summary: After falling asleep in the sun, Bucky learns the hard way that the super soldier serum can’t protect him from everything. Luckily, you don’t mind taking care of him in his state of vulnerability.
word count: 4.4k
warnings/tags: very brief mentions of bucky’s past, reader is described to be wearing a sundress, otherwise there are no descriptions of her looks, a lot of fluff, reader takes care of bucky, they aren’t together (yet) but both very aware of their feelings, petnames (sweetheart, doll, my love), physical affection
author’s note: This is my first participation in the picnic blanket prompts and I am so excited to write many more over the next few weeks! Thanks @juniebjonesin for these amazing prompts, I absolutely love them and I hope that you guys are going to like this fic!!
Also, I got a question to all the writers out here- I really feel like in my writing, I am retelling what’s happening more than I am letting the reader be a part of it. I’ve heard that that’s often an issue new writers have in the beginning, do you have any recommendations how to get rid of it? I’d really appreciate some advice!!
dividers by @chateaubarnes
If Bucky's life would still be like it had been only a few weeks ago, today wouldn't have been special.
As a matter of fact, his life used to be filled with the same routine every day, making days blend together as Bucky went through the motions without actually realizing how much time had passed again.
Time got weird like that sometimes, especially when you never had anything to look forward to when every day looked exactly the same.
If he was still living in Brooklyn, he would have to go to therapy and sit in an office he had absolutely no interest in being in before he went back home and did nothing for the rest of the day, the noise in his mind weighing him down so heavily that doing anything but staying in his apartment seemed impossible.
It hadn't exactly been a healthy habit to isolate himself, but it had been familiar.
And for a long time, that was all Bucky really had the energy to manage.
But even when he got better, when the weight of his past had finally gotten light enough for him to breathe again, Bucky still had a hard time pulling himself out of habits that were all he used to have.
But now he had Sam, too. Wether that was a blessing or a curse, he wasn't really sure yet.
And Sam decided that Bucky had been miserable for way too long now, which was why he dragged him down to Louisiana, claiming that he needed the change in scenery if he didn’t want to be miserable forever.
And instead of staying a month, like he'd initially planned, Bucky just… didn't leave again.
Sure, he decided to stay because of Sam, Sarah and the kids and how Delacroix managed to silence his thoughts in a way New York never managed to, but there was more to it than just that.
You were here, too.
Sam had first introduced you two because you were a close friend of the Wilson family, but also because you used to live in Brooklyn before your family decided to move here when the life of the city became too much.
He figured that with how hard it was for Bucky to warm up to new people, that shared connection might make it a little easier.
And he had been right.
Bucky wasn't sure when exactly it happened, but you quickly turned into much more than just the woman his best friend grew up with.
You were kind, that much Bucky had known ever since he'd first talked to you that day down at the docks, when him and Sam had still been working on the boat and you'd walked over to them with that stupidly beautiful smile and a sundress so stunning, it had made him drop a wrench on his foot.
Sam had laughed about that all week, constantly talking about nonsense like love at first sight and how horribly Bucky was hiding his little crush.
Whilst Bucky really didn't believe in stuff like love at first sight, he couln't deny that he had taken a liking to you from the very first moment.
He would rather chew on glass than admit that in front of Sam, though.
Bucky wasn't the kind of person to trust others easily. He'd experienced too much in his life for that, so strangers were always a difficult challenge.
He knew that his skepticism could sometimes make him seem rude or unfriendly, especially if people didn't realize that there was a reason for his closed off behavior.
You never seemed to mind it too much, though.
You just tried to make conversation, never letting his noncomittal answers and unhealthy amount of staring get to you. You just kind of… stuck around. And even though Bucky didn't get it, he sure as hell wasn't complaining.
Over the last few months, thanks to your unrelenting patience and stubbornness, you'd managed to sneak your way into his heart and Bucky'd only realised when it was already far too late for him to do anything about it anymore.
His first instinct had been to pull away again, to put some much needed distance between the two of you so he could get away from those things only you ever managed to make him feel.
He couldn't quite bring himself to do that, though.
Sure, Bucky still had bad days and nights where he woke up screaming, but he didn't think that all he deserved for the rest of his life was punishment for what had been done to him.
Not anymore, at least.
He liked to believe that he was mostly over that, so he did his best to suppress the self destructive behaviours that were instinct more than a conscious decision by now and thought that maybe, this thing between the two of you was something he was allowed to have.
That maybe, the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn't paying attention and sat just a few inches closer to him than necessary meant that you were feeling this, too.
And that just maybe, he would finally get his chance at having something good.
So Bucky didn't fight it when the two of you were spending more and more time together and he was suddenly staying at your place more than he slept at Sarah's anymore.
And neither did you.
The two of you were currently in this beautifully fragile phase between being friends and actually being something, your relationship too much for what the one thing stood for but still not enough to put a name on it yet.
Bucky didn't feel the need to rush it, though.
This was the first special thing he got to have in over seven decades of his life and he was more than content with relishing in every single second of it as much as he could.
You didn't seem to mind it too much, either.
You and Bucky were dancing around each other like two teenagers in love, sure, but it didn't feel like uncertainty or lack of commitment, which were usually the reasons why situationships never actually turned into more than just that.
It just felt like you were taking your time, simple as that.
So when Bucky started to sleep at your place more often than not, both of you just claimed that the Wilson household was busy enough as it was and you had more than enough space for a second person to live in your home.
You called it convenience, though everyone who saw the two of you together knew that this had nothing to do with convenience.
This were two people trying to navigate their feelings together- one of them learning how to trust again whilst the other was more than happy to provide the space and stability for them to do exactly that.
And because trust like that needed time, the two of you started to slip into a domestic routine without even actually noticing it.
Bucky made it a habit to walk to your favorite bakery every morning to get the pastries you liked so much for breakfast whilst you were still asleep, mostly because waking up early in the morning was a habit he still couldn't shake, but also because the smile that lit up your face when you came out of the bedroom and saw freshly brewed coffee and the warm baked goods sitting on the table was worth more than sleeping in could ever be.
He liked the peacfulness of it, too. That early in the morning, the fishermen were already busy down at the docks, knowing him well enough by now to greet him by his name when he walked past.
It reminded him of his childhood in Brooklyn a little, when everyone in his neighborhood used to look out for each other, no matter what.
Even though it wasn't exactly the same and Bucky wasn't a kid anymore, the familiarity of it always made his heart a little lighter.
After breakfast, when the heat was still light enough to be managable, the two of you often sat down in the backyard together, just like you did right now.
The parasol was offering some shade, giving you a chance to comfortably read your book whilst Bucky was lying on his back, trying very desperately not to fall asleep, watching you read way more captivating than sleep could ever be.
Bucky was pulled out of his dreamy daze when you put your book away and got up, your sundress flowing beautifully in the soft breeze of the early morning.
"I think I'll quickly head to the store. We ran out of a few things, might be good to get them before it gets too warm."
The plan made sense, especially because the summer heat of Louisiana was too extreme to actually do anything during the day except stay inside, were the AC at least made it a little bearable.
Still, it took Bucky a moment to register what you were saying with how much the sleepiness was clouding his brain, but when he realized what your plans were he got up from his spot as fast as he could, scrambling to his feet so quickly you could assume that he couldn't stand the idea of staying at home whilst you left to get groceries. "I'll go with you."
He knew damn well that getting a few things usually meant that you'd come back with at least two bags full of stuff and Bucky would be damned if he let you take care of that on your own.
He knew that you could carry the bags on your own, but that wasn't the point.
He didn't want you to. With how nice and welcoming you'd been towards him for the last few months, the least he could do was make sure that he offered his help as much as he could.
You only laughed, though, letting your eyes drift over him like you were trying to prove a point. "Like that? You'd put on a show for the old ladies, that's for sure."
Bucky's cheeks heated up with embarrassment as he noticed that he was indeed just wearing a pair of shorts, his upper body very much exposed and muscles visibly standing out with the thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin.
Being shirtless, especially in front of others, was also something he would've avoided only a few weeks ago.
The prosthetic and scars were not exactly something he wanted other peolpe to see, but he didn't really mind it that much with you.
The first time you'd seen him shirtless had been when he'd gotten out of the shower one evening, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips as he made his way back to the guest room when the two of you had nearly collided in the hallway.
For a long moment, you'd just… stared at each other.
Bucky's eyes had been fixed on your face, so scared of how you might react, something that turned out to be very unjustified when he'd noticed how you were looking at him.
It was safe to say that the expression on your face had been very far away from the disgust he'd expected.
You'd opened your mouth before you closed it again, words not really coming to you as your eyes travelled over his muscular chest, down to his abs and up to his face again.
"You're staring."
"I am," you had agreed. "I wasn't really aware that I was living with a greek god. Holy shit, Barnes."
It had been a very unique way of complementing his physique, but Bucky couldn't deny that he'd been smiling more than he usually did when he'd gotten ready for bed that day.
Because a compliment from you? That might as well be the best thing that ever happened to him.
"I'll quickly grab a shirt and then we can go-"
"No, Buck. I'm going." Your tone was a little stern, though the smile on your face suggested that you only said it like that because you knew how stubborn Bucky could be. "You're staying here. You were literally on the brink of falling asleep a minute ago and I'd be damned if I was the reason that you can't catch up on some much needed sleep."
Bucky wanted to argue, he really did… but it wasn't like you were wrong.
He could still feel the tiredness weighing down his limps, so staying here was a pretty tempting idea. "Are you sure?"
"Positve." You were already walking towards the house, trying to leave as quickly as possible before he’d change his mind again. "Just try to stay in the shade, yeah? The sun is going to get a little strong over the next few hours."
He only chuckled, your concern very sweet but completely unnecessary.
He was a super soldier, after all. He could handle a little UV radiation. "Don't worry about me, sweetheart. I'll be fine."
Famous last words, but Bucky didn't know that yet.
Honestly, you'd been gone for way longer than you'd first thought you'd be. In a small town like Delacroix, you couldn't leave the house without at least three people pulling you into a conversation- especially now that a very handsome man was living with you, if you were to quote them.
Convincing the people in this town that you and Bucky weren't more than friends was even harder than you'd expected, but honestly, you couldn't even blame them for not believing you.
You didn't even believe it yourself, so why would the people that had seen you grow up and could tell when you were lying from a mile away?
They were being sweet about it though, you had to give them that. Even the knitting club of town, which was full of elderly and very judgemental ladies, had given you their approval when it came to Bucky, which was rare. Usually, it took them a lot longer to warm up to knew people, especially ones from the city.
On the other hand, Bucky had been nothing but a gentleman towards them, so you could't really blame them for taking a liking to him so quickly.
He had that affect on you too, after all. And he did have the kind of manners that were pretty rare these days, especially in the modern dating culture.
That was also the reason why you were a little surprised when you walked through the front door with three bags of groceries in your arms and Bucky didn't immediately appear in front of you, more than ready to take them from you because he never really wanted you to carry the heavy stuff when he was around- not because you were incapable, you had made it very clear that you were.
