I get a lot of inspiration from songs or albums; I don't update often, but I'm currently workshopping a lot of Bucky stuff, so stick around if that sounds like something you'd like. i block people who follow me who don’t have age in bio 👋🏻
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you can't stand bucky barnes. despite all your attempts to get rid of him, he's always somewhere in your orbit. you say you hate it. hate him. but you're also a very good liar.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, college!au, frat!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, rivals to lovers but the rivalry is one-sided, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, bucky being a yearner, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (teasing, stripping, nipple play, praise kink and degradation kink, soft dom!bucky, mean bucky but you're into it, possiveness, dacryphila, pussy spanking, brat!reader, fingering, manhandling, doggy style, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 9.2k✦
✦Author's Note: one day I'll just write porn without plot. today is not that day. we earn the horny. Enjoy!✦
You’ve gotten used to him. He’s like a fly that lives in your kitchen, and after a while you stop trying to kill it and just give it a name. It buzzes past your head and you swat at it, but it also sits on the window and you pretend it isn’t there.
Bucky Barnes laughs loudly from the table over, and you turn up the music in your headphones.
Telling him to be quiet never works in your favor. He smirks and tries to flirt with you. All his friends oooooo, like you’re still in middle school, then cause even more noise after you reject Barnes and they jump him like a pack of animals.
If you were smarter, you’d sit all the way in the corners of the cafeteria. Where there wouldn’t be a table big enough to fit all of them.
Something tells you they’d find a way to invade your space anyway. It’s one of their traits.
Pissing you off.
You’ve studied them. The little pack—or maybe pride—of frat boys that Barnes belongs to. It’s a good exercise. Field studying a microculture. You have a whole corner of your mind that’s devoted just to how they behave.
How Barnes behaves, with his pride. If his behavior changes. How it effects his values and actions.
You tell yourself that’s why you tolerate him. He interests you.
A very shiny fly.
You’d been in the same freshman orientation group. Barnes had been one of those boys that you’d long written off—since about middle school, when they’re started cropping up—with his styled hair, proud smile, and natural ease that flowed through the whole room. You don’t remember much from the actual group—the leader had pissed you off by talking like you were a kindergartener, but most people pissed you off—but at the time, you thought you wouldn’t have to.
It hadn’t seemed unreasonable to think that you’d never see these people again. The girls who you were nice to, but didn’t have anything in common with. The lanky boy who’d tried hitting on all of you, and struck out every time. The… others.
And Barnes.
He’d been charm personified. A sweet cake made out of chivalry and smooth words. You’d walked into the room and thought he was pretty. You’d walked out and thought he was gorgeous.
But that had been fine. Because you’d thought you’d never see him again.
And he hasn’t stopped buzzing around you since.
You’re in separate majors, separate lives, but every single GenEd class you take, Barnes is there. Freshman semester it had been your philosophy class, and you’d had to give a presentation together. You’d done most of the work. Barnes had tried to help, but he was bad at it, so he’d mostly just sat there flirting with you and looking pretty.
“I think man is inherently evil.” He said, grinning at you from the library table.
You snorted. “Of course you do.”
“Yeah, that’s- Is that not what our presentation is about?”
Barnes leaned over you, peering at the computer. His body radiated warmth. You hadn’t touched anyone in a while. You’d almost leaned in him, and he never had to know that.
“Nature versus nurture.” He read from the screen. His tongue flicked over his lips. “Uh- I thought we were supposed to be talkin’ about good versus evil, doll.”
“This is good versus evil.” You muttered. “I’m arguing that all people are good until taught to be otherwise.”
“But- You don’t actually believe that-“
“Yes, I do.”
Barnes snorted. “Yeah. You think everyone is good.”
That made you look up. His attention—so close and heated—made you feel all strangely fuzzy.
You ignored it.
You were going to get very good at that.
“I do think everyone is good.” You snapped.
“You hate everyone-“
“I do not hate everyone. I-“ Your face burned, as he’d just kept staring at you “I don’t.”
Barnes smirked, looking you up and down like you were some kind of fuzzy bunny. “Alright.”
“You’re still looking at me-“
“I gotta look at you to talk to you-“
“Not like that-“
“Like what?”
“Like you- You don’t believe me.”
He shrugged, his smirk widening. You thought about punching him in his smug, beautiful face, but decided that wouldn’t help your case.
“Whatever.” You turned back to your computer with a scowl.
Barnes leaned forward, saying your name far too gently. “Hey, I was just joking-“
“Really? I hadn’t been able to tell.”
He sighed. “If this- If it’s important to you that I believe you-“
“It’s not.”
It had been. For some reason, Bucky thinking that you really hated everyone had itched. You slept poorly that night. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts that tumbled and ripped over each other like a river.
He got under your skin. He’s always gotten under your skin.
After philosophy was theology. He sat next to you in every class, bugging you and trying to invite you to study.
“We work well together-“
“No we don’t.”
“C’mon, doll, we got that A before-“
“I got that A.” You shot him glare. “You stood there like a pretty statue, and bumped us down to an A-.”
Barnes wasn’t been fazed. You remember thinking he’d gotten hotter over winter break. Something in his eyes had started to shine, and he might’ve gotten a new product for his hair. It had smelled like thick, spicy fruit. He still wore it today.
It made you want to throttle him more.
“You think I’m pretty?”
He leaned forward, and that smell had flooded your senses. It was like a second hand high.
Barnes licked his lips. He looked down to yours.
You had to rip your gaze away.
“Shut up.”
He laughed. It sounded more like a sigh.
When he turned back to his own notes, you took a deep breath through your nose.
He always smelled so good.
And he was always so handsome. And charming. If you didn’t have your wits, you would’ve been dragged into his little den a long time ago. If you weren’t so careful with every place you stepped, you would’ve stumbled into his chest and let him sweep you off your feet like some damsel in distress.
He’s there for Spanish, both semesters of Sophomore year.
The first one, you saw a girl drop him off in class and watched them make out in the doorway. It was sloppy and loud. A few of Bucky’s little pride members had whooped when he walked inside, smirking and wiping his mouth.
You felt sick, and didn’t let yourself think about why.
The second one had been Spanish and arts. A painting class, where he’d made you a butterfly off of your spirit.
“Look.” He showed it to you with a proud grin. “It’s got your eyes.”
You squinted at it. It did. In an almost shocking resemblance.
“I didn’t know you could paint.” You muttered.
Barnes shrugged. “My best friend is in art school. We’ve known each other forever, I picked up a few things. Nothing big.”
You nodded, looking down at your own—relatively shit—butterfly. It had been more of a bat. You’ll dump it in the trash and start over in hour later.
“Stevie,” you mumbled absentmindedly.
“I- Yeah. How’d you know that.”
“You told me.” You glared at him under your eyelashes. “I listen.”
Barnes stared at you as if you’d just told him he was destined to be a king. It made you a little dizzy.
“And it’s good.” You muttered, against your will.
When Bucky looked at you, a lot of coherent thoughts tended to… Become lacking.
“Yeah.” He breathed, his ears turning red. “It- It is.”
You blinked. “Well, go turn it in, then.”
“What?”
“The butterfly.”
“The-“ He sat a little taller, his fingers curling on the paper. “Oh. Right.”
“Right.” You frowned. “What were you talking about-“
“Nothing. It’s- Nothing.” He stared at his butterfly with an odd expression, smoothing the edges with careful fingers.
Bucky always moved his fingers so carefully. Like everything he touched was glass. It makes you wonder how he’d touch a soft body below him, though he never gets to know that.
“You want this?”
“The-“
“I’m not turnin’ it in.” He held out the butterfly. “It’s for you.”
You stared at the butterfly. At Bucky.
An image of him wiping his mouth and laughing with his pride flashed through your head. It seared some kind of hole in your heart.
“I don’t think your girlfriend would like you giving drawings to other girls.” You muttered. The words had tasted bitter.
Barnes hadn’t seemed able to tell.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He said, giving you another strange look. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”
You scoffed. “Please-“
“I have fun.” Barnes cut you off, lips twitching. “You know, doll. Fun?”
“I know fun.”
“Uh huh-“
“Stop doing that, I do-“
“Never seen you have it.”
“That’s- I don’t have it with you.”
You spat the words, and Bucky flinched back like you’d flung acid. He blinked, and you swallowed. You hadn’t meant for it to be so loud. To sound so harsh.
“James-“
“It’s fine.” He muttered, looking back to his paper. “I just- If you ever-“
He cut himself off, glaring down at nothing. He shook his head, nostrils flaring slightly.
You’d never seen him look like that before. You hadn’t liked it.
“Whatever.” He sighed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
And you nodded weakly. To this day you’re not sure what happened.
But you know Bucky had left the butterfly out on the table, after class.
You know it’s still in your bag, folded neatly and tucked safely. You pull it out sometimes to stare at it.
It’s better, really. Not to think about why.
Junior year was the community internship. Again, you and Bucky were in the same class. He bothered you, same as always, but always seemed to have some girl sticking to his side. They barely even seemed to see you.
All you could ever see was them. Running their hands over his broad chest and kissing the stubble he’d been growing. One bit his nose and your hands curled into fists.
You wondered if he made any of them butterflies.
You decide that he doesn’t. He’s only known them a handful of weeks, and he knew you for years.
“We gotta go down the library tomorrow,” he told you. You shrugged.
“I can go myself.”
Barnes frowned. “It’s not in a good part of town, you shouldn’t go alone.”
“I carry pepper spray-“
“That’s not enough.”
You sighed, giving him an exasperated look. “Fine. I’ll bring Brock.”
Barnes stiffened. You’d never seen him stand so tall. “Who’s Brock.”
“He’s in our class? He has been, all semester-“
“You talkin’ about Rumlow?”
You nodded. Barnes worked his jaw, looking off the side and huffing a low laugh.
“What-“
“You’re not goin’ with Rumlow.”
Your mouth fell open. “You don’t get to tell me that-“
“I know.” Barnes crossed his arms. “But I am.”
That had made you feel all gooey, in a very low part of you tummy. You’d gotten good at making sure Bucky didn’t see it.
“Fuck you, James-“
“He’s a dick.” Barnes didn’t waver. “He got kicked out of the frat, you know how big a piece of shit you gotta be for that to happen?”
You paused.
Fuck, that was a good point.
You hated it when he made good points.
“Fine.” You grumble, looking down to your phone. “You got with Natasha.”
Natasha. She’d managed to stick to Bucky longer than the others. She was gorgeous, and smart. You wished she was a bitch, too. It would make her a lot easier to hate.
You thought Bucky would jump at the chance to get one on one with her. They could fuck in the car after, and before, and you could drink yourself to sleep imagining it.
“No. I’m goin’ with you.”
You stick out your tongue. “Well, I’m not going with you.”
“Huh. Guess no one’s going then.”
You’d looked up with a glower. Barnes had raised his brows in challenge. He knew you’d cave. Knew you wouldn’t just let something slip through the cracks because of a petty fight.
He knew you.
You hated him.
“Fuck you.”
“You said that already.” He muttered. “And I’m not holding my breath.”
You blinked. “Wha-“
“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”
He walked away. You didn’t remember how to move for five minutes.
He asked you about Brock the next day. Like he was checking on you. Like he cared.
You don’t let yourself think he does. You’ve reminded yourself of that over and over, since Freshman year.
Bucky doesn’t care about you, so you’re allowed not to care about him. It’s necessary. Important to survival.
Because you’ve studied his kind. You’ve studied him.
Frat boys. In their natural habitat—the college campus—they’re apex predators. They’re loud because they don’t have to worry about being quiet. Most of them are here on athletics scholarships, so they care about that more than their actual classes. The ones who aren’t are rich, and never learned to worry about anything.
They have a lot of sex. They get girlfriends, then cheat on them. Your roommate Wanda knows a lot of people—she’s in a lot of clubs—so you’ve heard all the stories. Seen a few firsthand, or overheard crying in bathrooms. Everyone keeps dating and fucking them because they’re hot and athletic and rich, and you’re all young and stupid.
“It’s fun to make bad choices.” Wanda’s told you. “While we’re still young enough that it doesn’t matter.”
But you don’t make bad choices.
Ever.
You don’t understand that philosophy at all. Why make a bad choice when you could make a good one. Why risk someone curb stomping your heart when you could just… not.
Second semester of junior year, you take a public speaking class with Bucky. He comes up to you in the cafeteria, his pride just as loud as always.
“Hey,” he says your name, standing at the other end of the table. You don’t look up from your computer.
“Hi.”
“You got the homework for public speaking?”
“Yes.”
Barnes clears his throat, drumming his fingers. “You gonna share it with me?”
“It’s online, James.”
He’s silent for a moment, and you look up.
He’s staring at you, the expression on his face unreadable. You almost ask if he’s okay.
“I know that.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.
You cross your arms. “Did you.”
“Yeah.” He throws you that charming grin. You hate that it still makes you think he’s beautiful. “I was asking if you wanted help with it.”
“If I wanted… Help?”
Barnes didn’t read the quiet, bubbling fury in your tone. He never does.
“Yeah, I was thinking you could come over, practice on me, you know. I’m a very good audience.”
You narrowed your eyes. Barnes kept grinning, and you wonder if he actually thought this was going to work.
“I don’t need your help.”
He deflated slightly. But he didn’t give up.
You’ve never known him to before. You shouldn’t have expected that he would now.
“Maybe I need your help?”
“You always need my help.”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you got no idea.”
“What’s that supposed to mean-“
“You wanna come over Thursday?”
“No.”
“Alright, I’ll go to you-“
“I’m working Thursday.”
Bucky paused. “You got a job?”
You nodded. He frowned.
“Where?”
“Corner store.”
His frown deepened. “That’s not safe.”
You scoffed. “Okay, dad-“
“You’re working late, it’s not-“
“I’ve been fine.”
“But what about when you’re not-“
“But I am-“
“I know you are now, but-“ He ran a hand over his face, his voice dropping with frustration.
It always went right to your core, when that happened. You wished it didn’t.
“What about when you’re not?” He demanded. “We live in a city, what about when someone does a holdup and you’re the cashier-“
“Why do you care.”
Bucky went still. He opened his mouth closed it, and gave that tight shake of his head that you know means something, but can never figure out what.
“What corner store.” He grunts.
“Fifth and twenty, why-“
“We’re studying while you work.”
Your mouth fell open. “No-“
“Yeah. Or- I’m studying. There.”
“I can kick you out-“
“You won’t.”
He walked away. And you hate him. You hate that you know he’s sleeping with Natasha—and who knows who else—and that makes you want to sink your teeth into his neck like some kind of claim. You hate that you are going to let him. You hate that he knows you so well he starts fucking things in the homework up on purpose, just so you stop pretending not to pay attention and study with him.
You hate how warm he is sitting next to you.
You hate that you don’t shove him away, and you feel colder when he’s gone.
He came over to work every night for the rest of the semester. You’re sure he had better things to do, but he doesn’t do them.
Bucky sat its behind the counter with you, and does homework. He did funny voices while practicing his speeches, and brushed his hand over the back of your knee whenever he stood up.
You shivered every time. A smug look flashed over his face.
He made you giggle.
You hate him for that, too.
And Wanda’s told you to make the bad choice.
Everyone tells you to make the bad choice.
Wanda had became good friends with Natasha. You try not to feel any way about it—Natasha, who’s touched what you’ve never allowed yourself to reach for—but then Wanda asks if she can move in, and you get sick.
You say yes. You won’t be one of those girls who holds those kinds of grudges.
Natasha moves in when summer vacation starts. And she’s lovely. You hate that she’s lovely. She’s cool and interesting and has pretty hair.
You wonder if Bucky liked running his fingers through it. You lie on the floor of the bathroom and refuse to cry about it, just staring up at the ceiling.
For the first time, you don’t have a class with him. It’s making you choke on clean air, because there’s this spicy, intoxicating fruit smell that’s supposed to be there, and it’s not, and you’re detoxing on a drug you never even got to take.
“My boyfriends coming over tonight.” Natasha tells you and Wanda one night.
Black spots dance in front of your vision. Faraway, you hear yourself say that’s fine.
It is not fine.
Bucky’s going to be here, and he’s going to be kissing Natasha in front of you, and that shouldn’t matter but it does, it does, it does.
But when Natasha’s boyfriend comes over, it’s not Bucky.
It’s Sam.
You know Sam. He’s one of the nice members of Bucky’s pride. He and Bucky are close. He’s always lingering in the background, laughing while you verbally impale Bucky and clapping his friend on the back when he walks it off. He and Bucky shared a room sophomore year. They go to baseball games together and eat five hotdogs every time.
You can’t think of any facts about Sam that aren’t related to Bucky.
And Sam kissed Natasha. And you stood there stupidly, certain that you really must have missed something.
“Oh,” Sam said when he saw you. “You’re Bucky’s girl.”
You stammered. Said a lot of babbling words you don’t really remember, while Sam gave Natasha an amused look. Natasha shrugged, light dancing behind her eyes.
Neither of them feel like elaborating that. No one ever does. There are just passive comments that make you more confused, like Wanda casually mentioning how you really should try going after Barnes and Natasha telling you that Sam asked her out after she and Bucky fizzled.
“We never really got started, though.” She mused. “His heart wasn’t in it. He even told me that, but-“ She laughed breathily. “You know. You think you’re going to be the girl that makes them settle, then you wake up and realize that you’re better with someone who actually wants that. With you.”
You blinked at her. You did not know how it was. You’ve had… affections for one person your entire college career, and you’ve known that he’d never settle with you.
There’s no point in telling Natasha that. With the glint in her eyes, you’re sure she already knows.
“He talked about you all the time,” she told you casually on another day. “God, it was so annoying, but-“ She looked you up and down. It always made you flush. “I get it.”
And people had been doing that a lot, lately. Telling you how much Bucky talks about you. Making little comments you think you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.
Sam invites Bucky to go out with you guys, because Nat invited him. No one asked for your approval. They probably knew you would never have given it.
“You look nice.” Bucky muttered in the car.
Your thighs were pressed together, your shoulder bumped whenever the car rattled, and you had to keep yourself locked up to not melt into him.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” He sighed. “It’s, uh- weird, right? Us not having a class together.”
You hummed. It was. It made the whole world tilt off it’s axis. Bucky didn’t get to know that.
“You know, I still got homework.”
You frowned up at him. “Okay.”
Bucky cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And, uh- I don’t have a study partner anymore.”
“You’ll find one.” You grumbled. There’s that acid again, stinging on your tongue.
He will. He’s Bucky. There will be a line of people clamoring to have his attention, because you’ve been stealing it for far too long and everyone wants a taste of that spicey, calming fruit-
“I’m still free most nights.” He said, looking straight ahead. “You still work at the corner store?”
You blinked.
Oh.
“Yeah. I do.”
Bucky nodded. His lips twitched. “Okay.”
And sure enough, he’s there on Monday. It’s strange talking about classes you’re not taking, but it makes you want to strangle him less.
Although you haven’t wanted to strangle him in a while. You’ve mostly wanted his hand around your throat, pinning you below him, touching you until everything is just floating light.
“You look tired.” He said. Something in his voice was too casual. Like he was weighing every word.
“I am tired.”
“You been eating enough?”
“I’m eating right now-“
“I brought you food.” He fixed you with a stern glare.
It made you feel all kinds of breathless and gooey.
That night you’ll lie in bed with your fingers between your legs. They’re not thick enough, slipping right in and out of your pussy with no relief. Bucky’s fingers would be bigger.
“I would’ve eaten anyway.” You grumbled, watching some teenagers move around the drink aisle.
Bucky chuckled. “Sure, doll.”
Your cheeks heated. You went over when the teenagers started shouting about the store not having the right drinks, but you had to stand on wobbly knees.
Bucky hasn’t called you doll in years.
It felt different now. It felt like it matters.
You’re not going to do the stupid thing. It didn’t matter how much Wanda pushed you into it, or how many comments Nat made about Bucky not sleeping around anymore. You’ve gotten this far. You graduate in the spring. And Bucky will just always be a warm memory you worship between your legs.
He left his folder at the store last night. You thought about giving it to him next time he dropped in, but then Natasha said she was going to his place for some party and you figured you could hitch a ride.
Not because you wanted to see him sooner. Nat made a comment about that, that teasing smirk over her lips.
You ignored her. You’re very good at it now.
The party is raging, when you arrive. It’s loud, so loud. You’ve stepped into the frat boy den, and it aligns with your every study. Hot, sweaty bodies grinding into each other, music you can feel in your ribs, drinks being poured and clicked open. So much noise. So many people.
“Go find Bucky!” Nat whispers in your ear, and you swallow.
“Where do you think he is- Nat-“
She’s already gone. You have to go find Bucky alone.
You think it’s going to be an impossible quest. There are so many people you’re sure it’s a fire hazard, you don’t know anyone but Sam and Nat—who are sucking face in the corner and no fucking help at all—and if you ask someone random to help you find Bucky, you’re going to get mocked about it.
Weird girl was asking for you, Barnes. Knew you wouldn’t care.
You bite the inside of your cheek, spinning around for any possible direction that might take you to Bucky.
He finds you first.
“You’re here!” Bucky calls your name, and you almost jump out of your skin. “Thought you’d never be here!”
You stumble a little as he collapses over you. He’s heavy, his eyes glossy and unfocused, and you’ve never seen him smiling so wide. He stops you from falling with an arm around your waist, and your breath catches.
“I’m here.” You whisper. “I- I have your folder-“
“Shhh.” Bucky drops his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t talk ‘bout my school.”
“I-“
“You can talk about your school.” He presses further over you. Backing you against the counter, his fingers digging into your hips. “Love it when you talk about stuff. ‘S smart.”
“Thanks.” You look off to the side, trying to see if anyone is watching.
Bucky grabs your jaw and turns it back. You almost whimper at the intensity in his gaze. You’ve never seen it so great, and you’ve seen it a lot.
“You’re here.” He mumbles. “In m’ house.”
“I needed to drop something off.”
Your voice is soft, but Bucky’s whole face falls.
“You’re not stayin’?”
“I- I don’t-“
You stumble, and realize you’ve grabbed the collar of his shirt. You’re already trying to stop him from moving away, even thought you know you shouldn’t.
“There’s a lot people.” You breathe. “I don’t like crowds.”
Bucky blinks. You could swear his eyes clear slightly, even if his grip on you tightens.
“Alright.” He gives that strange little nod. “C’mon.”
“Come- James-“
You squeal as he picks you up. Scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. And you knew he was strong, but you’ve never felt it.
Feeling it is dangerous. It makes you want that strength everywhere. Pinning you down and slamming into you, making your head nice and empty as you feel him everywhere.
“You’re drunk, be careful-“
“’M not that drunk.”
“You’re slurring-“
“I’m buzzed.” He says the words more clearly. Like he wants you to hear that he can. “Not drunk. I won’t drop you.”
You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He gives you a tiny smile.
“You’re here.”
He says it like he can’t believe it. Like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He’s beaming like he adores you.
You can’t help yourself from smiling in return.
“Yeah. I am.”
Bucky’s grin gets impossibly wider. He kisses your cheek, messy and quick.
It’s like being shocked by lightning. Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you hold onto him a little tighter.
“James-“
“Y’know, you’re the only person I let call me James.” He reaches the top of the stairs, the music dulled by the distance.
The only drum left in your chest is your heartbeat. You wish he’d stop looking at you like that. It’s dangerous.
“You- You never told me you didn’t want me to.”
He hums. “You ever hear anyone else call me that?”
“I- Um-“
“One time a girl tried.” He pulls open a door. “Made me more into it, she got real excited.”
There it is. That toxic curl of jealousy in your gut.
“James-“
“Then I called your name with my dick inside her. Think that ruined it.”
Bucky says it lazily. Like it doesn’t change your whole life.
“What?” You squeak.
He just grins, slowly lowering you down his body.
“I call your name when I have sex.”
“I- I- Why-“
“’Cause I love you.”
“James-“ Your voice cracks, and tears are burning at your eyes.
You’re confused. So confused. You came over with a folder and a mission to be in and out. Your walls had been just as spiked and guarded as always, and maybe Bucky’s been able to slip through a few times, but you’ve learned how to not let that matter. Because it didn’t matter to him.
But now he’s saying this.
And you’re in what has to be his room, sitting on his mattress. If you weren’t so drunk on whatever’s happening, you’d be scanning around. You’d be studying how Bucky keeps his own space, because it’s another thing you’d get to have about him.
Instead, all you can see it Bucky kneeling in front of you. The impossible softness on his face. The lips that he’s licking again. The thick arms, keeping you sitting on the edge of his bed.
You say the only thing you can think of. The only thing that gets you out of here with your heart intact.
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky doesn’t even flinch.
“I do.”
“You’re drunk-“
“I’m uninhibited.” His eyes shine. “You taught me that word.”
“James-“
“Hmm.”
He leans forward, tilting his head slightly. Your breath catches. You can feel the heat of his breath over your face. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.
“Freshman year.” He murmurs. He won’t stop staring at you, that soft smile on his lips. “You were so bossy and mean to me.”
You flush deeper. “You- You were annoying-“
“I liked workin’ you up.”
“That’s mean.”
“Got me your attention.” He mumbles. “Otherwise you woulda just ignored me.”
You swallow. “I still tried to ignore you.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “But you didn’t. You’re not as mean as you wanna be. ‘S why I love you.”
Tears burn behind your eyes. “Please stop saying that-“
“But I mean it.”
“You can’t mean it.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It- It’s not fair if you mean it now.”
He frowns again. It’s adorable. Like he’s really worried about you. “What’d you mean, now?”
“I- I mean you won’t mean it in the morning.” You whisper. “And that won’t be fair.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
It’s all you can say. You haven’t even been able to tell yourself the reason, you’re certainly not telling Bucky first.
“’Cause why?” Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward until your noses bump. “Why do you care?”
You blink. And you can see it in his eyes.
The challenge.
Why do you care.
Of course you fucking care. You always care. It’s Bucky, it doesn’t matter how hard you tried, you’ve never been able to not care, and now you’re in his room, on his bed, and he’s saying things and looking at you like- Looking at you like-
Your brain short circuits, and it sparks in your core.
Your body moves.
Bucky grunts when you grab his face and drag him into a kiss. It’s quick and rough. A sudden slam of mouths together with no plan or real fire. He doesn’t kiss you back.
When you pull back, you’re sure you’re going to cry. You’re panting, your lips wobbling, and Bucky’s just staring at you.
“I- I’m sorry.” You shrink back. He can’t see you cry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’ll go-“
Bucky almost lurches. He dives over you like an animal, and before you know what’s happening, you’re kissing again.
Really kissing.
The way you’d always pictured it, in the greatest privacy of your mind and room. Hidden under the covers so no one could see the shame of how deeply you imagined it.
Bucky’s lips moving against yours. That tongue flicking over your lips before he nips on your lower lip, and grins at your moan.
This is that, and better. Because he’s really here. He tastes a little like liquor, but mostly like mint and something that’s purely Bucky. You’re being pressed backwards into the mattress, Bucky moving up until he’s caging you to the mattress. His knees braced over your waist, his chest pushed against yours, his hands wandering and grabbing every bit of you that he can reach.
Rough fingers slip under your shirt, teasing your sides. You gasp into his mouth, and Bucky groans.
“Ja- James-“
“I know.” He mumbles. “Wanna take care of you, doll.”
“Mhmm.” You whine in a half protest. It’s hard to think with one massive hand mapping every curve of your body, and the other sliding up to grab your neck.
Bucky tips your head back, and hums in satisfaction, when you willingly open your mouth to deepen the kiss.
“Please lemme take care of you.” He rasps. He sounds like a man wrecked.
And who are you to tell him no?
“Oh- Okay- Oh!”
Bucky doesn’t waste time. He pulls back with something like clarity in his eyes, licks his lips, and runs a large hand fully up your side. You arch into the touch with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut. He wraps around your breast, groaning as his thumb flicks over your perked nipple.
“No bra, hm?”
“Didn’t- Didn’t think I’d be here for more than five minutes-“
“Or you were hopin’ you’d be here.” He teases, smirking down at you. “Right here.”
He pinches your nipple, rolling it between expert fingers. You toss your head back with a moan. Bucky chuckles.
“Yeah, that’s right. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it doll.”
“N- No-“
Your words fall off into a whine as Bucky yanks his hand away. You grab his wrist, trying to drag it back, but he’s too strong.
“Wha- What’re you doing-“
“If you’re gonna tell me you don’t want this.” He shrugs, soothing the edge of your shirt like it’s a blanket. “I’m not gonna do it.”
“But- But I do want it.” You squeeze his wrist, pouting as tears start to gather in your eyes.
Bucky clicks his tongue. He’s moved on to soothing out your hair.
“Bucky, please-“
“Please what?”
He grabs your cheek, forcing your gaze onto his. Heat floods your core at the possessive motion, and your legs fall open. Bucky’s attention flicks down, but he doesn’t waver.
“You gonna spend the whole time pretending you don’t want me?” He demands, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Or are you going to be a good girl and let me have you how I want?”
And you realize what that glint in his eyes means. He’s giving you a choice, for how you want this to go. Soft and sweet, or what he wants to do.
What you want him to do.
You might be drooling. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and you feel a little faint. Every fantasy you’ve ever had is above you. You just have to grab it.
“I didn’t come here tonight for this.” You breathe out, testing the waters.
Bucky’s nostrils flare. His plants a hand on your hip, pinning you down to the mattress.
“You didn’t, huh.”
You shake your head. Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“You need me to show you what you want?” He’s using a low tone that rushes right to your pussy.
You nod, slowly trying to press your thighs back together. There’s too much pressure, you need a way to relieve it.
Bucky grabs your knee and shoves it back open, and you squeak in elated surprise.
“I’ll be good to you, doll.” He mutters, rubbing the inside of your thigh. His knuckles brush near your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Show you exactly what you need.”
“You- You don’t know what I need-“
Bucky crashes back down, kissing you into the mattress with brutal, unrelenting force. Your arms fly around his neck and he groans, dropping his hips down over yours.
“Yeah, I do.” He says against your lips, rutting down. Forcing you to feel the push of his bulge against your clothed core. “And you fuckin’ know it.”
God, you do. You don’t have a single question of it.
Bucky pulls away, and you grumble in protest, trying to reach up and drag him back far another kiss. Just that is enough for you to feel like you’re in Heaven.
But Bucky swats your hands away, giving you a stern look.
“No touching.”
He starts to pull you shirt over your head, and you scowl.
“You’re touching-“
“I,” Bucky leans down to kiss over the valley of your breasts, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Can do whatever the hell I want to you. Isn’t that right, babydoll.”
He must be putting a spell over you. You nod dazedly, and Bucky laughs. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and flicking the little bud like it’s candy. The sensation makes you restlessly needy, the heat between your legs only building and building.
“Buh- Bucky- Oooh-“
There’s an extra, strong little flick that only makes you think of what his mouth is going to be able to down where you need him.
“Fuck- James-“
Bucky groans, biting down softly. Your hips buck with delight, and your whine when he shoves them back down.
“C’mon.” He mutters, slowly kissing back to the other breast. “Keep still.”
You make an incoherent noise, but you try. You really do try.
Bucky wiggles down your pants and underwear without taking his mouth from your breasts, and you force yourself to keep still. Cold air doesn’t even hit your cunt, because he’s so folded over you. Trapping all the frictionless heat between your bodies, letting his covered cock drag against your core whenever he moans and ruts, but never offering anything else.
“More.” You breathe, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “James, I- I need more-“
You moan as Bucky bites your breast again. He kisses over the hurt, humming lazily.
“Thought you didn’t know what you need.”
You shake your head, legs falling further open. “I- I need you- Bucky I need you-“
“Where’d you need me.” He kisses just under your breast. “’Cause I’m here. Touchin’ you.”
He grabs your thigh, rubbing it slowly back and forth. You try to arch off the bed, but you can’t get an inch out from under him.
“Touch- Touch me more.” You gasp out. “I need you to touch me more, I- I don’t care how, just- Touch me-“
You cry out, as Bucky brushes his thumb over your clit. He repeats the featherlight motion once more, then twice. It’s too much and not nearly enough. Your pussy is weeping, but Bucky just grazes you clit like he’s wiping something off your cheek.
“What a needy girl.” He coos against your skin, kissing along the side of your breast. Up to your neck. “You’re even more reactive than I thought you’d be, sweetheart. And I thought,” he presses his thumb down hard, and you scream.“You’d be plenty reactive.”
Tears push at your eyes, from frustration and humiliation. You’re being pathetic, you’ve dogwalked him the whole time you’ve known him and suddenly you’re a flushed, begging disaster below him.
Bucky sucks a dark spot on your neck, and you moan. His thumb drags between the lips of your pussy and teases over your hole. It’s gone as soon as it gets there, and the sound you make is downright undignified.
“You want to swallow me, don’t you.” Bucky nips at your ear. “Dirty fuckin’ slut.”
Oh, no. That shouldn’t turn you on so much.
“I- I’m not-“
“Yes, you are.” Bucky kisses along your jaw. “Say it, doll.”
You shake your head. Bucky repeats the slow drag, this time swapping for his middle finger, and pushing slightly into your cunt.
“Bucky- Fuck-“
Your arms fly up to grab him. Bucky leans up and fixes you with a stern glare.
“No touching.”
You whimper, but pull back away. You fist the sheets, splaying your body out in the hope it’ll make him you faster.
And it almost works. Bucky’s brow works and he slowly traces up the curve of your waist. Your breathing shutters, as he traces the outline of a love bite on your breast. His finger twists, and the pad of it presses right into the entrance of your pussy.
Bucky meets your glossy eyes, and his jaw clenches. There are big, fat tears welling up.
His voice drops to something soft. “Are you still-“
“Yes.” You push your chest up, trying to give him a better view of your breasts. “Please.”
Bucky nods to himself. He leans fully over you, searching your gaze, and slowly starts to push his finger into your pussy.
Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky grabs your cheeks.
“Eyes stay on me.”
He’s not asking. You don’t want him to. You moan and nod weakly, watching him under tear stained lashes. He slowly pulls his finger out, then drives it back in a little faster. He’s a lot bigger than your own hand is. Everything about him is bigger. You’re worried you’re going to die on his cock.
“You like that,” Bucky coos, squeezing your cheeks slightly. “Look at you, gettin’ so worked up over just a finger.”
You give him a pleading look, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss your puckered lips.
“You get two when you tell me you’re my dirty little slut.”
You clench down around him, and Bucky groans, pushing in a little deeper.
He finds the spongey spot that makes your vision go all blurry. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, and bucky raises his brows.
“There it is. That’s what a wanna see.”
He pushes harder against it. You squeeze around him again, breath coming in pants.
“Who’s owning this pussy, baby, huh?” Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, and the hot shame pricks more and more over your skin.
You think a waterfall might be coming out of your cunt. The wet sounds as Bucky finger fucks you certainly seem like proof.
You can’t form a full answer. You gape at him, rolling your hips in tiny movements to try and chase a little bit more.
Buckly yanks his finger out of your pussy, lands a harsh smack on your clit, then shoves them right back in. It’s an overwhelming, electric feeling. The tears burst from your eyes, and you almost reach for him.
“That’s a girl.” He kisses your cheek so sweetly, pumping his finger deep into your soaked cunt. “Keep cryin’ for me, babydoll. Let it out.”
You pull at the sheets, a low hum of pleasure building in your lower stomach. Your head tries to roll to the side, but Bucky keeps it up. His staring just makes everything worse and better.
The deep affection in his eyes as he watches you right on the edge. Trying to claw your way to an orgasm while he keeps you from letting go. There’s no attention being given to your clit, only his finger bumping your g-spot. It’s throbbing from his spanking. You want him to do it again.
“Buh- Bucky-“
“Ah.” He pauses, and you almost scream. “Try again.”
“James.” You whimper, giving him your most pleading eyes.
A smile curves on his lips. “Yeah, babydoll?”
“Do it again.”
It’s less than a whisper. Part of you doesn’t even want him to hear it.
But he does. Of course he does. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest second, and you think about running away. You shouldn’t have asked. He’s going to say no, it’s going to humiliate you more, and then that’s going to make you cum on his hand and he’ll never look at you again-
“What?” His voice dropped. You’re screwed. “This?”
