✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Late nights, flirty bullshit, and a tension sweeter than Lois’ coffee. Still, you’re both too stubborn to call what it is. When the Red Kryptonite tears through that rhythm, it flips him inside out.
Now he’s at your door—less Clark, more danger, more electric. He's different, but God, you want him more.
⤿ rebel yell | [READ ON AO3 ]
18+ fem!reader, incorporated details from other supermans (sue me), pining, Clark Kent is a dork, yearning, smut, oral (f receiving), red kryptonite clark, unprotected sex, creampie, dick descriptions, body worship, pussy worship, intimacy idk, plot heavy, lmk if I missed anything!
[ 15.3k words ]
The newsroom breathes like a living beast—overhead lights flicker in defiance, casting halos over hunched shoulders and half-empty coffee cups. Phones wail like distant sirens. Printers cough paper like dying animals. Somewhere, someone’s swearing into a phone like the person on the other end owes them money (they probably do), and the whole place thrums with the jittery rhythm of too much ambition and not enough sleep.
It’s chaos, yes—but it’s coordinated. Kinda.
You’re hunched at your desk—half-eaten croissant and a stale coffee to your left, a sticky note graveyard to your right, and a cursor blinking mockingly in the middle of your half-finished headline.
Your coffee went lukewarm around 3 hours ago at 12:24. It’s 3:51 PM and you’ve been editing the same paragraph for twenty minutes. It’s safe to say that you’re distracted.
—but it’s not because of the noise or chatter or Perry’s obnoxious shouting. It’s because of him.
You're stuck mid-rant in a particularly damning op-ed when a blur of navy blue and flustered charm breezes in the direction of your desk.
Clark Kent barrels in from the elevators, all tousled hair and boy scout panic. His tie’s crooked. One shirt button is undone. His cheeks are just slightly flushed, like he’s either sprinted back from “lunch” or had a brush with death. Knowing him, possibly both.
Definitely both.
You don’t even look up at first, still typing like there’s a bomb strapped to your back and you’re hacking away at the wires with every semi-colon and comma.
Then, deadpan and dry as sunburn, you murmur just loud enough for his super-hearing:
“So, farmboy... What’s it this time? Kitten in a tree or—you know—secret alien summit with the big boys?”
He falters mid-step alongside your desk, blinking once. You glance up just in time to catch the tug at the corner of his mouth—the one he doesn’t let anyone else see. It’s the smile, the you-know-me-too-well-and-it’s-a-problem smile. Disarming in all capacities.
—slightly dangerous, if you let it be.
Your cursor blinks impatiently. So do you.
He offers a soft murmur only you can hear, like a shared secret tucked in the folds of this big, loud city:
“Actually, it was a pigeon… In a sewer drain,” he starts, “then it was this fire breathing dinosaur looking thing… Well it wasn’t a dinosaur but it had spikes… like one… Anyway, Uh.”
You huff a genuine laugh at his ramble before returning to your screen. He lingers and adjusts his glasses for a second before continuing past.
You’ve been playing this game for months. Trading barbs, watching each other from across the room, stolen glances over styrofoam coffee cups, toeing the line between flirtation and something too spark-y to name.
He disappears behind the glass of Perry’s office and you can’t help but bite your lip to swallow down a smile.
You always knew Super-Clark was hiding something. You just didn’t expect him to be so bad at hiding it from you.
—but it hadn’t always been this way.
You and Clark Kent have been journalists at the Daily Planet for years now. Long enough to know the elevator stalls between floors 7 and 8, that the good coffee machine only works when you slam it twice, and that Perry White’s neck veins visibly pulse when someone misses a deadline.
For the longest time, you were just coworkers in the loosest sense—desks on opposite ends of the room, your beats orbiting different corners of Metropolis. He covered charity galas and rooftop rescues—the occasional Superman interview.
—the only one who got Superman interviews, by the way.
You chased zoning board corruption and bureaucratic malpractice with a vengeance. He was all sunshine and bylines. You were ink-stained fingers and three cups of coffee before 10 a.m.
He always brought you your first though.
Every morning, without fail, he’d drop a paper cup on your desk alongside everyone else’s. Always with a polite smile and your name scribbled on the side with a smiley face, never expecting anything in return. You didn’t even realize he knew your order until you noticed it was always right. And you were too proud to ask he found out
Occasionally, your eyes would meet across the room. Briefly. Accidental, at first. The kind of eye contact that felt like being caught doing something you shouldn’t. You’d both look away too fast, cheeks a little warmer, hearts a little louder.
That all changed four months, twelve days, and—yeah, alright—six hours ago.
—not that you're counting. That’d be crazy…
Perry White fired Janine Hardcastle for libel.
Perry had stormed into the greater office area and waved the termination notice like it was an Olympic torch. Full-on public execution, guillotined and blacklisted right under the spinning Globe. Her desk was cleared before lunch. You didn’t even like her all that much, but the office still buzzed like a hornet nest.
Then he turned to you. And Clark.
“Congratulations,” he deadpanned, “You’re my new local politics column. I want city hall leaks, transit disasters, gerrymandering—shit, I want blood if it bleeds. You two?” Cigar smoldering between his fingers, he pointed at you and Clark, “You’re married now. Move your desks, figure it out.”
Cue countless nights shoved into professional proximity; Staked out in the newsroom long after the lights dimmed and the janitors arrived. Empty pizza boxes, cold takeout cartons, whiteboards littered with names and connections. Heated arguments about tone. Cackling over typo disasters. A shared Google Doc titled “thé grind… and clark” because you refused to let him name it “Notes on News.”
It was just business. Until it wasn’t.
The glances across the room turned into glances across directly parallel desks. Your knees brushing under the table, his tie catching your sleeve, his eyes flicking down to your mouth mid-sentence before snapping back up like he hadn’t been caught red-handed. (He had. Repeatedly.)
He thinks he’s suave, that you don’t notice. You absolutely do.
He stutters more when you’re this close now, when your voice dips or you lean in to point at something on his screen. He blushes, ears pink, jaw tense like he’s trying not to think about the way you say “farmboy” with that lilt in your voice.
You slowly stopped pretending not to know the way he tugged at his tie when he was nervous.
He slowly stopped pretending he didn’t look at you like you were the only other person in the building.
Naturally, you tease him for it. Relentlessly.
“You always look like you’ve got something to say, Kent,” you murmur one late night, spinning in your office chair as he visibly scrambles to form a sentence.
“I—I do,” he stutters. “I mean, I might.”
“Uh-huh,” you reply, lazily popping a pen cap between your teeth. “Well, when you figure it out, maybe you’ll use your mouth instead of staring at mine.”
His face goes scarlet.
Sweet, sweet victory.
As the months progressed being—as he would call it— “Partners in Politics,” you get even closer. Soon, there’s music shared through airpods while Lois is lamenting about a case via whiteboard-presentation, playlists labeled things like “Angry typing” and “Crying over sad dogs.” Half-finished articles delayed because you’re deep in a debate over Batman’s moral code. (He thinks Gotham needs him. You think Gotham needs therapy. Or to be nuked, just to settle the score.)
It becomes routine. Natural, like breathing.
And you’re both aware of the line you're toeing. Of how far you've leaned into each other. Of how close you've let yourselves get. Neither of you mention it. Neither of you dare.
But Clark knows you’re looking.
You know he’s looking, too.
And deep down, you're starting to think it’s only a matter of time.
—but you’re probably wondering how you stumbled on Clark’s identity. How you know about the totally not-dinosaur aliens and the secret alien summits?
To be frank, how you found out was completely accidental.
No dramatic rooftop reveal. Not catching him duck into a phone booth mid extraterrestrial terrorist attack. No city-wide peril or explosive confession.
Just a Tuesday, about a week after you both got paired up together, the first night you both stayed after hours.
It started with a trip to the break room at 5:31 PM. Everyone else cleared out like a fire drill the moment the clock struck five—half the staff didn’t even close their tabs, just booked it, coats half on, keyboards still warm. You stood back to work on you and Clark’s first assignment, an implicatory LexCorp exposé—Lord knows you wouldn’t get it done at home. Your feet were already killing you in those new kitten heels, and you were craving one of those Swedish chocolates Lois thinks she hides so well in the top left cabinet.
(Newsflash: putting them behind two Daily Planet mugs isn’t stealthy. It’s an invitation, Lois.)
You headed down the marble hallway, aggressively typing out a text to a source at LexCorp’s PR team who were being cagey about a then-recent “construction incident”—which probably meant an explosion, structural collapse, or moral bankruptcy.
Your heels clicked quietly down the corridor, the hum of fluorescent lights your only company. You had eased the break room door open—
and there he was, like trouble in a pressed shirt.
Clark Kent. 6’5, broad as a barn door, tousled hair still windswept from a “lunch run” across the street—and stood perpendicular to you, sleeves pushed to the elbow. Hands cupped around a mug. Eyes narrowed and focused—
—and a thin red beam, coming from his eyes.
Laser. Beaming. His coffee. Right next to the microwave.
You gasped. Audibly.
His head snapped to you like you’d shouted, the glow in his eyes flickering off so fast you thought you imagined it. The mug hissed and streamed as he set it down on the counter. He slowly stepped toward you with both hands raised like he was trying to soothe a startled animal.
You blinked.
He blinked.
“…Did you just microwave your coffee with your face?”
There’s a long pause.
Then he smiled, sheepish. Caught with his glasses off, his cape down.
—well actually not the cape. Not yet, at least.
“I, uh… yeah. Kinda.”
And you grinned, leaning against the doorframe and letting the door close, like this was the most entertaining part of your week (aside from Jimmy face planting in front of Perry, it was).
“Don’t suppose that’s FDA approved.”
He continued staring like he expected you to freak out, to bolt, to demand answers or scream or tragically collapse. But instead, you walked further into the room, reached past him on your tip toes, reached past Lois’s dumb mug forcefield, and popped a chocolate in your mouth like this was just—whatever. Because it was.
It was still Clark. Still trips over his own feet and files his stories three minutes before the deadline.
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
That’s what you said before turning to leave, chewing, smiling to yourself.
He was dumbfounded. Completely, utterly dumbfounded.
He forgot his piping hot coffee on the breakroom counter and drifted back to his desk. You were already parked across the way and pretending to type at your own, watching him like you always do when you think he isn’t looking. Then, with a grin he didn’t see, you casually rolled your chair over to his.
At first, it was quiet—the low hum of the city slipping in through the blinds, the occasional mechanical groan of the copy machine down the hall. Clark trying to ignore your proximity and make himself look busy by searching up “wikihow how to be a better journalist.”
You leaned back in your chair, eyes on his screen but voice casual. “So… you ever drop anyone?”
Clark blinked, caught mid-sip of a 4 hour old cup of coffee. “What?”
You turned just enough to look at him, resting your chin in your hand, leaning on his desk. “While flying. Ever fumble the bag?” A smirk tugged at your mouth. “Literally.”
He huffed a surprised laugh, setting his cup down. “No. I’m—uh—I’m very good with my hands.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you teased, letting it hang there just long enough before you had tilted your head, expression softening. “What’s it like?”
He didn’t ask what you meant. Didn’t need to. He leaned back in his chair, neck craning toward the ceiling like the answer might be written in the tiles.
“It’s… loud,” he said finally. “Like hearing every TV in the world on at once. But you can… tune in, tune out. Most of the time.”
Your brows drew together.
“Do you ever get scared?”
His gaze didn’t move from the ceiling. Didn’t lower. But his voice did.
“Yeah,” he said. “When I don’t make it in time.”
You studied him. He hadn’t bothered to put his glasses back on and before you was just Superman in a 3-piece suit. Except it’s not. It’s just Clark. And there was something in his face that you’ll never forget—like the truth wears heavier than he lets on.
“Do you ever stop hearing people in pain?”
His jaw ticked, just slightly. A muscle moved like he was trying to bite back the truth. Then, quieter this time, almost like it hurt to say out loud:
“No. I just get better at knowing when I can help.”
The air held still after that. Like it was listening too. You studied him, chin perched on your hand, your gaze softer now.
“And what about when you can’t?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even try. Just kept looking straight ahead for a beat too long—until the glow of his monitor caught in his eyes, bright and blue and heartbreakingly human.
Then he looked at you. A flicker of that crooked smile returning to his face, trying to cut through the weight of it all.
“You always ask this many questions after hours?”
You shrugged, the corner of your mouth curling as you leaned back in your chair, spinning it slightly like you had all the time in the world.
“Oh y’know, only when my… Partner in Politics might be—well, is—an alien.”
He laughed under his breath, but there was something tender in it.
No one had ever got to ask him things like this. Not as Clark. Not even as Superman. Not without an MO.
And then—when the air started to feel heavy with truth and warmth—you offered up your own secret in exchange.
“To be fair, I’ve been lying too.”
You said it lightly, but it hung there. He turned toward you, slow, brow furrowed, head cocked just a little like he was trying to read you beyond your words. “What do you mean?”
You had let out a sigh and leaned back in your chair, dragging a palm down your face, fingers catching at your cheek. “I lied on my résumé.”
Clark blinked.
You exhaled, a dry, self-deprecating huff, “Said I graduated summa cum laude from Met U…”
Clark turned slightly, brows knitting You kept going.
“I didn’t. Dropped out a semester early. Had to lie to get in the door. Perry still doesn’t know.” You gave a sharp little shake of your head. “If he finds out, I’m toast.”
He blinked once, like the thought had to settle. You hadn’t needed to offer up a secret of your own, but the fact that you were thoughtful enough to at least try to even the playing field melted his heart. His features softened, gaze catching on yours in a way that felt… careful. Kind.
“You’re one of the best writers here,” he said assuredly. “That wouldn’t have made a difference.”
You had given him a slow shrug, eyes flitting to your shoes just to avoid how intently he was looking at you. “I wasn’t willing to take the chance.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then, with a curve of his head and the faintest edge of a smile twinging his mouth—
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
From that night to all the nights that will inevitably follow, there is always something hanging between you—like static. Like heat.
Like the kind of silence that’s hungry, just waiting for the chance to take a bite.
Presently, work ended hours ago. Right now, you’re dangling upside down by a single ankle from what appears to be a fraying electrical cord inside the hollowed-out ribcage of a now-dilapidated high-rise.
Your heel (singular—its twin is somewhere down below, probably impaled in a taxi roof) glints under the flicker of a dying overhead light. The other end of the cord is still sparking like it’s deciding whether or not to electrocute you. Charming.
You don’t scream. Mostly because of pride. Also because your blouse is riding up and the last thing you need is this going viral with an undignified noise attached to it.
You’re not even sure how you got here. One moment you were at your grandma’s—mint tea, The Price Is Right reruns, the faint perfume of tiger lilies and Vicks VapoRub. You blinked and Green Lantern and his atrocious bowl cut were bulldozing his entire glowstick ass through the side of the building, chasing something enormous and slobbering and very uninvited. Structural integrity be damned.
Now here you are. Swinging upside down and 24 stories above Metropolis with a solid breeze up—well down—your skirt and a bruised shin that’s definitely swelling. Below, people are scattering, screaming, phones held skyward to film your impending death. You look down—well, up—at your watch. 7:36 PM. Alien invasion hour. Right on schedule.
—figures. After work. No hazard pay.
You mouth “fuck you” to the sky.
And then—whoosh.
A low sonic boom thuds through your bones like the drop in a bassline. You barely register the motion before your feet are on the ground, gently, and a pair of arms are anchoring you. The scent hits you first—something crisp and ozone-swept, like lightning in a cornfield. You look up, but you already know.
Superman.
Clark.
He looks rattled. Not from the rescue, he could do this all day. From you and the way you’re seeing through him right now.
Like the crash of it all just caught up to him—like he forgot you knew who he was, and now here you are, pressed close, reminding him without a word. Like you just saved him.
His arms are still around you, solid and anchored around your body. One hand still splayed protectively between your shoulder blades, like he hasn’t registered the danger’s passed. You’re nose to nose, breath mingling in the air between you—what little space remains is thick with heat, adrenaline, and something that should not happen on a public street.
And when you speak, your voice comes out softer than you mean for it to.
“Took you long enough.”
His mouth parts slightly with a ghost of a laugh
He's still looking at you like you've stepped out of a dream; Or worse, like you've put him back in one. Like you're some half-remembered thing that doesn’t belong in the real world, and now he’s struggling to tell the difference.
You reach up on instinct, fingertips grazing the dark curl at his temple.
There’s dust in his hair—concrete, ash, god knows what else—and when you brush it away, the debris falls in slow motion. Tiny flecks catch the light like crushed glass, like glitter from a fairytale.
—or a Shakespearean tragedy. Time will tell.
“Got somethin’ right here, hero.”
He falters—just barely. A flicker of tension pulls at his jaw before smoothing out again. His eyes drop to your mouth, linger for a breath too long. He almost leans in.
But then they’re back on yours, mentally chiding himself: Time and place, idiot.
He won’t. He can’t. Not yet.
One fuck up—just a single misstep—and the whole fragile thing would come crashing down like glass underfoot. He knows the sound of ruin too well, has worn the weight of his own wreckage like a second skin his entire life. Every failure, every fracture, etched into him like fault lines just waiting to split again.
—so instead, he pulls you in.
The hug comes without warning—full-bodied, two-armed, all-in. It feels like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud. I’m sorry this happened to you, I’m sorry I let this happen, I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.
You fold into it without thinking, your fingers curling in the fabric of his cape, your jaw tucking instinctively into the warm swell of his chest. Subliminally telling him that it’s okay, it’s not your fault. For a moment, everything else disappears. Just heartbeats and held breath.
“Thank you, Clark,” you whisper, barely audible above the pounding in both your chests.
And then—right on cue—a guttural roar echoes from somewhere deep in the city, monstrous and pissed off.
Clark tenses. You barely have time to blink before he pulls back, eyes flicking toward the sound.
“Duty calls,” he murmurs, almost apologetic.
And he’s gone.
It takes a while to gather your bearings. A medic checks you over, offers you a blanket and a juice box. You lie and say you’re fine. Your ankle’s tender, your skirt is smeared with concrete debris, and your phone has a bunch of cracks through the screen. You limp on one shoe for two blocks before realizing you’re still holding the juice box.
Most streetlights continue to flick on as the sun sinks lower. Sirens scream in the distance. You take the long way home.
Everything feels louder. Crisper, in the wake of your brush with death. Your heartbeat keeps mistiming with your footsteps. You pass a storefront where the display TV’s in the window replay news footage. There’s your leg, dangling helplessly, your press pass flapping like a flag. You wince. The chyron reads: “DAILY PLANET REPORTER NEARLY KILLED DURING BATTLE.” Underneath: “SUPERMAN SAVES HER LIFE.”
You stare at it for a beat too long, the abundance of colors dancing across your face before you pull yourself away and hauling home.
Your overpriced shoe-box (or extremely humble abode) is quiet when you finally get in. You shed your clothes one item at a time—leaving the one ruined heel by the door, peeling your dust-caked clothes off your body and tossing it straight into the washer.
A long shower helps, but only slightly.
You sit on your bed in a bathrobe, hair damp, staring out the window. You can still feel him. The heat of his hands at your back. The look on his face like you were the only person in the city worth saving.
You hate that it shook you. That he shook you.
He always has.
You lie back, dragging the covers up to your chin like armor, even though the room’s too warm for it. The spinning fan hums above you, but it’s useless. You toss, turn, flip your pillow, try breathing in for 7 and exhaling for 10.
But every time your eyes shut, your mind becomes a kaleidoscope—fractured colors and sharp edges tumbling into one another. You’re dangling in the air by your ankle again, the world spinning below, and he’s there—right there—close enough to taste, nose grazing yours, pupils blown wide. A constellation you almost touched, still burning just out of reach.
And it just won’t leave you alone.
You wonder what he would’ve done if you leaned in first.
You wonder if he’s wondering the same.
knock knock.
Two soft, almost polite knocks slip into the quiet—so gentle they barely disturb the air, yet they ripple straight through you. You’re still thinking of his lips when they land. You sit up fast, heart vaulting into your throat. That definitely wasn’t the door. That was your damn window.
You grab your phone in one hand (in case this is how you die) and pad over barefoot. When you yank open the curtain and pull open the window, wind tugs at your robe. You peek your head out, blinking.
It’s Clark—well, Superman.
Hovering twelve floors up like it's nothing.
“Hi,” he says, sheepish, boyish, like he’s just shown up at your dorm room with a six-string and a bouquet of roses.
“Hi,” you echo, smiling in spite of yourself, leaning your elbows on the sill like you’re Juliet and he’s the dumbest, dorkiest, hottest Romeo to ever grace your fine-worthy, prehistoric fire escape.
“How’s the ankle?” His eyes flick over you, sharp and steady, like he’s still taking inventory of every bruise and scrape.
“Sore,” you admit, wincing a little. “But intact. Thanks to yo— wait, how’d you know my ankle was fucked?”
He rubs the back of his neck, a bit awkward. “Oh—uh, I can see through things. And, uh, it looked a little inflamed…” He trails off, realizing how weird that sounds.
“Dork,” You jest softly, voice quieting as you continue, “I was worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” After a pause, he adds, low and genuine, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
There’s a pause—soft, sweet, slightly stupid. You both just grin at each other like teenagers outside a school dance.
“Oh,” he says suddenly, reaching behind his back. “I, uh—think this is yours.”
He pulls out your missing heel, the strap singed and the buckle bent slightly.
Your jaw drops. Where could’ve even kept that? Does he have void pockets in his trunks? In spandex? “You saved my shoe?”
He shrugs, but his eyes sparkle with pride. “Figured you might want it. Looked expensive.”
You take it from him like it’s fragile glass. “It was on sale. But thanks, Prince Charming.” You pause, setting the heel carefully on your windowsill. “You didn’t have to come all the way back just to bring me this, you know.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just lingers there, the breeze tossing his hair.
“I wanted to,” he says finally.
“My glass slipper…” you mumble, the words tumbling out half a quip, half a daze, your gaze flicking between the shoe in his hand and the man that had been holding it.
“Didn’t want you hobbling into work tomorrow,” he says with a sheepish grin, voice still a little hoarse. There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes, but it’s gentled by concern.
You laugh and bite your lip. The moment hangs there; It stretches like it’s waiting for one of you to finally do something about it.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he admits after a beat. “Kept thinking about today... About you.”
Your breath catches and you mentally pray for the willpower to not gasp.
You glance over your shoulder at the dark hush of your apartment, then back at him—his silhouette cut in sharp relief against the spill of city lights, like the skyline itself decided to take human shape.
“Well,” you say, voice husky with sleep you haven’t gotten, leaning just a fraction closer to him, “I’m awake now.”
Clark huffs a soft breath that could almost be a laugh. He’s close. Closer than he should be. His presence fills the foot-long space between you like warmth seeping in through the cracks.
You lift your hand slowly, without much thought, and brush a curl from his brow. It’s soft, out of place—curling stubbornly like it always does after flight. He doesn’t move. Just watches you with those eyes like storm clouds full of patience and pull.
Then he reaches up, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist before it drops, not to stop you, not to move you, just… to feel. To hold. As if your hand might dissolve into smoke if he doesn’t hold it close.
He brings it to his cheek. Presses into your palm like it means something.
Your skin burns against the warmth of him. His stubble is rougher than you expected. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, the furrow in his brow slowly smoothing out. Like your touch is the only thing that’s let him breathe all day.
He turns his head slightly, and his lips find the inside of your wrist—feather-light, reverent. It’s not rushed, not a tease, but something slower, weightier, like he’s tasting a secret. Heat blooms where his mouth lingers, and your stomach knots tight, your throat drying as if the air between you has thickened.
You don’t say anything.
You don’t need to.
He opens his eyes and looks at you again, still holding your hand in his own.
Your foreheads could meet with the barest tilt, the smallest surrender. He’s so close you can feel the pull of him, that quiet, electric hum threading through the air—like static tangled in the night breeze, like a storm trapped in your ribs. Neither of you moves, suspended in that fragile, dangerous inch.
“I…” he starts, voice scraped thin, frayed with the weight of whatever he’s holding back.
But it dies in his throat.
Whatever it is—whatever he wants—it ghosts through his eyes before he buries it again. Pushes it down where it can’t surface. The silence that follows isn’t awkward, it’s full. Heavy. Like the space between lightning and thunder.
His hand lingers at your wrist a beat longer, then slips away—fingers trailing down the length of yours in a slow, reluctant glide, each touch a quiet imprint. It’s not just letting go; it’s an act of remembering, he’s committing the shape of you to muscle memory.
You think that’s it. That he’s about to disappear into the night again.
You brace for the goodbye. The loss of it. The empty window.
But he stays.
You see it in his mouth first—words pressing at the seam of his lips, fragile things he’s afraid will shatter if they come out wrong.
“I think about you,” he says, barely above the hum of the city outside.
You blink, the sound of it loud in your own ears.
He swallows. “When I’m up there. Or fighting. Or when it’s too quiet. Or when I’m moving so fast the world’s just a blur… I still think about you.”
Your robe flutters against your legs, a soft betrayal of the wind—and suddenly you feel bare in more ways than one. Seen all the way through.
“I don’t know what this is,” he admits, voice almost breaking into a whisper. “But I know I don’t want to stay away from it.”
Your breath catches, sharp and telling. His eyes flicker—he heard it.
“Then don’t,” you breathe.
His eyes soften, and something shifts in his whole body—like the tension he wears like armor suddenly gives way. His shoulders drop. His breath stutters.
Then he’s moving closer. Tangibly, undeniably closer. His knee bumps the wall beneath your window. His hand comes up, and this time it doesn’t hesitate.
His knuckles drag along your jaw, warm and calloused, grazing the curve just beneath your ear. The touch is solid. It makes your spine go rigid, then melt. Makes your lips part on reflex.
He lingers, thumb tracing the fine arc of your cheekbone like he’s mapping constellations only he can see. His palm hovers—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from it—like he could cup your face, draw you in, and kiss you senseless… but instead, he just looks.
Really looks.
It’s the kind of gaze that strips you bare without a single touch. That makes every inch of you feel claimed, cherished, and dangerously alive. The ember in your belly doesn’t just smolder now—it ignites, a wildfire licking up your ribs.
And then, as if he’s the one who might burn, he draws back.
“You should rest,” he murmurs, voice a soft weight in the space between you. “Long day.”
You nod, small and hesitant, afraid your voice might crack if you try to use it. Your palm still tingles where he touched you, and you fold your arms like the gesture might hold you together.
He lingers at the window, caught between staying and leaving, his presence hovering like the last note of a song you don’t want to end. You feel the faint pinch of disappointment, but you won’t tug him closer if he’s not ready.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, and there’s something raw in it, that pulls low and deep in your chest.
Your lips curve, gentle. “Yeah… tomorrow.”
He dips his head once, as if sealing a promise, before the night starts to reclaim him.
“Goodnight,” he says, backing into the sky, “Cinderella.”
Then he’s gone—swallowed by the clouds, like a wish you never thought to make until it was too late.
For the first time in hours, your heartbeat begins to loosen its frantic grip. You set the heel gently on your dresser, shut the window, and turn the latch until the wind outside is only a memory. The city hums far below. Your room exhales into stillness.
You stay there, fingers resting on the cool pane where his warmth just was, as if you could trap it a little longer.
Slowly, you bring your wrist to your lips. It still tastes faintly of him—heat and stubble and something unnameable—like proof that he’d been here at all.
It still feels like him.
You wake sore—ankle stiff and puffy, ribs aching like a bruise that hasn’t bloomed all the way. There’s a tightness curled inside you, coiled and buzzing, like sleep only paused the adrenaline, not chased it off. It lives in your joints, your muscles, your marrow.
In the shower, you tilt your face to the stream and let the water burn. You stand there longer than necessary, until the mirror fogs, until your skin prickles. You scrub until you’re pink, but it doesn’t erase the feeling of him—his voice, his eyes, the way he said “I wanted to” like it meant more than a shoe and a quiet midnight visit.
When you close your eyes, he’s still there. On the other side of the glass. Wind in his hair. That look on his face—soft, stunned, like he couldn’t believe you were real.
You towel off slowly. Everything aches in new, interesting ways, like your body just realized it’s not built for being manhandled and dangled off a skyscraper like a ragdoll in a soap opera. You wrap your ankle with some old gauze from when you broke your arm 3 years ago. You slide on straight-leg trousers, a cute poplin top. You opt out of heels today and settle for some clean sneakers.
Your fingers hesitate at your messy vanity, brushing over lip gloss before settling on concealer. Practical. Unsentimental. But when you catch your reflection, you pause because your hair’s a little messy, falling over your shoulder the exact same way it had that one late night at The Planet when Clark had looked at you like you were doing it on purpose.
"You are… Dangerously distracting," he had muttered, glasses slipping down his nose all cutely.
You groan. “Jesus,” you mutter to your reflection. “Get a grip.”
Because you’re running late and smiling like a lovesick teenager over a man who floats.
Perry’s probably going to rip you a new one for showing at half 10, but considering you're front-page news today—with a headline that might as well read DAMSEL IN DISTRESS SAVED BY SUPERMAN—you figure you’ve earned a buffer.
Your trip to The Planet is uneventful. You walk in at 10:32 on the dot, tote bag slung lazily over your shoulder. Your ankle twinges with every step. The newsroom buzzes as usual—phones ringing, keys clacking, too much caffeine and not enough grace. Eventually, you get to your desk.
Your coffee's already there.
Slightly cooled from where Clark probably dropped it off at half 9.
You look up, and there he is. Across from you, leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie already a little loose. Clark Kent. Looking at you like he already knows how you slept. Like he never stopped thinking about last night either.
God he’s gorgeous
He opens his mouth, “How’re you fe—”
“KENT!!”
Perry’s bark slices through the room. Clark flinches slightly, offers you a sheepish, apologetic smile, then jogs off toward Perry’s office, one hand holding his notepad.
You sink into your seat and wrap both hands around the lukewarm cup. It’s stupid, but it feels warm anyway.
Plus, he got it for you.
The rest of the morning passes in a haze of near-misses and stolen glances. The newsroom buzzes around you, but you’re somewhere else entirely—half-lost in the static charge that builds every time your eyes meet.
It starts innocently enough: your foot nudges his under the table. He’s on the phone and freezes mid-sentence, barely blinking. You don’t look up—just keep talking into the phone, your voice steady as the tip of your shoe trails up the sharp line of his shin. His breath hitches. You feel it more than you hear it.
Your calf brushes his, heat sparking where skin meets through the thin fabric. You leave it there, the connection thrumming like a live wire. He shifts in his chair—a small, betrayed movement, like his body’s giving him away before he can hide it.
His eyes find yours. Dark. Wide. A silent plea wrapped in restraint.
You only smile, saccharine and knowing, fingertips still dancing over the keys as if you’re blissfully unaware. Your composure stays even, but there’s a thread of velvet in it he can’t miss.
Underneath the desks is a different story. A secret strung taut between two pairs of tangled legs. A private little war
—no casualties, of course.
You tease him again at 12:12:
“Mind reheating my coffee?”
He immediately stands up in that classic chivalrous farm-boy way, pushing up his sleeves, ready to get his hands dirty. He starts around his desk toward yours, reaching for your cup, always the gentleman, but you stop him. Hand to his abdomen. Not exactly trying to cop a feel… but also, you're just a girl.
He stills.
You look up at him, all big framed and baffled expression. His tie’s askew. The corner of his glasses catch the light.
“Not with the microwave,” you murmur.
His brows pinch, then—oh. He catches on. His hand lifts instinctively, thumb brushing the frames of his glasses like a tell.
He quirks a brow. “Really?”
You nod, sweet and slow.
“Right here?” he asks, hushed. “Right now?”
You shrug, feigning nonchalance, but your shit-eating smirk gives it away.
“You trying to get me outed,” he mutters, a glint in his eye, “or are you just desperate for hot coffee?”
“Both,” you say, lips twitching into a grin. “But mostly the coffee.”
His laugh is low and a little dangerous. Lopsided smile. One damning dimple cocked at full power.
He takes the cup from your hand like it’s an excuse to touch you, even if it’s not. His fingers brush yours and linger. You hum a little thank-you under your breath as he turns to leave.
He doesn’t answer—but you know he heard it.
Instead, he moves with a measured stride and slips through the work room like a shadow. By the time you look up again, he’s vanished past the breakroom door, nerves almost visibly trailing behind him.
Twelve minutes later, at 12:24, the building shakes.
You feel it first in the soles of your feet—then the windows rattle, and someone screams. Every head turns toward the floor-to-ceiling glass.
The street is utter chaos.
Cars flipped. Civilians scattering. Smoke is already curling in ribbons through the avenue. And then it appears again—towering, grotesque. The Slobbering-Giant-Extraterrestrial (Lois’s exact words in the morning write-up) returns with a vengeance, fists slamming into pavement, claws scraping metal and bone.
The newsroom freezes.
Reporters crowd at the window. Phones recording. Mouths gaping. Perry swears. Lois grabs Jimmy by the collar and starts dictating captions.
You whirl to find Clark.
Still not back.
You spin back to the window—and sure enough, he’s there.
Superman.
You swear the air leaves the room. At least for you.
He crashes into the monster at full speed, and they go tumbling through a glass façade across the street. Brick and dust cloud the air. Then—WHAM—he’s thrown back hard into the side of a bus. The metal groans and collapses under his weight. The thing lunges again. Heat vision scorches its hand off. It shrieks.
But it’s not enough.
The decapitated hand hits the pavement with a sickening slap. Within seconds, the monster's stump begins to ripple, bubble—something festering just beneath the surface. Then, with a wet, splitting crack, the first spike bursts through. It tears the skin like overripe fruit, and more follow, small, but still jagged and glistening, jutting out in violent succession.
Gnarly, mucousy sounds echo even through the sealed glass. You can hear it all—the slick gurgle of tissue giving way, the crunch of bone fracturing.
You finally unglue your feet from the floor and run up to the floor-to-ceiling window with everyone else.
[scene inspo]
The largest spike glows an acrid, seething green, like poison given shape. The alien roars, a guttural, reverberating snarl that rattles the air.
Then it strikes. The crystalline spike punches clean through Clark’s abdomen, shattering skin and muscle like glass. There’s a wet crunch, a series of screams, and the hiss of burning as the (what you could only assume is) Kryptonite laces into him. His body jolts and for a terrible second, his eyes go wide with something close to fear.
You let out a noise you don’t recognize. Someone else in the office screams. Probably Cat.
He falters, knees buckling in the air, arms limp. The spike pulses green, the protruding tip stained red with the blood of a God.
You feel your heart drop into your stomach. He’s stuck on the spike like a human—alien—shish kabob.
Then—something changes.
The green begins to shift. Burn.
An enchanting red hue replaces the green, radiating outward from the spike, bleeding into the veins of his chest and arms, like poison, like fire. His skin flushes with it—veins all illuminated like live wires. He looks…wrong. Strained. Consumed.
The creature’s monstrous grip rips him through the air like a ragdoll, slamming him with brutal force into the towering glass wall of the Daily Planet. The impact reverberates through the building—a shattering collision that sends tremors underfoot and cracks spiderwebbing across the gleaming surface.
You all scream and back away from the splintering glass. Dust rains from the ceiling. The impact leaves a massive crack right between you and him, and for one breathless second—he’s right there, mere feet away, his hand splayed against the glass, blood on his lip, eyes half-lidded, glowing red like his veins.
Then the creature tries to shake him off, flinging him away, like swatting a pesky fly away from your dinner.
Silence swallows the chaos as Clark’s body arcs through the sky, carried miles away by brutal force. The building creaks and groans, its steel bones protesting. Lois clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. Jimmy stands rooted, breath caught in his throat. Even Perry, usually unshakable, is frozen, momentarily stripped of command.
Your knees feel weak.
Then, finally—seconds later—the Justice League arrives. Flash, Wonder Woman, Batman—the works. They descend like angels and tear the monster apart with the kind of precision you’d expect from living weapons.
People cheer. The room erupts in whistles and applause.
But not you.
You can’t celebrate. Not with the ringing in your ears. Not with the sight of him being ripped apart still burning in your mind. Sure Superman has gotten the shit kicked out of him before, but nothing like this. Never like this.
Your vision blurs. Your hands shake because he’s not here, no one even knows if he’s still alive.
Because you’ve never wanted to run to someone so badly in your life.
Clark doesn’t come back into work after the monster is hauled off.
No texts. No calls. Just utter, agonizing silence.
Lois is already calling the alien freak Doomsday in the drafts column. You’re still at your desk, half-heartedly tapping out captions, biting your nails and lips raw, checking your phone every five seconds, texting him relentlessly—
>> where are u? are u alive
>> just please say ur okay
>> clark, answer me
>> please
—until a faint buzzing catches your ear.
You glance over and your stomach twists:
His phone is still on his desk.
You glance at his desk for the twentieth time. It lit up once when you called, then dark again. Your heart drops, each minute drawing out like molasses.
You try not to panic and remember who you’re dealing with.
You try to have hope.
The shift limps on.
You answer emails. You scribble on your notepad. You stare blankly at the same paragraph for hours.
You don’t remember shutting down your computer, don’t remember slinging your overstuffed bag over your shoulder. Just the soft click of the office lights dimming overhead. The elevator ride that feels like it’s someway, somehow taunting you.
The city hums as you step outside. The worst rain you’ve had all year colors the concrete pavement with neon colors from reflections of old storefronts. Cabs blur past in streaks of yellow. Somewhere, a siren wails, calling for Superman’s attention.
Your coat collar digs into your neck as you step out into the cold, a poor match for the churn in your gut that won’t quit. Not anxiety. Not quite grief. Just something that feels a lot like waiting.
—the commute is … Ugh
The monster—Doomsday, you hate how fast that name’s catching on—tore a path straight through the L line, leaving half the city snared in chaos. Your train stalls two stops in, the whole subway path is rubble. No buses, no cabs this way either. You walk the rest of the way, forty minutes to home in the pouring rain.
Every block feels heavier than the last. By the time you reach your apartment, your shoes squish, your fingers are stiff, and your clothes stick to you like wet paper. The cold creeps into your bones. It’s dark now—Metropolis is never dark per se, but tonight it feels dimmer without your Man of Steel keeping watch.
And you’re shivering from the cold, from that hollow, gnawing pit in your stomach that just wants him home.
You jam your key into the lock, shoulder the door open, and shut it behind you with a soft thud. The chain slides into place with a practiced flick. Keys drop in the bowl by the door.
Dense quiet swells in the apartment immediately.
You don’t move—just stand there, dripping like a soggy mess, and wondering how the hell this became your new normal.
Your hair sticks to your cheeks, water tracing lazy rivers down your spine and puddling around your feet.
Then, with zero grace but all the determination, you start peeling off the wet mess.
Shoes, jacket, shirt, pants.
They hit the floor with a wet, pathetic plop. Like they’re laughing at you, mocking all that hope. You gather them in your arms and shove them into the washer with more force than necessary, water slapping the sides as you slam the lid shut.
You stand there for a second, blinking at nothing.
Having your clothes ruined is becoming a habit, you think bitterly.
It’s 9:45 PM when you finally drag yourself into the shower.
You don’t bother with the water temperature—you just turn the knobs and let the spray hit you, scalding at first, then lukewarm, then cool again. You stand under it until your skin starts to prickle, until the day starts to melt off you in clumps: soot, sweat, rain, fear. You press your forehead to the tile and exhale, eyes shut, mouth set. The ache in your chest hasn’t budged. If anything, the silence makes it louder.
You go through the motions.
Dry off. Moisturize. Pull your hair back. Brush your teeth. Wipe the fog from the mirror like you’re expecting to see something different.
—you don’t.
You pull on the old Mighty Crabjoys tee you’ve had since high school—the one with the faded logo and holes in the collar and frayed hems—and a plain pair of underwear. You’re not going anywhere. No one’s coming over. No one’s—
No.
You wander to the kitchen, open the cabinet, and pour yourself a bowl of cereal with shaky hands . The milk sloshes over the rim, but you barely notice. You don’t even sit at the counter. Just trudge to the couch, slump down, and flick on the TV like maybe it’ll tell you something you don’t already fear.
It lands on the news.
Of course it does.
The anchorwoman’s voice is soft, trembling but composed. You can tell she’s holding back something—maybe tears, maybe rage. You watch her mouth move. You don’t even process most of it. Just flashes and chaos. Unidentified alien entity, unknown casualties, structural collapse, missing persons, emergency protocols.
And then the chyron changes.
SUPERMAN DEAD?
The words stretch across the bottom of the screen in red like they’re bleeding.
Your thumb hits the power button before your brain does.
The TV cuts to black.
You sit there staring at the reflection of your slouched frame, tired eyes back at you in the dark screen. A single tear slips breaks free, scorching your cheek like a match to porcelain. It catches you off guard—so sudden and so stupid. You wipe it away like it offends you. Because it does.
You curl into yourself.
Press your knees to your chest, the fabric of your tee pressed against the tops of your thighs. The bowl of cereal shakes slightly on the coffee table when you set it down—milk rippling against ceramic. You don’t even want it anymore.
You hate yourself for caring this much.
You should’ve known—
— actually, you did know.
This comes with the territory, doesn’t it? He was never yours to keep.