It just seemed like one of those things he'd learned growing up and couldn't really shake. You'd told him multiple times already that Bucky didnt have to do so much, that he was your guest and it wasn't his responsibility to help you out so much, but Bucky wasn't having it.
He just claimed that it was the least he could do, especially with how much he was staying at your place.
And if you were being honest to yourself, both of you knew that Bucky was way more than just a guest.
This was his home as much as it was yours, at least it felt like that lately.
Whether it was fixing the leaky sink in the kitchen or cooking with you, Bucky didn't shy away from anything.
No matter what, he always insisted on doing whatever he could, claiming that his ma would turn in her grave if he just accepted your hospitality without giving anything back.
Just how used you already were to his presence showed in this moment, because you kept expecting him to join you in the kitchen with that stupid grin and even stupider muscles, which you were seeing more of now that he was occasionally walking around shirtless.
You were happy that he was comfortabe enough to do that around you, but how much it was messing with your head was really becoming a serious problem.
You figured that he was probably still sleeping in the backyard, though that would be more than just unusual. It's been three hours since you've first left the house and Bucky wasn't really one for long naps.
As a matter of fact, he didn't really sleep a lot at all. He'd once told you that he was lucky if he got three hours of sleep at night at all, so this was more than just a little weird.
Deciding that the groceries could wait a moment longer, you abandoned them were they were lying on the kitchen counter and made your way to the backyard, just to see that Bucky was still lying in the very same spot he'd been in when you'd left.
Just that now, th sun had moved so much that the parasol wasn't actually providing any shade anymore.
Instead, Bucky was completely exposed to the sun, his skin already a very concerning shade of red.
And even though the heat had to be unbearable if you considered how long he'd been lying there already, the man who'd usually wake up from the tiniest bit of noise or disturbance was still out cold.
You immediately made your way over to him and placed your hand on Bucky's shoulder, his skin hot and clammy with sweat. "Hey, Buck." You kept your voice low as you gently squeezed his shoulder, not wanting to startle him. "C'mon, hun, wake up."
It took a moment longer until Bucky lifted his head, looking at you with such a dazed expression, it looked like the heat must've gotten to his head just as much as it did to his skin.
"Hey there." Crouching down next to the sun lounger so you'd be on eye level with him, you brushed some of the strands away that were plastered to his forehead, a touch he immediately leaned into.
"How long was I out for?" His words were slurred and thick with sleep, his accent a lot more prominent than it usually was.
"About three hours." Bucky seemed to be as surprised as you had been, though you had other concerns than his unexpectedly long nap right now.
Bucky naturally ran hot due to the serum, but he was exceptionally warm. Searing, even, which really wasn't a good sign. "You feeling alright?"
"A little dizzy, to be honest," he admitted as he moved to sit up, frowning in very obvious discomfort as he lifted one of his hands to hold his head. "Shit."
Even though that didn't really calm your worries, you were glad that he was still sweating, so it at least wasn't a heat stroke.
His symptoms did look an awful lot like heat exhaustion though, which meant that you had to get him out of the sun as soon as possible. "Let's get you inside, huh? I think that was enough sun exposure for a day."
Usually, Bucky was one of the most composed people you've ever seen. He had the most impressive body control and moved his body with a kind of ease that- especially if you considered the prosthetic-he definitely shouldn't have, and it amazed you.
Right now, he just looked… not well. His movements were sluggish, his skin heavily sunburnt and his face way too pale for your liking.
You rested your hand on his lower back as you guided him inside, just in case he stumbled, though you were pretty sure that there wasn't really anything you could do to support the man who was built like a wall and probably weighed more than 200 pounds.
Bucky didn't say a word as he sat down on the couch, letting himself sag into the cushions as his head fell back against the headrest and he closed his eyes, chest rising and falling shallowly.
"You good?" You probably sounded like a broken record, but you couldn't help yourself. With how much Bucky usually tried to hide his weaknesses, seeing him like this made you worry way more than you should.
"Yeah," he murmured, but it wasn't really convincing. "Just a little nauseous, 's all."
Dizziness, nausea, overheating and paleness.
That wasn't exactly great, so you quickly got a few things that would hopefully help him before you made your way back to the living room.
Bucky peeked one eye open as he heard you walk through the kitchen, the sound of your feet hitting the hardwood floor enough to distract him a little.
He was glad that you weren't gone too long and joined him in the living room a moment later again. He was feeling like shit, but your presence helped more than he wanted to admit.
"Small sips, alright? Take it easy." Bucky did as he was told, because how could he not when you were looking at him like that? Taking the unscrewed bottle from you, he lifted it to his lips and let the water run down his throat, the coolness of it a welcome relief.
In the meantime, you drenched the soft cloth in a bowl of water and carefully wiped it over his chest, barely even grazing his skin, but Bucky hissed anyway, making you wince in sympathy. "Sorry. Does it hurt?" It was an unnecessary question, especially if you considered his reaction, but you asked anyway.
"A little," he admitted, voice still a little too hoarse for your liking, despite the water you'd just given him. "Not as much as you hovering, though."
That made you stop in your motions for a moment. "I'm not hovering."
"You are, too." A lazy grin spread across his face, affectionate more than it was teasing. "But it's cute, so we're all good."
"Glad that I get your approval, Barnes." You tried to focus on cooling him down and wiping the sweat off of his body, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your cheeks that- at least in your case- had nothing to do with a sunburn.
You tried to keep your focus on the task at hand, but it was hard to concentrate with how intensely Bucky was looking at you. "Quit staring."
A soft huff of laughter slipped past his lips. "Ain't staring, sweetheart. Just appreciatin' the view."
"Well, then quit appreciating it."
"Don't think I can do that. You're too pretty."
Even though Bucky hadn't been subtle with his flirting for the last few weeks, this was a little direct-even for his charming personality.
"I think the sun did some damage to your brain, Buck. Don't say things you're gonna regret when the heat exhaustion's over."
The lazy smirk on Bucky's face was in place again as he looked at you through hooded eyes. "Only 'cause I don't usually say this kind of stuff doesn't mean it ain't true. I'm just too much of a coward to tell you certain things sometimes, sweetheart. Don't wanna mess this up."
"You're not messing anything up, Buck, don't worry. Now stop talking and drink your water."
"Yes, ma'am." He gave you a mock salute and you couldn't help but wonder how he could still be so silly whilst feeling this shitty, but maybe that was just how he functioned.
When you were finished the cloth, you reached for the lotion instead that would hopefully manage to calm the sunburn a little bit and put some on your hand, giving Bucky a warning look. "This could be a little cold."
He did tense a little when you started to rub the lotion into his chest and stomach, the intimate touch making you blush once again.
You had to realise that you did that a lot around him lately, but this time, Bucky didn't comment on it.
As a matter of fact, he looked almost confused, like he didn't quite understand why you were doing this for him.
"You don't have to take care of me like this, you know that right?
"I know," you agreed, hands rubbing the moisturizer into his shoulders now. "I want to, though."
Again, that seemed to catch him off guard.
Bucky often had moments like that, when he would realize that the lack of kindness and care he'd grown so used to weren't actually how things would always be.
That it would never be like that with you.
"You keep surprising me, you know that?"
Now, that made you laugh a little. "I try my best, that's for sure."
You just kept tending to his sunburn for the next few minutes, making sure that it was taken care of properly before you put the lotion away and sat down next to Bucky, searching for any possible signs of discomfort. "You okay?"
This time, Bucky took a few seconds to think about the question before he nodded. "Better now thanks to you."
"Well, I'm glad that I could help."
After you said that, the two of you just… looked at each other for a moment, Bucky's eyes so much more expressive than he ever managed to be with his words.
Obviously, the sunburn and heat exhaustion weren't something he should've had to experience, but it had led to a moment far more intimate than there had ever been between the two of you.
It felt different now, when his eyes dropped to your lips every few seconds.
He didn't act on it, not yet.
But he seemed to understand now that you weren't only around for the predictable things, but that your care about him didn't come with a catch.
You were there for him and he didn't have to do anything to earn that care, at least not in the way he'd grown so used to.
He just got to be Bucky. The man that was comfortable enough to take naps around you, tried his best to help you around the house as much as he could and liked reading more than he would ever admit to anyone but you.
He didn't quite know how to navigate just being that yet without the weight of fighting and missions sitting heavy on his shoulders, but for you?
i need some absolute heart shattering angst about bucky "dying" and then a few years later he suddenly shows up at the door
AND YOUR WRITING IS SOOOOK CHEFS KISS 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭
lmao babe, I'm not gonna lie, this was soooo vague so I went off the rails with this one a bit, lol, which means I accidentally wrote a mini 15k fanfic
Come Home To Me
pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & platonic!steve x reader
word count | 14.7k words (lowkey this is like a three part story put together)
summary I during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows.
but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire.
tags | (18+) brief smut, canon divergence, slow burn, friends to lovers, soft!bucky barnes, strong female character, angst with a happy ending, angst and feels, domestic fluff, pregnancy, bucky barnes needs a hug, period-typical attitudes, racially ambiguous reader, no use of y/n
a/n | I hope this satisfies you guys for the rest of the week, because I will be working unfortunately. lowkey have no idea where this idea even came from, but I'm actually in love with this. for context, they're all the same age so, 1936 - 18, 1941 - 23, 1944 - 26, 1946 - 28
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2
divider by @cafekitsune
Brooklyn, Summer of 1936
Bay Ridge streets smelled like hot pavement, coal smoke, and fresh bread — if you were lucky. If you weren’t, it was just piss and heat and someone hollering three blocks away.
You were leaning against the iron railing outside your building, arms crossed, one scuffed boot propped up behind you. Hair pinned up in a rush, streak of grease on your cheek from helping your mother with the busted fan in the window. You didn’t hear them so much as feel them coming — like a ripple in the rhythm of the block.
“Morning, boys,” you said without looking, voice dry as kindling.
“Sun’s barely up and she’s already packin’ attitude,” Bucky Barnes replied, that usual drawl in his voice like he thought he was the second coming of James Cagney.
You gave him a sideways glance. “And you’re packin’ delusions. Must be somethin’ in the water on your end of the street.”
Steve gave a tired chuckle, already wedged between the two of you in spirit if not in body. He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and worry in his eyes — like always. “Can we go one day without a brawl before lunch?”
You raised a brow. “You think this counts as a brawl? Stevie, this is foreplay.”
Bucky damn near choked. Steve went red all the way to the tips of his ears.
You let the silence sit for just a second too long before snorting, then pushed off the railing. “Relax, Rogers. I wouldn’t flirt with this guy if he was the last swing dancer in Manhattan.”
Bucky smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, trouble. You’d miss me if I dropped dead.”
“Only thing I’d miss is the peace and quiet.”
But he knew, and you knew, that wasn’t exactly true. You butted heads with Bucky like it was your second job, but there was something magnetic about him — the kind of boy who knew the weight of every girl’s stare but still acted like the world owed him one more.