Bucky pulls back and spanks your pussy again. You sob, nodding as the shock rushing through you again. Bucky licks his lips, leaning back to watch you. He does it again, and you seize up.
“Jesus, you’re spilling everywhere.” He traces two fingers through your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Messy girl, bet you’re going to fucking squirt on my cock.”
You whimper, and Bucky chuckles.
“I know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna love it, aren’t you.”
He spanks your pussy again. Any thought to protest is drained from your head.
“Ye- Yes.” You cry out.
Bucky smirks, prowling back over your body.
“And?”
You blink at him through the tears. “And?”
“What are you?”
Your breath hitches. Bucky holds up his shiny hand, making a gun motion.
“Two fingers.” He reminds you.
And just like that, you cave.
“I- I’m your dirty-“ You hiccup a little, the tears starting to free flow again. “I’m-“
“Look at me.” He reminds sternly. “Come on, be good-“
“I’m your dirty slut.” You push out, grinding your hips up into Bucky’s knee. “James, I’m yours, I’m your cockslut, please-“
Bucky makes a feral sound from his chest, and you sob in relief when he shoves those two fingers into you cunt. You shudder, eyes rolling back and hips grinding down. Bucky doesn’t try to stop you this time, just groaning as he finger fucks you into oblivion.
“That’s it, that’s my fuckin’ girl.” He scissors his fingers, and you writhe in the sheets. “So pretty on my fingers, bet you’ll look even better when I’m fuckin’ you stupid on my cock.”
You moan. “Yes, oh- Oh my god- “
Bucky twists his wrist and starts to pummel your g-spot, right as his thumb finds your clit. He rubs it tight circles in time with his thrusts, and presses his lips back over yours. You almost can’t breathe, between the pleasure he’s pulling from you and the demand of his mouth. Your body starts to twitch and go all tight.
“I- I’m gonna- James, I think-“
“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. “Show me what you’ve got, baby, come on.”
Your orgasm rushes through you, staring in your tummy and leaking down Bucky’s fingers and through your whole system. He pulls out immediately, landing a few more spanks on your weeping cunt. In the post-orgasm sensitivity, it’s almost too much to take.
You spread your legs and beg for it anyway.
“Demanding, aren’t you.” Bucky mocks. “Want to feel me tomorrow, when you walk around all cool and collected, pretending you weren’t callin’ yourself my cockslut a few hours ago.”
You shake your head, shivering as Bucky rubs your pussy back and forth. “I- I won’t-“
“Won’t what? Keep it a dirty little secret. You want me to spell my fucking name on your face, so everyone knows who this tight little pussy belongs to?”
“Nuh- No-“
“You think you won’t feel me? Doll,” Bucky takes his hand away, and you almost start to cry again before he pushes two thick fingers between your lips.
“Mmmm-“
“That’s right.” He mutters to himself, and you can feel his attention as you clean your own release off his fingers. “Gonna ruin you for everyone else, doll, you won’t be able to fuck anyone without wishin’ it was me.”
You pull him away by his wrist, risking the punishment to give him your best, sexiest doe-eyes.
“Don’t want anyone else.” You say, and Bucky blinks. “Won’t pretend I wasn’t with you. Want everyone to know.”
Bucky’s nostrils flare. He stares, shoulders heaving, and you think he’s going to do the thing again. The one where he pounces over you and makes you beg.
Instead he grabs your hips like he’s steadying himself, and stares at you like you’re the moon.
“Flip over.” He grunts.
You frown. “Wha-“
“Over. Just-“
Bucky flips you onto your stomach like you weight nothing, then drags your ass high in the air. You squeal, grabbing at the sheets and trying to look at him over your shoulder.
A massive hand presses you back into the sheets by your shoulder blades. Probably for the best. Your knees were shaking too much to be steady.
“Stay there.” There’s a clink of metal behind you. He’s taking off his belt. “Need to be inside you. Now.”
“James-“
“Please.”
His voice cracks.
You’re far, far past trying to tell him no.
You flop obediently, and it earns you a soothing stoke over the curve of your ass.
“So pretty.” He says it so soft, you’re not actually sure you’re supposed to hear. “Wanted this for so fuckin’ long, ‘s even better than I imagined.”
Bucky rubs his cock between your pussy lips and you moan, melting into the sheets. Your knees almost drop down. Bucky wraps an arms around your waist and drags you back up.
“I’ve gotcha. There we go.”
He keeps rubbing it, gathering your arousal to make the entrance easier. There’s plenty of it. Even more when his fat head presses against your clit, and you wiggle.
“Done so good for me, babydoll.” His praise shoots straight to your already burning pussy. You try to push yourself higher with a whine. “Already nice and stupid for me, just gotta- Fuuuuck-“
Bucky pushes himself in slowly, and you cry out.
“Oh- Oh my god-“
It’s good he didn’t let you see him before. He’s big. Stupidly big. You can feel every thick vein, every pulse as you squeeze around him, every inch of Bucky dragging through your tight channel. You sob into the sheets, pushing back to try and take more. You have to take more. You need to take all of him, so when he fucks you he can drive every single fucking thought from your head.
“That’s it.” Bucky groans, pressing his face into the curve of your neck as he bottoms out.
He’s folded over you, fully buried in your pussy, breath hot and heavy. You whimper, trying to adjust to the size of him. Bucky’s arm snakes around you, rubbing your clit lightly. Trying to help you relax.
“You’re so tight, baby.” He rasps, kissing behind your ear. “Best pussy I’ve ever fuckin’ felt.”
“Mmmm.” You tip your head, pressing your cheek into the mattress. “You’re so big.”
“I know. But you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?”
You whimper, and Bucky chuckles. The sound vibrates between your legs, not helping anyone at all.
“Yeah. You are.”
And if Bucky says you are, you are.
He starts by pulling almost fully out, then rolling slowly back in. It goes easier than the first time, but still knocks the air from your lungs. Your eyes roll back. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you, silly girl. We’ve barely even started.”
“’S- ‘S a lot-“
“But it’s your my fuckin’ cockslut.” Bucky slams his hips forward, and you scream in pleasure. “You’re the one who said it, remember. My. Fucking. Cockslut.”
He emphasizes each word with another thrust, and soft, caring Bucky is gone. The hot, demanding version is back, and he brought your tears with him.
Bucky fucks into your like an animal, pushing you down into the mattress and forcing an impossibly deep angle. You’re sensitive. So sensitive it almost hurts in the best fucking way.
“Can see your pussy taking me, doll.” Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “Fucking gorgeous, greedy little thing swallowing this cock whole. Pussy made for me to fuck it.”
You keen, and Bucky laughs.
“Jesus, might tie you up and keep you just like this for me. Crying like a brat when you begged for it, can’t ever figure out what you want without my help, huh?”
You can’t form a strong enough thought to respond. Bucky’s drilling into you, and rubbing over your g-spot with every thrust and filling you up until there’s no space for things like words.
“No mouthy little comebacks?” He mocks. “My smart doll can’t even tell me to go fuck myself?”
“I- Jaaames-“
“Yeah, that’s right.” Bucky almost growls. “I own this pussy now, sweetheart. Gonna cum inside and make you walk around with it dripping out of your cunt, make you scream my name so loud everyone hears.”
You babble, clenching down on his cock. Bucky’s hips stutter slightly.
“Oh you love that. Love the idea of everyone knowing that I just made you my stupid little cockdrunk slut. Fuck-“
Bucky wraps an arm around your waist, hauling you back against his chest. You toss your head onto his shoulder, writhing in his arms as he keeps thrusting up into your pussy. God, you hope the music downstairs is loud enough that they can’t hear, but you also don’t know how they could hear anything else. The whole room is filled with Bucky’s groans and your open sobs.
“Still crying, babydoll?” He kisses over your neck, and you whimper, grabbing at his forearms.
“Can’t- Can’t take it-“
“Yeah, you can.”
You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. “Mh- I’m gonna cum-“
Bucky spanks your clit, and you shriek, arching into his hand.
“Fuckin’ cum, dirty girl, soak this dick like a good girl-“
You scream with this orgasm, thrashing in Bucky’s arms as it completely overtakes your senses. There’s a familiar wet feeling coming out of your pussy and slicking over your ass and thighs. Bucky groans, bending over to kiss you as he keeps your impaled on his cock. He thrusting sharply, chasing his own release. You try to grind down to help him, and he moans right into your ear.
“Wh- Where-“
“In.” You whimper. “In, James, wanna feel you, fuck-“
Bucky groans shamelessly as his cock starts to spurt hot cum over your gooey walls. The sound as he keeps fucking up into you is obscene, his lips over glued over yours as you both ride it out.
You’ve never been so ruined before. You think you might smell of cum and sweat for the rest of your life, and you can’t even bring yourself to mind.
And part of you worries that Bucky’s going to vanish. Kick you out of his room now that he got what he wanted, and break the heart you’d just offered him with shaking hands.
Instead, he kisses you before he pulls out, mumbling that he’ll be right back. He draws a bath and cleans you up, gets you water and wipes the dried tears on your cheeks.
“Too much?” He asks softly, and you can see the real worry in his eyes.
You shake your head, and offer him a tiny smile.
“Perfect.”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
You giggle. “Yeah.”
Bucky kisses your nose, and you hum happily.
“You’re were perfect too.”
“Thanks.” You breathe.
He pulls back, running a hand through your hair. His eyes soften.
“You still want me to take it back?”
And you almost laugh. Why would you ever possibly want to go back.
“No, thank you.”
Bucky chuckles. “So polite. Think I fucked some manners into you-“
“I had manners-“
“Yeah, but you’re gonna be nice to me now-“
“Don’t hold your breath-“
He shuts you up with a deep kiss. You could get used to it.
“Let me take you out.” He breathes when he’s done, looking at you with unending hope in his eyes. “For real.”
And you wonder.
If it had really been there, the whole time.
“Okay.”
✦End note: i love being so self indulgent with my horniness.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary: A night out with Robby, Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, and Mel takes a turn when you get drunk, refuse to leave the bar, and start loudly demanding to know where your husband is. Santos calls Jack. Jack arrives. Unfortunately for everyone in the bar, you are drunk and do not immediately recognize him as your husband.
Warnings: alcohol use, drunk reader, suggestive jokes, reader being extremely horny for her own husband, Jack being responsible and not engaging sexually while reader is drunk, soft caretaking, lots of teasing, lots of “hell yeah.”
Author's Note:
I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes a woman gets drunk, forgets she is married, and tries to hit on her own husband in public. Sometimes that husband happens to be Jack Abbot. Sometimes he has to provide ring verification every five minutes while trying to get her to drink water.
This is love.
Xoxo, Del
By the time Santos called Jack, you had been singing for twenty-three minutes.
Not continuously.
There had been pauses.
Important pauses.
One pause to tell Robby he was doing the background vocals wrong. Another to inform Whitaker that his attempt to close the tab was “emotionally hostile.” Another to point at a man near the jukebox and announce, with deep conviction, that he was not your husband because your husband had better shoulders.
Mel had tried water.
Javadi had tried fries.
Whitaker had tried logistics.
Robby had tried joining in, which had only made everything worse.
And Santos, because she had the glare of a woman who had spent years keeping doctors from making stupid choices, and no patience left, finally pulled out her phone.
You were standing beside the booth with one hand braced on the table, swaying to the beat of a song that was no longer playing.
“Baby! Woo-hoo, where the hell is my husband? Woo-hoo! What is takin' him so long to find me? Woo-hoo!”
Robby lifted both hands as if he were conducting you. “Great projection.”
Santos pointed at him. “Stop encouraging her.”
Robby shrugged, “She’s an artist.”
“She is refusing to leave a bar because she thinks her husband has been misplaced,” Santos replied.
You turned sharply. Too sharply. Mel caught your elbow before gravity could make a compelling argument.
“He is not misplaced,” you said.
Santos lowered the phone slightly. “No?”
You frowned, “He is missing.”
Javadi nodded from the end of the booth, phone in hand, filming with the calm detachment of someone documenting history. “The distinction is important.”
Whitaker rubbed both hands over his face. “It is not.”
You slapped one palm gently against the table. “My husband is handsome and tall and sexy and has doctor hands.”
Robby leaned toward Mel. “Doctor's hands is specific.”
Mel nodded. “And accurate.”
“And,” you continued, because you were not finished and everyone needed to understand the scale of the emergency, “he has very serious pecs.”
Santos closed her eyes.
Robby whispered, “Here we go.”
You pointed at him. “Respect the pecs.”
“I do,” Robby said immediately.
Whitaker slid your glass of water toward you. “Can we respect the pecs from the parking lot?”
You shake your head quickly, “No.”
“Why?” He groans.
You point towards the door, “Because my husband is not in the parking lot.”
Santos pressed Jack’s contact and lifted the phone to her ear.
You gasped. “Are you calling him?”
She nodded, “Yes.”
“No!” You exclaimed.
Santos looked at you. “No?”
You shook your head, “I don’t want to call him.”
“You have been singing for him for twenty-three minutes,” Santos said.
You rolled your eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I want him to appear.”
Robby slapped the table once. “That is marriage.”
Santos ignored him and turned slightly away as the call connected.
Jack answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
His voice came through low and alert, and you froze.
Santos looked at you.
You stared at her phone like it had become sacred.
“Abbot,” Santos said.
There was a small pause on the other end. “Santos?”
“You busy?” She asks.
“At home.” Jack’s voice sharpened. “Is she okay?”
You grabbed Mel’s wrist and whispered very loudly, “Is that my husband?”
Mel patted your hand. “Yes, honey.”
You looked down at your left hand.
Your wedding rings gleamed under the warm bar lights.
You gasped. “I have wife jewelry.”
Robby bent forward with a wheeze. “Wife jewelry.”
On the phone, Jack went quiet. “What was that?”
Santos looked at you as you lifted your hand in front of your face and admired your rings with genuine awe.
“She is okay,” Santos said carefully.
Jack exhaled. “Define okay.”
You turned toward the booth again, apparently remembering your mission. “Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?” You pick up your song.
Jack went silent.
Robby threw his head back and supplied a terrible echo. “Woo-hoo!”
Santos pinched the bridge of her nose.
Jack said, “Is that her?”
“No,” Santos said. “That is the jukebox haunting me.”
Jack sighed, “Santos.”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Is she hurt?” He asked.
“No.”
“Sick?” He continued.
“No.”
Jack exhaled, “Crying?”
You pointed at a man near the pool table. “Not him. My husband has a better ass.”
Mel covered her mouth with a hand.
Santos stared at the ceiling. “No. Not crying.”
There was a pause.
Then Jack said, dry as hell, “Did she say something about my ass?”
Robby lunged across the table, trying to get closer to the phone. “Tell him she said better.”
Santos shoved his forehead back with two fingers. “She is refusing to leave until her husband comes to collect her.”
You leaned toward Santos’s phone. “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants.”
Santos pulled the phone away from you. “Absolutely not.”
Jack made a sound that might have been a cough. “I’m leaving now. Send me the address.” He was already moving.
“All right,” Santos said. “I’ll send it.”
In the background, Robby shouted, “Tell him she’s been reviewing his ass for twenty minutes!”
Jack went silent again.
Santos closed her eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”
You reached toward the phone. “Wait, I want to talk to him.”
“No,” Santos said, ending the call.
Your lower lip trembled, “But he’s missing.”
“He’s on his way.” She told you.
That stopped you. Your mouth fell open. “He’s coming?”
Santos slid her phone into her pocket. “Yes.”
You laid a hand on your chest, “To me?”
“Yes.” Trinity nodded.
You pressed both hands to your cheeks. “Oh, fuck.”
Whitaker nodded toward the door. “Great. Now we can go.”
“No,” you said immediately.
His shoulders dropped. “Why not?”
You looked at him like he had just asked the stupidest question in recorded history. “I have to be here when my husband appears.”
Robby raised one hand. “I support her.”
Santos snapped, “No one asked you.”
You sat back down in the booth and folded your hands on the table like you were waiting for a job interview.
Mel slid the water toward you again. “Drink some water while you wait.”
You stared at the glass.
Then at Mel.
Then at Santos.
“What if he gets here and I’m drinking water?” You ask.
Javadi tilted her head. “Would that be bad?”
You frowned, thinking hard. “No. Hydration is sexy.”
Whitaker looked at the ceiling. “Thank God.”
You picked up the glass, took one sip, and set it down with a proud nod.
Then you leaned toward Robby. “Do you think he knows he’s my husband?”
Robby’s face lit with dangerous joy.
Santos pointed at him. “Do not.”
Robby held up both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
Her eyes narrowed, “You were about to.”
Robby frowned deeply, “I have never done anything wrong in my life.”
Javadi looked up from her phone. “There are videos.”
You tapped your rings against the table, watching them sparkle. “I’m going to ask him.”
Mel smiled. “Ask him what?”
“If he’s my husband.” You answer.
Whitaker muttered, “This will be efficient.”
“It will not,” Santos said.
And it wasn’t.
Because when Jack walked in seven minutes later, everything in you stopped working.
He came through the door in jeans, sneakers, and a dark hoodie under his jacket, like he had pulled on the first clothes he found and driven over without thinking about anything except getting to you. His hair was messy, his expression serious, and his eyes scanned the bar once before landing on your booth.
On you.
You stopped mid-hum.
Your hand tightened around Mel’s wrist. “Oh no.”
Mel followed your gaze. “What?”
You pointed. “That man has pecs like my husband’s.”
Robby twisted in his seat so fast he nearly knocked over Whitaker’s drink.
Santos sighed. “That man is your husband.”
You shook your head slowly, eyes fixed on Jack as he crossed the bar. “No.”
Javadi kept filming. “Denial phase.”
Jack reached the table and looked you over first, quick and clinical, because he was Jack. No visible injury. No tears. No panic. Just you, drunk and bright-eyed and staring at him like he had been sent from some divine catalog of bad ideas.
His shoulders eased. “Hey, baby.”
You blinked. Then slowly turned to Santos. “He called me baby.”
She nodded slowly, “Because he is your husband.”
You whipped back toward him. “You are?”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
He lifted his left hand without hesitation.
His wedding band caught the bar light.
You looked down at your own rings.
Then back at his.
Then at your rings again. “Oh, my god.”
Jack’s face softened. “Yeah?”
You beam. “We match.”
“We do.” He replied.
You looked him up and down, with a long pause at his chest. “Hell yeah.”
Robby slammed both hands on the table. “And we’re off.”
Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Don’t.”
You leaned toward Mel, still staring at Jack. “He has very serious pecs.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
Mel’s shoulders shook. “I know, honey.”
“Do you think he works out?” You whispered to Trinity.
Santos answered before Jack could. “Occasionally.”
You nodded solemnly. “It’s working.”
Jack opened his eyes. “Okay. Time to go.”
You frowned. Then looked him up and down again. “Hey, soldier.”
The whole booth went quiet.
Jack stared at you.
Santos slowly turned her head. “Oh, my god.”
You gave Jack what you clearly thought was a seductive smile. “You come here often?”
Jack’s mouth twitched again, despite his best efforts. “To retrieve my drunk wife from a bar? No.”
Your eyes went wide. “Wife?”
He lifted his hand again.
You looked at his ring.
Then yours.
Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”
Javadi, still filming, said, “The verification system remains functional.”
Jack looked at her phone. “Are you recording?”
“Yes.” She answered instantly.
Jack groans, “Why?”
“Documentation,” Victoria answered.
“It’s behavioral science,” Robby added.
Jack ignored all of them and reached for the water glass instead of you. “Drink.”
You froze. Then you sat up straighter, eyes suddenly sharp with drunk discovery. “Huh.”
Jack paused. “Huh?”
You pointed at him. “Attending voice.”
Robby made a delighted noise. “Oh, she clocked it.”
Jack gave him a flat look. “Do not participate.”
You leaned toward Santos, whispering very loudly. “He said drink like he was about to order labs.”
Santos nodded. “He did.”
“I did not,” Jack said.
Mel patted your shoulder. “You kind of did.”
Jack pushed the glass closer. “Three sips.”
Your lips parted. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Please just drink the water.”
You picked up the glass with both hands, still staring at him. “You’re very bossy for a stranger.”
Jack opened his eyes. “I’m not a stranger.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Then you looked down at your rings again.
Jack lifted his hand.
You inspected his wedding band with deep seriousness.
“Right,” you said. “Husband.”
“Yes,” Jack confirmed.
You took one sip.
Jack nodded once. “Good.”
You set the glass down too hard. “No.”
His brow furrowed. “No?”
“You can’t say ‘good’ with attending voice.” You frowned.
Robby dropped his forehead onto the table. “She’s right.”
Jack pointed at him. “Not another word.”
You finished the water because Jack stood there with crossed arms and serious eyes, and the world had become a place where hydration was suddenly compelling.
When you set the glass down, Jack picked up your coat. “Arm.”
You inhaled sharply.
Santos pointed at him. “That one was attending voice.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “I need her arm in the sleeve.”
You looked at him, dazed. “You need my arm?”
Jack took a slow breath. “Baby.”
You melted back against the booth. “Oh, Jackie.”
That got him. Just a little. His expression shifted, the stern line of his mouth almost breaking.
Santos saw it immediately. “Don’t reward her.”
“I’m not rewarding her,” Jack said.
“You liked Jackie,” Santos replied.
Jack held the coat open and looked at you. “Arm.”
You stared at him. Then slid one arm into the sleeve. “Bossy.”
He guided the coat around your shoulders. “Other arm.”
You looked at Mel. “He wants the other one too.”
Mel nodded, fighting for her life. “Coats usually do.”
You gave Jack your other arm. He pulled the coat into place and zipped it halfway with careful, practical hands. You looked down at the zipper. Then up at him. “That was hot.”
“It was a zipper.” Jack deadpanned.
You sighed happily, “You did it like a procedure.”
Robby lifted his head. “Sterile field: wife edition.”
Jack did not turn around. “Robby.”
“Sorry.” Robby lowered his head once more.
Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she proposes to him.”
You froze. Then your head turned slowly toward Jack. “I proposed?”
Jack’s expression softened at once. “No, baby.” He lifted his left hand before you could even ask, wedding band, catching the bar light. “I proposed.”
You looked down at your rings. Then at his. Then up at him, stunned and pleased and drunk-happy. “You wanted to marry me?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Still do.”
Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”
Robby dropped his forehead back to the table. “They’re disgusting.”
Jack crouched slightly in front of you and offered his hand. “Stand up.”
The booth went silent. You stared at him. Then you looked at Santos. “Attending voice.”
Santos nodded. “Full attending voice.”
Jack’s eyes flicked briefly to the ceiling. “I am trying to get you upright.”
You nodded, “You’re doing it with authority.”
“You are drunk in public,” Jack replied.
You clicked your tongue, “You’re hot in public.”
Mel made a small sound into her hand.
Jack’s ears went faintly pink.
You saw it. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “Jackie’s blushing.”
Jack shook his head, “I am not.”
“You are.” You squeal with delight.
Jack’s hand stayed steady in front of you. “Up.”
You pressed one hand dramatically to your chest. “Fuck.”
Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she discovers a military kink.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “Santos.”
She shrugged, “What? She’s halfway there.”
You tilted your head, considering. “A what?”
“Nope.” Jack took your hand and helped you stand. “We’re going home.”
For one glorious second, you were upright and triumphant.
Then the room tilted. Jack caught you by the waist.
Your entire body went still. “Oh, fuck.”
“Balance,” he said.
You stared up at him. “You said that like an order.”
“It was an explanation,” Jack replied.
You smiled up at him, “Do it again.”
“No,” Jack answered immediately.
Robby lifted his head. “She’s not wrong.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him.
Robby lowered his head again. “Withdrawn.”
You touched Jack’s chest lightly with one finger. “Responsible soldier husband.”
Jack looked down at your hand. Then at your face. “Doctor husband. Former soldier.”
You nodded solemnly. “Doctor husband with command voice.”
Mel laughed into her hand.
Jack took a slow breath. “Arm over my shoulder.”
Your eyes went wide. “Jackie.”
“Arm,” he repeated, then pointed to his shoulder. “Here.”
You looked at Santos. “He pointed.”
“I saw.” She answered.
You licked your lips. “He pointed and said here.”
Trinity nodded solemnly, “You’re going to survive.”
You shook your head furiously, “You don’t know that.”
Jack guided your arm over his shoulders.
You held on to him and immediately looked delighted. “I’m touching him.”
Santos nodded. “You are.”
“Legally?” You asked, looking to Jack, bright and hopeful.
Jack lifted his left hand in front of your face.
You checked his ring. Then yours. “Hell yeah.”
Jack slid an arm around your waist and pulled you carefully against his side.
You went very still. Then you looked down at his arm. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack sighed. “Please walk.”
You looked up at him, eyes wide and delighted. “Can you say it again, but like bossier?”
“No,” Jack said.
“Absolutely not,” Santos said at the same time.
Robby lifted his head just enough to gasp for air. “I can’t believe it. This is foreplay with witnesses.”
Jack pointed at him without loosening his hold on you. “Not foreplay.”
You leaned into his side and whispered loudly. “But later?”
Jack closed his eyes. “You’re drunk.”
You nodded, “But later, when I’m not drunk?”
“Later,” Santos said quickly, “is between you, Jack, and God.”
Javadi nodded. “And possibly the HOA, depending on volume.”
You looked at Jack. “Do we have an HOA?”
He shook his head, “No.”
You leaned closer to him, “Then later?”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Walk.”
You inhaled sharply. “Oh, that was better.”
Santos threw both hands up. “Door. Now.”
Jack started moving.
You went with him, tucked carefully into his side, one arm over his shoulders, his arm secure around your waist, your coat half-zipped and your dignity somewhere under the booth.
You made it three steps before he said, “Watch your feet.”
You looked up at him. “Attending voice.”
“Safety voice.” He corrected.
You shrugged, “They’re cousins.”
“Eyes forward,” Jack replied.
You sighed dramatically, “Oh fuck me, that one too.”
Santos followed behind you, laughing now despite herself. “This is the worst evacuation I’ve ever seen.”
Jack kept you tucked firmly against his side. “It is not an evacuation.”
“You’re using evacuation posture,” you said.
He looked down at you.
You smiled up at him, drunk and delighted. “I like it.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”
Halfway to the door, you twisted carefully to look back at the table.
“Everybody be cool,” you announced. “I’m leaving with my husband.”
Robby raised both hands. “Hell yeah, Mrs. Abbot.”
You stopped.
Jack stopped with you, patient but visibly suffering.
You looked down at your rings.
Then grabbed his left hand and checked his.
The band was still there.
You smiled, delighted all over again. “Hell yeah.”
Jack’s face softened.
Then you glanced behind him one more time.
“And he has a great ass!” You cheer.
Jack immediately started walking again.
“Goodnight,” he called over his shoulder.
Santos waved. “Hydrate her.”
Mel added, “Text when you get home.”
Whitaker pointed at Jack. “Do not let her order fries.”
You gasped. “Traitor.”
Javadi lifted her glass. “The record will show we tried.”
Robby cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ask him to walk bossier!”
Jack pushed the door open with his shoulder and guided you into the cool night air.
The second the air hit your face, you sighed dramatically and leaned a little more heavily into his side.
Jack adjusted his hold. “You okay?”
You looked up at him.
The bar lights spilled behind him, catching the edge of his jaw, the tired concern in his face, the little pinch between his brows that meant he was trying to figure out if you needed water, food, sleep, or all three.
Your drunk brain, unhelpfully, sorted those options into one category.
Husband.
“Jack?” You asked quietly.
Jack looked down at you, “Yeah, baby?”
“You’re really my husband?” You whispered the question.
He lifted his left hand between you before you even asked.
You looked at his ring.
Then down at yours.
Then up at him.
Your smile went soft and bright and drunk-happy. “Hell yeah.”
Jack shook his head, but he was smiling now. “Yeah,” he said, guiding you toward the car. “Hell yeah.”
You made it halfway across the parking lot before you stopped again.
Jack looked down. “What?”
You stared at him very seriously. “You came when I sang.”
His mouth twitched. “Santos called.”
“But I sang.” You persisted.
Jack nodded, “You did.”
“And you appeared.” You added with delight.
“I did,” Jack replied.
You nodded, deeply moved. “Powerful.”
Jack opened the passenger door and kept one hand at your back. “In.”
You looked at the seat. Then at him. “I like it when you give directions.”
Jack almost smiled, “I have noticed.”
“Can you say ‘in’ again?” You asked, looking up at him.
His answer comes quickly, “No.”
“Meaner?” You tried.
This answer was faster: “Absolutely not.”
You sighed and got into the car anyway, mostly because Jack’s hand was warm at your back and he looked like that, and you were only human.
He leaned across you to buckle your seatbelt.
You went very still.
Jack paused immediately. “Okay?”
You nodded, eyes wide. “You smell good.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and clicked the seatbelt into place. “You’re drunk.”
“You smell good when I’m drunk.” You amended.
Jack shook his head, “That’s not how that works.”
“It is for me.” You replied with a happy shrug.
Jack braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at you.
His expression was amused. Tired. Fond in a way he would absolutely deny if Robby had been there to witness it. “You need water when we get home.”
You pointed at him. “Bossy.”
“You need sleep.” He added.
You smiled. “Oh, fuck.”
“And no flirting with me until you can walk in a straight line.” Jack continued.
Your mouth fell open. “You’re denying your wife?”
Jack held up his left hand.
You looked at his ring automatically.
Then at yours.
The distress vanished.
You nodded, “Hell yeah.”
He smiled despite himself. “And yes. I’m denying my drunk wife.”
You considered that, then nodded slowly. “Responsible husband.”
He smiled softly, “Trying to be.”
You looked him up and down from your seat. “Hot.”
Jack shut the door before you could say anything else. You watched him walk around the front of the car. The parking lot lights were doing very good things to him. His shoulders. His hoodie. His jeans. When he opened the driver’s side door, you were still staring.
He slid in and caught your expression immediately. “No.”
You frowned deeply, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” Jack commented.
You looked out the windshield, dignified. “I was admiring privately.”
You looked at his hands on the steering wheel. “Oh, fuck.”
He closed his eyes. “Baby.”
You looked down at your rings.
Then, at his hand on the wheel, wedding band visible under the passing sweep of the parking lot light.
“You called me baby.” You sighed happily.
He pulled out of the parking space. “I’m your husband.”
You smiled at his ring. “Hell yeah.”
The drive home was mostly quiet. Mostly.
You hummed under your breath until Jack, without looking away from the road, said, “No more husband song.”
You turned your head toward him. “I like it when you’re bossy.”
“I know.” He replied.
You sat up straighter, “Say something else.”
“No.”
“That was something.” You mumbled.
He sighed.
You smiled out the window like you had won.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, your energy had softened around the edges. The feral husband appreciation was still there, obviously, because Jack existed and you had eyes, but it had gone warm and sleepy.
Less bar announcement.
More gravity.
Jack came around to your side and opened the door.
You looked up at him.
He looked down at you. “Out.”
Your mouth parted.
Jack pointed at you. “Do not.”
You pressed your lips together, nodding seriously. Then whispered, “Attending voice.”
He helped you out anyway.
You wobbled once on the driveway, and his hand found your waist immediately.
You leaned into him. “Good catch.”
He gave you a little grin, “Good wobble.”
You gasped. “You praised me.”
“I should not have,” Jack replied, regretting his choice immediately.
You smiled up at him, “I liked it.”
Jack looked down at you, “I know.”
Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Jack locked the door behind you, then turned back to find you standing in the entryway, looking down at your left hand again.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Checking?”
You lifted your rings toward the hall light. “Still married.”
Jack held up his left hand. His wedding band gleamed.
Your smile went loose and delighted. “Hell yeah.”
He took your coat off first.
Not because you helped.
You did not help.
You got distracted halfway through by the flex of his forearm when he pulled the sleeve down your arm. “Oh, fuck.”
Jack paused. “What?”
You didn’t look up, “Your arm.”
“My arm is removing your coat,” Jack said.
“Yeah.” You stared at it. “That’s the problem.”
Jack exhaled through his nose and hung your coat on the hook. “Kitchen.”
You looked at him sharply. “Attending voice.”
Jack sighed, “I’m getting you water.”
“You said kitchen like an order.” You argued.
Jack inhaled, “It was a destination.”
“A hot destination.” You corrected him.
He pointed down the hall. “Move.”
You inhaled. “Jackie.”
“No.” He said instantly.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” You said with a whine.
Jack gave you a look, “I do.”
You followed him anyway, because his hand settled at the small of your back and your drunk brain apparently classified that as a life-altering event.
At the kitchen counter, he gave you more water and two crackers.
You stared at the crackers. Then up at him. “Are you feeding me?”
“I am preventing tomorrow from being worse,” Jack replied.
Your eyes went wide and affectionate, “You provide.”
“I provide saltines.” Jack amended.
You picked one up and took a dramatic bite. “Sexy.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Chew.”
You froze. Then pointed at him with the cracker. “Attending voice.”
Jack tilted his head, “Chewing is not optional.”
“Oh, my god.” You fan yourself with the cracker.
He dragged a hand down his face. “Please eat the cracker.”
You did, mostly because he watched you with that serious, focused Jack expression, and you had already learned at the bar that being perceived by your husband while he gave basic instructions was dangerous.
After water and crackers, he got you upstairs.
Barely.
There was a brief negotiation on the landing because you stopped to admire his butt from a lower step and whispered, “Perspective,” like you had made a scientific discovery.
Jack looked over his shoulder. “Keep walking.”
You gripped the railing. “Attending voice.”
“Stairs voice.” He corrected you.
You shrugged, “Same family.”
When you finally reached the bathroom, Jack set your makeup remover, toothbrush, and face wash on the counter as if he were preparing for a procedure.
You leaned against the doorframe and watched him. “You’re setting up supplies.”
Jack nodded, “I am.”
“Like an attending.” You add.
“Like a husband who knows you’ll sleep in mascara if I don’t help,” Jack replied.
You gasped and looked down at your rings.
Jack lifted his left hand immediately.
You checked. Satisfied, you nodded. “Verified.”
He handed you a makeup wipe. “Face.”
You took it, then blinked. “Huh.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“You said face.” You answered.
Jack nodded, “I did.”
“Very direct.” You replied with a crooked smile.
Jack looks over your face, “You have makeup on it.”
You touched the wipe to your cheek, still watching him. “Bossy skincare husband.”
Jack leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. That was a mistake.
You stared at his chest.
He noticed. “Face,” he repeated.
You closed your eyes. “That was worse.”
“Makeup off.” He tried again.
You threw your head back in defeat, “Oh, fuck.”
He held out his hand. “Give me the wipe.”
You handed it over without thinking. Jack stepped closer and gently tipped your chin up with two fingers. The bathroom went very quiet. He wiped beneath one eye with slow, careful strokes, his other hand steady at your jaw. His face was close enough that you could see the tired fondness in his eyes.
You swallowed. “Jackie.”
His thumb stilled for half a second. “Yeah?”
“You’re really good at this.” You whispered.
He smiled softly, “At taking off mascara?”
“At being mine.” You said, almost breathless.
His expression softened.
Then, because you were drunk and incapable of letting tenderness survive unbothered, you added, “Also, your pecs are close.”
Jack closed his eyes. “There she is.”
You smiled.
He finished with your makeup, then handed you your toothbrush.
“Toothpaste,” he said.
You looked at the toothbrush. Then at him in the mirror. “Attending voice.”
“Toothpaste voice.”
You brushed your teeth while glaring at him with exaggerated suspicion.
Jack watched you in the mirror, arms crossed, trying and failing not to smile.
When you finished, he pointed to the sink. “Spit.”
You blinked around the toothbrush. Then slowly looked at him. “Jack.”
“What?” He asked.
Your eyes widened, “You can’t just say spit like that.”
His jaw tightened. Not anger. A smile he was trying to kill. “I am asking you to brush your teeth.”
“You are issuing commands in a bathroom.” You say, mouth foamy.
Jack looked down at your mouth, “You have toothpaste in your mouth.”
You pointed the toothbrush at him. “Dangerous.”
“Sink.” He commanded.
“Oh, fuck.” You spat, rinsed, and accepted the towel he handed you.
“Good,” he said.