Still, you run through every possible scenario. Every maybe. Every what-if. He’s unconscious. He’s in hiding. He’s recovering. He’s with someone who knows what to do. He got out, he escaped, he had to’ve.
You shake your head, lips already trembling, and bury your face in your arms.
Death is not an option.
After Potential Reality™ No. 34—where he was dismembered in orbit or black-holed into oblivion or swallowed by some godless alien thing or turned into dust at the snap of some purple alien’s fingers—you finally start to accept that you might never know what happened to him, that you might never find out. Your brain aches. Your stomach's in knots. You’ve curled in and out of fetal position so many times your couch has a dent shaped like you.
Knock knock. Knock. Kn-knock-knock.
It’s rhythmic. Almost sing-songy in nature and wholly too bright for the emotions you’re feeling right now.
It startles you.
Your head lifts like a deer’s. Nobody knocks like that. No one has knocked like that in your entire life—except maybe your parents, and even they don’t show up without texting first. You're frozen for a second, unsure if it's real or part of the mental spiral.
Then it comes again.
Knock knock. Knock. Kn-knock-knock.
You drag yourself off the couch, wiping your face with the hem of your Mighty Crabjoys tee, your body moving before your brain catches up. Every step to the door feels heavier, loaded with dread, like walking through molasses.
You keep the chain on—because you’re alone, and a girl, and maybe not—gee I dunno—stupid. You crack the door open as far as the chain allows, not even meeting the other person's eyes through the gap. They don’t need to see your puffy eyes and red face.
“I don’t want whatever boof-ass bible study program you’re offerin—”
You look up with an air of indignation and time just… bends.
—it slows like honey down a cold spoon.
Because there he is.
Clark Kent in the flesh.
—maybe steel. You’re sure you’ll find out soon enough
Leaning in the hallway, broad-shouldered and still with a hand at the top of your door frame like he owns the very idea of time. Like clocks tick for him and not the other way around.
He’s drenched to the bone. Ash grey shirt soaked and clinging to his chest like second skin, jeans dark and heavy with rain. Muscles pulled tight like wire beneath it all. Hair dripping and wild and curly. There’s a smirk on his face—lazy, cocky, and utterly misplaced—and his eyes… God, his eyes are burning into you like you’re a star he’s been staring at for centuries, even without the glasses.
Everything about him is just utterly different. Too confident. Too smug. Even for his superhero counterpart.
You stare.
He raises his brows like well?
The chain rattles, loud and frantic, as your fingers claw at it—slipping, fumbling, cursing because it’s taking too damn long. Your pulse is a war drum in your ears, breath ragged, hands shaking so hard you nearly miss the latch entirely.
The second it’s free, you rip the door open so fast it bangs against the wall, and then you’re on him—launching yourself forward like gravity’s been cheating you all this time and he’s the only thing that can hold you down.
He catches you without so much as a stumble, the impact barely rocking him. A breathless chuckle rumbles through his chest—half amused, half relieved—like he’d been expecting you to launch yourself at him the second he knocked.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, the words trembling against his shirt, voice splintering in the middle. “I thought you—”
His arms cinch tighter, closing around you like he’s trying to press you into himself. One broad palm spans your back, the other cradling the base of your skull, his fingers threading into your damp hair, keeping you close.
“I’m very much alive,” he says, and even his voice is different. Lower, rougher. Like it’s been dragged through ash and rubble and whiskey and whatever else the universe chewed him up with before spitting him back out. Though, Clark doesn’t even drink.
You pull back just enough to look at him. Your hands go to his face, checking him for cuts like a startled parent, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, palm pressing to his jaw, fingers skimming through his soaked hair. You want proof. You want touch. You just want him.
His hands catch yours. Still warm despite the rain. He pulls them away from his face and presses a kiss to your knuckles, and then, without warning, crushes his mouth to yours.
It’s not sweet, no, it’s more like a stolen drag of a cigarette, Eve biting the apple. Definitely not how you’d expect a kiss from Clark Kent to be.
You gasp against his lips, and he takes advantage of it, slipping in his tongue with a low, needy groan that shoots straight to your core. Your fingers can’t help but tangle in his wet hair, tugging slightly, and he moans as he starts walking you backward into your house.
You don’t even notice he’s moving you both until he kicks the front door shut behind him.
His hands are on your waist, pulling you flush to him, lips still devouring yours as the thud from the door echoes through the apartment.
That sound snaps you out of it.
You tear your mouth from his with a ragged gasp, palm flattening against his chest—hot, slick, muscles jumping beneath your touch with every sharp breath he drags in.
“Wait—Clark—what the fuck is going on?” you manage, lungs still clawing for air.
But he doesn’t loosen his hold. His arms stay locked around you, iron and desperate, and he dips back toward you like he’s following some invisible pull—like the only thing keeping him upright is the taste of you, and letting go would mean losing his way entirely.
“This is long overdue, baby,” he murmurs, lips tantalizingly grazing against yours.
You blink at him, at this wet, smirking stranger with Clark’s face and Superman’s body—parked in your foyer like he just got rained out of a GQ cover shoot. He’s a fever dream stitched together from heartbreak, exhaustion, and half a bottle of NyQuil… the kind that makes you wonder if you should call a doctor or just start unbuttoning something.
Your hands clutch at his like you’re afraid this is just a dream—one you’ll wake from and find yourself grasping at nothing but cold sheets. Your fingers curl tighter, knuckles white, nails biting into his skin as if you can anchor him here by sheer will alone.
“Clark, I thought—God—” your voice fractures, the words tumbling out jagged, frantic, “I thought—”
“I’m right here, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, a thumb brushing over your jaw, the other settling right on your lumbar. His teeth catch on his bottom lip, and his gaze dips and scans you in a way that makes your chest ache. “Mm… you’re so cute when you’re all… worked up.”
With a pitiful whine, he finally closes the gap, his mouth sliding over yours with a fierce, aching hunger that steals your breath, and every other thought—panic, grief, reason—melts and drips away like satin sliding over bare, heated skin.
But one kiss can’t drown the storm raging inside you. The taste of him lingers, but it ultimately only fans the fire of questions clawing at your mind. The journalist in you demands more—answers you need now, before the moment unravels.
With a shaky inhale, you pull back, your fingers digging into the soaked fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to reality. Your heart pounds, your pulse screaming louder than your voice.
“Clark—wait,” you gasp, voice trembling yet fierce, eyes searching his as if trying to read the battle scars behind those storm-darkened blues. “Seriously—are you okay? Like, really? What happened out there? How are you— how did you—?”
The words burst from you, a jagged crack slicing through the fragile silence in your too-small apartment.
His eyes glaze over, distant yet unblinking, glassy but tethered to you. His hands press firmly against your waist, grounding you with a subliminal insistence. “I’m okay. Better than okay.” The corner of his mouth quirks up into a half-smile—sharp and stripped of the usual dis-ease.
“Honestly, I haven’t felt this alive in a long time.” His voice drops lower and something beneath it hums, a current you didn’t know was there. Your skin prickles, hair standing on end, as if some silent pulse is thrumming just beneath your flesh.
You lean in, eyes tracing the subtle tension in his jaw, the faint flicker of restless fire behind those baby blues. But his chest just continues to rise slow and steady. If you knew him any less, you’d think nothing was wrong. He has a good poker face—you’ll give him that.
You reach up, fingertips brushing the line of his neck, testing, teasing the heat beneath his skin. He catches your wrist, thumb sliding over your pulse, anchoring you in place.
This isn’t the Clark you knew, it’s the deluxe edition, all wild hair curling damp over his forehead, eyes too bright and almost glowing, yet somehow darker, with way more trouble and zero chill. Something you’re not sure you’re ready for—but let’s be real, you’re already hooked.
You mumble, needing something to say, something to break the strange spell he’s got you under. “I’ll go get you something dry… To uh… To wear…”
You peel yourself away from him. He lets you go, but not without a little resistance; a hand lingering on your arm until you’re fully out of reach.
Once your hand falls from his, you dart to your bedroom and dig through your drawer for the baggiest shirt you have; one of those oversized hoodies you bought three winters ago, plus a pair of plaid sleep pants you’re not sure he’ll fit into. You pad back with the bundle of clothes tight in your arms, heart hammering, only to stop short of the living room he’s standing in.
He’s already shirtless.
The wet t-shirt is discarded in a pile on your floor, and he’s standing there, bare from the waist up, each droplet carving its pilgrimage down the sculpted terrain of his torso, as if the water itself knows to worship the body it graces.
You stare.
Eh no, it’s more of a gawk.
He just smiles, that same smirk that makes you want to bite your fist and throw yourself off the nearest cliff (he’ll save you a thousand times over). “You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen me before.”
You haven’t, you think. Not like this. Not with so much… promiscuity.
You clear your throat, gripping the bundle of clothes to your chest like a shield. “You’re gonna catch a cold,” you say, which is stupid—he’s literally Superman, but it’s something, and it keeps him grinning like a devil.
His gaze drags down to your thighs, lingers, sinks lower before climbing back up. Each pass feels like he’s etching you into memory, committing every inch to some private archive. Or spank bank. You’re none the wiser.
“You always sleep in things like this?”
“Didn’t think I’d have company,”
He steps forward slowly, eyes roaming down your body with no attempt at subtlety. “That shirt…” His fingers lift the hem of your band tee, rolling the fabric between two fingers with a feather-light touch. “Like you planned this,” he teases.
You swallow hard and thrust the dry clothes at him in attempt to put some space between you. Your heart races, and you pray your flush goes unnoticed. “These, uh, should fit.”
You try to reset the energy in the room, to make it normal again, whatever normal even is. His eyes drop to the bundle in your hands, and he chuckles like it’s all a joke. He takes them from you, one-handed, tossing them on the slope of his bare shoulder like he’s mocking modesty.
“Thanks. You’re sweet.”
You can feel his eyes on you—burning. Following every flutter of your lashes, every twitch in your jaw, every flicker of your pulse. He’s probably x-raying you right now (he is).
“You’re staring,” you mumble, suddenly aware and insecure of how little you’re wearing.
Clark hums, then reaches out. Just two fingers—hard callouses gently brushing your neck as he trails them to your jaw tilting your head to face him. “‘Cause I like what I see.”
Your lips part slightly, and the faintest nervous smile plays at the corner of your mouth as he feels your pulse quicken. The silence between you hums, carrying the weight of all the words you’ve both holding back.
You try to look away, but it’s futile. He gleams—muscles rolling like ancient boulders beneath sunlit skin. Your eyes drift down, then dart away, only to return, drawn by quiet gravity you can’t resist. The longer you stand before him, the closer and further you get dragged to the Kent Solar System™.
He notices your apprehension, your disquiet. Of course he does.
His finger moves from your jaw and hooks beneath your chin, lifting your face until your eyes are back on his.
“It’s okay to look, honey,” he saunters closer to you, whispers, “I’m not shy.”
Your lips are a breath apart. You sense him lean into you, and you wait for the feel of his lips on yours, your eyes half lidded in anticipation.
Instead, he leans back and undoes his belt with maddening calm.
“I—Clark!” you whisper-shout in shock, scandalized, as his pants hit the floor in a heap.
He raises a brow. “What?”
“Oh my God,” you hiss, spinning on your heel, fleeing to the kitchen with heated cheeks like it's a sanctuary. Your pulse is jackhammering and your nerves are so taut they sting under your flesh. You busy your hands, filling the kettle with water, trying to focus, to breathe, to think for a second
“I’m— I’m making tea,” you stutter, trying to convince yourself more than him. “You probably need to warm up. Mhm, of course, you just walked through a storm, I’m sure you’re freezing.”
You grab the kettle and reach for a mug—hands trembling—and you turn to ask if he prefers Chamomile or Earl Grey—
You bump into his chest and nearly scream. “Jesus! Clark!”
His hands come up to settle on your hips, steadying you. “Relax,” he coos, voice low, thumbs toying with the top hem of your panties. As if he read your mind, “I like Earl Grey.”
He leans to your ear, “Reminds me of the sun.”
You exhale his name, just exhausted. “Why are you acting like… this? Whatever… this is?”
He dips his head, brushing his nose along your jaw, lips ghosting just over your skin.
“Because,” he murmurs. “I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”
He doesn’t waste time, doesn’t hesitate. Definitely doesn’t hold back. He just takes. Tongue and teeth dance like wild fire against your mouth, breathy groans tumbling like thunder through the storm of your skin, pushing you backward until the kitchen counter cuts into your spine—sharp as a cliff’s edge beneath a crashing sea.
You moan, high and a little startled, one hand fumbling behind you to brace against the surface, the other fisting in his damp curls. He crowds into your space, utterly unbothered by the chill still clinging to his damp boxers, the faint metallic scent of city rain steaming off his skin.
Eventually, you can’t help but melt into it, let him devour you. His hands—God, those hands—trail low from your waist, firm and greedy, until they find your ass. He squeezes, shameless, pulling you somehow further into him with a groan that rumbles in his chest and makes your knees go wobbly.
Everything after that is a blur—heat, wet fabric brushing your thighs, the sharp edge of the counter digging into your spine. He eventually lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh no more than a breath of wind, hoisting you onto the countertop with only one hand slotted at the back of your thigh.
Your back bumps a salt shaker and it clatters sideways, the faint tik-tik-tik of it spinning unnoticed. You turn your head just long enough to set it upright, heart pounding, and when you face him again—his mouth is already on your throat.
He groans like he’s been waiting millenia just to taste your skin.
He marks your neck with everything he has; Down your neck, over your collarbone, mapping you in wet, hot paths, like every suck and bite and lick will eventually lead him to his salvation. His breath is heavy as he hums, like he likes how fast your heart is going. Like he did that. Like he needs that.
Then his voice drops low, murmuring against your clothed chest. “When I got stabbed,” he says, slow and syrup-thick, “it wasn’t just green.”
Your brows knit, dazed but present enough to blink down at the top of his head. He keeps going. “There was something else, something red.” he moves feverishly, another kiss up to your jaw. Another groan. “It’s still inside me.”
Your fingers rake through his hair, curling at the nape of his neck. “Clark,” you whisper, unsure if it’s a question or a plea. “Are you… okay?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He moves to nip beneath your ear, making your thighs jolt around his waist.
But still—you’re melting. Still—you’re trying to think. “Clark,” you gasp, pulling his face back to look at you. “I just don’t want to take advantage of you. If this is because of the kryptonite, if this isn’t really you—”
He cuts you off by grabbing your hand.
And placing it right on his cock.
Your eyes go wide. Your mouth parts in shock. He’s hard. So hard. Thick and hot beneath your palm, barely restrained by his boxers. You can feel every ridge and every vein as they thrum with need… God it makes your cunt flutter.
He whines at the contact, a low, needy sound that vibrates straight through you, still nuzzled deep into the warm crook of your neck like he can’t get close enough. His breath comes quicker now, hot and uneven against your skin, each exhale fanning over you in frantic bursts. You feel the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the way his chest presses tighter to yours, and you realize—he’s not just breathing. He’s panting. His hips give the smallest grind against your hand, a restless, involuntary push that betrays just how bad he needs you.
“Please,” he breathes.
The small rational part of your brain tells you you should say no. You know that. Your brain is screaming it somewhere far off in the distance. But the rest of you? The warm, wet, aching parts of you? Well…
… Once again, you’re just a girl.
And Clark-fucking-Kent is practically trying to eat your soul through your neck, whining so prettily in your ear.
“Okay,” you whisper.
The moment you give him your confirmation, his breath catches like a held storm breaking free. His eyes flutter shut, lashes casting delicate shadows against his high cheekbones. Then he reverently sinks to his knees, like you’re the gravity pulling him down.
His lips press a slow, heated trail of kisses along your inner thighs starting from your knees, each one an electric shock that makes your breath hitch involuntarily. His mouth moves with a fierce hunger that’s equal parts desperate and worshipful.
He won’t bow to the altar of anyone, of any God, but he’ll kneel for you. It’s all for you.
“Fuck baby, you don’t even know what you do to me… Could stay here forever.”
Your fingers tangle deeply in his damp curls as he rips off your soaked panties without a second thought, clutching as if holding on to keep from falling apart. He whines, his mouth immediately working your folds with fervor, lips and tongue revere every inch, pulling and sucking with an urgency that makes your knees buckle.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against your skin, his voice almost a growl as his eyes meet yours, “I was gonna wait… Do this right... But after tonight you have no idea how badly I need you. Fuck, I need you… Can’t even think straight without you.”
Then he’s back, diving in with wild abandon like your skin is the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. He works your clit masterfully, sucking and licking, his teeth grazing ever so gently, each of your gasps and whispered pleas of his name stoking the blaze until you both burn brighter than before, caught in a fierce, unbreakable tempest.
His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, thumbs pressing into the crease where your legs meet your hips, holding you wide for his mouth. The heat of his breath against your soaked skin sends a shiver through you, your body tensing in anticipation even as he pins you in place.
He doesn’t tease. No slow, torturous licks—just a deep, desperate open-mouthed drags of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, groaning like the taste of you is the only thing keeping him alive. His lips seal around your swollen bud, sucking hard, and your back arches off the cabinet, a choked cry tearing from your throat.
“Taste so good,” His voice is wrecked, muffled against you as he laps at you with rough, messy strokes. Every flick of his tongue is deliberate, every suck just shy of too much, but he doesn’t let up, drinking you down like he’s starving. His nose bumps against your clit as he buries his face deeper, and your hips jerk, but his hands tighten, keeping you spread, trapped in the brutal rhythm of his mouth.
You can hear him—the obscene, wet sounds of his tongue working you open, the ragged breaths he takes when he pulls back just to dive in again, his low, broken moans vibrating against your cunt. His fingers flex, pressing bruises into your skin, and you already know you’ll feel the marks tomorrow.
“Baby, please— shit!”
The words tear from your throat, ragged and desperate. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—more, less, mercy—your thoughts fracturing under the relentless heat of his mouth. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. His grip shifts, fingers digging into your thighs as he literally grinds you harder against his tongue
And god, does he.
He licks into you like he’s trying to carve himself inside you, like he wants to brand every inch of you with the shape of his name. Each flick, each deep, languid stroke of his tongue in your hole drags another broken sound from your lips. Your hips jerk helplessly, torn between rocking into his mouth and twisting away from the overwhelming pleasure—but he holds you firm, refusing to let you escape.
When you finally cum, it’s with a wretched sob. Your body trembles, sweat-slick and shuddering, as pleasure crashes over you in waves. His tongue doesn’t stop, drawing out your climax until you’re gasping, until your fingers tangle in his hair—pulling, pushing, clinging—because you can’t tell if you’re trying to drag him closer or shove him away.
By the time he lets you go, you’re a dazed, breathless mess, every coherent thought obliterated. Your chest heaves, your skin burning, your pulse roaring in your ears. And all you can manage, voice raw and wrecked, is—
“Fuck, Clark… I’m yours—all of me.”
He rasps at your surrender, a sound drenched in satisfaction and utter salacity. He stands and his lips find yours again—wholly intoxicating. You taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and heady, and you pull him closer by his neck, heart pounding like a drum.
He doesn’t hesitate. With one arm, he lifts you up as if you weigh nothing at all, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. His breath fans against your skin as he carries you to your small bedroom.
He lays you down gently against your unmade sheets, eyes dark with want and a vulnerability you’ve yet to see. Towering over you, he fills the cramped room, a presence too immense, too overwhelming to even fully grasp in this moment. He’s a giant here, not just in stature but in everything that hangs heavy between you. For a moment, all the wild tension between you holds still.
Clark slowly settles himself on the bed, straddling you with knees planted firmly on either side of your thighs. His strength is undeniable, but there’s a careful gentleness in the way he leans over you, bringing his face close to yours, eyes searching yours with quiet intensity.
His fingers brush a stray lock of hair back from your cheek, soft as a whisper. His voice is low and vulnerable as he murmurs, “If it ever gets to be too much… you just say the word, okay?”
You nod, your heart drumming a frantic tattoo beneath your ribs, breath snagging on the fragile thread of tenderness entwined with the warning in his gaze. His smile unfurls like dawn breaking through a bruised sky, a rebellion against the storm that churns beneath the surface.
He lowers himself with the careful weight of a tidal wave pulling back, his lips a whisper of smoke and honey, tracing a kiss that tastes like the promise of calm in a world that’s always on the brink of breaking.
His forearm presses against the mattress beside your head, grounding him, while his hand tangles gently in your hair, fingers threading through the soft strands like he’s memorizing their texture. The other hand slips under your shirt, fingertips tracing lazy circles on the bare skin of your ribs. The warmth of his touch contrasts deliciously with the cool air, making every nerve sing.
He kisses you deep, not with nearly as much fervor as he did before, but with unrelenting passion. His lips lock with yours and it's as if you’re breathing for the first time, as if you’re consuming his very essence like ambrosia, conferring you to stay like this with him for eternity.
His hand trails higher, fingers gently tweaking your perked nipples until you’re whining into his mouth. He greedily swallows them all before carefully hiking your shirt up and off your frame.
You let him—you lay before him completely bare and he can’t help but sit back on his haunches and take you in. Leonardo, Monet, Dalí, Kadinsky—not a single one of their works could absolutely wreck his extraterrestrial nervous system the way you are right now.
His eyes—wide, dark, and glazed with awe—lock onto yours, as if he’s caught between reverence and hunger. For a heartbeat, he’s frozen, his breath shallow, his fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.
You don’t give him the chance.
Pushing up onto your elbows, you close the distance between you before he even thinks to move. The heat of his skin seeps into yours as you trail soft, open-mouthed kisses along the strong column of his throat and his pecs, tasting salt and the faint, woodsy scent of his cologne. Your fingertips skate teasingly along the hem of his boxers, tracing the defined V of his hips, dipping just beneath the fabric to graze the coarse trail of hair leading lower. A silent invitation.
His breath hitches, his stomach tensing under your touch. When you glance up through your lashes, his gaze has darkened—not just with lust, but with something possessive. Understanding.
Without a word, he stands. His hands hook into the waistband of his boxers, peeling them down his thick thighs, letting them drop to the floor. The air between you crackles as your eyes drag over him, taking in the full, breathtaking sight of him.
His cock stands heavy and proud, jutting from the thatch of dark curls at his groin. Thick veins rope along the length, the flushed head already glistening with pre-cum, the evidence of his need for you. It’s big—intimidatingly so—the kind of size that makes your pulse stutter, your thighs clench instinctively. The sheer girth promises a stretch that borders on painful, and yet… the thought sends a rush of heat pooling low in your belly.
Your lips part on a shaky exhale, shock flickering across your face.
He knows. Of course he does.
A low, rough chuckle escapes him as he reaches down, calloused fingers tilting your chin up. “It’ll fit, doll.” His voice is smoke and gravel, leaving no room for doubt.
You believe him.
With a slow nod, you surrender completely, your body arching toward him in silent supplication. He rewards your trust with a quick, tender kiss—soft, almost sweet—but it tastes like a promise, like a prelude to something permanent.
Then his hands slide under your thighs, lifting your legs with effortless strength. He folds you effortlessly, crossing your ankles over the solid planes of his shoulders, the position leaving you exposed, vulnerable. His thumbs press into the soft flesh of your thighs, spreading you wider, and the first brush of his cock against your soaked entrance wrings a whimper from your throat.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with restraint.
You obey and look at him with a stripe of anticipation in your furrowed brow. He reciprocates by fisting the length of his cock before guiding it to your sopping cunt, gently teasing the sensitive bud of your clit, your folds. A gasp tumbles from your lips at the feel of him—hot and thick in all the ways that matter.
He looks at you once more, his free hand simultaneously looping over your legs to hold them flush to his chest.
“Please, Clark, I need… Shit— I need you,” You whimper.
He responds by turning his head and placing a soft kiss to your ankle before pushing in. You immediately grasp the sheets, fisting the cotton as he stretches you wider than you’ve ever been. You can feel him pulsing inside of you, your walls responding in kind as they flutter in attempts to adjust to him.
His grip on your hips tightens as he pauses, his breath ragged. The stretch is achingly slow, every inch a sweet torment. His head lulls forward, dark lashes fluttering as he fights for control. A low, broken groan escapes him when you clench around him and his cock twitches in response.
“F-fuck—” His voice is rough, strained, like the word was dragged from his chest. “So tight, love. Gotta relax for me.” He strokes your side with trembling fingers, soothing, worshipful. “That’s it… just like that.”
You gasp when he lets go of himself to lace his fingers with yours, palm pressing warm and grounding against your own. The intimacy of it—the way his thumb brushes your knuckles—unwinds the tension coiled in your belly. He murmurs praise against your skin, lips skimming your calves as he pushes deeper, deeper, until your body yields, taking him in with a shuddering sigh.
And then he’s fully sheathed, hips flush against you, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. You hadn’t even realized you were holding yours until it rushes out of you in a trembling exhale.
The fullness is overwhelming, consuming. It’s not just the physical stretch—it’s the way your body seems to recognize his, like something inside you has slotted into place. Your fingers clutch his, anchoring yourself as pleasure hums under your skin, bright and dizzying.
“You okay?” The question is tender, almost reverent. His free hand skims up your ribs, pausing over your frantic heartbeat. “Feel so good… fucking perfect.”
You blink yourself out of your daze and meet his eyes. He looks anxious and worried, like the Clark you know. “Yeah. Fuck me, please.”
He chuckles softly, “I’m tryin to.”
“Clark, just move, please… I can feel you in my throat,” you mumble half-coherently.
Needing no further instruction, he gently eases out of you before pushing back in, and you hand help but dig your nails into his hand. He bites his lip as he moves against you, trying (but failing) to stifle the soft groans that leave his lips.
Every thrust punches the breath from your lungs in ragged gasps, his hips moving with a controlled power that reminds you that he’s holding back. A fraction of his strength, and yet you’re unraveling beneath him, reduced to a trembling mess. Each drag of his cock inside you is deliberate, the swollen head stroking your g-spot with precision, and with every pass, your mind rewrites the future: elopement, courthouse, honeymoon—how could you wait another second when he fucks you like this?
The air is thick, charged with the aftershocks of what he’d done to you in the kitchen, the way he’d ate you over the counter like an afterthought and dragged his tongue through your folds until your thighs shook and you nearly sobbed. Even now, the memory coils tight in your belly, your body clenching around him in helpless recognition.
A low, rough groan escapes him as you suffocate his cock, his grip tightening on your thighs as he unfurls them, re-wraping them around his hips and leaning over you, spreading you wider. The new angle wrings a broken, hoarse cry from your throat, his cock sinking deeper until the stretch borders on unbearable.
“Fuck,” he grits out, his breath hot against your ear. “So fuckin sensitive.”
You can’t speak, can’t think, can’t do anything but clutch at him like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth. Your fingers dig into the hard planes of his back, nails carving half-moons into his sweat-slick skin, the salt of him sharp on your tongue where your teeth are buried in the meat of his shoulder. He groans, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest as he rolls his hips against you in a slow, deliberate grind.
The friction is maddening. Every drag of him inside you is a study in exquisite torture—the stretch, the burn, the way your body yields and clenches around him like it’s trying to keep him there forever. The tufts of hair at the base of him tease your clit with every thrust, the rough-soft contrast sending jolts of pleasure so sharp your thighs tremble.
You’re so wet it’s obscene, each time he pulls out, the air kisses your slick flesh for a split second before he’s driving back in, the filthy squelch of it echoing in the space between your ragged breaths.
And god, the way he moves like he knows exactly how to ruin you. Slow, then punishing, then slow again, his rhythm erratic just to hear you whimper. Every push and pull of his cock sends sparks up your spine, your nerves alight, your toes curling into the sheets. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, your breath coming in shallow gasps as he leans down to mouth at your throat, his teeth scraping over your pulse point.
“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin, his voice wrecked, “you take me so well, baby,”
You can’t even reply—just arch into him, your body singing with the need for more, more, more—
“Clark please—” the word barely even leaves your mouth, but he hears it.
His lips curl against your jugular. "Please what?" Another punishing thrust, "You gonna come again? Just from this?"
You whimper, your body betraying you with another flutter around him and he has his answer. He groans, his rhythm turning ruthless, each snap of his hips stealing your breath. The whole mattress rattles in its frame, but the sound is lost under the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin.
It’s too much, yet somehow not enough. Pleasure twists and coils beneath your skin like a live wire sparking in the dark, raw and electric. You’re unraveling and he watches with a burning intensity—his gaze a furnace that fires every piece of you down into something molten, holding you captive in the heat of the moment.
His hand reaches between you and finds your clit, rubbing tight, insistent circles in perfect sync with his thrusts. The dual stimulation is unbearable, too much, and your back arches off the bed, your chest to his, as pleasure crackles through you like live wire. Desperate for contact, you fist a hand in his hair and drag his mouth to yours, intertwining his groan with your own as your hips jerk against him. “I’m—fuck baby—I’m gonna—” You can’t even finish, the words dissolving into a whine as your orgasm slams into you, blinding and violent.
He doesn’t let up, fucking you through it, his own breath hot and uneven against your lips.
“That’s it,” he growls, “take it. Feel it.” And you do: every pulse, every shockwave, until you’re boneless beneath him, trembling with aftershocks.
The night stretches on in a delicious blur—two rounds, then three, then maybe even four. Your bodies move together with an ease and urgency that’s almost intoxicating. Every touch, every whispered word, every heated kiss peels back another layer of the barriers you’d both been holding up for far too long. His hands explore like he’s memorizing you, and you match him with equal fervor—fingers tracing the sharp planes of his back, lips finding the sensitive spots on his body that make him shiver.
You lose count of how many times you both cum, a tangled mess of limbs, soft gasps, and ragged breaths filling the space between you. You think your legs might give out on you, but Clark just laughs—breathless and wild-eyed—and somehow pulls you close again, like he’s powered by something beyond just his Kryptonian physiology.
Eventually, when it cracks midnight and when you’re tearing up from overstimulation and practically begging for a noise complaint, then —and only then—is he collapsing beside you, body against yours. His eyes flutter, blinking slowly as if waking from some surreal dream.
He rolls onto his side to face you, and the faintest crease of uncertainty lines his brow. Running a hand down his face, he mutters, “T-that wasn’t how I wanted this to happen…”
You can’t help but giggle softly, your fingers brushing a damp, rebellious curl from his forehead. The simple touch seems to soften the tension around his eyes. He smiles at you then—a smile full of something deep and tender—but there’s a flicker of worry in his gaze, as if he’s silently asking if you’re really okay.
You nod, heart pounding in your chest, and lean up to press a sweet, tired kiss to his lips. He returns it gently, the softness of it melting all the raw edges of the night away for a moment. When you pull back, he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, eyes flicking down and away, cheeks flushing faintly.
“I’m sorry it wasn’t more special,” he admits quietly. “I don’t want you to think this was just some fling or—”
His voice catches. “I care about you. More than I ever thought possible.”
You smile, warmth flooding your chest, and reach up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Clark, I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” you whisper. “And honestly, I’m just glad that red stuff was good for something.”
His cheeks flush deeper, and he scratches the back of his head like a bashful schoolboy. “Yeah… so… funny story. The red kryptonite actually wore off about halfway through eating you out...” He shoots you a sheepish grin. “But I was still riding that high, so… Uh, yeah… But I think everything ended up okay.”
You burst into laughter, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to his lips, the fondness in your eyes unmistakable. “Clark Kent, you absolute dork.”
His laugh rumbles deep and warm against your skin, and you find yourself thinking, maybe after filling you like a Twinkie four times over, he’s officially your dork now.
After about another fifteen minutes of tangled pillow talk—shared secrets, lazy touches, soft laughter—he helps you up. Your legs wobble like jelly, and he doesn’t hesitate to catch you, lifting you into his arms with effortless strength. You rest your head against his chest as he carries you toward the bathroom, fetching you water and gently cleaning up the little (big) messes you both made.
When he’s done, you both settle into your bed, flicking off the lamp and settling into each other. You lay practically half your body on his, half your torso on his chest (Lord knows there’s enough real estate there), and you both sigh contentedly.
You nuzzle into the warmth of his skin and after a few silent moments, you smirk. “You’re kind of a rebel, you know that?”
Clark’s brow lifts in amused confusion. “Huh?”
You shift your weight, meeting his tired gaze with a teasing sparkle in your eyes. “Sex before marriage, Clark? Pretty non–Midwestern farmboy of you.”
He rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Oh please. I’ve been breaking rules my whole life.”
“Yeah? Like what? Forgetting to return library books?” You tease.
A slow, smile tugs at his mouth. “Okay fine… Guess I learned how to sin.”
❝ thunderbolst!bucky x assisstant!reader ❞
── as the thunderbolts’ overworked assistant, invisibility comes with the job—late nights, impossible schedules, no recognition. so the single red rose waiting on your desk feels like a mistake. until another appears. then another. each morning brings a quiet gift, easing the exhaustion you’ve learned to carry. by valentine’s day, your desk holds a full bouquet—and far too many unanswered questions.
⤷ tags: coworkers to lovers, valentina sucks, flirting, secret admirer, overworked reader, john walker is kinda a dick (sorry not sorry), first date, first kiss, fluff city, bucky is a loverboy, and a gentleman⋮ warnings: light suggestive content, spicy kiss with wandering hands
˗ˏˋ ꒰ june’s note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── shoutout to miss tang @salty-tang for putting this awesome exchange together, i’m glad i was able to get in before it was too late! i had so much fun writing this secretly flirty bucky he’s my favorite ever
dmdr: valentines fic exchange
prompt: a bouqet of flowers.
dt: this is for the almighty @navybrat817! i was so nervous when i got you lol, youre such an inspiration to me and to the bucky community and im so glad to be in this space as the same time as you! happy valentines day, i hope you like it <33
By the time you swipe into the Thunderbolts tower, your coffee is already cold and your head is already pounding.
It’s barely 7 a.m., the sky outside still bruised with early morning gray, and yet the building hums like it’s midday. Security lights glow. Elevators ding. Somewhere down the hall, someone is already arguing about ammo requisitions.
You sigh, adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and keep walking.
Being the Thunderbolts’ assistant means you’re the first one in and the last one out. It means fixing messes before they become disasters and cleaning up the ones that already are. It means triple-booked schedules, emergency debriefs, and last-minute “I forgot to tell you” requests that somehow always become your responsibility.
It also means being largely invisible. You don’t mind. Most days.
Your office sits tucked away from the main operations floor—small, functional, quiet. Your sanctuary. You unlock the door, flick on the lights, and drop your bag onto the chair with a tired exhale.
That’s when you see it.
A single red rose rests neatly at the center of your desk.
You stop short.
For a moment, you just stare, brain struggling to catch up. The desk is otherwise exactly how you left it—files stacked, tablet charging, sticky note reminding you to call accounting—but the rose is unmistakably new. Fresh. Deliberate.
Your brows knit together as you step closer.
“Okay…” you murmur.
You check the room. The door is still locked behind you. No windows open. No card. No note. Just the rose, stem trimmed, petals deep crimson against the pale wood of your desk.
You pick it up carefully, half-expecting it to disappear.
It doesn’t.
A small, surprised smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. You shake your head, letting out a quiet huff of disbelief. Probably a mistake. Someone dropped it off at the wrong office. Maybe meant for Valentina. Or one of the analysts upstairs.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to toss it.
You find an empty mug, rinse it out, and set the rose inside with a bit of water. It looks oddly perfect there—like it belongs. You try not to think about it as the day takes over. Meetings blur together. You reschedule a training session after John Walker storms out of the gym. You field a call from supplies about missing equipment. You type, print, organize, repeat.
The sun had well set past the horizon before you've began to pack you bag up, grabbing all three folders and your laptop before slugging your bag onto your shoulder. Your hand were always full leaving the office, as you stepped around your desk to walk out something tugged an invisible string within you.
You turned back and looked at the rose sitting on your desk. Your teeth dug into your bottom lip as you hesitated for second before turning back forward, it was just a rose, you told yourself. It didn't mean anything and likely wasn't for you anyways, you'll probably hear about someone who got one tomorrow and then you'll know.
With your mind set on it being an accident you left the Tower and made your way home, but even the evening breeze had nothing to do with the pink tinge to your cheeks.
The next day starts like always, out of bed before the sun has even greeted the sky and out the door as it's slowly peeking through the horizon. One of your favorite parts of your day was your commute to work, albeit hectic, watching the morning wake itself through the parting clouds with birdsong and beaming sun rays just soothed a certain knot in your chest, making you feel that anything was possible.
That was until you got to the office, of course.
"These mission debriefs need to be typed up and filed."
"The pads in the training room need to be rethreaded."
"Ops want the schedule reshuffled again."
Security needs clarification on visitor clearance, and someone’s requisition form is missing a signature that absolutely, definitely cannot wait. By the time you finally make it down the hall to your office, it’s well past your usual arrival time.
You’re frazzled, coffee-less, brain buzzing with a to-do list that feels physically heavy. You swipe your card, already mentally drafting emails, already bracing yourself for the mess waiting on your desk.
The door opens.
And there it is. A single red rose, resting in the exact same spot as yesterday.
You stop so abruptly your bag slides down your shoulder.
For a second, you just stand there, chest rising and falling too fast, the noise in your head grinding to a halt like someone flipped a switch. The rose is perfect—fresh, unbothered, petals still tight at the center. Deliberate. Still waiting for you.
“Oh,” you breathe.
The tension you hadn’t even realized you were carrying loosens its grip, just a little. Your shoulders drop. Your jaw unclenches. You shut the door behind you more gently than usual, like the quiet suddenly matters.
You step closer, eyes scanning the desk for anything else, some note you missed, some clue, some explanation that would make this make sense.
There’s nothing. Just the rose. You let out a small, tired laugh and rub a hand over your face. “This is ridiculous,” you mutter, though there’s no heat behind it. It has to be a fluke. A delivery error. Someone mixing up offices. Maybe whoever it’s meant for hasn’t noticed yet. Maybe today you’ll get a knock on your door—sorry, wrong desk, can I grab that?
But no one comes.
You set your bag down and move automatically, repeating the same motions as yesterday. You rinse out a mug at the tiny sink, fill it halfway with water, and trim the stem just enough to keep it fresh. You place the rose beside the first one, adjusting it until it sits just right.
The effort feels strangely important.
When you sit, the roses are in your line of sight, vivid against the dull beige of paperwork and screens. You tell yourself you’ll move them later. Somewhere less conspicuous.
You don’t.
The day barrels forward at full speed. You draft reports, reroute calls, and mediate a disagreement that nearly turns into a shouting match. Lunch passes unnoticed. Your coffee goes untouched until it’s cold again.
Every so often, your eyes flick back to the roses.
They ground you. Each time your stress spikes, the sight of them eases it back down—just a fraction, but enough to matter. Enough to get through the next task. And the next.
At some point, you catch yourself wondering. Not wildly. Not romantically. Just… curious.
Who would do this without leaving a note? Who would take the time to come by every morning and leave a single rose, like clockwork, and say nothing at all? Someone quiet, maybe. Someone observant. Someone who doesn’t want credit.
You shake your head and refocus on your screen. It’s not for you. It can’t be for you.
Still, when the day finally winds down and the office grows quiet, you linger a moment before leaving. You straighten the roses one last time, fingertips brushing soft petals, and feel a small, unexpected smile curve your mouth.
You leave them there when you turn out the lights. Just in case.
Today's meeting runs long.
You sit in the back of the briefing room, tablet balanced on your knee, fingers moving almost automatically as you take notes. The Thunderbolts fill the table, boots hooked around chair legs, arms crossed, tension and ego packed into the room like it always is. You’re used to being there without being there, eyes down, voice quiet unless you’re called on.
New assignments stack up fast.
Training rotations. Media clearances. Equipment requests. You jot everything down, already mentally rearranging your afternoon to make it all fit. By the time Valentina clears her throat and fixes you with that sharp, knowing look, your list is already long.
“Before you go,” she says, sliding a separate folder across the table in your direction, “these are personal requests. Off the record.”
Of course they are. You nod, accepting it without comment. A whole new list. A whole new set of fires to put out.
The meeting finally adjourns, chairs scraping back as the team stands in a loose, uncoordinated wave. You tuck your tablet under your arm and gather the folders, already bracing yourself for the rest of the day.
You turn too quickly. And walk straight into someone solid.
“Oh—! I’m so sorry,” you blurt out instantly, stumbling back a step. “I wasn’t looking, I—”
A hand comes up, steadying, though it doesn’t actually touch you.
“It’s okay,” a low voice says. “Really.”
You look up. Bucky Barnes. He’s closer than you expect, taller than he looks from across a room, blue eyes soft rather than sharp. For a split second, your brain stalls.
“Oh,” you say, eloquently. “I—sorry. Again.”
He gives a small, almost amused huff of a laugh. “You’re fine.”
You shift the folders in your arms, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. You’ve never really spoken to anyone on the team before—never needed to. They exist in one sphere, you in another. Parallel lines.
“Well,” you start, then stop. Clear your throat. “Um. I was just—checking. If there was anything else you needed? From your list?”
You wince inwardly. Smooth.
Bucky blinks, clearly surprised by the question, then shakes his head. “No. You’ve got everything covered.”
Relief loosens something in your chest. “Okay. Good.”
There’s a brief, awkward pause. You debate filling it with small talk—weather, training schedules, anything—but the words refuse to come. You shift aside to give him space to pass.
