to love anything.”
He pressed his palm more firmly against your belly, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath his hand.
“I’m going to teach you everything I know. I’m going to teach you about Kansas and cornfields and the way the sky looks when the sun sets over the prairie. I’m going to teach you about the stars—about Krypton and Rao and the legacy you come from. I’m going to teach you what it means to be a symbol of hope, even when it feels like the world is falling apart.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head.
“But more than any of that, I’m going to teach you about love. The kind of love that your mom and I have. The kind of love that’s patient and kind, that never gives up, that shows up every single day even when it’s hard. That’s the kind of love I want to give you, little one. That’s the kind of love you deserve.”
He felt a tear slip down his cheek, and he didn’t bother to wipe it away.
“Your mom is going to be the best mother in the entire universe. I know that's a big claim, but I'm right. She's already amazing at taking care of me, and I'm a grown man who's supposed to be able to take care of himself. She's going to be patient and kind and strong, and she's going to look at you like you hung the moon.”
He pressed his lips to your shoulder again, lingering there for a moment.
“She's going to teach you how to be brave. How to stand up for yourself and for others. How to fight for what's right, even when it's scary. She's going to teach you to question things, to think critically, to never take anything at face value. She's going to show you what it means to be passionate about something, to care about the world and the people in it.”
He felt his voice break, and he had to pause for a moment to collect himself.
“And she's going to love you so much it's going to make you feel like the luckiest person in the world. Because you are, little one. You really are. You're going to have so many people who love you—so many grandparents, so many aunts and uncles, so many people who are already waiting to meet you and hold you and tell you how special you are.”
He pressed his hand more firmly against your belly, feeling the warmth of you both beneath his palm.
“But the most important thing I want you to know is that I love your mom more than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me—and I'm not just saying that because you're in there listening. I'm saying it because it's true. She saved me, little one. She helped me become the person I was always meant to be. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to make her as happy as she makes me.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head.
“You're going to be so loved, little one. By me, by your mom, by all of us. We're going to give you the world—not the literal world, I mean, although your mom probably could convince me to try—but we're going to give you the most important things that are love and safety and the freedom to be whoever you want to be. And that's the best thing we can give you, really.”
The baby's heartbeat seemed to pick up slightly, and Clark smiled.
“You know, I used to worry about being a father. I wondered if I was too broken, too damaged, too much of a mess to be responsible for another life. But I don't worry about that anymore. Because your mom—your mom makes me believe that I can do anything. She makes me believe that I'm good enough, that I'm worthy of the things I want. And I want this—I want you, and I want her, and I want our family.”
He felt another tear slip down his cheek, and he let it fall.
“So just know that you're already so loved. You're already the most wanted baby in the entire universe. And when you finally come to meet us—when you open your eyes and look at us for the first time—we're going to be the happiest people on earth.”
The baby's heart continued its rapid rhythm, and Clark pressed a kiss to your belly, right where his hand was resting.
“I love you, little one. I can't wait to meet you.”
He felt you shift slightly in your sleep, a soft murmur escaping your lips, and he froze, not wanting to wake you. But you simply settled deeper into his arms, your hand coming up to rest on top of his, even in your sleep, and Clark felt his heart melt.
“Your mom's already protecting you,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder. “Look at her—she's holding onto you even when she doesn't know she's doing it. She's going to be so good at this, little one. So, so good.”
He pressed another kiss to your shoulder, then settled back against the pillows, pulling you both closer.
“And I'm going to be right here, every step of the way. I'm going to hold your mom's hand when she's scared. I'm going to make her laugh when she's sad. I'm going to be the best father I can possibly be, because you both deserve nothing less.”
He closed his eyes, letting the sound of the baby's heartbeat wash over him.
“We're going to be okay,” he whispered. “All three of us. We're going to be more than okay—we're going to be amazing.”
And as sleep finally claimed him, Clark's hand remained on your belly, cradling the tiny life that had changed everything.