You pressed the towel to your mouth and froze.
He sighed immediately. “I forgot.”
“You said good.” You grinned.
He sighed again, “I did.”
“With the voice.” You say, eyebrows raised.
Jack shrugged, “It slipped.”
You lowered the towel and pointed at him. “Dangerous.”
“Bed,” he said.
You stared. “Jack.”
He pointed toward the bedroom. “Now.”
Your mouth dropped open. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack muttered something under his breath and guided you into the bedroom.
He found one of his old T-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts from your drawer. Then he turned back to you, clothes in hand. “Can I help?”
You looked at the shirt. Then at him. Then down at your rings.
Jack lifted his hand before you could ask. You checked his wedding band.
“Okay,” you said. “Husband verified.”
He nodded once, “Good.”
You pointed at him immediately. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did not.” He replies innocently.
You pouted, “You weaponized good.”
“I am trying to get you into pajamas,” Jack replied.
Your frown deepened, “Domestic warfare.”
He helped you sit on the edge of the bed. Then he crouched in front of you and touched the hem of your top. “Arms up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Is this a trick?”
He smiled, “No.”
Your brow furrows, “Because I’m drunk.”
“Exactly.” Jack agreed.
You look at him suspiciously, “You’re not going to be weird.”
“I’m not going to be weird,” Jack promised.
You leaned closer, whispering with great seriousness. “I might be weird.”
His mouth twitched. “I know.”
You lifted your arms.
Jack changed you with the careful efficiency of a man determined not to let his drunk wife turn pajamas into a legal incident. Shirt off, sleep shirt on. No lingering. No teasing. No letting his eyes go where drunk you absolutely wanted them to go.
Which, naturally, offended you. “You’re very respectful.”
“I try,” Jack replied.
You groan, “It’s annoying.”
“I know.” He said.
You sighed, “It’s hot.”
“I know that too.” He said with a smile.
He helped you step into the shorts while you held both hands on his shoulders for balance.
The second your palms settled there, you sighed. “Shoulders.”
“Balance,” Jack corrected.
“Shoulders.” You repeated dreamily.
He pulled the shorts up to your hips and patted your side once. “Done.”
You looked down at yourself. Then at him. “You dressed me.”
Jack shrugged, “I helped.”
“You’re like a sexy pit crew.” You say with a wink.
Jack stared at you.
You nodded, pleased with yourself. “Fast. Focused. Good with hands.”
He stood and pointed at the bed. “Lie down.”
Your eyes went wide. “Attending voice.”
He continued to point, “Bed.”
You looked at him desperately, “Oh, Jackie.”
“Do not make bed weird.” He groaned.
You pouted, “You made it weird when you pointed.”
He pulled the blanket back. “In.”
You climbed under the covers, mostly because the single syllable nearly took you out.
Jack tucked the blanket around your waist, then set the water on the nightstand.
“You need sleep,” he said.
You looked up at him, suddenly softer. “You’re staying?”
His expression shifted. “Yeah, baby. I’m staying.”
You looked down at your rings one more time. Then reached for his hand.
Jack gave it to you.
You checked his wedding band, slower now, your thumb brushing over the metal.
“You proposed?”
He sat on the edge of the bed beside you. “I proposed.”
“And I said yes?” You asked happily.
His mouth softened. “You said yes.”
You smiled, sleepy and bright. “Hell yeah.”
Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead.
“No sex,” You murmured. “I’m drunk.”
Jack huffed a laugh against your temple, “I know, baby.”
Your eyes closed. “It sucks, though, because you have amazing pecs. And a great ass.”
He laughed quietly and brushed your hair away from your face. “Go to sleep.”
You sighed into the pillow. “Attending voice.”
“Husband voice,” he corrected, softer.
Your smile was almost gone with sleep. “Jackie.”
“Yeah?” He answers quietly.
“Still hot.” You murmur into your pillow.
He stayed there until your breathing evened out, his thumb moving once over your rings before he let go. Then he slipped into the bathroom, changed, came back, and climbed into bed beside you. You rolled toward him automatically, even in sleep, one hand landing against his chest like you were verifying he was still there. Jack covered your hand with his. Your rings pressed lightly against his skin.
The Next Day...
In the morning, you woke up to pain, sunlight, and consequences.
Mostly consequences.
Your head hurts. Your mouth was dry. Your body felt like it had been assembled incorrectly. For one blessed second, you remembered nothing after the second round of drinks.
Then your phone buzzed.
You opened one eye.
On the nightstand, your screen lit up with a message from Robby.
MRS. ABBOT LIVE AT THE BAR: WHERE IS MY HUSBAND TOUR
You closed your eye again. “No.”
Beside you, Jack was already awake.
You could feel it.
You turned your head very slowly.
He was lying on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, watching you with the calm, devastating expression of a man who knew everything.
You swallowed. “How bad?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Define bad.”
You groaned and pulled the blanket over your face.
He reached over and tugged it down just enough to see you. “You reviewed my body in public.”
Your eyes closed. “Oh, my god.”
“Pecs got mentioned several times.” He added.
“Jack.” You whined.
He grinned, “Butt got a standing ovation.”
You covered your face with both hands. “I need to leave the country.”
“You also called your rings' wife jewelry.”
A pause.
You peeked through your fingers. “That’s kind of cute.”
Jack nodded, “It was very cute.”
Your stomach softened despite the hangover.
Then he added, “You made me show you my ring every time someone told you we were married.”
You lowered your hands. “I did?”
He lifted his left hand. His wedding band gleamed in the morning light. Your eyes flicked down to your own rings automatically.
Jack noticed.
A smile started at the corner of his mouth.
You pointed at him. “Do not.”
He raised both his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked smug.” You replied, eyes narrowed.
Jack tilted his head, “I’m allowed.”
“You are not.” You argued.
Jack smiled, “You kept checking.”
“I was drunk.” You defend.
Jack looked down at his ring. “You were thorough.”
You groaned again and rolled onto your back. “I hate myself.”
“No, you don’t,” Jack said.
You stared at the ceiling. “I hate Robby.”
“That’s fair.” Jack agreed.
Your phone buzzed again.
This time, Jack picked it up before you could stop him.
“Jack.” You warned.
He looked at the screen. Then his mouth twitched.
“No.” You groaned.
He turned the phone toward you.
The video thumbnail showed you in the booth, hand dramatically raised, mouth open mid-song. At the same time, Robby performed backup vocals, and Santos looked as if she were reconsidering friendship as a concept.
You stared.
Then slowly turned to Jack. “Delete it.”
“It’s not on my phone.” He replied.
You groaned, “Tell Robby to delete it.”
“I will,” Jack answered.
You narrowed your eyes.
Jack’s expression stayed too innocent. “After I watch it once.”
You huffed, “Jack.”
He pressed play. Your own drunk voice filled the room with devastating commitment. On-screen, Robby echoed you terribly.
Then the video shifted as Santos muttered, “I’m calling Abbot.”
Your face lit up. You grabbed Mel’s wrist and shouted, “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants!”
Jack paused the video. Silence. You stared at the ceiling. Jack stared at the phone.
Then he looked at you. “The gray sweatpants?”
You pulled the blanket over your face again. “I was unwell.”
“You were specific.” Jack corrected you.
“I had a medical condition.” You attempted to explain.
“Being horny for your husband is not a medical condition,” Jack replied.
You slowly lowered the blanket.
Jack’s eyebrow lifted.
You pointed at him. “You’re a doctor. Diagnose it.”
He laughed then. Really laughed. Warm and low and unfairly pleased.
You groaned, but you were smiling too. He set the phone aside and leaned over you, bracing one hand near your shoulder. Your eyes flicked to his arm before you could stop yourself.
Jack noticed that too. “Still?”
“Shut up.”
His smile widened.
You looked down at your rings, partly because you were embarrassed and partly because the habit had apparently survived the alcohol. Then, quietly, Jack lifted his left hand beside yours.
The rings caught the same strip of morning light.
Your chest softened. “We match,” you said, voice rough from sleep and singing and terrible decisions.
Jack’s expression went gentle. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “We match.”
You stared at the rings for a second.
Then at him.
Even hungover, even humiliated, even with video evidence waiting in the group chat, you could not help it.
♡ synopsis: when a patient attacks you & embeds a scalpel in your abdomen, you go to jack for help. overwhelmed & irritable, he snaps at you to go find someone else for whatever it is which you're running to him for. once robby has tended to your injury, he informs jack of how he royally screwed up & your husband comes home after his shift to make amends.
♡ a/n: requested by @styx03, ty! i hope i did ok ;_;
Blood drips in fresh, crimson splatters onto polished white tiles from the wound your hand hovers near.
Protruding from your right lower quadrant is a scalpel which a patient has just impaled you with. You don't even respond—there is no screaming, wailing in panic, or hyperventilating to bear witness to which interrupts the beeping, shifting monotony of the ED—before you turn and head out the door of his exam room without another word.
With your shirt awkwardly clutched in your hand, you walk with measured steps to an empty room—cringing all the while from the rhythmic movement.
Once you've closed yourself behind a locked door, you pull the silver instrument from your now inflamed abdomen with a quiet cry of distress, and drop it into the stainless steel sink you stand at. Clattering against the metal basin, you pluck half a dozen tissues from a plastic box mounted to the wall and press them firmly to your weeping laceration.
Not but perhaps two hours ago did you stand at a patient's bedside and hold his hand as a heart attack claimed his life and ripped him from his family's embrace. His wife threw herself over his corpse after—screaming all the while for him to wake up, wake up, wake up; she can't do it without him, how will they survive?
Her children, meanwhile, trembled in a corner while holding fast to one another—their tiny faces flushed and red from tears, unable to understand why daddy wouldn't open his eyes like mommy wanted.
You excused yourself to the restroom to vomit thereafter.
Fighting down a familiar feeling of nausea, you flex stiff limbs while continually pressing numb fingertips against your palm—continually counting them as a grounding technique.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
You believe that you may be going into shock.
You'd like a heated blanket to keep you warm, or your husband's arms to make you safe. Most of all, you wish to leave this place.
You go in search of Jack.
"Hey, Jack?" you ask quietly from the entryway of Trauma 3, watching as he smoothly inserts an IV in the arm of an unconscious patient.
You slide your shaking hand behind you so no one can see.
At least you're still upright, you think. Small blessings.
Even behind the blue and white mask he dons, you can hear him huff in irritation. "Honey, I'm a bit busy right now. If it's a consult, or you're needing help, you need to go find somebody else."
You take a small step forward, ignoring the way your fresh wound smarts when you do so. "I was just—"
He swiftly tugs down his mask and grips the handrail of the patient's bed he stands guard beside. "Go find Robby or Langdon. Anybody else. Can you do that?" he barks. "I don't always have to be the one you come to. They're just as capable."
Your eyes flit to Parker, who turns to Jack with an open mouth—you know she intends to defend you; chew him out for the way he's just spoken to you—until you take a step back in acquiescence to prevent an argument.
Sniffling quietly, you nod, now feeling like a burden. Does he often feel like that? Like you're breaking his concentration, or are too attached? Perhaps it's unprofessional behavior on your part. Work and home are two different things which you've ignorantly merged into one.
"Yeah, I'll go find Robby. I'm sorry for interrupting."
The door swings shut behind you.
You stare at Robby a handful of feet from where he stands, and watch as he heads into an empty exam room before following close behind.
"Are you busy?" you inquire softly while fingering the edge of the striped polyester curtain you waver beside.
He glances to you with kind brown eyes before tearing wrinkled paper from the exam table he stands at. Robby shakes his head while balling it up and tossing it into the trash. "Never too busy for you. What's up?"
You pull back the curtain to give yourself a bit of privacy.
You nervously tug at the hem of your shirt while your other hand continues holding your throbbing side, which Robby's eyes flit to before meeting your own once again.
"I need you to promise me," you say while shuffling forward. "That you're not going to make a federal case out of this. I...I think he's going to end up under psyche's care. I left him—" You shake your head. "I shouldn't have."
You half turn around then. What if he leaves his room and harms someone else? Why did you just walk out and not call security like protocol demands?
Stupid, stupid, stupid. No wonder Jack was so short with you.
You go to head back the way you came until Robby starts toward you and grabs your forearm. "Sweetheart," he says while resting his opposite hand on the crown of your shoulder. "You're my concern now. Tell me what's going on." He nods toward your stomach. "It have anything to do with the way you're holding yourself?"
You shift on your feet uncertainly and wince quietly from the movement. "Promise me. He's unwell. I don't want him arrested, or—"
Robby finally throws up his hands. "Fine, fine, if it'll get you to tell me what's wrong, I will give this man the royal treatment. Now, tell me."
You chew the inside of your lip, then gingerly lift the bottom of your shirt before carefully peeling away the wad of tissues that've dried to your unwanted incision.
"Jesus Christ," Robby curses while stepping forward and gripping your hip to begin examining the damage inflicted. "When did this happen?"
"A few minutes ago," you sputter in explanation. "I didn't tell anyone. I just turned and walked away. I don't know why. I went to Jack, but he...he was busy—"
"Too busy for this?" he asks incredulously. "A patient sliced your fucking stomach open."
You hang your head. "It's not that extreme, Robby."
Maybe if you deny that you were assaulted, things won't turn out to be as bad as you're afraid they are when he finally takes a look.
Robby gently prods at it and your hand flies—sinking your nails into his shoulder. "Ow!"
He raises a brow. "Isn't it?" Robby shakes his head. "Jack should've dropped everything to tend to you."
He waves you toward the exam table, and you climb awkwardly atop it while favoring your side. "I didn't exactly tell him," you murmur while lying back.
Pulling on a pair of gloves, Robby purses his lips in disapproval.
"He told me to come find you. Or just...someone. He was busy—overwhelmed—so he didn't mean to snap at me."
Robby shakes his head. "No excuse. When you come to me, I drop everything without complaint."
You grin, ignoring the way your body is trembling because it's so painfully cold. "It's because you just adore me, right?" you say playfully between chattering teeth while tucking your shaking hands beneath your thighs.
Seeing how you're shivering, Robby frowns, then shrugs off his hoody before draping it over you. "You know I do," he rumbles before grabbing a pack of wipes. "Was the instrument—"
"Sterile," you supply. "I just need stitches." Your eyes flit to the machine next to him, and your stomach sinks to your knees. "Robby..."
"What is it, sweetheart?"
Your chin wobbles. "Ultrasound." Your hand flutters toward your stomach. "My...my ovary."
He stills for a moment and studies you—the way your tearful eyes plead with him to tell you anything but that which you're now terrified of hearing.
He wheels the machine around and switches it on.
You stare up at him through glassy eyes. "Is...is it—"
He shakes his head. "It didn't go deep enough to hit anything. Barely went any deeper than the subcutaneous level."
You squeeze your eyes shut and begin to sob.
Pushing the cart away, Robby slides a palm over your forehead while shooshing you. "It's alright. I'm going to clean the area, give you a few stitches, and then," he says while folding your shirt until it's positioned just beneath your breasts, "I'm taking you home."
You shake your head. "No. Robby, I can—"
He drags an antiseptic wipe over the affected area. "This isn't some option I'm laying before you. I'm an attending, you're my resident—"
"I'm Jack's resident," you state.
Robby looks at you. "I'm making you my resident right now. And as your attending, I'm telling you that you're going home. I'm not asking," he states with finality.
Throwing your head back against the hard vinyl beneath you, you huff in irritation. "Fine."
Robby alerts security to the altercation which occurred where you clearly neglected to, followed by a page to psyche for a consult. After you've completed a workplace incident form and he's compiled a bag of supplies for you to take home so you can tend to your wound in private—as well as some pain meds—he presses the keys to his truck into your palm and tells you to go wait for him.
You think to ask as to why he can't come with you, but refrain.
You'd really like to sit down, and the sooner you make it to his vehicle, the sooner that can happen.
Jack's just exiting the room he found himself unwittingly stationed in for the last hour to the sight of Robby coming straight toward him with a displeased look on his face. He's left to assume that you went to him in the end like he commanded you to, then, and now he's about to be ripped a new one for daring to withhold attention for a damn minute.
"Take it she came to you?" Jack asks while ripping off a surgical gown.
Robby crosses his arms. "She's out in my truck. I'm taking her home."
"I'm sorry, what?" he asks with a raised brow while swinging around toward him.
"I'm guessing you don't have any idea why she came to you earlier?"
Jack plants his hands on his hips. "I assumed because she had a question, or needed help with a patient."
"She was the patient," Robby spits.
Jack falters momentarily.
"He's been taken up to psyche, but she was trying to treat a man having an episode of psychosis. He shoved a scalpel in her belly for it."
Jack curses then runs the heel of his palm along his eye and past his temple. "She didn't say—"
"Maybe if you'd bothered listening for a moment—allowed her to get out what she was trying to fucking tell you—then you might've known."
Jack hardly wastes a moment before shoving past Robby and hobbling toward the doors of the ED. His leg is giving him fucking fits tonight, and instead of dealing with it like a man, he chose to take it out on you instead. You, who was already terrified after someone committed battery against you.
You had looked a bit wan, but he merely shook it off as hazards of the job. Hardly anybody around here is in tip-top shape at all times.
Robby jogs to catch up with him, then presses a hand to his shoulder to halt him in his tracks. A gesture which he bats away. "I'm going to see my wife."
"Jack—"
"Dr. Abbot," calls Henderson from two doors down. "He's crashing, we need you!"
Jack grits his teeth and growls in frustration before turning back around yet again. "Just get her home. I'll be there as soon as I can once my shift is over," he calls reluctantly over his shoulder.
"You sure you don't want me to come in with you? Stay for awhile?" Robby asks while settling his forearm atop the center console and turning in his seat to face you.
You shake your head and force a smile. "No, thank you. I'll be okay. I'm just going to go in, try and bathe," you say with a breathy laugh. "Maybe order something, or just warm up leftovers. Afterward, I'll probably lay down for awhile and watch TV."
Robby seems to debate something for a moment, but ultimately relents. "Alright. Just call me if you need anything," he says while giving your hand a reassuring squeeze.
You nod. "I will. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
When Jack enters your shared domicile, it's to strict quietude. He presumes that you long ago fell off to sleep in wait of him, so he heads in the direction of the bedroom to get his damn leg off and switch to the relief crutches provide.
And then he finds the bed devoid of your previously expected presence.
Tugging off the apparatus, he practically tosses it onto the floor at his side of the bed, slides himself onto his preferred means of physical support—when he's home, anyway—and goes in search of you. An exploration which doesn't take long when he sees light peeking out of the crack found at the base of the bathroom door.
He knocks quietly. "Honey, can I come in?"
He hears something roll across the floor, followed by a quiet "damn it."
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry for what happened at work. I just had a lot going on. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. Just open the door for me, angel. Please."
There's the sound of something crinkling.
With a huff, he goes to turn the handle, only to find it locked.
He's really in the doghouse this time, isn't he?
"Either you can let me in, or I'm going to find a key," Jack states.
"I'm busy," you snip.
He sighs, rolls his eyes, then turns and heads for the multiple keychains that hang near the front door.
The doorknob jingles, then turns with a quiet squeak. "Now, do you wanna tell me why—" He promptly shuts his mouth.
It's worse than he thought. Robby did a clean job of repairing what that man damaged, but he's horrified by the sight of you sitting atop a towel in the middle of the bathroom floor in no more than your underwear while you try and clean your dozen stitches.
Leaning his crutches against the sink, Jack hops forward, presses a palm against the wall, then slides downward to join you on the floor.
"C'mere," he murmurs. "Let me take care of it."
"No, I can do it," you mumble while half turning away.
Jack plants his legs on either side of you and shoves your hands from the injury before you manage to reopen it.
Picking up the bottle of rubbing alcohol, he eyes it with a raised brow before glancing to you. "You know better."
You shrink into yourself out of embarrassment. "I was only gonna use a little..."
With a shake of his head, he reaches across the way, grabs the top, and screws it back on.
Swiping an ace bandage from beside you, he peels it open and tosses the wrapper in the trash before making to apply the dressing. "I'm sorry," he begins while smoothing the edges with his thumbs. "I didn't know. Not until Robby told me. For what it's worth, I was a worried wreck for the remainder of my shift. I couldn't get back here fast enough. I went flying by a state trooper on the interstate, but got lucky when he didn't come after me."
In every spare moment Jack had tonight, he found himself subconsciously fiddling with his wedding ring—not wanting to acknowledge the ugly truth of what kind of hell losing you would bring upon him.
He feels doubtful he could survive it; unsure that he would want to.
But you don't need to ever hear something so ugly.
Once you've been properly tended to, Jack grips your hips and pulls you toward him. "My leg has been aching all fucking night, I ended up having to do a cric on the patient you saw me with—" he shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."
Cupping the back of your head, he tries pulling your lips toward his. "I'm sorry, baby."
You slide a hand up his chest. "I forgive you," you whisper.
An apology which is soon followed up with a mischievous smirk. "Robby's really good with his hands, by the way. You ever had 'em on you?"
Jack glares at you. "You do not want to test my patience right now."
"I'm the one who got stabbed," you retort. Leaning in close, you giggle. "Even let him come inside and tuck me in..."
Jack deadpans. "I need to check the security cameras?"
You shrug. "Only proof of what we did in bed is stored on my phone in a locked folder. It's filthy."
He fights against a smirk. "You're such a pain in my leg."
You raise a brow. "And you're a pain in my belly."
He snorts while bringing you flush against his chest. "If something like that ever happens again, you scream at the top of your fucking lungs. Alright? Made me sick thinking about you trapped in there alone... He could've done far, far worse."
You nod while nuzzling against his neck. "I just froze. My body locked up, and my voice with it. All I wanted was you I was so scared."
He could put his head through a fucking wall hearing that. Jack wraps his arms securely around you. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. What happened tonight will never happen again. You come first. Always."
Sliding a hand up your back, he presses a kiss to your temple. "It's my job to protect you. And tonight I failed to—"
You shake your head. "Jack, I didn't even tell you." Leaning back, you caress his cheek. "It happens. As terrible as it is, it does in our line of work. It's just a cut that, at most, may leave a small scar. Better it be me with a sterile instrument than someone he attacks on the street with a dirty knife. He wasn't himself. I'm okay."
He presses a long kiss to your forehead. "You're way more empathetic than I would've been. Good thing you didn't tell me. Because if you had..." He doesn't want to think on how he may've very well put the assailant in the morgue.
"I'm just glad he's safe and getting the help he needs. Everything is alright now," you insist.
He brushes a kiss over your lips.
"C'mon," you say while pushing back. "Come lay in bed for awhile and I'll massage your leg." You grin. "Robby gave me the good painkillers, y'know?"
He rolls his eyes. "He does tend to baby you," he says with a grunt while pushing himself upward.
You paw at his middle once he's standing. "Guess that makes two of you."
You pad out of the bathroom and he pinches your rear on the way out, causing you to yelp in surprise.
"Let's go see if we can't overwrite your and Robby's video," he croons while sliding onto his crutches.
"'Overwrite'? Think you're cruising in the wrong century, old man."
He switches off the bathroom light and nearly barks a laugh at the reply that comes to him. "Yeah, well, I'm about to fuck you into the next one, little girl. So you better hope those stitches were sewn tight enough."
warnings. 18+ only. smut. jack abbot becomes an audio porn king. fem!reader. medical student!reader. but also patient!reader. inappropriate thoughts about a patient. age gap. power imbalance.
hyde's input. shawn hatosy, consider me mad and mystified. god bless the women at quinn.
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jack abbot who swears he was just trying to find a new hobby. after having the world’s most unstable man — more commonly referred to as doctor robby — call him out on his not-so peaceful hobby of getting shot at, he decides to go back to the drawing board. calls his therapist, asks for an honest opinion, and is met with the worst possible answer a man like him could receive: maybe something less physically demanding and endangering would do you good. have you tried golf?
jack abbot who has tried golf, actually... he almost sent a young caddie to the pitt, golf club swinging out his grip and crashing against the golf cart. second time is never the charm, so he skips golf and goes straight to padel. old man tennis, as doctor ellis so kindly puts it. after launching the ball out of the court one too many times, he gives up, declares the game is not fast-paced enough* for him (*read as: jack is too heavy handed).
jack abbot who goes through a whole list of hobbies. he’s too skilled for paint-ball. he’s too stiff for dancing. he’s too impatient for cooking. sports are not his forte, and he’s already dedicated way too many years of his life to education to fully toy with the thought of getting another degree — even if holding another masters over robby’s head does sound like fun. but he finds something easier, something quicker. his hand, his voice, and a microphone… that’s all he really needs to become an audio pornstar.
jack abbot who swears it was an accident. all he had done was google hobbies for a middle-aged man that won’t bore me to death but won’t tweak my back… and somehow, someway, he had landed on a reddit thread. men his own age, shouting out their hobbies in the hopes of helping a fellow bored soul like his own find a new calling outside of the gruelling hours he spends covered in guts and gore. some men recommended forming bike groups. others spoke of table-top games. but only one of them really caught his eye. a single comment, no thread beneath it, with a total of eight upvotes: i record erotic audios. it’s fun, easy, and the feedback has done wonders to my self-esteem. the best part is i don’t even have to show my face, all my audience wants is to hear me.
jack abbot who soon finds out it’s lot harder than he expected. and, no, he’s not talking about his dick. recording is his first challenge. the first few attempts are a technical nightmare. this attempt too muffled, that attempt too awkward, more than a few where he loses focus and drops his phone (aka his acting microphone) as he sinks into the sweet relief of his hand working over his aching cock, completely missing out on recording the part where breathy groans divulge into full-blown, pathetic whimpers, and soon one of pittsburgh’s most respected emergency medicine doctors is painting his knuckles and lower abdomen in the sticky residue of his pleasure.
jack abbot who’s second hurdle is making an account and, worse, figuring out how to use it. asking for help is out of the question because, while jack abbot is far from shy, he doesn’t want to invite that level of gossip into his workplace. shen would give him shitty nicknames like doctor jacking-off abbot, dana wouldn’t say anything but the side-eye would be loud enough to speak for her. robby would no doubt find a way to criticise even this hobby. and god forbid the pittlings hear about it… any ounce of respect they have for him would fly right out the window. worst of all, jack thinks, ahmad would start a betting pool… how long until doctor abbot leaks his identity?
jack abbot who nearly doxxes himself immediately, accidentally attaching a picture — one of those low-angled selfies javadi is forever teasing him about — alongside the audio file. a file that captures him in a moment of pure vulnerability, head thrown back against the couch, knees bent, feet on the ground; all the while last night’s scrubs stick to his sweaty thighs, shoved far enough down for him to free his cock. he doesn’t listen to the audio fully, afraid that if he listens too long, he’ll back out and delete it once again. with barely any recollection of the things he said nor the sounds he made, he takes a deep breath and finally hits post.
jack abbot who is officially, by technicality, an audio pornstar. the attention isn’t instant. for the first few days, he tells himself to not bother checking, to not interest himself in how many silly upvotes a collective of strangers might have deemed his moans worthy of. that doesn’t stop him from pulling out his phone during bathroom breaks, swiping through the apps list until he finds a familiar orange, and checking the engagement. five upvotes. no comments. oh well, he thinks (with a little more disappointment than he’s willing to admit). maybe this hobby is just not for him, either. back to the drawing board he’ll go, right?
jack abbot who learns the hard way just how far a little praise can go. it’s another mindless check, shift over and finally standing under the rejuvenating burn of a warm shower. two days off ahead of him, a whole load of sleep to catch up on. a song comes on that he’s sick of hearing, so, despite the soap suds in his hands, he grabs for his phone and changes the track. muscle memory forces his thumb to swipe, fingerprint searching for the familiar glow of that orange app. he barely recognises what he’s done, until the post — his post — is staring at him in the face. seventeen upvotes. one comment. u/dilfhunter pretty sure this violates some sacred feminist rule with how wet it made me. dear god sir, what a voice.
jack abbot who records his second official audio right then and there, the sound of a running shower caught faintly in the background of his grunts and groans. they echo off the bathroom tiles, accompanied by the wet shlick of his hand stroking over his length. he’s still a little unsteady, a little unsure of what to do while one hand is busy touching himself and the other is gripping his phone, making sure the microphone is still recording his every move. to make matters, and his dick, harder this time, he’s caught in a trance, pupils blown wide and jaw hanging loose while he reads the comment over and over. it’s instinct, really, that has him muttering under his breath, brain too far gone to even fully register what he’s saying. d’you like my voice, yeah? is it getting you wet, baby? my dirty girl, touching herself to the sound of me. you gonna cum, hmm? think you should. go on. or d’you need me to show you how?
jack abbot who is starting to gain a following, a community of faceless individuals who are never short on praise and are quick to make him feel desired. every comment is an ego-boost, a reason to record another audio. after a month, he invests in a proper microphone, one that frees up both his hands. another month and he’s ordering toys from some lewd website. it’s for realism, he tells himself, something to make it sound a little more immersive, a little more real for his followers. the fact that the fleshlight grips around his cock in a way that has him curling his toes is just a welcomed bonus, really.
jack abbot who keeps his recordings fairly simple. straightforward, nothing more than the ramblings of a man in dire need of release. groans, moans, whimpers. there’s times where he slips a little deeper than usual into the fantasy, picturing someone sweet and vulnerable, writhing beneath him and echoing out all the wilder comments he receives. dilfhunter becomes a name he searches for, a user who’s feedback he awaits with bated breath. if he uploads and there’s no comment within the first 24 hours, his shoulders sag, his energy is off, and even the other busy-bodies in the pitt notice something off about him. then, ding! dilfhunter has commented on your post! and suddenly everything is back to sunshine and rainbows and boners for mister abbot, who more or less races home on those mornings, ready to capture another intimate moment he’ll share with an audience of thousands.
jack abbot who keeps it simple, until he doesn’t. a comment, not from dilfhunter, is all it takes. u/armpitts god what i wouldn’t pay to have you act out one of my scripts. it captures his attention. and while jack is not the best at replying to his comments — he’s sometimes afraid the things he wants to say may come off too strong… or that he’ll accidentally reveal personal details — he finds himself answering this time. no payment necessary, i’m open to anything :) he feels like an idiot sending a smiley face. fuck. he should have made it a wink. oh well, too late, his notifications are blowing up and there’s an inbox waiting for him. that very same commenter, kind and appreciative, drops the link to one of her scripts and thanks him. he feels silly the first time he reads through it, cheeks warm as he tries out the words on his lips. one would think he hasn’t spent the past few months whoring himself out vocally for a little gratification. but, can you really blame him for being so shy? there he is, a fully qualified doctor, reciting some fantasy where he’s examining a patient. one thing leads to another, an imaginary hand drifts up the expanse of a hypothetical thigh, and he’s acting out something that would get his medical license revoked… that doesn’t stop him from cumming louder than ever before, and swallowing down the name of his favourite patient: you.
jack abbot who swears you’re the sweetest sight for sore eyes. frequent fliers are rarely a celebrated thing in the pitt. unhoused, endangered, unwell; they are usually the kind who find themselves in his care on a regular basis. and then there is you. beautiful, smart, and polite. you never complain about the wait times, you never berate any of the staff for having other patients to attend to, you never show up without a smile. a med student, well into your final year and looking to secure a residency at presby. the catch? you’re a hypochondriac — more recently known as someone who suffers from illness anxiety disorder — diagnosed and all. those who study medicine are already predisposed to convince themselves they have every new illness they learn off. but throw in a disorder that’s merciless in making your brain spiral and, well, you become weekly visitor of the pitt, always showing up with enough self-awareness to recognise you’re probably fine, but still in dire need of a professional who can confirm it for you.
jack abbot who is happy to be said professional. it’s basically an unspoken rule amongst the nightcrawlers: your name is on the board, jack will be attending to you. no matter how big or small your most recent health worry might be, he’s happy to sit by your bedside and go through your vitals, listen to your heartbeat, check your breathing. as many times as you need him to. he knows how hard it can be to sleep, which is why he never berates you for wasting away your hours in the bright lights of the pitt. why would he berate you, when it means he gets to spend a few hours keeping his eye on you?
jack abbot who knows his fascination borders on unprofessional. while you may not be his student, you are still a student somewhere. your career relies on the guidance of those who have graduated before you, those who have already made a career out of caring for patients. he tries his best to make your frequent visits useful to you, talking you through what the signs would truly be for whatever your newest possible diagnosis might be and what the treatment plan would look like. it’s the only thing he can do to distract himself from the thoughts of talking you through something far more selfish.
jack abbot who swears he’s not thinking of you each time he hits record. when a script comes through, casting him the role of an older man who helps his new neighbour fix a leak under her sink, just to bend her over the counter and let his cum leak into her, there’s absolutely no way that jack is picturing you, doe-eyed and looking up at him with eyes that are practically begging him to fix you. and when he plays out the fantasy of a man coming home to find his wife naked in bed, riding out a heat wave, and spreading her thighs as she welcomes his tongue between them even in her sleep, he definitely does not nearly whine your name. and when the comments role in, begging him to add a new audio to his most popular series — the doctor will feel you now — he is doing anything but imagining you in the patient’s place, throwing your head back while you let you doctor cure you with his hands, his mouth, his cock. hey! all those times he’s had to cut the audio, edit out a little stutter of your name? those were nothing but accidents. pure and utter coincidences.
jack abbot who begins to miss you after not seeing you for more than a week. what could have happened? have you started visiting the day shift instead, relying on doctor robby to comfort your worries instead of him? it shouldn’t affect him. he shouldn’t care. he has enough on his plate to worry about, between the ER and the next audio he needs to post. he doesn’t have time to find himself lingering by the boards, willing your name to suddenly appear. what kind of doctor wants to see someone show up in the emergency ward? him, apparently, because there is no denying the way he feels his heart swell as he catches a glimpse of you from across the nurses’ station, being guided into a room by lena and told to sit while you wait for doctor abbot to see you. and see you he does, practically racing through the instructions on how to intubate a patient who’s throat is full of blood, just so he can rip of his gloves, sanitise his hands, and pull back the curtain that reveals you.
jack abbot who finds every way to make you stay a little longer, using every reason to talk to you. he asks about your exams. he asks about your future goals. he asks if you’re 100% sure that presby is the hospital for you. y’know we’re always looking for a new night shift resident in the pitt. just saying. the way you giggle at his wink is enough to sink the pathetic feeling that comes with almost begging you to join the ptmc. don’t think a trauma centre is the best place for me, doctor abbot. it’s actually cruel how effortless that sounds on your tongue. doctor abbot… would you still call him that if he had you arching your back, hips rolling to meet the thrust of his gloved fingers?
jack abbot who can barely hide the shake in his hand when you ask him to examine you. it’s just this mark i’ve got… on my upper thigh. i know it’s probably just a mosquito bite or something but- you’re worried. you don’t have to explain it to jack, he can practically feel the fear rolling off of you in waves. it shouldn’t send a shiver down his spine to know those waves meet an unmovable force when it comes to him, crashing and sinking away with every reassuring word he finds to help ease your worries. you listen to him so well, not needing to be told twice when he instructs you to bend your legs at the knee and plant your feet on the bed. just gonna give you an exam, okay? i’ll start just above the knee, then work my way up the length of your thigh, get a good feel of anything that’s going on there. that sound good to you?
jack abbot who feels himself harden at how eagerly you nod. then his hands are on you and there’s nowhere his thoughts can wander but to those damn audios. your thigh is soft, warm, full beneath his fingertips. what a shame there’s a layer of latex in the way. he tries not to linger on the way your legs fall open a little wider the further he slides his palm up your thigh. he tries not to notice the way the muscle clenches beneath his touch. he tries not to think about how you haven’t breathed properly since he started examining you. if this were one of his filthy audios, now would be the time when the doctor gives into his desires and let’s his fingers brush over the seam of his patient’s clothed cunt. he’d pretend it was an accident, an unintentional bump of his fingertips. he’d hum with a twinge of approval when he realises how wet the fabric is. he’d let his eyes meet hers as he peels her underwear to the side and watches her choke on a gasp, forefinger teasing up the length of the slit, pressing over her throbbing clit. he’d ruin her with nothing but his fingers, his spare hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her delectable moans so no ears but his own can hear them. and if she was good for him, really good, he’d reward her with the stretch of his cock plugging her full, making her stain her cheeks with tears as she bites down on his palm and let’s him whisper in her ear. ‘s this what you really needed, baby? someone to fix you? come on, there we go, breathe nice and deep for me. i know, i know, he’s so big. it’s so much but you’re taking him so well, sweetheart. my perfect little patient, letting me make us both feel better.
jack abbot who is painfully aware of the fact this is not one of his audios and that he needs to pull his hand out from between your thighs. he does so with a cough, swallowing back a mouthful of saliva only to find himself near-drooling again. god, what a relief that the scrubs he’s wearing today sit loose on him, otherwise he’d surely have an hr case on his hands. that doesn’t make the throb of his hardened dick any easier to stomach. especially not when he notices you’re in an almost equally frazzled state, chest heaving as you stare ahead in a trance, legs slowly sinking back down onto the gurney. he starts his medical spiel, but he’s not sure you’re really listening. all feels good, he says, knowing damn well you feel better than good.
jack abbot who doesn’t mean to invade your privacy. when a phone buzzes from somewhere behind him, he swears it’s his own and, with a quick check to see if it’s alright with you, he turns around to grab it. he’s just going to put it on silent, that’s all, to ensure it doesn’t interrupt him during any other patient examination. but then the screensaver is different. a pretty face, pressed right up to a dog. bright, girly, youthful. there’s notifications for apps he barely recognises, names he’s never heard. and then, the most recent one. a notification from 1 minute ago. an email. reddit.
jack abbot who feels himself freeze, right then and there, speechless for the first time in his life.
congratulations u/dilfhunter, you just hit 1,000 upvotes!