He dressed like he owned the sidewalk — suspenders slung loose over a plain white tee, sleeves pushed up to show the muscle he never stopped bragging about. Hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to cut a streetcar in half.
You hated that he could smile like that and get away with murder.
Steve, sweet and lean, kept his shoulders tight like he was always bracing for something. He didn’t speak unless he meant it, and when he did, people listened — not because he was loud, but because he was honest. If Bucky was a firecracker, Steve was the matchbook — quiet, flammable, and always trying to keep things from going up in flames.
“Where we headin’?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from your purse. You didn’t light it — just liked the feel of something between your fingers when you talked. “We going to that theater again?”
“Nickel matinee starts in twenty,” Steve said, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Double feature — G-Men and something with Myrna Loy.”
“Ugh,” you groaned. “Another damn fed movie? They’re just propaganda with prettier faces.”
Bucky gave you a lopsided grin. “You just don’t like cops ‘cause they keep catchin’ you runnin’ your mouth.”
You stepped in close enough that he blinked, caught off guard by how quickly you cut the distance. “I don’t like cops ‘cause they don’t care about girls like me unless we’re dead or useful. Big difference, soldier boy.”
His grin faltered — just a flicker — and Steve, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and gently nudged his way between you both.
“She’s not wrong,” Steve said quietly, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Cops only come to our side of the block when someone’s bleeding. Or brown.”
Bucky glanced between you two, then dropped the grin altogether. His voice went soft — maybe even respectful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just tucked the cigarette behind your ear and started walking. “You never do, Barnes. That’s the problem.”
But still — still — when your shoulder brushed his as you passed, you didn’t pull away.
And he didn’t move either.
After the movie, the three of you settled along the edge of the promenade overlooking the East River, legs swinging above water that glinted dull and gray under the setting sun.
You were mid-rant. Again.
“And don’t even get me started on the benches,” you said, jabbing a thumb behind you like the injustice was sitting right there. “I mean, really? A freakin’ bench? Can’t share a place to sit ‘cause someone’s skin looks different? What kind of country invents trains and planes and peanut butter and still can’t figure out where a person should be allowed to sit?”
Steve nodded slowly, elbows resting on his knees, listening like he always did — not with judgment, not with pity. Just taking it in, quiet and steady.
Bucky popped the cap off a soda bottle with his belt buckle, because of course he did, and took a long sip before muttering, “You sure you don’t wanna run for office? You talk enough for three senators.”
You shot him a glare. “If I ran for office, I’d be dead before I made it to the first speech. They don’t like girls who say what they mean — especially ones who don’t smile while doin’ it.”
Steve winced. “She’s got a point.”
You gestured at him. “Thank you. Steve gets it.”
Bucky held up both hands, defensive but grinning. “I didn’t say you were wrong. I’m just sayin’, maybe the bench thing ain’t our fight. Not really.”
You stared at him. “See? That right there. That’s the problem.”
He blinked. “What is?”
“You thinking just because it doesn’t hurt you means it ain’t your fight.”
Steve looked over at Bucky, brows raised slightly. “You walked into that one.”
Bucky sighed and leaned back on his palms, looking up at the sky like it might hold some kind of answer. “I’m not tryin’ to be the bad guy, alright? I know the country’s busted. I know some people got it worse than me. I just—” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.”
You snorted. “That’s what they all say. ‘Ain’t my place,’ or ‘it’s just the way it is.’ Then you blink, and it’s been seventy years since slavery ended and we’re still out here arguing about who gets to use a water fountain.”
Bucky looked over at you — really looked. You were staring at the river like it had betrayed you personally, eyes hard, jaw set, that fire in your belly burning so bright it practically radiated off you.
“I just think,” you said, softer now but still fierce, “if you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention.”
Steve nodded again, quiet and firm. “You’re right about that.”
Bucky was silent for a beat. Then he said, quieter than either of you expected, “I am payin’ attention.”
You didn’t say anything back. You just sighed.
────────────────────────
One Week Later
It was too damn hot for anything. The kind of sticky, breathless heat that made the whole neighborhood move slow. You were sitting on the curb outside the corner store, nursing a warm soda and fanning yourself with a folded-up newspaper when Bucky came jogging around the corner, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Oh no,” you muttered as soon as you saw his face. “You’ve either done something stupid or something worse.”
He stopped in front of you, grinning and breathless, hands on his hips. “You remember that diner on 10th? The one with the best cherry pies in Brooklyn?”
Your eyes narrowed. “The one with the ‘whites only’ sign in the window?”
“Yeah, that one.”
You stared at him. “Bucky. What did you do?”
He pulled something from his back pocket and held it out — a metal sign, rectangular, scratched and dented, but unmistakable.
The words “WHITES ONLY” had been spray-painted over in red.
“I may or may not’ve borrowed this,” he said, tossing it onto the sidewalk with a loud clank. “And I may or may not’ve told the guy behind the counter he could shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
You stared at him. Blinked. Then burst out laughing — not because it was perfect (it wasn’t), or smart (definitely wasn’t), but because it was so Bucky. Loud, impulsive, dramatic, and maybe even a little dangerous.
He looked proud of himself, then uncertain. “Was that… stupid?”
You stood, brushing your hands on your skirt. “It was loud. It was reckless. And it was probably illegal.”
He winced. “Okay, so yes.”
“But,” you said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his, “you listened.”
Bucky shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Don’t really like the idea of a place that’d take my money but not someone else's. Doesn’t sit right with me.”
Your throat tightened at that. You hadn’t expected much — just the usual back-and-forth, the teasing and fighting. But this? This was real. Maybe not world-changing, but it was Bucky-changing. And that mattered.
“You know,” you said slowly, “for a guy who runs his mouth like it’s his job, sometimes you say the right thing.”
He gave you that damn grin again. “I’m a man of many talents.”
You rolled your eyes — but this time, you smiled too.
────────────────────────
Brooklyn, August 1936
It was late afternoon, and the sun had dipped just enough to turn everything golden. The heat still clung to the brick and concrete like a second skin, but a breeze finally cut through, lifting the hem of your skirt as you stood outside Wilson’s Department Store, eyeing the newest window display.
There it was. The dress.
Soft yellow with a sweetheart neckline, pleated skirt, and delicate white piping along the seams, like something you’d see on the pages of Ladies’ Home Journal if you ever had the spare coins to buy one. It was soft, feminine, ridiculous — and perfect.
And looking like it belonged to a girl who didn’t have to count pennies or scrub floors.
You stood there staring, thumb hooked into your belt loop, brow furrowed. You weren’t wearing anything special — a hand-me-down skirt that was a little too loose at the waist, and a blouse with a stain near the hem you’d tried to cover with a brooch. Your heels were scuffed. Your nails had oil under them from helping patch the neighbor’s busted radio.
You weren’t ashamed, not exactly. You’d worked for every thread on your back. But you still wanted to look nice, sometimes. Wanted to feel like a girl instead of just a fighter.
“Ey,” a voice behind you called. “You gonna rob the place or just stare it down ‘til it surrenders?”
You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice had been haunting you since you were thirteen.
“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.
Bucky chuckled and stepped up beside you, Steve just a step behind with a tired smile already forming.
“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked, looking at the dress too. “Not your usual color.”
You shrugged, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Just lookin’. Ain’t a crime.”
“We were headed to Deluca’s,” Steve offered. “Thought you might wanna come.”
You hesitated — just for a second — then gave a shrug. “Sure. Can’t afford the pie but I’ll steal bites off your plate.”
The three of you fell into step down the sidewalk, the usual rhythm settling in. Bucky tossing a coin up and down in one hand, Steve quietly narrating neighborhood gossip in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe half of it, and you walking just a little ahead, tongue sharp and posture tougher than you felt.
“Y’know,” Bucky said after a while, like the thought had only just occurred to him, “never figured you for the dress type. Thought you were more… y’know. Practical.”
You turned to look at him.
“Practical?“
“Yeah,” Bucky said, encouraged by your silence. “Like… you don’t care about all that frilly stuff. You’re not like the other girls. You don’t care about all that stuff. Lipstick and ribbons and whatnot. You’re... different.”
“Different,” you repeated, flat.
Your jaw tensed.
Steve gave Bucky a sharp side-eye, already sensing disaster. “Buck—”
“I mean,” Bucky went on, oblivious, “you’re always talkin’ about politics, and unions, and—hell, you cursed out that priest last week for callin’ Roosevelt a communist—so like you don’t need to be pretty. You’re, y’know... rough around the edges. But in a good way.”
Steve groaned under his breath.
You stopped walking. “Rough around the edges?”
Bucky, to his credit, froze. “No, I meant— Not rough like bad rough. Just— You’ve got character.”
Steve tried. “He’s saying you’re—uh—authentic.”
You turned on Bucky, arms folded. “Let me see if I’ve got this. I’m not like other girls, I don’t care how I look, and I’ve got rough edges and character.”
“No, no—dammit,” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying you don’t have to put on airs. You’re... you.”
Steve muttered under his breath, “You should stop talking.”
“I meant,” Bucky tried again, hands up, “you’re—different in a good way. You’re smart, and tough, and you don’t need a dress to be beautiful.”
You stared at him, arms folded so tight across your chest you could’ve snapped a rib.
“Oh, so I’m not beautiful now, and I get points for not trying?”
“No! That’s not—Jesus, that’s not what I meant—”
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Buck, for the love of God, please.”
“I meant you are beautiful, but not because you try, just… ‘cause you don’t? Like, you’re not… shallow.”
“So girls who like pretty things are shallow now?”
“No! Not shallow. Just, y’know—less…” He trailed off, realizing he had no end to that sentence that wouldn’t get him killed.
You scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Barnes, ‘cause your brain’s hangin’ on by a shoestring.”
Steve coughed into his hand to cover a laugh.
Bucky was flustered now — flushed, nervous, trying to backpedal in boots made of wet cement. “All I’m saying is, you don’t gotta change a damn thing. You’re already—you’re already you, and I like you.”
“That’s rich,” you said, backing away him. “Coming from the guy who just said I’m not like other girls. Like being other girls is some kind of disease.”
Steve sighed. “He’s an idiot. He means well—”
“She knows I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky said to Steve, then looked at you. “C’mon, honey—”
“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped.
His face fell. Just a bit. But enough.
You took a step back, jaw tight. “I do care how I look, Barnes. I just don’t have the luxury of pretending I don’t. I like dresses. I like lipstick. I like feelin’ pretty. But you know what I don’t like?”
You didn’t wait for an answer.
“Feelin’ like the only reason a guy’s got anything nice to say about me is because I’m not like the girls he thinks are too much. Like I’m some prize for not askin’ for nothin’.”
Bucky looked stunned, like he hadn’t even considered that angle. Like he’d been trying to give you something and dropped it straight into the gutter.
Steve, quietly, said, “She’s right, Buck.”