He dreamed of a future filled with love—a future where his parents would hold their grandchild, where Jimmy would make them laugh, where Lois would pretend to be tough while melting inside. He dreamed of birthdays and holidays, of first steps and first words, of all the moments that would make up your family's story.
And in his dreams, the baby's heartbeat was the most beautiful music he'd ever heard, a promise of everything to come.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The tiny heart continued its perfect rhythm, and even in his sleep, Clark smiled, holding his family close.
He couldn't wait to meet them—to finally see the face of the child he'd been dreaming about for so long. But for now, this was enough, you, warm and safe in his arms, and the baby, growing and thriving inside you.
His family. His whole world and it was absolutely perfect.
Note I gotta be honest and say there's a bit of truth here hehe and it doesn't necessarily have to be a latina reader, forgive me about that detail but it doesn't affect anything here. It's a quick little thing I did and I kinda like it? It's just pure fluff. Nothing but fluff here.
The compound was a strange kind of empty, the kind that felt less like a building and more like a held breath, the usual thrum of life and bickering and the heavy tread of almost super-soldier feet replaced by a profound, almost sacred silence. Everyone had gone, scattered to the winds for a night. A mandatory team bonding exercise that Tony had cynically disguised as a strategic morale-boosting initiative, which basically meant he'd herded them all into a swanky new bar downtown that he probably owned a stake in.
You'd begged off with a headache that wasn't entirely a lie, the familiar, comfortable ache of a long week settling behind your eyes, and no one had argued too strenuously, Steve giving you a worried look that you'd waved away with a promise to hydrate and text if you needed a kidney. So now it was just you, the humming fluorescent lights of the common room kitchen, and the promise of sweetened condensed milk and evaporated milk and heavy cream that you'd been craving all week, a quiet rebellion against the world-saving chaos that usually defined your existence.
You were up to your elbows in a promising, airy batter, the scent of vanilla and butter already starting to perfume the air, a grounding, domestic magic that felt miles away from the tactical gear and mission briefs that littered the rest of your life. The recipe was for a pastel de tres leches, a ridiculously indulgent sponge cake soaked in three kinds of milk that your grandma used to make for every birthday and holiday, a project you'd been saving for a night just like this, one that demanded focus and patience and the kind of repetitive, soothing motion that let your mind drift. You were so absorbed in the rhythmic whisk and fold of the egg whites into the golden batter that you didn't hear the soft, almost silent footfall in the hallway, the sound of someone who had been trained to move like a ghost long before he'd ever been turned into a weapon. It was the slight shift of air, the faintest whisper of fabric, that made you look up, your hands still buried in the light, fluffy mixture.
And there he was, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, a study in soft grays and blues. Bucky is the type of man who could kill you in twelve different ways with a paperclip and now was just standing there in a worn henley and sweatpants, his long hair loose around his face and his metal arm glinting dully under the warm lights. He looked so disarmingly human, so young, with a faint crease between his brows as he watched you work. “Didn't think I was the only one avoiding the circus,” he said, his voice a low rasp, and there was a slight, almost imperceptible curl to his lips that you had come to recognize as his version of a smile. “Thought you were in bed.”
You snorted, wiping a stray smudge of batter from your cheek with the back of your hand, probably succeeding only in making it worse. “And miss my one chance to have the kitchen to myself without Clint trying to sneak a taste of raw batter every two seconds? Not a chance. What's your excuse? Thought you'd be the one holding court in the corner, looking intimidating.”
He pushed off from the doorframe, his movements fluid and unhurried as he crossed the tiled floor, the contrast between his lethal grace and the homely setting striking you anew. He came to a stop a few feet away, peering at the bowl of batter on the counter with a kind of scholarly curiosity that made you want to laugh. “Nah. Not my scene,” he mumbled, his gaze sliding from the batter to your face, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Too loud. Too many people. And Stark keeps trying to get me to dance.”