+ extra hyde!
· i'm working on a full jack abbot fic. this is a threat. consider yourself warned.
· anyway don't forget to smash that like button and tell me if this made you horny. full disclosure i am more than willing to write more of these two.
· i was waiting to finish a full, proper fic to post again but i've been frothing at the mouth at this thought all day and i had to get it out.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
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Summary: Clark is the big spoon to your little spoon, but tonight he asks to be the little spoon.
Word Count: Over 1.1k
Warnings: Established relationship, comfort, slight angst, slight humor, pet names, bit of fluff, healthy communication, Clark Kent (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: A bit of fluff and comfort for FriYAY. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Clark was always the big spoon. It made sense. He was the protector, the one who loved embracing you in his strong arms, providing you with a sense of security. You joked once that it was a way to enforce some sort of gentle authority, which earned you a little love bite on your shoulder. You both knew he was just a big cuddler.
The truth was you were more than happy to be the little spoon. Curled up with your back against his front, you’d tease him now and then by pushing your hips back against his. Most of the time you were simply content for him to keep you close while you fell asleep. No matter what, teasing or not, you felt safe and cherished in his hold.
But imagine your surprise when he came home tonight after a lengthy battle, his eyes downcast and hair a mess, the dimples you loved not showing since he didn’t offer you a smile. There was no kiss either. Just your gentle giant of an alien collapsing on the bed without a word, his back to you, the gentle sound of his breathing sounding sad to your ears.
“Clark?” you asked, placing your hand on his back. He didn’t flinch or stiffen, but his next exhale was shaky.
“I’m fine,” he barely managed to whisper.
“Are you?” you whispered back.
Just because he had no injuries on the surface didn’t mean he wasn’t in pain. Just because he had the powers of a god didn’t mean he didn’t mean he wasn’t human. You believed in your heart that Clark sometimes felt things even more than most people you knew. Whether that was in his biology or his heart, maybe a bit of both, you wanted to pull him out of whatever abyss his mind was plunging into. You refused to let him settle in that.
He sighed, the sound weary and heavy. “Just a tough one,” he answered, looking over his shoulder. There was a hint of tenderness in his blue eyes when he added, “Maybe we can talk about it later?”
You nodded. Something you appreciated about Clark was that he didn’t keep things bottled up inside. If he said he’d talk about it later he would. He was a man of his word.
“May I ask another question?” You raised an eyebrow when he fought trying to smile. “Do you think I can be the little spoon for a bit tonight?”
Your eyes widened before your heart melted. You were never the big spoon, but there was a first time for everything. He deserved comfort, a sense of peace, whatever he needed to soothe him. The same way he had done for you time and time again.
“You don’t even have to ask,” you replied, positioning yourself directly behind him and wrapping an arm around him. He let you pull him closer, his body as solid as a rock, his heart beating nice and steady under your hand. You thought for a moment that it would feel awkward, but it somehow worked. “So, this is what it’s like to be the big spoon. How am I doing?”
His chest shook, his laughter making you smile. “You’re doing just fine, darling.”
You gasped dramatically. “Just fine? I think I’m doing a pretty awesome job,” you teased, making him laugh more. It was nice to hear him laugh.
“I’ll give you pretty awesome,” he teased back, resting his hand on top of yours. “Sorry if I smell.”
It was your turn to laugh. “You’re fine,” you promised. He would have to shower eventually, but you weren’t about to push him out of bed when he specifically asked you to be the big spoon.
A couple of minutes passed in silence and you thought he fell asleep before he asked, “You know why I like being the big spoon?”
“Why?” you asked.
“Because when I hold you it’s like I have the world in my hands.”
“Oh. I…” You swallowed, emotions bubbling in your throat. “I didn’t know that.”
You knew from the beginning that you were special to Clark. That wasn’t a secret. He was the first to say he loved you, which you reciprocated, but hearing a declaration like that was like another way of saying it. It meant… Well, it meant the world to you.
“Yeah. I just… I think about how lucky we are. We love each other, and we get to come to each other.” He took a deep breath. “Not everyone is so lucky.”
You pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, the same spot where he affectionately bit you. You wondered if there was someone he couldn’t save tonight. He did his best to save everyone, and he took it so hard when he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair for him to carry that burden, but he continued to have hope. And hope was all some people had.
“I’m thankful you came home to me, and that we fell in love,” you said, feeling his heart race faster. You weren’t afraid to love him with your whole heart. “You’re my whole world, too.”
“Yeah?” he asked, looking back at you again.
“Yeah. Superman. Kal-El. Clark,” you said, lifting your head to kiss his nose. “You’re the big spoon to my little spoon. We just fit.”
He turned over completely to face you, his dimple finally showing when he smiled. “And sometimes you’re the big spoon to my little spoon.”
“Sometimes,” you agreed, cupping his cheek and smiling when he leaned into your touch. “The peanut butter to my jelly.”
“The cheese to my macaroni,” he said without skipping a beat.
You both laughed, lost in the moment, the happy sound filling the more. Clark helped you appreciate the little things like this, laying tighter and finding reasons to smile. The world looked a little brighter thanks to his optimism. His humanity.
In a world that could be dark and uncertain some days, the world needed more people like him.
He pressed a soft kiss to your lips once the laughter died down. “Thank you,” he whispered, your heart skipping a beat when he wrapped his arms tight around you. “Whole world in my hands.”
You put your arms around him, too, your heart full. “And in mine.”
He’d tell you later in the dark about the battle, about the weight on his shoulders that he didn’t mean to carry home with him. You’d kiss him, gently remind him that he was both a hero and a good man. For now, you held each other and thought about how lucky you were. Big spoon, little spoon, a perfect fit.
Always.
He deserves everything. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
content warning: bucky x fem!reader, friends to fuckers, flirting, dirty talk, smut (dub!con, dry humping, daddy!bucky, fingering, handjob)
Masterlist
💋
“I guess it’s on us to pick a movie,” You say once the others leave the motel room, slamming the door shut behind them.
Bucky doesn’t reply. He’s too busy staring at your nipples which are poking through your cotton top, practically drooling at the sight.
“I’m in the mood for horror, but Steve will complain,” You think out loud, laying back on the bed and continuing your verbal thought process while Bucky continues drinking in the view.
Summary: You find out Clark is Superman, and he finds out what it feels like to lose you. In more ways than one.
Word count: 4k
Warnings: Angst (but a happy ending!!), injury, canon-typical violence, dual POVs that kinda bop around
a/n: Guys another fandom I know I know 😭 I'm honestly kinda unsure about this but I always feel unsure and silly when I try something new so ignore me <3 but also don't ignore me and please please tell me what you think thank youuuu :)
~~
As wind fluttered past the open window and disrupted the gently parted curtains, Clark Kent felt his world fall apart. An exaggeration to some, maybe, especially considering that he had just saved the world from a 400-foot monster moments before, but you were Clark Kent's world, and you were in his apartment when you shouldn’t be.
Eyes blown wide, bowl clutched to your chest, Clark watched your expression shift from fear, to shock, to complete and utter betrayal. The faint scent of cinnamon wafted from his kitchen, a smell he’d cling to over the next few days—until it faded, much like your presence in his life.
The bowl had begun to hurt your hands, the metal creating indents in your skin as you held it tight to protect you from nothing. There was still so much batter left. Did you set the timer for the batch in the oven?
Clark—Superman—took a step forward. You took a step back. Not on purpose; your body was moving based on feelings, and you were feeling hurt beyond belief. Clark’s face flashed with something raw when you favored the wall at your back over his hands on your body.
“I can explain,” were his first words to you. He held his palms out facing the floor as if trying to tame your rampaging emotions before they were fully felt.
Your throat hurt as you spoke. “I don’t think I need an explanation.”
“You do. Please let me explain. Please, honey.”
Some of the pain in your throat must have moved its attention to your eyes. Your waterline burned as tears built, and it felt silly to cry, but you had asked him about this. You had thought—
“Gosh, don’t cry. C’mere, let me just—”
Hearing your boyfriend’s endearing pleas from such a larger-than-life figure was too much. You shifted the bowl into your arm and held out a finger, silencing him. It would’ve been easier to speak without the knot lodged in your throat.
With a steady inhale and a few more tears building, you shakily said, “You don’t trust me.”
Clark let out a heavy breath that moved his whole body, posture slacking as if it physically hurt to hear you say those words. “What? No, I do. I-I trust you so much. I love you. I wanted to tell you I just—”
“You just didn’t,” you finished for him. “You didn’t. After I asked you, Clark. After—you made me feel crazy, you know that? I thought you were cheating on me and then—”
“I would never be with anyone else.”
“I know that. God, I know that.” You finally abandoned the mixing bowl on the nearest counter, palm pressing to your forehead for some sense of relief. “I asked you if something was going on. Do you remember that?”
The slow tempo of your words made him nervous. Clark flexed his fingers outward, his body urging him to just touch you. “Of course I do. It was two months ago. I missed dinner.”
“Again. You missed dinner again.”
Clark nodded hurriedly, desperate to keep you talking. You tracked the movement and attempted not to feel ridiculous talking about a missed dinner with Superman. You looked towards the counter when his cape billowed from the open window.
“And you told me it was just work. I asked if there was anything, and you said work. You looked at me and you lied, Clark. For probably the hundredth time. We—God, our anniversary is next week. It’s been a year!”
As your voice became louder, more frantic, Clark felt his chest begin to hurt. This wasn’t going well. This was going terribly, like out of his nightmares where he would tell you, and then you would leave him. Only, he hadn’t given you the opportunity to do that. He’d made you find out like it was an accident—like he never meant for you to ever find out.
“I know. I know, and I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Things have just been so tense with this—this side of my life, and it would have been dangerous for you. Lexcorp could have—”
“Don’t,” you interrupted, word thick with tears. “Don’t make this about me, Clark. And don’t talk about things being tense or-or dangerous because I don’t know! You said it yourself—it’s another side of your life. One you decided I shouldn’t be part of. God, do I—do I even know you?”
Clark lost his breath behind panic. He rushed you without meaning to, holding your face in his hands when you hadn’t permitted him. He was losing you; he could feel it, and nothing could be worse than that. You could be mad at him for this, but this could be his last chance to hold you, and his brain recognized that somehow.
“You know me,” Clark pressed, eyes searching yours. “You know me better than anyone. I should have told you. I’ll regret that I didn’t do it sooner—that I didn’t let it come from me—for the rest of my life. But you have to know that it had nothing to do with not trusting you. And I’m still me. Still Clark.”
He could tell you wanted to believe him. You leaned into his touch on instinct, wet eyes staring up at him in such a pretty way, but filled with so much disappointment. Like you wanted this all to be made up. Like he was too good to be true, and you had always figured that.
Your continued silence was too much.
“I love you. So much,” Clark emphasized. His face was drawn in so much panic it made you ache. “I never wanted to hurt you. That’s the last thing I wanted.”
“I know, Clark,” you whispered. The words did not comfort him—not the way you said them with such finality. “I’m not—I’m not mad at you, I don’t think. I know you wouldn’t try to hurt me.”
Clark was so eager to cement that. “I wouldn’t.”
“But I’m still—” you paused, pressing your lips together as Clark’s thumbs brushed against your cheeks over and over. “I think I might need some time to… get my thoughts together.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Clark nodded vigorously, brows drawn together in earnest. He pulled back and rubbed his palms down his thighs, and you were reminded again—looking at him fully—that your timid, adoring boyfriend was Superman. “I’ll leave. I can—”
“Clark, this is your apartment. I’ll leave.”
“But you’ll come back, right?”
Your deep breath had fear pulsing through him.
“Right?” he tried again.
“I need time.”
Several emotions splayed across his face. His brows raised and then lowered. His mouth opened as if to argue. He tried to smile to make it all seem okay, because it had to be okay. Clark loved you, more than anything, and he was trying to protect you. He thought he was doing the right thing.
“Okay, yeah. Let me just walk you—”
“Time alone. For a little while.”
And then you told him goodbye and his apartment still smelled like cinnamon, even with you gone.
~~
Clark had tried to reach out on the first day, and then the second, and then the third. You weren’t ignoring him, but every response you sent was dry and devoid of the warmth he loved.
He was going crazy.
Actually, he was exhausted and sad and everyone could tell. And he was going crazy.
His articles weren’t making sense. Perry looked at him exasperatedly as he slapped papers back on his desk for the third time. He was dropping everything he picked up, the coffee stains on the carpet by his desk a testament to his fumbling hands. And he cried at work yesterday—a complete accident when he thought no one was around. He had stayed far past closing, staring blankly at his computer, and it was just one tear, but he was pretty sure the custodian saw him. The older man shot him worried looks as he ambled out of the elevator this morning.
Jimmy had tried to cheer him up, and Lois had used her stern tone to pull him from his slump, but none of it worked. He screwed up. And what did “some time” even mean? Did that mean forever? Clark had had girlfriends in the past, but the breakups didn’t feel like this. Were you breaking up with him?
Clark felt his stomach turn as he leaned back at his desk.
He wanted to marry you. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. There was no other future for him, and he might’ve caused that future to blow up.
“Hey,” Lois called from across the bullpen. “You gonna be okay? Seriously, Clark, you look like you’re about to throw up.”
Clark’s brows jumped in recognition. He lifted his glasses to wipe his hand down his face and let out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Jimmy snorted, tearing his eyes from his screen. “Sure about that, buddy?”
“Honestly?” Clark posed, because why not? It wasn’t as if things could get any worse.
“‘S why we’re asking,” Lois chimed in, resting her hip against her desk. “Is it about y/n? I haven’t wanted to bring it up, but—”
“But it totally is, isn’t it?” Jimmy asked.
Clark stared at his dull, lifeless phone. “Yeah. Pretty sure it’s over.”
“Yeah, no offense, Clark. But the two of you are kind of gross. Like all the time. There’s no way it’s over so easily. Relationships like yours don’t work like that.”
Clark knocked his head to the side as Jimmy spoke, a spark of hope igniting. He didn’t let it flourish, however. They didn’t know what he’d done. They couldn’t.
Clark shook his head slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I screwed up. Badly. I don’t—I don’t really know where to go from here.”
This conversation was not appropriate for the workplace. Employees of the Daily Planet walked past none the wiser, and the usual commotion persisted, but he still shouldn’t be talking about this. Talking about you. He didn’t even want to share in the first place, afraid speaking would make his memory of you less vivid somehow, but they kept asking, and, to be honest, he needed advice.
“Well, what’d you do?” Lois asked
“I—Well, I kept something from her.”
“Something big?” Jimmy asked, brow arched.
“Obviously something big,” Lois rolled her eyes, softening as she turned back to Clark. “But it couldn’t be that bad. Nothing a bit of groveling couldn’t fix. What’ve you done so far?”
“Uh, texted her?”
Jimmy let out a low whistle. “Wow, dude.”
“What?” Clark panicked, sitting up straighter. “What should I have done?”
“Flowers, at the least. A handwritten letter to be cheesy. Maybe stand outside of her apartment with a boombox over your head to show off your big, strong arms.”
Lois smacked Jimmy’s arm. “Stop being an ass. But he’s right. Partially. You have to show her you’re sorry.”
“But she said she needed time alone.”
“She can still be alone with you trying. Let her reject you. Let her be angry and show her you aren’t going anywhere.”
The spark of hope from earlier returned. Clark considered his friend’s words for a beat, and then he kicked up from his chair with a renewed energy buzzing under his skin. He was going to go to that floral shop you always stared at longingly and then—
Far off screams stopped him in his tracks. They were distant, probably a few miles from him, but they were clear. The telltale sounds of crashing buildings came next, and Clark knew that his efforts to win you back would have to wait. Disappointment tinged his resolve; he’d been looking forward to catching a glimpse of you.
“Getting right to it?” Jimmy called as Clark continued his path out of the Daily Planet. “I’ll cover for you!”
“Thanks!” Clark called over his shoulder. He wasn’t really lying. He was going to continue his plan right after he took care of whatever was ravaging Metropolis.
Something immediately felt… off about the air. He was flying fine, felt fully in control of his powers, but something wasn’t right. Clark spotted the scaled beast ducking between skyscrapers in the distance and knew it wouldn’t be too hard to take it down, especially with help from the Justice Gang currently slowing it down.
But still, he couldn’t shake this feeling.
Clark joined the efforts and fought as he always did, taking even more care to save the city’s infrastructure than was typical. This was your neighborhood, and you would probably be even more mad at him if your favorite coffee shop was turned to rubble. Luckily, Clark had maneuvered the alien off the path towards your apartment.
Unluckily, you had decided to take a walk across town, trying to clear your head after shutting yourself in your apartment for the past few days. According to several of your worried friends, the fresh air was supposed to be good for you, but you were sure they hadn’t accounted for the massive extraterrestrial clobbering through the streets. Or the falling debris.
You were only a couple of blocks into the walk when the fight began.
As if on instinct, you had looked for Clark.
You always looked for Clark when you were scared. And anxious. And sad and happy and everything in between.
In all honesty, you knew being upset at Clark wouldn’t last long. You wanted to stop as soon as you’d started, but the sense of betrayal and mistrust was still raw, and it overpowered the feeling of missing him. At least, it had for the first couple of days. This morning, you had rolled over in bed and reached for him, and you realized that missing him was rising above the hurt.
But he should have told you. He shouldn’t have lied. You knew his explanation was probably air-tight with his stupid Clark logic, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. You could have been there for him—that was the point of relationships, and he hadn’t let you in.
As you stared up at the sky and searched for him now, you considered that maybe this was part of his reasoning. You were worried for your safety, yes, but the thought of him going after that monster made you antsy. Nervous. So much so that you didn’t move. You didn’t run like the others on the street. You simply stood on the sidewalk, shoulders crashing into you, and stared up at the sky.
Looking for him.
You decided staying home would have been better for your mental health when the pain in your leg shot you out of your stupor. The billboard wasn’t a massive one. It was a rinky thing, haphazardly thrown on the window of a building and probably only cost about $200 to advertise, but it still pressed you against the concrete as if it had a spot in Times Square.
In your shock, you grabbed for it and attempted to shove it off, but it was too heavy. Your leg was throbbing where it was pinned, but you were sure the adrenaline was masking much of that pain. Fear was prevalent and available, though. You felt it stronger than anything else as the ground shook under the monster’s steps.
You screamed for the only thing that made sense.
Over and over.
When Clark heard the shout of his name, the world seemed to pause. It wasn’t a cry for Superman. It wasn’t a cry for help. It was you—fear scratching each letter of his name.
Clark abandoned his efforts with the Justice Gang, no longer caring for buildings and subway lines as his name ricocheted through the weight on his shoulders. He flew faster than he ever had, and you still felt too far. When he had hoped to hear your voice again, the reality of a moment like this had never even entered his mind.
He found you on an otherwise empty street, narrowing his shoulders as he plummeted to the earth. The creature was still roaring in the distance, the sound of attacks following each screech, but that barely registered to him. The ground shook as he landed and had little time to recover as he threw the metal from your body, the material crashing harshly through a window in the distance.
His mind was in overdrive. Find the threat—neutralize it.
Clark looked over his shoulder and then spun when rubble crashed a block away. He felt his eyes begin to heat on instinct, needing to protect you even though you were mad at him and hadn’t spoken to him in days. Even if you hated him and wanted him to leave. The cry of his name was on repeat in his mind, and he knew it would live there for years. What was the point of keeping this secret from you when you had to scream like that? How could he—
“Clark?” your breathy voice called, still so unsure and scared.
Clark’s defense began to shatter, the armor of Superman cracking as he turned towards your voice and saw you on the ground. Dust coated your face and layered through your hair. Small cuts dotted your skin. Your hand was placed precariously on your leg, and the sight of that alone made Clark drop to his knees.
His eyes raced over every inch of your body, searching for anything internal and finding a broken leg. He raised his hand to do something and came up blank, leaving it hovering by the apple of your cheek. You stared back at him, brows furrowed, jaw quivering from the anxiety and adrenaline.
Clark broke a little more because he wasn’t sure what to do—he knew what Superman would do, but he wasn’t just Superman. Not with you.
“Clark,” you said again, whispering it into the settling dust.
He gave in. Clark placed his shaking hand on your shoulder and poured as much reassurance as he could into a small smile.
“We’re going to get you help, okay?” he promised. “To a hospital. You’re going to be okay.”
Superman—he still sounded like Superman.
You blinked, and your chest shuddered. “I’m sorry,” you cried, halting Clark’s motion to pick you up. “I’m sorry for being so upset—for not talking to you. I-I was just scared and sad and I thought you weren’t fully in. I thought you didn’t want me to know everything because you weren’t serious about us.”
Clark shook his head as you spoke, feeling more of Superman chip away as tears fell from your eyes. He softened and found himself somewhere in the middle, still in hyperdrive to protect you, but falling into the need to comfort you.
“Don’t apologize,” he softly called into the short space between you. “Let me take you to the hospital and we can talk—”
“I didn’t know if I’d get the chance to tell you. You—you do these dangerous things every day and I didn’t know. I didn’t know that you could die, Clark. I ignored you for days and you could’ve—”
“Hey, hey—look at me, yeah? Deep breaths, honey.” Superman was gone, his suit the only remnants of the persona. “Nobody’s dying. I’m not going anywhere unless you send me away.”
Blasts could be heard in the distance, a final, roaring cry spelling the end of the alien. Clark felt the vibration of it crashing to the earth under his knee, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was you and the softness of your skin as he rubbed the dust from your cheek.
“You hear me?” Clark asked, searching each corner of your face, tracking each tear as it trailed down.
You nodded, and he rubbed both palms along your temples to push your hair back, the motion just a touch uncoordinated and reminding you so much of your Clark. It was a stark contrast to the last time you saw him like this—when he was pristine, blowing in the wind.
This was still Clark. And he kept glancing down at your leg like it was going to fall off your body.
“It doesn’t hurt that much,” you mumbled, causing Clark to flick his gaze back to your eyes.
“It’s broken, sweetheart. I can see it clear as day.”
“Oh, right. You can do that.”
“Will you be okay if I pick you up?”
“Think so,” you sniffed. You looped your arm over his shoulders and shoved your face into his neck immediately, feeling the tinge of pain blossom in your leg as he rose.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he rambled, trying to be gentle and struggling over the debris on the street. “I’m going to go up now, okay?”
“Up?”
“Flying.”
“Right. You do that, too.”
You gripped him tighter when the pressure of gravity began to feel different, face still glued to his neck. Air flowed along your skin as he went, his hands steady under your body. It felt familiar. This felt like Clark, too.
The brush of wind was the only sound between you.
“I thought I lost you. Twice.”
You pulled your head up to find Clark’s voice, the shakiness clear even beneath the wind. His eyes were glossed over as he looked down at you.
“The second time, when I heard you scream, I thought that none of this even mattered. Superman, my duty—none of it. If you were gone, I don’t—”
“Clark…” you began.
Clark shook his head, face shining with tears, even with the small smile that met his sad features. “I should’ve told you sooner. I thought I was protecting you. I couldn’t even do that.”
“That’s not true. You were protecting me. You always do.”
“I thought you were gone.” Your chest split open at the crack in his voice.
Still in the air, still being held by Superman, you reached up and held your Clark’s face in your hands. “If you don’t get to go anywhere, then I don’t get to either, got that? No dying for either of us.”
The bittersweet smile was still plastered on his face as he nodded and furrowed his brows. He was hovering now, stagnant above the clouds as if that would keep you safer. Clark brought his forehead to meet yours and scrunched his eyes shut.
“I love you,” he said, like a fact. He nodded against you slightly as if to confirm it.
“I love you, Clark.”
Clark let out a breath and found you again, dimple peeking out as he kissed your temple and began the descent back down.
“I have a lot of making up to do.”
You clutched his neck tighter, the force of the flight igniting fear back into your chest. “What does that mean?” you called, the Metropolis General Hospital finally coming into view. Crowds had stopped on the street to watch Superman save a damsel in distress, completely unaware that he had tears still drying on his face.
you're not the most innocent girl on campus, and everyone knows it - and when you overhear bucky's friends talking shit, you can't help but wonder if you deserve to be with him.
warning: frat!bucky x f!reader, mature themes, slut shaming, insecure!reader, angst, physical violence, protective!bucky, hurt/comfort, fluff.
a/n: this isn't the super long tower fic i've promised you or even the fwb!bucky i mentioned but instead a secret third thing.
this is dedicated to shawn mendes. i don't care much for you or your music, shawn, but my friend dragged me to your concert and. you brought niall fucking horan out and i genuinely couldn't stop crying so. thanks for that experience and this is named after and slightly inspired by your song bad reputation
The beat is so loud you feel it in your chest, banging and throbbing and making your whole body shake. You've been drinking, but not too much - you still want to be able to go home with Bucky later on.
Just as you think about him, you see him, standing on the other side of the room. Steve's saying something to him but he doesn't seem to be listening, just staring as you dance with your friends. This is new for you. He isn't just looking at you with lust. It's deeper than that.
"He's so in love with you!" Jane yells over the music as she grins at you. "Can you guys get married, already?"
You snort at her suggestion, not allowing your subconscious to take her seriously for even a second. You're not exactly the type to be in a real relationship, but after a few weeks of sleeping together, you and Bucky realized you wanted more. He's not your boyfriend, by any means, but you're seeing each other, and for the first time in your life, you can imagine falling in love.
"I literally don't recognize you," Belle adds with disbelief. "Like, who are you? Since when are you a lover girl, hello?"
"Chill out, you guys," You say with an eye-roll. "You've both dated plenty of people; you don't see me overreacting about it."
"Yeah, 'cause you never date, like, ever!" Belle replies. "I was beginning to think you were incapable of feelings."
"Ouch!" You yell, just as Bucky and Steve make their way over to you. While Steve shmoozes Belle and Jane, you grin up at Bucky who wraps his arm around your shoulder.
"Having fun?" He asks, bringing his lips to your ear.
"Tons," You reply. "You?"
"Always fun watching you," He says with a smirk. "Let me know when you're ready to go."
"Not yet," You say, pulling his shirt. "I've still got some dance left in me."
"No rush, baby," He mumbles, moving his hand down to your waist which he rubs. "I'm gonna go outside for a smoke."
"Might join you in a bit," You tell him.
With that, Bucky leans down and kisses you, holding your body against his.
If it wasn't so enjoyable kissing him, you'd pull away as soon as Belle and Jane started screaming, but instead you stick your tongue down his throat while they cheer you on.
He pulls away with a smug grin while you just roll your eyes. "Love the enthusiasm, guys," He says to Belle and Jane before giving your ass a squeeze and making his way to the kitchen with Steve.
Before the girls can gush, you give them a glare. "I don't wanna hear it," You say sternly.
It looks like it physically pains them not to scream about how cute you and Bucky are together, but they manage to hold it in. The three of you continue dancing and drinking, until it gets to that point of the night where you'd appreciate nothing more than your warm bed.
You tell the girls you're planning to find Bucky and leave before you wander through the house, assuming he's come back inside by now. It isn't as big as the frat house Bucky lives in, but it's still just as confusing to navigate when you're half drunk and the only source of light are strings of tiny LED bulbs on the ceilings.
When you spot Jared, one of Bucky's frat brothers, head into a side room, you make your way over, thinking Bucky is likely in there with his friends. Just as you're about to walk in, though, you hear your name being said, and you can't help but eavesdrop.
"Y/N, though? Seriously?" One of them says, and it sounds like Devon. Though their voices are slightly muffled, you can still tell who's talking.
"I don't know, man, he seems to really like her," Jack chimes in.
They're talking about you and Bucky.
"That's fucking crazy," Jared says while laughing heartily. "I mean, this is Y/N we're talking about here."
"Since when does Bucky go for girls like that, though?" Hunter asks incredulously. "Like, out of fucking nowhere, too."
"I thought he just fucked her that first time to see what all the hype was about," Mason says with a snort.
"Yeah, then the idiot fell in love," Devon replies.
"How the fuck do you catch feelings for someone who's fucked all your friends?"
You feel sick to your stomach.
The boys burst into laughter, and you could swear you even hear some high-fives.
"Nah, Bucky's fucked it," Jack says between laughs. "He's giving a whore the girlfriend treatment. He's lost his damn mind. The bitch is ran-through."
"Man, I'm sure I've still got videos from when I fucked her."
With that, you spin on your heel and speed away, your heart pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest. And you're not sure you'd mind if it did.
In desperate need of a drink, you make your way to the kitchen. When you get there, though, all you can do is stand at the island, numb. There are a few people taking up space, including Steve who's standing by the back door, talking to a girl.
"Woah, are you high?" Brock asks you with a smug look on his face. "You look fucked."
"Go away," You can just about find the energy to whisper.
"Aw, don't be like that," He whines, snaking his arm around your waist. "C'mon, you used to be fun, before Barnes locked you down. Wanna go find somewhere quiet?"
"No, thank you," You grumble through gritted teeth before pulling out of his grip and storming out the back door, past Steve who looks concerned when he sees the look on your face, and then confused when he sees Brock hot on your trail.
The fresh air feels soothing on your face as you step out into the yard, finding a quiet spot by the fence that's untouched by anyone's vape smoke.
"Y/N, come on," Brock calls out as he strides over, holding out his arms. "You can't seriously be avoiding me because of Barnes."
"It's not because of him; it's because I don't want anything to do with you," You reply curtly.
He sighs, resting a hand on the fence and lowering his voice. "I'm sorry, okay? Can you blame me for wanting you?" He asks, softening his voice. "You were the best fuck I ever had. Just gimme one more."
Meanwhile, Steve's also ventured out into the garden, and he makes his way to Bucky who hasn't yet seen you. Steve nudges his side before nodding towards you. "Hey," He begins. "What's going on over there?"
Bucky frowns, looking around the garden before his eyes land on you. And, more importantly, on Brock, who's getting a little close for comfort. You look obviously agitated, so Bucky hands Steve his beer before walking over.
"No means no, Brock," You spit. "I'm not in the fucking mood for your bullshit tonight."
"Since when were you such a fucking tease?" He asks with a frown, all the softness gone from his voice. "The good girl act doesn't suit you, babe, especially not in that tiny skirt. How about I take you to my car and you suck my cock, for old time's sake?" With that, he grabs your arm and pulls you closer, and before you get the chance to kick him in the balls, Bucky appears, and he's instantly grabbing Brock and punching him square in the jaw. In shock, you stand back as Bucky throws Brock to the ground and pummels him mercilessly.
Steve runs over and grabs Bucky's shoulders, pulling him off of Brock. "Alright, alright, I think that's enough," Steve says sternly, while Brock lays whimpering on the ground with a bloody face and what looks to be a broken nose.
"Fuck," You whisper, running your hands through your hair.
Though Bucky still doesn't look satisfied, one look at you makes his eyes soften, and he quickly makes his way to you. "C'mon, let's go," He says, taking your hand and walking you over to his car which is parked across the street.
Once you're both in the car, you sit in a short silence. The words his friends said race through your mind on repeat. Embarrassment and shame is all you can feel.
"Are you okay?" Bucky finally asks, breaking the silence.
You nod. "Thank you for doing that," You utter.
"Are you kidding? I've been waiting years for an excuse to beat that asshole up," He tells you, turning to you with a small grin.
Unable to find it in you to return his smile, you look down. "You shouldn't have had to do that. I'm sorry," You mumble, pulling on the hem of your skirt.
"The fuck do you have to be sorry for?" He asks with a frown.
You shake your head, still unable to make eye contact with him. Your voice is low, unenergised, defeated. "I... I'm not exactly a blank canvas, Buck. I'm not some innocent, pure, untouched thing. The past doesn't just cancel out now that I'm with you, it... it'll always be a part of me," You say, fiddling with the leather on the gear stick.
"Hey, now," Bucky begins, placing his hand on top of yours. "I already know full well you're the only person whose body count could rival mine."
You snort, looking up at him.
"I'm not pure or innocent either, so why would I ever expect or demand you to be?" He asks you, his brows furrowing. "I like you a lot, Y/N. I couldn't give a fuck about your past."
You wince, feeling your eyes start to sting. "I- I've slept with your friends," You remind him.
"And? I'm pretty sure I fooled around with Belle in freshman year," He retorts with a shrug.
"It's not the same," You claim, shaking your head.
"Why isn't it?" He challenges you, squeezing your hand.
The tears gathering in your eyes finally spill over.
Bucky cups your face, concern in his eyes as he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs. "What's wrong, baby? Where's this coming from, hmm? We both know we've been around in the past."
With a sniffle, you look away from his eyes. "I... I overheard your friends talking," You tell him, feeling your stomach flip.
"Saying what?" Bucky asks lowly, his face falling.
"Uh, I was looking for you just now," You begin. "I heard them talking about me, and I got curious so I listened. They were... saying I'm not your usual type, questioning why you're with me when you know what I'm like, and..." You trail off, not sure if you can repeat the rest.
"And?" Bucky presses, one of his hands moving to the back of your neck which he gently holds.
Deciding it's best to keep the gory details to yourself, you shake your head. "Nothing," You mumble, hoping he'll drop it but knowing better than to expect he will.
"Tell me," Bucky insists lowly.
"I don't wanna say it," You whisper. "Don't want you to hear it."
"Whatever it is, I promise you it will have no impact on my feelings for you," He tells you firmly. "Tell me exactly what they said."
So, you do. Wincing and cringing, you tell him the exact words they used, unable to look at his face to see his reaction.
You stare out the windscreen, at the dark sky, letting Bucky process what you've told him in silence. You feel awful. What if he agrees with them? What if he realizes they're right and he doesn't want anything to do with you?
His right hand is still around the back of your neck, the other is clenched into a fist on his thigh. After a gut-wrenching minute, he finally speaks.
"Was Steve in that room?" He asks, his voice gravelly.
"No," You answer quickly. "Steve- I saw him straight after in the kitchen."
Bucky nods. Then he opens the door and leaves the car.
You race to jump out the car and rush around it, following him back towards the house. "Bucky, stop!" You call out desperately. The last thing you want is for him to get into another fight.
He continues walking, ignoring you.
"Come back, Bucky!" You yell, getting the attention of a few people in the backyard. "If you respect me at all, you will stop, right now."
That finally gets him to stand still. He turns to you while you catch up to him, pure rage on his face.
"Please don't say anything to them," You beseech him, feeling nauseous again.
His eyes are dark. "I don't plan on saying much," He utters.
"Bucky, please, you've been in enough fights for one night," You say, feeling your eyes sting for the second time tonight. "Please."
He says nothing, hands still in fists at his side.
You take in a shaky breath, your voice no louder than a whimper. "I just... I just wanna go home. I don't wanna be here anymore," You manage to get out before the tears begin to stream.