Before he does, he looks at you again, expression gentler than you expect.
“Hey,” he says. “Don’t work too hard for us, yeah?”
The comment lands heavier than it should.
You smile, small and polite. “I’ll try.”
He nods once, then steps past you, disappearing down the hall with the rest of the team. You watch him go for half a second longer than necessary before shaking yourself and heading the opposite direction, toward your office, your lists, and a desk that, for reasons you still can’t explain—or don't want to admit, you’re suddenly eager to reach.
By the time you make it back to your office, your arms ache from the weight of folders and your head buzzes with overlapping deadlines. You swipe your card, push the door open.
And there it is. Another red rose, waiting in its usual place on your desk.
You stop just inside the doorway, breath catching before you can help it. A smile slips onto your face, slow and unguarded, relief blooming warm in your chest like you’d been bracing for disappointment without realizing it.
“Okay,” you murmur, exhaling. “Good.”
You close the door behind you and set your things down more gently than necessary, eyes flicking back to the rose as if it might vanish if you look away too long. It’s just like the others, fresh, carefully placed, unmistakably intentional.
You shake your head, half-laughing. “You’re really committing to this, huh?”
The room is quiet. The rose, unsurprisingly, doesn’t answer. Still, you find yourself talking anyway as you rinse out a mug and fill it with water. Maybe it’s the stress. Maybe it’s the fact that no one ever hears you complain without interrupting.
“You would not believe the day I’m about to have,” you tell it, trimming the stem with practiced care. “Val gave me a whole separate list. A secret list. Because apparently that’s what my life was missing.”
You place the rose beside the others, adjusting the stems until they sit evenly, then sigh and drop into your chair.
“And don’t even get me started on John Walker,” you continue, booting up your computer. “Who needs three separate uniform fittings in one week? Who? And why is it always somehow urgent?”
Your fingers fly across the keyboard as emails pile up. You vent softly between tasks, muttering about impossible turnaround times and equipment requests that make no sense, about calendars that refuse to cooperate no matter how carefully you arrange them.
The rose listens. Quietly. Faithfully. At some point, somewhere between scheduling a debrief and rewriting a report, you stop. You lean back in your chair and really look at them.
The growing collection of roses sits bright and vivid against the neutral tones of your office, petals brushing together like they belong. You didn’t even realize how many there were now. You count them once, then again, just to be sure.
“This is getting a little ridiculous,” you say softly, though there’s no real complaint in your voice.
Your brow furrows as you wonder, again, where they’re coming from. How someone keeps getting in without you noticing. Why they bother at all. There’s no note. No expectation. Just the flowers. Every day.
For you. The thought sends a small, unfamiliar flutter through your chest.
Work eventually pulls you back in, but something has shifted. You take a real break for once—standing, stretching, sipping water instead of caffeine. When the day finally winds down and the office empties, you move a stack of folders aside before shutting down your computer.
You pause, then slide a pen holder over, clearing a little extra space on your desk. Right where the rose always sits. You hesitate, then smile to yourself, feeling faintly foolish and strangely hopeful all at once.
“Just in case,” you murmur. You turn off the light and leave, the desk waiting quietly in the dark—ready for tomorrow.
The next morning greets you the same way.
Another rose. Another soft, involuntary smile.
You don’t even question it anymore, you just step into your office, let the door click shut behind you, and breathe out like you’ve been holding it all night. The rose waits in its place, perfectly centered in the space you cleared yesterday, as if whoever left it noticed.
That thought lingers longer than it should. You repeat the now-familiar ritual—mug, water, trimmed stem before the day pulls you away from your desk entirely.
Today isn’t a desk day.
Valentina sends you running physical errands across the tower: dropping off documents, coordinating fittings, tracking down approvals in person because apparently email is no longer sufficient. You weave through hallways and training rooms, clipboard tucked under your arm, moving through the Thunderbolts’ space in a way you usually avoid.
It’s louder here. Heavier. You’re double-checking a storage manifest when you turn a corner too quickly and nearly collide with someone again.
You stop short this time.
“Sorry—” you start, then blink. “Oh. Hi.”
Bucky Barnes. Again. He’s leaning against the wall near the equipment lockers, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp like he’s just come from training. He straightens when he sees you, expression easing into something familiar.
“Hey,” he says. “We keep meeting like this.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“Seems like you’re just busy,” he replies easily.
You nod, lifting your clipboard. “Errands. All day.”
“Sounds rough.”
You hesitate, fingers tightening around the edge of the board. For half a second, the roses are right there on the tip of your tongue. Maybe he might know something about them. The absurdity of them. The comfort. The curiosity that’s been gnawing at you all week.
You swallow it down.
Don’t be weird, you tell yourself.
“Well,” you say instead, “I should—uh—keep moving.”
“Right.” He pauses, then adds, “If you need anything, let me know.”
You smile, small but genuine. “Thanks.”
You’re halfway down the hall when Valentina’s voice cuts through the air. “Ah. There you are.”
You turn, bracing yourself.
“I’ve decided,” she continues smoothly, already walking, “that we’ll be hosting a gala for Valentine’s Day. Donors. Press. Allies.”
A gala. Your stomach drops.
“I want you to plan it,” Valentina finishes, glancing back at you like she’s just assigned you a coffee run.
You stop walking. “I—sorry—me?”
“Yes,” she says flatly. “You’re capable. You’ll handle it.”
And just like that, she’s gone. You stare after her, heart racing, mind already spiraling through venues, security, catering, guest lists. A gala. In less than two weeks. For this team.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
“You okay?”
You hadn’t realized Bucky was still there. You look at him, stress written all over your face, and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “She wants me to plan a Valentine’s Day gala.”
He blinks. “That’s… a lot.”
“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit. “This is insane.”
Bucky studies you for a moment, then smiles—soft, steady, reassuring.
“You’ve got this,” he says. “I’ve seen how you work. You’ll do a great job.”
The words hit deeper than you expect. Your shoulders ease. Just a fraction. Enough.
“Thanks,” you say quietly. “That actually helps.”
He nods once, like it’s a given. “Anytime.”
When you finally make it back to your office, the roses are waiting. The space you cleared is filled perfectly. You set your things down, take a steadying breath, and open a new document.
Valentine’s Day Gala — Planning
For the first time since Val dropped the bomb, you don’t feel like you’re drowning. You glance at the roses, then get to work.
Valentine’s Day arrives like a held breath finally released.
The days leading up to it blur together in a haze of logistics and late nights, venue walkthroughs, security approvals, last-minute menu changes, donor seating charts that refuse to cooperate. Every morning brings new stress.
And every morning brings a rose.
You stop pretending it’s coincidence somewhere around the fifth one. By the eighth, you buy a proper vase. By the time Valentine’s Day dawns, the roses fill it completely, lush, red, alive, sitting proudly on the corner of your desk like proof that something good can exist alongside the chaos.
They’ve become your anchor.
Now, you’re dressed for the gala, standing in your office in front of your desk, heels clicking softly against the floor as you pace. The dress feels strange after weeks of practical clothes, elegant, fitted, unmistakably formal. You tug once at the fabric, then force yourself to focus.
Your phone is wedged between your shoulder and ear as you review final details with the caterers, fingers tapping nervously against your tablet.
“Yes, confirmed vegetarian options are clearly labeled,” you say. “And the band arrives at six for soundcheck? Perfect. Thank you.”
You end the call, exhaling, then immediately bring up the next checklist. Everything has to be perfect. It has to be. A light knock sounds at your door.
“Yeah, come in,” you call automatically, already turning back to your desk.
The door opens quietly. You don’t look up right away, flipping through notes, muttering under your breath. “If this is about seating, I swear I already—”
You turn. Bucky Barnes stands just inside your office. For a second, your brain refuses to process the sight of him.
He’s in a suit, dark, tailored, broad shoulders filling it effortlessly. His hair is neatly styled, jaw clean-shaven, the sharp line of him softened by something almost nervous in his posture. His hands are tucked behind his back like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.
“Oh,” you say, eloquently, blinking. “Hi. Um, did you need something?”
He swallows, nodding once. “Yeah. I… actually, I do.”
You glance at your desk, then back at him. “Okay. I can—give me one second and—”
“No,” he says gently. “It can’t wait.”
Something in his tone makes you still. You set the tablet down slowly. “What’s going on?”
Bucky exhales, shoulders rising and falling as if he’s been bracing himself for this moment all day. Then he brings his hands forward.
He’s holding a single red rose. Your breath catches.
“I need to confess something,” he says.
Your heart starts to pound, loud in your ears. You don’t speak. You’re not sure you could.
“I’ve been the one leaving the roses,” he continues, voice low but steady. “Every morning. Sneaking in early, before anyone else got there. I just… wanted to brighten your day. No pressure. No expectations.”
You stare at him, then at the rose, then, slowly, at the full vase on your desk.
“Oh,” you whisper.
He steps a little closer. “I see how hard you work. How you hold everything together without anyone saying thank you. And you’re kind, quietly kind. You don’t make a show of it. You just… do it.”
His gaze doesn’t waver from yours.
“I admire that,” he says. “I admire you. I just didn’t know how to tell you without making it awkward or… weird.”
A breath shudders out of you, half-laugh, half-disbelief. “You broke into my office every morning.”
He winces. “When you put it like that, yeah. That sounds bad.”
Despite yourself, you laugh—soft, overwhelmed, emotional. Your eyes sting.
“You don’t know what those meant to me,” you say quietly. “I thought I was invisible.”
“You’re not,” he says immediately. “Not to me.”
He holds the rose out to you, hand just slightly unsteady. “I was hoping, if you wanted, that tonight wouldn’t just be work. That maybe I could take you out after the gala. A real date.”
The room feels smaller. Warmer. Like everything has narrowed down to this moment. You take the rose from his hand, fingers brushing his.
“I’d like that,” you say, voice soft but sure. Bucky smiles then, really smiles, and for the first time all day, the weight lifts completely.
The gala is perfect.
From the moment the doors open, everything moves like it’s been rehearsed a hundred times, guests flowing in smoothly, music low and elegant, the band hitting every cue. The lights glow warm instead of harsh, the décor understated but intentional. Exactly right.
You move through the evening with a practiced calm, heels clicking softly as you check in with staff, answer questions, and adjust tiny details no one else would ever notice. It all works. Every risk pays off.
Across the room, Bucky watches you more than once. You don’t notice at first—not until you finally pause near the edge of the dance floor, exhaling as the band shifts into a slower song. That’s when he’s suddenly there, standing beside you, offering his hand.
“Dance with me,” he says.
Your heart jumps. You glance around, instinctive panic flaring. “Here? With everyone?”
He follows your gaze, donors, press, teammates, and then looks back at you, completely unbothered.
“So what?” he says simply. “You deserve to be seen.”
The words land deep.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you place your hand in his. He leads you onto the dance floor, one hand settling at your waist, the other holding yours steady and sure. At first, you’re stiff, hyper-aware of every pair of eyes.
Then Bucky leans in slightly. “Just look at me,” he murmurs.
You do. The rest of the room fades. The music carries you, his movements calm and unhurried, like he’s done this before, or like nothing else matters. Your nerves melt away, replaced by something warm and buoyant in your chest.
For the first time all night, you’re not managing anything. You’re just… there.
The evening winds down gradually, guests filtering out with polite smiles and praise you’re too tired to fully absorb. When the last of them leave, you kick off your heels behind the scenes and start helping staff pack up, dress hiked up, hair slightly loosened.
“You don’t have to do that,” a familiar voice says.
You look up to find Bucky reappearing, jacket off, already grabbing a stack of chairs.
“I do,” you reply. “I always do.”
He studies you for a second, then shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”
Still, he helps. Together, you tidy the space, working in easy silence broken by soft laughter and the clink of glassware. When everything’s finally done, Bucky stops and presses a cool bottle into your hand.
“Break,” he says. “Non-negotiable.”
He leads you out onto the deck, the city lights stretching wide and glittering below. The night air is crisp, refreshing. You pop the champagne quietly, pouring into two plastic cups you somehow still have.
You talk. About nothing. About everything. The absurdity of the team. Your favorite music. The roses, he admits he was terrified you’d hate them. You tell him they got you through the hardest weeks you’ve had in years.
Time slips by unnoticed until the last lights inside click off. When it’s finally time to leave, Bucky walks you down to the curb and flags a cab before you can protest. He opens the door for you, lingering for just a moment.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, smiling. “For our date.”
He leans in, brushing a gentle kiss to your cheek—warm, deliberate, sweet. You smile all the way home, the city rushing past outside the cab window, knowing that tomorrow… you won’t be invisible at all.
The afternoon stretches long and anxious.
You pace your apartment, outfit choices strewn across the bed like casualties of indecision. Every mirror reflects a different worry—too casual, too formal, too flashy, not enough. You check your hair, your nails, your bag, and then start over.
After an hour of this exhausting cycle, you finally settle on something simple: a soft floral dress that sways just past your knees and a jean jacket that keeps it grounded. You stare at yourself in the mirror, take a deep breath, and tell yourself it’s fine. It’s fine.
The nervous second-guessing doesn’t have time to return. There’s a knock at the door—quick, polite, and undeniably him.
You steady yourself, letting out a small, reassuring breath, and open it. Bucky stands there, looking impossibly calm, holding something that immediately steals your attention. A bouquet, impossibly full and vivid, tucked carefully in both hands.
Pink roses, Gerbera daisies, Oriental lilies, larkspur, white snapdragons, and lavender stock. Petals brushing each other delicately, colors and shapes blending into something breathtaking. You inhale sharply, you'd never seen such beautiful flowers before.
“It’s… it’s incredible, this is the prettiest thing I've ever seen.” you breathe, fingers brushing against the blooms as if they might vanish.
He smirks, that mischievous glint in his eyes. “I've seen prettier,” he says, winking at you.
You laugh softly, unable to stop yourself, and accept the bouquet. The weight is perfect, the scent overwhelming in the best way. You carry it inside and place it in the center of your table, the arrangement spilling over with color and life.
At a glance, your apartment looks like a tiny, personal garden. You turn to him, teasing, a small smirk curling your lips.
“At this rate,” you say, tilting your head, “I’m going to have enough flowers for my own flower shop between here and the office.”
Bucky laughs, low and warm, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Then I’ll have to make sure I keep supplying you,” he says, stepping inside. “Somebody has to keep your flower empire going.”
And just like that, the nerves melt a little, replaced by the warmth of him, the colors of the flowers, and the promise of the evening ahead.
The night begins with the kind of energy that makes your nerves settle somewhere in the back of your chest.
Bucky leads you out into the crisp evening air, the city lights fading behind you as you approach Coney Island. The smell of fried dough and saltwater drifts on the breeze, blending with the faint tang of cotton candy. Your hands are brushing, then locking together, and you realize you’re smiling without even thinking about it.
First stop: the arcade. Lights flashing, tickets clattering, and the smell of popcorn in the background. He insists you start with a game of ring toss, laughing every time you nearly, so nearly, miss a ring. Then he drags you to the strength tester, and you watch him grunt and strain while you roll your eyes, amused.
Next, the claw machine. He makes a show of trying, pulling the lever with exaggerated effort, and after a few failed attempts, he triumphantly hands you a stuffed bear. “For you,” he says, grinning, pride twinkling in his eyes.
“Not bad,” you tease, hoisting it up. Then you spot the air hockey table, and suddenly competitive fire sparks inside you. “Your move, Barnes.”
He laughs, confident, and the game begins. The puck slides back and forth, rapid and loud, but within minutes, you’ve completely beaten him. He feigns outrage, grabbing his chest in mock horror. “Cheater!”
“I think you just needed practice,” you tease, smirking.
Afterward, you walk along the boardwalk, the evening breeze tugging at your hair, the ocean glinting in the distance. Without thinking, Bucky slides a hand into yours. You glance at him, heart thudding. He bends slightly and presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand.
“You’re good at this,” he murmurs. “Being you.”
You let yourself melt a little at that, squeezing his hand. The two of you drift to a quiet spot for dinner, a small seaside café tucked away from the throngs of tourists. Plates arrive, warm and simple, the golden glow of the sunset painting your faces.
As you talk, laugh, and share stories, a dollop of dessert clings to the corner of your lip. He notices it instantly.
Before you can react, his thumb sweeps it away, brushing softly over your skin. You look up at him, heart hammering in your chest, and something electric sparks between you.
He leans in slightly, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft at first, curious, hesitant, but quickly deepens, the heat between you building, breaths mingling, teeth catching slightly as both of you get lost in it. You press into his side and feel him hum against you, a hand brushes the hem of your dress before slowly tracing up, pressing soft circles into the skin of your upper thigh.
A soft squeak leaves your lips as he squeezes the soft flesh, making your legs close on instinct, trapping his hand in the warmth. He nips your bottom lip and you sigh, letting your body go lax under his touch. Your mind and heart start to run like an F1 race, the warmth of his hand against your skin makes you shudder and sends a lick of heat up your spine and down to your lower stomach. A cool night breeze washes over you both and finally, you pull back, chests rising and falling in tandem, eyes locking. The world around you disappears, leaving just the two of you and the taste of each other lingering.
“You drive a hard bargain,” he murmurs, voice low, lips grazing yours once more in a teasing ghost of a kiss.
The night isn’t over yet. He leads you to his bike, safe and careful, securing you in front of him. The ride is exhilarating, wind whipping your hair, laughter spilling into the night, city lights streaking past. When he parks outside your stoop, he turns to you, leaning in just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, brushing your forehead with his hand.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers, a promise in the night air, before stepping back and letting you climb your steps, heart racing and cheeks warm.
The next morning feels different.
You catch it the moment you step out of your apartment—lighter, brighter, like the world tilted just enough in your favor overnight. You’re practically bouncing as you head into work, replaying snippets of laughter, the wind in your hair, the warmth of Bucky’s hand in yours.
Even the elevator can’t touch your mood.
Valentina steps in halfway down, heels sharp against the floor, already talking before the doors close. She launches into a list of new tasks—follow-ups from the gala, donor reports, future planning that somehow needs to be done immediately.
You nod. “Sure. I’ll handle it.”
She blinks, just slightly, clearly expecting resistance. When none comes, she smirks and turns back to her phone. You hum the rest of the ride.
The sound follows you down the hall, soft and absentminded, as you swipe into your office. You flick on the light—
—and there it is.
Another rose.
This one sits in its usual place, perfectly centered. But this time, a small folded note is tied neatly around the stem with thin twine. You laugh out loud, a real laugh, warm and unguarded.
“Of course,” you murmur. You cross the room and carefully untie the note, fingers brushing the familiar red petals before unfolding the paper.
Hope today’s a good one.
—B
Your cheeks heat instantly.
You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you place the rose into the vase, adjusting the stems until it fits just right among the others. The bouquet looks full now, lush and intentional, like it’s always been meant to be there.
So do you. You step back, taking it in, basking in the quiet glow of it all, the date, the roses, the note, the knowledge that someone sees you. Appreciates you. Thinks about you when you’re not in the room.
Your phone buzzes a moment later.
Bucky: Still smiling?
You bite your lip, cheeks aching from it. You glance at the roses, then back to your screen, heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time.
❝ bucky x female reader ❞
── somewhere between golden-hour train rides, sleepy kitchen conversations, and waking up tangled together in soft sheets with Alpine purring between you, the lines between friends and flyers blur. and suddenly, the almosts start feeling a lot like forever.
⤷ tags: friends to lovers, fluff, domestic bucky, yearning, mutual pining, crushing hard, lowk idiots in love, feelings confession, alpine! implied stalking/being followed by strangers, brief anxiety/fear, buckys hyper vigilance comes out, protective & possessive bucky, kissing ⋮ warnings: 18+ mdni! smut, p in v, missionary & cowgirl, soft dom bucky, dirty talking bucky barnes, oral f receiving, fingering, back to back rounds (👅), sleepy aftercare, bucky nd reader are in lurve, not beta read we die like men. (also halfassed proofread so...)
˗ˏˋ ꒰ june’s note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── your honor i love them, i love domestic bucky and i want him forever and forever and forever also yeah i barely proofread this i was doing a million things at once and decided to just say fuck it so my fault if its wack
It happens on a Tuesday.
You know it’s a Tuesday because Tuesdays are your longest editing days, and you’re halfway through correcting exposure on a series of portraits when your phone buzzes against your desk. You don’t even look at the name before you smile, you’ve learned the rhythm of him now. He doesn’t text much but when he does, it’s direct.
You home.
No question mark, it makes you smile softly as you type back:
Eventually. Why?
There’s a longer pause this time, then,
Found something.
You grin at your screen.
If this is another broken appliance you’re adopting, we need to talk.
Three dots disappear, then reappear.
Not an appliance.
You snort quietly to yourself, you don’t ask for clarification because you already know he’ll show up whether you do or not.
By the time you make it back to your building, dusk has softened the edges of Brooklyn into gold and shadow. You take the stairs two at a time, not because you’re in a rush, but because you’ve started to associate the top landing with something waiting.
You don’t check the subway map anymore, you don’t hesitate at the corner bodega. You don’t feel like a visitor in your own life. When you unlock your apartment door and push it open you immediately stop. Bucky is standing in the middle of your living room, very still, like he’s holding a live grenade. Except the grenade is small.
White.
And glaring at you.
You blink.
“…Is that… a cat?”
The cat blinks back. She’s tiny. All narrow limbs and oversized ears, fur stark white against the dark Henley stretched across Bucky’s chest. One of her paws is hooked firmly into the fabric like she’s anchoring herself there on purpose.
“She followed me,” he says flatly. As if this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. You close the door slowly behind you.
“She followed you?”
“Yeah.”
“Home?”
He nods once.
“She looks like she weighs three pounds.”
“I tried to tell her not to. She’s got opinions.”
On cue, the cat makes a small, indignant sound. Not quite a meow. More like a complaint, you step closer carefully, hands out like you’re approaching something sacred.
“Oh my god,” you whisper with a growing smile.
Her eyes track you instantly, blue, sharp and wholly unimpressed.
“She’s so small.”
He scoffs. “She’s probably feral.”
“She’s so baby.” You cooed with a waggle of your fingers.
“She’s not—”
“She is,” you insist softly, reaching up to brush one careful finger along the edge of her back. Her fur is softer than you expected. She stiffens at first, eye narrowing just a fraction then leans in, just slightly.
Bucky’s brows draw together. “She scratched a guy.”
“He probably deserved it.”
“You don’t even know what he did.” He huffs as he genlty shifts her in his hold.
“He existed near her.”
“That’s not a crime.”
You look up at him through your lashes. “It is if you’re three pounds and fierce.”
He exhales through his nose, but there’s no bite to it. You lean back to fully look at him now, eyes wide with something that feels suspiciously like wonder.
“You brought her here.”
“She wouldn’t leave.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
You don’t say it out loud, but you both feel it. He could have taken her anywhere. A shelter, a vet, anywhere but here. Instead, he brought her to you. You reach out fully now, cupping your hands under her tiny body. “Can I?”
He hesitates for half a second then nods and transfers her carefully into your arms. She’s lighter than she looks, all bone and stubbornness. Her paws immediately knead into your shirt, claws catching slightly as she readjusts.
“Aw,” you breathe, heart cracking open without your permission. “Hi.”
She stares up at you like she’s evaluating your worth, you smile at her like you’ve already decided she’s yours.
“What’s up with you, girl?” you ask softly.
He shifts his weight. “Alpine.”
You look up at him, startled. “You named her.”
“She needed one.”
You look back down at the tiny creature in your arms. “Hi, Alpine,” you murmur.
She blinks once, then, slowly, she begins to purr. It’s faint at first. Barely there, then it gets stronger like a tiny engine vibrating against your chest.
Bucky goes very still at the sound.
“She didn’t do that before,” he says quietly. You grin up at him like you’ve just accomplished something monumental.
“She likes me.”
“She tolerates you.”
“She loves me.”
“She met you ten seconds ago.”
“And yet.” You carry Alpine to the couch carefully, lowering yourself into the cushions you once assembled under his supervision. She curls into your lap like she’s been rehearsing it.
Bucky stands there, watching the two of you.
You glance up. “You know she’s our baby now, right?”
His eyes widen slightly. “She is not—”
“She absolutely is.”
He opens his mouth to argue but closes it. Looks at Alpine, then at you.
“You know… we’re not—”
“I know,” you interrupt gently, softer now. “I’m just kidding.”
But the word ours lingers in the air, and neither of you correct it again.
Adjusting to Alpine afterwards is surprisingly easy, adjusting to each other has been… gradual, natural almost.
Like you’ve both been circling the same warmth and finally allowed yourselves to step fully into it. He comes over without being asked now. Sometimes you’ll hear the lock turn and his boots cross your floor before you even realize you were waiting for him. He leaves things behind, a spare toothbrush, a flannel slung over the back of your couch. Tools tucked under your sink “just in case.”
You make space for them without comment. Alpine claims him in her own way, she sits on his chest when he lies back on the couch, she bats at his metal fingers like they’re an interactive toy, she once knocked over his glass of water and then stared at him like it was a moral lesson.
“You spoil her,” he says one evening as you crouch in front of a pet store aisle, comparing two different brands of kitten food like you’re reviewing fine wine.
“She deserves it.”
He cocks a brow. “She tried to fight a pigeon on the fire escape.”
“She was defending her territory.”
“She weighs less than the pigeon.”
“She has spirit.”
He shakes his head, but he carries the heavier bag without being asked, and back at home, he assembles a cat tree without looking at the instructions. You sit cross-legged on the floor narrating Alpine’s inner thoughts in a dramatic voice.
“‘Yes, father, construct my tower. Higher. Higher.’”
“She doesn’t talk like that.” He murumurs from under a fuzzy hammock.
“How do you know?”
“Because she’s judging you right now.”
You glance at the cat. Alpine blinks slowly before turning her head back to seemingly watch Bucky.
“She agrees with me.” You state with a firm nod of your head.
He almost smiles, you see it, you always see it. Something in your chest heats up at seeing it and you reach for your camera without thinking, lifting the lens to watch him through it.
Click. He looks up at the sound.
“You take too many pictures.”
You hum behind the camera. “I’m documenting history.”
“I’m building a cat tree.”
“Exactly.”
He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.
Later, when Alpine finally climbs to the top perch and perches there like she owns the skyline, you end up sitting on the couch shoulder to shoulder. Your thigh pressed lightly against his, his arm stretched along the back of the couch. Fingers just barely brushing your shoulder, close enough that you feel the heat of him.
“She’s so tiny,” you murmur.
He huffs something close to a laugh. "She’s vicious.”
“She’s fragile.”
“She scratched a grown man.”
“Both can be true at once.” You tease through a smile.
You glance at him sideways, expecting an eye roll but when you look he’s not looking at the cat. He’s looking at you. You don’t talk about what you are, you don’t need to. Everything important has gone unspoken, he kisses you gently when he arrives. Soft and brief, like checking in. You kiss him back when he leaves, lingering just a second longer each time. It was a silent adjustment to each other’s rhythms. He knows your coffee order without asking, you know when he’s had a bad day by the way he sets his boots down. He reaches for your hand in crowded subway cars now without hesitation, you lean into him when the train lurches.
You’ve started claiming things as yours together without meaning to. Your park bench, your bodega, your stupid inside jokes about screaming radiators.
And now, your cat.
One night, you wake to find Alpine curled between you in bed. Bucky’s arm is draped over your waist, his metal fingers resting warm and steady against your hip and you lie there for a moment, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest.
The way Alpine’s tiny body vibrates faintly with sleep. You realize something quietly, you don’t feel like you’re building alone anymore, you feel… accompanied.
Chosen.
Alpine stretches, paws kneading into your collarbone before she headbutts your chin lightly and you laugh softly.
Bucky stirs.
“What’s she doing,” he mutters sleep-rough.
“Claiming me.”
He settles back into the bed. “Hm. She’s territorial.”
“She gets it from you.”
He cracks one eye open to look at you.
“I’m not territorial.”
“You absolutely are.”
He studies you for a second, then leans forward just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. “I just know what’s mine,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches for half a second and he closes his eyes again like he didn’t just say something that makes your chest feel too small. Alpine purrs louder between you, small and fierce. And somehow, without either of you planning it—the three of you fit.
Photography has always been your passion in life. Capturing the essence of moments in stilled frames. It started small. Borrowed cameras and phone pictures, sunlight through your bedroom window catching dust in the air like suspended stars. You liked that a photo could hold something still, proof that a moment existed exactly the way you felt it.
When life felt loud or overwhelming, framing the world through a lens made it manageable. Cropped. Intentional. Yours.
New York amplified your love for photography because it gave you an endless supply of almost-moments. A man laughing too hard on a street corner. A woman adjusting her heels before stepping into a cab. Sunlight ricocheting off glass buildings and landing like a spotlight on someone who doesn’t know they’re glowing.
You don’t mean to start photographing him like this.
At first it’s practical. Professional, detached even is what you tell yourself.
The lighting in your apartment is good in the afternoons—warm and honeyed, slanting through the tall Brooklyn windows and catching on dust motes and soft edges. You tell yourself you’re just practicing. Documenting domesticity. Capturing the way ordinary life looks when it’s honest.
It just so happens that Bucky is in the frame more often than not.
He doesn’t notice at first. He’s kneeling in front of your kitchen cabinet, sleeves shoved up, hair falling into his eyes while he tightens the hinge that’s been sagging for weeks. You’re perched at the table with your camera resting against your palm, chin tucked into your shoulder as you watch him through the lens.
Click.
He doesn’t look up.
The metal of his left hand gleams faintly where the sunlight touches it, silver softened into something almost warm. His right hand steadies the cabinet door, careful and patient like he’s working with something delicate.
Like he always does here.
You lower the camera just long enough to watch him without the barrier.
There’s something about him in your space—large and solid and quiet—that doesn’t feel invasive anymore. It feels like furniture. Like foundation. Like he’s always supposed to have been kneeling on your kitchen tile, muttering under his breath about cheap screws.
“Stop glaring at it,” you tease. “It can sense fear.”
He snorts softly. “I’m not glaring.”
“You absolutely are.”
Click.
He glances up this time, catching you mid-shot. His eyes narrow a fraction. “You takin’ pictures of me again?”
“Maybe.”
“Why.”
You shrug like it’s obvious. “I'm documenting history.”
“I’m fixin’ a cabinet.”
“Exactly.”
He shakes his head, but there’s no real protest in it. Just that quiet tolerance he reserves for you — like you’re allowed to get away with things no one else is. You don’t tell him that you like the way his brow furrows when he concentrates. Or the way his mouth presses into a thoughtful line. Or the way he looks softer in your apartment than he does anywhere else.
You photograph him crouched beside Alpine’s food bowl next.
She’s watching him like he’s personally offended her by refreshing her water five minutes too late. Her tail flicks with dramatic irritation while he adjusts the dish on the mat you bought with tiny embroidered fish.
“She’s judging you,” you narrate from behind the camera.
“She always judges me.”
“She knows you’re weak.” You taunt after a shutter adjustment.
“I am not weak.”
“You gave her salmon last night because she blinked at you.”
He doesn’t answer that.
Click.
The photo captures something you didn’t expect, the curve of his metal fingers hovering carefully near her small body. Not touching, just close, being protective without claiming control. Alpine is still small. Still a little too thin around the ribs. You both pretend you don’t remember how she looked the day he showed up with her tucked against his chest, fur clumped and eyes wary.
Now she sits like a queen surveying her kingdom—your apartment, his boots by the door, the couch that used to be yours and now belongs equally to both of them. She swats at his hand when he finally scratches under her chin.
He grins, small and fleeting, you miss it because you’re adjusting the focus.
The subway platform becomes another favorite location.
You catch him staring down the tunnel, coat collar turned up against the wind, hair tugged back by the rush of oncoming trains. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, but something about the movement, the waiting, feels cinematic.
He stands slightly in front of you when the platform gets crowded, not enough to make a statement, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
You lift the camera.
Click.
He looks over. “Gonna charge me royalties at some point?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. When the train roars in he places his hand at your lower back as you step inside, it’s a small thing, it always is with him. Small touches. Gentle brushes. The kind that don’t demand attention but linger anyway and you start to recognize the way your body anticipates them, the way your breath steadies when he’s close.
The park bench photo is the one that changes everything.
You’re sitting beside him, knees almost touching, Alpine safe at home because she’s not allowed outside no matter how loudly she protests. It’s early evening, the golden hour slipping toward dusk, the air smells like leaves and city exhaust and distant food carts.
He’s not paying attention to you, he’s watching a kid across the path attempt to throw a tennis ball for a dog that refuses to cooperate and his expression softens without him realizing it.
The sunlight catches in his lashes. You lift the camera instinctively.
Click.
He turns toward you at the sound and for half a second—he almost smiles. Not brazen or wide, not open-mouthed with teethflashing. But something real, something gentle and unguarded. You freeze and lower the camera slowly.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” you murmur.
“Do what.”
“That.”
He frowns faintly.
Your eyes find his, wide and soft all at once. “Look like that.”
“Like what?”
You hesitate. Safe, you think, but you don’t say it. He rolls his eyes like you’re being dramatic, you play it off with a small breath but when you check the photo your chest tightens. It’s there. The almost-smile. The warmth in his eyes. The absence of the weight he usually carries like armor. You save it immediately.
It becomes your favorite.
Your boss calls you into her office the next day as she flips through the prints slowly, brows lifting higher with each image. There's no denying the growing intimacy of the photos, not in the vuglar or exposing sense, but in the way of his heart began to glow in the lens.
“Who is he to you?”
You swallow, pulse thrumming at your wrists and below your ear, flushing like she had asked if you two were to be wed. “I answered his flyer.”
The words feel bigger now than they did months ago. That stupid piece of paper taped crookedly to a lampost with a scribbled NEED HELP? in bleeding ink. To think you almost walked past it, you almost didn’t take a paper.
Your boss smiles faintly.
“You’re lucky,” she says and you feel it reside itself deep inside you and you think about that all the way home.
Lucky.
You think about that word the whole way home.
You let yourself into the apartment quietly. He’s on the floor with Alpine sprawled on her back, paws in the air while he rubs her stomach in slow, careful circles.
You lean against the doorway. “Hey.”
He looks up immediately. His face shifts when he sees you, subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders easing back, the corners of his mouth softening upwards.
“Hey.”
You don’t move for a second, just stand there and watch him, watch the man you almost didn’t meet.
“I was thinking about something,” you say softly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I saw your flyer.”
The words hang there between you two, simple and honest, yet carrying a weight you hadn't expected to hit so hard.
He stills and Alpine chirps in protest at the loss of movement. He clears his throat.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You step closer. “I almost didn’t call. Put it in my purse and left it there.”
His jaw tightens faintly. “I almost didn’t put it up.”
“What?” You blink.
He shrugs, looking back down at Alpine like she’s suddenly fascinating. “Figured nobody’d answer.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t respond right away. You kneel across from him, mirroring his position and Alpine rolls toward you greedily, like the traitor that she is.
“Buck.”
He exhales slowly.
“Didn’t think anyone would want to take a chance.” On me, he doesn’t say but you hear it anyway.
Your chest aches.
“I’m glad I did,” you whisper.
His eyes lift to yours and something raw flickers there, quick and then it's gone.
“Me too,” he says quietly.
The room feels smaller suddenly, closer, the air heavier. Alpine headbutts your hand impatiently, demanding attention. You both laugh at the same time and the tension dissolves into something softer. But it doesn’t disappear entirely, it settles between you like something warm and real.
You keep photographing him, but now it feels different, it's not just observation anymore, not just study. sdwfeIt feels like preservation, like proof. Of the way he leaves his boots neatly by the door because you once mentioned tripping over them.
Of the way he started buying your favorite cereal without asking, of the way he checks the locks twice before bed, of the way he presses a gentle kiss to your temple when he passes behind you in the kitchen.
Nothing intense, nothing overwhelming. Just soft and intentional. You catch your reflection in one of the subway windows one evening with your shoulder tucked under his arm while the train sways. You look… settled. Happy. It makes you think about the flyer again. The crooked tape, the quiet hope behind it. You think about the man kneeling on your kitchen floor. On your living room rug. On a park bench in golden light.
You think about the almost-smile, and you realize something slow and steady has taken root inside you.
It isn’t just attraction anymore. It isn’t just comfort. It’s the knowledge that if you hadn’t looked up that day, if you hadn’t paused on your stoop and seen that lampost, your life would be missing something fundamental.
You press your face briefly into his shoulder on the train, it makes him tilts his head toward you instinctively.
“What's wrong,” he murmurs.
“Nothing.”
You don’t tell him you feel something more than lucky, you don’t tell him that sometimes you look at him and think: I chose right, you don’t tell him that your favorite photo isn’t the almost-smile. It’s the one where he’s not looking at the camera at all, he’s looking at you. Like he’s quietly grateful you took a chance on him, and maybe, just maybe he’s a little lucky too.
It slips into something quieter one night.
You’re at the counter again, but this time there’s flour everywhere—your hands, the surface, a faint dusting across your shirt where you tried (and failed) to brush it off.
“I said I could just go buy something,” he mutters, watching you wrestle with dough like it personally offended you.
“And I said no,” you shoot back, not looking up. “People make this all the time.”
“Yeah. People who know how.”
You narrow your eyes at the dough. “It’s about the principle.”
“It’s about you losing a fight to bread.”
“I’m not losing—”
You look up just as he steps closer. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and for a second you think he’s going to reach for the bowl, or the counter, or anything but you.
Instead, his thumb brushes across your cheek, light and careful as he wipes away a streak of flour you didn’t know was there.
Everything in you stills and warmth prickles all across your skin. The room doesn’t go quiet, you can still hear the faint hum of the fridge, the city outside your window, Alpine batting something off a shelf in the other room but it feels like it does.
You don’t move and neither does he. His hand lingers for half a second too long, thumb hovering like he forgot what he was doing midway through it. Your breath catches, shallow and uneven in a way that feels louder than it should be as your heartbeat does strange, unfamiliar things.
“You had—” he starts, voice lower now, rougher. “Flour.”
“Yeah,” you barely manage, your mind floating somewhere far from here.
His hand drops eventually, but the space between you doesn’t widen again.
He starts staying over more after that. Not "officially". Not in a way either of you acknowledge out lou, it just happens. At first, it’s practical.
It’s late, the trains are slow and Alpine is already asleep curled into his side like she made the decision for him.
So he stays. He takes the couch the first few times, or at least, that’s what he tells you. You believe him until one night you wake up thirsty, the apartment dim and quiet, the soft blue wash of streetlight bleeding in through the windows.
You shuffle toward the kitchen, half-asleep, rubbing at your eyes and then you stop.
He’s not on the couch. For a second, your stomach dips, sharp and immediate but then you see him. On the floor. Blanket barely tucked under him, one arm thrown over his eyes like he fell asleep mid-thought. Alpine is curled against his side, a small, white comma against the dark of his shirt.
Your chest tightens.
“Buck,” you murmur softly.
He doesn’t stir and you hesitate.
You could wake him and tell him to take the bed, tell him the couch is fine, that the floor is ridiculous, that he doesn’t have to—but you don’t. Instead, you step closer, then closer. And before you can overthink it, before you can stop yourself you lower down beside him.
The floor is cool beneath you, grounding in a way that makes your breath even out. You don’t touch him at first, you just lie there close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that Alpine shifts slightly, resettling between you like she approves of the arrangement.
It feels strangely natural, like you’ve done this before, like you were always going to. He stirs after a minute, brow furrowing slightly before his arm drops from his eyes. His gaze finds you in the low light, still hazy with sleep.
“…You okay?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Couldn’t sleep.”
A pause.
Then, softer—“Floor’s more comfortable than it looks.”
You huff quietly. “I can tell.”
Somewhere between one breath and the next, the distance between you disappears. It’s not intentional, not really. You just shift slightly, then he does too. And then his arm is around you, your head is tucked against his shoulder. Alpine is wedged between your ribs like a tiny, purring anchor. You fit together so easily it almost startles you, but neither of you pulls away.
By morning, you’re tangled.
Not in a way that feels messy or complicated. In a way that feels right. Your leg hooked over his, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist, Alpine sprawled across both of you like she owns the entire situation.
You wake up first and for a second, you just lie there taking in the quiet and the warmth. The way his grip tightens slightly, even in sleep, like something in him registers your presence and refuses to let go.
He stirs a few minutes later, breath shifting, eyes blinking open slowly and for a second, he looks disoriented. Then he looks at you and something in his expression softens immediately.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey.”
Neither of you moves, neither of you rushes to untangle the way you probably should. His thumb traces a small, absentminded line against your side, like he’s checking that you’re still there.
You are.
You both are.
And neither of you calls it anything, but neither of you pretends it’s nothing, either.
You don’t notice it at first.
That’s the part that sticks with you later throughtout the whole day—the way it happens without announcement, without anything sharp enough to pull you out of your own head.
You’re tired.
Not just end-of-the-day tired, but the kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there, heavy and burning. You’ve been staring at a screen for hours, adjusting exposure, chasing light that already happened, trying to make moments feel the way they did when you first captured them.
It blurs after a while. Faces. Colors. Time. The subway hums beneath you, a low, steady rhythm that you usually find comforting.