The image of Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier, being cajoled onto a dance floor by a manic Tony Stark was so absurdly, perfectly delightful that a genuine laugh bubbled out of you, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet kitchen. “I would have paid good money to see that,” you said, your grin wide and genuine. “Seriously, I would have faked a broken leg. You could have used it as blackmail material for years.”
He huffed a quiet sound that might have been a laugh, a soft, rusty thing, and then his eyes dropped back to the bowl. “What is that, anyway? Looks like… a lot of work.” He gestured vaguely with his flesh hand, his tone careful, but there was an underlying curiosity that you couldn't miss.
“It's a tres leches cake,” you explained, your hands instinctively finding their way back to the whisk, the familiar rhythm a comfort. “It's a sponge cake, really light and airy, and then you poke holes all over it and soak it in a mixture of three kinds of milk—sweetened condensed, evaporated, and heavy cream. Then you top it with whipped cream and sometimes fruit. It's a process, but it's worth it. Therapeutic, you know? You just… whisk and fold and bake, and by the end, you have something beautiful and delicious. My abuela used to make it for every special occasion.”
He was silent for a long moment, watching your hands work with an intensity that would have been unnerving if it were anyone else. But with Bucky, it was just… him. He always watched things with that same focused attention, like he was cataloguing a potential threat or a point of interest, but this time, there was something softer in the set of his shoulders. “My Ma used to make something like that,” he said finally, his voice so quiet you almost missed it. He wasn't looking at you anymore, but at the batter, a distant, introspective look settling on his face. “Not with three kinds of milk, though. That sounds fancy. She made this simple sponge cake, just flour and eggs and sugar, and she'd soak it in warm milk with cinnamon and a little honey. Called it a milk cake. Made it when I was sick, or when it was raining, or just because. She said it was good for the soul.”
You paused, the whisk momentarily forgotten, your heart giving a little lurch. It was such a rare, precious gift, a tiny fragment of his past, of the person he was before the war and the ice and Hydra. You didn't want to spook him, to make him retreat back into his shell, so you just hummed, a soft, encouraging sound, and kept whisking. “That sounds lovely,” you said, keeping your tone light. “What did it taste like?”
He shifted his weight, his metal hand coming up to rub the back of his neck in a gesture that was so endearingly human, a universal sign of discomfort. “I don't really remember the taste,” he admitted, his brow furrowing. “I remember the smell, though. Warm milk and cinnamon and something sweet. And I remember…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening for a second. “I remember standing on a chair next to her, helping her pour the milk over the cake. She'd let me hold the little pitcher, her hands over mine so I wouldn't spill. And she'd tell me stories while we waited for it to soak in. Stories about her own mother, about growing up in a little apartment in Brooklyn.”
A wave of something hot and achingly tender washed over you, a feeling you were trying very, very hard not to examine too closely. The image was so vivid, so heartbreakingly human: a tiny, dark-haired Bucky, his face probably smudged with flour, standing on a chair in a warm kitchen, his mother's patient hands guiding his as they poured warm milk over a simple cake. You blinked, a sudden sting behind your eyes that you ruthlessly suppressed. “That's a really good memory,” you said softly, your own voice a little thick. “I bet that cake was the best thing in the world. Not because it was fancy, but because she made it with you.”
He finally looked at you, and the look in his eyes was raw, almost vulnerable, a crack in the carefully constructed armor he wore. “Yeah,” he breathed, and the single word carried the weight of a century. “It was.” For a moment, the air between you felt heavy, charged with a shared history you had no part in but that you had just been allowed to witness. Then, he cleared his throat, looking away, and the spell was broken. “You need a hand with that?” he asked, his voice back to its usual low, measured tone, but with a thread of something tentative underneath. “I'm bored. And… I remember how to separate eggs. Mostly.”