Bucky lets out a sigh, his features softening as he takes a few steps closer to you and wipes your wet cheeks. "Okay. Okay, baby, let's go home," He says gently, and you know it's taking all his will-power not to storm into the house.
In relief, you nod. "Thank you," You whisper, taking his hand in yours.
He swallows, before glancing back. "Let me just go get my phone from Steve," He says casually, but you're not buying it.
You give him a flat look.
"Seriously, he has my phone," Bucky insists, and you know he isn't lying about that. "Look, he's only in the kitchen. I'll be in and out in fifteen seconds."
Taking in a deep breath, you release his hand. "If you see any of them, please don't say or do anything," You say sternly.
"Okay," He replies, taking your hand back and kissing it.
"Promise?" You question with a raised brow.
He lets out a soft laugh. "I promise. Now, get back in the car, and I'll be back before you can even put your seatbelt on," Bucky claims, giving your hand one last kiss before turning to the house.
Six minutes pass before he re-enters the car.
He sits down and starts the car without a word. His knuckles are even more bruised than before.
You turn to face him with an expectant look. He doesn't look at you. You release a sigh, and place your hand on top of his on the gear stick. "Take me home, Bucky," You mumble.
Leaning across to you, he gently kisses your lips, before doing exactly that.
bucky masterlist
i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications for updates.
summary | on the most luxurious ship in the world, you find yourself torn between duty, desire, and the boy from third class who could ruin everything.
tags | Titanic!AU, star-crossed lovers, class differences, forbidden romance, lowkey cheating, slow burn to not-so-slow burn, angst & yearning, EVENTUAL SMUT, third class!bucky x first class!reader, canon-typical titanic tragedy, angst & longing, bratty!reader x lovesick!bucky, classism, reader is valentina’s daughter, period-typical sexism
a/n | this was literally supposed to be a oneshot 🧍♂️
taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my “The Ship of Dreams” taglist
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
go save the world, i'll be around (Clark Kent x Fem!Reader) -- one shot
I have not watched Smallville and this is purely inspired by the scenes with Ma and Pa Kent and me missing my grandparents' farm. Also I'm posting this while tipsy bc sober me didn't think I should post it xoxo
Warnings: uh so much angst, but also lots of fluff, major movie spoilers, genuinely that might be it!!
WC: 7.7k
After a taxing day of farm chores, despite enjoying every second of it spent with the Kents, you’re finally lying down in your bed, ready for an entire night’s sleep.
Except, you don’t make it that far, because your eyes are just about to close when you hear a soft whirring outside, followed by bright lights hitting your window. Car headlights, you think at first, but then you realize they’re too high up. They’re coming from the sky?
“What the hell?” you mutter, slowly crawling out of your bed and peering through the blinds.
It’s… Well, you have no clue what it is, but it’s not a helicopter. You’re tempted to go back to bed when you spot two figures rushing through the field that look a lot like Martha and Jon.
You don’t care that you’re in your pajamas -- a Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt that Clark let you borrow years ago and sleep shorts that you’ve had to patch holes in three times now. You scramble and nearly trip as you shove your feet into your boots by the front door before hauling ass across the field.
It’s been years, your heart warns you. But who else would it be, coming in here on something like that? Your brain responds.
And too, you’ve seen the news recently. Superman has been at the heart of a lot of controversy with Boravia and Jarhanpur -- nonsense, as far as you’re concerned, because there is no way in hell that Boravia, of all places, is trying to help the Jarhanpurian people.
But a lot of people think he shouldn’t have intervened, especially after the Hammer of Boravia showed up in Metropolis and beat Superman pretty decisively. And to make matters worse, a private video of Clark’s biological parents leaked, and apparently what they had in mind for him is not at all what he has thought.
Last you heard, he turned himself in -- because of course he did -- and it’s had Martha and Jon worried sick ever since they saw the footage of his arrest.
All of it makes your heart ache for him, even more than it usually does.
But you can’t think about that right now.
Your feet slow as the flying craft lands and a door opens, stairs unfolding. Clark-- Superman walks down them, held up by…a woman.
Your heart lurches into your throat, your feet rooting themselves in place.
No one has seen you yet. You can easily turn and go back home and go right to sleep. Show up for work tomorrow at the Kents’ farm and play dumb, pretend you didn’t hear or see this random flying craft in the yard.
But you can’t. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t go see if he’s okay, or if there’s anything that you can do to help.
You trudge forward, putting your feelings about Clark aside. It’s been years. He hasn’t been back here, aside from what you’ve heard to be brief and secretive trips -- as in, he’s dropped in for about fifteen minutes for his Ma and Pa’s birthdays, and then gone away again. You get it. After announcing himself as Superman, albeit still keeping him separate from Clark Kent, he wants to protect his Ma and Pa as much as he possibly can. It just means that, well, you haven’t seen him, the two of you haven’t talked, and the last words you ever said to each other weren’t exactly nice.
When you finally make it to the Kents’ house, the front door is wide open, save for the screen door that creaks loudly as it opens. Still, you call out to them to let them know you’re coming in.
“We’re in Clark’s room!” You hear Martha call back before she says something else, and you think you hear your name.
You brace yourself for meeting Clark’s girlfriend -- because that’s who she must be, right? -- as you walk down the hallway. You’d know the way even with your eyes closed.
You step hesitantly into the doorway of Clark’s room, your breath catching in your throat when you see him. Clark’s Pa kneels beside the bed, his palm on his son’s forehead. Clark is sweating, he’s shivering, his eyes are closed and he’s mumbling something, something about his parents and their message and how it’s all wrong.
Martha turns to greet you, squeezing your elbow lovingly. At the foot of Clark’s bed -- his tiny, twin-sized bed that he stopped properly fitting on when he was fourteen but insisted on keeping -- stands one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.
She sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Lois.”
You take her hand and offer a smile, introducing yourself. “Lois…Lane, right? I’ve read your stuff in the Daily Planet.” You haven’t, not entirely. You’ve just heard a lot about it because it’s all Martha and Jon talk about.
“Oh,” Lois smiles. “Thank you.”
“And thank you for bringing him home,” you say, casting a quick glance at Clark where he lies still now, his mumbling stopped. “Is he…Is he gonna be okay?”
Lois nods firmly. “Yes. Mr. Terrific says he’ll be fine, he just needs to rest.”
Mr. Terrific. A member of the Justice Gang. Someone you’ve only seen on the box, and Lois has met him. She’s talking like this is normal, like she fits in.
Because she does, you realize. You remember the way you left things with Clark and you remember that it’s you. You’re the one that doesn’t fit.
Tears well in your eyes when you look at him, noticing the black lines where blueish-green veins should be. What happened to him? You don’t even know if you want to know, if you can even stomach it.
“Is there anything I can do?” you ask, turning toward Martha.
She reads you like an open book, she always has. “Oh, honey,” she says, rubbing your arms. You know she can tell you’re restless, which means you know what she’s going to suggest. “Why don’t you go home and get you some sleep? You helped us all day.”
You take in a deep breath, glancing at Clark again. Jon runs his fingers through Clark’s curls, silent tears falling down his cheeks. You don’t know what it is. You don’t want to leave Clark, even though he’s got everyone he probably needs, and that there’s no guarantee he’ll even be happy to see you if he-- when he wakes up.
“How about you take the guest bed tonight?” Martha says instead, catching your attention with another squeeze to your elbow.
“Oh, I don’t-- I mean,” you pause, wiping your nose. “If Lois is staying, I don’t want to put her out.” You turn to look at Lois, to see what her verdict is, but she’s staring at her phone with wide eyes.
“Sorry, I need to make a call,” she says. “It’s-- It’s important, I swear, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stay the night if this is what I think it is.”
Your eyebrows furrow as you and Martha watch her dart down the hall, pressing her phone to her ear.
“Come on,” Martha rubs your arms, grounding you. “Let’s get you to sleep.”
You know better than to argue with Martha Kent twice, so you let her walk you across the hall to the guest bedroom, the same one you used to sleep in when you and Clark had sleepovers. There was no way you’d be allowed to sleep in his room -- not that the both of you would’ve fit on his bed anyway. And sometimes, you and Clark still whispered across the hall, or more often than not, Clark would make stupid faces in the moonlight, causing you both to giggle and never get enough sleep before a day of romping around in the sun, helping Ma and Pa with farm chores.
You take midday naps in here now mostly, since you’re up and working on the Kents’ farm before six almost every morning. Taking cat naps here before the evening work has become routine. So it feels weird now, to be sitting on the bed with Martha next to you, in the dead of night.
You also just don’t understand why she’s next to you.
“Go be with your boy,” you nudge her side, kicking your boots off and pushing them under the bed. “I’ll be fine.”
“I can see him from right here, and his Pa’s got him,” she argues, patting your knee lovingly. “Now I’m worryin’ about you.”
You knock your shoulder into hers affectionately. “Don’t worry about me, I’m okay.”
She absolutely does not believe you, and you don’t blame her.
“Listen,” she says softly. “I know how you feel about Clark.” She waits for you to look at her. “And I know the two of you didn’t leave off on the…best of terms.”
“It’s water under the bridge,” you assure her, even though it’s not. It’s water over the bridge, all the time. You’re never not thinking about Clark, though it’s not like you even try, since you’re spending all your time with the Kents. But you don’t want her worrying about you like this, not when her son is just across the hall in much worse shape than you.
“Maybe when he wakes up, the two of you can talk,” she says. “It’s long overdue.”
“Maybe,” you tell her. Because while you agree it’s long overdue, you highly doubt the two of you will talk. He’ll probably leave the second he feels just a little bit better. There won’t be any time for talking or reminiscing with an old friend.
Which, the more you think about it, might be for the best.
+++
Your sleep is restless and fitful. Whenever you think you’re about to finally fall into deep sleep, you jolt awake, looking across the hall to see if your mind is playing tricks on you. Or if that really is Clark, lying in his bed again, in his Superman suit.
One time when you wake up with a start, it’s because something is licking your face. Martha and Jon don’t have any dogs, so imagine your surprise when you see a fluffy white dog right in front of your face, ears perking when he sees you looking at him.
You squint your eyes, realizing he’s…wearing a cape. The dog is wearing a Superman cape.
You can’t help it, you actually laugh out loud.
“What’s your name buddy?” you whisper, turning over the Superman pendant on his collar. “Krypto. I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you belong to Mr. Sleeping Superhero over there.”
Krypto jumps happily on your chest, knocking the wind clear out of you before he launches off the bed and floats onto the floor. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s not even six yet, and the sun has just barely started to rise.
“Do you need some food? Water?” you ask, standing up. “I’m following you, bud.”
Krypto barks and you immediately shush him, as if doing that is any quieter, but at least he only barks the one time.
You expect him to go down the hall toward the kitchen, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes into Clark’s room.
You freeze in the hall, watching Krypto spin in circles, practically screaming at you to follow him. You shake your head, as if he can understand you. Part of you feels like he might.
When you turn around to head back to bed, the damn dog barks again. Loudly.
“Shh!” you whip around, your hands flailing in a come on, man gesture.
“Are you shh-ing a dog?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper, and gravelly like nothing else. You almost think it isn’t him who just spoke, until he cracks one eye open and looks at you.
You smile too, despite yourself. “Maybe,” you reply. “What are you doing awake?”
“Heard Krypto barking,” he says, eyelids drooping again as he smirks. “Was gonna tell him to shh.”
You roll your eyes. “Go back to sleep, Clark.”
“Come here first,” he says. Then adds, “Please?”
And damn you, you can’t tell him no, especially not when he’s sick like this. So, you do as he asks, much to Krypto’s delight. You enter Clark’s room and stand beside his bed, waiting. He lifts his hand, the movement weak as he searches for yours. You give it to him.
“M’sorry,” he breathes, loosely threading your fingers with his.
“For what?” you whisper.
“Not calling,” he sounds like every word takes more and more of his energy. “Or writing. Or coming t’see you. Or--”
“Clark,” you shake your head, tugging on his hand a little. “We can talk about this tomorrow when you’re rested.”
“Okay,” he exhales, his body practically melting into the mattress. “Can I have a hug?” he asks, voice small. “I didn’t get one before I left.”
It’s true. He didn’t. Because you were too frustrated and hurt to offer one, and he would never take one without asking.
“Of course,” you say, leaning down to wrap your arms around him in what will no doubt be the most awkward hug after almost four years. But instead, he wraps his arms around you, and pulls you over on top of him. “Clark!” you squeal, giggling quietly into his neck before lifting your head to glare at him playfully.
“Sorry,” he grins, and gosh, he’s just so tired. “Missed you.”
You don’t even know if he’ll remember this in the morning, if he even has any idea of what he’s saying right now.
“I missed you too,” you say despite the fact. You lay your head down on his chest, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry I was such an ass when you left.”
His arms tighten around your waist just a little, nothing like you know they’d do if he was actually feeling like himself. “Don’t be sorry. I was being mean.”
You want to protest that, but he needs his rest more than the two of you need to talk about this right now. “Go back to sleep,” you whisper, moving to get off him.
But he doesn’t let go. “Can you stay?”
You look at him, but his eyes are closed again. You crack a smile because, believe it or not, this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself in this predicament, though it was probably six or seven years ago the last time it happened. “Can you even sleep like this?”
He nods. “Will you stay?” he asks again. “If it’s comfy for you.”
Some of the best naps you ever had were with your head on Clark’s chest, and he knows it, too.
“Yeah,” you murmur, settling back down. “I can stay.”
“Thank you,” he breathes, and then he’s out like a light again.
+++
Sometime in the early morning hours, Krypto curled up between your and Clark’s feet, so when you wake up, you’re well and thoroughly trapped. In a good way.
Sunlight streams through the windows, warming you as you start to stir, and hopefully, you think, already working its magic on making Clark feel better.
Once Krypto senses you’re awake, he’s jumping off the bed and spinning in circles again, waiting for you to join him.
The only problem is that you have two arms wrapped tight around your middle like twisting vines. You expect it to be harder than it is to wiggle out of Clark’s hold, and it kind of worries you how easy it is. When you stand up, you press your hand to his forehead, sighing a little in relief. He’s not clammy, and the black veins have almost completely faded away.
You brush his curls back with a smile before you part from him. You’ve definitely slept through a bit of the morning farm chores, so you should get dressed. Thankfully, you have some extra clothes in the guest room, so you quickly get changed before heading to the kitchen.
Martha made some breakfast, so you scarf some down, all while she fusses over you and tells you that you don’t need to help Pa with the chores. All that tells you is that she saw where you were sleeping and she’s hoping the two of you have made up. You don’t give her the chance to ask you outright before you head outside.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Jon’s affectionate scolding immediately meets your ears once you get close to the barn.
“Helping you, what’s it look like, old man?” you grin, grabbing one of the milk buckets and moving it closer to him. “Can’t run the farm all by yourself, you know.”
He makes a disapproving noise immediately followed by a smile. “How’d you sleep, kid?”
“Pretty good,” you nod, scratching the cow’s neck while he milks her. “What about you?”
“Just fine, got my six hours,” he jokes. He waits a beat, and you know exactly what’s coming next. “Saw you sleeping with Clark.”
“He trapped me,” you chuckle, brushing it off. “He’s still sleeping.”
“Yeah, he’ll prob’ly sleep for a while in the sun.”
“I think so too.”
“Did you two talk?”
You let out another chuckle, shaking your head. “Jon…”
“Oh, don’t Jon me,” he waves his hand at you. “I know how that boy feels about you.”
You know it too. But neither of you will ever talk about it. What good will it do anyway, talking about it now? He’s going back to the city to save the day and you’re going to stay right here.
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave Jon off in the same way he did to you. “What else needs to be done?”
He grumbles through telling you what he got done while you were dozing with Clark, and you head off to fill the gaps of what he didn’t quite get around to.
Some hay in the barn needs moving, and you feel like flinging some bales around will help you clear your head.
Well, you want it to clear your head. All it ends up doing is giving your mind free rein to start digging up old memories.
“I can’t just pick up and move to Metropolis right now, Clark! That’s crazy!”
“Why not?” It was the third time he had brought it up in a week. “We could rent a place together, we could--”
“I wouldn’t fit in there,” you told him again, for what felt like the fiftieth time. You understood why Clark wanted to move to the city. But it just wasn’t for you. “There’s nothing there for me.”
He had frowned then. “But I’ll be there.”
“That’s not enough, Clark. I can’t follow you around my whole life.”
“So you’re just-- You’re just gonna stay here your whole life?”
“Well someone has to help out on the farm!”
It was a low, and downright rude jab to make that day. You knew how hard it was for Clark to move away from the Kents. You knew he wrestled with it, with wanting the job at the Daily Planet and wanting to never leave his Ma and Pa’s side. With wanting to help the world and announce himself as Superman, and with wanting to stay just Clark forever. You knew that despite the Kents’ unwavering support in his decision, he was still, in those last few days, wondering if he was doing the right thing.
And then you had to say that to him. Make it sound like you were the one doing the “right” thing by staying here and helping his parents around on the farm, and he was doing the “wrong” thing by moving out so he could have a bigger, better life and even help others in ways that you just don’t understand and never will. Because you’re not like him.
You fling another hay bale with a little too much strength, groaning in defeat when it just bounces and falls back down.
Just as you’re about to pick it up again, Clark’s voice echoes from behind you. “Need any help?”
You glance over your shoulder, smiling a little when you see he’s changed into sweatpants and a flannel. That’s the Clark you know. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“Krypto woke me up,” he says. He grabs the bale one-handed and tosses it up.
“Show off,” you mutter, letting him handle the last two. The dog in question circles your feet, jumping and yapping happily. “I didn’t know you had a dog now.”
“He’s my cousin’s,” Clark says with a grimace. “He’s…a lot.”
“He’s cute,” you giggle, bending down and picking him up after letting him jump at your feet for a bit.
“Oh, be careful, he’s--” Clark’s words fall short when you start laughing. “Well clearly he likes you.”
“He’s sweet!” you giggle, watching in awe as Krypto leaps from your arms and flies around the barn. “Of course he can fly.”
“Yeah,” Clark chuckles, and he sounds relieved to see Krypto flying around. “Did you have breakfast before you came out here?”
You nod. “Did you? And should you even be walking around?”
“I’m fine,” he says. “And yeah, I ate. Sat with Pa for a minute.”
“Good,” you nod, turning around, scanning the barn for anything else you can throw yourself into so you don’t have to talk to Clark. Not that you don’t want to catch up with him, it’s just.
“Thanks for staying with me last night-- or, this morning, I guess. You didn’t have to, I know we…left off on rocky terms.”
It’s just that.
You sigh, wiping your sweaty palms on your overalls. “It’s fine, Clark, seriously. You were half out of your mind. What happened yesterday?”
“Long story,” he says. Then adds, with a grimace, “Kryptonite poisoning.”
Your eyes blow wide. “Kryptonite pois-- I thought you said there wasn’t any left on Earth!”
“There’s not, it’s--” He cuts himself off, clenches his jaw. “It’s a lot to explain.”
You nod once, a jerking movement because you’re trying not to let it show just how much this is ripping your heart into pieces.
You’ve always known the real reason why you and Clark won’t ever work. It’s because the moment he announced himself as Superman, he stopped being the Clark Kent you grew up with. Sure, nobody knows that Superman is really Clark Kent, the journalist at the Daily Planet who always somehow scores an interview with the man himself, but that doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.
The point is that for you, you’ve always known Clark has powers, that his real name is Kal-El, that he comes from Krypton, but he’s just Clark to you. It was never about him being Superman or technically a metahuman or Kryptonian or whatever-- He’s just Clark. He’s just the kid you grew up with. The kid you met one afternoon when he knocked on your front door, asking your mom if you could come outside and play. And if your parents would like any lemonade, because his ma made some, and it’s the best lemonade ever.
That’s Clark.
That’s the boy you know, the boy you found yourself falling in love with at sixteen and realized maybe you had loved him all that time. That’s the boy who took you on your first date to a drive-in movie, who got you home one minute after the time he said and apologized so profusely to your dad that it had him in tears. That’s the boy you love, and you feel like he doesn’t exist anymore. Like he’s been taken over by this split identity of Superman and journalist Clark Kent.
And you just. You don’t fit anywhere in that narrative.
“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, swallowing down the emotion when it threatens to crack your voice. “You don’t have to explain.”
His face twists, no doubt hearing the hurt you try to hide because whether you like it or not, Clark knows you. “No,” he says. “No, please, don’t do this--”
“I’m not doing anything, Clark,” you snap, brushing past him. “I just need to go check on the chickens.”
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“No,” you say, and his feet halt. “Go get some rest. You’ll probably need to leave soon.”
He just nods, and you don’t look back once you’ve left the barn.
+++
The chickens don’t need to be checked on, and you’re sure Clark knows it. Jon has had the same routine since you both were little: the chickens are checked on first.
Still, you walk around the pen with them, scolding them when they try to peck at your feet. You’ve always thought they can sense when you’re frustrated, and that seems to be happening right now. They’re practically trying to force you to leave, pecking your feet to tell you just go talk to him, stop bothering us with your pacing!
You don’t listen to them.
But you don’t get much warning before you see Krypto flying toward you, followed by Clark yelling after him.
“Leave the chickens alone! Krypto! Leave it!”
You exit the pen and meet Krypto halfway, wrangling him into your arms, giggling at the way he squirms and licks your face.
“Don’t bite her!” Clark yells, sounding a lot like his Ma.
“He’s fine,” you laugh, and Krypto wiggles out of your arms, grabbing ahold of the strap on your overalls and pulling you along. Once you’re close to Clark, though, Krypto lets go and heads for the sky, yipping triumphantly.
“Gosh, I’m sorry, he’s-- I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Well, he’s kind of always a nuisance, but not usually--”
“Clark,” you laugh. “It’s fine.” You reach up and scratch Krypto’s belly mid-flight, and he seems delighted that you’ve done it, circling back around so you can do it again. You look over at Clark, noticing the flannel is gone and there’s a newfound determination on his face. “Heading out?”
“In a minute, yeah, Ma’s getting my boots, and I had to chase down Krypto,” he rambles, pausing. “And. I wanted to say I’m sorry before I go.”
“You don’t need to--”
“I do,” he argues. “I never should’ve tried to pressure you into following me to Metropolis, not so soon after your parents passed--”
“Clark,” you warn. “You need to go, and I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”
He nods, looks up at Krypto, then back at you. “When I get back,” he says. “Can we talk then?”
You know better than to think or hope that he’ll come back here. He’s got a world to save. He’s busy.
“Sure,” you say, knowing he won’t be back anytime soon. And because you know it’ll be a while, you can’t help it, you fling yourself at him, squeezing him into a hug.
He hugs you back just as tight, sighing into you.
“Be safe,” you tell him. “Promise me?”
He nods, whispering into your hair, “Promise.”
+++
You know better than to watch the news as things are happening in real time, but you can’t help it. Usually you catch up on everything after the fact, after Superman has saved everyone and is safe himself and Clark has called Ma and Pa to let them know he’s okay.
Instead, this time, you’re sitting in between Ma and Pa Kent on their couch, all of you gripping each other’s hands like your lives depend on it.
You watch the rift start to rip through the city from the news helicopter filming it from the sky. You’re nauseous just thinking about all of the people there. How does Clark do it? How does he save all these people and not let the weight of it crush him -- even mentally?
No one can get eyes on Superman and that worries you the most, not knowing where he might be. There’s a flash of blue and red here and there, but nothing to ease your nerves.
When the truth about Lex Luthor breaks from the Daily Planet, you gasp in disbelief at everything you see, though you can’t say you’re surprised. None of it ever seemed right -- his hatred toward Superman and the way he somehow got ahold of that video.
It doesn’t feel like any of you breathe a single, normal breath until there’s confirmation that the rift has closed and Superman is walking around on the ground. You watch him help anyone he sees, offering high fives and hugs to every kid that passes by, just being himself the way you know him to be.
But when you see Superman speaking with Lois Lane, smile on his lips and hands tucked behind his back, you look away.
“I’m gonna get us some lemonade,” you sniffle, standing up and heading for the kitchen.
You pull three glasses down and scoop some ice into them, wiping your tears as you grab the lemonade pitcher from the fridge.
He’s safe. That’s all that should matter right now. He’s safe. The city is safe. Luthor is in custody, Boravia’s invasion of Jarhanpur was stopped, everyone is okay. That’s what matters.
So then why are you upset over Clark-- Superman speaking to a reporter who might be his girlfriend?
You shake your head, pouring the lemonade, trying to get the stupid tears to stop falling, but they won’t. It’s a rush of emotion, knowing Clark is safe and he saved the city again, but you know those two things mean he won’t be coming back here anytime soon. There’s a lot that still needs to be done in the city, a lot of people probably still need his help. You shouldn’t be this upset.
Soft footsteps pad into the kitchen and you try to pull yourself together, but it’s no use. One hug from Ma Kent and you’re a mess all over again, crying into her shoulder. Pa, the mush that he is, joins just a moment later, weeping right alongside with you, holding you both tight.
“He’s okay,” Ma whispers, rubbing circles into your back. “It’s gonna be okay.”
You believe her. It will be okay.
You’re going to go about your life, and Superman is going to go about his. And it’ll all be okay.
“I’m gonna take a walk,” you sniffle, the deep breath you take in rattling your chest. “Just-- To calm down.”
“Okay, kiddo,” Pa Kent whispers. “Want me to come with you?”
You shake your head. “No. No, thank you, though.”
“Come back for supper,” Ma says with a raise of her eyebrows, telling you that you had better not lock yourself away in that house across the field -- again.
“I will, promise,” you murmur, rubbing her arm.
“Here, take your lemonade,” she pushes the drink into your hand. “Be careful, hon.”
“I’m just gonna walk around the property,” you assure her. “I’ll be back soon.”
With your ice cold lemonade in hand, you shove your feet into your boots at the door and head outside, turning your house.
Your parents’ farm that only became yours because of their sudden deaths, written into their wills and everything and you had no idea. They probably had planned to tell you. And it’s not that you didn’t expect them to leave the farm to you, you just never expected both of them to be gone so soon. One right after the other.
Some days you think it’s sweet that your ma only had to be alone up in Heaven for a month before your pa joined her. Some days you just think it’s plain cruel, for both of them leave you so soon.
You didn’t have it in you to keep their farm fully up and running. You’d need more manpower than yourself alone, and there wasn’t enough money for that. So, you sold off all the livestock and equipment that you no longer needed, giving yourself a substantial savings alongside what your parents left you to live off of, and to at least keep the house and land in your name. But some days you wonder if it’s enough, if you did the right thing.
Everything is so overgrown now, and you know you need to do something about it, but you’ve just not had it in you. You gulp down more of the lemonade, tears stinging your eyes, but for different reasons this time. Now, you just wish your parents were here. You just wish you could pull open the screen door and shout, “Ma! Pa, I’m home!” and they’d answer you.
You walk around the small ranch house to the barn in the back where your pa’s old truck lives. You’ll never sell it, even though it doesn’t drive right now, and hasn’t in some time. One day, you’ll fix it up and drive it somewhere.
Maybe Metropolis. Maybe you’ll visit Clark.
A laughable idea, honestly. It’s a long drive to the city, and there’s no guarantee he’d even want to see you there.
You prop yourself up on the hood of the truck, looking out over the field. Gosh, you spent so many days here, running around with Clark. It’s impossible to find a childhood memory that doesn’t have Clark in it in some form. It’s as beautiful to remember as it is tortuous.
You set your lemonade down in the grass and lean back onto the hood, propping your leg up so you can rest your eyes. They’re heavy from crying so much, and you’re all out of lemonade to drink, so you might as well try for a cat nap.
You’re starting to doze off when you feel something licking your face.
“Krypto,” you murmur, still half-asleep, not even sure that’s who it is, but who else would it be? You crack one eye and you see him. One ear perked, head tilted, hovering just above you. “What are you doing here?” you giggle, reaching up for him, but he lifts higher out of your grasp. “Don’t be a punk!” you chide, pulling him down to your chest, scratching behind his ears and under his belly. “Where’s Superman, huh?”
As if on cue, you hear Clark yelling after Krypto. The dog in question flies away from you and you hear a comical thud as he collides with Clark.
You slide off the truck and poke your head out the barn, seeing Clark -- still in his suit -- being tugged along by his cape toward the barn, pitcher of lemonade in hand with an extra empty glass. He sets both down at his feet once he spots you, though, and you break out into a run before you can think twice.
You were so certain he wouldn’t be back that seeing him now makes you feel like you’re dreaming. You have to hold him so you know this is real.
Krypto flies around above your heads as you launch yourself at Clark, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a koala. He barely stumbles, his super strength unfazed by your tackling. His arms wrap around you, securing you against him, and he sighs, tension melting out of him.
“We were watching the news,” you gasp into his neck. “I’m so glad you’re okay-- You saved everyone.”
“Mr. Terrific closed the rift,” he says, ever humble and not wanting to take all the credit. “And the Justice Gang helped at the Jarhanpurian border, I was just--”
You can’t help it, you start giggling.
“What?” you can hear him smiling through the question. “It’s true! I couldn’t have done it alone, no way.”
“I know,” you say, lifting your head to look at him with wide eyes. “And all that stuff about Luthor, I just--” You shake your head. “I can’t.”
“I know,” Clark breathes, arms tightening around your waist. “But he’s in custody now, and the Jarhanpurian people won’t have to worry about him or Boravia. And he had so many people trapped in his pocket universe, they’re all out now, they’re going home to their families.”
You nod along, not understanding half of it, but just glad that it all boils down to everyone being okay. “And…the video. Your parents’ message.”
Carefully, Superman sets you down, but he takes your hands. “I know. I didn’t get a chance to explain it before I had to leave but-- I swear to you, I only ever heard the first part of their message, I had no idea--”
“Clark,” you pull his hands to your chest, placing one over your heart, something you used to do when you were teenagers. It always calmed him down, got him to focus on your heartbeat instead of whatever else was overwhelming him. “I never in a million years would believe that you of all people were hiding some-- some secret harem or some scheme to rule over everyone. You’re good, Clark. You, your ma and pa, you’re good people.”
He smiles, soft and relieved. “Thank you.”
“And I’m sorry for snapping at you before you left -- this time and last time,” you add with an awkward chuckle. “I just-- I can’t leave here, Clark. It’s all I’ve got left of them.”
“I know, I know,” he says before you can even finish. “I understand. I never should’ve tried to push you so hard.”
“And I never should’ve made you feel bad for going,” you say. “You did the right thing. You’ve helped so many people, and you’re just going to help more, and that’s what matters. You fit in there. It’s good for you.” You pause, dropping his hands finally and shifting on your feet. “And Lois seems good for you, too.”
“Lois?” The shock is evident in his voice and his face, and he nearly laughs. “What do you mean Lois is good for me?”
Now you’re the one that’s confused. “I mean, she’s good for you. She flew you here!”
“Because we’re friends,” he argues. “And she went to Mr. Terrific for help to find me after I turned myself in. She told me it was stupid, but I did it anyway, and got myself trapped in Luthor’s pocket universe with Kryptonite--”
“That’s how you got Kryptonite poisoning?” You want to shove him, but you know he won’t budge. “Clark Kent! What is wrong with you!”
“I thought I was doing the right thing!” he cries, arms flailing. “I don’t know! I was trying to find Krypto!” He pauses, lips splitting in the same boyish grin that you remember. “You thought I was dating Lois.”
“What was I supposed to think!” you glare at him, but you’re fighting a smile. “You come in here after three years of not visiting and you’re being held up by a gorgeous woman--”
“Don’t you ever let her hear you say that, she won’t let me live it down--”
“So, yeah, Clark, I thought you were dating her! It’s been three years! I thought you moved on!”
“Almost four,” he corrects you. “And no, I haven’t.”
“Haven’t what?”
“Moved on from you,” he whispers the words like a confession. “You think every time I dropped by for just a few minutes to see Ma and Pa that I wasn’t also looking for you?”
“I was hiding from you,” you grumble. “I would hear you when you came in. You should really work on that.”
“On flying quieter?” he laughs.
“Yeah,” you snort. “You’re lucky we live in the middle of nowhere, and that I’m the closest neighbor. What d’you think anyone else would say, hearing you barreling in here and then blasting out ten minutes later like a missile?”
“What if we don’t have to worry about that anymore?”
“What?”
“What if I stay here for a bit,” he says, clarifying. “What if I…” he pauses, glancing around. “Help you fix up your farm? Maybe get your pa’s truck running. Spend a few weeks here in the sun for a change.”
“What about your job?”
“I’ve got some vacation time,” he shrugs. “I can do some work from here--”
“Clark--”
“I just need to talk to Perry about it, but I think he’ll agree--”
“Clark!” you laugh, shoving his chest now, and as expected, he doesn’t move an inch. “You’re crazy.”
He shakes his head, that dumb smile on his face. “Just crazy about you. Never stopped.”
You just shake your head back at him, wondering if what you’re hearing is true. “Are you sure?” you ask. “What about Superman?”
Clark’s eyebrows furrow. “What about him?” he retorts, and it’s just so silly, hearing him say that as his cape moves in the breeze.
“He still needs to save the day,” you reply. “Can he do that from here?”
He shrugs. “Of course he can.”
“Are you sure?” you ask again.
And Clark, the way he knows you inside and out, the way only he can understand you like no other from growing up alongside you, steps forward and carefully places his hands on your arms. “Hey,” he says. “Where’s this coming from?”
You shake your head. It’s stupid. He’s standing here, telling you to your face that he wants to stay here for a while, and you don’t believe him. You’re acting like you want him to leave.
“I don’t-- We don’t fit anymore, Clark,” you murmur, wanting to tuck yourself into his chest and run away from him at the same time. “You’re-- You’re Superman.”
“No, honey, I mean, I am, but I’m just Clark,” he cries. “And you’re you--”
“Exactly!”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“I mean, exactly, I’m me, and that’s why--”
“That’s why I love you!” Clark practically screams, and it makes you stop. He doesn’t like raising his voice ever, especially not at anyone, and you know this. But he’s doing it now, and he looks guilty for it just as much as he looks like he doesn’t regret it. “Sorry.”
“You love me?” you ask. “Like-- You love me, or you’re--”
“Gosh, I’ve--” He tugs at his hair that has started to curl again now that he’s here, and he laughs, all light and the same as it’s always been. “I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”
Your breath hitches.
“I-- Leaving here when I moved to Metropolis was hard because I was leaving Ma and Pa, but it was hard because I was leaving you, and I didn’t-- I knew you couldn’t come with me, I knew it wasn’t right to ask you to, but I just couldn’t stand the idea of not waking up across the hall from you, or waking up and running around in the sun with you all day.” His voice catches then, his eyes watery. “I miss-- I miss you, and I should’ve come to see you, but I was so worried about keeping you safe, and keeping my parents safe. I-I don’t tell anyone where I was raised because I don’t want anyone even getting close to touching you--”
“Clark, I know, I know why you do it.” You grab his hand, once again placing it over your heart. “I miss you too. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”
He lets out a laugh, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I think I do have an idea and I think I missed you more.”
“Oh, it’s a competition now?”
“Not even a competition, I know I missed you more, honey.”
“Fine,” you roll your eyes, feigning annoyance even though it’s the sweetest thing because it’s just so Clark to argue with you about who missed who more -- and to insist that he did. His hands slip from yours and rest back down at his sides. “We should get back to the house, though. Ma made supper and told me I had better come back and eat.”
“Yeah, she actually sent me here to retrieve you.”
“And here I thought you were coming to see me out of the goodness of your own heart, Kent.”
“Well, obviously I--” You let him flounder for a moment before breaking out into a grin and he pauses, tilting his head with one of his famous Clark stares. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not,” you tease. Without another moment’s thought, you say, “Race ya!” and take off toward the house.
Krypto spots you from across the field and immediately takes off after you, Clark not far behind from the sounds of his laughter -- and telling Krypto to be careful as he lunges toward you. Krypto just flies above you, though, wanting more belly scratches as you run.
You’re not sprinting as fast as you could and you know it, and Clark does too as he catches up all too easily, reaching out for your hand to pull you back toward him.