You’re thinking about a photo when it happens. Not even a good one—just a small detail you want to fix tomorrow, the way the light caught on the edge of a frame, how you might crop it tighter when the train slows, stops and the doors open.
You don’t move.
And then they close again.
It’s only when the station sign slips past the window, unfamiliar, wrong, that something in your chest stutters and your stomach drops as you realized you missed your stop .
“…Great,” you mutter under your breath.
Too late.
The train lurches forward again.
The next stop feels longer than it should, everything does when you’re suddenly aware of it. The way your foot taps against the floor. The flicker of the overhead lights. The low murmur of strangers who don’t know you just made a mistake.
You step off quickly when the doors open again, pulse just a little too fast. The platform is quieter here, too different. You don’t like it.
The announcement crackles overhead, distorted and distant.
“—maintenance delays—next train—extended—”
You close your eyes briefly because, of course. It's late when you check the time, later than you meant to stay out. Later than you usually feel comfortable being anywhere unfamiliar. You could wait for the next train to turn around. You should wait. But the platform feels wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, too open, too empty, like something that’s supposed to be full of noise has been hollowed out.
So you decide to walk to the next station, it’s not far, you tell yourself that like it makes the decision better.
You know the moment it shifts when you step out into the might air. It’s not something you see but something you feel. The street is quieter than Brooklyn. The buildings taller, the gaps between people wider. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful but absent. Streetlights flicker overhead, one buzzing faintly before stabilizing and your footsteps sound louder than they should. You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, shoulders drawing in slightly without meaning to.
And then there's that feeling again. The one that crawls up the back of your neck before your brain catches up.
You glance up and see there’s a group of men down the block. They notice you immediately. You see it happen in an instant the shift in posture, the subtle way their attention locks in. Alone and disoriented.
Your chest tightens as you look away quickly, adjusting your path just enough to seem casual.
Keep walking.
Don’t react. Don't—
They start moving, not obviously, just enough to match your pace. The air feels colder suddenly, like something’s been pulled out of it. Your breathing changes before you can stop it, shorter, sharper. You turn a corner and try to stay calm. You don’t look back right away because you don’t want to confirm it, but you know. You hear it, the sootsteps are still there, still echoing behind you. Your fingers shake as you pull your phone out of your pocket.
There’s no debate, no hesitation as you hit his name.
He answers on the first ring.
“What broke?”
Any other time it would make you laugh.
Your throat tightens and you barely get the word out. “Buck.”
It comes out thinner than you want it to, and there’s a brief pause. But everything about him changes on the other end of the line—you can hear it, feel it, the way his breathing shifts, the way his voice drops into something sharper. Focused.
“Where are you.”
You try to explain. Street names you barely registered, landmarks you didn’t think to remember. It comes out in fragments, rushed and uneven, your words tripping over each other.
“I—I missed my stop and I got off and I’m walking and there’s—”
“I got you,” he cuts in, calm and steady.
“Stay on the phone.”
Your grip tightens around it. “Okay.”
“Keep walking. Don’t stop.”
Your heart is pounding too loud now, drowning out everything else. Behind you, one of them calls out something. You don’t process the words, you don’t respond you just keep walking.
Your breathing stutters.
“Buck—”
“I’m here,” he says immediately. “You’re good. Just keep going.”
Your vision feels too narrow, like everything outside of the path in front of you has been blurred out. You turn another corner and they follow, closer now. Your chest feels tight, like you can’t pull in a full breath. And then headlights, bright and fast flash in front of you as a truck pulls up hard along the curb beside you, tires crunching against the edge of the street.
You flinch at the sound as the driver’s door opens. And he’s there. Bucky steps out like he’s stepping into something controlled and not the eratic chaos you feel in your ribcage. He's calm and measued, something almost cold in his eyes.
The shift is immediate. He doesn’t yell at the group of men, doesn’t posture, he doesn’t say a word. He just moves, placing himself between you and them like it’s instinct, like it’s the only position that makes sense. The streetlight catches on his left arm, metal glinting sharp and unmistakable and the men stop. There’s a beat of calculation, and then they back off. Muttering something under their breath, turning away like the decision was easy, like you weren’t worth it.
You don’t process it, not yet, all you know is that he’s here. You move before you think, closing the distance, your hands grabbing onto him like you need proof he’s solid and real, not something your brain made up out of fear.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower now, closer to the one you know. “I got you.”
You nod against him, even though he can’t see it properly, your grip tightening for half a second longer than necessary. He doesn't miss a beat, he just guides you toward the truck, one hand steady at your back.
The drive is quiet.
You sit in the passenger seat, hands still curled slightly like they forgot how to relax. Your heart hasn’t fully slowed down yet and you’re aware of everything. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tires against the road, the way his hands grip the wheel.
Too tight, the knuckles of his right hand pale under the dim lighting. He doesn’t look at you at first, his focus is locked forward, expression carved into something hard and controlled.
You’ve seen that look before.
Just not like this, not because of you, not because of something that almost happened. Your throat feels tight again, but for a different reason now.
“I’m okay,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t respond right away as the truck turns down your street.
Finally, his grip shifts slightly on the wheel, like he’s forcing it to loosen.
“I know,” he says.
But his voice is still tight, still holding something back. You glance at him, really look this time. And you realize he’s not just angry, he’s shaken. Not with fear in the way you are, but something sharper, something that looks a lot like the realization that he almost wasn’t there in time.
He doesn’t say anything else when he parks, he just kills the engine and gets out, rounding the front of the truck before you’ve fully gathered yourself. He walks beside you to the door, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.
He unlocks it before you can reach for your keys, like it’s instinct now, like it’s always been his job.
Inside, the apartment wraps around you both with familiar walls, soft lamplight, and the faint sound of Alpine shifting somewhere deeper in the space.
For a second, neither of you moves.
The door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet that follows is heavier than anything outside. You turn toward him and he’s already looking at you. There’s something in his expression you don’t see often, something unguarded, pulled tight with restraint.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice tight and focused.
You shake your head. “No, I—”
His hands are already there, gentle but firm, checking your arms, your shoulders, your face like he needs proof. Like he won’t believe it until he confirms it himself.
“Anywhere?” he presses, quieter now.
“No,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”
He stills just for a second as your words take a moment to settle somewhere deeper than they should have to. And then something in him gives. His hands slide up, framing your face, and before you can process the shift he pulls you into him.
The kiss isn’t careful.
It isn’t the soft, checking-in kind he’s given you before. It isn’t brief or hesitant or something that leaves room for doubt.
It’s desperate.
Like something almost slipped through his fingers, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. That you’re real, that you’re okay. Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, holding on just as tightly, just as instinctively as you melt into the kiss.
“You scared me,” he breathes against your mouth.
The words are rough, honest in a way that cracks something open in your chest.
“I know,” you whisper back.
“I can’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his forehead pressing briefly to yours before he finds your eyes again. “I can’t lose you.”
Your breath stutters.
There’s no distance left between you now. No space to pretend this is anything less than what it is.
His voice drops, quieter but steadier.
“Be mine.”
The words land heavier than anything else tonight.
“For real,” he adds, like he needs you to understand. “No unspokeness. No almost.”
You blink, heart racing for an entirely different reason now, something softer threading through the remnants of fear.
“I am,” you say.
There’s no hesitation in it.
“I've always been yours, Buck.”
His grip tightens slightly, like he needs to hold onto that.
“Forever,” he insists, softer now but no less certain. “Let me take you home. Every time. Let me hold you on every train. Let me put up every shelf. Let me—”
He doesn’t finish, you kiss him again. This time slower, still deep and certain, but steadier, like something inside you both is finally settling into place.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ll choose you. Every day.”
Your answer comes easily.
“Yes.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for longer than just tonight.
His hands shift, gentler now at your waist, but no less sure of where they belong. You tug him closer without thinking, closing whatever space might still exist between you and something shifts. The heat from your bodies no longer stays under the skin, it moves and blooms into a fiery heat somewhere deep inside you. Inside you both.
The mismatching calloused and metal pads of his fingers trace down to the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He kisses you again but this time his lips follow his downward trajectory, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. Each one lingers, deliberate, until your skin blooms pink beneath his mouth.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes, the words warm against your collarbone. His teeth graze the spot just above your pulse, gentle and testing before he sucks softly, drawing a quiet gasp from you.
You arch into him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. "Bucky—"
"Tell me," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Tell me you're mine."
The words tumble out without hesitation. "Yours. Always yours."
A low sound rumbles in his chest, pleased and possessive. He kisses you again, deep and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming rhythm. His hands roam your body, worshiping every inch of the softness of your thighs, the flutter of your ribs beneath his palm, the way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your nipple.
You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helps you pull it off, then guides your hands to his chest, letting you explore the hard planes of muscle, the scars, the warmth of him. His breath catches when your fingers skim over a sensitive spot just above his hip.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're gonna be the death me."
"Not yet." You hum as you kiss him again, pouring everything into it, trust, want, love.
His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you through the apartment and to the bed. He lays you down like something precious, following you with his body, covering you without crushing you.
His lips find yours once more, soft and insistent as you both shed every last layer between you, before trailing lower—over your breasts, your stomach, lower still. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss a promise.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers against your inner thigh as you nod shakily.
His fingers tremble slightly as they skim your bare skin—so close to where you ache for him, yet hesitating. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breath comes uneven against your skin.
"Buck," you whisper, stroking his hair. "It's okay."
He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to your hip. "Been a long time," he admits, voice rough. "Don't wanna mess this up."
"You won't." You tilt his chin up, meeting his eyes. "We'll go slow. Together."
A ragged breath escapes him as he nods, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your thigh. His hands grip your hips, steadying himself, before he lowers his mouth to you, tentative at first, then bolder as your soft gasps guide him.
"Christ, baby," he groans against you, fingers digging into your flesh. "So sweet like this."
You arch beneath him, pleasure curling tight in your belly. "Bucky, please—"
His tongue is slow at first, experimental, and almost shy as if he’s relearning the shape of you like this. But the second your hips jerk under his mouth, he groans against you and his confidence soars, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Easy, princess," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. "Let me take my time with you."
And god, does he take his time.
His tongue traces slow circles around you, teasing but never giving you exactly what you need until you’re writhing beneath him. "Bucky—" you gasp, fingers knotting in his hair.
"Patience," he rumbles before finally closing his lips over your clit and sucking gently. You cry out, back arching off the bed as pleasure arcs through you like lightning. His fingers join then, one sliding into you with ease, curling just right, the dual sensation has your thighs shaking around his head.
"That’s it," he murmurs against you, adding a second finger as his tongue flicks faster over your clit. "Let me feel it, let me hear you."
You don’t stand a chance. The orgasm crashes over you so hard your vision whites out for a second, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless chant as you grind against his mouth. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from oversensitivity, dragging his tongue through your folds one last time before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.
When he finally lifts his head, his lips are slick and his eyes are black with hunger. "Fuckin' perfect," he rasps, licking his lips like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.
You tug him into a kiss by the hair, crashing your mouth against his so you can taste yourself on his tongue. He groans into the kiss, hips grinding down against yours where he’s achingly hard.
"Need you inside me," you pant between kisses, rocking against him insistently. "Now."
His breath hitches as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. "Yeah?" His fingers flex possessively on your hip. "Gonna beg for it?"
"Please," you whimper, dragging his hand between your legs again, showing him exactly how ready you still are for him.
His throat works as he nods, reaching for the condom on the nightstand with unsteady hands. You help him roll it on, stroking his wrist when he fumbles.
"Easy, soldier," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
He chokes out a laugh of half nerves, half affection before settling between your thighs. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick, and he stills, forehead pressed to yours. "God, sweetheart—you—"
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Move with me," you breathe.
He does, slow at first, sinking into you inch by inch as his muscles tremble with restraint. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your neck, lips finding your pulse point again, sucking gently.
"Good?" he rasps.
"So good," you sigh, fingers clutching his back. "More."
He moans, hips rocking against yours in a deep, unhurried rhythm. Every thrust is deliberate, every groan muffled against your skin as he murmurs praises or "perfect," "mine," "angel" between kisses. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he loses himself in you, the hesitation melting away with every shared breath.
"Close," he grits out, sweat beading on his brow.
You nod, urging him deeper, nails scraping lightly down his spine. His rhythm stutters, his body tensing as he spills over the edge with a broken moan of your name.
He collapses against you, breath hot on your neck, arms tightening possessively around you as he murmurs something low and soft against your skin.
His cock twitches inside you, still thick and hard despite his release. You shift your hips experimentally, drawing a sharp gasp from him as his fingers dig into your waist. "Still?" you tease, rolling your hips again just to feel him shudder beneath you.
Bucky's metal hand slides up your back, pressing you closer as his hips shift, grinding deeper. "Always for you," he growls, voice rough with need.
You push him by the shoulders until he rolls onto his back as you rise up on your knees, guiding him back inside with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. His groan is ragged, hands gripping your thighs as you take control, riding him with slow, deep strokes that make his breath hitch. His flesh hand tangles in your hair, pulling you down for a searing kiss as his hips meet yours in perfect rhythm.
Your body trembles as Bucky’s thrusts grow rougher, his cock hitting that deep, perfect spot again and again until your vision blurs. A breathy whimper escapes your lips as your head drops against his shoulder, nails biting into his sweat-slicked skin. His arms lock around you, keeping you pinned against him while his hips snap upward, each movement sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.
"That’s it, sweetheart," he growls, voice rough with need, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Take it—take everything I give you." His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your face toward his for a sloppy, desperate kiss. "You feel so damn good, like you were made for me."
A moan shudders out of you as he shifts slightly, the new angle rubbing his cock against your walls in a way that makes your thighs shake. You whimper his name, hips grinding down in needy little circles just to feel him twitch inside you. Bucky groans, his metal hand sliding down to grip your ass, forcing you down onto him harder.
"Fuck—you’re gonna ruin me," he snarls, teeth grazing your collarbone as his thrusts turn punishing. His breath is ragged against your skin, his voice dropping into something dark and possessive. "Mine. All fucking mine."
You arch against him, pleasure cresting so sharply it steals your breath. Bucky’s grip on you tightens, his rhythm faltering as his cock pulses deep inside you, filling you with another wave of heat and pleasure as you tremble around him.
He exhales sharply against your neck, his hips still rocking into you in slow, possessive rolls even as his breathing slows. His hands stroke over your skin, gentle but his grip stays firm, like he can't quite bring himself to let go.
The apartment settles around you slowly afterward.
Not silent as it's never truly silent in New York, but softened.
The radiator clicks faintly in the corner. A car horn sounds somewhere far below the window. Alpine hops onto the bed at some point, circles twice near your feet, then decides against staying when Bucky shifts beside you with a sleepy murmur.
Everything feels warm.
Warm in the way your skin still hums from being held so closely, from his hands lingering at your waist like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. The sheets are tangled low around your legs, the air heavy with the lingering heat of summer and each other.
You’re tucked against his chest, cheek resting over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his arm is around you. Like even asleep he can’t stop reaching for you.
You think you should feel shy about it all afterward. Different somehow. Instead, you just feel calm, like something that’s been leaning precariously finally settled into place.
Bucky presses a sleepy kiss into your hairline, half-conscious and entirely automatic, and your chest tightens at the tenderness of it.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You smile against his skin. “Yeah.”
His fingers drag lazily along your spine once before stilling again.
“C’mere,” he mutters, even though you’re already impossibly close. You go anyway.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, you wake slowly, not completely but just enough to feel it first. The absence, his warmth gone from beside you. Your eyes blink open into darkness, disoriented for half a second as your hand drifts across the sheets to feel it empty.
Your stomach tightens immediately.
“Buck?” you mumble, voice rough with sleep.
No answer.
You push yourself upright too quickly, pulse already starting to climb. The apartment is dim, silver-blue moonlight stretching across the floorboards. For one irrational second, panic flashes through you sharp and immediate.
Then, the bathroom door opens. Warm light spills briefly into the room before he steps out, shutting it quietly behind him.
“There you are,” you breathe.
His expression changes the second he sees you sitting up, concern softens immediately into apology.
“Hey,” he says quietly, crossing the room. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Your shoulders loosen all at once. “I thought—”
You stop yourself.
Thought what?
That he left?
That this disappeared overnight somehow?
The feeling must still show on your face because his own softens further.
“Just cleaned up,” he murmurs.
There’s a washcloth in his hand, steam still faintly curling from it. He sits carefully at the edge of the bed, reaching toward you with a gentleness that makes your throat ache.
“C’mere.”
You let him.
He brushes the warm cloth carefully along your shoulder, your neck, your arms and between your thighs. His hands are soft against your skin, like he’s caring for something precious. You watch him through sleepy eyes, the furrow in his brow, the quiet concentration in the way he holds your wrist gently while cleaning flour-soft traces of the evening from your skin.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.
Your lips twitch. “Documenting history.”
A sleepy huff of laughter escapes him.
“There she is.”
The washcloth gets abandoned somewhere on the nightstand eventually because he leans down to kiss you before finishing, slow and lingering and warm enough to make your eyes flutter closed again. When he pulls back he doesn’t go far, his forehead against yours, breath mingling softly in the dark.
“You scared me tonight,” he admits quietly.
The vulnerability in it hurts worse now somehow than it did earlier.
You reach up, fingers brushing along the edge of his jaw. “I’m here.”
“Yeah,” he whispers.
Like he’s still convincing himself.
He climbs back into bed beside you a second later, pulling you into him immediately, no hesitation left in the movement now. Your leg slides between his, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist until you’re tucked against him again exactly where he wants you.
Where you want to be.
You press a kiss beneath his jaw and his hold tightens slightly.
“All mine,” he murmurs sleepily into your hair.
Your heart turns over softly in your chest. You tilt your head up just enough to kiss him once more, slow and fond and certain.
“Yours,” you whisper back.
And this time when sleep finds you again, it finds both of you together.
❝ bucky x female reader ❞
── bucky barnes doesn’t know what to do with freedom. so he does the only thing he can think of—he makes a flyer.
⤷ tags: mentions of alcohol/drinking, handyman bucky, post tfatws, lowk grumpy x sunshine, semi slow burn, some fluff, heavy banter, yearning to the max, acts of service love language, strangers to something more, domesticity, first kiss, soft bucky, reader is a little too trusting but it works out, not beta read we die like men. ⋮ warnings: no warnings just bucky 👅
˗ˏˋ ꒰ june’s note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── guys if this is ass plz lie, ive lost my writers spark entirely and this is something i had to drag out from the bottom of the barrel so i apologize in advance.
masterlist.
Bucky's staring at a blank wall in his apartment.
It’s been blank for three months.
He hasn’t put up art, hasn’t mounted shelves. Hasn’t even leaned anything against it to pretend he might one day decide. The paint is that neutral off-white landlords choose when they don’t want tenants getting ideas, it reflects the late afternoon light in a way that makes the room feel larger than it is.
Larger. Emptier.
He folds his arms over his chest and studies the wall like it’s a problem he’s been assigned.
He’s “free” now. No handler. No mission briefs. No coded directives slipped under doors or encrypted messages lighting up burner phones, no one telling him where to go, who to be, or what mistakes to fix. He thought freedom would feel big. He thought it would be loud in a good way, like fireworks or a door kicked open. He thought it would feel like breathing after being underwater too long.
It doesn't.
It feels… empty.
The kind of empty that echoes. The kind that makes every sound in the apartment too sharp, the refrigerator humming, pipes ticking in the walls, the faint traffic noise drifting up from the street.
He shifts his weight.
Bucky knows what you need to have in today's world to do something, to be something that matters. He doesn’t have half of it. He never went to college, the war kind of interrupted that. He doesn't know where he would start with a resume, “Assassin, covert operative and international fugitive” doesn’t format well in bullet points. He tried LinkedIn, once, then deleted it in under five minutes after they asked what his minimum salary was at a past job.
He doesn't have a plan, he's got what he always thought he wanted from his life and now that he has it, it's collecting dust in his empty apartment.
He knows what he does have. A truck. Old yet reliable, rebuilt twice over with his own hands. Mechanical skills. He can fix almost anything with an engine. Most things without one. A terrifying resting face, that he’s been told scares even the brutalist of criminals away. More than once.
And time. So much time.
He runs a hand over his jaw, exhales, and finally looks away from the wall. He tried therapy. He still goes once a week where he sits on a couch across from a woman who asks him what he wants now that he’s allowed to want things.
He doesn’t have an answer.
He tried the gym. That just made him feel like he was waiting for something.
He tried walking around Brooklyn without a destination. That lasted two hours before he found himself counting exits and scanning rooftops out of habit. Freedom is supposed to come with direction, that’s what people imply. You earn it, and then you use it.
Bucky doesn’t know how to do that, how to do freedom. He moves into the kitchen, if you can call it that. It’s more of an open counter situation, and pulls open a drawer. Inside are exactly three pens, a rubber band, and a folded takeout menu.
He grabs a pen. Stands there for a long moment. Then he finds a pad of paper in another drawer that thick, slightly yellow, the kind meant for grocery lists and tears off a sheet. He sits at the small table by the window. The city moves outside. Car horns, voices, someone laughing. Someone arguing, a siren in the distance.
He stares at the blank page. He doesn’t need a career, per say. He needs… something to do. Something simple. Something useful. So he writes in block letters.
NEED HELP?
He pauses. That’s vague, he thinks, but maybe vague is good. He continues. Adding in things like, Protection. Heavy lifting. Fixing stuff.
He considers crossing out “stuff.” Leaves it. He taps the pen against the table thinking with a hum, people won’t call a stranger without reassurance.
He sighs and writes: Not a serial killer.
He leans back and stares at it. It’s terrible. And honest.
He adds his name and cut little strips into the page, writing his number on each one as a DIY tearoff. He learned that word from Sam when he told him he should look up some DIY key holders for his apartment.
He studies the finished product. It looks like something a bored teenager would tape to a telephone pole as a joke. So he makes another one.
And another.
By the time the light shifts toward evening, there are fifteen slightly crooked, slightly uneven flyers spread across his table. He stares at them like they might explain themselves. This is stupid, he thinks to himself. This is civilian nonsense. And it is defintely not a plan. But at least it’s something, and it's better than staring at a blank wall trying to guess how many layers of paint are on it.
He grabs a roll of tape from under the sink, shrugs into his jacket, and gathers the stack. The hallway outside his apartment smells faintly like old carpet and someone’s overcooked dinner. He heads down the stairs instead of taking the elevator, an old habit, and steps out into the early evening air.
Brooklyn hums.
He’s lived here long enough now that the rhythm of it doesn’t jolt him anymore. It’s background noise instead of threat assessment, mostly. He tapes the first flyer to a lamppost outside his building, presses the tape flat with his thumb and steps back.
It looks ridiculous, he moves on to the next one anyway.
He tapes one outside a laundromat, another near a bus stop, one by a small grocery store on the corner. He hesitates outside a coffee shop, then shrugs and sticks one to the bulletin board already crowded with yoga class ads and guitar lessons and “ROOMMATE WANTED” strips.
He doesn’t overthink it.
If he overthinks it, he’ll stop.
By the time he’s done, the stack is gone and his hands are slightly sticky from tape residue. He stands on the sidewalk, truck parked at the curb, and looks around. That’s it. That’s his grand re-entry into civilian life.
A handful of flyers that say “Not a serial killer.”
He huffs a quiet, humorless laugh and climbs into his truck.
Three days pass.
Nothing.
His phone remains silent except for spam calls and a pharmacy reminder. He tells himself that’s expected. That people use apps now, platforms and ratings with verified accounts. Not hand-scrawled paper tabs.
On the fourth day, he walks past the lamppost outside his building. The flyer is still there completely untouched. No numbers torn off. Rain has wrinkled the edges slightly, but the ink hasn’t bled. He stares at it longer than necessary thinking maybe he should take them down.
Before someone reports him.
Before someone thinks it’s suspicious. Before he has to admit that even offering help isn’t enough to make someone need him.
He leaves it up.
A few blocks away, you’re struggling with a box labeled “KITCHEN???” in thick black marker.
The label is inaccurate. It contains exactly one mug, three mismatched plates, and an alarming number of tangled charging cables. You’re sweating. You’re slightly overwhelmed yet feeling the most giddy you had in years.
You’re trying to balance the box against your hip while fishing your keys out of your bag with the other hand. That’s when you see it.
The flyer, taped slightly crooked to the lamppost.
NEED HELP?
Rides. Heavy lifting. Fixing stuff.
Not a serial killer.
– Bucky
718-325-7038
You blink.
Then you laugh. Out loud and it echoes a little on the sidewalk, surprising even you.
“Not a serial killer,” you repeat under your breath. “Well. That’s reassuring.”
You shift the box to your other hip and step closer.
The paper is slightly damp at the edges. The handwriting is bold, deliberate. Careful in a way that suggests the person writing it wasn’t joking, exactly. Just… blunt. There are little handmade tear-off tabs at the bottom with a phone number.
None of them have been taken.
You glance up and down the street. It’s early afternoon. People moving, cars passing, no one paying attention. You tug one of the tabs free. The paper rips with a soft, decisive sound. You fold it once and tuck it into your back pocket.
“Just in case,” you murmur to yourself, like that makes it reasonable.
You don’t actually intend to call. But something about it, about the absurd honesty that makes this new neighborhood feel slightly less intimidating. Like there are real people here.
Like maybe you didn’t just move into a city of strangers.
You juggle your box again and finally get the building door open. Inside, the hallway smells like old wood and someone’s incense. You don’t know a single soul here.
Not one.
After six hours in Brooklyn you have a new apartment, new job starting Monday, no furniture besides a mattress you haven’t unwrapped yet. You drop the box inside your door and lean back against it, exhaling.
You did it. You moved. This means you’re brave now. It also means you’re also starving, sweaty and slightly terrified. You pull the little tab out of your pocket and look at it again.
Bucky. Not a serial killer.
You snort softly, slipping it into your purse that sat in the kitchen, if you can call it that, next to an array of takeout menus left littered on the counter by the previous tenant. Just in case. You sit back on your heels, breathing slightly heavier than necessary, and let your gaze drift to the small strip of paper sitting on the counter.
It looks small there. Almost insignificant.
Like it couldn’t possibly matter.
You push yourself up with a quiet exhale, brushing dust from your palms as you take in the apartment again—really take it in this time. The stacks of boxes are a little less intimidating than they were this morning. You’ve made progress. There’s a mug in the sink now, your mug. A hoodie draped over the back of the door. Your shoes kicked off by the wall like you plan on staying.
It doesn’t feel like a stranger’s place anymore.
Not entirely.
You move slowly through the space, opening a box here, shifting something there. You line your toiletries along the bathroom sink, straighten the sheets on the mattress you finally unwrapped, plug in a lamp so the corners don’t feel quite so shadowed. Each small action presses you further into the room, like you’re anchoring yourself piece by piece.
Like you’re proving to yourself that you’re really here.
Brooklyn.
You pause in the middle of the living room, hands settling on your hips as the quiet settles around you again. It’s different now. Not as sharp. Still unfamiliar, but… softer at the edges. Outside, the city hums. Car horns, voices drifting up from the street, music faint and distant like it’s being carried on the air just for you.
You step closer to the window, the one you’ll later learn sticks, and peer out at the street below. People move like they know exactly where they’re going. Like they belong to the rhythm of it.
You want that.
Not just the city. Not just the apartment.
The feeling.
You glance back at the room. At the half-unpacked boxes, the bare walls, the life that hasn’t quite settled into place yet. You could stay in tonight. Finish unpacking. Eat something out of a container balanced on your knee and fall asleep early.
That would be the easier choice, the safer one. Your fingers tap lightly against your thigh as you consider it. Then you shake your head.
“No,” you murmur to yourself, quieter but firmer. “That’s not why you came here.”
You didn’t drive hours and sign a lease you can barely afford just to sit in silence and wait for your life to start. You didn’t leave everything familiar behind just to recreate it in a smaller space.
You came here to live.
Even if it’s messy, even if it’s uncomfortable, even if you don’t know what you’re doing yet. Especially then. Your gaze drifts back to your purse for a second, to the place where you tucked the little tab away. Something about it lingers in your mind, faint but present. Not a plan. Not even a real option.
Just… a possibility.
You grab a different jacket from one of the boxes, tug it on over your clothes, and glance at yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. You look a little tired. A little overwhelmed.
But there’s something else there too.
Something brighter.
“Okay,” you say softly, like you’re making a deal with yourself. “One drink.”
You grab your keys, hesitate only a second, then head for the door. The lock clicks behind you with a soft, final sound.
Hours later, the city feels very different.
Louder, warmer, brighter.
You hadn’t meant to drink that much. It just sort of… happened. One conversation slid into another. Someone bought you a round because you mentioned you’d just moved. You laughed more than you expected to. The music felt good in your chest.
You wanted to feel like you belonged.
Now you’re standing on a sidewalk that looks vaguely familiar but not enough, the neon sign behind you flickering slightly, the night air cooler against your flushed skin.
Your phone battery blinks 4%.
You squint down the street.
How do people get taxis here? Do they just… appear? You raise your arm experimentally. Nothing happens. A group brushes past you, laughing. You step aside too quickly and nearly trip off the curb.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay.”
You could Uber.
You open the app only to find surge pricing.
Of course.
You check your wallet. Not nearly enough cash after buying that last round and leaving a surmisable tip for the bartender, who was kind enough to let you know that you had put your jacket on inside out after your third drink.
You glance around again, the city suddenly less charming and more overwhelming. Your stomach dips and fear spreads low and cold. You don’t know where the nearest bus stop is, or which line to take, you don’t actually know which direction your apartment is from here.
The alcohol in your system stops feeling warm and starts feeling inconvenient. You dig through your purse, fingers fumbling past lip gloss, receipts, keys.
Your hand closes around paper. You pull it out.
Slightly crumpled.
NEED HELP?
You stare at it.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing, half mortified.
This is insane. You shouldn’t.
You absolutely should not text a stranger who specified he isn’t a serial killer. Your battery drops to 3%. You hesitate for three long seconds.
Then you type.
Hi.
Are you real?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
Bucky’s phone vibrates against the table. The sound cuts through the apartment like a gunshot.
He freezes and for half a second, his brain does something old and dangerous—threat assessment, immediate spike of adrenaline, body already half-rising.
He grabs the phone to see an unknown number.
A text.
He stares at it. His pulse does not settle. Are you real? That could mean anything. That could mean someone found him, that could mean trouble.
Or—
Another text comes in.
I think I need help.
His jaw tightens.
He’s already standing. He doesn’t deliberate, doesn’t ask for clarification, just grabs his keys off the counter, shoves his feet back into his boots without tying them properly, and is out the door in under thirty seconds.
The truck engine roars to life beneath him, familiar vibration steadying something inside his chest.
He types one-handed at a red light.
Location?
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Then:
Outside Harper’s. On 5th I think. By the hot dog guy??
He knows exactly where that is. He’s there in four minutes.
He spots you before you spot him.
You’re sitting on the curb now, elbows propped on your knees, arguing mildly with a man behind a food cart about whether mustard counts as a vegetable.
You look… small.
Not in stature. Just in the way someone looks when they’re trying very hard to seem fine.
Bucky parks sharply at the curb and steps out. The night air hits him cool and sharp. The city noise presses in — laughter spilling from bar doors, the hiss of the food cart grill, bass thudding faintly through brick walls.
He scans automatically. No visible threat, no one crowding you. Just you. He approaches slower.
“You texted me?” he asks.
You look up and squint as if were the middle of the day and not half past one in the morning. Your eyes travel from his boots to his shoulders to his face.
“You’re not a serial killer, right?” you ask, entirely serious.
He blinks. “No.”
You consider him for another beat.
“Okay, good.” You try to stand. It does not go smoothly. Your foot catches the edge of the curb and you pitch forward slightly.
His hands are on your arms before you hit the ground. Gloved yet warm. Steady and solid.
You freeze for a second, looking up at him from far too close. He smells like clean soap and something faintly metallic. His grip is firm but not bruising.
“You needed help because you’re drunk?” he asks, voice flat but not unkind.
“I needed help,” you correct, wobbling slightly. “Because I don't know how New York works. And I also may be a little drunk.”
He exhales slowly.
“Why didn’t you take the subway?”
You blink at him. “…There’s a subway here?”
He just stares at you, something in his expression shifts and his irritation drains. Not completely but enough for a soft breath to leave his lips as he stands back to look at you.
“How long you been here?” he asks.
"What time is it?"
He glances at his watch. "Quarter 'til two."
“Like twenty hours,” you reply honestly.
That adds up, he thinks to himself and nods once.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “C’mon.”
He keeps one hand lightly at your elbow as he guides you toward the truck. You talk the whole way over-explaining where you live.
“Okay so it’s near a brick building over by a big brown bridge—which I know doesn’t help because they’re all brick—but there’s like… a plant in the window? I think? And the stairs creak.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
He already knows the building, he’s driven past it a hundred times just like he has every building in Brooklyn. He opens the passenger door for you and waits until you’re seated and steady before closing it gently. Inside the truck, the world feels smaller, quieter. You lean your head back against the seat with a relieved sigh.
“Thank you for being real,” you mumble.
He starts the engine. “You text random numbers often?”
“Only the ones that clarify they aren’t serial killers.”
A pause. Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a quiet laugh.
It’s brief. Quiet and low, but real. And you smile at the sound without realizing it. As the truck pulls away from the curb, Bucky glances at you from the corner of his eye to see you’re watching the city pass by, like it’s something you’re still deciding whether to trust.
He understands that feeling more than he’d like to. And for the first time in days, the empty space in his chest feels… lightly occupied.
He parks in front of your building with the kind of precision that suggests he’s memorized the street long before tonight. The engine rumbles low beneath you for a moment before he turns the key and everything settles into quiet. The sudden absence of vibration makes the world feel oddly still, like stepping off a moving walkway and having to find your balance again.
You peer out the window.
“Oh,” you breathe, surprised. “This is it.”
“I know,” he replies simply.
Of course he does.
He’s already out of the truck before you’ve fully processed that, boots hitting pavement with a solid thud. When he opens your door, the night air curls cool around your flushed skin, carrying the faint scent of rain drying on concrete.
You slide down from the seat carefully this time. He keeps a hand hovering at your elbow—not gripping, just there. Just in case.
The building looms a little taller than it had earlier in the day. Dark windows. Narrow staircase just inside the glass door. The porch light flickers faintly like it’s unsure of its commitment to illumination. You hesitate on the sidewalk. It’s not the alcohol now. It’s the strange awareness that this is the end of something. A brief pocket of safety in a night that could have gone differently.
He notices.
He always notices.
“Up you go,” he says quietly, nodding toward the door.
You move together toward it, footsteps uneven on your part, measured on his. The city continues behind you—cars passing, someone shouting down the block, a siren wailing faint and far—but here on the stoop it feels contained. Close.
You fumble slightly with your keys as your fingers don’t want to cooperate.
He waits.
Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t rush you. Just stands behind and to the side, broad shoulders blocking some of the street’s draft, presence steady and grounded like a wall you can lean against if you needed to.
The key finally slides into the lock.
You pause before turning it.
He’s close enough now that you can feel the residual warmth coming off him, the faint scent of clean cotton and motor oil and night air. You glance over your shoulder. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s something softer at the edges. The crease between his brows less pronounced than earlier, the sharp lines of his jaw less guarded.
“You can call again,” he says, stiff but sincere. “If you need something real.”
Not judgmental. Not mocking.
Just… open.
And you smile. Not the bright, tipsy grin from earlier. Not the exaggerated one you’d been wearing in the bar to prove you were fine. This one is quieter and softer. It reaches your eyes.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
His name leaves your mouth gently, like it belongs there.
Something in his chest shifts. He hasn’t heard it like that in a long time. Not as an order. Not barked across a battlefield. Not attached to expectation or obligation.
Just his name. Warm. Human.
He clears his throat lightly.
“Welcome to Brooklyn,” he adds, almost gruff again as if to steady himself. “It’s loud. And it smells weird in the summer. But it’s… alright.”
You laugh softly.
“I’ll brace myself.”
He nods once, gaze drifting up to the building behind you.
“Hope the city treats you well.”
There’s more under that than the words carry. A quiet wish. A hope that it doesn’t chew you up the way it can. That it gives you something instead of taking.
You hold his gaze a second longer than necessary.
“Maybe it already has,” you say before you can overthink it.
His mouth opens slightly, like he might respond to that. Instead, you turn the key. The lock clicks open and you push the door inward and step across the threshold, turning back just before it closes fully.
He’s still there. Hands in his jacket pockets now. Shoulders squared against the night air. Watching to make sure you’re inside. Safe.
You lift your hand in a small wave. “Goodnight, not-a-serial-killer.”
A faint huff of breath escapes him, almost a laugh.
“Goodnight,” he replies.
The door shuts.
The sound of the lock sliding into place echoes softly through the stairwell. He waits, hums while he counts to five.
Listens for movement inside—footsteps climbing stairs, a door opening above. When he hears the faint creak of wood and the muffled thud of something being set down, only then does he step back.
Only then does he turn toward his truck.
The city hasn’t changed in the last five minutes. Still buzzing. Still alive. But something in him feels… different. Lighter, maybe.
Or at least less empty.
He slides into the driver’s seat and rests his hands on the steering wheel without starting the engine yet. You called, out of all the numbers in the world, you called him. Not because he was assigned, not because he was ordered, but because you needed help. And he showed up. The thought settles deep, warm and unfamiliar.
Upstairs, you lean back against your closed apartment door and exhale slowly. Your heart isn’t racing anymore. Your head still spins faintly, but beneath that is something steadier.
Safer.
You push off the door and wander toward your mattress, kicking off your shoes halfway there. The apartment doesn’t feel quite as cavernous now, the corners less shadowed, the silence less sharp.
You fish your phone out of your purse and glance at it.
2% battery.
You type quickly before it dies.
Made it upstairs.
Thanks again.
You hit send.
Across the street, Bucky’s phone buzzes just as he turns the key in the ignition.
He looks at the screen, the corners of his mouth just barely ticking upwards, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a long moment.
Then he types back.
Good.
Get some sleep.
He hesitates before typing out another message.
City’s easier in the morning.
He sends it before he can reconsider. Upstairs, your phone dies before you see it.
But somehow, curled up on your mattress with the window cracked just enough to let Brooklyn’s nighttime hum drift in, you sleep a little easier anyway. And downstairs, parked at the curb a moment longer than necessary, Bucky sits in the quiet of his truck and realizes that for the first time since he put those flyers up with his number—
He hopes it rings again.
The buzz of his phone comes just as Bucky’s settling into the quiet.
He’s halfway through reassembling the carburetor of a bike he doesn’t even own, just something he found on the curb and decided to fix because his hands need purpose the way lungs need air, when the vibration skitters across his kitchen counter.
He stares at it. Unknown number, again.
His jaw tightens automatically. Old habits.
It buzzes again. He wipes his hands on a rag before picking it up, thumb hovering like he’s about to disarm something instead of open a message.
Hi. It's me again. But it’s not a drunk emergency.
I can’t open my window and I think I’m suffocating.
He blinks.
Then another message.
I’m not actually suffocating. Probably.
But it’s very dramatic in here.
He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not.
He types back with one thumb.
Be there in five.
A heart appears immediately.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The building looks different in daylight. Less romantic, with more peeling paint and crooked mailboxes.
He takes the stairs two at a time anyway. You door is already open when he reaches the third floor.
You're standing there like you've been pacing, hair pulled into a messy twist that’s given up in several places, socks on, oversized sweatshirt swallowing your frame. No makeup this time, no glittering party lights reflected in your eyes.
Just… you.
Sober. And clearly mortified.
“Oh my god, hi,” you blurt, words tripping over each other as soon as you see him. “I promise I’m not dying. I just—okay so I tried to open the window and it wouldn’t budge and then I panicked and convinced myself the oxygen was running out and—”
“You know that’s not how air works, right?” he says flatly.
Your mouth snaps shut. “…I did. In theory.”
He steps inside without another word, brushing past your shoulder. You smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy. The apartment is small and bare, boxes still stacked like uneven towers along the walls.
The window in question is in the living room. Old frame. Painted shut.
He walks over, studies it for three seconds.
“You tried pulling?”
“Yes.”
“Pushing?”
“Yes.”
He grips the bottom sash, metal fingers bracing, flesh hand curling over the wood. A small twist of pressure. A sharp upward shove.
The paint seal cracks with a soft pop and the window slides up. Cool Brooklyn air spills in within thirty seconds. He steps back.
You just stare at it, then at him. “…I hate you a little.”
“Join the club.”
You press a hand over your face, laughing despite yourself. “I swear I’m not helpless.”
“Never said you were.”
“You definitely implied it.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I implied you’ve never met a window before.”
Your eyes narrow, but there’s laughter dancing behind them. “You’re so mean.”
“I’m efficient.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Sometimes it is.”
You huff, crossing your arms—but you're smiling. Bright and unfiltered, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight hitting bare skin.
It’s… a lot. He’s not used to a lot.
He clears his throat. “You’re not suffocating.”
“Thank you, Doctor Barnes.”
“Don’t call me that.”
You grin. “Mechanic Barnes?”
“No.”
“Freedom Flyer Guy?”
He gives you a look and you laughs again, softer this time. “Sorry.”