You held your stare with Bucky a moment longer, then exhaled — sharp, frustrated, done.
“I’m goin’ home.”
“Wait—hey, hold on—”
You were already turning, fists clenched, eyes burning — not with tears, never that — just anger. Embarrassment. The ache of being seen just enough to sting.
“I said I’m goin’ home,” you called over your shoulder, “before I break somethin’ you can’t sweet-talk your way out of.”
You didn’t stop walking.
And this time, neither of them followed.
────────────────────────
Brooklyn, Early September 1936
It had been a month.
Thirty long days of radio silence — no knocking on the stoop, no wisecracks outside the shop where you helped your uncle sort through junked radios, nothing.
Steve had tried. Lord, had he tried — showing up at your stoop like a walking apology letter, rambling about how Bucky was a jackass “but not that kind of jackass,” and half a dozen “he means well” speeches. You’d listened, arms crossed, jaw tight, thanked him politely, and shut the door with the kind of finality that said grudge fully intact.
And honestly? You didn’t miss Bucky Barnes. Not really. Not much.
...Maybe a little.
Now it was a Saturday night. Crickets chirped under the hum of streetlamps and jazz drifted faint from a neighbor’s radio. You were stretched out on the front parlor couch in your slip, your hair pinned halfway, half-heartedly reading a borrowed copy of Gone with the Wind that you’d dog-eared so often you were certain the library’d start charging you.
That was until your Ma called out from the kitchen, voice thick with flour and annoyance.
“Get the door! I’m elbow-deep in potatoes!”
You muttered a few curses under your breath — ones your Ma would swat you for if she heard — and pulled on a robe as you headed for the front door.
You pulled it open, half-ready to bark, “What?” — and then froze.
There he was.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Hair slicked back like always, but a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. No smirk. No swagger. Just Bucky, standing there with his hands shoved into his coat pockets like a schoolboy who’d lost his lunch money.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You blinked at him, arms crossing out of instinct.
“What do you want?”
Bucky shifted on his feet. “Can I... can I talk to you?”
You glanced over your shoulder, then stepped halfway onto the stoop, leaving the door cracked open behind you.
“I’ve been practicin’ this,” he admitted, eyes down. “For, uh. For a while. In my head.”
“Didn’t get a chance to use it on the other girls you insulted this month?”
He winced, hands tightening in his pockets. “No. Just you.”
You said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he began, voice low. “For what I said. For how I said it. I was tryin’ to say you don’t need all that stuff to be beautiful, but it came out like you weren’t allowed to want it. And that’s... that’s not fair. You can want lipstick and dresses and still want to break the whole damn system.”
You arched an eyebrow, still guarded. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Steve,” he muttered. “Well, mostly. And maybe a little from this pamphlet I found at the co-op, but it was all in real small print, and the lady at the desk was real intense.”
That made you almost smile. But not quite.
“I know I talk too much,” he continued. “And I don’t always think before I do. But I’ve been thinkin’ a lot. About how I made you feel. And how I hate the thought that you might’ve thought... you weren’t enough. Or too much. Or whatever the hell it was I made it sound like.”
You sighed quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t wanna be angry all the time, James. It’s like—people expect me to be. Like the minute I open my mouth, it’s just bark, bark, bark. Sometimes I wish I could just... be. Y’know?”
He looked at you like he understood. Not fully. Not yet. But enough.
“I like your bark,” he said, almost sheepish. “But I like when you’re just you, too.”
You looked down, toes tapping the wooden stoop.
There was a pause — soft, honest, unpressured — before he asked, gently, “Did I blow it? Or... have you forgiven me?”
You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes like you were calculating the weight of the whole damn thing.
“I’m takin’ one of those quiet moments where I weigh your good qualities against your bad ones,” you said slowly, “to decide if you’re actually worth the trouble.”
He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets like he wanted to prepare for a punch.
You tilted your head. Composed. Narrowed your eyes.
“You made it.”
His grin bloomed across his face — that trademark Bucky Barnes smile, the one he used when he won a game of stickball or caught the last seat on the trolley.
It knocked the breath out of you a little, not that you’d admit it.
“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I got somethin’. For you.”
He stepped back a bit and pulled something from his coat pocket— a neatly folded bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He held it out.
You looked at him, suspicious. “What is it?”
“Just... open it.”
You frowned, lips already pursed, but your fingers tugged at the twine anyway.
You tugged the string loose and unwrapped the paper — and then you saw it.
Your breath caught.
Soft yellow cotton. Sweetheart neckline. White piping at the seams. The exact dress from the department store window. The one you’d stared at. The one you’d fought about.
Your heart tightened like a fist. “Bucky—this ain’t—this wasn’t cheap.”
“I know.”
You pushed it back into his hands. “Take it back.”
“No.”
“Did you steal this?”
“What? No!” he raised his hands. “I took extra shifts at my pop’s shop. I’m still covered in oil under this shirt. Go ahead, check.”
You gave him a flat look.
He softened. “I remembered you starin’ at it. That’s all.”
You looked down at the dress. Ran your fingers over the hem.
“I’m not takin’ this.”
“You are,” he said firmly. “Because if you give it back, I’ll just sneak it in through your window next time you leave it cracked.”
You stared at the dress. Then him. Then the dress again.
Your lips twitched — damn him — and you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hand it back.
He noticed the smile threatening to appear on your face.
“Stop lookin’ so pleased with yourself,” you muttered.
“You’re smilin’.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Then, slowly, you held it close, not too obvious, just enough to breathe in the new fabric. Your lips twitched. “Fine.”
He smiled wider. “Fine?”
“Don’t make me repeat it.”
He chuckled under his breath. “Alright.”
Bucky hesitated again, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably head home. Don’t wanna push my luck.”
You looked over your shoulder, then back at him. “Ma’s makin’ shepherd’s pie.”
His brows rose. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “You know it's just me and her, and she always makes too much.”
He cleared his throat. “I mean... if you need help eatin’ it...”
“You comin’ in or what, Barnes?”
His grin turned boyish again — a little crooked, a little sheepish, all charm. “You sure ’cause I wouldn’t want to impose—”
“Oh for God’s sake, Barnes, come in before I change my mind.”
He stepped over the threshold so fast you’d think you’d offered him gold.
And just like that, you shut the door behind him.
Five years Later
Brooklyn, September 1941
The diner smelled like strong coffee, burnt toast, and a little bit of grease — same as it always had. The bell over the door jingled as Steve and Bucky stepped in, the wind from the street trailing in behind them. The place was half-full, same old chipped counter, same tired cook hollering from behind the swinging door.
Bucky slid into a booth near the window, knocking his shoulder against Steve’s as he grinned.
“You’re buyin’. I got grease on my pants for you this morning.”
Steve rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat. “You volunteered to fix the radiator, Buck.”
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t take effort, punk.” He kicked his boots up under the table and leaned back like he owned the place.
“Always with the dramatics,” Steve muttered.
Just then, the bell on the counter gave a sharp ding, and a voice called over it:
“Well, well. If it ain’t Barnes and Rogers. Lookin’ like you crawled outta a sewer and a church basement, respectively.”
You.
You were in your uniform dress — nothing fancy, blue apron tied at your waist, hair pinned back (mostly), a pencil tucked behind your ear. You had a rag slung over one shoulder and that trademark glint in your eyes.
Steve smiled. “Hey. Didn’t know you were workin’ today.”
“Pulled a double,” you said, striding over. “Mrs. Fratelli called out again. Probably ran off with the meat truck driver like she threatened.”
Bucky’s face lit up the second he saw you.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “Miss me since this mornin’, or you too busy dreamin’ about me in your sleep?”
You gave him a flat look. “I dreamt I ran you over with a trolley. Twice.”
Steve snorted into his water.
Bucky grinned wider. “Still think that’s your love language.”
You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you placed two menus on the table, voice low and teasing. “You keep talkin’, Barnes, and I’ll slip hot sauce in your coffee.”
“I like it when you threaten me,” Bucky said, eyes gleaming. “It means you’re thinkin’ about me.”
You rolled your eyes before bending just a little and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth — soft, familiar, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. Just something you did. His hand instinctively brushed your hip as you pulled away.
Steve groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “Not in front of me. Please.”
You raised your eyebrows. “I kissed his face, Rogers. Relax.”
“Yeah, but then he’s gonna get all dopey and start sayin’ stuff that makes me wanna drown myself in syrup.”
“Too late,” Bucky said dreamily, eyes still on you. “Already feel like I’m swimmin’ in sugar.”
You grabbed the coffee pot from behind you and poured two cups — sliding one in front of each of them with a pleased smile. “And that’s why I’m rationing how much coffee you get today.”
Bucky raised a hand solemnly. “If lovin’ you means sufferin’ through caffeine withdrawals, I’ll take it.”
“Awful,” Steve mumbled. “You’re both awful.”
You winked at Steve. “You love us.”
“I tolerate you.”
“I’ll take it,” Bucky said.
You were already walking off to the next table, hips swaying, head turned just enough to catch Bucky watching you. You rolled your eyes at him, but there was no bite in it.
He looked across at Steve, still grinning like a damn fool.
Steve sipped his coffee. “You’re pathetic.”
“Maybe,” Bucky said, watching you over the rim of his cup, “but I’m in love with a girl who can verbally eviscerate me and still kiss me like I hung the moon.”
“...Pathetic and doomed.”
Bucky just smiled wider. “Can’t wait.”
The diner’s usual low hum was alive with clinks of silverware and the hiss of coffee pots, but Bucky’s eyes were fixed on only one thing — you.
You were making your rounds like you ran the place, pouring coffee into mugs with an easy flick of your wrist, tossing back quips with regulars who knew better than to get fresh.
Your hair was coming undone in the back, a curl slipping down your neck, and your apron had a grease smudge near the hem — and Bucky swore he’d never seen anything prettier.
Steve followed his line of sight and let out a sigh into his coffee. “You ever blink when she’s in the room?”
Bucky didn’t even look away. “Would you, if that was yours?”
Steve snorted. “She ain’t yours. She lets you hang around.”
“She’s got that look in her eyes today,” Bucky said, head tilting as he watched you swipe a rag across a booth. “Like she’s two seconds away from smashing a sugar jar over someone’s head.”
“That’s just her face, Buck.”
Bucky finally turned to Steve, flashing that familiar smirk. “You remember last fall? That night in Fort Greene, after the street fair? I kissed her—right outta nowhere. Thought she was gonna sock me in the jaw—”
“She probably should’ve.”
“—but instead,” Bucky said, practically glowing, “she grabbed me by the shirt and kissed me back.” He smiled wider, tapping the side of his head. “Swear to God, I thought I’d been knocked out cold. Like I won the damn lottery.”
Steve made a face. “I think I liked you better when you were pining and pathetic.”
Bucky raised his cup in mock toast. “I still am. Just, y’know, happily pathetic now.”
Steve shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping from him. “She keeps you humble.”