And there, underneath the Kansas sun, Clark Kent kisses you for the second time in your life, smiling into it like he just can’t believe you’re letting him -- or that you pull him back in when he tries to break away.
“I should’ve asked--” is all he gets out before you’re kissing him some more.
“Yes,” you say into the next one, just so he knows his question is answered.
His arms circle your waist and he sighs into your lips. “I love you,” he says again. “I should’ve told you that a long time ago.”
“Me too,” you whisper, pausing to rest your forehead against his. “I think I’ve loved you since that day you knocked on the screen door. Do you remember?”
“Of course I do,” he grins. “We got the water guns out and hid behind the cows! Remember--”
“Martha!” you laugh. “Gosh, I swear she hated us.”
“No, she loved us.”
“Maybe you, she was your cow.”
He kisses you again, unable to help himself. “I love you. I’m just gonna have to keep saying it.”
“Good,” you murmur, kissing him again. “Because I love you, and I plan to say it more.”
He smirks, raising an eyebrow, “So it’s a competition?”
“Not a competition Clark,” you quip. “You said you’ve loved me since we were sixteen, I said since that first day, so I’ve got about--” You check an imaginary watch. “--ten years on you. You’ve got some catching up to do.”
He laughs loudly then, tossing his head back. “Yes ma’am, I do,” he says, pulling you back in.
Summary: Over your four years working for Reed Richards, you'd given yourself one job: you can be his friend, but don't fall for Johnny Storm's charms. Too bad you had already failed that mission before it could even begin.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (making out, unprotected sex, p in v, nipple play, oral f. receiving, temperature play, creampie, aftercare), porn with a LOT of plot, slight hint of some angst, fluff, friends to lovers, Johnny is a massive flirt, mutual pining, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, female reader but no characteristics described, mentions of parental loss, maybe some incorrect stuff regarding the 60s and how it worked but it's a fantasy world, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes
“We need to adjust the parameters for this. There’s a few more levels that I want to adjust, to ensure that we’ve scanned the baby for all possible anomalies,”
Years ago, when you had miraculously been offered the position as Dr. Reed Richards assistant, it was a dream come true. The smartest man alive, holding 18 Doctorate degrees himself, choosing you out of the thousands of applicants to be his assistant was a ‘pinch me’ moment. Of course, he didn’t want an assistant, it was thrust upon him by his wife, but you liked to think after all this time you’d wormed your way into his heart.
Working with Reed…was something else entirely. It was a learning curve, understanding just how the man’s brain worked. Even to this day, you weren’t sure you understood it. Even when things went perfectly, when test runs on prototypes worked out better than you could’ve ever imagined, Reed was never satisfied. Something could always be better, be improved, as if his brain was factoring in the hundreds of thousands of possibilities that could occur and alter your data. You made it work, though–with patience and understanding–you managed to find the best way to work around Reed’s faults and work with him, to support him.
What was supposed to be just a job in the Baxter Building became so much more. Through it, you gained a family you never thought quite possible.
Reed’s wife, Susan Storm, was another one of the brightest minds that you had ever encountered. Kind, compassionate, but fiercely loyal and unafraid to step up to the plate when a challenge arrived, when the people she loved were threatened. You admired her and everything she stood for, the way she carried herself day in and day out. And since the day you had arrived at the Baxter Building, she welcomed you with open arms, as if you had always been part of the family.
Ben Grimm was the most talented pilot you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. The perfect counter to Reed and his panicky mind at times, having known the man long enough to understand his quirks in a way you could only hope to. Ben was always kind, always open, always ready to lend a hand or be a shoulder for anyone that needed to listen.
Johnny Storm…was the bane of your existence, in the best way.
“Wrong address, sweetheart. The modeling agency is two blocks down. I could escort you over there, if you’d like?”
Those were the first words the hot-headed younger brother of Sue Storm had said to you, passing by you in the lobby of the building on your first day, a wink thrown in for good measure when he’d spoken.
Having followed Dr. Richards' work long enough, which meant knowing bits about his personal life, you were well aware of the reputation that Johnny Storm carried. The papers and magazines, talk shows and gossip blogs, all called him a playboy simply because he’d never been in a long-term relationship but was still a ladies man. You never saw him like that, though. All you saw was a brilliant guy, a lover of space, even if that passion of his was sometimes overlooked because of his ‘love for women’.
And, oh, how you wished his empty, blatant flirting with you didn’t bring a blush to your cheeks every time, or make your heart skip a beat, but it did. Every single time, it did. You weren’t blind: Johnny Storm was objectively handsome and much too charming for his own good, and you decided right then and there that you would use every ounce of your willpower to ignore his empty flirts. You didn’t need to become another girl hopelessly in love with the heartthrob of the Fantastic Four, even if your heart ached when you saw him with anyone else.
Those four had become important to you in ways that you would never be able to describe, but Sue always described it best: a family.
That’s why when four of the closest people to you in life went up into space for Reed’s exploration mission, and came back cosmically changed forever, you never left their sides. They were your family, and family stuck together, no matter what.
“Reed,” your comment was cautious, hands stilling at your work station in the lab of the Baxter Building. Glancing over your shoulder, Reed was hunched over the machine he’d built in just a day, specifically to monitor the health of the baby growing inside of Sue’s stomach, as Herbie rocked back and forth beside him. “You’ve scanned Sue a thousand times at this point-”
“That’s an exaggeration. I’ve scanned her 123 times-”
“That’s not the point,” he glanced over at you then, looking away the second he saw the pointed look you were throwing at him. With a sigh, you abandoned your work, leaning back against the table behind you to watch him fret over the device. “We have run every test possible, scanned for every data point that links back to the fluctuations in your DNA from the cosmic rays we noted years ago, and we’ve gotten nothing. Your baby is okay.”
“There are still more tests to run,”
Another sigh escaped past your lips, and you allowed yourself to hang your head with a shake.
Since the moment Sue had announced her pregnancy, he’d been like this: even more on edge than usual. Baby-proofing the kitchen, smoke detectors in every single room and hallway, baby gates around every corner, it was getting insufferable. A sweet gesture, overall, and a testament to how much he loved and adored Sue, but exhausting to everyone else that had to be in his presence.
“Fine, but I’m not breaking the news to Sue that you want to scan her…again,”
“I already told her to meet me down here before dinner for another scan. We can adjust the parameters tomorrow. I want another data set from today’s scan at the current parameters to compare the changes with,” Reed never looked in your direction, still fiddling with the machine in front of him. “You’re staying for dinner, yes?”
“I’m making it,” was the response you shot back to him, powering down your workstation in the lab and rising from your chair, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “Apparently Sue has been craving spaghetti, and requested my family recipe.”
“You can’t argue with a pregnant woman,” Reed muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, but he still never looked up. “I’ll see you up there for dinner, then. There’s a few more tests that I want to run.”
“You also have a meeting at 5:45 and one at 6:15,” you shot back to him as you turned to leave the lab, checking the desk calendar lying beside your work station. There was a hum from the man, the smallest acknowledgement you were going to get, so you set your sights on Herbie and waved him forward. “Come on, Herb. An extra hand in the kitchen is always nice.”
As much as you thought of the Fantastic Four as your family, you never stayed for dinner often. You always tried your hardest to uphold the lines between your work life and personal life, not wanting to blur them completely (though, you were sure you had already blurred them enough for it to be too late). There had been plenty of times over the years where you’d stayed for dinner, usually once a month at this rate.
Sue always invited you, and you never wanted to disappoint her, and you gave in often. Ben had a way of wrangling you into saying yes before you were ever given the chance to speak at all. Reed had only asked once, asking you to stay back for the dinner months ago in which they announced to you that Sue was pregnant.
Johnny asked every day. You said no, most of the time, but when you did stay for dinner it was usually because those captivating, bright blue eyes were staring into your soul and pleading with you to stay.
Speak of the devil: there he sat at the dining room table. Clad in a white t-shirt with their logo resting over the pocket and the blue pants of his suit, a weird sight given that you had been in the lab with Reed all day and didn’t think any of them had left to attend to any ‘hero’ work.
You didn’t say a word as you strolled past him into the kitchen with Herbie on your heels, simply plucking the box of Lucky Charms from his hands as you swooped past. It was impossible not to smile to yourself at the scoff of indignation he let out at your actions.
“Hey-!”
“You’re going to spoil your appetite,” you shot back at him, throwing him a smirk over your shoulder before slotting the now closed cereal box into the cupboard where it usually sat.
Herbie beeped out a set of beeps that, over the years, you had come to understand. This time, he was agreeing with you, pointing out some facts about how eating out of the box lacked moderation, and would in turn actually spoil his appetite. You gave the little robot a fist bump for that, something that Johnny shot the little helper a glare for.
“Come on, Herbert, you’re supposed to take my side on these things!” There was no real malice in his words as he got up from the dining room table, rounding into the kitchen as you took the pots and pans that Herbie had gathered for you, setting them out along the counter where you needed them. “Baby, you didn’t tell me you were staying for dinner.”
When you told yourself that you weren’t going to fall into the trap that was the charming and charismatic Johnny Storm, you weren’t prepared for two things.
One: when he got comfortable around someone, he could be an even bigger flirt. Pet names were constant. Baby, sweetheart, honey, doll, love…you name it, Johnny called you it. Constantly. So constantly you were sure the blush on your cheeks was a permanent staple. He’d even once called you his little flame–that had been met with the tip of your heel being dug into his foot.
The second thing you weren’t prepared for: touch. Johnny Storm didn’t understand personal space, not when he was comfortable around you. If you were in the room with him, he was standing less than a foot from you, and you always knew because you could feel the warmth that radiated off his unusually hot skin. His hands would always rest on your arm, your elbow, right at the bottom of your lower back.
Moments like this in the kitchen were normal, and yet they still fried your brain. That simply little pet name, and Johnny’s warm hand ghosting over your lower back, before coming to rest on your hip. Clearing your throat, you gently pried his hand from your body, shooting him a look as you moved around to get the ingredients for dinner, hoping your flushed cheeks didn’t give you away.
“When your pregnant sister has cravings for my personal family recipe spaghetti, I’m required to oblige her,”
“I asked you to make this for me two weeks ago and you refused,”
Johnny followed close behind you, like a little puppy following its owner. You tried, and failed, to contain your smile at his actions. The media might paint him as some sex god (you weren’t going to lie…if he wanted to be, he could be) but you saw him for what he was: the epitome of a little golden retriever at times.
“Well you aren’t a hormonal pregnant woman with super powers,” you shot back at him, taking the opened jar of spaghetti sauce from Herbie’s hand and dumping it into the pot on the stove top, turning up the heat on the boiling pot of water for the noodles Herbie had laid out for you.
“No, but Johnny is a hormonal guy with super powers, who adores your cooking,” bumping his hip with yours, Johnny stole the wooden spoon from your hand with ease, dipping it into the simmering sauce to stir. With that same ease, he leaned down just slightly, leaving a kiss to your bare shoulder that felt as if it had left a brand into your skin. “Johnny also happens to just adore you, and loves when you stay for dinner.”
You had given up on the blush by now. He’d surely seen it enough over the years with his incessant flirting, there was no use in hiding it. Bumping your hip back with him, biting into your bottom lip in a failed attempt to conceal the smile spreading across your lips, you stole the wooden spoon back from him.
“Johnny also talks in the third person too much, and is an insufferable flirt half the time,” he dipped his hand into the sauce, coating his fingers in red as you whacked lightly at his hand, forcing him to withdraw as quickly as he’d dipped in. “What have I told you about doing that!”
He’d laughed, one of your favorite sounds, as you glanced over at him with a bright smile, unable to truly stay mad at him…ever.
That was, until he dipped his sauce-covered ring finger and middle finger into his mouth to lick the sauce clean off, eyes never leaving yours and a smirk curling up on his lips. It forced you to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat and look away as quickly as you could, feeling a different kind of heat swelling in your body: yeah, Johnny knew exactly what he was doing.
“Not sure, baby, that look you’re giving me right now doesn’t scream that I’m insufferable-”
“Oh, that’s exactly what it’s screaming,” you shot back, even with the ghost of a smile pulling at your lips as Herbie readied the garlic bread on the counter behind you. “If you’re not going to help, you can leave this kitchen. I don’t care if you live here.”
Johnny rolled his eyes in response, hopping up onto the counter next to the stove where you worked. You caught the box of noodles he knocked over before they could fall to the ground, shooting him a look as he held his hands up innocently, dumping them into the boiling water pot.
“You basically live here, too,”
“I don’t-”
“Yeah, because you keep refusing the room that Sue prepared for you,”
He…wasn’t wrong. Two years ago, Sue had transformed what was previously the guest room into a room that looked like it had been built just for you. Your favorite color on the walls, a matching quilt set on the bed, and she’d offered it to you. A place to stay, to live, given that Reed sometimes had you in the Baxter Building until the oddest hours of the morning.
You declined, still desperate to keep that line between your work life and your personal life separate, as tempting of an offer as it was. Sue wasn’t slighted by your decision at all, instead offering it to you to use whenever you needed to. There had been times in which you had taken up that offer, a few changes of clothes tucked away in the room on the odd chance that you’d need them.
“This place is your home, not mine,” you didn’t look at Johnny as you spoke, simply shaking your head as you stirred both the sauce and the noodles in their respective pots. “I’m Reed’s assistant, I’m not family-”
“Stop it,”
Even with the heat that rolled off Johnny Storm, every time his bare skin touched your own it sent a shiver straight down the length of your spine. His hand curled around your jawline, thumb and index finger pinching at your chin to force you to look up at him, to gaze into those intense blue eyes and the look on his face that had morphed so quickly from playful to serious.
“Johnny-”
“You are family, whether you like it or not,” the statement didn’t surprise you, it wasn’t the first time in your four years of knowing him that Johnny had said something like this to you, or anyone on the team for that matter. It always made you feel warm inside, though, to hear him say it, to see that loyalty and love for the people he cared about shine through in his words, such a stark contrast to the way the media sometimes portrayed him. “There’s not a thing I wouldn’t do for you.”
That was new. He hadn’t made a declaration like that to you before.
It was something about the look in his eyes as he said it–so genuine, so soft–that had you melting into his touch. His hand curled back up to your cheek, thumb just barely caressing the apple of your cheek, leaving a trail of heat with every swipe of his finger against your skin. Your heart betrayed you, fluttering in that moment like it always did.
These moments used to be few and far between. You didn’t know how else to describe them besides just calling them moments. Over the first few years of knowing Johnny Storm, there were small moments where that empty flirts verged on the edge of something different, something raw and real. But in the last year, they happened more often than they didn’t. Johnny wasn’t pictured out with as many women anymore, wasn’t brazenly caught flirting with anyone with legs and a pulse at events. And in moments like this, even in front of his family, he’d touch you, caress you, speak to you in a way that felt so genuine, that felt like it was real. Like the flirting was no longer just empty, meaningless fun.
That line between your work and personal life might have been a muddled mess, but the line between being Johnny Storm’s friend and something entirely more was practically non-existent now.
“You say that to all your women?” you quipped back, trying to hold your own, even as you were melting inside and your voice came out as a whisper. The playful look on Johnny’s face returned in a second, his fingers instead pinching the cheek he’d just been so softly caressing.
“Never, honey. Those words are reserved for my brother-in-law’s pretty little assistant,”
In typical Johnny fashion, he was able to dissolve and ruin whatever the moment was in an instant with his usual ‘charm’. Swatting his hand away, you returned your attention to the food on the stove in front of you, smiling to yourself as Herbie beeped out a popular song you’d heard on the radio behind you.
“You always have a line, don’t you?”
“Hey, you know what you signed up for, being friends with all this,” he jokingly motioned to his body, and you caught sight of the smile lighting up his face again as you laughed incredulously at his actions. “As part of the package deal, being friends with me, you are legally required to attend movie night in the living room with me after dinner.”
You hummed in response, even if you were smiling the entire time just from listening to him talk.
“This sounds like an impromptu movie night-”
“All of our movie nights are impromptu, babe-”
“I saw earlier that channel 2 is playing The Sound of Music tonight,” you shot back at him, finally looking up at him with an expectant look on your face. “That’s what I want to watch.”
Johnny groaned, throwing his head back and knocking it against the cupboards with a wince on his face. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his overdramatic antics, as usual.
“But channel 3 is showing Psycho!”
“And you dipped your hand–which, god knows where that thing might have been–into my sauce for dinner,”
Johnny opened his mouth to speak, before mulling over your words, and effectively shutting it with a nod.
“You know what, if it gets you to have a movie night with me, then I’ll take it,”
God, you adored this man, more than you should. More than you wanted to. In his presence, especially now, you were pretty sure the smile on your face was a constant, that it would never leave, as you laughed at him once more.
Finishing off the special blend of additions to your sauce, giving it another swirl with the wooden spoon, you brought it up to your lips for a quick taste. Satisfied, you held one hand under the spoon to keep it from dripping, holding it up toward Johnny.
“Alright, give it a taste,”
His eyes stayed locked on yours, that familiar intensity and warmth in them keeping you locked in place, holding your breath, as he took a quick slurp from the spoon. Smacking his lips together, running his tongue out along his lips, he gave a definitive nod.
“As always…perfection. Though, I expect nothing less from you,”
Before you could retort to his cheesy comment, his hand reached out, eyes still locked on yours, as he cupped your chin once more and ran his finger over your lips. With the slightest of glances down, you saw the small spot of red on his finger, the remnants of the sauce he’d so gently just wiped from your lips.
Glancing back up to those blue eyes you loved more than you cared to admit, you caught the way they finally glanced down at your lips, before looking away as if to not get caught.
“...am I interrupting something?”
As if Johnny had burst into flames and burned you, you jumped away from him immediately the second you heard the voice of Sue Storm across the room. You never even looked back up at Johnny, or turned around to look at the woman by the dining room table, just stared down into the sauce pot as you continued to stir it and the noodles.
“Actually, sis, you very much are interrupting something here,” Johnny called out across the room, and you could see him gesturing with his hands between you both from the corners of your vision.
“Johnny,” you rolled your eyes, glancing over at him with flushed red cheeks from what had just transpired. “Sue isn’t interrupting anything.”
“She kind of is. We were kind of having a moment here-”
“Johnny, we were not having a moment,”
You very much were having a moment, but you weren’t admitting that to him. His ego burned hot enough, no need to stroke the fire.
Sue laughed, rounding into the kitchen as she stopped by Herbie, thanking him and taking the garlic bread tray from him to pop into the oven he had preheated.
“Johnny, why don’t you go get cleaned up for dinner and stop bothering the poor girl. Bad enough I’m making her cook for me, she doesn’t need you hovering,”
The man let out a sigh, muttering something mocking toward his sister, as he threw himself off the counter with dramatic flair. He wasn’t done making your heart race, though, his hand curling around the back of your head as he planted a kiss directly to your hairline, before he disappeared from the kitchen with a pat to Herbie’s head.
The pots on the stove were forgotten as you turned around, simply watching him disappear with an incredulous look on your face. Quickly, your eyes shot to Sue, who was watching you with a smirk as she leaned against the island counter.
“There was nothing happening there,”
“I didn’t say there was,”
“But you’re giving me that look,”
“I’m not giving you any kind of look,” the blonde laughed, stepping up beside you to take the wooden spoon from your hand, tasting the sauce herself with a happy little sigh. “Just…enjoying watching the show from the sidelines, waiting for one of you to make a move.”
“Sue, there’s no move to make. He’s just…he’s Johnny,”
“And Johnny is my brother,” she shot back with a grin. “And Johnny has never been like that with someone, just with you.”
You didn’t get to respond, before Herbie cut in with another series of beeps. Your eyes shot wide as you listened to what he was saying, cheeks flaring an even brighter shade of red as Sue choked on air, laughing to herself at your side.
“HERBIE! THAT’S SO INAPPROPRIATE!”
❤︎
It had been two weeks, and Reed had somehow managed to scan Sue a total of 142 times, now. Sometimes, you wondered how she was able to put up with his hovering, the hovering that had gotten exponentially worse since she announced she was pregnant.
“I’m not getting clear imaging,” Reed called out from the other side of the lab, the only sound in the room being the incessant beeping of the machine he’d built to monitor the baby, and the solder iron in your hand as it worked away on the small device in front of you. You shook your head at his comments once more, adjusting the eye protectors resting on the bridge of your nose as little sparks jumped up as the last piece of the triangular device was finally attached. “I’m going to have Herbie recalibrate this, I don’t like the data output I’m getting, I want a clear image on the next scan. Is the second bridge device ready?”
“Just finished fixing the soldering on the stand, so it should be good to go,” you shot back, tossing your eye protectors down at your workstation, lifting the device carefully and carrying it over to Reed’s station, setting it down with the matching device. “And, once again, you really don’t need to scan the baby again.”
You were met with silence, unsurprisingly. Until, the workstation down the room set off its alarm bell, a familiar tone that had you stand up straighter where you stood.
“New deep space transmission,” there was a hint of elation in Reed’s tone as he said it, quickening his pace across the room with Herbie hot on his trail. “Let’s identify the origin, then record it for further analysis.”
Quickly walking back over to your workstation, your eyes drifted to that desk calendar sitting next to you, and to today’s date: a poorly drawn flame, and the time “2:15” scribbled in a barely legible handwriting that you recognized instantly. Even if you hadn’t, the terribly drawn heart with your initials in it scribbled in the corner would’ve given it away.
“Your analysis is going to have to wait, Reed,” you called out with a sigh, knowing you weren’t the one who put this meeting on the calendar, but you sure knew who had. “You have a 2:15 incoming.”
“2:15? What 2:15?” Reed never even looked in your direction, focused on the new transmission. “You didn’t tell me there was anything on my calendar.”
“Well, I didn’t put this one on the calendar myself, but you must have cleared it at some point…”
Just then, the elevator doors to the lab popped open with a familiar ding sound.
“Ah–Reed!”
Good god, Johnny Storm was trying to kill you. You weren’t even sure if that was an exaggeration at this point, because you wouldn’t put it past him.
Blue looked good on him, it always had, but the navy blue button up he was wearing was doing nothing for your mind that was screaming at you to “keep it professional.” It didn’t help that the first few buttons were already undone, giving a slight peak to his chest. The white chinos–those were the nail in your metaphorical coffin. They had no right to be that tight, and he had no right to look so damn good in them.
“Ah…that 2:15,” you tried your best to conceal your laugh at Reed’s comment across the lab. “Johnny, do we have to today?”
“Johnny, do we have to today? As if I didn’t ask to put it on the schedule,” the blonde man in question mumbled mockingly to himself as he slid up to your side at your workstation as you laughed at his antics. One of his hands grabbed the back of your neck, tugging you closer before you could even think about it, pressing another kiss to your hairline. Suddenly, you felt like you were back in the kitchen weeks ago. “Darling, have I ever told you how breathtaking you look in your lab coat?”
“It’s a white coat, Johnny, it’s nothing special,” you deflected, taking just a short glance up at him before you had to look away, already knowing you were as red as the table beneath your hands.
“But the girl wearing it is-”
“Johnny, do you want to have this meeting or do you want to flirt with my assistant?”
You hung your head with a groan, even as Johnny laughed at the comment from his brother-in-law. His arm slung around your waist, hand settling on your hip as the heat that rolled off his body enveloped you for a moment, letting yourself lean into the side hug he gave you and the squeeze to your hip, before he was gone.
“There’s enough time in the day to do both! No, I had some thoughts about the new suit designs,”
“There are no new space suit designs-”
You glanced over at the pair as they met face-to-face in the middle of the lab, Johnny holding up the sheet he was concealing behind his back.
“You finished them years ago…they have dust on them,” Johnny deadpanned, letting out a sigh as Reed took the design sheet from him. “Look, I get it. You’re going to be a father soon, you’re scared-”
“I’m not-I’m not scared,” Reed cut in immediately, and you could hear the anxious undertone that overtook him immediately at Johnny’s words. Without even having to be summoned, knowing how his brain worked after all this time, you simply shrugged off your lab coat and stalked over to the pair, taking the design sheet from Reed’s hands without a word and placing it on his chalkboard full of equations. “I’m-I’m busy, Johnny. I’m busy. I’m busy, there’s a difference.”
“He means busy on his pace to scan Sue at least 200 times before she gives birth,” you shot back, sending Reed a bright smile that he frowned at, clearly seeing that you were siding with Johnny here. “Not terrified of becoming a father at all, those two things definitely don’t correlate.”
Johnny laughed, smile bright, and it only brightened the one on your face, a tug somewhere deep in your chest pulling on you when he locked eyes with you. Reed snapped your attention back to him in an instant, running a hand down his face as he gestured in Herbie’s direction.
“Just handle the new deep space transmission, please, instead of ganging up on me with Johnny,”
You laughed, heels clicking against the floors of the lab as you joined Herbie’s side as he waited for the transmission to be scratched into the record. There was a woosh of air, the air beside you heating up instantly as a hand found its way to rest on your lower back.
“Have you listened to it yet?”
The smile on your face softened as you glanced over at Johnny, who was staring down at the record in front of you both with pure excitement in his eyes. Beyond the physical moments, his flirtatious moments, these were the moments that had your plan to not fall for Johnny Storm splitting at the seams, if it hadn’t already.
“Seems to be a lot more of the same, just another complex signal,” Johnny left your side, the heat going with him, as he leaned against the blue table behind him. Herbie took the record from its place, rolling over to Johnny to hand it directly to him. “You’re more than welcome to take it with you, give it a listen.”
He twirled the record in his hands with a grin, absentmindedly reaching out to scratch the top of Herbie’s head. That simple little action elicited a giggle, hand coming up to cover your mouth as Johnny glanced up at you with a smirk.
“What’s so funny?”
“Herbie isn’t a dog, and yet you treat him like one,” you explained, stepping up just in front of him and grabbing his hand lightly, stopping the twirling of the record in his hands. “Also, you do know you aren’t supposed to get your fingerprints all over these, right?”
It was Johnny’s turn to laugh as he spun his hand, catching it in his palm and bringing it up to his lips, leaving a scorching hot, but gentle, kiss to your knuckles, sending a shiver straight through your bones. He didn’t even have a retort to your comment, just simply held your hand in his, thumb stroking along your skin, while your entire body flushed with a feeling you wanted to ignore.
“Johnny, what have I told you about flirting in my lab? I need my assistant, we’re trying to run a test,”
The moment was gone in seconds, your hand dropped from Johnny’s as he raced to the other side of the lab, following closely behind Reed and tossing the record onto the closest table.
You could only shake your head with a laugh, walking beside Herbie to join them, knowing Reed would be mumbling to himself the rest of the week about this moment and how much Johnny liked pissing him off.
“Cool! I got time,”
Reed didn’t roll his eyes as you and Herbie joined them back at your workstations, but you could see how much he wanted to. Holding the device you’d just finished off in his hand, you watched in the same awe you had for four years as his arm stretched across the length of the lab, placing it right back beside your own workstation.
“Bridge teleportation test one,” grabbing the notebook lying beside the device that contained your notes on the project, you flipped to a new page, prepared to note down any disparities that occurred during the test, as Reed placed an egg on the newly soldered stand. “Movement of organic matter six meters.”
Johnny grabbed the protective glasses beside the work desk, about to slip them on, before Reed took them with no hesitation and slipped them on himself. The blonde turned to you with an incredulous look that simply drew a laugh from you.
“Those are his pair, you can’t touch his pair,” you teased the man, who simply shot you a wink in return, as you both took the pairs that Herbie was holding out to you both. Johnny gave the little robot a quick fist bump.
Such a simple action that still had you grinning in childlike adoration at the side of his face.
Reed gave you a simple look, confirming you were ready. You gave him a nod, as he took hold of the switch to activate the device.
“Let’s run it,”
The whirring of the machine sounded, three silver beams of energy emitting from the device and encasing the egg within a sphere of energy. There was a shift in the room as that energy grew, as the hum of the machine filled the air, before there was a simple POP–and the egg was gone.
One glance from each of you over your shoulders was enough to confirm that the egg was, in fact, sitting on the opposite platform. Completely untouched and intact.
“It worked!” Johnny exclaimed, gesturing toward the egg.
That’s when the power to the building cut out.
It wasn’t surprising, given the notes you both had taken. The amount of energy that needed to be funneled through the device in order to channel enough energy to actually move organic matter without hurting it was sure to be beyond the energy limits of the Baxter Building. A full power outage…not what you were expecting. Not that you could write that note down in the pitch black of the room.
“Johnny,” Reed’s voice called out in the dark, steady with no hint of any emotion you could decipher in it. The man in question came to life beside you, body engulfed in flames, the flame resistant fabric of his specially tailored clothing working overtime to keep him from being stark naked. He stood with his hands on his hips, and even from the side you could see the smirk curling up on his lips. “Could you reset the breaker?”
You’d known Johnny long enough now, been his friend for enough years, to know him. Know him better than a colleague should. The instant dip in his smirk to a frown was clear, the tension in his broad shoulders, as he tossed his glasses down onto the table. He didn’t spare either of you another look, crossing the room to grab the record.
“Other way-”
“I know,” Johnny snapped, beside his flame engulfed body was on the other side of the lab, flipping the breaker as the electricity of the building roared to life again. The second it did, he was in the elevator, doors shutting without another word.
Neither you nor Reed spoke for a moment, simply looking down at the bridge teleportation device on the table in front of him.
“I’ve upset him,”
Reed didn’t phrase it like a question, he said it like a statement. Both were true, though. Reed always knew when he had upset Johnny, but never how he had really upset him.
You took a deep breath, nodding, as you scribbled a note in your notebook before turning on your heels, stalking back to your own workstation.
“Well, he went out of his way to put time on your calendar just to talk to you about the suits, and you did dismiss him…” you trailed off as you reached your station, eyes flickering back down to that desk calendar beside you. You couldn’t help it, letting your fingers lightly trail over that little heart with your initials, smiling to yourself, wishing it meant more than what it did mean: nothing. “Johnny loves space, he only got to go up once before…this all happened. You can’t blame him for wanting to go back.”
It was quiet for another moment in the lab, before Reed spoke up again.
“You know him well…better than I think I do,”
The flush in your cheeks was inevitable at that, embarrassment flooding you as it was easy for you to read between the lines of what Reed was trying to insinuate.
“I-I just listen to him. I always listen,”
It was quiet again.
“Go check on him,” was all Reed said. “If there’s anyone he’d want to talk to right now, it’s you.”
You wanted to argue, to save the crumbling bits of that wall between work and personal, but even you knew it was too late for that.
Johnny’s bedroom door was just two down from the guest room Sue had offered you years ago, a bathroom being the only thing that separated them. Ben’s room was at the other end of the hallway, along with the nursery where the soon to be baby Richards would sleep.
You may not have stayed in that guest room often, but you’d been in these hallways enough to know it like the back of your hand. To know it like it was your own home.
There were countless nights, before you’d make the short walk back to your apartment, where Johnny had coerced you into movie nights in his room. He’d never try anything, never push you into something, always leaving the door open to make sure you knew he wasn’t bringing you upstairs for some alternative reason. His room was just quieter, and felt more private. It gave you the chance to see the side of Johnny that the world didn’t get to see.
The space lover, who spent his life dreaming of being an astronaut, of going into space and seeing the stars. He was a thrill-seeker, always wanting to live his life on the edge, to find joy in those rushes of adrenaline. But beyond it all, just a good man. A man who had an entire collection of records lining one wall of his room, organized from his favorite records to his least favorite, even though he claimed there wasn’t really a least favorite. The world got to know the Human Torch, but in the confines of those four walls, you got to know Johnny Storm. The second you did, you knew your heart was fucked.
You found him in a spot you’d found him in before: leaning against the floor to ceiling windows of his room, staring out at the spaceship he hadn’t stepped foot in for four years. Your heart broke slightly from where you stood in the doorway, able to see the longing that was woven into his frown, that shone through his eyes that never strayed far from the Excelsior.
“You know,” with a few steps into the room, standing beside the record player, you lifted the needle to stop the replay of the foreign language from the deep space transmission that played on a loop. Johnny looked over, a soft smile overtaking his frown at the sight of you, as you kept your own voice soft and light. “I don’t think deep space transmissions are the right background music if you’re going to stare longingly out your window.”
Johnny laughed in a huff, turning on his heel to flick through his record collection.
“And suggestions then for a melancholic moment such as this?”
“Elvis typically has some hits that can set that mood,”
You watched him, the slight shake in his body that hinted he was laughing again, before he plucked a record from the shelves and rose back to his feed. Standing beside the record player with you, he slid it into your hands without another word and plopped into the chair just across from the player.
With care, like you’d done it a hundred times before (you had, right here in this room), you slipped the record onto the player, dropping the needle down as it coasted along the grooves etched into the record.
When no-one else can understand me, when everything I do is wrong…you give me hope and consolation. You give me strength to carry on.
The lyrics settled in you heavily, but it made your body feel lighter. It was impossible not to read into them, to not think too hard about the deliberate music choice that Johnny had made. You couldn’t help that, somewhere deep in your heart where you had buried your feelings for the flaming man years ago, you were hoping these lyrics were a personal message to you.
“Reed send you to check on me?” Johnny asked after a moment, leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest as he watched you. Composing yourself for a moment, shoving the flurry of butterflies beating against your chest down, you turned to face him and his blue eyes with a shrug.
“Technically, but I would’ve come on my own,” Johnny hummed, the ghost of a smile on his lips, as his gaze found its way back to the spaceship taunting him just beyond the window. “Come on, matchstick, talk to me.”
He huffed out another laugh, stretching his arms above his head as you tried your best to keep your eyes trained on his face and not drift down his torso. Eventually, his arms settled back across his chest, his gaze still stuck out the window.
“I don’t know…it’s stupid. Last time we went up, we came back with superpowers, trust me, I get that. Now, he’s got a kid on the way. But I know–I know–that he knows how much space means to me. So, when he just dismisses me like that-”
“It makes you feel inadequate? Like you’re a child?” Johnny’s gaze found you again as you shrugged with a light smile. “I’ve worked in an enclosed space with him almost every day for four years, Johnny. He used to make me feel that way all the time, until I realized that Reed’s never trying to make me feel like that.”
“I know he’s not doing it on purpose…doesn’t mean I’m not going to shit talk him in the confines of these walls,” he gestured around the room as you laughed, coming to stand beside his chair, looking down on him as he sighed once more. His hands fell, gripping his knees, as he rubbed them back and forth against the fabric of his pants. “I love space. Simple as that.”
You hummed, bending down beside the chair Johnny sat in so that you were essentially squatting before him, having to look up at him. Hesitation caught you for just a second, your brain actively fighting a war with your heart as you raised your hands, but you ultimately took his hands in yours.
All it took was a second for your eyes to drift over to the table beside him. One lamp, a stack of books, and the flash of a polaroid photo leaning against those books: a photo of you. Taken at some point in the lab, laughter written across your face, your hand almost blocking a portion of the lens as you tried to stop him from taking the photo. You didn’t even remember it being taken in the first place.
Good god, he was really going to be the death of you.
Eyes quickly back on him, with a little squeeze to his hands, you gave Johnny the most comforting smile you could, even as your heart did somersaults in your chest.
“I know you do. You’ll go back to space, Johnny, I promise,”
His eyes watched your hands, and you could see it on his face: that hint of adoration, that hint of something genuine that suggested it wasn’t all just a game, that you weren’t imaging moments for more than they were.
“What if I don’t?”
“You’re Johnny Storm, I’ve never seen you not get something you wanted before. Especially not something you want this bad,”
His mouth parted just slightly as he hesitated. You watched as his tongue darted out, just barely grazing over the edge of his bottom lip, before you flicked your eyes back to his.
“You’re wrong…I think there’s something I want more. Been trying to get it for awhile, but…she just keeps slipping through my fingers somehow,”
That tug on your heart was back. Your heart was surely beating so fast that it could be heard, hammering against your ribcage, as his thumbs glided back and forth across your skin. You could barely think of a response, too stuck on his words: the closest thing to a confession of any kind you’d heard in four years. Raw, real, genuine.
Johnny stood quickly, barely giving you a chance to potentially think of a response as he tugged you back to your feet. His arm enveloped your waist, your hand falling to his bicep as he still held your other hand in the air beside you both. You weren’t sure now if the flush crawling up your neck into your cheeks was from the moment, or from the heat radiating off of him.