The offer was so unexpected, so sweetly awkward, that you couldn't stop the wide, delighted smile that spread across your face. “Bucky Barnes, are you volunteering to be my kitchen assistant?” you teased, but there was no malice in it, only a warm, welcoming happiness. “I'd be honored. But you have to wash your hands first, soldier.”
A ghost of a smile, a real one this time, flickered across his lips. “Yes, ma'am,” he said, with a mock salute that was so incongruous with his usual grim demeanor that it made you laugh again. He turned to the sink, and you watched him as he rolled up the sleeves of his henley, revealing the beautiful, terrifying, and yet somehow elegant lines of his metal arm, and the strong, scarred flesh of his right. He scrubbed his hands with a meticulousness that spoke of a lifetime of ingrained habits, and when he turned back, he looked almost boyish, his hair falling into his face, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Alright,” he said, positioning himself across the counter from you. “Show me what to do. But I'm warning you, the vibranium's not great for delicate work. It's too smooth. I'm better with the heavy stuff.”
And so you did. You guided him through the process, your hands hovering near his but never quite touching, as you showed him how to separate the eggs but realized he actually knows how to do it, his flesh hand working with a surprising delicacy while his metal arm hung awkwardly at his side, a silent testament to his frustration. He was a quick learner, his body attuned to patterns and movement, and soon he was folding the stiff egg whites into the batter with a focused, quiet intensity, the mixture coming together under his gentle hand. “Like this?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concentration, and you couldn't help the warm affection that bloomed in your chest at the sight of him, this lethal, haunted man, treating your cake batter like it was the most important mission of his life.
“Perfect,” you said softly, and you meant it for more than just the batter. “You're a natural.”
He snorted, but there was a pleased flush creeping up his neck, visible even in the warm kitchen light. “Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain,” he mumbled, but his lips were twitching with the ghost of a smile. He helped you pour the batter into the pan, his large hand steadying the bowl as you scraped every last bit of the golden mixture into the waiting dish, and then he was the one to slide it into the preheated oven, his movements careful, almost reverent.
“Now we wait,” you announced, wiping your hands on a towel and leaning against the counter. “It has to bake for about thirty-five minutes. Then we let it cool, poke holes in it, and drown it in milk.”
He settled onto a stool, his eyes fixed on the oven door as if he could will the cake to bake faster through sheer force of will. “You said your abuela taught you?” he asked, his voice casual, but you could hear the genuine curiosity underneath. “What was she like?”
And so you told him. You told him about your grandma’s tiny kitchen in that warm and lovely home, about the way she'd hum old songs while she cooked, about how she never used measuring cups and somehow everything came out perfect anyway. You told him about the summers you'd spent learning at her side, about the way she'd pinch your cheek and call you her little cocinera, when your grandpa bought some fruit as well, giving you both, about the ache in your chest every time you made one of her recipes and remembered her laugh. About how much you miss both of them every single day and he listened with that same focused intensity, asking questions in that low, careful voice, drawing stories out of you that you hadn't told anyone in years.
By the time the timer went off, you felt like you'd shared something precious, a piece of yourself that you usually kept tucked away. He watched as you pulled the golden cake from the oven, his eyes tracking your every movement, and when you set it on the counter to cool, he was right there, his shoulder brushing against yours.
“Now the fun part,” you said, your voice a little breathless from his proximity. You'd made the milk mixture earlier, three kinds of milk whisked together with a splash of vanilla and a pinch of cinnamon, and you brought it over, a small pitcher in your hand. “You take a fork or a skewer, and you poke holes all over the cake. Everywhere. Then you pour the milk mixture over it, and let it soak in.”
You demonstrated, the tines of the fork sinking into the warm, golden crumb, and then you handed him the fork. “Your turn. Go wild.”