“She keeps me honest,” Bucky corrected, and turned back to watch you.
That’s when the radio near the register crackled a little louder than before, catching just enough attention to lower a few voices.
“…German U-boats continue patrolling the Atlantic, with reports of more attacks on British convoys. American destroyer Greer engaged by German submarine in recent weeks. Though no formal declaration has been made, the Roosevelt administration urges continued readiness…”
Your hand slowed on the countertop, just slightly. Conversations across the diner dipped low or stopped altogether. The cook leaned halfway through the window to turn the volume up.
“—and while President Roosevelt affirms America’s stance as non-combatant, whispers out of D.C. suggest it’s only a matter of time. Should Congress act, all eligible men eighteen and up may be called to serve.”
The old man in the booth behind Bucky snorted and muttered, “Guess the boys better enjoy their hot dinners while they can.”
Someone else murmured, “Been coming for a while now.”
And just like that, the warmth in the diner cooled by a few degrees.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just talk. Same as last month. Same as the month before.”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on you as you busied yourself clearing a table, like if you just kept moving, it wouldn’t matter what was on the radio.
That look was on your face again, the one Bucky knew well: that mix of anger and weariness you always wore when the world decided to take something instead of fix it.
Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Nah. It’s real now.”
Steve looked at him. “Buck—”
“I know it’s coming,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. “Same way my pop did. He knew in ’17. Signed up before they even came knockin’. Said if it’s gonna come for you anyway, you meet it head-on.”
Steve was quiet. He hated this part — the inevitability of it. Watching people he loved step into something they might never come back from.
Bucky looked down at his hands, fingers running over a small tear in the napkin dispenser. “If I go…”
“You don’t know that you’re going—”
“If I do,” Bucky cut in gently, “look after her.”
Steve blinked. “Me?”
“You’re the only one I trust to,” Bucky said. “She’s got no one left but you and me. Since her Ma passed…”
His voice faltered a little. Just enough for Steve to notice, but not enough to make Bucky admit it.
Steve leaned back, gave a dry laugh. “Buck, she’s more likely to look after me. She’d have me patched up, scolded, and fed before breakfast.”
Bucky smiled faintly. “Then look after each other. Promise me.”
Steve held his gaze. “Alright. I promise.”
They both turned to look at you, now laughing softly with a little girl sitting at the counter, sliding her a cherry from behind the counter when the cook wasn’t looking.
Bucky’s voice was soft, but firm. “She acts tough. Mouth like a sailor. But she’s got this big heart, y’know?”
Steve nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
The radio crackled again.
And in the brief stillness that followed, Bucky looked like he was trying to memorize everything — the sounds, the feel of the place, the curl of your lips and the way your smile came slow but full.
Just in case.
────────────────────────
Brooklyn, November 1941 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station
The wind was bitter that morning, the kind that bit through layers and settled into your bones. Steam hissed from the train engine as the platform filled with a quiet hum of voices — families clustered close, trying not to show just how tight they were holding on.
You stood a little behind Steve, arms crossed over your chest, Bucky’s coat wrapped tight around you. The sleeves were a little too long — he always said he liked seeing you swallow up in it. But you kept your chin high, eyes fixed on the tracks like if you didn’t look at him, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening.
Bucky stood a few feet away, saying his goodbyes. He bent to hug his ma first — her face pulled tight and red with holding back tears. His father clapped him on the back with a hand that lingered longer than usual. And Rebecca, red-nosed and blinking back tears, hugged her big brother like she couldn’t believe he was actually leaving.
You shifted your weight, watching the family scene in silence. Steve nudged your shoulder lightly, offering the smallest smile. You didn’t return it, just stared ahead.
Then Bucky turned. Said his final goodbye to his folks, kissed Rebecca's temple and whispered something that made her laugh through her tears.
You watched it all, arms crossed, jaw set.
Steve stood beside you, shoulders hunched, breath curling in the air. He wasn’t saying anything, which you were grateful for.
And then Bucky turned.
He made his way over, bag slung over one shoulder, grin already blooming on his face even though his eyes didn’t match it. He stopped in front of Steve first.
“Well, punk,” Bucky said, trying to keep it light.
“Jerk,” Steve answered, just as steady.
They clasped hands — firm and fast, pulling into one of those hugs that ended with a clap on the back that said all the things they weren’t going to say.
“Stay outta trouble,” Bucky said, forcing a smirk.
Steve gave a small laugh. “How can I? You’re takin’ all the trouble with you.”
Bucky chuckled, low and tired. “Somebody’s gotta stir things up overseas.”
Steve looked at him, jaw flexing. “You’ll be alright.”
“’Course I will.” Bucky bumped his fist against Steve’s arm. “You think I’m gonna let you get taller and better looking than me? Not a chance.”
Steve laughed softly, blinking fast. “Write when you can.”
“I will.”
They lingered a beat longer, then Bucky turned to you.
You didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared out over his shoulder at the trains, the people, the nothing that didn’t matter.
Bucky stepped toward you, slower than usual. You kept your arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders stiff, almost as if you were protecting yourself.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re really gonna make me leave without seein’ those eyes?”
You swallowed, jaw clenched as you pulled your coat tighter. “Train’s gonna leave whether I look at you or not.”
He reached out, gloved fingers brushing your elbow gently. “You’re wearin’ my coat.”
“I was cold,” you said flatly, eyes still fixed on something past him. “Not like I did it for sentimental reasons or anything.”
He smiled. “Course not.”
You didn’t answer. Just shrugged tighter into the coat, blinking fast. Bucky stepped in closer, so close the brim of his cap was nearly brushing your brow.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said quietly. “Just a little while. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”
“Don’t lie.”
That made him pause.
You finally looked at him. Really looked. And the moment your eyes locked, something in your face cracked — not broken, but bent under the weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The world behind your eyes was loud, and Bucky could hear every scream of it.
“I’m scared,” you said finally, voice small.
“Me too.”
Another silence. Longer this time.
Bucky’s face softened. “You think I ain’t comin’ back, don’t you?”
“I think a lot of boys say that to their girls before they leave,” you said, voice even but tight. “And not all of ’em get to mean it.”
Bucky reached up, thumb brushing the side of your face, glove rough against your cheek. “I’m not all of ’em. I’m me. And I’m coming back to you.”
You looked down at his chest, fingers curling slightly like you wanted to hold on and didn’t know where to start.
You bit your lip. “If… if something happens—”
“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “Don’t say it.”
“I need to say it, James. I need to—”
“No.” His voice was firmer this time, but not harsh. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. “I’m comin’ home. You hear me? I’m gonna come back and you’re gonna yell at me for leavin’ my boots at your door again, and you’re gonna steal all the covers, and we’re gonna forget this whole goodbye thing ever happened.”
You blinked fast, breathing shaky.
“If you need anything,” Bucky said, “go to my ma. She’ll take care of you.”
You raised your brows, voice dry. “Your ma hates me.”
Bucky blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “She doesn’t hate you.”
“She glares at me like I taught Rebecca to swear.”
He paused, then grinned crookedly. “She just doesn’t love you as much as I do.”
You let out a small, breathy laugh — not quite whole, but better than nothing.
He kissed you then. No heat, no show — just steady and sure, like he was trying to anchor the both of you in the moment. Your hands clutched at his coat, pulling him closer for one more second, two, three.
When you pulled back, your voice was quiet.
“Come home to me.”
Bucky rested his forehead against yours. “You’re all I wanna come home to.”
The train let out a loud hiss. Passengers began calling their goodbyes, some already starting to board.
Bucky kissed your forehead, quick and sure. Then stepped back — one step, then two — still looking at you like he didn’t want to turn around.
“You stay warm, alright?” he called, voice louder over the bustle. “Eat something other than burgers and coffee once in a while!”
You scowled faintly. “You’re one to talk!”
He gave you that big, crooked grin, the one that always made your stomach flip.
Then he turned and walked toward the train, duffel slung over one shoulder.
And you stood there in his coat, trying not to let your eyes water in the cold, with Steve silently stepping closer beside you — not saying anything. Just being there.
The train pulled out of the station a few minutes later. And Bucky was gone.
Three years later
Brooklyn, October 1944 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station
The train pulled into the station with a shriek of steel and smoke, hissing to a stop under the gray Brooklyn sky. The platform was packed — families pressed up against the rails, hopeful and desperate, faces turned toward the windows of the arriving train like it might spit out salvation.
You were right at the front, your press badge pinned to your coat as you tapped your heel anxiously against the concrete, not even trying to play it cool. You looked good — hair pinned sharp, lipstick bold, a belted coat cinched over your skirt, the hem just brushing your knees. You always made a point to look good when he came back.
You weren’t just you anymore — not the loudmouthed girl with calloused fingers and second-hand dresses. You were a name in print now. Famous columnist at The Brooklyn Standard, known for stirring the pot and refusing to let anyone — the government, the public, or the boys back home — forget the hypocrisy of this so-called land of the free.
You had a national voice now, but today, that didn’t matter. Today, you were just the girl waiting on her boys to come home.
And then you saw him.
Steve stepped down first, tall and broad and shining like something out of a poster — because, well, he was now. The star-spangled uniform clung to him like it belonged there, a coat trying and failing to hide it, but that open smile on his face? That was all Steve. Your Steve. Brooklyn Steve. The one who carried extra change for the subway because he was sure one day you’d forget.
You didn’t even have time to shout before Bucky followed behind him — slightly thinner than you remembered, bruised under the eyes, but real. Whole. Alive. Still him.
And when he saw you—
“Doll—!”
You didn’t wait. You shoved past a vendor and a couple of sailors, arms already out. You practically launched yourself at him.
Bucky caught you mid-stride, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you clean off the ground. Your legs lifted, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms tight around him like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go. His duffle bag dropped to the ground with a heavy thump as he spun you once, breathless and warm.
“I missed you,” he murmured against your temple. “God, I missed you, baby.”
He held you like he was afraid you weren’t real. Like if he let go too fast, you’d vanish into the smoke and the station noise and all the things he saw out there in the dark.
“I’m not crying,” you muttered against his neck.
You pulled back just enough to kiss his face — everywhere. Cheek, brow, nose, temple. He laughed, a sound somewhere between hysterical and joyful, as you brushed your fingers over the short edge of his hair.
“I’m kissing you so you know it’s me,” you whispered. “So next time you disappear, I’ve got your damn face memorized.”
He grinned, breathless. “Don’t plan on disappearing again.”
You pressed your forehead to his for one more second before turning to Steve, who stood nearby with a patient smile.
“Well, well,” you said, arching a brow and resting your hands on your hips. “Would you look at that. Steve Rogers. Has anyone seen him? Small fella, polite, sketchbook always tucked under his arm? You’re wearin’ his face, stranger.”
Steve laughed — loud and whole and rich. “That’s me, alright. Just with a bit more… calcium.”
Bucky snorted behind you, still clinging to your waist like he hadn’t seen you in a decade. “You mean steroids.”