A pause settles between you. Not heavy. Just… there.
You shift your weight. “So. I owe you.”
“You don’t.”
“I absolutely do. You just saved my life.”
“You were never in danger.”
“You don’t know that. What if I had spiraled? What if I started hyperventilating? What if I fainted and hit my head and then actually suffocated because the window was closed?”
He just stares at you. “…That’s not how any of that works.”
You point at him triumphantly. “See? You care.”
“I care about physics.”
You beam like he just confessed undying devotion, your eyes twinkling as they bore into his. He looks away first.
“I’m not charging you,” he says.
“I’m not letting you leave without compensation.”
His brows draw together. “Compensation.”
“Yes.”
“I fixed a stuck window.”
“You provided emergency ventilation services.”
“You’re impossible.”
You step closer, hands on hips now, chin tipped up in stubborn determination. “I’m ordering takeout.”
“That’s not payment.”
“It is if you stay and eat it.”
His instinct is to refuse.
He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t sit.
He doesn’t… stay.
But the apartment is quiet except for you and the faint rush of air through the open window. The city noise floats in—distant traffic, someone laughing on the sidewalk, a dog barking.
You look at him like you expect him to bolt. Like you're used to people bolting.
He exhales slowly.
“Fine,” he says. “But nothing fancy.”
Your face lights up like he just handed you the moon. “Yes!”
He winces slightly at the volume.
“Sorry!” you whisper immediately, clapping a hand over your mouth. “I get excited.”
“I can tell.”
You grabs your phone, already scrolling. “Okay, what do you like?”
“Food.”
You snort. “Wow. Insightful.”
“Anything.”
“Any allergies?”
“No.”
“Any strong opinions about noodles?”
He blinks at you.
You gasp, soft yet dramtic. “You don’t have strong noodle opinions?”
“I was alive before noodles were complicated.”
“I don't know if that's a joke or not but that’s deeply concerning.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
You settle on something Thai. Spicy. “It’ll be here in thirty.”
He nods once.
Then you both look at the apartment. No couch yet, no chairs. Just boxes and hardwood floors.
You drop down cross-legged without hesitation. “Floor picnic?”
He hesitates a fraction of a second before lowering himself across from you, back resting against a stack of sealed boxes labeled BOOKS in loopy handwriting.
For a moment, you just sit there.
It’s quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind, just… new. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “So. You fix windows often?”
“Second one this week.” he deadpans.
“Wow. You’re basically a specialist.”
“I’ll update the flyer.”
Your laugh bursts out of you before she can stop it, bright and easy. “Please do. ‘Professional Window Hero.’”
“Hero’s a stretch.”
“You got here in, like, five minutes.”
“You were two blocks away.”
You blink, lips parting in light suprise. “You live that close?”
He nods and your smile softens. “That’s… nice.”
“Why.”
“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Feels less scary knowing someone I’ve technically met before is nearby.”
He shifts slightly. “You shouldn’t rely on strangers.”
You tilt your head. “Are we strangers?”
The question hangs there. He studies you face, watching the open curiosity, no edge, no ulterior motive.
“Mostly,” he answers.
You nod slowly, accepting it without flinching. “Okay. Mostly strangers who eat Thai food on the floor.”
“Accurate.”
You lean back on your palms, looking around the half-empty room. “I know it doesn’t look like much yet.”
“It’s fine.”
“I moved here four days ago and everything still feels… unreal.” Your voice softens at the edges. “Like I’m house-sitting someone else’s life.”
He doesn’t interrupt. You glance at him, gauging if he’s listening.
He is.
“I was just…so tired,” you say, quieter now. “Of dreaming about things that only existed when I was asleep.”
He frowns faintly. “Like what?”
“Everything.” You laugh, but it’s not as bright this time. “The job I wanted. The city I wanted. The version of me that wasn’t waiting around for something to happen.”
The breeze moves through the room again, stirring the edges of unpacked papers.
“So I stopped waiting,” you continue. “Packed up my car. Drove here. Signed a lease I could barely afford. Figured if I was going to be scared anyway, I might as well be scared somewhere interesting.”
He studies you gently.
“You moved without knowing anyone.”
“Yep.”
“That’s reckless.”
You grin. “You know some people would call that brave.”
“Debatable.”
“See?” you say, pointing at him. “This is what I mean. You see the worst-case scenario. I see the possibility.”
“I see reality.”
“I see potential.”
“You see suffocating from a closed window.”
You laugh again, bright again and unashamed. “Okay, that one was dramatic.”
“A little.”
“But you still came.”
He looks down at his hands, the metal rubs againt the glove as the leather glints under the overhead light.
“You asked me too,” he says simply.
You watch him for a second too long, stirring something warm and heavy that starts to press at his ribs when the knock at the door saves him.
You scramble up, nearly tripping over a box in your haste. “Food!”
He hears your cheerful thank you through the doorway, the rustle of paper bags, and the quick shuffle back. You set everything between you two like it’s treasure and the smell fills the apartment. You eat straight from the containers, knees occasionally bumping.
It shouldn’t feel like this.
Easy.
But it does.
Bucky watches you, the way that you talkswith your hands, animated, telling him about the tiny coffee shop you found that morning. About the subway map that “looks like abstract art.” About how you got lost for forty minutes and ended up discovering a park you now claims as yours.
“You got lost on purpose,” he says.
“I absolutely did not.”
“You just said you walked in circles.”
“That’s exploring.”
“That’s inefficient.” he grumbles.
You grin around a bite of noodles. “I bet you would’ve hated it.”
“I would’ve brought a map.”
“I had one!”
His face falls. “And you still got lost.”
You points at him with your sauce stained chopsticks. “You’re missing the point.”
“Enlighten me.”
“The point is I was somewhere new. Alone. And it didn’t feel lonely.”
He pauses mid-bite. You don’t seem to realize what you've said until a second later. Your eyes flick to him, softer now.
“Not entirely,” you amend gently.
The air shifts and he swallows the rest of his bite.
“You won’t always feel new here,” he says.
“I know.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I hope not completely.” You smile faintly. “I don’t want it to stop feeling like possibility.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that, he’s still figuring out what possibility even looks like. You finish eating slower than necessary, even when you're done neither of you rush to stand.
Eventually, you gather the empty containers, stacking them neatly.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“For what?”
“For showing up. Even when it’s just… windows.”
He nods once. “You can call again.”
The words come out stiffer than he means them to.
“If you… still need something real,” he adds.
Your smile this time is different. Softer, bright but less blinding, more intentional.
“Okay,” you say. “I will.”
He stands, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans and you walk him to the door. The hallway light flickers overhead as you unlock it fully, stepping into the frame like you're guarding it.
He lingers on the threshold.
“I think you'll fit in just fine here,” he says, the words awkward but sincere. “It’s loud. And expensive.”
You laugh softly.
“And,” he adds, after a beat, “it’s not the worst place to start over.”
Something in your expression shifts.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
It lands somewhere deep in his chest just as last time. Warmer than he expects. He nods once, because he doesn’t trust his voice.
“Goodnight,” you say.
“Lock the door,” he replies automatically.
You roll your eyes but smile. “Yes, sir.”
He turns and heads down the stairs. Halfway to the landing, he hears the soft click of your lock sliding into place, and the ghost of a smile curves across his lips.
Only then does he keep walking.
The third time you text him, you stare at the screen for a full minute before hitting send.
Hi.
Hypothetically—
If someone bought shelves and then realized drywall is apparently not just… wall… what would that someone do?
Three dots appear almost immediately.
That someone would wait.
You grin.
For?
Me.
He shows up with a drill slung over his shoulder like it belongs there.
You open the door before he knocks this time, already smiling. “Hi.”
He pauses just slightly at the sight of you barefoot in paint-splattered shorts and one of those oversized band tees you sleep in. Your hair’s half-clipped up, pencil tucked behind your ear like you’ve been architecting something serious instead of arguing with brackets.
“You didn’t start without me,” he says.
“I considered it.”
“It's good you didn't. You would’ve hit a pipe.”
“I resent that.”
“You should.”
You step aside to let him in, eucalyptus and mint no longer the dominant scent of your place—now it smells like sawdust and fresh coffee and something citrusy you insist on spraying in the mornings because it “feels productive.”
He surveys the wall you’ve chosen. “What’re these for?”
“Plants, books, maybe a tiny ceramic frog. I don’t know yet. It’s about potential.”
He huffs. “Everything’s about potential with you.”
“And everything’s about worst-case scenarios with you.”
“It keeps you from flooding your apartment.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
He levels you with a look.
You grin.
He gets to work, movements efficient, measured. Flesh fingers steady, metal ones precise throught the stretch of their leather glove. The hum of the drill fills the apartment, and you sit cross-legged on the floor watching like it’s a live performance.
“You know,” you say over the noise, “most people would charge for this.”
“I’m aware.”
“You don’t?” You ask curiously.
“You fed me.”
“That was one time.”
He glances at you. “You planning to stop?”
You blink. “…No.”
“Then we’re square.”
The shelves are up in under twenty minutes. You clap softly when he finishes, which earns you a flat look from Bucky.
“What?” You mutter.
“It’s a shelf.”
“It’s a level shelf!”
He exhales through his nose, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You don’t mention it. You just notice.
The dresser comes next.
You absolutely could’ve waited for building management to help. Or ordered professional movers.
But instead:
I have made a mistake.
The dresser is winning.
He’s there in seven minutes. You open the door breathless, like you’ve been wrestling furniture for sport. “It’s heavier than it looked online.”
“They always are.”
He takes one look at the narrow hallway, the impossible angle to your bedroom door, and just nods once.
“Lift when I say,” he tells you.
“Yes, sir,” you reply brightly.
His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
You bite back a smile.
The two of you maneuver the dresser inch by inch. Your hands slip once and he steadies it without thinking, metal arm braced, body angled to shield yours from the corner.
“Careful,” he mutters.
“You’re the one who said lift.”
“You’re the one who didn’t bend your knees.”
“You sound like a gym teacher.”
“You’d have hated school with me.”
You laugh, breathless, as the dresser finally slides into place against your bedroom wall before you collapse onto the floor dramatically.
“We did it,” you declare.
“I did it.”
“You emotionally supported.”
“I told you what to do.”
“Exactly.”
He shakes his head, but he doesn’t leave. Not right away.
“Okay,” you say one afternoon, holding up the subway map like it’s an ancient scroll. “Explain this.”
He stares at it. Then at you. “It’s color-coded.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It literally does.”
You’re standing at the entrance of the station, the late afternoon rush building around you. The air smells like hot concrete and something metallic.
“I get on the blue one,” you say slowly, “unless it’s express? Or local? And then it skips my stop? Why does it skip my stop.”
“Because it’s express.”
“Why would I want that?” You ask.
“So you get somewhere faster.”
“But not where I need to go.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose.
You beam at him behind the map. He steps closer, crowd pressing in around you. His shoulder leans into yours as he points at the map. “You take the local during rush hour if you’re only going a few stops. Express if you’re crossing boroughs.”
You squint. “And how do I know which is which?”
He gestures to the small black circles versus the white ones.
Your head tilts. “Oh.”
“You didn’t see that.”
“No.”
He sighs, but it’s softer than it used to be. “Stay to the right on the stairs. Don’t stand in the doorway, and if the train’s packed, wait for the next one.”
“I don’t mind packed.”
“You will.”
You grin up at him. “You’re very protective over public transit etiquette.”
“I’m protective over not getting shoved.”
The train roars into the station. You hesitate for half a second before stepping forward, his hand finds your elbow without thinking, guiding.
“Move with the crowd,” he says quietly near your ear. “Don’t fight it.”
You nod. Inside, it’s warm and loud and close.
You look up at him, eyes bright. “This is kind of fun.”
“It’s not.”
“It is if you decide it is.”
He shakes his head, but he doesn’t let go of your elbow until your stop arrives. After that, he walks you through shortcuts like he’s revealing state secrets.
“Cut through here if it’s raining.”
“Take the side exit after ten p.m.”
“Don’t get on the empty car.”
“Why?” You ask.
“Just don’t.”
You salute dramatically. “Yes, subway sargeant.”
“Don't call me that.”
You grin. You don’t stop.
You teach him photography in payment.
“Okay, your turn,” you tell him one evening, camera strap looped around your wrist.
He eyes it suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“My livelihood.”
“It looks old.”
“It’s film.”
He pauses. “They still make that?”
You gasp. “You wound me.”
You press the camera into his hands, guiding his fingers over the body. “Manual focus. No screen. You have to feel it.”
He studies it carefully, brow furrowed in concentration the way it does when he’s fixing something delicate.
“You adjust the aperture here,” you say, stepping closer. “Shutter speed there. It’s slower. Intentional.”
He glances at you. “Like you.”
You blink and find his eyes, his gaze like a soft sky blue with a dark edge that held the color in, looking at you like you were the eye of the storm. You look back. He looks away first.
You swallow your smile. “Exactly like me.”
You teach him how to look for light instead of just objects. How shadows tell stories. How grain makes things honest. He listens, really listens, so you start bringing the camera everywhere. To the bodega. To the park. To the subway platform at golden hour.
And somehow—he’s in half the frames. Leaning against brick walls. Looking out over the water. Brow creased at something you said.
He notices eventually.
“You take a lot of pictures,” he says one afternoon when you snap another shot of him sitting on the stoop outside your building.
“I’m a photographer.”
“Of me.”
You lower the camera slowly. “You’re in good light.”
He scoffs, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.
You don’t tell him that you’ve started a folder at work labeled The Brooklyn Study. That half of it is just him, that your boss called the shots “intimate” or that you flushed all the way to your ears and clutched the folder to your chest.
You keep that part to yourself. For now.
Over the next few weeks, the calls keep coming.
Is this radiator supposed to sound like it’s screaming?
He arrives to find you crouched in front of it like it’s a wild animal.
“It’s air in the pipes,” he says.
“It sounds haunted.”
“It’s not.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
You watch him bleed it carefully, steam hissing softly.
“You’re very calm around loud, angry noises,” you observe.
He doesn’t answer that.
Sometimes you call and you don’t actually need help.
I think the shelf is… slightly crooked.
It isn’t. He adjusts it anyway.
The hallway light flickers weird.
He tightens the bulb.
Sometimes you just say:
Are you busy?
And when he answers no, you say:
Good.
You sit on the floor again. Or on your fire escape. Or at the small kitchen table you finally bought.
You talk. About work. About how strange it is building a life from scratch. About how sometimes the quiet feels too loud. He pretends he doesn’t notice that those are the nights you text the latest. He pretends he doesn’t notice that you hover a second longer when he stands to leave.
He pretends a lot.
But he starts remembering. Your coffee order—oat milk, no sugar. The way you wrinkle your nose when something’s too spicy. The fact that you hum when you’re editing photos. He starts bringing tools without being asked. A level. Extra screws. A small toolkit he leaves under your sink “just in case.” He checks your building door after you close it.
Always.
You start saving him leftovers.
Tiny labeled containers in your fridge.
For Window Hero.
Emergency Noodles.
Do Not Skip Dinner.
He pretends he doesn’t see the notes but he eats every single one.
One afternoon you hand him a stack of redesigned flyers. His brows lift.
“They were tragic,” you say unapologetically. “No tear-off tabs, no clear services listed and a terrible font choice.”
He flips one over. It’s cleaner and more organized. Still blunt, but somehow warmer.
FREEDOM HELP.
Need something fixed, carried, explained?
Text. I show up.
Your number added beneath his in smaller print:
Subway translations available.
He looks at you slowly. “You added yourself.”
You nod. “I’m your marketing department.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“You needed one.”
A beat.
“…They’re better,” he admits.
You beam like you just won an award.
You start calling him before small problems become big ones. He starts answering before the second ring and soon the loneliness shifts. It doesn’t disappear, not all in one big fell swoop. It settles between you instead of sitting on your shoulders, in shared silence instead of empty rooms. One evening you sit beside him on the stoop, camera resting in your lap.
“You know,” you say softly, “I thought moving here would fix everything.”
He stares out at the streetlights flickering on. “Did it?”
“No.” You smile faintly. “But it gave me something to build with.”
He nods once. You bump your shoulder against his.
“Thanks for showing up,” you add quietly. He doesn’t look at you, but his shoulder presses back.
“Thanks for calling,” he says.
It starts small. So small to the point you hadn't even realized anything, until you did and now it's all you can think about. A brush of his shoulder lingering a second too long. The way your apartment feels less like a temporary landing pad and more like a home when his boots are by the door. The way silence doesn’t scrape at you when he’s sitting in it too.
You try not to think too hard about it at first.
You tell yourself it makes sense. He’s the only person you really know here. Of course you call him. Of course you look for him in a crowd on the subway platform without meaning to. Of course your camera finds him before it finds anything else.
It’s proximity. Convenience, familiarity even.
It’s not—
It’s not the way your stomach flips when he says your name like it’s something fragile he doesn’t want to drop. It’s not the way you start cooking too much on purpose. It’s not the way you check your phone at night hoping for a text that never comes because he doesn’t text first.
You sit with that realization longer than you’d like.
Because if it’s not just circumstance…
Then it’s choice, and you know what choosing feels like now. It feels like packing your life into boxes and driving toward something uncertain, it feels like standing in a city that doesn’t know you exist and deciding you belong anyway.
It feels terrifying.
The night you call him, nothing is broken. There's no screaming radiator, no crooked shelf, no stuck window. You’re standing in your kitchen staring at two bowls with steam curling up and realizing you only need one, your thumb hovering over his name for a long moment.
Then you press it. He answers on the second ring.
“What broke this time?”
You huff a soft laugh despite yourself. “Hi to you too.”
A pause. “…Hi.”
You swallow. “I don’t need anything fixed.”
Silence stretches across the line. You can almost picture his face—brows drawn together, jaw tight, waiting for the catch.
“…Then why am I coming over?”
The words slip out before you can overthink them. “Because I don’t want to eat dinner alone.”
You don’t try to make it lighter, you don’t fill the quiet with a joke. You just let it sit there. On the other end, you hear him breathe in slow and measured. You almost backtrack, almost say never mind, it’s stupid, forget it.
But then:
“I’ll be there in ten.”
The line clicks dead and you stand in the middle of your kitchen for a long moment, heart beating louder than it should.
When he knocks, you’re suddenly aware of everything. The new couch you finally unpacked and assembled, the lamp casting soft amber light across the room, the way your hair looks, the way you look.
You open the door.
He’s in a dark Henley tonight, paired with his usual leather jacket, hair slightly wind-tousled from the walk. There’s a crease between his brows that smooths when he sees you standing there, not panicked. Not flustered.
Just… waiting.
“You’re not bleeding,” he observes.
“Disappointing, I know.”
He steps inside anyway. The apartment smells like garlic and sesame oil. Like home, almost.
“I made too much,” you say, gesturing to the dishes in the sink behind you like evidence. “Again.”
“You always do.”
“I don’t.” You pout.
“You do.”
You shut the door behind him, softer than usual.
“I have a couch now,” you announce, like it’s a milestone.
He looks at it. “You assembled it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“…Is it going to give out under me.”
You narrow your eyes. “Sit down and find out.”
He does, carefully, like he expects it to collapse out of spite.
It doesn’t. You sit beside him with a ghost of a smirk, knees brushing for a second before you both subtly adjust. The rest of dinner rests on the coffee table. The TV stays off as the city hum drifts in through the cracked window he fixed weeks ago.
For a while, you just eat. Not rushed, not quiet in a strained way, just something simple and easy.
You steal a glance at him when he’s not looking. The soft concentration when he untangles chopsticks, the way his shoulders don’t seem as tight here. You realize something slowly, like stepping into water and not noticing how deep you’ve gone until it reaches your ribs.
You don’t just call him because he’s helpful, you don’t just want him around because he’s familiar. You want him here.
Specifically. His dry comments, his steady presence, the way he fills space without overwhelming it. You want more than borrowed time and fixed shelves. The realization settles in your chest, warm and terrifying.
You clear your throat gently. “Can I ask you something?”
He glances over. “You usually do.”
“Why did you put up the flyers?”
His jaw shifts and you watch the way he looks down at his hands, at the faint scuffs on metal and skin.
“I didn’t know what to do with my time,” he says finally.
You wait but he doesn’t elaborate. “That’s it?” you ask softly.
His mouth tightens, like you’ve stepped near something he doesn’t show people.
“I spent a long time not choosing anything,” he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now. Less deadpan. “Where I went. What I did. Who I was.”
The words land heavy between you, thickening in the air, you don’t interrupt.
“I was… useful,” he continues. “Just not in a way that was mine.”
Your chest tightens.
“When that stopped,” he adds, “there was just time. And I didn’t know what to do with it.”
The room feels smaller, the air growing warmer.
“So you made yourself available,” you murmur.
He nods once. “That’s it.”
You study him carefully, the rigid line of his spine, the way he holds himself like he’s bracing for impact even now.
“You’re not bored,” you say gently as his eyes flick to yours.
“You’re just not used to choosing.”
The words hang there and something shifts in his expression. Something almost… soft. Not dramatic, not loud. But it hits, hard. You see it in the way his throat works when he swallows, in the way his gaze drops, then lifts again slower this time.
He looks… startled, like you handed him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.
“I didn’t want a job,” he says, almost to himself.
You stay very still.
“I wanted…” He exhales through his nose. “Purpose.”
The word settles between you like a fragile thing.
“You have that,” you say quietly.
He shakes his head faintly. “Fixing windows isn’t purpose.”
“No,” you agree softly. “But showing up is.”
His eyes meet yours again, steady and searching for something. You wonder if he sees it in you.
“You wanted someone to need you,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper.
The truth is there, plain and unadorned. He doesn’t deny it. And you realize something else at the same time, something that makes your pulse stumble.
You do need him. But not because you can’t lift a dresser, not because the subway map confuses you, not because you don’t know anyone else. You need him in the way you need someone to witness your life as it unfolds. To sit beside you while it’s messy and unfinished and becoming.
“Well I need you,” you add softly. "Not… just to fix a shelf or move a heavy dresser."
His shoulders loosen a fraction and you feel your heart let out a beat that you didn't know could make. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither of you. Maybe it’s just gravity curling around you both and pressing in on you, but when your knee presses fully against his this time, and neither of you pulls away.
The city hums outside, your couch holds steady beneath you. There's a beat that passes between you two, and when your eyes find his he looks at you like he’s seeing you differently now. Not as a problem to solve, not as a task to complete. But as a choice, and you realize, heart thudding slow and certain—
You want him to choose you, not because you’re the only person here, not because you called first. But because he wants to sit on this couch, eat these noodles, share this quiet.
And because he wants to do it wth you.
He exhales slowly.
“I don’t mind,” he says, voice rougher than usual, “not eating alone.”
Your chest warms. “Good,” you whisper.
The quiet after your words doesn’t feel fragile anymore.
It feels aware. He’s still looking at you differently—like the ground shifted half an inch and he’s recalibrating his balance. The takeout cartons sit forgotten on the coffee table, noodles going cold. Your gaze drifts, hesitant at first. To his hands. You’ve seen it, of course. Noticed it the first night he fixed your window. The glint of metal under warm apartment light when his jacket would slip past gloved wrist he seamless line where steel warms.
But you never asked. It felt like staring, like something earned, not taken.
You swallow softly. “Can I ask you something else?”
One brow lifts faintly. “You’re on a roll tonight.”
Your eyes flick down again, then back up to his face. “Your arm.”
He goes very still. You feel it instantly—that subtle tightening, the way his spine straightens like he’s bracing for something sharp.
“I’ve noticed it,” you add quickly, gentle. “Obviously. But I didn’t want to… I don’t know. Make it a thing.”
His jaw shifts once.
“It is a thing,” he says evenly.
“I know.” You tilt your head slightly. “But it’s yours.”
That makes something in his expression soften. Barely. You shift on the couch so you’re angled toward him more fully. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.”
He studies your face carefully, like he’s searching for pity. You don’t give him any, just curiosity, quiet and steady. After a long moment, he flexes his metal fingers once. The faint whir of internal mechanics hums low in the room.
“Lost… the original,” he says, voice stripped down. No performance. No deflection. “A… long time ago.”
You nod once, not pressing.
“It was replaced,” he continues. “Not exactly by choice.”
There’s weight there. History and shadows you don’t ask him to drag into the light tonight, you don’t need details to understand it wasn’t simple.
“It works better than the first one,” he adds, almost wry. “Stronger.”
“I’ve noticed,” you murmur, thinking about the dresser. The effortless way he steadies things. The careful control he uses so he doesn’t break them.
He glances at you. “Doesn’t always feel like mine.”
The honesty in that lands softly against your ribs, you hesitate, then softly murmur. “Can I see it?”
The question hangs between you. He searches your face again, slower this time.
“Yeah,” he says finally.
He turns slightly on the couch, resting his forearm along his thigh. The metal catches the lamplight—dark grey and golden seams, subtle scratches from use. Not polished or pure ornamental but real. You lean closer without thinking, breath slowing. Up close, it’s intricate, not just plating but delicate etchings along the fingers, tiny grooves and segments that shift when he flexes.
“It’s…” You shake your head faintly, almost in awe. “It’s kind of beautiful.”
He huffs softly. “That’s a new one.”
“I mean it.”
You lift your hand slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. Your fingers hover for half a second before brushing lightly over the plating of his knuckles. Cool and solid, smooth in some places, faintly textured in others. You trace the seam where metal curves into the back of his hand, mesmerized by the craftsmanship of it, by the contrast of it against the warmth radiating from the rest of him.
He watches you instead of your hand. Your touch is careful, not clinical, just… curious.
“It doesn’t scare you?” he asks quietly.
You glance up, still brushing your fingertips lightly over the steel.
“No,” you say simply.
He studies you like he’s trying to understand how that’s possible.
“It’s part of you,” you add. “Why would that scare me?”
Something shifts in his breathing. Your thumb grazes the edge of his knuckles again, softer this time. Not examining, just feeling as he flexes his fingers once under your touch, almost experimentally.
You smile faintly. “Does… can you feel that?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Everything?”
“Mostly.”
You nod slowly, still tracing the lines like you’re memorizing them, you don’t flinch, you don’t hesitate. You just let your hand rest there a moment longer than necessary. When you finally look back up at him, you realize how close you’ve gotten.
Your knees are pressed fully against his now, your hand still resting over metal and seam and strength. There’s no fear in his eyes, just something open, something quietly undone.
“You don’t have to be useful all the time,” you murmur.
His throat moves when he swallows.
“I know,” he says.
But the way he says it sounds like he’s still learning how to believe it, your fingers slide gently from his knuckles to his wrist, resting there feeling the vibrational hum where a pulse used to sit.
The air between you feels warmer now, denser, like fog settling in over rolling hills. The radiator ticks softly in the corner, no longer screaming—just settling into itself. The lamp beside the couch casts everything in gold, softening edges that usually feel sharper in daylight.
You’re still sitting close. Close enough that the heat of him bleeds through denim and cotton, close enough that you can feel the faint shift of his breathing when you inhale.
“I like coming here,” he adds after a moment.
It sounds almost reluctant. Like admitting it costs him something, but he says it anyway. It makes a small smile pull at your mouth.
“I know that too.”
The words land gently between you, the kind of truth that doesn’t need to be dressed up. You shift on the couch, turning toward him fully now. Your knees slide against his thigh, your shoulder brushes his arm.
You shift closer without standing, without moving anywhere but forward.
“You’re the first person I called when I didn’t know what to do,” you say quietly.
You hadn’t meant to say that tonight, it just feels like the right place to put it. His jaw tightens, then loosens as he swallows.
“You’re the first person who’s called me because they just…” He exhales slowly, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up again. “Wanted me there.”
The air shifts. Not into anything heavy or suffocating but charged, like the moment right before a thunder cloud in a summer storm breaks but, softer. You can hear your own heartbeat now. It doesn’t feel frantic, it feels certain.
He moves first. Slowly, so slowly you could stop him if you wanted to. His hand lifts, hovering near your waist. Not touching yet, just lingering there giving you time.
You don’t shift back, you don’t flinch. Instead, you lean the smallest fraction closer in silent permission. His fingers settle at your side, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your shirt, you can see the hesitant question in his eyes.
You answer it by closing the distance. The first brush of his mouth against yours is careful. Testing, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard, but you don’t. You tilt your head slightly, lips parting just enough to deepen it. It’s not dramatic, there are no fireworks, no sweeping orchestration.
Just warmth. His hand shifts at your waist, thumb pressing gently like he’s confirming you’re real. Your fingers slide up to his shoulder, curling into fabric. He kisses you like he’s learning something new, like he’s memorizing it. Soft, unhurried and a little uncertain but real, very real. You can feel the exhale he lets out against your mouth, the way tension leaves him in slow increments. When you pull back, it’s only an inch.
Foreheads nearly touching, his breath mingles with yours and it's like the seconds slowed around you, the whole world dipped into this sedated ease.
You’ve been kissed before. In doorways, in cars, in moments that burned bright and faded just as fast. This isn’t that. This feels like sitting on your couch with noodles growing cold, like subway maps and crooked shelves, like someone showing up every time you asked.
Like belonging. His thumb brushes lightly against your side again, almost absentminded.
“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your face one last time.
You smile, softer than usual.
“I didn’t call you because I was lonely,” you whisper.
His brows knit faintly.
“I called because I wanted you.”
Something in him settles at that, deep in his chest and curling through his ribs. He leans in again, and this time the kiss is less hesitant, still gentle but more sure. Fuller as you let out of a soft breath against him. Your hand slides up into his hair. His metal fingers flex slightly at your waist, cool through cotton but steady, controlled.
Then you feel it, something blooming behind your heart, not sparks or chaos. Just the steady warmth of something choosing you back. Outside, a car passes, someone laughs down the block. Inside, on your newly unpacked couch, with half-eaten takeout and lamplight glowing gold, you kiss him like this was always where you were headed.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦
✦summary: Affection and relationships are the ruin of many a good woman. You're very careful, not to fall into that trap. Unfortunatly, Bucky might be the only one who can make you... stumble a bit.✦
✦warnings/tags: thunderbolts!bucky, no use of y/n, soft and yearning Bucky, no description of reader, fluff, light angst, love confessions, thunderbolts stay silly, smut (fingering, dirty talk, praise kink)✦
✦wc: 8.9k✦
✦Author's Note: I love silly romcom tropes like they're so important to me. Enjoy✦
You love Bucky Barnes, and it is none of his goddamn business.
It’s not a small kind of love. It’s the love that lives in your eyes, searching every room to see if he’s there. Your hands that can’t help but linger when you’re allowed to touch him, every brush of his skin electric against yours.
It’s in the steam of the shower and your bedsheets, who know every fantasy you’ve made up in your head. All the ones where you’re allowed to be with him, and it makes sense, and your whole life doesn’t blow up horribly because your heart beats simply too fast at only the sound of his name.
“Do the tie again.” You tell him, standing in the doorway of his dressing room. Your palms are already sweaty. You blushed at the sight of him.
You need to get it together.
There are all kinds of these events. Valentina drags the team around to parade like her own person diamonds, and you make sure the diamonds don’t stab or shoot anyone while being paraded.
You’ve already confiscated three guns, two knifes, and John’s shield—which you told him not to bring five fucking times—and you haven’t even seen Yelena or Bob yet.
Bucky, of course, is making your life stupidly easy. He’s smuggled no weapons—although you look at his arms, and his chest, and he’s the weapon, and that shouldn’t make you feel so fuzzy—and he’d been waiting obediently for you to come in, hands on his hips and a small smile on his face.
“You look nice.” He offers, and you laugh.
“The handler at the zoo does need to look presentable for the show.”
Bucky’s lips twitch a little higher, and you point your pen at his neck.
“Tie.”
He grunts, and gets to work in a second. The tie was fine. He’s just too perfect, and you needed to find something wrong for your sanity.
“Are you just hovering?” He asks, watching you carefully, and you shrug.
“I’m wherever the night needs me to be.”
“Hm.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he turns back to the mirror. “None of us like these things, you know.”
“I don’t like them either-“
“And sometimes.” He drawls. “They make us feel like meat-“
“Bucky.” You say firmly, and he meets your gaze in the mirror.
Drawls your name, an amused smirk on his face.
Your heart does a stupid little fumble, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Hard, to stop yourself from drooling.
The only person who must know about your… situation is Valentina. You don’t know how she knows. What she thinks of it. But she must be punishing you for being such a fool by making Bucky look like that.
Edible. The suit is too tight on his arms, perfectly fit on his torso, his hair long and soft and his eyes glimmering with teasing light, and you feel a little dizzy-
Bucky says your name, sounding a little more concerned this time.
You pinch your wrist behind your back—fucking get it together—and stand a little taller.
“I’ve talked to her.” You say lightly, glancing over your shoulder to check no one’s in the hall. “I can’t try again too soon, she’ll get angry.”
Bucky grunts. “Let her be angry-“
“No. Not-“ You take a steadying breath. “Angry, angry. Like If you can’t get them in line, I can start looking for someone who will.”
You echo Valentina’s words, a thin chill running up your spine. Bucky’s gone still, his hands hovering at his tie, and you wonder if he cares.
If the threat means nothing to him where it means the whole universe to you.
You need this job. You’ve worked for it, you survived brutal application process, the training period where the New Avengers were treating you like a rotten au pair they wanted to drive out of the house, the public scrutiny and surprising amount of foul press about your body, your hair, your personality and relationships.
Valentina threatens to fire you every month. You think it’s her way of saying she likes you.
But you’d gotten close to the team. They tell you their problems like you’re going to wave a magic wand and fix them, and you haven’t helped yourself by actually doing that.
From their point of view, they go to you and complain about something trivial. Alexei wants more missions in snowy areas, they remind him of Great Mother Russia. John needs everyone to stop calling his hat stupid. Ava thinks the tea in the kitchen tastes like ass, and would like it corrected, please.
Usually, you have to tell them to say please. The only ones who always say please are Bob and Bucky, and they barely ask for anything anyway.
But if you get that please, you wave a magic wand.
You research until you uncover a drug cartel in northmost Alaska for Alexei. You make threats and ambush column writers on the street for John, even run a fucking propaganda campaign to make his dumb beret come back in style. You rewrite a whole contract with the tea company for Ava, and barely get a thank you in return.
But you’re not magic. And even if you were, there’s one wish your magic wand can’t grant.
Changing Valentina’s mind.
Bucky had asked you to talk to her about the events. He asked because they send him for the big request, like he’s their fucking dad or something.
And you tried. You did.
Valentina said no. And her threat wasn’t a playful, look at how amazing I am for hiring you joke. It was real.
She won’t bend on it. And now you look at Bucky hopelessly, begging him to understand.
“I can try again in a few months.” You mumble, shifting on your feet. “But- Not now.”
“No, it’s fine. They’ll survive, but-“ Bucky frowns, turning around from the mirror. “Are you okay?”
You blink at him, a lump building in your throat. Something is stinging behind your eyes, your head spinning, and you nod weakly.
Bucky says your name, taking a step forward.
You take a step back.
You are not a damsel or foolish civilian girl for him to comfort. You are a grown woman, who can handle being in trouble with her boss alone. Bucky’s reaching out like he’s going to try and catch you, his eyes so strangely soft, and your stomach does a flip.
You don’t need his pity.
You don’t need him.
“I’m fine, James.” You snip, and Bucky’s hand freezes. “Fix your tie.”
“I- Uh-“ He glances down. “Already did?”
You shrug, raising your chin. “Then fix it again.”
You turn on your heels before he can say anything else, and march out of the dressing room.
It’s one of the rules you have for yourself. You’re not supposed to be alone with him. Not for more than ten minutes. Your hands get all sweaty, and he sees right through you, and it jeopardizes everything.
You can’t be in love with Bucky. You are, but you can’t be.
It puts your job at risk, and your job is your life. It’s getting you out of college debt, it gives you health insurance, it paid for your parent’s house and your sibling’s college, and soon it’s going to pay for you to have a home, which is almost unheard of in your generation.
Loving Bucky is a distraction. A pipe dream through a straw, flimsy and pointless. You will not risk your fucking life just so that the pretty, sweet, strong man will like you back.
Your dumb body and heart get all giddy in his presence, but you know better. You are better.
Love like this—mind numbing, world moving love—is for schoolgirls. You’re stronger.
Bucky does not need to be privy to the fact that you love him. He’s lucky he knows you like him. If you loved him a little less, you might’ve been able to pretend you didn’t care about his existence at all.
You’d tried that, when you felt the love start to bloom. There had been a whole week, where you ignored him entirely.
It had made you sick. Literally. You’d lost sleep and stopped eating, your thoughts entirely devoted to just missing him—his dry humor, his smile, his small, silent acts of kindness and his face, oh his face—and it had gotten so bad you’d called out with the flu by Friday.
Then you went to the doctor. And you didn’t have the flu. You just missed Bucky.
He’d visited you on Saturday, while you lay in your bed like some Shakespearian heroine, lamenting and tormented by your devotion. He brought you soup, his Ma’s recipe, because he hates you.
“Can I ask you something?” He’d said while you devoured the soup straight from the container, your stomach deciding to cooperate in his presence.
You’d hummed around a noddle, and his lips had twitched.
In the light, he’d been looking at you like you mattered to him. Like you were cute.
Bucky’s hand had flexed on the mattress, as you blinked up at him. He’d looked away, tongue darting over his lips, and spoken low words.
“Did I do somethin’ to you?”
You’d choked on a noodle. “What?”
“Just- before you got sick. We hadn’t been talking.” He’d sighed. “You left the room, when I walked in. And if I did somethin’, that make you uncomfortable or whatever, I’m sorry.”
That had been the moment. The out. If you were smart, you would’ve told him you needed space, or that he did make you uncomfortable, and it was best if you just didn’t speak for a while.
But he’d looked so sad. Almost nervous, his lips in a tight line and a flush on his ears.
So you’d shaken your head.
Because you’re weak, and so in love with him it’s pathetic, and if he asked you’d open up the sky with your bare hands, no please required.
“No. We’re okay.” You’d offered him a small smile. “Just really wasn’t feeling well.”
Bucky had nodded, and grinned. The kind of grin that lit up in his eyes and make your whole chest sing with delight. You made him happy. You made him smile.
“Alright. Good.” He’d kissed your sweaty brow, and lightning had sparked through your body.
You’d leaned into the touch, just barely.
Bucky, by a small mercy, hadn’t noticed at all.
“Feel better, doll.” He’d said before he left, his tone something close to tender and hopeful.
You had within the hour.
It had been the last straw.,
You were in love with him. There was no outrunning it or stomping it down. But you don’t stay alone with him for too long. You don’t give him special treatment. You tell no one, and deny any accusations.
Jealousy isn’t allowed. He’s not yours to be possessive over.
That doesn’t stop the sting, as you watch him talk to some rich lady across the room. She’s dressed like a bird, all feathers, her lips more like a beak, long nails like talons. You fight off a sour expression, when she reaches up to brush something from his shoulder.
There’s nothing there. You pressed his suit, and he’s a clean man.
You could rip her talons off her fingers and feed them to her. That would be a nice lesson.
That you’re not allowed to teach.
He’s not yours.
You turn back to the bar, taking a heavy breath through your nose and ordering another drink. The only upside of these parties is that you’re allowed to get wasted. You’ve got the team trained on good behavior, the worst that happens anymore is Alexei trying to grab the band’s microphone so he can tell a story. You can handle that drunk or sober.
Right now, it’s going to need to be drunk. When you turn back to watch the party, Bucky’s still talking to the bird.
You down your glass in one gulp, and push off the bar. You won’t fall into this trap. It’s not her fault she got his attention. Not his fault he’s entertaining it.
It is entirely your fault, for daring to look and letting your heart tell you he’d stay silently loyal to a love he doesn’t even feel in return.
You glide through the crowd, putting as much distance as you can between yourself and them. You can get through this. You’ve done it a million times before, and you’ll do it a million times again.
“You’re allowed to have fun at these, you know?”
You sigh, giving Yelena a flat look.
She materialized at your side. You’ve gotten used to it.
“I am having fun.”
That gets an amused smirk. “You look like someone kicked your puppy.”
“I’m tired-“
“We are all tired. That is why we drink.” She clinks her glass against yours. “But you are sad drunk. Be happy drunk.”
“I’m trying.” You grumble under your breath, taking another large swig, and Yelena laughs.
“You know what your problem is?”
“No.”
“You are angrier than Barnes at joy.” She points Bucky out in the crowd, and you bite your tongue until it bleeds.
You never lost track of him in the crowd. You don’t think you could if you tried. But it still feels like you’re being ripped open, to see that he’s letting the bird touch him. She’s tracing her finger over his tie, tilting her head and smiling like a wolf ready to eat him alive, and you’re going to fucking throw up-
“At least he is letting loose.” Yelena hums, and you force your face back into an indifferent mask. “Even if it is with a woman dressed like a duckling.”
You choke on your drink, covering your mouth with your hand. Yelena looks up at you with delight in her eyes, watching you try to wipe the bit of champagne that escaped your lips.
“She laughs! I have never seen you laugh, it is weird. Disturbing-“
“Shut up.” You mutter, wiping the last drops from your cheek. “You’ve heard me laugh before.”
“Have I? I think I would remember the witch experiencing joy.”