He took the fork with a seriousness that made you want to laugh, and he began poking holes with the kind of methodical precision that spoke of years of training. But there was something else in his movements too, a gentleness that surprised you. “My Ma,” he said, not looking up from his work, “she always said the best part of making the milk cake was the pouring. Said it was like giving the cake a hug.” He paused, his hand stilling over the cake. “I never understood that until now, standing here, doing this with you.”
The admission hit you like a physical blow, warm and overwhelming, and you had to blink back another wave of tears. “Bucky,” you breathed, and your voice cracked on his name. “That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me.”
He finally looked up, his eyes meeting yours, and there was something raw and open in them, a vulnerability that made your heart ache. “It's true,” he said simply. “I haven't done this in decades. Haven't even thought about it. But standing here with you, making something that reminds me of her… it feels like I'm getting a piece of myself back.” He set the fork down, his hand reaching out to brush against yours, a tentative, questioning touch. “You're giving me that, just by being here. By letting me help.”
You turned your hand over, interlacing your fingers with his, the warmth of his flesh hand a grounding presence. “I'm not giving you anything,” you said softly. “You're giving yourself permission to remember. I'm just lucky enough to be here for it.”
He stared at you for a long moment, his gaze searching, and then he leaned in, so slowly that you had time to pull away if you wanted to, his eyes flickering down to your lips and then back to your eyes, a silent, agonizing question. And you answered it by tilting your face up, your eyes fluttering closed. The first touch of his lips was soft, almost hesitant, a question more than a statement. He tasted faintly of the coffee you knew he'd had hours ago, and something else, something that was just him. It was a chaste kiss, at first, a gentle press of warmth, but it deepened as a shudder went through him, his flesh hand coming up to cup your jaw with a tenderness that was breathtakingly at odds with his lethal reputation.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, his breath was coming in short, uneven pants. “I've wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted, his voice low and rough, his eyes still closed as if he were savoring the memory of the kiss. “Sorry. I shouldn't have—”
You cut him off, your hand coming up to cover his on your cheek. “Don't you dare apologize,” you whispered. “I've wanted you to do that for a while, too.”
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a smile that transformed him, erasing the years of pain and weariness and leaving only the man he might have been, the boy who used to help his mother make her simple milk cake. It was a smile that lit up his whole face, that reached his eyes and made them sparkle. “Yeah?” he asked, and he sounded young, hopeful, like he couldn't quite believe it.
“Yeah,” you confirmed, and you leaned in to kiss him again, a quick, reassuring peck.
And that was when it started. The first kiss had been a question, a tentative exploration, but now that he had his answer, something in him seemed to unlock, a dam breaking after decades of deprivation. He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his eyes soft and wondering, and then he was leaning in again, pressing another kiss to your lips, this one longer, sweeter, like he was memorizing the shape of you. When he pulled away, he didn't go far, his forehead still resting against yours, and then he was pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the spot just below your eye where a single tear had escaped without your permission.
“Sorry,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “I can't seem to stop. It's like… now that I know I can, I don't want to ever stop.” And to prove his point, he pressed another kiss to your other cheek, then the tip of your nose, then back to your lips, soft and reverent. His flesh hand was still cupping your jaw, his thumb stroking gentle circles along your cheekbone, and his metal arm had come up to rest at your waist, a cool, steady weight that anchored you to him.
You laughed, a breathless, happy sound, and reached up to tangle your fingers in the soft strands of his hair, tugging him closer. “I'm not complaining,” you said against his lips. “Not even a little bit.”
He hummed, a low, satisfied sound, and kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue tracing along the seam of your lips in a question you were more than happy to answer. When you parted, he chased your mouth, pressing a series of smaller kisses along your lower lip, your chin, the column of your throat, each one a promise, a declaration, a desperate need to feel you, to taste you, to remind himself that this was real.
“It's been so long,” he breathed against the sensitive skin of your neck, and there was something raw in his voice, a vulnerability that made your heart clench. “Since I've had this. Since I've had someone who looked at me like I was worth looking at. Since I've been allowed to touch someone without hurting them.” He pulled back to look at you, his eyes bright with unshed tears, and pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering there. “I forgot what it felt like. To be wanted. To be touched like this. Softly.”