“Super-serum,” Steve corrected.
“Fancy steroids.”
You grinned, stepping forward to pull Steve into a hug, strong and sure. He hugged you back with those new arms of his, still gentle like he might break you.
You whispered to him as you held tight: “Thank you for bringing him home to me.”
His voice was quiet. “Would’ve brought him back sooner if I could.”
You pulled back and cupped his cheek. “You brought each other back. That’s more than most people get.”
Just then, a kid across the station shouted, “Hey! It’s Captain America!”
Steve flinched slightly, and you rolled your eyes. “Great. They spotted you.”
“You’ve been in the papers too, y’know,” Steve said, tugging his bag higher. “Every time I see your name, someone’s mad about it.”
“Means I’m doing it right.”
Bucky watched you, chin tilted slightly, pride glinting behind tired eyes. “Told the fellas you were raising hell while we were gone.”
“I did more than raise it. I printed it in bold.”
He slid his hand into yours, fingers tight between yours like he hadn’t remembered what it felt like until now.
“We got you for a few days?” you asked, voice softer now.
“Four,” he answered. “Four days, and then they send us back to God knows where.”
You nodded. “Then I’ll make ‘em count.”
He glanced at you, and a little smile flickered on his face.
“You already are.”
────────────────────────
Your Apartment — 2:47 a.m.
The radiator hissed in the corner, clanking loud enough every so often to make you flinch. The warmth it gave off didn’t quite reach the corners of the old apartment. You were used to that — this was the place you’d grown up, after all. The chipped paint, the creaky floors, the faded wallpaper your ma had put up in '28.
Bucky had crashed in your bed as soon as you'd gotten home. You'd followed later, after checking in on Steve — who was passed out in your old room, still fully dressed. Poor guy had barely gotten the boots off before slumping on your old too small twin bed.
Now it was late, maybe two, maybe three in the morning. Outside, the city hummed quiet and cold. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. You'd drifted in and out of sleep — curled against Bucky’s side, your head on his shoulder — until the sudden jolt of his body broke the stillness.
He gasped sharp, sucking in air like he’d been drowning, his muscles tensed tight beneath you. You sat up instinctively.
“Bucky?” you whispered, brushing your hand over his chest.
His eyes were wide and wild, not quite seeing. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breath came hard and fast. You gently cupped his face and leaned closer.
“Hey. Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.” You reached up to stroke his hair, fingers tangling through the soft brown strands. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re home.”
He blinked, chest still heaving as he tried to slow his breathing. Your other hand rubbed soothing circles against his sternum.
“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re safe. You’re with me.”
He was quiet for a long beat. Just breathing. Then he shifted, head pressing into the crook of your neck, his arm curling tight around your middle as if he was trying to burrow into you, as if your body was the only thing tethering him to this world.
The room was quiet save for the sputter of the radiator and the soft rhythm of your fingers in his hair. You didn’t ask too soon. You knew better than to push.
After a long while, his voice emerged — low, ragged.
“They kept us underground,” he murmured finally, voice rough. “No light. Cold. No names. Just numbers. They… they strapped us down, filled us with something. And when the pain started, it didn’t stop. I thought my head was gonna split open. I couldn’t scream after a while. My throat just gave out.”
You didn’t move, just kept your fingers stroking slow, steady lines along his scalp, the other hand curling along the back of his neck.
“I thought…” he swallowed. “I really thought that was it. That I was gonna die in some freezing hellhole in the Alps with no name and no grave.”
“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you didn’t. You came back to me.”
He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I left pieces of myself behind. Like I didn’t all make it back.”
Your chest ached at that. You tightened your hold around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.
“You’re all here,” you whispered. “And the rest… the rest we’ll find together, yeah?”
Your throat tightened, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. Not while he needed you steady.
Silence again. But the kind that wasn’t heavy. Just close. Breathing. Rebuilding.
His head rested over your heart, and you felt him calm as he focused on the steady beat beneath your ribs. Then—
“Marry me,” he said suddenly, muffled against your skin.
You blinked, startled. “What?”
He lifted his head, eyes locked with yours now — clear, steady, fierce in a way that made your stomach flip.
“Let’s get married,” he said again. “Tomorrow. Or today. Whenever you want. Just—let’s do it.”
You sat up a little more, still blinking at him, mind spinning. “James—”
“I don’t want to wait,” he cut in, softer this time. “I’ve been through hell and back, and every time I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, all I wanted was to get to you. Just to be here again. To hear your voice and feel your hands and—”
He grabbed your hand then, pressed it to his chest like he needed you to feel how real he was. “We’ve been through too much. We’re already each other’s, right? So let’s make it real.”
You stared at him — this man you’d grown up with, fought with, fell for. His eyes never left yours.
“I got it all in my head,” he added, quick like he was afraid you’d talk him out of it. “We’ll go down to the courthouse, get the papers. You can wear that yellow dress I got you. I’ll wear that suit Ma made me save for ‘something good.’ Steve and my family can be our witnesses. We’ll get egg creams after and laugh about how fast it all was.”
“You sound like you’ve been planning this,” you muttered, heart thudding.
“I have,” Bucky said, without missing a beat. “Since the day you kissed me instead of sockin’ me in the jaw.”
You looked at him — really looked at him — hair a mess, face a little pale under the moonlight slipping in through the window. He looked tired and strong and so, so sure.
You swallowed. “You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”
“I know,” he said gently. “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”
You met his gaze, fierce and full of something too big to name. “I love you. So… yeah. Let’s get married, Bucky.”
Bucky smiled. That slow, boyish, heartstopping smile you hadn’t seen since before the war.
Then you leaned forward, kissed him slow, and pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You better not change your mind in the morning.”
“Not a chance, doll.”
──────────────────────────────
The Next Evening
The second that Bucky opened the door, he bent low and scooped you clean off the stoop with a dramatic flair that made you yelp and burst into laughter.
“James Buchanan Barnes!” you gasped, arms flailing before looping around his neck. “What the hell are you doin’?”
“I’m carrying my wife across the threshold,” he grinned, eyes bright with mischief as he marched toward the living room like it was a palace. “That’s what a gentleman does, ain’t it?”
You tossed your head back laughing. “This dump is the same place I've been sleeping for years, James—”
“Not the point, sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his grip under your thighs “I’m startin’ traditions here. And one day, when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”
“You’re outta your mind,” you muttered fondly, brushing his hair back from his forehead as he leaned in and kissed you — quick, then long, then quick again.
Your feet finally hit the ground again and your fingers immediately went to the neckline of your dress — the same pale yellow one he’d bought you all those years ago. The satin straps slipped off your shoulders as you took a breath and said, “Can’t believe this thing still fits.”
Bucky tilted his head like a puppy, eyes scanning your body like he hadn’t already memorized every inch of you.
“Why wouldn’t it fit?”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the mirror. “Bucky, you got me this dress when we were teenagers. I was still livin’ on Ma’s grocery scraps and bad coffee.”
He stepped up behind you, hands curling around your waist as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “You look the same to me,” he murmured against your skin. “Just more beautiful.”
You turned toward him at that — letting your forehead rest against his chest. “You always been such a smooth-talker.”
“No,” he whispered, drawing his fingers slowly down your back, “I just speak the truth when it comes to you.”
He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands slid lower, anchoring you against him. Your fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease.
“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “if you keep smilin’ like that, I’m not gonna make it to the bed.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You got somethin’ against the couch?”
“No,” he laughed, scooping you up again — this time with a little less ceremony — “I just figured the bed deserves the honor tonight.”
You squealed and let your head fall back as he carried you down the short hallway, your yellow dress now barely hanging on. Once in your bedroom, he laid you down gently, reverently, like he was handling something holy.
“You sure you don’t wanna wait till tonight?” you teased as he hovered above you, eyes dark with love and want. “Make it real proper?”
Bucky’s laugh was low and quiet, almost a hum. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your jaw, then your throat. “We’re married. That is proper.”
Your breath hitched as he kissed the hollow of your collarbone.
“You know I love you, right?” he said, suddenly serious — eyes locking with yours. “I’ve loved you since you threatened to throw a shoe at my head for callin’ you mouthy in ‘31.”
You smiled softly and cupped his cheek. “You still talk too much, Barnes.”
“Then maybe I’ll shut up and show you instead.”
And he did.
He kissed you like a promise. He kissed you like you’d never have to say goodbye again.
His kiss deepened slowly, and when his hand slid behind your neck to cradle you closer, you let yourself fall into it. Into him. Into the warmth and security and the slow realization that this was it. You were married. This was your forever.
Bucky kissed like he meant to remember every second.
He tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, fingertips moving with reverence, not rushing, not demanding—just feeling. When you shifted beneath him, he helped you sit up, fingers fumbling a little with the tiny row of buttons down your back.
“Too many of these damn things,” he muttered.
You laughed softly, leaning back into him. “You’ve been wanting to get me out of this dress since the ceremony, admit it.”
His breath ghosted hot against your shoulder as he kissed your skin between each word. “Since before that. Since I saw you this morning and realized I was gonna be lucky enough to call you my wife.”
The dress slipped down your arms, the delicate fabric pooling at your waist, revealing the soft cream of your slip underneath.
Bucky stilled for a second, eyes roaming over you like you were some rare treasure unearthed in candlelight.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse. “God—look at you.”
You reached up and tugged at his loosened tie, pulling him down into another kiss. “Then look closer, Barnes.”
That broke something in him.
He pressed you back down into the bed, hands everywhere now—still gentle, but needier. His mouth trailed kisses across your collarbone, then lower, tracing the edge of your slip with aching slowness.
“Can I?” he asked, lips brushing the swell of your breast.
You nodded.
He peeled the slip down carefully, like undressing a secret. When your breasts spilled free, he groaned, breath catching like it hurt. His lips closed over your nipple, tongue flicking gently before he began to suck, slow and deep.
You gasped, arching into him.
His hand moved down, smoothing over your stomach, then lower, over the delicate lace of your underwear. He kissed lower still, murmuring against your skin.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’ve wanted this,” you whispered, “for so long.”
“I know,” he said, voice thick. “Me too.”
He kissed the inside of your thigh, then dragged your underwear down, baring you completely. You heard the sharp inhale he took as he looked at you—eyes blown wide, filled with awe.
Then he was over you again, chest pressing to yours, and you were tugging at the waistband of his slacks, unfastening the button, the zipper, until he was bare too—hard and flushed and shaking slightly in your hand.
“You sure?” he asked, voice barely steady.
“I married you,” you whispered, guiding him to you. “Of course I’m sure.”
And when he slid into you—slow, deep, stretching you in the most perfect, heart-wrenching way—it was everything. You both gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist.
He moved slow at first, reverent, lips brushing over yours with every thrust.
“Love you,” he whispered. “So much. Always.”
You held his face as he made love to you, feeling him fill you again and again until your breath came in soft cries and your heart was a song in your chest. The pace built gradually—never rushed, just more. Deeper. Closer.