“I am not a witch-“
“You are magic and mean.”
“I’m not mean-“
“Not to us.” Yelena shrugs, grabbing some cheese off a wandering server. “But to everyone else. Bucky Barnes says you tried to talk to Valentia about these dummy parties.”
You swallow. “I did, but- Yelena-“
“It is okay. He says you tried, and though he is untrustworthy fool, I believe him.”
You nod, taking the cheese Yelena’s offering you, then frown. “Bucky’s not untrustworthy-“
“No. About most things.” She takes her cheese in one bite, speaking through the mouthful. “He will not be going home with duck-woman tonight. We will see you in the morning?”
“You’ll see me in an hour, I’m going back to the Watchtower with you-“
“Hm. No you are not.” Yelena smiles knowingly. “Turn on your location. It is safer.”
You gape at her, unable to get another word in before she’s walking away. You don’t know why you’re surprised she knows. Of course she does. She’s Yelena.
But it makes your fingers curl on your glass, your eyes darting back to Bucky and the duck.
She’s draped herself over him, cooing and batting her eyelashes. He’s barely looking at her at all.
Bucky’s scanning over the room, a tight frown on his face. Then, for a split second, your eyes meet.
You rip your gaze away, downing what little was left of your champagne. Yelena was right.
There’s no way you’re going home tonight.
Some would call it unhealthy. You call it a survival technique.
“Another one?” The bartender asks you as you return, nodding to your empty glass.
You smile and giggle, leaning over the counter, making your voice all airy and high. “You remember me?”
The bartender’s smiler widens, and you twirl your hair.
He’s nothing bad to look at. Rich skin and deep, gentle eyes. Nice, thick arms. Short hair. Smells like some thick, amber cologne that won’t give you a migraine.
He’ll do just fine.
By the time he’s done, you’ll still be thinking about Bucky. You’ll probably picture him, as this sweet bartender fucks you like an animal. You’ve gotten good at not calling Bucky’s name, too, so you can probably squeeze out two or three rounds.
It’s a band-aid on some internal bleeding. It’s a show that fixes nothing, but at least the illusion makes everyone else see what you need them to.
You don’t care about Bucky at all.
And you certainly don’t look for him one more time before the bartender takes you home.
The bartender is the latest in a long, long line. It’s nothing you’re ashamed of, nothing you bother to hide.
Even if only Yelena will say it, the rest of the team certainly knows. Fuck, even Valentina and Mel know. Last summer you went to a conference, and Mel joked that you’ll tear your way though half the crowd before midnight.
“Do you think I’m some kind of slutty Cinderella?” You’d joked, and she’d smiled.
“Is it bad if I say yes?”
You’d laughed it off, and you know those kinds of jokes are supposed to hurt, but it’s barely even a paper cut. You know why you sleep around, and if people think you’re just a whoreing man-eater, there’s more power and mystique than being a starry-eyed, lovelorn idiot over one old man.
The system works. You fuck around, and no one even thinks you might be interested in romance.
In a life with Bucky, where you roll over and he’s always on the other side of the bed. Where morning sex is slow and loving, drizzled in honey and adoration, rather than just one more quick fuck before you march out the door.
He’d be soft. Gentle. You’ve seen how he handles fragile object, how he arranges everything so meticulously and touches everything he finds important with such care.
You’d like to be something he finds important. You’d like to be the most important thing in his life. His doll, smiling at him and leaning your chin on his shoulder, listening to all his problems and sitting in his lap to whine about your own. Finding yourself under him in bed with your arms pinned up, giggling while he kisses all over your neck then gasping when he moves to your breasts.
That’s the move Bartender pulled last night. And it felt fine. Nice enough. You’d moaned a little louder than you needed to—only slightly over-performing—but you really hadn’t hated it. Hadn’t hated him.
Eventually, you’d gotten sick of it and flipped him over. Pinned his hands and rode his cock until you came with a tiny, pleasant shiver, then jerked him off until he stained your tits.
“Call me later?” Bartender asks, and you give him a sweet smile, looking up from your shoes.
“Sure. Bye!”
“Wait, you don’t have my number-“
You’re already out the door. Fixing the straps of your dress as you walk down the hall, calling your ride without a glance back.
Nobody says anything when you get back to the tower. Alexei high fives you, but that’s the only reaction at all.
Bucky isn’t there, though.
Why isn’t Bucky there.
“Where’s Barnes?” You say, causally as possible, and John grumbles.
“Thought being the keeper was your job, not ours-“
“He’s in the gym.” Ava drawls over John. “He’s been there all morning.”
You nod, grabbing your coffee, and mutter that you’re going to go get changed. You’re not going to check on him wearing the clothing. He’s not your top priority.
That’s the whole illusion.
You take a long, hot shower, and the Bartender really was good, but you’re still aching.
You’re thinking about Bucky.
About him in they gym all morning. How even a super soldier gets sweaty after a while, even if he doesn’t lose stamina. How he’s going to be panting and grunting, his hair stuck to his brow and neck, maybe his shirt will be off and you’ll get to see his broad, thick chest-
Your fingers had wandered between your thighs, and you’ve pressed yourself back up against the wall. Angled your hips up, your legs spread shamelessly wide, short moans falling from your lips as the water pelted against your clit. You slide two fingers in and out of your pussy, picturing Bucky in the shower with you.
“Needy fuckin’ baby.” He’d murmur in your ear, body folded over yours. “You’d be soaked without the water, wouldn’t you. Ready for me when I so much as look at you, my perfect little slut-“
You moan him name into the shower, and the Bucky in your head chuckles.
He’d graze his lips over your jaw, crook his thick fingers deep inside your weeping cunt, start to brutally rub on that gummy, sensitive spot. You’d call his name again and he’d kiss you, rough and deep, and your legs would give out as you came all over his hand-
You slump down to the floor, turning your head to avoid the fall of the water. Your clit throbs, your body still shaking, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Fantasies help too. The tend you over, stop you from doing something stupid.
But they can be dangerous too. Because you get dressed and go to find Bucky—which is normal, because it’s your job—and find him twice the mess you pictured.
He’s shirtless alright. Shirtless and wearing loose shorts. There’s a feralness, to the way he’s punching the bags, a wild glint in his eyes and his hair flying around his face. He hasn’t even bothered to put it up, and with how his chest is heaving, he’s been at this a while.
All morning. Ava said.
You swallow the drool, letting your eyes rake over his flexing muscles, his shining skin, his sharp, clenched jaw. Christ, how you’d like all that brutal attention turned on you. He could throw you around like that punching bag, rearrange your guts and grab you until you bruised, just as long as he kissed the bruises after.
You’re supposed to be doing your job.
Just for today, you let yourself stare for more than a second before dragging yourself together and clearing your throat.
Bucky catches his punching bag, turning to you immediately. You smile at him, and his jaw flexes.
“You’re home.”
“Obviously.” You shrug, glancing at the bag. “Ava says you’ve been here all morning.”
He grunts, releasing the bag and slowly pulling off his gloves.
Bucky never wears gloves. Not when it’s just a workout. You’re surprised the bag isn’t broken.
“Couldn’t sleep.” He mutters, and you frown.
“Nightmares? I can get another appointment with Dr. Indira-“
“No. The meds are fine. Just-“ He sighs, giving you an unreadable look. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You blink at him, tilting your head slightly. Bucky’s spent years getting back to a tolerable sleep schedule. You helped with every appointment, with every new med and strategy. It took months to get right, and if it’s not working anymore-
“I’m fine.” Bucky repeats firmly, and you scowl.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Could hear you thinking, doll.”
You stick your tongue out, digging your nails into your arm. “Shut up.”
He chuckles dryly, unhooking the bag from the ceiling. “You back for the day?”
“I’m always back for the day, it’s my job-“
“You weren’t doin’ your job last night. Maybe you’re seein’ the guy again.”
You flush at that, turning your chin up to hide it. When Bucky turns to look at you, you glare at him, and his mouth twitches.
He raises his brows in silent challenge. You can’t help yourself. It’s Bucky giving you the bait.
“I don’t see people twice. You know that.”
He snorts. “Yeah. I do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean-“
“Nothin’. I’m agreeing with you-“
“You didn’t say it like you were agreeing with me.” You snap. “You said it- You- Yeah. I do.”
You drop your voice to mimic his sardonic, dismissive tone, and Bucky gives you a look of almost mocking delight.
“You’re not good at impressions, are you?”
“I’m not- You just said it like an asshole-“
“You think I’m an asshole?”
“I think you’re like an asshole.” You sneer, and Bucky’s grin widens.
You don’t know what’s gotten into him this morning. You’ve been sleeping around for almost two years now. If he had a problem with it, he’s never so much as glared at you after.
He’s barely even looked at you. Everyone else teases or lets it go, but Bucky doesn’t even turn your way. Because you’re nothing but a friend to him, just like he’s supposed to be to you.
But now he’s taking a large step forward, looking at you with a strange glint in his eyes that makes your heartrate jumpstart. You take heavy breaths through your nose, trying to keep it together. You can keep it together.
Even with Bucky towering over you, all muscle and intense, blue eyes, you have to keep it together.
“That hurts my feelings, doll.” He mutters, leaning slightly down.
You’re not touching, but you can feel the heat rolling off his body. It’s almost an aesthetic, making your head empty and mouth hang slightly open.
Keep it together.
“Then stop being like an asshole.” You manage to snap. “And I’ll stop hurting your feelings.”
He laughs again, a low, deep sound that lights a fire in your gut. “Wouldn’t it be nice, if it were that damn easy.”
You blink at him, for once completely lost in the conversation. “What?”
“Nothin’.” He shrugs, leaning in a little closer.
His breath is warm and minty on your face. He takes up your whole vision, demanding every ounce of your attention, and all you can try to do is keep your breathing steady. Bucky’s eyes rake over your body like an inspection, landing near your throat.
On a hickey, you’d forgotten to cover with makeup.
You open your mouth to make a lame excuse, but he’s already moving.
Bucky reaches up his metal hand, and drags his thumb over the mark. Over your collarbone, then your sternum, then your neck. His touch is feather light and taunting. Your breath catches, your eyes fluttering against your will. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping fully around your throat. Your body reacts like a magnet, leaning into the touch.
He drags his attention back to your slack, hopeless face, your parted lips and glossy eyes.
His hand is just resting on your throat. His tongue darts over his lips, but you can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Why he’s doing this to you, when he’s never once looked at you like he is now.
Like you’re something tantalizing he needs to taste.
Like he’s hanging onto himself by a thread, and isn’t sure if his grip will slip before the string just snaps.
You try to say his name, to make him realize what he’s doing. How close he’s gotten, how your knees are threatening to give, if he doesn’t look away now. But it just comes out a shaky exhale, and Bucky looks hungrier.
Bucky doesn’t do this kind of thing. Not to you. He’s your friend—you cling so desperately to the fact that at least he’s your friend, at least he doesn’t hate or desire you, at least you’re the only one being broken—but now his breath is fanning over your flushed face, his eyes blown out like he’s just as stranded in the dark as you are, his fingers digging into the nape of your neck like he’s trying to leave a mark.
All you’d have to do is lean a little forward and your lips would meet. Every secret fantasy—in the dead of night, until the shower so even the walls don’t hear your shame—would be real.
You can’t let this be real.
Bucky’s eyes flick down to your lips. His nostrils flare, moving slightly forward until your knees and chests bump.
With every bit of resolve you’ve got, you move a hand up to his chest.
He goes rigid. Frozen like he’s waiting for you to shove him or drag him closer. Your fingers curl in the cloth of his shirt, as his grip slackens on your neck.
“Bucky…” You whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for.
He makes the hard choice for you.
Bucky lets go of you, stumbling back as if repelled. He frowns, blinks at you once, then just… leaves.
Walks out of the gym without another glance in your direction, swaying and stranded in the room.
Alone. Just like you wanted.
The air around you so, so cold.
You don’t stop thinking about it.
A week passes. Work resumes like normal, and Bucky behaves as if nothing happened at all.
Technically it wasn’t anything. Nothing HR would care about, at least. In a workplace of assassins and mercenaries, getting choked is more of a don’t be such a fucking pussy thing.
Which isn’t amazing legally. But Bucky didn’t hurt you. If you’d shoved him, you’re sure he would’ve let go.
But you hadn’t shoved him. He’d just stared at you with that look—the one now seared into your memory, that makes your thighs press together and thoughts work overtime—then left.
On missions he’s treating you the same as ever. Small grins and low, sarcastic jokes that make you both smile. Once in the kitchen he taps your shoulder and passes you tea without a word. John walks in a second later, shouting about how he wants a better parking spot—which is ridiculous, you don’t have parking spots, it’s a limited garage with two hundred parking spots and like eight people who use them—and Bucky puts a firm hand on your shoulder before you can stand up and start fixing it.
“Make him ask.” He mutters, low enough for only you to hear. “You gotta start makin’ them say please.”
You snort, breaking off a piece of your muffin. “You ever teach a toddler raised by wolves manners?”
He frowns. “Children don’t get raised by wolves-“
“They do in stories.”
“What stories-“
“The Jungle Book. Phineas and Ferb, but- Those are ocelots.”
Bucky hums, tongue flicking over his lip. “Y’know I met an ocelot once-“
“You met an ocelot-“
“In 19… 86?”
You snort. “Old man.”
“Shut up.” He nudges your knee with his, and the whole world stops for a second. “But yeah, I met one. Reminds me of someone.”
“Yeah?” You give him an expectant look, and he smirks.
“Walker.”
You giggle.
Like a fucking ditzy idiot, you giggle, and John cuts off his rant to look at you like you just vomited.
“What was that sound.”
“She laughed, John.” Bucky says dryly, taking a long drink of his coffee, and John frowns.
“No, I’ve heard her laugh, she laughs like a swamp witch-“
Your mouth falls open. “I do not-“
“Yes, you do, it’s all-“
“Walker.” Bucky grunts, giving John a silent, firm glare.
John scowls. “Whatever. Stop flirting with her so she can fix my damn parking spot.”
You flush, the usual biting tactic not working at all. Beside you, Bucky doesn’t even talk. He excuses himself as soon as John starts asking why Yelena’s scooter even needs a spot over his bike, leaving the space next to you just as empty and cold as before.
He probably just didn’t want to listen to John. You don’t either, you’re just being paid a disgusting amount of money that depends on going to Yelena and buying her five cakes in exchange for her moving her scooter five feet to the left.
Bucky might’ve already forgotten about the gym. Everything would be easier if he did. No complex conversations or dynamic. Just your livelihood safe, and Bucky not thinking about you.
Which is fine. Everything, as always, is perfectly fine.
You go out that weekend. There’s a club several blocks over where you know the bartenders and you usually get free drinks. You just need to not be in the tower. To not be near him, and remember that you are, in fact, capable of surviving silent love.
“You’re dressed up.” Bucky mutters as you stand at the elevator, and you laugh.
“Look at you, being observational.”
You only get a grunt in return.
“I won’t be out late,” you sound like a fucking mom, sliding on your heels and giving instructions about how to care for four grown adults. “Bob might forget where his meds are, in the new spot-“
“Top right cabinet.” Bucky mutters, and you nod.
“Don’t let Yelena drink coffee past seven, she’ll be up all night. Switch her to tea. If Alexei is looking for me, tell him I rented all the movies on the TV, and tell John I ordered his gun part-“
“We’ve got an event tomorrow.” Bucky says suddenly. “Save the seals. In Philly. We gotta leave early-“
“No, we don’t.” You grab your bag, not looking him in the eyes.
That always makes you want to stay. Forgetting Bucky—the point of this whole thing—is impossible when you look in his stupid, beautiful eyes.
“I got us out of it.” You tuck your phone in your bag, rolling out a crink in your neck. “And it was Save the Sea Lions.”
Bucky doesn’t respond. You usually don’t let yourself look back, but then he says your name.
“What time are you gonna be home?”
You swallow. His eyes are shining on yours. There’s a pull in your chest, that hurts to ignore.
But you’re good at it. And if you drink enough, you won’t be able to feel it at all.
“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Don’t wait up.”
You turn and walk away. He can’t be allowed to call you back. You’d always return to his side.
The night is just as awful as you expect. You drink too much, and find someone with blue eyes that can artificially feed the love ringing in your ears. It’s under the beat of every song, and on the tip of your tongue as they fuck you into a mattress.
You leave long before dawn, and far after midnight. Call a car and fix your hair in the backseat, like anything matters at all.
When the elevator dings, you touch the wall to keep yourself walking steady.
There’s a lamp on, in the living area. You poke your head in to check it’s not Bob.
It’s not.
It’s Bucky.
He looks you up and down, taking in the disaster like it’s a book. You smile at him. He doesn’t smile back.
His eyes land on a hickey near your jaw. His tongue flick, his brows knit.
And you thought you were good. That even after the gym, you were good.
But Bucky stares at you like you’re nothing. Not gutter trash or a buzzing fly.
Just thin air he’s trying to look right through.
He turns off the light, and walks past you again. Your shoulders brush, and the world shakes.
And you’re alone again. Which isn’t the end of the world.
Your heart is doing this strange, boiling roll about how it is the end of the world. Burning and howling like you’re flaying it alive, when it is perfectly fine.
Everything, even as your chest starts to absorb that cold, hollow space, is fine.
It’s not fine on the roof.
Everything is all in it’s perfect place, and then… the roof.
You go up there to listen to the city. To lean over the edge and watch the lights blink, and wonder if you’re really this small. It’s where you get dramatic, and listen music and pretend you’re important. Where you cry when you need it, your tears carried away in the wind. Where you whine to the sky about how much you love Bucky, and how pathetic it is, then go back inside and go about your business.
It’s a good thing you hadn’t quite gotten to that last stage yet, when you heard the door close behind you.
That’s where everything started to crumble apart.
Bucky says your name, and you glance over your shoulder, not hiding your surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” He shrugs, holding up his phone. “Called three times.”
“Oh. No service-“
“Yeah, figured that out.” He stops at your side, leaning over the wall. “But you’re here.”
“I’m here.” You pause. “Where did you think I was?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did you need something-“
“Not really.”
“Bucky-“
“Just wanted to know where you were.” He mutters, glaring out at the city. “Didn’t know that was a crime.”
You don’t have anything to say to that. You try, opening and closing your mouth, but everything you can think of is mean. You don’t like being mean to Bucky, not when something in the air feels raw. Looking at his shoulders, it’s like he’s about to snap. You want to help. To make it better for him.
For this, you’re not sure how.
“You like it up here?” He asks, and you nod.
“I- I like seeing the people.”
“Course you do.” He mutters, dragging his gaze up to the sky.
“Wha-“
“There used to be more stars.” He cuts you off, brows knitting tight. “You woulda liked that too.”
You stare at him. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was drunk. “I like the stars now just fine. All three of them.”
That gets a low laugh, even if he shakes his head. “Nah. In the 40s, it was different. You woulda loved that.”
“The 40s? Where I would’ve been property-“
“Not that part, but- The sky. The water was cleaner, the air-“ He sighs, looking back down to the city. “Never mind. Forget it.”
You swallow, trying to make your voice softer. “Do you ever want to go back?”
“To the 40s?” He snorts. “Fuck no. There are just- Some things. That I think that you would’ve liked.”
“Oh.” You watch his jaw clench in the dark, fidgeting with your fingers. “What would Yelena have liked?”
Bucky shrugs. “I dunno.”
You blink, lost for words again. Bucky takes over the silence first.
“You really never see any of them twice?”
“Any- Huh?”
“Your… people.” He clarifies, a bitter look on his face. You frown.
“My hookups?”
He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No? I don’t even get their names.”
“But you fuck them?”
“Oh- Um-“ You flush, looking back out to the city. “Yeah?”
“Hm. Seems unsafe.”
“I share my location with Yelena, and I’m pretty sure Valentina put an implant in me, so I think I’m safe.”
It’s a joke. Bucky doesn’t laugh. “Why don’t you bother to date ‘em?”
You feel his gaze burning into you. It’s hard to speak in an even voice. “I- I don’t know-“
“They gotta have something for your attention.” He mutters, but it sounds like it’s mostly to himself. “The hell are they doing that isn’t up to your bar? What is up to your bar?”
It’s impossible not to look at him now. His gaze is demanding, and your heart starts to flutter under the attention.
“Why do you care?” You try to snap. It sounds weak.
Bucky chuckles to himself. “Why do I care, doll? You got the fix for everything.” He leans a little forward.
Your lips are inches away. His forearm is pressed against yours, and the sky is so big over your head but it’s all narrowing down.
It’s Bucky. Just Bucky. So close, closer than before, close like he wants to be touched. Like that could be allowed.
His eyes shining on yours in the dark.
His voice, deep and mocking and enchanting you like a bee to flowers.
“What’s my fix for this?” He looks back to your lips, his tongue flicking out. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do, ‘cause I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind.”
You stare at him, voice small. “Bucky, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“I know.” He sighs. “Just- Tell me no.”
“No-“
He reaches up, thumb brushing over your lips, and your whole head goes quiet.
“Tell me to walk.” He mutters, gaze dragging back to yours. “Now. Please.”
You should. If your brain was working, it would’ve given him what he wanted.
But every thought but Bucky has left the building. And now it’s just your heart, singing his name.
You kiss him. It’s a movement like a wave, rising up until your lips are comfortably pressed together, every movement so natural you’d think you’d kissed a million times before.
Bucky cups your face, return every bit of passion in a second. You melt into him, your bodies moving like you were made for this, the heat spreading from his touch and taste straight to your core.
You grind forward, and Bucky moans your name.
It flips a switch. You’re not just a flame, kindled and alight in his arms.
You’re not supposed to do this.
You pull back, and Bucky freezes. You open your mouth, trying to find an apology, to beg him to convince you that this is a good idea.
But Bucky just lets you go.
You both stare at each other. You take a small step closer, asking him to catch you.
It’s not fine. You can’t breathe, if he walks away. You’re supposed to be stronger than that, but the world is going to fucking end, if Bucky leaves you here alone again.
“Why.” He rasps, and you shake your head.
“Bucky-“
“If you’re not- If this isn’t what I’ve been reading-“
“No, it’s-“
“You kissed me-“
“I know-“
“And you-“
“I know!” You scream, taking a stumbling step back. “I know, Bucky, I know- I just can’t!”
“Can’t what?” He takes a step forward. “Just tell me you’re not interested, I told you I’d walk-“
“But-“ Your hands wring, unsure what to do if they’re not allowed to touch him. “I don’t want you to walk.”
“But you shoved me-“
“I know.” You whisper. “I’m sorry.”
Bucky just stares at you, and you bow your head, hugging your chest tight. He’s going to walk. This time, he’s going to walk away-
“Can you give me the reason?” He mutters, and when you risk a look up, he’s hunched into himself like a kicked puppy. “I mean- I can try and help work it out, maybe change something-“
“No, it’s not-“ You swallow. “You don’t need to change anything Bucky.” Tears prick at your eyes. “You’re perfect.”
He nods, then mutters, “But you don’t want me.”
“I just- It’s-“ You take a shaking breath, looking up to the sky before you speak. “I’m negotiable, okay. I worked really hard to get where I am, and I- I’m not like you. Valentina can find another version of me, who doesn’t fall in love with her superheroes, and then everything- everything- That I have worked for is gone.”
You give him a pleading look, begging him to understand.
Bucky looks like you shot him. You don’t realize why until it’s too late.
“You love me?” His voice is rough, and your heart drops to your stomach.
“I- That’s- That wasn’t my point-“
“But you do-“
“I’m trying to say I shouldn’t-“
“But you do.” He mutters. He says it like it’s a miracle, and not your greatest curse. “You love me.”
“Well, don’t fucking say it like that.” You snap. “Of course I- You’re you.”
“And you’re you.” He counters, taking a step forward.
Your legs can’t seem to will themselves to step back. “Yeah. That’s my whole point-“
“It’s allowed.” He mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Us. Dating.” His eyes might be searing into your soul. “I checked.”
“Oh- Okay.” You frown slightly. “Why did you check?”
“Because.” Bucky’s hovering over you again. Both of you clear under the open sky, the heat from his body radiating onto yours, his hand slowly rising up to trace your waste. You want to murmur his name, but you can’t remember how words work.
Again, it’s all just Bucky.
“I can’t survive another hour.” He mutters, tracing a hand over your face. “Pretending I don’t need you like oxygen.”
Your mouth falls open. Bucky presses closer.
“It kills me, doll. Bein’ your friend kills me, ‘cause I’m lucky you’re just nice enough to pretend we’re better than a pack of feral animals with muscles and powers, but then you’re strong and kind and always so goddamn pretty, and I’m your friend but you’re my whole damn world.”
“Bucky-“
“I don’t ask you for anything.” He mutters, leaning down until your lips brush. “’Cause there’s nothing I want from you that I got any right to have. I want all your smiles, doll. Those cute snorts and glares, when you’re sad and hide it like it’s not making the whole place feel wrong, when you’re getting lost and you need someone to hold onto, hold onto me. Anything you need, I’d get. Anything. I’ll even let you keep fucking around with all that asses that can’t keep you satisfied for more than a night, if that’s what you need. But,” he drops his brow against yours, voice thick. “I want your mornings. Please.”
You can’t think enough to speak. If you do, you’ll break the moment and you want it to last forever.
“We can keep it secret.” He’s sinking down. Getting on his knees. “Or if Valentina threatens to sack you, I’ll threaten to walk. Just-“
“Bucky.” You whisper, because there’s only one answer you can give.
He stares at you desperately, your fingers combing through his hair. You’re tired of being alone.
And his body, pressed against yours is so warm.
“Okay.” You whisper, and his throat bobs.
“Okay?”
You nod, and smile.
Bucky smiles back.
And you’re under open sky, but you don’t really care who knows.
You fall into him, just as he rises into you. And this is even better than the kiss. This is hungry. Urgent and made of a fever you’re finally just letting sweep you away.
Bucky grabs at your hips, one arm sliding around your back as the other cradles the back of your head. Your arms wrap around his neck, your leg hiking up to his hip, and your kisses are urgent and sloppy. Open mouths pressed over each other, tongues tangled together with moans, Bucky’s hand dropping to your ass as your nails dig into his neck.
He squeezes, and you can’t stop the moan. Your fingers scramble to tangle in his hair, and he grunts at the pull, picking you fully up off the ground.
He’s getting hard, against your core. You grind down, trailing kisses over his jaw and trying to spur him into action.
Bucky moans in your ear, squeezing your ass again.
“Doll, you’re startin’ something-“
“Good.” You whisper, nipping at his throat. “Want it. Want it so bad, Bucky, wanted you forever-“
He groans, grabbing your jaw and slamming your lips back together. You make a high noise of delight, grinding faster and faster, the fractured pressure winding you tight like an electrical coil about to snap.
Bucky stumbles blindly back to the door, his mouth never fully leaving yours. His grip on you is possessive, and he stops every few feet, to kiss you deeper, squeezing your ass again. His hand slips further down, his fingers brushing over your core through your pants, and you whine into his mouth.
You barely make it into the stairwell.
Bucky kicks the door closed behind you, pauses for a split second, then whirls around and pins you against the wall. You start to pull at his shirt, but he’s got a single mind.
His mouth slots over yours, swallowing every single breath and gasp of his name. One hand grabs your wrists, pinning them over your head, and the other starts to tease down your body. Over your collarbone, up and down your sides, under your shirt to palm your breasts.
“Bucky…” You whine against his lips, and he only grunts, pinching at your nipple. “No- No teasing-“
“’M not teasing.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, dragging his hand back down to your waist. “I’m takin’ my time, doll. There’s a difference.”
“It- It just feels-“ Stars spark behind your eyes, when he switches to the other nipple. “God, Bucky-“
“Feels what?” He mocks, leaning back just enough to watch your expression. “Gonna use your words like a good girl.”
You try to snap back, but Bucky pinches the sensitive bud and your mouth falls stupidly open. Your breathing is coming short and fast, your head spinning with desire, and Bucky’s just playing with you like his favorite toy.
But God, being his favorite anything is paradise.
When he’s done with your breasts, your short breathless pleas for more completely ignored, he starts to kiss you again.
You just think he wants to taste your moan, when he finally shoves down your pants.
“Fuck.” He groans, dragging his fingers between your pussy lips, your head falling back against the door with a squeak. “You’re soaked. You always walk around this soaked for me, baby? Always wondering when I’ll finally be the one to take care of this pretty fuckin’ mess, fuck you so dumb you can’t even remember how to stand?”
You nod, straining at his hold on your wrists. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, bare to his whims and exposed, but you need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, for the cool, metal fingers brushing teasing touches over your clit to just get inside of you, to let the release boiling over inside of you explode. They way you’re reacting to his light touches, you’d think you were a blushing virgin. You certainly feel like one.
You want to touch him. You need to touch him-
“Hey.” He spanks your pussy, and your whole body rushes with heat. “Asked you a question-“
“Yes.” You moan, giving him your best, doe-eyed stare. “Please, Bucky, fill me, I- I need it- Need you-“
That does it for him. He groans, and two fingers tease at your entrance. Bucky watches your reaction carefully, your legs spreading in offering, eyes still soft and pleading on his.
“Bet you’re gonna taste good.” He mutters, smearing your arousal all over your pussy, knuckles grazing your clit. “Think when I’m done with this, I’ll sit you on my face. Let you ride it until I’m drowning in it. You can touch me all you want, like that. But I’m not lettin’ you up until you’re begging.”
Bucky slides one finger in, slow and taunting. You squeeze around him, and he groans.
“Goddamnit, babydoll, you’re perfect.” He kisses all over your face, your lust glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter with desire. “My pretty girl, mine-“
Another finger. Then a third. He starts to pump slowly, and you make a sound like his name.
“I know.” Bucky kisses your cheek, the pace picking up. “I know, but you’re takin’ it so good. Jesus, look at you.”
He yanks his hand out, spanking your pussy before shoving them back in, and you scream with pleasure.
“This fucking dumb on my hand, you’re gonna be drooling on my cock. I’ll fuck that smart head empty, keep you all pretty and relaxed in my bed for a month-“
You moan again, dropping your brow against his, and Bucky chuckles.
“Oh, you fuckin’ like that. Like the idea of bein’ nothing but a pretty slut for me, spending every day being fed and stuffed full of cock. You can put in your mouth, doll, take it how ever you want. Touch yourself in front of me, jerk me off, just get on your hands and knees and I’ll take you, just spank your pretty fuckin’ ass until you’re begging for me to fuck you-“
His fingers are drilling into your cunt now, the wet sounds echoing through the stairwell. He’s going faster than a machine, abusing your pussy until it’s fluttering and dripping down your thighs, slamming against that deep spot and driving you right up to the edge. When he chuckles the sound rolls through you, and when his cold thumb starts to rub furious circles on your clit, you open your mouth in a silent scream.
“That’s it, baby, there you go. All relaxed and happy.” He kisses you gently, and you whine.
Bucky smirks, twisting his fingers as his pace hits an impossible, skin-slapping high.
“Come for me.” He mutters in your ear, thumb working your clit into a frenzy. “Give it to me, baby, c’mon-“
Your release hits your with a scream. Your body goes limp as the stimulation turns into a blinding rush of pleasure, your pussy clenching wildly around Bucky’s fingers and a hot, wet gushing sound hitting your ears as your grind onto his hand.
Bucky pulls out slowly, keeping your hands above your head.
Then he cleans his fingers, holding your gaze the whole time.
Your hips buck, your fingers itching to hold onto more than just his wrist, and he grins. Leans down to kiss you sweetly, his lips tasting of your own arousal and making the heat in you spark up even faster than before.
“My room?” He mutters, and you nod.
“It’s closer.”
He hums, drawing back just enough to look you in the eyes. “And you’re staying the night?”
There’s the weight in his words. The silent promise, that he’s asking for.
It’s so easy to make it. There will be things to deal with, in the morning.
You’d rather deal with them, having Bucky at your side.
“Yeah.” You whisper. “I am.”
✦End note: She's a woman in a male dominated field folks.✦
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Summary: After 5 years of being single, you find your new roommate worming his way into your strictly planned routine. Suddenly, you aren’t the only one pulling all the weight, and you’re not sure what to do about it. The guard you carefully placed around your heart feels close to breaking, and you’re surprised to find you aren't entirely opposed. One romance novel and one rehearsal dinner later… the truth will come out.
warnings/tags: No use of Y/N. Post-college roommate AU. Not canon compliant. Mentions of romanogers or whatever their ship is called. Roommates to lovers. Idiots to lovers. Brief mention of the notebook by Nicholas sparks (cited in APA bc I didn’t know how to cite that in fanfiction lmao). Hyper independent!Reader. Anxious!Reader. Mention of past relationship. Light trauma and attachment styles. Angst because it’s my drug of choice. Smut (I’m scared). Soft!Dom!Bucky. Praise and dirty talk. PinV. Unprotected smut- please do not treat this like a sexEd class. Oral (F! Receiving). Fingering. He has a kink for taking care of you? Idk let me know if I missed anything.
MDNI !!! 18+
wc: 10k
Disclaimer: first time writing smut this detailed. Go easy on me, or don’t. I’ll be anxious about posting this either way lol. Proofread by me and only me (I have no friends to talk abt this with so like we should totally be mutuals tehe)
It really seemed like a no-brainer to you when the topic came up at the engagement dinner. Steve and Natasha weren’t trying to kick him out. In fact, it wasn’t even their idea. He was the one who said it made the most sense, that they needed their space and he should find his own. Sam joked that he just didn’t wanna hear the bed banging on the other side of the wall, if they “knew what he meant.” Bucky’s face, and the red on Steve’s cheeks, told you he wasn’t too far off.
So, when he mentioned to you that he wanted to keep a roommate, you didn’t hesitate to offer that he move into your apartment. After all, Wanda had moved out a year ago when her and Vision found a house on the outskirts of the city. You had the extra room, and you didn’t mind offering him help. You had known him for years throughout college, if only through mutual friends, but you enjoyed his company. He was the type that didn’t expect anything out of you during conversation. It flowed naturally, or if it didn’t then you simply sat in comfortable silence. You had discovered through several discussions that you shared the same taste in literature, and you both preferred the night to the morning.
You knew living together would be easy, and you were nothing if not capable of adapting. If need be, you’d just work around each other's schedules and respect the other’s space. You had never had any expectations of your roommates, not since you became used to your own capability. If you needed something done, you’d figure out how to do it. Wanda had said several times that she often wasn’t even aware you were around, given your nature to tending to yourself. You understood what she meant, because there was a point in time where you had to force the habit. Your last relationship was happy, you really had no right to complain… it was only that he never wanted to do any favor you asked. Something as simple as taking out the trash could turn into a huge argument about you “suffocating” him. Which was fine, you had found in the recent years that you liked your independence more than reliance on others.
So, when you offered, you assured Bucky that you knew how to pull your weight. You were not simply asking him just because you thought it’d be useful to have a man around.
You figured you were on the same page when he gave you an easy smile, a teasing scrunch of his nose, and leaned over to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart.”
Oh, you were wrong.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
It started small, with chivalrous things you hadn’t realized you missed until he did them so easily. There was no show about it, no performance. It wasn’t grand or mind blowing.
He opened your door.
The day he moved in, you had been out grocery shopping, getting home right as he finished up. He had gone back outside to park his car. You beat him up the stairs, grocery bags making red indents in the skin of each of your arms. You didn’t mind, until you came to the door and found you couldn’t even reach it. You mumbled several curses while trying to maneuver for your keys and not drop the bags, this was a weekly occurrence after all.
“Let me,” came that familiar voice from behind you, two hands reaching for the bags on your arms before you had a chance to even respond.
He glanced down at your arms with a frown, looking at you as if disappointed. Then, bags in hand, he reached for his key and opened the door, waiting for you to enter first. You blinked at his steady smile, looking between him and the entrance to the apartment. When you walked in, he followed behind and came to set the bags on the counter.
“You don’t have to do that,” you stopped him as he began taking things out of the bags, “I’m sure you need to unpack.”
He simply scrunched his nose as if you were just being silly, “I am capable of both, you know.”
And you supposed you did know, given his success on the college hockey team. The strength and stamina shared between him and Steve was a highlighting topic among many broadcasting channels. Not that you paid attention, or anything. Still, though it was a helpful gesture, something about it made you uncomfortable enough to stop him again. “It’s just that…” you offered a smile, “I’m kind of crazy about organizing everything.”
He glanced between your eyes and the fidgeting of your fingers, stepping back with an easy smile and a, “Whatever you say,” before retreating to his room to unpack.
It continued like that, small things that you didn’t know how to feel about. After all, opening the door for others was just polite. It spoke to how introverted you were that it was a novelty. The same applied to carrying heavier objects, or offering to do your laundry when he was already putting in a load. You were baffled to have them returned to you perfectly folded.
You supposed you were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company, even if his accommodating attitude set you off balance. You enjoyed how he paid attention. Getting to know each other was a simple exchange of observations, where you learned that you mirrored the other often. Except for a few things.
It was late afternoon on a sunday, you had just stepped out of the shower and thrown on a long shirt and shorts. You stepped out of your room, into the living area where the golden New York sunset seeped through the windows. There was Bucky, haloed by the light, setting a book back on your shelves only to take another off. You stopped and watched as he ran his finger over the spine, then split the pages. His brows drew together, but his lip turned up.
“What is it?” You spoke up.
He looked up to you immediately, only his eyes seemed to drag up from your bare legs to your wet hair. That smile grew into a smirk, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He took his time, like he always seemed to. Like he didn’t know what it meant to rush. Yet he never left you hanging, “You’ve annotated every book on this shelf.”
It wasn’t a question, just an observation, lifting the book in his hands as if to prove the point. He was holding Pride and Prejudice. Your eyes widened as you took sight of your neat scribbles in pink ink, taking several steps forward and opening your mouth to respond.
Only, he beat you to it, eyes flickering back to the page, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Mr. Darcy described using the word ‘daddy.’”
Your mouth fell open completely, in fact your jaw might have unhinged itself altogether. The way he read the word aloud with no shame whatsoever? You remembered feeling embarrassed just writing it across the page.
You forced yourself to stand straighter, crossing your arms and clearing your throat.
“Well, you obviously haven’t been on booktok very often, then.” You raised your brow, turning the challenge onto him.
He only took it in stride, leaning a shoulder against the bookshelf and giving you a deliberate once over. “Oh really? You’re telling me there’s an entire community out there for the kinds of things you write in these margins?” He turned his attention back to the flipping pages, muttering more so to himself, “interesting.”
You scoffed, finally reaching out and snatching the book from his hungry eyes, “Oh, give me that!” You turned to place it back where it belonged, next to Emma. “And for your information, no. Not all of them are annotated.”
You expecting more teasing from where he stood, still leaned on the shelves. Like he was right where he wanted to be. Only, his smug expression softened into something closer to curiosity. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…” then he reached a corded arm over you, almost caging you between him and the bookshelf. You lowered your eyes immediately, because seriously, he wasn’t even flexing, were his biceps naturally that large? Was that normal? It felt disrespectful to even look. But he brought it back down soon after, holding in his hand the one book you hadn’t touched with a pen.
When he still didn’t move away, you took it upon yourself, taking a considerable step to the side. He only thumbed through the pages, as if to prove his point, “What’s so different about The Notebook?”
What couldn’t be more different? You wanted to say. You simply turned your eyes to the shelves, exhaling a dissatisfied breath. “It’s unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic?” He laughed, pointing to the top shelf, “More than The Chronicles of Narnia?” Which was littered with your takes on favorite moments and quotes.
You rolled your eyes, “It’s unrealism disguised as realistic.” You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter, “I mean, what kind of man genuinely asks a woman what she wants, and then vows to give her all of it?”
He didn’t miss a beat, “A good one.” His voice was softer then, and you didn’t like the look in his eyes when you met them again. Like he was reading you now, like you were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. He looked as if he just found another fitted piece.
“Yes, well,” you tried to sound unbothered, because you were unbothered. It didn’t matter. It never had. “Sometimes you have to be ‘a good man’ for yourself.”
The conversation ended there, because you felt exposed under his gaze, and plucked a book before retreating back to your room. The Hobbit this time.
You hadn’t noticed the book was missing until you walked into the apartment a week later and noticed the unbalanced lean of other books on the shelf. Some had fallen over into the empty spot it had left. Your mouth turned into a frown, but you quickly brushed it off. Maybe he wanted to read it. Maybe he’d feel the same way you did in the end, that it was a pointless kind of fantasy, and you would laugh together about it.
When it returned to its spot, however, you felt your palms itch immediately. For what reason, you didn’t know. You asked him if he liked it the following morning, and he gave a simple “yeah,” that somehow made you more antsy. He didn’t give anything else but a shrug, before turning the conversation to teasing you about your inability to get a pancake to the perfect temperature without burning it on one side.
When you were alone in the apartment, you finally groaned in frustration and picked it up. You didn’t know what you expected, because you knew he didn’t so much as highlight his books, and yet…
You found quotes highlighted in marker to match the cover, small annotations written in black at the edge of the pages.
“She would tell him what she wanted in her life--her hopes and dreams for the future--and he would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true.”
“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.” (Nicholas Sparks, 2000).
And off to the side: You deserve all of it. Everything.