“W-What are you doing?”
“We’re dancing,” he said it as if it was the most casual thing in the world, that usual smirk of his back on his face. Whatever had happened moments before, whatever confession may or may not have been said, was brushed away in an instant, that charming, flirty personality of his back in full force. “Can’t turn on Elvis and not dance, I think that’s a literal crime.”
“I didn’t know you even knew how to dance,”
“Oh, I don’t, Sue’s been telling me for years that I have two left feet,” Johnny shot back, shooting a wink down at you as his hand readjusted its grip along your waist. “Can’t be that hard with the prettiest girl in the building in my arms, right?”
Swaying back and forth, wrapped up in the heat of his body, in the faint smell of the cologne that coated his clothing, you were very certain that Johnny Storm was going to be the death of you.
And when you smile the world is brighter. You touch my hand and I'm a king. Your kiss to me is worth a fortune, your love for me is everything.
Johnny tilted his head back from you by just a hair, and you followed suit. Deep blue eyes, as captivating to you as they were the first time you ever saw them, shone with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. If you could, you weren’t sure you would survive knowing.
Faces just an inch away, the closest and most intimate moment you’d ever shared with the man you knew in your heart was never going to be just your friend, your colleague, you were verging on the edge of making a terrible choice. Of opening the floodgates, of unlocking the feelings you’d buried away so long ago and letting them flow.
“This is an interesting little relationship you and I have, you know,”
Johnny always found a way to ruin these moments, and this was just another example. Lips tugged up into a smirk, mischief swarming his eyes as he teased you, that fleeting moment of raw vulnerability was gone.
Hand slipped from his, body pulled back from his and a roll of your eyes, you turned on your heel within seconds.
“So typical of you, Storm,”
“What-? What did I do!”
You huffed out a laugh, a smile creeping onto your lips even as you tried to keep it at bay, as you threw your comment over your shoulder as you walked toward the door.
“You went and killed the moment, Johnny, as per usual,”
“...so you admit it, we WERE having a moment!”
You barked out a laugh, shaking your head as you crossed through the doorframe. You could never stay mad at him, not when your heart yearned for him in a way you wish it didn’t.
“Come on! At least let me make it up to you. Will you stay for dinner?”
With a final glance cast over your shoulder toward him, you shot him a bright smile.
“If you’re lucky, flame boy!”
❤︎
Yeah, you really couldn’t say no to Johnny Storm.
Not when he’d spoken so sweetly to you, held you so tenderly, and all around just invaded every part of your brain and your heart. To be fair, he barely had to try honestly to do that.
It wasn’t shocking to see Ben in the kitchen, it seemed to be one of his happy places. You weren’t complaining: on the nights you did stay for dinner, and Ben was cooking, you knew you were going home with the best leftovers the city of New York had ever seen.
“Decided to stay for dinner again?” Sue called out toward you with a smile, giving Herbie a pat on the head as he worked away at carving a pumpkin. You shot her a smile in return, pouring yourself a quick glass of water before making your way toward Ben.
“Johnny asked…and I decided to be nice and oblige him,” you didn’t miss the teasing hum that Ben let out, lightly whacking him on his rocky shoulder. Not that it did you any good, hurting your hand more than it would ever hurt him. His laughter was ignored as your eyes lit up, catching sight of the familiar black and white cookies he was dumping onto a plate. “Oh my god, did you go grab these from Maisie’s?”
“Yes,” Ben waved your hand away when you went to reach for the cookies, producing another paper bag and sliding it your way. “These ones are yours.”
The smell that wafted from the bag was enough to have you almost moaning in the middle of the kitchen, eagerly digging one of the cookies out. Maisie’s famous snickerdoodle cookies, the perfect blend of cinnamon and sugar that you had adored since you were a little girl. One bite of the cookie had you in absolute heaven.
“Oh my god, I haven’t had these in ages!” Ben and Sue both laughed at your excitement as you took another bite of the warm cookie in your hand. “How did you know these were my favorites?”
Ben’s smirk wasn’t hard to miss at all.
“Oh, I didn’t. Johnny asked me to pick those up for you,”
It was probably time to accept that blushing around this family was the only thing you were capable of.
Sue’s laughter rang loudest as she rounded the island counter, high fiving Ben as she shot you a pointed look.
“You really have my brother wrapped around your finger without even trying, huh? You know, before I went to get scanned–again–in the lab, I stopped by the nursery to check out the crib progress. Heard a little The Wonder of You from down the hall, thought I’d peek in…”
The groan you emitted could probably be heard from the other side of the country, leaning down to barely bang your head against the countertop. Ben and Sue’s laughter rang through the air again as you looked up, desperately waving your hands.
“I swear, it wasn’t what it looked like-”
“What wasn’t what it looked like?”
Of course, Johnny chose to make his grand entrance at that moment. Thankfully for you, he’d changed out of that ridiculously hot button up. Unfortunately for you, he was still wearing those god forsaken white chinos.
“Your little dance Sue was telling me about earlier,” Ben teased, easily catching your hand as it came up to whack him again in his rough, oversized one. “What’s with the long face?”
“Oh that dance was exactly what it looked like. Thanks for coming to dinner though, sweetheart, glad you like the cookies,” Johnny tacked on a wink in your direction, one you affectionately rolled your eyes over, before his smile was back to a frown. “And what of it, Ben?”
“Sounds like your 2:15 with Reed didn’t go well. I’m sorry, pal,”
From across the room, you could see Johnny’s shoulders move in a huff of laughter as he clapped, bringing down the cabinet shelf that held the same box of cereal you had taken from him two weeks ago. You moved around the island counter, filming your cup with more water before standing opposite of Ben while Johnny made his way back over.
“Hey, I’m fine,” he spoke, though the edge in his words was clear as he did, coming to stand directly at your side. “I don’t mind or anything, it’s just, uh-”
“I hear you, pal. We’ll go to space again,”
“That’s what I was trying to tell him earlier,” you tacked on, bumping your hip with Johnny’s, who quickly did the same back to you.
That smile you adored was back in moments, though, as he dug his hand into the box and produced the action figure waiting inside: a miniature Johnny Storm. His bright grin was turned in your direction as he waved the toy toward you, his signature catchphrase from the cartoon–flame on–ringing through the air as Reed entered the room, greeting his wife by the dining room table.
“They captured my likeness so perfectly, don’t you think?” he quipped, activating the catchphrase once again as you rolled your eyes. “Do you still have the one I gave you a few months ago?”
“Yeah, buried in the junk drawer of my kitchen,”
Johnny feigned shock, pinching your side quickly as you squirmed away with a laugh.
“At least upgrade me to your bedside table so I can be with you while you sleep,” that stupid line was accented with another wink before Johnny thrust the toy in Ben’s face. “Come on, admit it’s cool.”
That catchphrase just kept repeating.
I’m Johnny Storm! Flame On!
Flame On!
Flame On!
Ben grabbed the toy from Johnny’s hand in seconds, crushing it to nothing but dust and blowing it back in Johnny’s face with a smirk. You tried everything to conceal your laughter, but it was inevitable.
“Flame off!”
Sirens rang outside the balcony of the building’s living room. The flying cars of the police force raced past, bathing the room in red and blue lights. The second they disappeared, another squadron flew past in the other direction, the sirens all intermixing in the air.
These were the moments you never got to see often, when the team sprung into action. It was clear in Johnny and Ben alone, how their silly little moment was forgotten as they thrust into action, prepared to go running out of the building into danger. Reed simply held up a hand, shaking his head at the group.
“No, no, it’s alright. This is me,”
Ben and Sue followed Reed out onto the balcony, but Johnny hung back, his gaze stuck on you as you hadn’t moved from the kitchen. He simply tilted his head toward his family, holding his hand out for you. Such a simple move that shouldn’t have kickstarted your heart into what was surely an irregular rhythm, but it did.
The second you were at his side, Johnny’s hand rested at the small of your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt just so to tug you slightly closer to his side. Together, you stepped out onto the balcony of the Baxter Building beside Ben, overlooking New York as it was bathed in every corner in red and blue.
“For the past few months, I’ve been tracking a small number of criminal organizations throughout the city,”
You shot a look down at your boss, eyebrow raised.
“That’s what you’ve been doing in that notebook by your desk?” Reed simply waved your comment off, pointing just down the block, fairly close to the area in which your apartment resided.
“47 of them, to be exact. Including the Puppet Master in the Bowery, the Wizard in Gramercy Park, and Diablo in Washington Heights,”
Everyone on the balcony went quiet for a moment.
“You…baby-proofed the world,” Ben finally spoke. Sue’s sigh could be heard from the other end of the balcony as she tried to defend her husband.
“It’s a sweet gesture,”
“It’s a little insane,” you mumbled to yourself, just loud enough for you and Johnny to hear. The blonde at your side simply shrugged, glancing down at you and catching your gaze.
“It’s not totally crazy. He’s trying to protect the things he loves, what’s most precious to him…” Johnny’s lips quirked up just slightly. “I’d do it too…I’d do it for you.”
He said it so…so earnestly. With so much conviction in his tone, as if this was a certainty to him. That protecting not just his family, but you, was something he needed to do. That if it came down to it, he’d do it without a second thought.
“You…you have to stop saying things like that to me, Johnny,” you hated how breathless your voice came out, how wrecked you sounded as you whispered your response back to him, the conversation still droning on in the background between the other three.
The smile on Johnny’s face only widened, his hand slipping around from your lower back to your waist, as he gave you a light squeeze.
“Stop saying what, the truth?”
No, you need to stop saying things that are making me fall in love with you.
Love. That was a word that had only crossed your mind once when it came to Johnny Storm.
It was two years ago, a week to the day that you had lost your mother, your biggest supporter in life. You stood at that funeral, surrounded by estranged family members you hadn’t spoken to in years, and family friends who wept for your loss. Reed, Sue, Ben and Johnny had come, offered their condolences, paid their respects.
When the others left, Johnny stayed. He stood by your side through the first viewing, never left it during the second viewing, and stood with you in the pouring rain an hour after they’d put her in the ground. You had cried, he held you, and he’d simply never left you alone that day. The colleague that had quickly become a friend, who flirted with you every chance he got, never uttered a single flirtatious comment that day. He’d simply been there, been the shoulder you needed.
That was the day you realized you may have fallen in love with the one man you told yourself not to fall in love with, and you buried those feelings in your heart for what you thought would be forever.
“Stuck in your head over there? Come on, it’s dinner time,”
Ben’s voice broke you from your stupor. The team had all started to make their way inside while you were left at the balcony railing, hands white knuckled on top of the rail.
Johnny’s hand was held out toward you, and you ignored every part of your brain that told you not to and slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you back in toward the living room.
That’s what their watches all went off, alerts blaring in sync with one another.
It was like a firework went off, a boom shattering the night air of the city. The clouds, the sky, were painted in gold, streaks of meteors and debris crossing the sky as they fell to the earth. The sound that emitted from the golden cloud that stretched across the sky, bathing the city in its light, felt…otherwordly. Like a scream, like a warning.
A warm hand enveloped your face, turning your wide eyes away from the scene.
There were very few times you saw Johnny as serious as he was now. Jaw locked, eyes narrowed but still soft as they looked at you, the cascades of gold shone over his face, highlighting his features as another boom sounded off in the distance.
“Go inside, don’t come out,”
Words were caught in your throat. All you could manage was a nod, his thumb doing a single swipe over your cheek, before he patted Reed on the shoulder and launched himself over the railing and into the air, igniting himself as he went.
If not for the moment, you would have stopped to admire him as he flew, bathed in the reds and oranges of his fire. You were awestruck every time you got to witness those cosmic powers firsthand.
Reed, Sue, and Ben had followed not long after, as you could hear the familiar whirled of their car through the air, chasing after Johnny through the city, following whatever had just appeared from the sky.
You? You sat on the living room couch, wringing your hands together to keep them from shaking. You’d been there as they had dealt with Red Ghost, or even Moleman, but this?
This was different. This was otherworldly. This was terrifying. And when Herbie flipped the switch of the television, rolling to your side, you were greeted with the sight of the silver alien woman hovering in Times Square for the first time.
“Your planet is now marked for death. Your world will be consumed by the devourer,”
Her voice sent a single chill down the column of your spine. Herbie’s robotic hand reached out for yours, ceasing the endless wringing of your hands together. You took it without hesitation, though you wished in your heart it was someone else’s hand holding yours in this moment.
“Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak. Use this time to rejoice, and celebrate, for your time is short. I herald his beginning…I herald your end…I herald, Galactus.”
And thus began the longest night of your life since the day your colleagues went into space and came back forever changed.
Sending the team into space was the only option, to confront this mystery at its source. Reed had given you the basics in passing: the threat was real, there was documentation of plants across the universe disappearing entirely, the chrome woman’s signature left on each of them. He’d tasked you to the launch team, to prepare Excelsior for launch in T-16 hours.
Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.
Those words rattled around your brain the entire night, into the wee hours of the morning. Even as you helped Lynn set up the press conference, as you conferred with the launch team to ensure that the Excelsior was prepared in every conceivable way, as you checked and double-checked every data point throughout the entire ship, her words never left you.
Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.
The anxiety was clawing at you, even as you threw yourself into work. The notion of what her words meant, of what could happen, of how close the end could be.
The clock read sometime around 2 a.m. when you had finally stepped foot in that guest room made for you. There was no way you were walking home tonight. Besides, come morning, there would still be too much to do, too many data points that needed to be checked, too many scenarios that would need to be run through to make sure your team came back to you.
You knew sleep wasn’t coming to you, though, not when that metallic voice was rattling around your head. Not when an alien threat was upending your life. Not when, two doors away, there was a man that you did, in fact, want to hold close…in case you never got the chance to again.
You loved him. All it took was the end of the world to admit it.
Clad in nothing but an old t-shirt with the 4 logo on the front, one you were sure was Johnny’s, and a pair of shorts, you didn’t care what you looked like as you tore out of the room and into the hallway. Not now, not when your world was being threatened, not when your entire life could be ripped from you in a matter of seconds.
Johnny was awake, just as you knew he would be. White shirt, plaid blue pants you’d seen him sleep in so many times, he stood in his dark room by the windows once more, watching the crews rush around on the ground as they prepared the ship for launch in just a few hours. That same record from earlier in the day was still playing.
I guess I'll never know the reason why you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.
With a step into the room, shutting the door behind you and flicking on the lamp just beside the door, Johnny finally met your eyes.
“I couldn’t sleep,” was the only thing you could manage to say. Johnny tilted his head, studying you silently, before he held out his hand just as he had done hours before.
“Come here,”
Crossing the room in a matter of moments, you all but fell into his arms. His outstretched hand ignored, he was frozen in place for just a moment as you curled your arms around his neck, throwing yourself into his arms. The faint smell of his cologne lingered, as did his bodywash, and the sigh you let out the second the smell hit you was in comfort.
It didn’t take Johnny long to unfreeze, his arms finding their place around your waist. One hand rested on your upper back, one pressing into your lower back. A faint kiss was placed to the side of your head, heat lingering for a second. Heat lingered in your entire body, radiating off of him in waves.
“You have to talk to me, baby,”
Talk? The truth was, you didn’t know where to start. How were you supposed to explain that, since the moment you had met Johnny Storm, your heart was already his. That in all your moments over the years, you’d fallen for the man you told yourself not to fall for. And as the threat from the metallic woman loomed over the world, as he prepared to try and save life as you knew it, the only thing you wanted was to be held by him. To know he was here, that he was okay, that he was with you.
“I-I’m scared,”
Those were the only words you could settle on. Johnny pulled back, his hands sliding gently around the fabric of the shirt hanging loosely from your body until they reached your face. He cradled you, so softly and gently in his hands, it was almost involuntary the way you closed your eyes and leaned into his touch, his warmth, chasing the feeling of security it brought you.
“It’s okay to be,” the gentle tone in his voice washed over you, covering you like a blanket. It’s exactly how he had spoken to you that day, standing in the rain when you refused to leave your mother’s side, reassuring you he was there. “I don’t care what the herald said, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”
Of course you knew that. If there was anything you knew for certain in this world, it was that when Johnny Storm said he’d protect you, he meant it. He’d spent long enough proving that to you.
There was no hesitation on your part when you laid your own hands overtop of his. Fingers curling around them, tugging his right hand just barely from your cheek, you turned and pressed the lightest of kisses to the palm of his hand.
Johnny froze. You could feel it. The slight tilt of his head, the questioning look that flickered across his face in the moonlight that shone through the windows. It was all fair. You were never the one to cross the boundary like this, to make a move such as this.
“I can’t stop thinking about what she said,” was how you tried to explain yourself, stopping and starting your sentence over and over as you tried to find the right way to explain yourself, the walls crumbling and the floodgates bursting wide open. “Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…it’s why I came to you.”
A single emotion crossed Johnny’s face in seconds: understanding.
That signature smirk of his was back in moments, even if it was twinged with a softness reserved only for you. The heat left your cheeks, but found your hands as Johnny’s fingers intertwined with yours, hanging your joined hands down between you both. There was a bright light that passed over the window for just a moment, bathing the two of you in bright light, before you were plunged back into the darkness of his room yet again.
“You did come to me…why’s that?”
“You know why-”
“I do,” he said it so matter-of-factly, that smirk growing just a tad as he leaned into your personal bubble by just a hair. “This push and pull, four years of ‘will they’ or ‘won’t they.’ I want to hear you say it, baby.”
“It’s not that easy,” you immediately shook your head, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as Johnny simply watched you. “Saying it…makes it real.”
He scoffed, the sound mixed with laughter, as his head cocked slightly more to the side.
“You came into my bedroom at 2 in the morning–wearing my shirt, might I add–is that not real enough?”
“When you’ve spent years trying to ignore how you feel and refusing to say it, it’s not that easy to say,” you desperately tried to explain. “If I say it…then everything changes.”
Johnny took barely another step forward, and you almost wanted to step back, to bring back the space between you and preserve the small, crumbling wall that still stood between you both.
“A sexy, naked alien woman came to earth and basically prophesied our demise, darling. If there was ever a time to ‘change everything’ and lay it all on the line, I think it’s now,”
Your heart wanted to hang onto the word darling, but your brain was too stuck on the ‘sexy, naked alien woman’ part of his sentence. The sigh that escaped you was instantaneous, as well as the frown, as you shot the blonde man a pointed look.
“Sexy, naked alien woman, Johnny? Seriously?”
“Come on! She was–objectively–attractive. You can’t deny that!”
It was your turn to scoff, tearing your hands from his in a heartbeat, before spinning on your heel. You felt like an idiot–on the precipice of finally confessing your deepest, darkest secret you’d kept locked away for years, and this is what you got.
“I try to be serious with you, Johnny, and you turn it into a joke once again-”
You didn’t get far from him. A hand enveloped your upper arm mid sentence, tugging and spinning your back around. A gasp fell from your lips as you collided with the chest of the man before you.
Whatever you were going to say never saw the light of day. Not when Johnny Storm gripped at your hips, tugged you as impossibly close as he could, and finally–finally–kissed you.
The kiss you’d dreamed about for four years, finally yours.
Johnny’s lips were soft as they slanted against your own, enveloping you in his warmth. They moved against you in a steady rhythm, passionate but still gentle, still testing the waters of the line you had never crossed before.
His hands curled into the fabric of the t-shirt clinging to your body, pushing it up just enough so that his hands could dip underneath. Your breath caught, even as his lips continued to move against yours, as his heated skin made contact with yours, and any part of your brain begging you to stop this was silenced as you melted into him.
Hands landed on his broad chest, gripping the fabric as you let him mold your body to his, the scent of his bodywash enveloping you as your body almost became one with him. In the pits of your stomach, as those heated hands trailed up your waist and ghosted over your ribcage, another flurry of butterflies erupted as a moan slipped past your lips, swallowed by his mouth.
A moan left Johnny’s lips at the sound of your own, one hand leaving your waist to curl around the back of your neck. Those slender fingers buried themselves into your hair, gripping just enough to have another groan of pleasure tumbling from your lips, as he guided your mouth against his own.
“You can’t keep making little noises like that,” his mouth barely left yours as he spoke, lips moving against yours, as he dove back in for another kiss the second he was done speaking.
“Your fault,” was all you could manage out, trying to back away just enough to speak, but Johnny never let your lips go far. Your hands glided up his chest, his neck, curling into his short hair as your thumb crested the ridge of his ear. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”
“Be mad at me later,” was his immediate response, his lips leaving yours just to find their place along your jawline and slide down into the hollow of your neck. His tongue danced its way across your skin, leaving tingles of electricity everywhere he touched you, his words murmured into your neck as he buried himself there. “I’m trying to kiss you.”
There was some part of you that wanted to protest him–over what, you weren’t even sure at this point–but you couldn’t. Not when his teeth dug just so into the side of your neck, leaving his mark on your skin as if he was claiming you as his.
You were always his.
“You c-called–oh god–you called the alien sexy while I was trying to confess,” you just barely managed to get the words out through your moans. Johnny was slowly walking you backward, straight in the direction of his bed while his lips never left the side of your neck, leaving his mark on every inch of skin he could see.
Your foot caught on the raised edge of the platform his seating area sat on, your feet stumbling backward. Johnny was there–he was always there–and tugged you back into him. And god, if you loved those blue eyes before, you loved them even more now: pupils blown wide, Johnny Storm looked about as wrecked as you felt.
“Your confession was four years late, and I’m impatient,” he stole another kiss from you, his teeth sinking just barely into your bottom lip, tugging gently. He let go, pressing a messy kiss to your lips to soothe the pain of his bite, words fanning out over your lips. “I’ve been trying to tell you I’m in love with you for four years now, so please just shut up and let me show you instead. Now–jump.”
At this point, you’d do just about anything he asked of you.
Johnny caught you with ease, both of his hands splayed out across the bare skin of your thighs, locking your legs around his hips. A choked moan fell from your lips the second your core was dragged against the painfully hard length bulging against his own pants, hands curling into his hair as you, this time, desperately pulled him into a kiss.
I’m in love with you. Those words repeated like a mantra in your head. Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, the world’s fire boy and hero that they painted like a sex symbol. The ‘playboy’ with a new girl all the time, never able to hold down a girl…was in love with you.
Your back hit the bed, body bouncing just slightly before settling. His eyes never left you as you crawled back just slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows to look up at him in the dark of the room, lit only by sky and the lamp by the door. The music played faintly in the background, but at this moment, it meant nothing to you.
Johnny’s hands gently touched your knees from where they dangled off the edge of the bed, parting them just so in order to step between them. You watched, entranced by every move he made, body flushed from the heat that coursed through your bare skin at the slightest of touches from him. With a practiced ease, his hand took hold of the back of his shirt, yanking it over his head without hesitation. It found a place to lay somewhere across the room, discarded until the following morning.
It was impossible not to stare. His broad chest, those biceps that always threatened to bulge out of every shirt he wore. His toned abdomen and the trail of hair that led straight to the waistband of his pants, the outline of him still prevalent and straining against the fabric.
“I need to know that you’re sure…about this,” you weren’t used to it, the vulnerability in Johnny’s tone. He leaned over you now, hands splayed across the bed on either side of you, barely a few inches from your face. Those blue eyes flickered down to your lips time and time again. “Because if I kiss you again, I’m not stopping until you’re mine.”
There was no hesitation on your part. Just a single movement of your arms, tossing the old shirt hanging from your upper body across the room to join his. As simple as that, you sat bare before him, chest heaving with every deep breath you took in.
“I was already yours. I always have been,” there was only certainty in your tone as you held his gaze. “Speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…that’s why I came to you. Because if this is the end of the world, I needed you to know that I love-”
He didn’t let you finish your words. His next kiss was anything but gentle.
Messy, spit coating your lips as Johnny’s tongue seemed to invade your mouth and every one of your senses, his lips devoured yours as if you were his first meal in decades. He kissed with the hunger of a starved man, his hands grasping at every part of your skin they could–your waist, your hip, before finally your ass. The squeeze he gave to your skin, the uptick in heat you felt as if he was burning himself just slightly hotter on purpose, had another moan tumbling from your lips and into his mouth.
The hand still gripping your ass tugged you upward on the bed until your head fell against the silk pillows at the headboard. Your hands never left Johnny’s hair, carding through the strands as you frantically kissed him back, addicted to the feeling, as his hips ground into yours. That bulge in his pants pressed heavenly into your core, the friction rolling your eyes into the back of your head as you let your head fall to the pillows with a moan.
Johnny’s lips were everywhere. From your jawline, to your neck, until they finally reached your collarbone. He lavished you with his lips, tongue running over your skin as his hands trailed up the sides of your lower abdomen, stopping just as they reached the swell of your breasts.
“Since the day you walked in, I’ve thought about this,” his voice was raspy, the words barely understood as they were spoken against your skin. “Since the moment Reed introduced you to us.”
“I-I was wearing a lab coat,” you choked on your words as Johnny’s lips reached your sternum, trailing kissing down your chest, but never where you wanted him. “Hardly sexy, I’d argue.”
“It is when I’m picturing you in that coat and your heels, and nothing else,” he tacked on, before his lips wrapped around your nipple without warning.
You mewled at the sudden contact, one hand returning to his hair on instinct as your back arched off the bed and into him. Johnny’s hand on your abdomen was quick to push you back down, holding you down against the bedding beneath you.
God, with the fire that felt like it was burning through your body, you could’ve sworn that Johnny had caught you on fire. His teeth just barely grazed the sensitive bud in his mouth, a sharp intake of breath leaving your lips on instinct. He was quick to soothe you, tongue swirling around the erect and sensitive bud with rapt attention. A moan slipped through him, felt through your entire body, as your other hand tore into the bedding. Desperate for something to hold onto. Something to ground you in your pleasure.
“I’ve dreamed about you under me. Kissing you, tasting you, loving you,” his practically purred out every single word, tongue flicking back and forth over your sensitive nipple. He moved to the other one easily, delivering the same rapt attention to it.
“I’ve thought about you, too,” you relented, divulging every secret you held dear to the man who lavished every inch of you in love and adoration. “In the kitchen, the lab, in that stupid button up from earlier-”
“I knew you liked that shirt. Wore it just for you,” his husky tone sent another shot of pleasure through you, heat curling through every inch of your body.
The tips of his fingers trailed lightly down your stomach. When Johnny’s head lifted for just a moment to lock his eyes with yours, that familiar smirk on his face, you weren’t given a second to react before heat poured through his touch.
Gasps mixed with moans of pleasure fell from your lips on instinct, that unnatural heat of his pouring through his touch and into your skin. Every movement of his fingers over your ribcage and down your abdomen felt as if it was leaving your skin on fire, branding his touch into your skin so that you would never forget the feeling. Burning him into your memory so that you would always feel the phantom sensations of his touch on your skin.
“You’re absolute perfection, you always have been,” Johnny moaned into your skin, lips trailing over the mounds of your breasts with another series of a thousand kisses. Those heated fingers dipped past the waistband of your shorts, pressing directly against your clothed clit without a warning. The moan you let escape mixed in the air with the moan that tumbled from Johnny’s lips against your skin. “Jesus Christ, baby, you’re so soaked.”
The heat was still there in his fingers, setting off every little nerve ending in you even through the soaked fabric of your panties that you desperately wanted gone. Your hips ground up into his hand, whimpers falling from your lips as you chased after the feeling of him, desperate for friction.
“All for you,” even this hint of pleasure had you stumbling toward the edge, babbling almost incoherently. With a tug to his hair, you were quick to bring Johnny’s lips back to yours, arms wound around his neck. He gave into your needs immediately, devouring you in a kiss as heated as his touch was, fingers rubbing slow circles over where you needed him so desperately. “Please–Johnny, please! Please, I need you. Need you–need you so bad.”
“I got you, baby. I got you. Keep moaning my name like that, and I’ll give you the world”
Those whispered words stayed on your lips, lingering, as Johnny left you. His touch wasn’t gone long. Fingers curling into your shorts, they were discarded across the room in a flash, panties gone with them as well.
For the first time, you laid completely bare in front of the man you loved–the man you denied loving for so long. And Johnny Storm was a mess. His hair stuck up in multiple directions, skin flushed, but he was still beautiful. The most beautiful man you’d ever met, inside and out.
Johnny didn’t give you a second to truly breathe once he was done admiring you. He sprawled out along the end of the bed, head dipping between your thighs, as he licked a single stripe with his flattened tongue directly up your center.
“Fucking beautiful, and all mine,” his words were growled into your core, two fingers lazily moving between your folds and spreading every ounce of wetness around, holding you open so he could see every inch of you. “Sweeter than I ever dreamed you could be.”
He dove into you like you were the only thing that mattered. Fingers spreading you open, giving him access to every square inch, his mouth devoured you. A cool drink of water for a starving man in the middle of the desert. Johnny moved his tongue with precise expertise, as if he knew exactly what your body craved.
Delving into you, flicking back and forth as he drank in every secretion of arousal that dripped from you. That same tongue dragged its way up to your clit, swirling around in figure eights, flicking back and forth.
Cries fell from your lips wantonly, hands digging into his hair. Eyes fluttered shut, head tilted back to the ceiling, there was only one word you could repeat over and over again: Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.
His name was all you knew anymore, too lost in your own bliss and pleasure.
In one fell swoop, your thighs were settled over his shoulders, before his head was back where you wanted it more than anything. His lips and tongue focused on your clit, still swirling back and forth, as his fingers dipped slightly lower, dancing right across your opening.
It started with one long, slender finger sliding into you. One of your hands was forced to leave Johnny’s hair, falling over your own mouth to try and conceal the cry that threatened to burst from you, afraid that the others would hear you.
“Let me hear you, baby,” he laughed against your core, his finger curling just perfectly against your walls as they clenched around him every time he dragged his finger back and forth. “Want to hear you.”
“Don’t want to–fucking hell, Johnny–let the others hear,”
“Let them. Let them hear me love you,”
Fuck Johnny Storm and his stupid lines. His stupid dirty talk that had your walls clenching around him again and again.
Another finger joined the first, followed by another, before you were stretched as wide as you could be around Johnny. The squelch of your juices rung through the air with every move of his fingers–dragging so deliciously into you, curling up, before dragging out just to the edge of your opening. His mouth–god, his mouth–never let up, lapping away at your core like it was his job, what he was meant to do.
That coil of pleasure deep within your lower body came out of nowhere, sneaking up on you just like your love for this man had.
“Johnny–baby–I can’t. I can’t–I’m gonna-”
“Let go, darling,” came that growl in his voice again, the speed of his fingers increasing. “I got you baby, let go.”
That coil snapped in seconds after he spoke. The precipice of your orgasm was earth-shattering, like you’d never felt before. Like trails of fire through your veins, the pleasure coursing through you had your head buried into the pillow behind your head, desperately trying to conceal the wails of pleasure that tumbled from your lips. Your thighs snapped shut around Johnny’s head, but his ministrations never let up as he eagerly drank up every bit of your arousal that leaked from you.
The come down was slow, like waking up. Your breath was uneven, heart beating erratically when you finally pulled your head from the pillow. Eyes bleary, it took a moment to blink them back to life.
Johnny stood at the edge of the bed, discarding his pants and boxers to the pile of clothing littering the other side of the room. And even in your fucked-out, blissful state, one look at him for the first time had that burning desire coursing back through your veins.
He was big. There was no way around it, no denying it, no other way to put it. Flushed, hanging with that beautiful reddened tip, one large and prominent vein throbbing along the edge of it. Beads of precum collected at the tip, his hand smearing it down along his length as he gave himself one single pump before he was crawling back onto the bed.
Johnny knelt between your legs again. Even with limbs that felt like Jell-O, you met him halfway, dragging yourself into a seated position. It was the smile on his face right now, the one erupting those butterflies once more, that you decided was your favorite: soft, adoring, loving.
It was your hands that cupped his cheeks, bringing him into a soft kiss. The taste of you lingered on his lips, sweet just like he said. You poured every ounce of emotion into your kiss, trying to convey to him the years you’d spent loving him so quietly that you couldn’t admit it.
“I might be addicted to you, Johnny Storm,” your words were mumbled into his lips. He laughed so gently, stealing another peck.
“Glad you finally caught up with me, princess, I’ve been addicted since day one,”
Pressed to him, his lips stealing a thousand pecks from yours, the lust in your bones was back in full force. All you could do was hum in response, one of your hands trailing down his chest, nails dragging slowly over his abdomen, before you finally took his throbbing cock in your hand.
He felt even bigger than he looked, which didn’t even make sense in your mind. But he was hot, the skin searing into your hand in the best way. You gave him one squeeze, one tug, and you smiled at the hitch in his breath. The twitch of his cock in your hold.
Johnny’s hand quickly grabbed yours, though, unlatching it from him. All you could do was shake your head, practically whining as you tried to take your hand back.
“Johnny-”
“God, it’s so hot how eager you are to touch me,” he laughed again, tilting his head to leave a single kiss to the column of your throat. “This is about you, doll. Save that for next time. It can be a ‘welcome home from space’ gift for me. A ‘thanks for saving the world’ gift, if you will.”
Space.
That word was enough to have your next words caught in your throat as the weight of everything came crashing back down on you. The threat, the herald, the space launch commencing in a matter of hours now, the events that brought you here in the first place.
You weren’t sure when you started crying, when a single tear slipped down your cheek, but Johnny caught it. Eyes full of concern, but understanding, he simply wiped the tears from your cheek, laying a kiss to the wet splotch of your skin.
“No crying, none of that. Just lay back, baby,”
You listened, letting his hands guide you gently to rest back against the pillows once more. Parting your legs, Johnny placed himself between them, holding himself up over your body on his forearms. Right where he belonged.
Your hands rested on his chest, sliding up so gently to his neck. His eyes never left yours, his length sitting right against your soaked and sensitive core, gliding back and forth with each gentle twitch of his hips.
“You didn’t let me say it earlier. So let me say it, for the first time outloud,” you gave him a watery smile, lips quivering as you looked up at him. “I love you, Johnny Storm. I’ve loved you for so long. I’m sorry it took the world maybe ending for this, that I didn’t let myself be yours sooner.
He smiled, that same charming smile he always did, as he rolled his hips once more. His cock caught just along the edge of your opening as Johnny dipped down, breath fanning over your lips.
“Like you said: you’ve always been mine,”
The first press of his length into your core stung. As wet as you were, as prepared as you were for him, it had been so long. He stretched your walls little by little, taking his time as your body adjusted to him. Then, inch by inch, he sunk within your walls that clung to him tightly.
His cock bottomed out, sunk fully within you, bare hips pressed to bare hips as you both let out shaky breaths. Your nails dug into the hair at the nape of his neck while his hands trailed up your ribcage, squeezing every moment or so as choked out moans fell from his lips.
“God–so tight for me, baby–you feel like heaven,”
His name was the only thing you could manage to choke out between your moans as he dragged himself back to the tip, before burying himself again to the hilt. Your moans, your cries and the way your hands threaded into his hair only spurred him on more, Johnny’s hips snapping into yours again and again and again.
His lips found yours amidst every snap of his hips, every drag of his cock against your walls. Every moan that slipped through your lips was drowned out by him, by the feverish movements of his lips against yours. They trailed away, back to your neck, leaving a trail of saliva connecting you together as he bit another love bite into the side of your neck. It didn’t matter to you how this would look to others, how scandalous you might look in the light of day to others.
All that mattered was Johnny Storm.
“Oh god, Johnny!” your head fell to his shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin as his hips snapped against yours over and over, driving him deeper with every thrust into you. “Holy fuck, w-why weren’t we doing this for years?”
“Because you’ve been a stubborn–fuck–little tease all these years,” his tongue dragged up the column of your throat, peppering kissing up and down your skin as his cock dragged against your walls. “Bent over your workstation in the lab–oh god–you don’t know how many times I’ve thought about it. Thought about walking in and taking you right there, making a mess right at your desk.”
“R-Reed would walk in and you’d scar him for life,”
“Sounds like a win-win to me,” there was shared laughter, punctuated with a shared moan as his cock dragged right against that spot nestled within you. “And try not to talk about my brother-in-law when I’m fucking you.”