When you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and his body pressed fully into yours. He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name against your skin like a prayer.
After, you held each other.
Naked. Married. Home.
And when Bucky whispered another love you against your neck, you kissed his temple and whispered back:
“We’ve got forever now.”
────────────────────────
Six Months Later
Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945 | Before the Assault on Zola’s Train
The snow howled outside the makeshift command tent like a restless animal. A biting wind cut through even the thickest of coats, but inside, by the dull light of a single hanging lantern, Bucky sat hunched over a folded piece of paper — his hands trembling just a little.
He had read it once.
Then twice.
Now a third time.
Each word hit harder than the last, scrawled in your handwriting — slightly rushed, ink smudged near the edge where you’d probably leaned your elbow like you always did.
Steve stepped in, brushing snow off his jacket, eyes narrowing immediately at the look on Bucky’s face.
“Hey,” Steve said gently, careful. “What’s wrong?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the paper like it held the entire universe.
Steve leaned forward, concern building. “Buck?”
Bucky's gaze stayed fixed on the paper, his thumb rubbing over the last line like it might vanish if he stopped touching it. Then — slowly — he looked up.
And Steve’s heart dropped. Because Bucky Barnes, mouthy ladies’ man, unshakable Sergeant Barnes, had tears in his eyes.
“She’s pregnant,” Bucky whispered, his voice barely there. He blinked, breath catching.
There was a beat of silence — and then Steve's mouth opened in a stunned, breathless laugh.
“Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed, standing as the words hit him. “You’re gonna be a dad?”
Bucky shook his head, jaw tightening, smile breaking free like light through clouds. “Six months along. She found out just after I left. She didn’t wanna tell me sooner — didn’t wanna distract me.”
Steve stepped forward, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck…”
Bucky let out a short, shaky laugh and folded the letter up carefully, tucking it back into the inside pocket of his coat, close to his heart. “A kid, Steve. I’m gonna have a baby. With her.”
“She’ll be a hell of a mother,” Steve said softly.
Bucky pulled him into a hug before he even realized what he was doing. The kind of hug men didn’t give each other unless it was earned through blood, war, and years of brotherhood. Steve hugged him back just as tight.
“You gotta come home for this,” Steve said against Bucky’s shoulder. “You hear me?”
“I will,” Bucky said fiercely, pulling back, that old steel in his voice. “We finish this mission. We stop Zola. Then I go home. I’m not missing that. I won’t.”
Steve gave him a firm nod. “One last job.”
“One last,” Bucky echoed, eyes lifting to the mountains beyond the tent wall. “Then I get to hold her. Both of ‘em.”
The snow kept falling. The train would be here soon.
But for a moment, there was warmth in that tent — a pulse of hope beating hard and stubborn against the cold world outside.
And in Bucky’s chest, beneath layers of wool and metal and grief, your letter sat close to his heart — a promise of what was waiting if he could just survive the night.
────────────────────────
One Month Later
Brooklyn, April 1945
Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, warm and golden on the worn floorboards. Your fingers moved fast across the keys, glasses perched low on your nose, your rounded stomach nudging the edge of the desk.
You were working on an article about women in shipyards. Words came easier when you didn’t think about how long it’d been since the last letter.
You tried not to count the days anymore.
Then — a knock.
Your hands paused over the keys. You glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past four.
With a soft grunt, you pushed yourself up, one hand bracing the small of your back. You crossed the room slowly, brushing crumbs from your sweater, muttering, “If that’s Mrs. Klemanski again askin’ for sugar—”
You opened the door.
And saw Steve.
Your heart jumped up into your throat before you could stop it.
His uniform looked sharper than ever, chest full of medals, that familiar bashful way he stood with his cap held between both hands. Your smile came without permission.
“Steve,” you said, relief threading through your voice. “You’re—wait—where’s Bucky?”
Then your eyes dropped. You saw what he was holding — a folded jacket, a bundle of letters tied in twine, something metal glinting dully between his fingers.
Your smile vanished.
“No,” you whispered, instantly shaking your head. “No—”
Steve’s face cracked. Like something in him broke the second you said it. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward with trembling hands, like he could soften the blow if he was gentle enough.
You backed away, hand flying to your mouth.
“No, no, no—don’t. Don’t say it.”
“Sweetheart—” he started softly.
“Don’t call me that, Steve—where is he?” Your voice shook, louder now. “Where is he?”
Steve’s eyes welled up. “The train—we were ambushing Hydra. Something went wrong, Buck—he—he fell.”
Your knees buckled a little. You reached for the edge of the wall to steady yourself.
“I don’t understand,” you croaked. “He promised—he said he’d come back. He promised me, Steve.”
“I know,” Steve said, stepping inside, setting Bucky’s things down on the table like they were sacred. “I know. He meant it.”
“No, no—he wouldn’t leave me.” Your voice cracked, nearly childish in disbelief. “He—he was coming home, we were—he was gonna hold the baby, we hadn’t even picked names—”
Steve crossed the space in two strides and caught you just as your legs gave out. He held you tightly against him, like he was trying to keep you from falling apart with just his arms.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, into your hair. “I’m so sorry. I tried—I tried to get to him. He was—he was just gone.”
You were shaking. Hands fisting into Steve’s shirt, crying so hard your whole body trembled.
“He was supposed to come home,” you rasped, face buried in his chest. “He promised me, Steve. He swore it. He said—he said after this—he’d come back.”
“I know. I know.” His voice cracked and you felt his tears fall against your hair.
You cried like the world had ended. And for you, it had.
You didn’t even notice the letters scattered across the table, or the chain with the dog tags hanging over the edge. Not yet.
You just held on to Steve like he was the last piece of Bucky left in the world.
And in that moment, maybe he was.
One Year Later
Brooklyn, April 1946, 6:04 PM.
You juggled your bag, house keys, and the folded newspaper under one arm as you pushed open the door to your apartment. It clicked shut behind you with a satisfying clunk — thicker walls, newer locks, good insulation. Worth every penny.
You hadn’t gotten two steps in when the smell hit you.
Garlic, tomatoes, something rich and savory wafting in the air. Your brows furrowed.
You didn’t cook. Not when you’d been running around chasing sources all day.
The quiet babble of a baby's voice reached your ears before you could say anything.
You moved toward the kitchen, already shrugging off your coat.
“Jamie?” you called, more out of instinct and confusion than alarm.
“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the kitchen.
There he was—Steve, of all people—standing at your tiny stove like he owned it, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in a pot. His cheeks flushed a little as he turned toward you, sheepish.
“I, uh… hope it’s alright. Didn’t mean to intrude,” he said with that boyish, bashful charm.
You leaned your hip against the doorframe, staring. “You're not intruding. Just surprising. Last I heard you were in Marseille.”
“Got back yesterday,” he replied, gently bumping Jamie’s foot with his hand as your son giggled, “And I figured I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”
You blinked, then shook your head with a soft huff of laughter. “Mind? I’m just surprised Mrs. B let you walk away with Jamie. She told me she was keepin’ him overnight so I could get some rest.“
Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said I could take him. Only because I promised to bring him back with no less than ten fingers and ten toes.”
You raised a brow. “And?”
He grinned. “I counted twice. All still there.”
“I'm just glad Mrs B loves Jamie more than she dislikes me,” you teased lightly, stepping forward.
Steve snorted as he wiped his hands on a towel. “I think she’s finally warming up to you.”
“Only took her a decade and a half,” you said dryly.
Your eyes shifted toward the high chair near the small table.
There he was—your Jamie. James Steven Barnes. Nine months old, dark hair a soft mess on his head, cheeks full and pink, legs kicking in slow, distracted rhythm as he banged a wooden spoon against the tray. He lit up the moment he saw you.
“Hey, baby,” you cooed, crossing the room quickly. You scooped him into your arms with ease, planting soft kisses across his face as he squealed in delight. “Mama missed you somethin’ awful.”
He babbled and reached for your face, hands warm and sticky.
Steve leaned over the counter, watching the two of you with something unspoken in his eyes. Something soft and heavy.
“Thanks,” you murmured without looking up, brushing Jamie’s hair back. “For watchin’ him.”
“Always,” he said quietly.
You glanced at him, then down at the little boy now tucked against your chest. You bounced him gently, kissing the crown of his head.
He looked so much like Bucky.
Jamie’s eyes had his smile in them. That crooked brightness. That same stubborn little crease between his brows when he concentrated. Every day he got older, he looked more like him. Sometimes it ached. Sometimes it made you laugh.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Steve said, breaking the silence. “Nothing fancy. Chicken and potatoes. I followed a recipe from one of those little books Mrs. Barnes keeps in her kitchen. The ones with the oil stains and notes in the margins.”
Your eyes narrowed playfully. “You can read her notes?”
“She writes in cursive. I’m not illiterate.”
You snorted. “I didn’t say it, you said it.”
Jamie giggled, delighted by your laugh.
The apartment had gone soft with golden lamplight. The radio murmured low jazz in the background, and your living room-kitchen hybrid felt, for once, more like home than like memory.
Jamie sat now wriggling in your lap, pudgy fingers smacking the edge of the table as he made soft, happy grunts. You held a spoon in one hand, alternating between your own plate and coaxing tiny, mashed-up bites of potato toward your son’s mouth.
Steve, across from you, ate slower now. The nervous energy that had filled him while cooking seemed to have drained, leaving him thoughtful as he glanced between you and Jamie.
You scraped the spoon along the edge of Jamie’s dish, gently cooing at him, “You’re makin’ more mess than you’re eatin’, baby.”
Jamie shrieked with laughter and kicked his legs against your thigh. You rolled your eyes, smiling, brushing his hair back.
Steve watched, silently fond.
After a moment, you leaned back slightly, sighing. “Steve…”
He looked up.
You hesitated, then spoke, voice gentler than your usual sharpness. “You gotta stop putting your life on pause for us.”
Steve’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”
“I’m serious,” you said. “You’re here all the time, runnin’ yourself ragged makin’ sure we’re okay. You don’t owe us that.”
“I don’t see it like that,” he said.
“Well, maybe you should,” you said, a bit sharper now. “For God’s sake, Steve… there’s a woman across the damn ocean who’s in love with you. Who you love.”
Steve was quiet, picking at his food. “I do love her,” he admitted softly, after a beat. “I think about her every day.”
You nodded slowly, adjusting Jamie in your lap as he reached for your plate.
“But,” Steve added, eyes lifting to meet yours, steady and sure, “I love you. And I love Jamie. It’s not one or the other. It just… is. And Peggy understands that.”
You looked down at Jamie, brushing your thumb across his cheek as he leaned into you, content. You kissed his temple. “You were here when I needed someone. I’ll never forget that.”
“I wasn’t just here because you needed someone,” Steve said. “I wanted to be here.”
You swallowed thickly.
He cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting. More serious now. “I, uh… I need to tell you something.”
You looked at him. “What is it?”
“I’m going away for a while. Longer this time.”
You froze. “What do you mean?”