You shut the book immediately and put it back, stepping away with a hand over your chest. It was as if you actually heard alarms go off in the back of your brain, red sirens flaring. It was unfair of him to plant any idea of that in your head. You wringed your hands and turned away, not liking the chasm that formed in your chest. The ache it created. Within minutes you had your bag and were out of the apartment, trying to get as far from that bookshelf as possible.
Then it became… more. He took notice of your work schedule several weeks in, noting when you would usually come home late and when you usually went without dinner as a result. Suddenly, you were coming home to dinner on the table and a Bucky who only smiled and asked about your day. Suddenly, the dishwasher was emptied before you had a chance to get to it. Suddenly, the washer wasn’t making that horrible noise anymore and the volume on your TV didn’t randomly move up and down. But he never mentioned the bookshelf.
You didn’t let it affect your expectations. He was just being nice, trying to make a good impression. It was sweet. Gentlemanly. You continued your routine as you had before he moved in, only more deliberately. In hindsight, you might not even have noticed yourself doing it. Anything you said you would do, you made sure it got done early. Even if he brushed you off and said he would take out the trash in the morning, you would wake up early and do it, responding innocently when he eyed the new bag in the can.
You worked hard at your HR internship, then came home and worked some more. You liked the space clean and organized, probably more than you even realized. It’s only that you were used to relying on yourself; not even your maintenance men were helpful–
“What are you doing?” Bucky said from somewhere above you, his tone sounding like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
You slid out from under the sink, wrench in hand, “There’s a leak.”
The crease in his brow was obvious, his mouth opened as if you said something offensive, “Didn’t you just get back from work?”
“Mhm.” You figured you could work and talk, leaning back under the sink.
“And you didn’t think to–hey!” Before you knew it, a hand was wrapped around your ankle, and you were tugged across the tile until you were no longer laying under the sink. Bucky had knelt down, like getting closer would get his point across, “I’m right here.”
Yes, yes he was. Right there. Close enough that you could lean up and you’d be sharing the same breath. You could pick the grey out from the blue in his eyes, the hint of something solemn, yet all you did was look at him with a questioning expression.
He sighed, shaking his head, “You’ve been working all day, let me fix the sink.” He held his hand out for the wrench.
You didn’t give it to him, “You’ve been working too.”
“From home,” he said simply, “You have been on your feet–”
“This doesn’t require me to be on my feet.” You motioned to the fact that you were very much on the floor.
He turned his head away, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “unbelievable” before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes again, “Why won’t you let me help?”
You didn’t want to open that topic at the moment, so you decided to hit him with the biggest card you had, “Do you not think I’m capable of fixing the sink?”
The look he gave you told you he was not going to fall for that game, but he only said: “I think you’re incapable of relaxing.”
You shrugged, “I’ll relax when the sink is fixed.”
“Or,” the wrench was plucked from your hand when you least expected it, “You go change, get settled, and I will have this fixed in thirty minutes.”
“Or,” you growled, reaching for the wrench he held high above your head, “you could let me–” you huffed, shifting to reach higher, “just give it–” you didn’t even think before using his shoulder as leverage, and your sentence turned into a squeal as you fell forward. Directly onto him. Your thighs split across his abdomen as you landed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale as he hit the tile. You hadn’t had much time to catch yourself and focus on grabbing the wrench, meaning you fell directly onto his chest.
You were certainly sharing air now.
The look on his face was… you didn’t have time to read the look on his face. You scrambled off him so quickly, muttering several “I’m so sorry”s and “oh my god”s because you were splayed completely across him and you felt way more than you should have and–
You only breathed once you got back to the safety of your room, realizing then that you basically just surrendered the battle. Your pride swelled, scolded you for losing focus all because you forgot what it felt like to be pressed up against…
You shook your head, not the time.
The next morning, you would turn the faucet to find the sink working perfectly. No leak at all. And Bucky wouldn’t mention a thing.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Somehow, it got worse after that. You noticed the vase on the coffee table, the green one you found thrifting, had a new bouquet every week. Now, when you came home late, he wouldn’t have just made you dinner, but he’d wait to eat his with you. At the table, without a phone in sight. When you went somewhere, found yourself cold halfway through whatever event you were attending, he’d appear with an extra jacket he’d brought, “because you were too stubborn to grab one, doll, even though you always get cold.” It was so… domestic. So unlike the life you had made.
So much so that at times, you panicked. Wanda and Natasha didn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain it. They told you to lean into it, and you didn’t know how to tell them you couldn’t. You had been pretty certain that you were happy as you were. You enjoyed your alone time, your career, and the community you had made. You didn’t need romance. You had once been told that love was a disease to a woman with ambition, and you had believed it wholeheartedly.
Now, you weren’t so sure.
You found yourself conflicted once you realized that no, James Barnes was not going to turn around at some point and resent you for all the helpful things he had done. You weren’t sure when it became such an obvious part of his character. Maybe somewhere between him knocking on the door while you showered to place towels—fresh from the dryer—on your counter and him calling every clinic in town on a Friday night to see who could fit you in when you were sick.
“Fuck—“ he threw the phone down on the couch next to your hip. He was crouching in front of you, hand running over his frustrated face. “Every clinic closed at 5.”
You only hummed in acknowledgment, too achy to care. You had been in and out of sleep the entire evening, going between shivering with a fever and breaking into a cold sweat. You only became more aware when you noticed him standing, reaching for his coat, “What are you—“
“We’re going to the ER.” He said as if he wasn’t, in your opinion, half mad. He shrugged on his coat then did a once over for you, turning to your room to presumably grab your shoes.
“What?” You croaked in the most astonished voice you could muster, sitting up on your elbows, “Buck–no, there’s no reason–”
He looked over his shoulder at you as if you were the crazy one, motioning to your form spread across the couch, “You’ve been like this all day. You can barely walk, you won’t eat, you’re feverish–”
“Listen to me…” You pushed yourself up slowly, your heart thundering like each movement was equivalent to a mile, “It is just a cold, I’m sorry–”
He stepped forward then, “Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn’t mean to take up your day, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening taking me somewhere or nursing me back to health.” You gave him a kind smile. You appreciated him, so much so that something else was blooming next to that ache in your chest. A sort of… fluttering. But this wasn’t his job, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you.”
He was silent for the time it took him to close the remaining space, his expression looking as if you had spoken a different language entirely. He crouched next to you, shaking his head and gently wrapping his hands around your shoulders to help you lay back down, “I don’t have anywhere else to be…”
“Still, I–”
“Why do you apologize for existing?” The words seemed to spill out of him, as if he couldn’t quite keep them in.
“What?”
“You’re human,” he whispered your name, absentmindedly checking his watch. It was time for medicine again, he reached for the pain reliever and your water. You had to give it to him, he didn’t look the least bit burdened. “It’s natural to need others.”
You took the medicine, laid your head back down, “I’ve taken care of myself this far, I can handle a common cold.”
He gave you that same look from the engagement party, but this time you read his smile as something akin to pity, or maybe affection? He lifted a hand to slide over your cheek, curling in your hair and smoothing it over your pillow, “I know you have, but now I’m here too.”
It didn’t matter when, just that you knew. This kindness was who he was, only that didn’t make him yours. The sweet words, soft touches, helpful gestures… James Barnes was a good man. Perhaps one of the best you would ever come to know, and that in of itself was more difficult than anything. You couldn’t brush him off as incompetent, or ill-mannered, or drowning in toxic masculinity, which had been so easy when dating up to that point. Only you weren’t dating, he wasn’t yours.
It became apparent when, a year after moving in, he announced, “I’m thinking of looking for my own space.”
You were eating takeout on the couch when he said it, curled up on opposite ends of and talking about nothing in particular prior. Then suddenly every nerve in your body lit, your focus zeroing.
Had you been wrong? Did he think you were taking advantage after all?
All you could say was, “Oh.” You set your carton down, suddenly not hungry. Suddenly the quiet atmosphere of the room felt as if you were suffocating.
He seemed to track the movement, as if assessing. His mouth pulled into a frown, “Yeah.”
You pulled your lips inward, biting down on them as you looked literally anywhere else. Which time had it been? When your laundry was done in the dryer, and you hadn’t noticed because you were knee-deep in paperwork, so he folded all of it for you? You hadn’t known what to think when he handed you a pile of your neatly folded panties with a slight blush across his cheeks. Or was it when he noticed your books were overflowing, so he surprised you on your birthday by building in an entire new section to the shelves?
The apartment was practically screaming his name at this point, filled to the brim with his actions. The flowers, the late night dinners, the shelves, all of it. If he had been trying to worm his way in, he had done it.
“It’s just… I saw some listings go up down the street,” he continued, picking at his chow mein, “figured I’d give them a look. Couldn’t hurt, right?”
Right.
You forced your throat to clear, planting on a supportive smile. This was your best friend, moving onto a new chapter of his life, you should be happy. You nodded eagerly, “Yes, that sounds great… um,” you unraveled your legs from below you, “I think I’m ready for bed actually…”
He furrowed his brows, “Already? We’re not even through the first Scream.”
You scrambled for words, “It’s been a long day.”
“Ah, I see,” bless him and his ability to bounce right back, “Natasha said you’re an easy scare, but I never thought–”
You smacked his shoulder, “I am not! You’re the one who was so focused on your book the other day that you jumped at the sound of the doorbell!”
He waved his finger at you, “Not fair! I was reading Stephen King!”
“And what? You were scared the pages were going to jump out at you?”
His mouth fell open, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere–”
Bucky jumped up at the same time as you, blocking your exit from the living you. You squealed, trying to get around the coffee table, but fuck him for being a goalkeeper. He follows you around, and you resort to trying to step onto the table for a fast exit, only to find his arms wrapping around you from behind. You screamed, the giggle in your throat making you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“Got you!” His voice was rough with laughter, and you felt him step back, easily picking you up completely.
“Oh my god,” you slapped his arm around your waist, “put me down!”
“Nope,” he fell back on the couch, bringing you with him. It was unfair, the way he held you, like your previous conversation never happened. His breath tickled your neck as he promised, “Not until we get through at least the first two movies.”
You did eventually make it back to your room that night, shutting the door and falling against it. Your hand came up to cover your mouth. You weren’t proud of the sobs that followed shortly after, or that chasm in your chest that now felt as if it had doubled in size. You groaned in frustration, pulling at your roots.
“There were rules, I had rules…” you pleaded to the ceiling, as if someone would hear you, as you sank to the floor. “I said I wouldn’t change my expectations… that I wouldn’t let it go too far.”
But at some point… it had. At some point, that fluttering you had felt began to wrap around the discomfort like a balm over your heart. It soothed, forcing your guard down. Letting you dream before you even realized you had been. Thinking about what it would be like to trust someone again. To have… not a man to babysit, but a partner who was equal to you in character and intelligence. You thought the girls who said they wanted a man they could turn their brains off with were naive, stupid even, until you started imagining how easy it would be with him. Not all the time, but like an even exchange. Being able to trust that he had you, just as he would trust that you had him.
It was becoming increasingly obvious what had happened.
“Damnit.” You sobbed, your forehead dropping to your knees.
You were upset, but also so angry. So pissed off at yourself for letting this happen. You were smarter than this, stronger than this. They said the most intelligent women didn’t fall for this bullshit, and here you were.
You let yourself cry quietly for another thirty minutes, then you forced yourself up. Off the floor, away from the door. You got ready for bed, and didn’t let yourself cry again. You had felt this before, and you had overcome this before. Yet, as you laid down, closing your eyes, you had a nagging feeling that one realization wasn’t going to go away.
You didn’t want to be alone forever, not anymore.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Claps rang out around the room, a few people drying tears on the corner of their napkins. Yelena’s maid of honor speech was funny and lighthearted, and yet still made hearts swell as she recounted childhood dramas and memories (or lack of) of late nights in college. She was even biting her lip at the end, trying to hold in a smile as she explained how Natasha never thought she’d find her person, until she met Steve. The cliche lines earned raised glasses, and knocked back champagne.
It was a gorgeous rehearsal dinner, with a small party. Both families had pitched in on the decorations. The colors were muted, but no less beautiful, with red roses centering each table. Candles lit up the entire room, washing everyone in a romantic, golden light. All of the guests were asked to wear colors while Natasha and Steve sat in white. It was everything Natasha had said was dumb before, and you enjoyed seeing her lean into it.
You enjoyed all of it, so much that it made that ache in your chest feel the size of a canyon. It was the same ache that had been building for a year, and you hated yourself for it. It was their day, and you wanted it to be perfect. But as you watched Steve pull her in, kiss her cheek, and the tension fall from her shoulders… all you could think was that you wanted that. That softness, that intimacy. Falling into someone and not wondering if they’d catch you.
But you’d been doing this for so long on your own, you weren’t even sure how to appeal to someone anymore. You weren’t necessarily flirty, or even playful unless you really knew the person. You also rarely found yourself attracted to strangers, so how would you even pick someone? There were too many variables, you wondered how anyone figured it out.
Bucky rose from the chair next to you a few moments later, after Yelena sat down. You watched him, in his blue suit, go to pick up the mic and smile to the room. He opened with something that made the room laugh, but you found yourself in a daze. There was nothing surprising about him, nor how he was dressed. You had seen him walk out of his room, had driven with him on the way here, had plenty of time to adapt to the way he seemed to take up the entire room, and yet… suddenly it felt as if he was the only one in the room.
You watched his eyes scan the room, “…Folks, I’m just the best man. I can’t speak for Steve or his feelings but, I believe love isn’t about lust or attraction… and yes, it is about friendship. About finding that woman who you want to share everything with, who you can’t get off your mind. But more importantly,” then his eyes landed on yours and he paused. Like it was just him and you and that wide smile, with eyes that matched his suit jacket. Then he found himself, cleared his throat, “it’s about finding the person you want to take care of for the rest of your life. The person that makes effort feel like a privilege…”
His eyes snapped away as he kept speaking, but you felt like you were about to throw up. This was the only variable. Every missing data point combined into one. Everything you wanted, right here.
And he would be leaving soon. Soon, you would be coming home to an empty apartment that still felt like him. You would have to move on and rebuild each wall, knowing all it took from him was a single look to knock them down.
Glasses raised, people cheered, the couple kissed. Bucky found his seat next to yours right as you swallowed a lump in your throat.
“How’d I do?” He leaned into your space, his arm coming around the back of your chair.
You managed a small smile, grateful for the steady and supportive tone of your voice, “Perfect, very romantic.”
Dinner was served, and everyone gathered. It was lovely, every single moment of it. The drunken laughter and kind remarks. Natasha and Steve fawning over each other. Sam teasing everyone in sight. Even Tony stood for a speech towards the end.
You chastised yourself every time the thought popped into your head: I want this. It wasn’t your day. It wasn’t yours to want. Even when your mind felt like it was racing a million miles a minute and you just wished that you had a soft place to land. A place to rest it all. Instead, you had driven away the one person who had been such a driving force in your life the past year. Now he was leaving too.
You tried to distract yourself by moving to the other side of the table with the excuse of visiting with Natasha to discuss bridesmaids plans for the next morning. It helped, for a moment. She was so lively about how she wanted everything done, and you were good with lists. Little boxes to check off, that was your area. The wine was a good call too, because two glasses in you were giggling and successfully avoiding glances from down the table.
It would only last so long though, you supposed, because once dinner was over you were out of options. You hugged every last person, even the family members you didn’t know, taking extra long on your goodbyes. But, finally, you met him back at the door with a tense smile.
Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets, angling his neck to get a better look at you, “You alright?”
You nodded, bouncing on your heels, “Yeah, ready to go?” The valet would be bringing the car back soon.
He only tensed his brows and raised the back of his hand to your cheek, “You sure, you’re flushed?”
“Oh,” you didn’t mean to flinch away, it was only a reflex, “I probably had too much wine.” Which you were regretting, just now remembering that wine did not get you tipsy in the same way vodka or tequila did. You were tired now, and every thought you had from earlier was rushing back. You turned for the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation and knowing he would follow. The valet had, indeed, brought the car around, and you hopped in the passenger side after thanking them.
Bucky took the driver's seat, adjusting his arm behind your head to reverse out of the narrow lot. He was mostly quiet, save for when he made sure you were buckled. You held your breath against the swelling emotions, trying to bat away the voices in your head. You felt at war, like the two different sides of yourself wanted very different things. One screamed it’s better this way, while the other responded it doesn’t have to be. Both had valid arguments.
In the five years you had been single, you had made the most progress in your career and financial independence. You knew yourself better, had built a better routine, and had become comfortable without the opinions of others. However, there had also been nights where all you wanted was a pair of arms wrapped around you. There were times you ate dinner, and wished you had someone across from you to talk about your day with. Someone to dance in the kitchen with… or even the more intimate aspects. Someone who took their time with you, learning every inch of your skin without a selfish expectation. Someone who just wanted to be with you.
That lump in your throat became too much, and you coughed into your elbow, trying to release some of the tension in your chest. You began to feel pins and needles breaking out over your skin, your hands feeling restless and unsure of what to do with themselves.
You felt his eyes glance over at you before focusing back on the road. You were on a backroad now, the dinner having been out of the city. After several moments of quiet traveling, he finally spoke, “I’m not sure if I told you, you look stunning tonight.” It was a soft compliment, his hand slowly reaching over to squeeze your knee, because of course he knew something was wrong. “This dress is lovely.”
It was too much, all of it. You couldn’t even remember the last time a man complimented something specific on you. When it was dangled in front of you like this, you found you enjoyed it too much. You felt greedy with the need for more, like you wanted this to be your normal.
But he was leaving.
The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, all of it suddenly becoming too much. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, turning away, but it was already too late. Bucky only squeezed your knee one last time before bringing his hand back to the wheel with a pained sigh. You noticed the car slowing, finding him pulling over to the shoulder. You grunted in disapproval, something like an apology. For causing a scene? For being selfish? For having agreed to this in the first place? All of the above?
Once the car stopped, you heard him unbuckle and turn to you. Then, a hand gently pried the one from your mouth, “Sweetheart? Talk to me.”
You only hung your head, your teeth clenching around more sobs. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block everything out.
He was persistent. He moved your hair behind your ear, trying to get a look at you, “What’s going on,” with a plea of your name he said, “please?”
You shook your head, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know–”
“Don’t apologize,” then he was taking your cheeks in his hands, giving you no choice but to turn to him. He made a pained noise when he saw your tears, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, “Tell me what it is, pretty girl. Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”
That felt like salt on a wound, your breath releasing from your chest broken and cracked. You tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let you. One hand slid to cup your nape while the other unbuckled you, tugging your knees till you faced him more. It only made you cry harder.
“You gotta talk to me, I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.”
You finally broke with a, “You don’t need to do anything!”
He wasn’t having it, “Bullshit. You’ve been out of it all night, and now you’re bawling your eyes out. Best believe I’m going to figure out what caused those tears and–”
“I’m tired!” you emphasized the words, trying to give them more meaning than they had on their own.
His brows furrowed, “Of what?”
“Everything! All of it.” You motioned your hands as if that was a good explanation, “I’m so fucking selfish! It’s someone else’s night and all I could think about–all I’ve been thinking about–is how goddamn tired I am of doing everything myself.”
“You don’t have to,” a hand runs through your hair, smoothing it, almost lulling you.
“But I can! I was! For a long time! And-and then suddenly…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders and finally forcing yourself to look away from him.
He squeezed your knee again, “Suddenly?”
You shook your head again, but not necessarily to his question. More so, to the tone of his voice, the earnestness of it. He cared so much, and it was as heartbreaking as it was exhilarating to be the center of his attention.
It must have been the exhilarated side that quietly answered: “You.”
“Me?”
“You!” You repeated with more confidence, “You showed me something different and now you’re leaving and… I don’t know…” You searched for the words, “do you ever get tired of being alone?”
Your question seemed to send the car into such thick silence that you couldn’t stand to stare out the front dash anymore. Slowly, you turned to look at him. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were downcast, his mouth hung as if he had no clue what to say.
Shame spread across your cheeks. You’d really done it this time. In a matter of months, weeks for all you knew, he’d be gone. He wanted to leave, and here you were saying silly things. Embarrassing yourself. This was why you hadn’t dated.
But that was a lie. You hadn’t dated because you hadn’t felt this in a very long time. If ever.
When Bucky finally did move, it was to shift the car back into gear. His other hand moved back to the steering wheel at the same time that you said, “I’m sorry.”
It was his turn to shake his head, “Just…” his voice was rough, pained, “Just let me take you home. I think… I think you need to see something.” He pulled back onto the highway, careful of the speed limit despite the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel.
The ride was quiet, save for your sniffles as you tried to quit crying. You had no idea what he meant, no clue what he might want to show you at home that you didn’t already know about. Or maybe it was something else… a lease he’d already signed? His bags packed neatly in his room? Maybe he just wanted out of this car before telling you how tiresome this past year has been for him. Either way, you were determined to pull it together by the time you entered the parking garage.
And you had, for the most part. To his credit, he didn’t seem the least bit angry getting out of the car. You both walked calmly up the stairs to the apartment, and you waited for him to unlock the door. When you walked inside, however, he did not lead you to his room to show you any documents or boxes. He did not turn and give you a piece of his mind.
He walked to the bookshelf.
Your face twisted in confusion as his hands went directly to the spine of the book he was after, not even taking a second to search. Like he knew the exact spot it lived in like the back of his hand. And when he turned, you saw the cover was the same book he had pulled months ago when you had stood against those shelves together. The Notebook. The same book he had annotated for you without a word, that you had put back before even beginning to flip through the pages.
Now, however, he was thumbing through them himself. When he stopped, three fourths through the book, he opened it fully and turned it to you. His eyes met yours again, the first time since you had spoken in the car, as he handed you the book. You took it without question, looking at him for a few moments before finally turning your eyes to the page. And right there, where highlight draws over lines of Noah confessing to Allie what is loving her has meant to him, is the only annotation written in your favorite pink ink:
When I read these love stories, about a man who cares for a woman until his dying breath, I only ever think of one person. Love at first sight might not exist, but I have cared for you from the very first moment. Then again at every party, every class, every dinner, and every night in this little apartment.
Oh.
You blinked several times, reread the words to the point that he probably thought you were illiterate, but you only wanted to make sure they were real. Then you looked up at him, with his bitten lip and puppy-dog eyes. You mouthed wordlessly for several seconds before landing on a single question, “James–”
“I was betting on you getting curious when the book was missing,” he shrugged, “I guess I was wrong.”
You shook your head, “You weren’t, I-I did look. I just didn’t get too far because…”
“You got scared.” He understood.
You finally met his eyes, “You don’t think I’m too much?”
The exhale he let out was soft and full of pity, yet he still stepped forward. “I think,” he said, “that you have been left alone for far too long,” he gently took the book, setting it on the arm of the couch next to you, “and I am sorry that anyone ever made you think you had to do this alone.”
You couldn’t breathe, “I—“
“I love you.” His hands cradled your face once again, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly. He was so close, close enough to do whatever he pleased, and yet he still waited.
Only until you said: “I love you too.”
Then he was kissing you without reprieve. There was no hesitancy in the way he took your purse from your shoulder, dropped it to the floor, and backed you against the door. You took no time in responding, your mouth matching his kiss or kiss. Your hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding down to fist his shirt in your fingers. It was a consuming sort of kiss, and not just for the fact that you hadn’t kissed someone in years. It was him, and it was overwhelming in the way that it felt right.
You forced yourself to pull back before you could melt into him, giggling when his lifts tried to follow yours. “I just…” you leaned against the door, looking up at him, “I thought you wanted to leave?”
His breath was already ragged, and you could practically hear his heart pounding. It didn’t stop him from shaking his head, “No, sweetheart.” The words were breathed against your forehead before his lips dropped to your skin, planting kisses on your forehead before reaching your cheeks, “I never wanted to leave, but being near you and…” his exhale was hungered, full of longing, “and not having you, it’s like torture.”
“I know the feeling…” you replied, voice no more than a whisper.
The groan he let out was like nothing you had heard from any man before, and then his lips were on yours again. There was nothing held back about it. He fisted your hair and tugged your head back, his tongue sliding along yours when you gasped. You didn’t need him to hold you there, you were more than happy to arch into him, and he knew it. His hands slid down next, over the fabric of your butter yellow dress, brushing your thighs right where the hem ends. He mumbled something against your mouth, but you were too focused on the taste and feel of him. His muscles were both hard and soft all in one, and it was the safest place you had ever been. And as you ran your hands down the definition of his abdomen, you found yourself dizzy with more than just love.
He pulled away when it was obvious you hadn’t heard him, and only then did you notice his fingers brushing up under your dress. Your breath hitched, fingers flexing against him. He nudged your nose with his, whispering again, “Will you let me?”
You knew what he was asking without any clarification, because your body was miles ahead. Still, you hesitated. Could you do this? Did you still even know how? What if you messed up? Or couldn’t please him? Or–
Bucky whispered your name, thumb brushing your cheek, “You’re overthinking.”
“It’s just been a long time for me.” You bit your lip, watching his eyes track the movement.
He nodded like he knew, because of course he knew. “I just want you to relax, okay? Let me take care of you.”
You weren't prepared for how easy it would be to listen to the gentle command, to uncurl your fingers from his shirt and let go of the urgency because he had you. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh as he pulled you up to wrap your legs around him. And then he really was against you, and you gasped once again against his mouth. He smiled as he turned to walk down the hall, undoubtedly knowing that you can feel all of him pressed to you. And judging by your perception of size, "all" was a considerable amount.
He entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him, and brought you to his bed. He kissed you once more before laying you down on the white comforter and leaning back to get a better look at you. Your hair fanned across the bed, your dress riding up your thighs. He smirked down at you, his hands coming up to your thighs.
"Gorgeous," he mumbled, more to himself, and ran his hands down to wrap around your ankles. You squealed as he gave a sudden tug, pulling you to the edge of the bed where your thighs fell on either side of him. Your dress was ridden up to your hips by that point, putting the cotton of your ordinary panties on display.
Not that it seemed to make any difference to him, he was still intent on looking his fill. So much so, you felt yourself start to squirm at the attention, letting out a whine.
He only tutted, shrugging off his suit jacket before his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, "Patience, sweetheart." Then he was shirtless, and you couldn't have formed a remark if you wanted to. He was all definition under soft, tanned skin. When he finally brought himself down, his body covering yours, you did not hesitate to run your hands along his chest and shoulders.
You could have stayed there like that for a long while, just feeling him pressed against you. But Bucky was the one losing patience all of the sudden, with his lips against yours and his hands at the hem of your dress. You moaned when he bit down on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, and he used the moment to drag your dress up your sides and over your head. It had been wired, leaving you without the choice of a bra, not that you regretted it when you heard the groan he let out at the sight of you under him.
Then his mouth was on you, leaving nips along your collarbone before dropping down to your breasts. You cursed in response to the sensation, gasping his name as your fingers flew to his hair.
"Fuck," his lips let go of your nipple just to mumble against your skin, "dreamt of this, having you under me," he sucked a hickey onto your skin, "thought I was an awful man for wanting you at my mercy, but look at you," his hips rolled into yours, you arched and pulled at his hair, "you're loving this."
"Please," you breathed as his mouth closed around the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
"Please what, baby?" He trailed kisses down your stomach next, before he dropped off the bed. Next thing you knew, he was kneeling in front of you.
You could only squirm, feeling pinned under him, "I-I don't know..."
He hummed, still so pleased with you, "I know, I know what you need. You just lay there and take it, doll."
The very idea made your insides burn, pleasure licking up your spine as his lips ghosted along the seem of your panties. He kissed over them, completely shameless to the eroticism of his actions. You, on the other hand, were speechless. Your thighs were already close to shaking and he had barely touched you. He knew the effect he had too, if his smirk was any clue. He watched for your reaction as he brought his hands to the sides, slowly bringing them down your legs.
You closed your knees on instinct, but he wasn't having it. He pulled them apart with a warning look at you and placed one thigh over his shoulder, his other hand pinning your knee to the bed. You couldn't take your eyes off his expression though, seeing the hunger in his eyes when they finally fell on you. He exhaled, his voice rough, "look at you," then his thumb was pushing through your folds, dragging down the seem of your cunt. "Already so wet for me. I think I deserve a taste, don't you?"
You gasped, not even thinking when you started nodding, your hips already grinding against his thumb.
He hummed, nipping at the inside of your thigh, "So good f'me." Then he was on you, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit before his mouth sucked hard. It was your turn to cry out a curse, your hips coming off the bed. But he adjusted, an arm wrapping under your thigh and coming back up to hold your hips down. "So sweet," his voice vibrated against you, "can't believe you kept this from me."
"Didn't want to," you whined, words barely coherent, "didn't wanna--"
"Mm," he pulled back, thumb replacing his mouth and working your clit while he watched your reaction. "We're gonna make up for all that lost time, yeah baby?"
You nodded incessantly, muttering pleas as his pointer finger found your entrance.
"Gotta get my pretty girl ready," he mumbled, more so to himself, as he pushed the finger in and found immediate resistance. He wasn't discouraged, though. His mouth found your clit again, laving and sucking until your thighs began to shake. Slowly, you began to relax to the point that he was able to move the finger in and out, curving it into the spot that made you let out a needy whine.
"There she is," he smiled against you, and you thought you might have found heaven. When he used a second finger with his tongue, his arm pulling your hips flush against his mouth, you found yourself repeating words over and over. "Please"s and "I love you"s tumbling out. He talked you through all of it. The second your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth opened with a scream, he was encouraging you with "good girl"s and "give it to me"s and "please, baby"s.
He didn't stop until you were tugging on his hair and trying to pull him back up. When he sat up, he was breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide. And when he brought himself back onto the bed, you could so clearly see the evidence of his arousal. You bit your lip, hard, and looked up at him with an expression you were sure gave away exactly what you wanted. If it didn't, it didn't really matter, because then you were tugging him down over you.
His mouth met yours again, and you tasted yourself on him. It was consuming, but you didn't let it distract you from moving your hands to the zipper of his slacks. You weren't about to waste any time, and with the way he was grinding against you, he wasn't either. He kicked his pants and boxers down the minute you pushed them past his hips, both of you groaning at the feeling of skin on skin.
He kissed you hard once more, taking a moment to admire you, before leaning up on his forearm. Using his other hand, he brought your leg over his hip. His forehead dropping down to yours, he whispered, "You gonna let me take care of you?"
You could only nod, feeling him adjust and run the head of his cock up through your wetness and against your clit. You could barely see straight.
He smiled, pleased, "Breathe for me, okay? Relax." He waited to watch you obey, pulling in a deep breath and melting against him all over again. Then he pushed against you, the tip of him sinking slowly inside. He took the moment to pinch the nipple of one of your breasts, making you cry out and push against him. It made the pleasure of him thrusting into you sharper, better than you ever remember this being.
He cursed once again, moaning your name against your ear as he pulled out only to sink back in. "So tight. Perfect. And just for me, aren't you?"
You nodded, eyes rolling back as he set a rhythm.
But he grasped your chin, made you look at him, "Say it, tell me you're all mine."
It took you a minute to find your words, too focused on the feeling of him dragging inside you. There was no way it had always been like this, there had to be something different about James Barnes. Him and the way his cock pushed inside you, making stars dance in your vision.
"'m yours, Bucky, all yours. Please--"
"That's right," he pushed harder, his thumb dropping back down to press against your clit, "My perfect girl and her tight cunt, all for me." He dropped his mouth to your breast, sucking and biting down gently, "All for me to take care of."
The words mixed with all of the sensations happening in your body were too much. You felt your legs tighten around him, your hips lifting to meet his, mumbling his name and whining into his neck when you began to press kisses into it.
"Mhm, that feel good, doll?" the room was full of the noises of slapping skin and heavy breathing, "You gonna cum for me?"
You cried out, hands grasping at his back and nails dragging across his skin, "Uh huh, please!"
"Don't gotta beg me, I'll give you anything you want. As long as you keep letting me take care of you." He groaned, his thrusts turning sporadic, "Fuck, and letting me spread those legs and ruin this pussy. Please, baby..."
You felt your body tighten around the pleasure, the buildup from your first orgasm to your second feeling ten times more intense. And being pinned down underneath him while he whispered dirty words and promises of love only added to the pleasure as it hit you. You screamed his name so loud he was forced to put a hand over your mouth so the whole apartment wouldn't hear. He didn't last much longer either, his mumbles turning to whimpers of your name as he thrust through his orgasm.
You were both left with ragged breaths and sweaty skin after, letting out quiet laughs as your kisses turned lazy and sweet rather than rough. He ran his hands up and down your sides as you combed yours through his messy hair.
"Are you okay?" You found yourself asking.
He chuckled, "That's my line." Then he slowly began to pull out, watching your reaction as you winced at the soreness. He brought a hand to your hip, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.
You bit your lip, feeling a hint of that worry seep back in as he gave you a once over, "But... are you?"
He met your eyes again, reading you like a book. You watched as it dawned on him what you meant, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, swiping your hair from your cheeks. "I'm not sure I could be better," he pulled back, "I love you. I mean it, I'm not going anywhere."
You sighed, any last bits of tension seeping from your muscles, "I love you too."
He smiled, standing and scooping you up into his arms once more. You squealed again, securing your arms around his neck and bringing your lips to his for one last peck. He then buried his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent as he walked towards the bathroom.
"What are we doing?" You rested your head on his shoulder as you let him take you wherever he pleased.
"Taking care of you," he said simply, "You barely ate at dinner. So, I'm gonna get you cleaned up, then we'll eat something."
You hummed, and for once didn't worry about the where, or why, or how of it all. You let him take the lead, knowing he had you. You were safe. You were loved.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
note: this might have felt a little daydreamy... and that's because it really was just me daydreaming about actually finding a competent man. As a hyper-independent, anxious girly, I won't be putting bets on it. But I sure can dream about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. :)
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summary: Every psychic and every tarot deck tells the same story: love isn't meant for you. Every reading ends the same way—until one skeptical customer pulls three cards that were never meant to belong to him. Suddenly, the future you've spent years trying to outrun refuses to leave you alone.
word count: 11.3 k
warnings: sort of enemies to friends to lovers, meet ugly, tarot, soulmates, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending.
a/n: based on The Prophecy by Taylor Swift, been 7 weeks stuck in my drafts, I hope you like the outcome as much as I liked writing it for you! Beta read by @kileyking & @buckysdecaflove ❤︎ | dividers by @strangergraphics
read on AO3
Your family doesn't mean to hurt you. They just do.
It's the same every reunion, somebody's hand landing warm on your shoulder. When are you going to bring someone for us to meet? Are you ever gonna get married? That boat's sailed, hon. You missed your shot.
And their newest addition, just now: So, when's your turn? We really thought you'd be the next one walking down the aisle.
You're in your thirties now. Two cats, an apartment that's exactly how you want it, and you learned a long time ago to deflect, to laugh, to change the subject before anyone got too invested in your answer.
But those words stung.
Because god knows you've tried dating. You wanted the thing everyone kept asking you about, but you couldn't seem to hold onto it. Somewhere along the way you accepted that maybe you weren't meant to, just like the cards said once.
When the answer your cards gave you wasn't good enough, you tried something else: the oracle, rune-casting, pendulum, palmistry. You even ran the extra mile and paid someone to read your matrix destiny, but the answer remained the same: Not for you.
Apparently, the person meant for you was born over a hundred years ago, it wasn't meant to be in this life. Or at least, that's what the woman interpreted for you, it wasn't your line of work, but that night you pulled the cards alone and they confirmed it.
Your mom leans over, snapping you out of your thoughts. "They want you to say something."
You already knew this, you prepared days ago sitting in your apartment with your cats. You wrote and rewrote on your phone, trying to keep your words light and genuine.
"I've known Sarah since we were kids," you say. "She was always the one who knew exactly what she wanted. Not confused like the rest of us, not second-guessing. She just knew."
You can see her smiling, David's hand rest on her shoulder. You take a breath, your eyes are swelling with tears, but that's fine. That's normal at weddings.
"Sarah, David… you deserve each other, and you deserve the whole beautiful future you're about to have together. I hope you know how lucky you are, how blessed you are." Your voice wavers just slightly on that word. "Not everyone gets this, not everyone finds someone who loves them the way you love each other."
You're looking at Sarah and you mean every single word, even though it's cutting into you.
You raise your glass, trying to keep your hand steady despite the awful feeling sitting on your stomach. "To Sarah and David, and the future you deserve."
Later, when you're home at the outskirts of the city, with your cats curled on either side of you, you let yourself cry. Not angry tears, just the deep kind that come from watching someone else get the thing you've accepted you never will.
You think about the cards, about the woman who read your destiny and the words that have chased you since you were seventeen: The person meant for you was born out of time.
And your cousin's husband was born exactly at the right moment, in the right place, in the right life.
You're happy for her, you really are.
You're just so tired of helping everyone else find the life the cards promised would never belong to you.
The fair comes to the edge of your small town every spring, and you've been here for three years now. Your shop is small—just enough room for a folding table, two chairs, and the cards that you've been reading since you've been a teenager and decided to expand the gift you've inherited from your great grandmother.
The bell above the shop door chimes on a slow afternoon, and you look up from the velvet cloth you're arranging to find a couple standing in the doorway. The woman sees your altar in the corner, the crystals and the candles and her face lights up.
"Oh, this is perfect," she says, turning to him. "See? I told you we'd find someone authentic."
The man—dark hair, broad-shouldered, pierced-blue eyes and a very defined jawline— gives you a polite, slightly uncomfortable smile.
"Hey," he says. "She's been talking about you for weeks."
"Come in," you say, standing. You wipe your hands on your skirt. "Welcome to The Velvet Oracle, do you have an appointment?"
"I called yesterday," the woman says, stepping forward, hand extended. "I'm Hazel, this is Bucky. I want a couple's reading, we've been dating for four months and I just thought, you know, let's see what the future holds for us."
You gesture to the chairs across from you. "Sit, let's see what the cards have to say."
Hazel settles in, leans forward eagerly. Bucky sits back with his arms crossed. You don't let yourself look at him too long, because every time you do it you feel your stomach dropping, like when you miss a step in the dark.
You shuffle the deck, the familiar worn edges of the cards grounding you against your palms.
"Alright," you start. "For a couple's reading, I usually pull a few cards for each person individually, and then we'll look at the relationship as a whole. Sound good?"
Hazel nods enthusiastically, but Bucky's expression is somewhere between polite discomfort and outright skepticism.
"I gotta be honest," he says, glancing around the tent at the crystals and candles, "this isn't really my thing."
"I know, baby, but it'll be fun." Hazel tugs at his sleeve until he relents, uncrossing his arms. "Just let her do the reading, okay? For me."
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and his expression softens for her. You don't know why, but that somehow makes you wanna cry.
You focus on Hazel, spreading the deck in a smooth arc across the velvet. "Go ahead and pull three cards when you're ready."
She leans forward, her fingers hovering dramatically before selecting. The first card makes you nod slowly—the Ace of Pentacles. A seed planted in rich soil. The second is the Empress, all abundance and growth. The third one is the World.
"Completion, fulfillment, a cycle coming to a close in the best possible way."
Hazel beams. "That's good, right?"
"Very good," you gesture at the Ace of Pentacles. "Pentacles are earth energy—practical, grounded, built to last. This is a new beginning with a solid foundation. The Empress suggests growth and nurturing, maybe even family, and the World is a major arcana card of fulfillment. Whatever you're building toward, the universe is supporting it."
"I'm a Taurus!" Hazel claps her hand together. "That's an earth sign. This is so accurate, oh my god! Earth energy for an earth sign, that has to mean something."
"It suggests alignment," you say carefully, because you've learned not to over-promise."The path you're on has stability written into it."
Hazel turns to Bucky with bright eyes. "See? I told you she was the real deal."
Bucky shifts in his chair, unmoved. "Great, so what about the rest of it?"
"Your turn," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Three cards, same as before."
He looks at the deck like it might bite him. "I don't really believe in this stuff."
"It's just cards," you say. "They only have the power you give them."
Something shifts in his expression—not quite interest, but maybe a grudging willingness. Hazel nudges him with her elbow. "Just do it, Bucky. For me."
He sighs, leans forward and taps three cards with a soldier's precision. One, two, three. No hesitation, like he wants it over with.
You turn the first card: The Lovers.
Your breath catches. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers have gone cold against the velvet.
"The Lovers," you say, and your voice comes out steady, despite the static in your ears. "This card is about significant choices. A crossroad in a relationship or a deep connection that requires a decision."
Hazel practically squeals with excitement. "That's us! A deep connection!"
Bucky doesn't react. His eyes are on the card, but his face gives nothing away.
You turn the second card. The High Priestess.
The card you've pulled for yourself more times than you can count since you were seventeen. Intuition. The veil between worlds. The woman in the card stares at you from the table, and for a disorienting second you swear the woman on the card has your eyes.
"The High Priestess represents hidden knowledge," you manage. "Things beneath the surface, secrets, intuition… the parts of ourselves we don't fully understand yet."
"What does that have to do with Bucky?" Hazel asks, frowning slightly.
"I'm not sure yet," you lie, because you're suddenly horribly sure of exactly what's happening, and you want to sweep the cards off the table and pretend you never touched them.