Your throat tightened, a wave of fierce protectiveness washing over you. “Bucky,” you said, your voice barely a whisper, and you pulled him into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around his neck. He went willingly, his face burying in your hair, his arms coming around you like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go. You held him, stroking his back in slow, soothing circles, and he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, then your temple, then your ear, a constant stream of affection that spoke of a man starving for connection.
“I'm not going anywhere,” you promised, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “You can have as many kisses as you want. I'm not going to run out.”
He made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. “You might regret saying that,” he said, but there was a tentative hope in his voice, a fragile optimism that made you want to protect him from the entire world.
“I don't think I will,” you said, and you leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the bridge of his nose, mirroring the attention he'd given you. His skin was warm and slightly rough with stubble, and he shivered under your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “I've got decades of missed kisses to make up for. You better be prepared.”
He laughed then, a real laugh, rusty and surprised, like he'd forgotten he was capable of it. “I think I can handle that,” he said, and he pulled you back into his arms, pressing another kiss to your lips, then another, then another, each one softer and sweeter than the last. He kept you there, wrapped in his embrace, his hands roaming gently across your back, your shoulders, the curve of your waist, not with any urgency, just with a desperate need to feel you, to confirm that you were real and solid and there.
“Thank you,” he said again, his voice muffled against your hair. “For not running. For staying. For letting me be this. Whatever this is.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands framing his face, your thumbs brushing away the tears that had finally escaped down his cheeks. “This is you,” you said softly. “This is exactly who you're supposed to be. And I'm not going anywhere.”
He kissed you again, slow and deep, and when he finally pulled back, he was smiling, that beautiful, genuine smile that transformed his whole face. He pressed one more kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a final, lingering seal on the promise you'd made to each other.
“So,” you said, your voice a little breathless, “you're going to help me pour this milk mixture over the cake, and then we're going to let it soak. And then we're going to make that cinnamon and honey milk cake of your mother's. From scratch. And you're going to tell me more about her while we do it. And you're going to kiss me every chance you get.”
He blinked, a flicker of surprise and something that looked like wonder in his eyes. “Now?” he asked, his voice a little dazed. “You want to make my Ma's cake? Tonight? After all that?”
You smiled, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear, your fingers lingering on the soft skin of his temple. “I want to make all of your mother's recipes,” you said softly. “Every single one you can remember. I want to know her the way you do. I want to know all of you, Bucky. The little boy who stood on a chair and helped his ma pour milk over a cake. The man who's been through hell and still has the gentlest hands I've ever felt. All of it.”
He stared at you for a long moment, his expression a mixture of awe and something that looked a lot like the beginning of love. Then, a slow, beautiful smile spread across his face, and he leaned in to press a soft, tender kiss to your lips. “Yeah,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Yeah, I'd like that. I'd like that a lot.” He cleared his throat, the old awkwardness resurfacing, and gestured with his chin towards the waiting pitcher of milk mixture. “So, you want me to do the honors? I haven't poured milk over a cake in about eighty years. Might be a little rusty.”
You handed him the pitcher, your fingers brushing against his, and watched as he lifted it with a reverence that made your heart clench. He poured slowly, carefully, the pale liquid seeping into the holes and spreading across the surface of the cake in rivulets of white, and for a moment, he looked like a different person entirely. He looked like that little boy, standing on a chair in a warm Brooklyn kitchen, his mother's hands hovering near his, just in case. When he finished, he set the pitcher down and immediately pulled you into his side, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.
“There,” he said softly. “Now we wait a bit, waiting for the cake to absorb all this sweetness.”