There was no time to reply as Johnny scooped up your wrists in his hand in a single motion, pinning them down above your head. He adjusted your waist, suddenly driving into you at a new angle that had you mewling his name all over again.
Johnny whispered your name into your skin with every kiss, timed just so with every snap of his hips against yours. That coil of heat was burning, wounding itself tighter and tighter for the second time that night. All you could feel was him, was Johnny.
His warmth, the heat that burned off of him. It warmed your skin, it had beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. It was uncomfortable in the best way. His one hand still trailed up and down your ribcage, every so often tweaking your sensitive nipple between his thumb and index finger and coaxing another moan of pleasure from you.
He worshiped you, every inch of you, like you were the greatest thing to ever grace the earth. To him, you might have been
“Fucking perfect, baby. Fucking made for me,” his lips found yours again, slick with spit as his tongue dipped into your mouth to taste every inch of you possible.
His stroke faltered, the rhythm uneven, and you knew he was close. That coil of heat in your stomach was threatening to snap any second every time his cock pulsed and throbbed within your walls. His grip on your wrists was tight, even as you struggled against him, desperate to just hold him.
“Johnny–baby–please I-I’m so close-”
You choked on your words once more, the hand still trailing across your stomach heating up again, leaving a burning trail of heat in your skin. Those heated fingers found your clit like it was second nature, a cry of pure pleasure leaving your lips as they circle that bundle of a thousand nerves over and over again, hips still snapping into you as quickly and desperately as they can.
“Let go,” his voice was husky, eyes blown wide as he looked down at you. Your wrists were finally let go, your hands immediately finding their place in the strands of his hair again as his free hand cups the back of your neck, smashing your lips into his in a flurry of moans. “Let go, baby, let go.”
Your second climax burned hotter than the first.
The pleasure burned so hot, so bright, you were practically sobbing, every cry and moan of pure bliss muffled by his kiss. Your legs locked around Johnny’s waist–tightly–so tight he could barely move away from you. It was overwhelming, the shockwaves of bliss that ran through your veins, the shaking of your thighs as you held onto his hair like it’s a lifeline.
He ground himself into you over and over, rhythm so far gone he was struggling. But all it took was your lips lazily finding his neck, teeth sinking in to leave your matching mark to his, for his hips to still as he spilt into you.
Johnny breathed out every moan into the side of your head, your name tumbling from his lips along with a flurry of swears. The grip he had on your hip was bruising, so tight you think he could snap the damn bone if he held any tighter. And his cock? Seated so deeply inside of you it’s as if you are one, heat pooled within your lower abdomen with every wave of cum that filled you to the brim.
On the other side of the room, the record was still playing softly. Bright lights still flashed by the windows every so often, crews still at work on the spaceship set for launch by mid-morning.
None of it mattered in the silence of the bed.
You aren’t sure how long either of you laid there. Your heartbeat, eventually, returned to normal, even as your chest still heaved to take in every breath that it could. Johnny still laid half on top of you, pressing repeated kisses to the side of your head, but said nothing. Your hand stayed in his hair, carding through it, as your core pulsed. It would ache come morning–hell, it already did–but it was worth it. It was so worth it.
Neither of you were quite sure when he pulled out of you, or how long you simply laid there and basked in the afterglow of a moment that should’ve happened years ago.
Eventually, Johnny shifted down. His lips trailed down your body in worship, like they’d done already that night. From your cheek, to your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, and down your lower abdomen.
“Careful…not sure I’d survive a round three,” your voice was hoarse, mouth dry. Johnny laughed against your skin, still kissing every inch he could see.
“I don’t think I would, either,”
His hands were heated once more, but not for the same purpose as moments before. Now, his touch was gentle, massaging every piece of you that he could get his hands on. His thumbs rubbed into your wrists, your waist, and your hips, digging into the muscles. A sigh escaped you at the comforting feeling, taut muscles loosening at the feeling of the heat and the movement of his hands.
With every kiss pressed to your skin, you could feel it: Johnny was humming. It didn’t take long to know which song he was humming, which lyrics: that same song once again.
I guess I'll never know the reason why, you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.
“Is that our song now?” you laughed, even if your heart was clenching at the mere thought. The mere idea of that song belonging to the two of you–the idea that Johnny Storm belonged to you.
You could feel his smile against your abdomen as he spoke. “It should be. It’s accurate. Because I don’t ever think I’ll get over the miracle that is you…loving me.”
It’s not a miracle. What you really want to tell him is that falling in love with him was so easy, you barely realized you had done it. It might be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.
Johnny crawled back up your body, slotting himself onto the bed beside you, before tugging you in. There’s no hesitation on your part, simply curling into his side with your head over his chest and arm slung around his waist. Words aren’t needed in the silence, not when you’ve both clearly laid everything out on the table now. Instead, you just listened to the beat of his heart, the natural rhythm that lulls you into a state of peacefulness.
He’s yours. Johnny Storm is yours. He’s always been yours, you just didn’t know it.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, hand cradling the back of your head as he said his next words confidently.
“We’re going to go up there tomorrow, and we’re going to stop this guy. We’re going to protect this Earth, like we’ve sworn to do. But me? I’m going to do it so I can come home to you, and love you for the rest of my life. I promise,”
He can’t promise that, you knew he couldn’t. There was no telling what might happen when that ship took off tomorrow, what they might encounter, or who this Galactus really was.
But Johnny Storm loved you. For now, in the quiet of the night, just between the two of you, that’s enough.
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x barista!reader
summary: you work at a coffee shop on the ground floor of the daily planet. it’s not glamorous. it smells like burnt espresso and the customers are kind of shitty and most of your day is spent judging people’s caffeine orders like some kind of underpaid oracle. enter clark kent. mister medium-drip-extra-room-sincere-eyebrows. says “golly” unironically. blushes if you so much as look at him too long. you make it your personal mission to see how many times you can get him to blush. you were just trying to make rent. now you might be in love. unfortunate. (written in honor of me getting back to the barista game) listen to the playlist here!
word count: 10.2k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, light dom/sub undertones, bratty reader, soft dom!clark, nipple play, size kink (this 6'4 man had me FOLDING during the movie i stg), unprotected sex, creampie, clark being absolutely whipped, yearning, tooth-rotting fluff, praise kink, use of pet names (baby, pretty girl), he talks you through it, clark being a d1 yapper, reader being a yapologist
It starts with a spill.
Which—of course it does. It’s not dramatic. Not really the kind of spill that gets you a lawsuit or hazard pay. It’s just enough of one to be inconvenient. A dribble of some lukewarm latte that one of your coworkers left behind (Probably Ricky, that fucking asshole) down the side of your wrist that makes your already-caffeine-slicked skin feel somehow both sticky and itchy.
The sleeve of your Planet Roast sweatshirt is getting sacrificed to mop it up because (a) the napkin holder is jammed and (b) your manager still hasn’t fixed the bar towels situation, even though you’ve asked twice. Politely.
(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)
It’s 10:37 AM, and you’re officially in the danger window.
The Daily Planet’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve Lombard—cough, are actually just hungover.
And then there’s him.
Clark Kent.
You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence than all of these other assholes kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clark’s different.
He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.
And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.
Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need.
But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.
“Morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.
“Morning,” you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because you’re wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if he’d implode. “Let me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.”
That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. “No guilt,” he says. “Just... maybe sincerity.”
“Oh,” you say, eyes wide. “Even worse.”
And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. It’s different. It’s like he wasn’t expecting to be teased. Or wasn’t sure he deserved to be.
“Well… uh… I like your pin,” he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. It’s a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says “RIBBIT AND RIP IT.”
You arch a brow. “Do you?”
He hesitates. “Yes?”
“You sound unsure.”
“Well, I—I meant it. It’s cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.”
“Oh no,” you say gravely. “You can’t just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.”
Clark stammers. Stammers. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”
You’re already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: “FROGTITUDE™️” under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.
He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.
“I like your tie,” you say casually. “Very, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.”
He blinks. Looks down at it. It’s navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.
“Wow,” he says, adjusting it self-consciously. “I, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.”
“Of course she did.”
You’re trying not to enjoy this too much, but it’s hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. He’s not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, he’s awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasn’t realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.
(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)
“It’s... nice in here today,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the café. “I mean—I—I like the energy.”
You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos.
The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama.
The sticky note on the register that says NO “EXTRA HOT” LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.
“Sure,” you say. “If you’re into… all that.”
Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. That’s yours now.
“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s so genuine it actually throws you for a second.
“Well, yeah,” you reply, recovering. “What else am I gonna do down here? I’m not allowed to unionize.”
There’s another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe you’ve done something brave just by speaking.
You drum your fingers on the counter. “You’re not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?”
He panics. “No! I mean—do you want me to? I can—”
“Clark,” you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Oh,” he says. And then, small: “Right. Of course.”
There’s a pause. He fumbles his change, and you’re so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if he’d faint.
But you don’t. Not yet. You’ve got time. He’s clearly coming back.
Instead, you lean on the counter and say, “Same time tomorrow?”
And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. “I—yeah. Yes. Definitely.”
You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like it’s the elixir of life, like you didn’t just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ‘dad-coded.’ He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.
Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag:
Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T!
And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the “clean me or I’ll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cups” sign. Grin. Tomorrow, you’ll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.
.
When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because you’re not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember they’re out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner one’s closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.
You actually like that a lot about it.
The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but it’s doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and “forgot” to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.
The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels… personal.
The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says you’ve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.
You grab a basket and beeline for the produce—because, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity.
You will not acknowledge that you’re really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels you’ll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again.
Not yet.
Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someone’s arm after they’ve fainted. Uh… not encouraging.
“Three seventy-nine a pound,” you mutter. “Fucking recession indicator.”
You don’t mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.
The scent hits first—too sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.
You shouldn’t even be here. You hate this aisle.
You’ve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peet’s I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."
But.
You're the opener tomorrow.
And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. You’re the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesn’t spit hot water directly into someone’s shoe again.
So you double back. Casually. Like maybe you’re here for—what? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?
Your gaze snags on a familiar name.
It’s a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to “guy who unironically wears a beanie in July.” But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesn’t taste like ash.
The bag is $17. You stare at it like it’s winking at you.
No one would have to know.
You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.
You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round and—God, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.
You glance around. No one’s watching you.
The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.
You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor.
Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesn’t do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.
Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.
.
The next morning, Clark’s late. Again.
You’re not watching the door.
You’re not. You’re definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the world’s gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that it’s 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means he’s either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dog’s groceries.
Which is honestly more likely.
You’re behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast you’ll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comes—jacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.
“Sorry—sorry,” he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. “Someone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevator—well, it made a noise I didn’t love.”
You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.
Clark stares back.
And then, because it is Clark, he adds, “I think it’s probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.”
You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like it’s a weapon.
“Ohio,” you say, slowly, “do you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?”
He shrugs, smiling like you’ve just asked if he takes sugar. “I mean, it is an old building.”
“Clark.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “Medium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.”
“Right,” he says, blushing already. “You always remember.”
You don’t answer. You just pour.
You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If you’re gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.
You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.
Clark doesn’t grab it right away. Just stands there, all soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.
“Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “Meant to tell you—I liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.”
You blink. “You remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"
Clark laughs, but it’s almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. “That. That was—it made me smile all day.”
You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.
“You’ve got low standards, Iowa.”
“I don’t know about that,” he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.
And pauses.
And blinks.
And then blinks again.
“Oh my gosh,” he whispers.
It’s not performative. He says it like he’s just witnessed the birth of a star.
You fight down a grin. Hard.
“Something wrong?” you ask, innocent. Not innocent.
He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like it’s betrayed every expectation he’s ever had. “No, it’s just—I mean—I don’t think this is the usual blend?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Preeeeetty sure it is.”
He takes another sip, slower this time, like he wants to understand it.
He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if he’s trying to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. “This is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.”
You stare at him. “Do you write poetry on the side?”
Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Sorry! I just—I think I’m having a moment.”
“No, please, go on. I’d love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.”
He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. “Seriously, this is incredible. Did you—did someone special roast it?”
“Sure,” you say, casually wiping the bar down. “We’ve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.”
Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.
“I’m kidding,” you say, grabbing him a napkin. “No tears. Just some good taste.”
He takes the napkin with both hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to regular coffee after this.”
“You won’t,” you say. “That’s the point. I’m ruining you on purpose.”
Clark looks up, startled.
You don’t look away.
Just raise your eyebrows. “I mean, the house blend’s a crime against humanity, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”
Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of him—crouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.
Success. He does blush all the way down.
“Well,” he says softly, “I appreciate the sabotage.”
“Anytime.”
You say it offhand, because you’ve been trying it out in your head and it fits—somewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like he’s not sure if you’re being mean or just... noticing.
You are noticing. You always have.
He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. “Hey, uh... if I brought in some cookies—like, homemade—would that be weird?”
You blink. “For who?”
“For you,” he says. “I mean, and your coworkers. But—mostly you.”
It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.
“I like baking,” he adds quickly. “It’s relaxing.”
You try not to show your reaction. Fail. “You bake?”
He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Chocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?”
You raise a hand. “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”
Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.
The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watch—calculator-confirmed—then back up at you.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks.
You tip your head. “You bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?”
His grin could power the city.
“Deal.”
When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:
Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-L—
"Dude, you need to get back to work or something."
"Shut up."
.
A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.
They’re in a Tupperware container that looks like it’s survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. There’s a sticky note on the lid that just says: “Made these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didn’t measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CK” with a little cartoon of a cookie saying “Hi :)”.
They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customers—says something like, “Hope they’re edible,” and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser.
You take one while he’s still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, “This is offensively good.”
Clark—sweet, flustered Clark—beams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.
.
Now it’s Thursday, mid-morning, and you’re on break for once.
Which means you’re sitting in the corner booth in the café’s far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. You’re sipping your own coffee for once—your actual coffee, the not-house-blend blend—and listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. It’s pretty great.
And then the bell over the door rings.
You don’t look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the moment—the horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.
Sure enough, when you glance up, it’s him.
Clark walks in like a gust of air—rumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And you—you pretend not to see him.
You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.
He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano.
One of your coworkers—Dev—makes his coffee. Dev’s in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.
And then Clark... doesn’t leave.
No, he glances over his shoulder.
At you.
And then—God help you—he comes over.
You watch him cross the café with the awkward but determined gait of someone who’s trying not to overthink walking.
“Hey,” he says, standing beside your booth.
You sip your coffee. “You’re lingering, Nebraska.”
He flushes. “Well. I just... I’ve never seen you on break.”
“You mean sitting down like a human person?”
“Yeah,” he says, then realizes how that sounds. “No! I just—I mean—like, not behind the bar. It’s new.”
You raise a brow again. “New enough to investigate?”
Clark hesitates. He looks like he’s going to retreat. But then—he doesn’t.
“Can I sit?” he asks.
And for the sheer novelty of it—he, who’s never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks you’ve known him, not even when there were pastries involved—you nod slowly and say, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”
Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasn’t built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like he’s worried it might be offended.
“You’ve never sat down down here before,” you say.
He clears his throat. “Usually I don’t because of, um... the lighting. It’s—uh—aggressively fluorescent.”
“Mm. Not because of the draft or the, I don’t know, weird linoleum tiles?”
“Those too,” he says solemnly. “Also the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.”
You snort into your sleeve. “Wow. Big talk from someone who’s been down here religiously for weeks.”
He ducks his head, grinning. “I’m a complicated man.”
“No, you’re a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.”
He raises his cup in salute. “Guilty.”
There’s a brief pause where you both sip. You’re not sure what he expected, but the fact that he’s now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.
“So,” you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. “What’s the angle, Illinois?”
“No angle,” he says quickly. “Just... thought it’d be nice. To talk.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Talk. Like people. Who talk.”
“Exactly,” he says, determined now. “I mean—we’ve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.”
“That’s my love language.”
He laughs. “Good to know.”
You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. “So. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?”
His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.
“Actually, yes.”
You sip your coffee. “I was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.”
“Ah. A classic hero’s journey.”
“More of a Greek tragedy. There’s no escape and everyone dies a little inside.”
He lets out a soft, real laugh—head tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.
“So what about you?” you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. “What’s your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?”
“Close,” he says, beaming. “I wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.”
You blink. “That is... deeply wholesome.”
He shrugs. “I peaked early.”
A silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. It’s... comfortable. Warm.
And he’s got his sleeves rolled up.
You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now—now that he’s sitting still, now that he’s not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explode—you can see it.
Clark has arms.
Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasn’t a journalist, he’d be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that you’re not saying you’ve read. Or—
Anyway.
You’re not that fixated on them. You’re not. You’re just—not blind.
It’s a new kind of hell. Because he’s sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.
“You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didn’t just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesn’t know that his sleeves are a war crime and you’re the sole surviving witness.
“Yup,” you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast.
He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. “Just thinking.”
Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, “About?”
You look at him. Really look.
Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe you’re upset, or tired, or—God help you—bored. He shifts in the booth like he’s about to apologize for existing.
And you can’t help it.
You reach out—calmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didn’t just short-circuit at the sight of his forearms—and pluck the pen from behind his ear.
Clark stills immediately.
“Oh—uh—” he stammers, straightening up a little, like he’s done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. “Did you—do you need to write something down?”
“Don’t move,” you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.
His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something else, but you don’t give him the chance.
Instead, you reach for his left arm—fingertips brushing warm, tan skin—and gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.
And he lets you.
He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the other—steady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve touched him. Like it’s not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.
His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.
You feel the tremor run through him—not dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.
And then you see it.
Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like he’s standing in a cold wind even though the café is very much decidedly not cold.
He stares at your hand on his arm like it’s some sort of a religious event. Like he’s worried blinking will make it go away.
You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.
He still doesn’t move.
You glance up. He’s still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, “I’m free this weekend. Saturday. After five.”
Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
Closes it. Tries again. “Okay,” he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. “Yeah. Yes. I—great. I’ll—uh—yeah.”
You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. “Words, Clark. You’re a journalist, remember?”
His ears go scarlet.
“I’ll text you,” he says quickly. “And we’ll... we’ll do a thing. A date. Together. If that’s okay.”
You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.
“That’s the idea.”
Clark’s holding his arm like it’s breakable. Like the number’s written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.
And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like he’s memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.
His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s endearing.
It’s—dangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.
You don’t. Not yet.
But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like it’s some sort of secret message.
The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.
.
It’s just a date.
Just. A date.
With Clark Kent.
But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This one’s too tight. That one’s too try-hard. This one screams, “pleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.” And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough. Which is… probably not great? Mentally? But you’re too deep in it to self-soothe now.
You glance at the time.
Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.
But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.
You dive.
CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure.
CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird.
CLARK K.: I’m excited. That’s all.
You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. He’s so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.
YOU: yeah, still good
YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earth’s crust or whatever
Immediately regret it.
Too much. You’re being too much. You’re going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.
But then—
CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha
CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g
CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or I’ll else I'll end up at Arby’s by mistake.
You send it. You don’t even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.
YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted
CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair
CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior 😃
CLARK K.: See you soon!
You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.
.
When the knock comes, it’s not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know it’s him. Because you’re not unhinged. Just… cautious.
And then you open the door.
And there he is.
Standing on your doormat like he hasn’t just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.
It’s not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.
He’s got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadn’t been fully prepared to see you either.
And he’s a little out of breath.
Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now he’s a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.
“Hi,” he says, and it’s soft, shy almost.
And you—You blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.
He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like he’s just won a prize.
“You look…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “I mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is… wow.”
You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.
“Wow back,” you mutter, because you’re a disaster.
You’re pretty sure this man could say “macaroni salad” and you’d swoon like you’ve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.
Definitely.
He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.
And for one brief moment, you think maybe—maybe—you won’t survive this date. But God, what a way to go.
.
Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where it’s not wet, exactly, but it’s not dry either.
You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like he’s about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, “I haven’t been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldn’t recommend that combo.”
You raise your eyebrows. “That’s—deranged.”
“I was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.”
You hum, flipping through the menu. “You brought me to a trauma site.”
“It’s not a trauma site. It’s—comfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a ‘patty melt’ is sexy.”
You snort. “It kind of is.”
Clark chokes on his water.
And then—it starts.
The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just… this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the café, and not in the fake way people do when they’re trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like it’s funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and you’re 80% sure it’s stolen by the guy who “works remote” in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.
Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the “once I interviewed Superman” stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type ‘I AM A NERD’ no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.
“I tried to help him stretch it out,” Clark says, “but then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I don’t even know how. It was like a cartoon.”
“And Perry still lets you write about city politics?”
Clark grins, crooked and earnest. “Well, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention ‘accountability’ every third paragraph.”
“Do you always laugh at your own stories this much?”
He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—once I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. It’s a problem.”
“No, it’s cute,” you say, too fast.
He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like they’ve suddenly become very interesting.
“I mean,” you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “objectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing God’s work.”
Clark smiles, small this time, like he’s trying not to spook the moment. “Well, you’re really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."
You press your foot against the floor so you don’t accidentally kick him under the table.
“Yeah,” you say. “You too. Except for the patty melt thing. That’s still upsetting.”
“I stand by it. You’ve never lived until you’ve had American cheese with a side of regret.”
You roll your eyes. “How do you not have IBS?”
He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. “Good genes?”
You snort. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”
Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.
Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.
He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and you’re in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You don’t say no. You don’t really want to.
Besides, it’s kind of… nice. The way he walks like someone who’s not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.
He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something he’s saying and then, as if remembering themselves, they’re quickly shoved back in.
“You know,” you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, “for someone who’s allegedly a professional journalist, you don’t ask a lot of prying questions.”
Clark hums. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is… Midwestern.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It absolutely is. It’s like… nosiness with a layer of apology. We’ll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.”
You shoot him a look. “Your poor sources.”
“I bribe them with muffins.”
You’re still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying firefly—glow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isn’t the part where the night ends.
Clark doesn’t catch the signal.
He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like he’s clocking out of the shift. Like he’s already back on the subway in his head.
“Well,” he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. “This was really nice.”
You blink. That’s it?
“Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “It was.”
There’s a beat.
Then another.
He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isn’t quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing him—telepathically willing him—to pick up the stick.
Nothing.
You glance toward the door, then back at him. “It’s, uh… it’s not super late, if you… if you wanted to come up.”
Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.
“Oh.” A pause. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“You wouldn’t be.”
He shifts his weight. “You probably have to open early tomorrow…”
“So do a lot of people. That’s not a reason not to have tea.”
“Tea?”
You gesture vaguely in the air. “Or, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.”
“I wouldn’t want to overstay—”
“Clark,” you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, “you walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think we’re past overstaying.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—finally—finally—you see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.
“Oh,” he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.
You laugh under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. “I—I just didn’t want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didn’t want to turn that into—”
“You’re extremely noble,” you say, climbing one step higher so he’s looking up at you a little. “It’s wildly inconvenient.”
He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Sorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Or—friendly.”
“I am being nice,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “but I don’t usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.”
Clark’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.
“Right,” he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation he’s now realizing happened in real time.
You reach for the door handle. “So. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?”
He smiles, crooked and boyish. “Depends. Do you have chamomile?”
“I have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.”
He climbs the steps after you. “Perfect. That’s my favorite flavor.”
It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like it’s second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.
“Make yourself at home,” you say, voice light, like this isn’t the most vulnerable you’ve felt in weeks. “Just ignore the sink. It’s full of, uh, science experiments.”
He grins. “I’ve faced worse.”
You scoff. “Bet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.”
But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.
You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomile—the knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.
The kettle whistles. You make the tea.
By the time you bring the mugs over, he’s perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like he’s trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.
Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like he’s in an interview.
You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesn’t move. Just tenses. Barely. And then… relaxes again.
Okay. Now or never.
“I feel like you’re waiting for a sign,” you say, not looking at him. “Like a signal or something.”
Clark laughs, a little too quickly. “Am I that obvious?”
“You’re very obvious.”
He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after it’s been switched off.
“I don’t want to—” he starts, then stops. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”
“It’s tea,” you say softly. “It’s not sacred.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
You don’t speak.
And then—then—finally, he moves.
It’s small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like he’s still asking.
He’s close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.
“You’re allowed to kiss me,” you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.
Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before he’s even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like he’s not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.
It doesn’t.
It starts gentle—just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and careful—but the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you don’t expect how good he is at this. How confident.
He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like it’s trying to escape your throat.
And he kisses like someone who’s had to be careful his whole life. Like he’s used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like he’s used to stopping himself midwant.
But not now.
Now he touches you like he’s hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like he’s letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.
Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesn’t pull away.
If anything, he leans in more.
And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, it’s not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice.
Like he’s already thought it through and decided: yes. This.
You pull back, just a breath, dazed. “You sure you don’t do this often?”
His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.
“I never said I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I said I didn’t want to assume.”
Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like he’s not just trying to take it off, he’s trying to understand you.
“Can I…?” he asks, voice low, already hoarse.
You nod, half-dazed. “Yeah.”
He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like he’s waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop, reverent, and he murmurs, “Oh.”
“You’re staring,” you manage, breathless.
“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant.
And then it’s your turn.
You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like you’re trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.
“Let me?” he offers, fingers brushing yours.
You nod. “Please.”
He undoes the buttons one by one. Slowly. Methodically. Like he’s doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.
All of him.
And goddamn.
You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like you’re cataloguing a new species.
Because this man is ripped.
Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, he’s absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.
“Jesus,” you whisper. “You did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.”
Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Farm work?”
You narrow your eyes. “That is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.”
You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.
He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm, slow and deliberate.
“I like the way you look at me,” he murmurs.
You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. “I’m trying not to faint.”
“You can,” he says, lips just barely grazing yours. “I’ve got you."
You kiss him again, and it’s greedy this time—hands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though you’re already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like he’s trying to memorize your shape.
Then his mouth finds your neck.
It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in, slow and deliberate, and groans.
“You smell so good,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
And then he’s on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel it—not just the ache, but the intention.
You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Clark—”
“Say my name again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “I’ll do anything.”
He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know it’s going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.
“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”
He smiles against your skin. “I really am.”
“Do I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?”
He pulls back, eyes dark. “You might want to. But I’d rather everyone knew.”
You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.
You like him. You like him too damn much.
He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. You?”
But then he stills.
“Wait—” he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. “Do you—I mean, I didn’t think we’d—uh. I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have…”
He trails off. His ears are pink.
You blink. “You don’t—?”
He shakes his head, mortified. “No. I wasn’t planning on—I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think we’d... I didn’t want to assume.”
You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”
His eyes widen. “I’m sorry—I swear I’m not usually—well, I am usually—”
“Clark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. To…" you cough. "Go without a condom."
Clark goes quiet.
Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippers—
"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'm—yeah, that's alright."
You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.
"You're—wow, you're just…. god you're beautiful."
Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."
"Yes ma'am."
The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is… unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.
Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Is—do you like what you see?"
You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."
He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.
You just need this man in you now.
And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.
"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern.
He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"
"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."
And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."
Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tell—you can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.
Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.
Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.
When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so good—"
Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.
He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.
"You like that?"
"God, yes. Clark—"
You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.
It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.
Holy shit.
“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. “So gorgeous. So good for me.”
You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”
His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, “What did you think?”
“I thought you’d be gentle.”
He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. “I am being gentle.”
You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. “Jesus.”
“No,” Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. “Just me.”
The room sounds so filthy—him, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.
Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys.
His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.
Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"
"Yes—" You whine. "God, yes, just please—please don't stop. I'll do anything, I—I'll–"
He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."
It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts slowly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gasp—high and keening—one solid hand tangled in your hair—
"Oh, I'm gonna cum—are you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonna—oh—"
You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes.
He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren't—feeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.
Holy shit.
The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Then—a kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.
And then for the crescendo—
"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."
.
It starts simple. Like a “good morning.” Like a “still here.”
You’re barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.
But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.
His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.
“Clark,” You gasp—because it’s him, because it’s too early for this, because it’s already too much—and he groans like that’s a reward.
“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop.” Then, quieter: “Can I stay a little longer?”
You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the room—your jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like it’s had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everything’s a mess. It’s all a mess.
And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morning—hair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.
You look back at him. “I mean. You’re kind of in too deep already.”
His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. “So that’s a yes?”
You reach for himl, like your heart isn’t currently doing somersaults. “That’s a yes.”
Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him it’s his now.
And it’s almost too much.
The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe it’s got claws, too.
But you let it stay. Let him stay.
You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, “God help me, I’m gonna have to make you breakfast, aren’t I?”
Clark, already half off the bed, perks up. “I like waffles.”
You sigh, dramatic. “Of course you do. That tracks.”
And that’s where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let it If he stays.
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader
summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here!
word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry)
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesn’t start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”
You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.
He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.
He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.
You’ve been friends ever since.
It’s not the cleanest origin story.
But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.
Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).
But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”
He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.
Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.
Why, one night, it all… shifts.
.
You’re soaked.
Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.
Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.
The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.
So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.
Not because you’re weak. Please.
Because he lives closer.
Logistically. Geographically.
(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)
So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”
And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”
Clark blushes.
Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”
His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.
The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.
Instead, you look at him.
And he’s looking back.
Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.
You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.
Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.
It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.
But then, he exhales.
And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.
Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.
You break the kiss first, of course.
Because you always break things first.
When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.
Which is when the panic crashes in.
He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.
Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.
They always stop.
People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.
You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.
And they get bored.
You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.
You step back like the floor might collapse under you.
Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”
Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”
The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.
You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
“I know,” he says, without hesitation.
You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.
He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”
Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”
His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.
“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”
You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”
“Nope.”
“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”
He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”
He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”
And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.
You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.
But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.
His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.
And it’s terrifying.
Because it means it’s real.
It happened.
God.
It happened.
.
You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.
His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.
Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”
But you are. Because he is.
Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.
He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.
His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.
Lord have mercy.
You ride him like your life depends on it.
You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.
Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.
“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.
And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.
No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.
You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.
“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.
So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—
He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:
“Do you want me to close my eyes?”
You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.
And you say no.
"No."
Never.
He nods. “Okay.”
Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.
You come so hard you forgot your name.
Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.
It was insane. Deranged.
(Perfect.)
Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.
And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.
Then he hums.
You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.
But you listen.
“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.
Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”
You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”
“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”
You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.
.
And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.
Truly.
You're just trying to get clean.
Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.
And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.
He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”
And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.
Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.
He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”
Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?
But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.
“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.
You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”
“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.
He moves inside you slow.
Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.
Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.
(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)
When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.
He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.
But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.
So, you just let him wash your back.
He didn’t ask you to stay.
You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.
But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.
Making pancakes.
“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.
And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."
Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:
“Also, we need to talk.”
Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.
You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”
He looks amused. “Only eight?”
“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”
Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”
You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”
“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”
You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”
“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”
You glance down. You are. Damn it.
He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.
You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”
He raises his brows. “Rules?”
“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”
Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”
“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”
He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.
You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”
Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”
“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”
“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”
“Exactly. Wait—"
He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.
You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”
“You’re really against foot rubs?”
“I just think they set a tone.”
Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”
You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."
“Noted.”
You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”
He looks up.
There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.
You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."
Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.
“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.
“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”
You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”
Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”
You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”
“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”
“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”
Clark leans forward slightly.
The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”
And that—
God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.
You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“Well, stop.”
He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”
You freeze.
Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.
“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.
He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.
And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.
You meet him halfway.
And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.
.
It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.
Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.
Which is so fucked. You are not precious.
You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.
He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”
And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”
Which is—god, so not fair.
Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.
You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.
And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.
“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.
Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”
“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”
“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”
You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”
You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”
“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”
“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”
“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”
You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”
Clark goes still.
Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.
This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.
He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.
Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.
This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.
Still, he doesn’t move.
And that’s what sets you off.
You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”
He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.
“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.
You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”
“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”
You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”
He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”
His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”
Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.
You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”
He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”
“Watch me.”
His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”
Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.
“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”
You blink. “And how is that?”
Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”
You hate him for that. A little.
But you kiss him anyway.
Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.
And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.
“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”
“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”
You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.
“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”
And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—
He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.
You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.
He smiles.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”
.
Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.
That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.
He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.
You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”
He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.
.
Then it happens again.
This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.
Your phone rings.
Clark.
You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”
There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”
You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.
He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.
But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.
“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”
.
By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.
It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.
That’s all.
But still, there’s this night.
You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.
You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.
He doesn’t show.
No call. No text.
You sit through the entire movie. Alone.
And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.
Then you flip your phone over, face-down.
And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.
You’ve done it to people before.
You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.
Not from him.
Not from Clark.
.
Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.
You’re just a little annoyed.
And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.
And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.
Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”
Then: a video clip.
No sound. Just shaky phone footage.
A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.
You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.
BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.
Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.
.
The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.
Hey. You free tonight?
You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.
Then:
yeah. yours?
A pause.
If you want.
God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.
Still, you go.
.
It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.
Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.
“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.
He shrugs. “Felt like it.”
There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.
You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor
But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.
So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
And then Clark pulls back.
Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.
But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.
He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.
He just… stares at you.
And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“We need to talk,” he says.
You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.
You blink at him. “I—what?”
He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.
“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.
And that—that is when your stomach drops.
Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.
You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”
Clark pauses. He blinks at you.
“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”
His face twists. “What?”
“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”
Clark tries again. “I’m not—”
“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”
“I didn’t—”
“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”
Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.
“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”
“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.
“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”
Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”
You stare at him, lips parted.
He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.
“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”
You freeze.
Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.
That sounds like confession.
“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”
“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.
“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”
His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.
And for the first time, you see it.
The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.
Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.
But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.
You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.
Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.
Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.
Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.
You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.
You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.
Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.
The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.
And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.
Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.
“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”
You don’t look at him.
Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”
“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”
“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”
It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.
You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.
“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”
And then you leave.
.
You are, in every measurable way, unwell.
You don’t call it a breakup.
That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.
So, no. Not a breakup.
Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.
You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”
You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.
She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”
You blink. “Sorry, what?”
“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”
You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)
You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”
You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.
Or the banana bread.
Because there is banana bread.
It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.
You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.
Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.
He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.
You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.
You don’t answer.
He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.
He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.
(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)
You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.
And then tomorrow happens.
And then the next day.
And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.
Kind of.
You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:
Hotdog.
.
Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.
You stare off into the distance.
Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.
You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.
“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.
You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”
“I—”
“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”
He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”
You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.
Goddammit. He looks like home.
You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.
“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.
He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”
“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”
“I know.”
“And you took that as a challenge?”
Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.
“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”
“That’s not what I want.”
You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”
He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.
One arm wraps around your waist.
And then—
You are no longer on the ground.
You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”
“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.
“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”
“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”
“SUPERMAN?!”
“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.
“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”
Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.
You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.
“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.
“I know!”
“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”
“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”
“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”
The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.
“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.
“I did!”
“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”
“I showed up at your apartment!”
“With a cape, Kent?!”
“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”
You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”
“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”
“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”
“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”
You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.
“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”
“It’s real,” he says.
“Like, capital-R Real.”
“Yeah.”
You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”
And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.
So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”
Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”
His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.
“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”
He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”
His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.
“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”
He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”
You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.
And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”
He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”
The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.
Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.
He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.
You lean back a little to look at him.
And then, honestly, you just kiss him.
Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.
The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.
The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.
The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.
The banana bread.
“I love you too, you idiot.”
His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.
“You do?”
You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”
And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.
.
You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.
Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.
Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”
You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.
It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.
You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.
But this is different.
This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.
“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”
“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”
He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.
You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.
He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.
"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.
His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.
Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.
You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.
“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."
Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.
“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”
He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters.
He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.
You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.
But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”
He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.
“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”
You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”
He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.
“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”
“Stop—”
“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”
You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.
And you kiss him.
Hard.
Hungry.
Grateful.
“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”
Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.
You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.
.
The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.
You’re about halfway to Smallville.
“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”
Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."
You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”
“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”
You stare at him.
He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”
You snort. “That’s very comforting.”
He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”
You blink at him.
“…The guest room?”
A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”
You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”
“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”
“We are dating.”
“I know.”
You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”
“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.
You do.
God, you do. You love him.
It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.
And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.
Officially.
Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.
No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.
Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Which should terrify you.
(And maybe it does, a little.)
But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.
Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”
You turn.
He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.
“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.
You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.
“Me too, Michigan.”
His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”
“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."
You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”
Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”
He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.
“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”
“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.
“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”
You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."