You flip the third card with a trembling hand. The Ace of Cups.
The card of new love, emotional awakening. The beginning of something that fills the heart. It's the same card that you've always pulled up reversed for yourself every single time you ask the universe if there's anyone out there for you.
Now here it is, on his spread… along with your arcana.
"A new emotional beginning," you say after a moment of silence. "The Ace of Cups is the start of something in matters of the heart. It's a very powerful, personal card."
Hazel turns to Bucky, her earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Is that about us? Wait— water and earth complement each other, right? Bucky's a Pisces, that's a water sign, I'm earth. That's good isn't it? They balance."
"Water and earth can be very nurturing together," you say, because it's true, even if the cards aren't saying that. "But these cards feel more like a personal message for Bucky, something individual, not necessarily about the relationship."
You don't remember what you say after that. Something about water signs and intuition, something about the cards reflecting individual journeys within partnerships. You're very good at small talk, at telling people something they might want to hear while the cards tell you something else entirely.
Hazel pays you in cash, and she leaves with her hand tucked into Bucky's elbow, already chattering about dinner reservations. He lingers in the doorway for half a second, looking back at you with an expression you can't read. Then the bell chimes, and they're gone.
You sit in silence for a long time, staring at the three cards, still laid out on the velvet. You gather them up with shaking hands and slip them back into the deck, but you can feel them there, warm against the others, like embers buried in ash.
That night, you pull your own cards for the first time in months. You stopped asking about love a year ago, because the answer never changed—the reversed Ace of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Tower. But tonight, you need to know if you imagined it, if the shop was too warm, if you simply wanted something so badly your mind bent the cards to fit.
You shuffle the deck until your fingers ache and cut the deck three times before pulling: The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
Exactly the same spread from earlier.
You throw the deck across your kitchen table and watch the cards scatter like birds. You don't read them, you don't need to.
The dreams start three nights later.
You're in the shop, but once you pay enough attention you realize it's not your shop—it's larger, older, with windows that look out onto a street you've never seen, snow falling in thick, silent curtains. Bucky is there, sitting across from you, but he's different. Younger, somehow, though you can't explain how you know that. He's smiling at you, and he reaches across the table to take your hand.
You wake up gasping, your sheets are twisted around your legs, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The second time you dream of him, you're dancing. You're not able to see if it's anywhere specific. It's a dark room, there is music playing from somewhere distant, his hand on your waist, his cheek pressed against your temple. He smells like cedar and leather. You can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of your dress. When you wake up, you can still feel them.
You start drinking chamomile tea before bed. You burn sage. You place an amethyst under your pillow and a black tourmaline at your door, but nothing works. The dreams continue, threading themselves through your sleep like a second life you're living in parallel, and in every single one, he seems like the answer to a question you've been asking for a very long time.
You don't tell anyone. Who would believe you? What would you even tell them? I had a tarot reading go wrong and now I'm psychically stalking my client's boyfriend in my dreams. You'd sound insane. Worse, you'd sound desperate.
You don't hear from Hazel or him again. You tell yourself it's a good thing. You tell yourself the dreams will fade, that the thread between you dissolves with distance and time… except they don't fade, they get worse.
In your dreams you're now in Brooklyn, walking down streets lined with brownstones, and he's beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He's telling you about his day, about his past, and you listen until his words start to fade. When you wake up, you can smell his cologne in the air.
You start taking walks in the afternoon, though you don't know why. You pull your cards again, desperate for something—anything—to change.
The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion. The cycle you've been trapped in for years, except this time the Tower doesn't feel like another heartbreak waiting to happen. It feels like change—the kind you can't stop even if you wanted to.
You don't sleep that night. You sit on your kitchen floor with your cats weaving between your legs, and you rearrange the cards in every configuration you know: Celtic cross, three card spread, relationship spread, past-present-future. Every single time, the same arc emerges: something is ending, something is beginning. And whatever comes next will leave you irrevocably changed.
Your aunt Margaret—Maggie, as you've called her since you were little—tells the family that she has broken her hip on the cellar stairs, that the surgery went fine, but she doesn't want a nurse or a help aide. She wants someone from the family who can come stay with her or she'll manage alone.
The call gets passed down through the entire family, but nobody offers to go take care of her. Your cousins have husbands, kids, mortgages, school pickups… Meanwhile, you have two cats and a tarot shop you can shutter for a season, and nobody says it out loud, but everybody means it: you're the one with nothing to leave behind.
You arrive on a Tuesday with your two cat carriers, three suitcases and the deck wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of your tote. Maggie is waiting in the front room of the brownstone, sat in a wingback chair with a cane across her knees.
"There she is, I knew you would come," she says. "Come kiss me."
You oblige before setting the carriers on the floor and opening them to let your cats wander around and recognize the place you'd be staying for a few weeks.
"I got two rules," Maggie starts, taking off her reading glasses. "The thermostat stays where I put it, and no cards in my house."
"Maggie—"
"I know what you carry around, I have enough ghosts in this old apartment, so there's no way I'm letting you welcome more through…that."
"They're just cards."
"Then it won't kill you to leave them in the bag," she settles back into the chair and picks her crossword up off the side table, and that is the end of it. "The kettle's on, you can take the room at the top of the stairs."
You know arguing with her would be useless, so you go and install yourself in that cramped old room and decide you'll read when she's asleep.
It becomes a ritual within the first week: you wait for the apartment to go quiet, wait for her snoring to even out and you sit at the kitchen table with the deck and a single candle as if you were a teenager sneaking cigarettes. Your cats take turns supervising from the counter, but you keep one ear on the ceiling the whole time, just in case.
Every single time, the same cards you pull at your shop with Bucky keep coming.
The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
The dreams don't fade with the distance from home, they sharpen. Now the businesses have names, because you've walked past it every time you go run errands for your aunt Maggie. The stoop where he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched, you know it. You've seen the exact iron railing, three blocks east. In one dream he laughs at something, and you wake up missing something you haven't even seen in real life.
You try to build a reasonable conclusion: You've been here previously, you know this neighborhood. You just did one reading to a ridiculous handsome man eight months ago and your lonely, overworked brain latched on, and now it's trying to dress a crush in destiny because it's something you've been trying to change your whole life. That's all this is. A simple crush and a reader's block. It happens sometimes to some people, right?
At least that's what Reddit said last time you checked.
You've almost convinced yourself by the third Saturday in October, which is when you see him at the green market, standing at a fruit stall with a paper bag in one gloved hand. You stop so fast a woman with a stroller clips your heel.
Eight months and four hundred miles, and he's right here, wearing a canvas jacket with his hair shorter than you remember, frowning at the fruit, and your first coherent thought is run, but your feet are refusing to move.
He must've felt your eyes on him, because he looks up.
"You," he says it flat.
"Hi," your voice comes out steadier than you expect, and you silently thank god, the universe and every existent deity. "Bucky, right?"
He crosses the few feet between you, and up close you notice a tension in him that you don't remember from the shop. "What are you doing here?"
"Buying some groceries." You lift the bag as evidence. "I'm here taking care of my aunt and—"
"Right, so now your aunt happens to live here. Funny."
"You can come with me and check if you don't believe me," the bite gets into your voice before you can stop it. "Is there a problem?"
He laughs once, but there's no humor in it. "Is there a problem, you ask? Why don't you pull your cards and figure it out?"
"Okay—"
"Hazel broke up with me," he watches your face while he says it. "Three weeks after that reading, you want to know why?"
The market noise keeps going around you, crates and gulls and a vendor calling out prices, but everything is reducing to background noise while you feel the cold coming up from through your boots.
"She couldn't let it go," he continues. "You said something about a new beginning, some big personal message and she turned it over until there was nothing left. Every conversation we had circled back to it, who is she? When did it start? The cards don't lie. Four months, gone, because you laid out three stupid pieces of laminated paper and made it sound like some stupid prophecy."
"That isn't what I said— "
"Well, it's what she heard."
"I told her those cards were about you, individually. I was careful—"
"You were vague," he says, "which is the whole trick, isn't it? Say something soft enough to fit any shape, take the cash, let people destroy themselves filling in the blanks… there's a word for that." He shifts the bag of groceries to his other hand. "You're a fraud. The polite version is intuitive, a fraud with esoteric words."
You should let it go. He's a stranger, he's grieving a relationship, the market is crowded and you have other things to do, but you don't let it go.
"I didn't make those cards come up." You step in instead of back, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that you didn't fold. "I shuffled, you pulled three cards, it was your own hands, no hesitation. I read what was on the table and I softened it more than I should have, for her sake. What she did with it afterward isn't mine to carry, and neither is what you do with it."
A muscle moves in his jaw. For a second neither of you says anything, and you notice—stupidly, uselessly—that his eyes are exactly the color they are in your dreams.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Hazel."
"Yeah, you sure do." He steps around you. "Enjoy Brooklyn and stay the hell away from me."
You stand there with your own groceries until your hands stop shaking.
That night you don't pull cards. You lie awake instead, replaying it, building better arguments hours too late, and when you finally sleep, he's there—sitting across a kitchen table that doesn't exist, pushing a cup of coffee toward you, smiling at you the way he has never smiled once in real life.
You wake up furious at your own mind.
The radiator in the front room dies the last week of October, the same week the temperature does.
You find Maggie in her wingback with a blanket over her knees and the phone already against her ear. "It's the front one again," she's saying. "It clanks like the devil and gives nothing… No, don't be silly, after lunch is fine. You'll eat here anyway." She hangs up before whoever it is can argue.
"I could've called someone," you say. "There's a service the pharmacy recommends—"
"A service?" She huffs a laugh, like you've said something completely irrational. "I have James, he does the whole block—the Russo's gutters, Mrs. Ferreira's stairs… he won't take a dime, but I tuck it in his jacket when he isn't looking."
"James," you repeat.
"You'll like him," she says, returning to her crossword. "He's a serious boy, it's good with hands, single…"
The doorbell rings at one. You open the door and there he is, on your aunt's stoop, a tool bag over his shoulder, and you watch the exact moment his face goes through the market all over again.
"You gotta be shitting me," he mutters.
"Yeah, well, I'm not excited either, but I told you I was taking care of my aunt."
From the front room, your aunt's voice: "James! Don't let the heat out, it's the one radiator still working in here!"
You look at each other and there's a long moment where you genuinely cannot tell whether he's going to turn around and walk back down the steps, and then he exhales through his nose and crosses the threshold, being painfully obvious at avoiding brushing your shoulder in the narrow hall.
What follows is the strangest two hours of your autumn. Because the man at the market and the shop doesn't appear. With your aunt, he's somebody else entirely—patient, dry, gentle in an odd way for the way he's treated you. He kneels on the floor and bleeds the radiator and lets her direct him with her cane without complaining. Asks about her hip, and actually listens to the answer.
You stay in the kitchen, mostly. You make the coffee she orders you to make and when you bring it in, Nova—the bolder of your two cats—has installed herself on the tool bag, paws tucked underneath him, supervising, and for your surprise, Bucky is working around her rather than moving her.
He glances up when you set the cup down near him, just out of his way.
"Thanks," it's dry, but it's not nothing.
"You take your coffee black, right?" you say, and then bite your own tongue off, because you don't know that. You've been dreaming of that.
He pauses with the wrench mid-turn. "Lucky guess."
"Well, you look like a man who likes to keep it simple." You say it lightly and walk away before your face can do anything stupid, and behind you, Maggie says something about you reading people, and then you hear the small clank of metal as something in his hands slips.
He doesn't stay to eat, despite your aunt's best efforts. At the door, shrugging the tool bag back up, he stops with his hand on the frame. He doesn't quite look at you.
"Her hip," he murmurs. "If she needs anything lifted, or any errands to run, whatever… Maggie has my number."
"Okay."
"For her," he clarifies.
"I understood you the first time," you say sweetly and shut the door on whatever his face does next.
In the front room, Maggie has watched this entire exchange over her glasses.
"You didn't tell me you know James."
"Barely."
"Mm." She picks up her pen. "It seemed like more than barely to me. But if that's how you treat men no wonder why you're still single."
You gasped audibly and she winked an eye at you before going back to her crossword.
You start running into him in an almost daily basis. The neighborhood is small—twenty thousand people and somehow the same six faces every single day— and now that you know he's in it, he's everywhere. Outside the hardware store with a length of pipe over his shoulder. At the pharmacy counter, when you go pick up Maggie's medications and he's talking to an Asian man. Across the green market, where you both pretend with great commitment that the other one is invisible.
But there's no real conversation until now.
You've misjudged the sky and the distance, so you're hauling two grocery bags and a sack of cat litter up Pierrepont when the cold drizzle turns serious. You stop under sycamore to redistribute everything you're carrying, water running off the end of your nose, and a shadow falls over you. You lift your gaze and he's there, hood up, his hand already out reaching for you.
"What? Your cards didn't tell you there would be a storm?"
"Ha-ha. Very funny."
"Give me the litter."
"I've got it."
"You're going to put your shoulder out being stubborn. I said give me the damn litter."
You could protest, but you know it's pointless to fight with him, so you give him the litter and walk the last two blocks side by side without speaking, rain hissing on the pavement, his boots and your boots out of step.
He sets the sack on the second stair of your aunt's gate, but he doesn't leave immediately.
"At the market," he murmurs, to the gate rather than to you. "When I— when I said those things to you… I was out of line."
"You were rude."
"I was out of line," he repeats.
"You called me a fraud, and you said my intuition was exactly that, a fraud with esoteric words."
"Well, if you were so intuitive, wouldn't you have known about the rain?" It takes you a second to hear it, the dry shift under the flat delivery, and you laugh before you decide to. He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting the sound either.
"Go home, Bucky," you say. "You'll catch a cold."
"Is that a prediction?"
You rolled your eyes. "There's no need for that, it's logical."
"Tell Maggie I left the wrench in the bin by the door… for the sink." He's already turning. "Don't let her do the sink herself, she'll try."
"I know my aunt."
"Then you know she'll try." And he's gone into the rain, shoulders up, and you stand at the gate watching him go for longer than you should.
That night you dream of him again, except the dream is just this: the two of you under a sycamore, rain coming down, but this time he's laughing—really laughing, head tipped, the whole architecture of his face rearranged by it— at something you can't hear yourself say.
You wake before dawn with your heart going hard and the echo of his laugh still in your ears.
It's a crush, you remind yourself staring at the ceiling.
Then why does your heart feel so heavy?
By November, your aunt has invented a maintenance schedule that no brownstone in history has ever required. The storm windows, the cellar light, a cabinet hinge you're fairly sure she loosened herself, because you watched her test it with her cane the day before she called him.
"You're matchmaking," you accuse, setting her tea down.
"I'm maintaining my property." She doesn't look up from the crossword. "Seven across, six letters. Foreseen by the stars."
"Fated."
"That's five."
"Destined is eight. Fated is five." You count it on your fingers. "What's six?"
Maggie hums thoughtfully and writes something down where you can't see it.
Bucky comes back on Thursday to check the storm windows. It's the fourth time, not that you're counting, and something has shifted in the dynamic between you—the hostility has burned down to a kind of wariness, and that wariness keep springing leaks.
He lets you hold the frame steady while he drives the screws, close enough that you can smell the cedar on his jacket. He answers your aunt's interrogation about his week in actual sentences. When Nova bolts for the open window, Bucky catches her one-handed without looking, absorbs the betrayed yowl and deposits her on the sofa with a flat "No". You expect retaliation, but Nova—who has never once obeyed you—stays.
"Traitor," you tell the cat.
"She respects the chain of command."
Maggie goes up for her nap at three with a theatrical yawning that should embarrass her. Bucky's packing up the drill in the kitchen and you're making coffee because it's cold and the radio on the counter—her ancient radio, permanently tuned to an AM station that plays classics—is murmuring under everything.
And you go still.
It takes you a moment to realize, and another to find why: he's humming. Barely, under his breath, and the song sounds pretty familiar.
The mug slips, you catch it against the counter, there's coffee slopping over your knuckles, and the burn makes you realize that song was playing in the dream where he danced with you in a dark room. You've never heard it awake in your life until right now. You don't know its name either, you only knew the next three notes after he hummed them.
"You okay?" He's looking at you now.
"It's nothing," you run your hand under the tap. "Just… wanted to heat my hands a little bit."
It's just an old song, it's an old radio station. Men hum old songs; it's logical. You repeat it in your head twice but your hands don't believe any of it. And god forbid you, you neither.
When you turn around, he's leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"I've been meaning to ask you," he starts. "About the cards. Why do you do it? And I don't want the speech, I want the real answer."
You dry your hands slowly, deciding how much truth he's earned.
"My great grandmother read cards," you start, leaning against the counter across from him. "She read for people in her village back in the old country. My mom said she could look at someone and see the shape of their life, like… like they were made of glass. She tried to teach my mother, but the gift skipped her and landed on me instead."
You take a pause, watching the radio, the floor, anything but him.
"I was seven the first time I saw something I couldn't explain. I touched my grandmother's deck and I knew things about her neighbor who was sitting at the kitchen table. That she'd lost a baby the year before, that her husband was sleeping with her sister, that she was going to leave him by spring." You swallow. "I said all of it out loud, like an idiot child, because I didn't know you weren't supposed to just say those things."
Bucky's quiet. You can feel him listening, like he's cataloguing every word.
"My mother was horrified. My grandmother on the other hand wasn't. She said the cards chose me, and that I should learn to read them properly so I'd stop blurting out unfiltered truth at dinner parties." A small, humorless laugh leaves you. "So I learned. By the time I was a teenager, I was pulling cards for friends, for strangers, for anyone who asked. And most of the time, it's just… pattern recognition and intuition working together. The cards are a tool, not a magic trick, but sometimes—"
"Sometimes what?"
"Sometimes they show you something that doesn't fit any pattern you know. And you have to decide whether to believe what you're seeing or pretend you didn't see it."
The radio changes songs.
"Is that what happened with my reading?" he asks quietly.
No, you think. It's worse than that.
"I read what was on the table," you say instead, because it's the truth, even if it's not all of it. "I didn't make it up, Bucky. I've never fabricated a reading in my life. The cards that came up for you were clear… unusually clear. And I softened them because Hazel was sitting right there and I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't lie."
He studies you for a long moment, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to believe you fighting the part that needs to think you're a con artist, because the alternative is harder.
"Okay," he says finally.
"O—Okay?"
"I'm not saying I believe in it. I'm saying I believe you believe it, and that's… different."
It's the most generous thing he's said to you since the market, and it lands somewhere under your ribs.
It's a Tuesday in late November, and Maggie has sent him to fix a leak under the kitchen sink that you both suspect she caused by hitting the pipe with her cane. He's on his back under the counter and you're handling him tools, trying not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the wrench.
When he slides out, wiping his hands on a rag, he looks at you for a while.
"There's a place two blocks over. They make decent coffee, if you're done pretending you don't need a break."
"That's the worst invitation I've ever heard. You're just observing that I look tired."
"You do look tired."
"Wow, thank you. A true gentleman."
His mouth twitches. "Do you want coffee or not?"
You want to say no, because saying yes feels too much like stepping off a cliff, but the word comes out before you can stop it. "Fine, but only because you're paying."
Maggie, from the front room calls out: "Take your time! I'm perfectly fine!"
You both know she's been listening to every word.
The walk to the café is silent.
The place looks cozy—it's small, warm and smells like cinnamon and cardamom. He orders black coffee and you order a latte and a slice of walnut cake. You sit t a table by the window where the afternoon light comes in, and for a few minutes neither of you says anything.
It should be awkward, being here without Maggie or your cats between you, but it isn't.
"Would you mind if I ask you something?"
"You're going to ask whether I say yes or not."
"Smart man." You turn the cup slowly. "Why do you do this? The handyman thing… Maggie says you work for the whole block. But you don't charge, you won't take money—"
"I take money, I just don't like to ask for it, besides, Maggie always invites me to eat."
"She tucks money in your jacket while you're not seeing."
"She's not as subtle as she thinks." He takes a sip of his coffee and ten looks at you. "I like fixing things, always have. When something's broken, there's a right way to fix it, and when it's done, it's done, it's done. You can see the result, it's not…"
"Ambiguous?"
"Yeah, exactly. It's not ambiguous."
You understand suddenly why he hated the reading and everything related to it. You gave him a puzzle with no solution, a fix with no steps… you made him sit with something unfixable.
The conversation moves easier after that. He tells you about the neighborhood, about Mrs. Ferreira, about Yori—the Asian man you saw the other day who feeds pigeons from his window, about the old man on the fourth who swears at everyone in Italian. You tell him about your shop, about your cats—Nova and Salem, about the time you accidentally read cards for a man who turned out to be an undercover cop investigating a psychic scam two towns over, and how you spent forty-five minutes proving your cards weren't marked.
You see him laughing, not the polite sound from always, but a real one. You drink your coffee and eat your cake and try to not think about the dreams.
It becomes a thing. He finishes a repair at Maggie's or passes by to eat and you end up at the café, or walking the two blocks to the park where the benches face the water, or simply sitting on her stoop in the last cold light of the afternoon while you both drink coffee.
You learn things about him in pieces. He's from Brooklyn—born and raised, he says, but the tone on his voice tells you it's partly a lie. He has a best friend named Sam who's a pain in the ass. He doesn't talk about his family, but you don't push. He served in the military, a long time ago.
He learns things about you too, like the fact you talk with your hands when you're passionate about something, or that you hum when you're thinking and that hum is always off-key. He learns about your habit of reading strangers on the street and narrating your observations under your breath.
The first week of December arrives with an ugly wind that rattles Maggie's windows and makes your cats burrow under the blankets. Maggie has graduated from the cane to limping short distances without it, which means she's mobile enough to meddle full-time.
Bucky comes by Wednesday to check a draft Maggie swears she can feel coming from the baseboards. You both know there's no draft, but he comes by anyway.
You open the door and he's standing on the stoop with his hands in his jacket pockets, his tool bag over one shoulder, and there's snow in his hair—not much, just dust, but it's there, melting against the dark of it—and your heart does something complicated because of how good he looks.
"Maggie's napping," you say.
His hand comes out of his pocket. He's holding a folded napkin, and he holds it out to you like it's a wrench.
"I made reservations," he murmurs. "At Valentino's, this Friday, seven o'clock."
You stare at the napkin. "Did you just… write it on a napkin?"
"I didn't have a paper." He shifts his weight. "Sam says you're supposed to give the person a specific time and place, so… there it is."
"You asked your friend how to ask someone on a date?"
"Well, he tells me a lot of things, more of it is useless." He's looking at the doorframe while he speaks, then he glances at you. "This part seemed right."
You unfold the napkin. His handwriting is surprisingly neat—small, precise letters. Friday, 7 pm- Valentino's on Henry St. —B
"Is this because Maggie put you up to it?" you ask, because if this is charity or pity or Maggie's matchmaking you'd rather know now and bleed later.
"No. She might take credit for it, but no. I was going to ask you at the café last week, but then you started reading people and I lost my nerve."
Bucky lost his nerve.
"So, Friday… at seven."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes."
He nods once, and you can see his shoulders drop half an inch. You want to laugh, or cry, or both, so you just fold the napkin carefully and put it in your pocket.
"Are you going to come in and check the nonexistent draft, or…?"
"Might as well, just to keep the appearances."
He brushes past you in the doorway, and unlike the first time, he doesn't avoid your shoulder.
When Friday night comes, you don't understand why you're so damn nervous, but here you are, changing your outfit twice before settling with a blue dress and a pair of boots that Maggie claims make your legs look like they go on forever. You're halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings.
He cleans up well. That's the first thought you have when you open the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a sweater, and his hair is pulled back in a way that shows the sharp lines of his face, and he smells so good you have to resist the urge to lean closer and breathe him in again.
"You look nice," he says when you open the door.
"You too." You grab your coat from the hook. "Don't wait up, Maggie."
"Go. Don't come back before ten, I have a television program."
"We're going to dinner, Maggie, not—"
"Door will be locked before ten o'clock," she insists, and shuts the door on your face before you can answer, letting you at the bottom of the stairs.
You turn to face Bucky and the way he looks at you makes you forget every argument you've ever had with yourself about why this is a bad idea.
"Ready?" he asks.
"It depends. Are you going to accuse me of fraud tonight?"
"Not tonight."
"Then I'm ready."
Valentino's is tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The hostess greets Bucky by name and leads you to a corner booth where the candlelight flickers against the red-checkered tablecloth.
"Fancy," you tease.
"I said it wasn't fancy."
"Exactly," you unfold your napkin and look around—warm brick walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and and old man at the bar arguing with the bartender about baseball. "I like it."
He orders wine for the table without asking, but it's the good kind, the kind that tastes likes blackberries, and when he catches you watching him over the rim of your glass, he doesn't look away.
You're talking about the shop—what you'll do when you go back, whether you'll reopen at all—when he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want to fight."
"That's a promising start."
"Why do you believe in it? The cards, destiny, all of it. You're smart. You read people like they're open books. How do you also believe that pieces of cardboard can tell the future?"
It's not hostile. It's genuine curiosity, and that's worse, because you owe him a real answer. You down the rest of your wine for a bit of liquid courage.
"When I was seventeen," you start, and your voice is careful, like you're walking on ice, " my great grandmother died. She'd been sick for a while, and when I went to see her in the hospital she… she told me she'd been reading my cards since I was born. That she'd asked about my future every year on my birthday, the way she did for everyone in the family. And every year, the same cards came up."
The restaurant noise fills the silence—the clink of glasses, a murmur of conversation from the next table—but you're hyper aware of him.
"She said love wasn't meant for me." You trace the rim of your glass with your finger. "I didn't believe her, I was seventeen, I thought she was a dramatic old woman who loved tragedy, or that maybe she was way too high on her meds. So I started reading for myself, I pulled my own cards every week, every month, every time I met someone I thought could be something. And every single time, the same answer. Reversed Ace of Cups. Ten of Swords. The Tower. Not for you, not in this life."
You laugh, but it comes out humorless.
"I even paid a woman to read my destiny matrix, I tried runes, I tried everything because I wanted so badly for the answer to be different; but it never was. I tried dating, I did. I wanted so bad to be loved. Apparently, the person meant for me was born over a hundred years ago, and I was born now, so the timing was wrong, and that's it."
Bucky is very still across the table. He hasn't moved, hasn't reached for his glass, hasn't done anything except listen with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The silence between you stretches. He's looking at you with an expression you can't decode.
"Bucky?"
He exhales slowly, and his jaw works twice. Then he leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. "You don't have any idea of who I am?"
"Should I?" you ask, confused.
He stares at you for a long moment like he's looking for some sign that you're joking. "You really don't."
"Bucky, you're freaking me out a little. Are you in the mob? A famous musician? Because I have to be honest, I don't really follow the news, and history was never my strong subject. I know the major stuff, but—"
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, sliding something across the table toward you.
It's his driver's license. You pick it up, squinting at the tiny photo—he looks exactly the same, of course he does, that hot bastard—and then your eyes drop to the birth date.
March 10, 1917.
You read it three times, but the numbers don't change. You look up at him, and he's watching at you with an expression you can't read.
"I was born in 1917," he says quietly. "Here in Brooklyn. I went to war in '43 and… I didn't come back the way I left. They did things to me, changed me. I don't age the way normal people do, and there's a lot of years in between that I'd rather not talk about in a restaurant."
Your hands are shaking. You set the license down on the table between you like it might burn you.
"The matrix destiny," you whisper. "It said a hundred years ago. You were born a hundred years ago."
"Yeah." He leans forward. "And here's the thing. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in stars writing our stories for us, because if I did—" His voice breaks, just slightly, and he catches it. "If I did, then I'd have to believe that what happened to me was determined. That the things that I did, the things that were done to me, they were written in stone before I was even born. And that's too cruel, that's a crueler god than I'm willing to worship."
He's breathing harder now, and you realize with a start that he's scared. Bucky Barnes, who caught your cat mid-air and argued with you in the rain, is scared of what you might say next.
"But you," he continues, softer now. "You showed up in my neighborhood reading cards and talking about things you shouldn't know. And I kept seeing you everywhere, and I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that Brooklyn is small and you were just… there. But there's something here. I feel it every time I'm in the same room as you, and I don't know if that's fate or if it's just—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what it is. But I know I haven't wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. And if that means the stars finally decided to do something kind for once, then maybe… maybe I'm not as angry at them as I thought."
You don't know what to say. The pasta arrives and sits cooling between you, forgotten. You think about every card you've ever pulled, every spread that ended in the same lonely answer, every time you accepted that love wasn't meant for you. And now, he's sitting across from you, born in 1917, a hundred-year-old soul in a young man's body, and the math is so simple it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm not quiet," you manage, but your voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I'm just… I don't know what to say. You don't— you don't just drop 'I was born in 1917' into a conversation and expect someone to have a response ready."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Fair."
"You fought in World War II."
"Yeah."
"And you're telling me you don't believe in fate, but you just handed me proof that the answer I've been getting my whole life wasn't wrong."
"I'm telling you that I don't care what the cards said," he reaches across the table, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he covers your fingers with his palm. His skin is warm, calloused, and you feel it everywhere. "I care that you're here, right now. And I'm here. That's enough for me."
You look down at your hand under his, at the candlelight pooling in the hollow of his palm, and you think about the High Priestess card, the one you've pulled for yourself a hundred times. Hidden knowledge, the veil between worlds, secrets.
Maybe the secret was that you weren't waiting for a ghost after all.
You eat eventually, though you barely taste it. He tells you about Sam, about the boat they worked on together, about the neighborhood changing and staying the same all at once. You tell him about your cats, about the way Maggie pretends to be asleep every time he comes over so you'll have to answer the door alone.
But mostly, you sit in the candlelight and let yourself have this. Whatever this is.
He insists on walking you home. It's not far—five blocks, maybe six—and the December air is sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your coat pockets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, closest to the street, the way men used to do when he was young, and something about that makes your chest ache.
"You okay?" he asks as you turn onto Maggie's block.
"Yeah." But you're not, not really. You're overwhelmed, full of things you don't know how to say. You want to tell him that you've dreamed about him, that you've known the shape of his laugh before you ever heard it, that you pulled his cards in your kitchen and you threw the deck across the room because it was too much to believe. You want to ask him if he feels it too, this gravity, this sense of falling into something you never expected to find.
But you don't say any of that. You just walk beside him in the dark, and when you reach Maggie's stoop, you turn to face him.
The streetlamp behind him casts a halo around his shoulders. You think about all the years he's lived, all the winters he's seen, and you can't believe any of them led him here. To you. To this moment in your aunt's cracked concrete steps.
"I had a good time," he says.
"Me too."
He steps closer. You can smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his jacket, the cold night air clinging to his air. He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and his eyes are darker in the shadows.
“Are you going to pull your cards tonight?”
"I don't think I need to." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I already know how this goes."
"Yeah?" His hand finds your waist, tentative, asking permission. "How's it go?"
And then he kisses you.
It's soft at first, careful, like he's giving you time to pull away. But you don't pull away. You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he makes a sound against your mouth before deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the warmth of him through every layer between you that suddenly feels like too many.
He tastes like red wine, and his jaw is rough under your palm, and when you break apart you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, and he sounds almost drunk with it. He kisses you again, lighter this time, on the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, "I don't care about fate. But if you want to tell me what the stars said, I'll listen."
You laugh, a little watery, and push at his chest. "Go home, Bucky. It's cold."
"I know." But he doesn't move. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
He finally steps back, down one step, then two. He's smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and rearranges his whole face into something boyish and new. "Night, then."
"Night."
You watch him walk down the block, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. You watch until he turns the corner and disappears, and you stand there for a long moment with your fingers pressed to your mouth, trying to remember how to breathe.
The front door opens behind you.
"You're welcome," Maggie says.
You jump so hard you nearly fall off the stoop. "Jesus, Maggie!"
She's standing in the doorway in her robe and slippers, her crossword in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looks entirely too pleased with herself.
"You were watching!" You accuse.
"I was observing, there's a difference." She steps back to let you in. "I told you he was a good boy, serious, good with his hands." She winks. "And now you know for sure."
"Maggie!"
"Don't 'Maggie' me. I didn't raise you to be ungrateful." She shuffles toward the stairs. "You can thank me properly at breakfast. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking cards at my kitchen table for three months straight. I may be old, but I'm not blind."
You stand in the hallway, coat still on, cheeks burning, and listen to her cackle all the way up the stairs.
Your cats appear from the front room, twining around your ankles, and you bend down to scoop Nova up, burying your face in her fur. She purrs, loud and indignant, and you laugh against her soft orange head.
"Okay," you whisper to him, to the empty hallway, to no one in particular. "Okay."
You don't know what happens next. You don't know how any of this works, a tarot reader and a century-old soldier, two people the universe apparently decided to throw together just to see what would happen.
But as you climb the stairs to your cramped little room, you think about the spread you pulled the night before you left for Brooklyn. The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion.
Maybe The Tower wasn't heartbreak after all. Maybe it was just the world rearranging itself to make room for something you never dared to ask for.
You fall asleep that night without pulling any cards, without any dreams at all, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is Bucky's voice downstairs, asking Maggie if she takes one sugar or two, and the sound it's better than any spread you've ever read.
June.
The summer breeze at Coney Island smells like salt and fried dough, and you were wearing the jacket Bucky lent you because you misjudged the wind off the water. It's still too big, the sleeves past your knuckles, and he keeps reaching over to roll them back up for you, his thumb brushing your wrist every time.
You can't remember whose idea it was to come here. Maybe yours, maybe his. Maybe it doesn't matter, because Bucky's hand is wrapped around yours. You've been official since January, though the line between before and after has blurred into something that feels like it started long before either of you were brave enough to name it.
The boardwalk is crowded with families and couples and teenagers laughing too loud, but Bucky moves through them like he was made for this—for cotton candy and carnival lights, for the easy joy of a Brooklyn summer night. He fits here, you realize. He fits now. A hundred-year-old soul learning how to be young again.
"Step right up! Test your luck!" A barker's voice cuts through the noise, and you follow it to a row of old arcade machines tucked beneath a stripped awning. Skee-ball, claw machines, a racing game with a faded steering wheel—and then you see it.
A fortune teller machine.
It sits in the corner like something out of another era, which, you suppose, it is. Madam Zola's Mystical Fortune Cards, the peeling gold paint reads. Insert coin. Receive Your Destiny. The mechanical woman inside has painted glass eyes and a silk scarf draped over her plastic hair, and her hand rests on a deck of cards that probably haven't been mystical a day in their life.
Bucky follows your gaze and laughs. "You're kidding me."
"I'm absolutely not kidding you." You're already digging in your pocket for a quarter. "Madam Zola and I are colleagues, I need to know if she's legitimate."
"She's made of plywood."
"So judgmental." You find two quarters and press one into his palm, your fingers lingering against his. "For you, professional courtesy."
He looks down at the quarter, then back at you, and something softens in his expression. "Alright," he says. "But if this thing tells me I'm gonna die alone, I'm blaming you."
"Fair."
You drop your quarter in first. The machine whirs to life with a dramatic creak. Madam Zola's hand moves across the cards in jerky, mechanical motions, and after a moment, a small white card drops into the brass tray below.
You pick it up. It's not a real tarot card—just cardstock, cheap, the edges already soft from humidity—but the image printed on it makes your breath catch. Two hands clasped, reaching across a starfield. Beneath it, in gold script: The Lovers.
And underneath that, smaller: You've found the one. Don't waste time doubting it.
You stare at it. Bucky leans over your shoulder to read it, and you feel him go still.
"Huh."
"Your turn!"
"I don't need a card to tell me—"
"Your turn, Barnes."
He huffs, but he drops in the quarter you gave him. The machine grinds and another card falls. He picks it up. You don't see it at first, but you see his face—the way his jaw loosens, the way his eyes soften at the corners.
It's the same image, but the text beneath reads: What was written in the stars has come to pass. Trust the path, trust your heart.
The noise of the fair fades to a distant hum. You look up at him, and he's already looking at you.
"Bucky—"
"I don't care if it's rigged. I don't care if every card in that thing says the same thing. You're—" He stops, swallowing thickly. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"
Your heart is doing that complicated thing again, the thing it does every time he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.
"I know," you whisper. "Me too."
He kisses you then, right there in front of Madam Zola and half of Brooklyn, his hand cradling your jaw like you're something precious. When you pull apart, you're both breathless, and someone's wolf-whistled from the skee-ball line, but none of you seem to care at all.
"Come on," he says, lacing his fingers through yours. "I saw a ring toss on the way in, I need to win you something."
It takes him four tries and an embarrassing amount of money, and by the end he's swearing at the rigged bottles while you laugh so hard you have to lean against the counter for support. But on the fifth throw, the last ring catches, and the barker hands over the prize with a grudging nod.
It's a ridiculous bear, oversized and caramel-colored, wearing a tiny red bow tie. Bucky presents it to you as if he was handing you over the Holy Grail.
"For you. I was gonna go for the giant panda, but this one looked like it needed you more."
You crush it against your chest, burying your face in its soft synthetic fur. "I love him. I'm naming him James."
"You're not naming him after me."
"I'm absolutely naming him after you. Look at him, he has your expression."
Bucky stares at the bear's blank button eyes and then at you, and then he laughs, tilting his head back and you want to take a picture of him like this—careless, happy.
"Let's go to the photobooth," you demand, grabbing his hand. "Before the light changes."
"Bossy."
"You love when I'm bossy."
He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.
The photobooth is tucked behind the funhouse, a vintage four-strip model with a faded red curtain and a sign that flashes OUT OF ORDER every third flicker. But when you slide your money in, it whirs to life, and the first bulb flashes before you're ready.
"Wait—" you laugh, still adjusting the bear on your lap.
Too late. The first picture capture you mid-laugh, Bucky leaning in with his mouth open, probably saying something sarcastic.
"Okay, okay, be serious," you say, turning toward him.
"Serious," he repeats, but his eyes are dancing.
The second flash catches you pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hand coming up to rest on your waist. The third finds him turning his head at the last second so your lips meet his instead, his fingers threading into your hair. The fourth flash finds you both laughing into each other's mouths, your foreheads touching, the bear crushed between you. You don't remember who kissed who, but you don't care.
When the strip slides out of the machine, you hold it up to the light, watching the images develop in slow motion. Four tiny windows into a perfect moment. You look at them, and you think about al the cards you've ever pulled, all the lonely spreads and reversed cups, all the years you believed love wasn't meant for you.
And here you are. Here he is. A love out of time.
"I'm putting these on the fridge," you say. "When we get back to the apartment."
"Our apartment," he corrects and your heart flips.
You're moving in together next month. You found a place in Brooklyn with a windowsill wide enough for two cats and a fire escape that gets morning sun. He's already planning on building a spare room for your appointments, and built a shelf for your cards. You told him he didn't have to, that you'd find another place to do your readings and keep the cards in the closet if he wanted, and he looked at you like you'd suggested drowning a kitten.
"It's your gift," he said. "Why would I want you to hide it?"
Later, when the moon is high and the fair lights are starting to dim, you sit together on the boardwalk with your shoes off, toes buried in cool sand, sharing a funnel cake.
"We should get home," you say, but you don't move. "Salem and Nova are probably destroying something."
"They're fine, Nova's probably sleeping on my tool bag, and Salem's judging her from the windowsill."
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's what they do every time I'm there." He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. "Those cats have a very established routine. Nova loves me, Salem tolerates me… it's a good system."
You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Salem tolerates everyone, that's just his personality. Nova loves anyone who gives her attention. They're not a good benchmark."
"Okay." He pauses. "Then you love me. And you're a much better benchmark."
You go still. The word hangs in the air between you, but he doesn't take it back. He just turns his head and looks at you, waiting, his eyes reflecting the last of the carnival lights.
"I do," you whisper. "I love you."
His smile is small and yet so full of hope it makes your chest ache. "I love you too. I think I started loving you the day you shut the door on my face."
"You have terrible taste."
"Must be the century I was born in, we liked 'em feisty."
You laugh, pushing at his chest, and he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. You sit like that for a long time, watching the tide come in, his thumb tracing slow circles in your palm. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fortune card from Madam Zola's machine.
"Do you think it's true?" he asks quietly. "The whole destiny thing. Do you really believe we were supposed to find each other?"
You look at the card, then at him—the man who was born over a hundred years ago, who fought a war and survived things you can't imagine, that sometimes admit not knowing how to do any of this, but that tries anyway for you.
"I believe," you start, "that the cards pointed me in a direction. They told me to wait, to not settle for something that wasn't right." You turn his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm—his life line, long and unbroken; the heart line, deep and sure. "But I don't think they made this happen, Bucky. I think we did. I think you showed up at my shop and you were rude and impossible and I couldn't stop thinking about you anyway. I think we let Maggie manipulate us into falling in love. The cards didn't do that, we did."
"Okay," he says. "I like that better anyway."
"Me too."
He folds the car again and tucks it back into his pocket, over his heart. "I'm keeping this, though. As evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"That sometimes the universe gets it right."
You don't pull cards that night, haven't done it for a while, because you don't need to. You fall asleep with Bucky's heartbeat against your back, Salem purring at your feet, Nova curled on the pillow between you like a furry chaperone, and you dream of nothing at all—just the deep, peaceful dark of a life that's finally exactly where it's meant to be.
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