You nodded, unable to find your voice, and you turned in his arms, wrapping your own around his waist. He held you close, his chin resting on top of your head, and you stood there in the quiet kitchen, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon and warm milk filling the air, and you watched the cake soak in the milk, watched it transform into something richer, deeper, more. Every few seconds, he would press a kiss to your hair, your temple, your forehead, a constant, soothing rhythm that made you feel cherished in a way you'd never experienced before. It wasn't teenage desperation or clumsy eagerness; it was the quiet, aching need of a man who had been starved of tenderness for decades, who was finally allowing himself to drink it in, slow and deep and grateful.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “For this. For all of it.”
“Thank you,” you replied, squeezing him tighter, “for trusting me enough to share it.”
And he pulled you impossibly closer, his arms wrapped around you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “After this,” he murmured into your hair, “I'm going to teach you how to make my Ma's cake. And then… maybe we can figure out what our first day might be. I am not sure I know where to go, Honey.”
You smiled against his chest, your heart so full it ached. “I'd like that,” you said. “I'd like that a lot.”
And as the night stretched on, filled with the sweet scent of tres leches and the warmth of a man relearning how to love, you knew you were building something new, something precious, a future rooted in the past. He kept you close the entire time, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours, and every time you turned to look at him, he was already looking at you, his eyes soft and full of wonder, like he still couldn't quite believe you were real. And when you finally sat down to eat the cake, two generous slices topped with whipped cream and fresh strawberries, he pulled you onto his lap instead of letting you take the stool next to him, pressing kisses to your shoulder and neck as you both ate, a quiet, constant reminder of his presence.
“This is good,” he said, his voice thick with meaning, and you knew he wasn't just talking about the cake. “Really good. Better than I remember.”
And when he finally told you the whole story, the one about his mother and the warm kitchen and standing on a chair to pour milk over a cake, you held him close, your heart aching with a love so fierce and protective it took your breath away. He told you about her laugh, the way she sang off-key while she cooked, the way she'd ruffle his hair and call him her little helper, the way she made him feel like he was the most important person in the world. He told you about the day she died a couple months before going to the war, about the grief that had hollowed him out, about the decades of forgetting and being forgotten. And through it all, he kept kissing you, soft and reverent, like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
Because the man with the weight of a world on his shoulders, had just given you the most precious gift he had. His past, his heart, and the promise of a future that smelled like warm milk and cinnamon and love. And you planned to spend every moment of that future reminding him that he was worthy of every single kiss, every single touch, every single moment of tenderness the world had ever denied him.
i love how he was smelling her shirt instead of her panties i feel like the fact that it was her shirt makes it so much more infante and romantic. like he’s smelling her everyday scent her pheromonesss!!! ugh he’s just such a lover boy
stoooop because that's exactly what I was going for haha like, it's not about him being horny for the sake of it. he just misses her. her scent, her presence, all those little everyday things that make her her. the shirt felt way more intimate to me because it's something she wears constantly, something that smells like her and reminds him of being close to her. Clark is such a hopeless lover man that even when he's down bad, he's still ridiculously in love, you know? thank you for reading and leaving this lovely comment, baby<3
I’m so obsessed with how obsessed Clark is with reader like you write him sooo beautifully I love the love he has for his girl 💘💘💘
he's so in love it is nauseous, right? like wow, imagine having someone that can be a functional adult but the moment he remembers you're not there? he's crumbling so harddd. thank you for reading, babe<3
the way you described clark masturbating was the hottest thing i’ve ever read!!! him inhaling her tank top was incredibly romantic he just missed his loverrr 😭😭♥️
in the middle of it i was wondering if it wasn't weird the whole smelling her clothes thing and not just picturing her in his mind👀 i mean, i like pathetic men like that, 72 hours without her and he's already losing his mind? hehe thank you for reading, honey<3
Reading missing you gave me so much euphoria I’m in love with your writing 😩😩😩😩
it gave me some kind of feelings write him clingy and desperate like that, i really can't lie about that. thank you so much for reading and the sweet words<3