“They think Hydra’s back,” he said quietly. “There’s a lead—small, but real. I’ve gotta follow it. Could take a few months. Maybe more.”
Your fingers curled instinctively around Jamie’s waist, holding him tighter.
You were quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that stretches over aching bones.
Then you asked, voice tight, “Are you comin’ back?”
He nodded. “I’ll always come back.”
You stared at him, gaze sharp, testing him for truth. “You can’t promise that.”
Steve’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’ll try.”
You looked away, blinking hard. “Just… don’t die, Stevie. I can’t lose another man I love.”
You sighed before kissing the top of Jamie’s head and gently passed him across the table. “Take him while I clean up.”
Steve took him easily, and Jamie reached for his face like he always did.
You stood at the sink, your back to both of them, hands trembling as you rinsed plates that suddenly felt too heavy.
Behind you, Jamie giggled.
And Steve said softly, “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”
────────────────────────
Siberia – June 1946
It was colder than Steve had ever felt. The kind of cold that went through bones and memories, through war medals and stitched-up wounds. Snow drifted down in ghost-silent flurries outside the base, the world unnervingly still.
One of the lasts Hydra holdouts. Tucked into a mountain, almost forgotten.
The air inside was sharp with antiseptic and old blood. The hallways were long and shadowed, cracked concrete walls humming under the weight of hidden horrors. The Howling Commandos moved ahead in silence, boots heavy on the ground. Dum Dum took point. Gabe and Morita swept the side halls. But Steve… something had pulled him down this one, this narrow corridor lined with rusted steel doors and buzzing fluorescent lights.
He felt it before he saw it. Something like instinct. Like memory rising from his gut.
Then he saw him.
Encased in thick glass. Wires attached to skin. A cryogenic pod humming low and blue, the frost crawling up from the base, covering the sides in veils of condensation.
Steve froze.
He didn't breathe.
“God…” His voice was barely more than air.
Bucky.
Hair longer, tangled. Face gaunt. But it was him.
Still him.
And his arm…
Steve’s breath shuddered. The left arm was gone. Replaced with cold, glinting steel. Matte black plating layered in Hydra’s signature design, trailing from shoulder to fingertips. Wires snaked from the seams into the pod.
Steve's mouth opened, but no sound came out. It felt like grief all over again—but this time crueler. Because this time, Bucky was here. And Hydra had done this to him. The scars on his shoulder where steel met flesh were jagged and red, raw as if they'd been carved with no thought for healing. His ribs showed under his skin. His hair was matted. There were bruises on his face, half-healed and sunken.
He looked like a ghost.
“Cap?” Dum Dum’s voice came, low and hesitant behind him. “What do we do?”
Steve swallowed hard, eyes locked on Bucky's face. “We don’t touch it. We don’t dare open it. We don’t know what it’s keeping him alive from.”
────────────────────────
Somewhere in Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, One Week Later
It took seven days to move the chamber.
Howard Stark and his team worked around the clock. Peggy Carter coordinated intelligence and security. The best British and American minds worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the converted medical wing of the base. Stark called in every favor he had left. The facility practically vibrated with tension.
And then the pod was opened.
Slowly. Carefully. Oxygen, sedatives, heart monitors. He was intubated, stabilized, removed from cryo. They monitored every breath. Every neural spike.
And then…
Bucky screamed.
Woke like a beast torn from hell.
Hands strapped down immediately. His body thrashed, nearly flipping the bed. He screamed again—no words, just noise. Animal, broken, panicked. One arm flailed wildly—metal catching the edge of a tray, sending it clattering to the floor. A doctor tried to restrain him and got nearly thrown across the room.
Steve rushed in, yelling over the chaos. “Bucky! It’s me—it’s Steve! You’re safe, pal, it’s me!”
But Bucky didn’t hear him.
Didn’t see him.
His eyes—those warm, familiar blue eyes—were wide and glassy. Vacant and terror-stricken. He screamed again and then curled into himself, sobs ripping from his chest. A medic got a sedative in him. Slowly, the tremors faded. His breathing slowed.
Steve stood frozen.
Peggy stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “He doesn’t recognize you.”
Steve didn’t respond. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They broke him,” he whispered. “They really broke him.”
────────────────────────
Later That Night
The room was dim now. Quiet. Just the steady beep of a monitor and the gentle hiss of the IV.
Steve sat at Bucky’s bedside. His best friend lay still, unconscious again. Shackled loosely—just in case. The metal arm still gleamed under the muted lights. Stark had examined it with thinly veiled horror. “Cut nerves, fused bone, direct-to-brain wiring,” he’d muttered. “Barbaric. Brilliant. Inhuman.”
Bucky’s skin was a mess of faded bruises and whip-thin scars. The tips of electrodes had left circular burns along his chest and temples.
Steve brushed a strand of hair back from Bucky’s forehead, gently. “I should’ve found you sooner.”
He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Bucky or himself.
Behind him, Peggy lingered in the doorway. Watching quietly. “You never stopped believing he was out there.”
Steve didn’t turn around. “I don't what I believed. I just thought that he'd somehow come back.”
Peggy stepped into the room, her voice gentle. “And now he has. It’s just going to take time.”
Steve finally looked up at her, eyes tired. “How do I tell her? How do I go back to Brooklyn, look her in the eye, and say… he’s alive, but not really?”
Peggy didn’t have an answer.
────────────────────────
Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, September, 1946
It had been five months since Steve had last seen you. And it tore at him every time he thought about it. You’d written him faithfully, letters worn with fingerprints and smudged ink by the time he finished rereading them—every one a small, steady light.
You wrote about how Jamie had taken his first steps at the park, how he reached for a pigeon and toppled into the grass with a giggle so loud people turned to look. How his first word, predictably, had been “mama.” How you were trying to wean him off the bottle and that it wasn’t going well.
You’d written with joy—exhaustion sometimes—but joy, nonetheless. You never asked much in return. You never demanded updates. You let Steve share what he could when he could. And he had written back. But he hadn’t told you about Bucky.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he didn’t know how.
What was he supposed to say? “Bucky’s alive, but he doesn’t know he has a son. He wakes up screaming and cries for you like a man who doesn’t know time has moved on.”
You deserved rest. Not more weight.
So Steve kept it in. And he sat with Bucky. Every day.
────────────────────────
Hospital Recovery Wing.
It had been three months since they’d opened the pod.
Bucky was healing—physically, at least. The bruises were fading, and the medical team had finally managed to remove the rusted remnants of Hydra’s control nodes from his scalp. Howard Stark had designed a brace to help ease strain on the shoulder where flesh met steel. There were less screams at night now. Sometimes, there were even full nights of sleep.
But the mind—that was still a maze.
Steve watched from the hallway as Bucky sat near the window, a blanket over his shoulders, hair tucked back behind his ears. He was paler than usual. Leaner. His hands—his real one and the metal one—trembled sometimes when he tried to hold a cup of tea.
But his eyes had life again.
And pain.
And hope.
Steve stepped in. Bucky looked up, and for a second, Steve saw the old grin threatening the corner of his mouth.
“You got news?” Bucky asked, voice still rasped and lower than it used to be, like his throat hadn’t fully recovered from the screaming.
Steve nodded, sitting across from him. “Another lead on Hydra. A nest in the Alps. Small.”
Bucky didn’t care about that. He never did.
His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Steve… just take me home.”
Steve’s heart cracked—again. “You’re not strong enough yet, Buck. You know that.”
Bucky’s eyes were bloodshot, a tremor in his jaw. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore, Stevie. I need her. Please—please—just let me see her. She’ll fix me. She always does.”
Steve looked down at his hands, swallowing the knot in his throat.
“She’s pregnant,” Bucky said suddenly. Desperate. “She told me. In the last letter. She’s pregnant and I’m here doing nothing. What if something happens? What if she needs me?”
Steve looked up slowly. He hadn’t told him. Bucky didn’t know.
“No,” Steve said softly. “Buck… she’s not pregnant.”
Bucky’s eyes snapped up in alarm.
Steve stood, pacing. “She was. A year and a half ago. You remember… pieces of it, I know. But it’s been almost two years since the train.”
Bucky looked lost. “But… the dreams. I keep reading her say she’s pregnant.”
“You remember what you needed to. What your heart clung to.”
Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What… what happened?”
Steve pulled a folded photo from his breast pocket. It was worn. The corners curled from too much handling. He handed it to Bucky gently.
It was you.
Holding Jamie.
In your lap, both of you bundled in coats on a bench, smiling at the camera. The baby’s grin was unmistakably Bucky’s.
“That’s your son, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “James Steven Barnes. He’s… he’s beautiful. He just turned one in July.”
Bucky stared at the photo for what felt like forever. His hand trembled as he held it. His lip quivered.
“I missed it.” His voice cracked. “I missed his first breath. First cry. First birthday. His first… everything.”
Steve crouched in front of him. “You survived. That’s what matters now. You get to be there now. And you will. He’s got your hair, you know. Wild as anything. And your laugh. Same crooked smile too, only shows when he’s about to get into trouble.”
Bucky gave a broken, watery laugh. “God. Steve. I gotta see ‘em.”
“I know.”
“I can’t wait ‘til I’m better. I need to see her, Stevie. Please. I need her. She keeps me here—just thinking about her. I hear her voice sometimes, I see her, clear as day. I need—” His voice broke again. “I need to know she’s real. That she’s safe. That she didn’t forget me.”
Steve rested a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder, firm and steady. “She never forgot you, Buck. Not for a second.”
Bucky looked down, eyes wet. “Do you think she’ll still want me?”
Steve nodded slowly. “She’s never stopped. And Jamie—he’s going to know his father. Just… let’s get you strong enough to hold him first.”
Bucky clutched the photo to his chest and closed his eyes, whispering your name like a prayer.
────────────────────────
Brooklyn, October 1946 – Late Afternoon
The apartment was warm and golden with late afternoon light, soft jazz floating low from the radio, and the scent of clean laundry still faint in the air.
You sat cross-legged on the floor, your skirt fanned around your knees, Jamie sprawled across your lap in all his squirmy, wiggly glory. His tiny hands tugged at your necklace with single-minded glee.
“Alright, Jamie bear, time to close those eyes,” you said gently, as Jamie giggled, flopping onto his side in a dramatic act of defiance. “I mean it, Mr. James Steven Barnes—fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.”
He shrieked in laughter.
“Mama,” he giggled, pointing at you like he’d won something. “Mamaaaaa.”
“Oh, you think I’m funny now?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek noisily. “I’ll remember that when you’re sixteen and I’m threatening to walk you to school in curlers.”
Jamie laughed again, grabbing for your nose this time.
You gave him a side-eye. “Baby, I’m gonna be honest—you’re dangerously close to getting tickled into submission.”
He squealed, thrashing happily as you wiggled your fingers near his sides.
“You little tyrant,” you murmured affectionately, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead. “How can something so small hold me hostage with just a smile? I used to be terrifying, you know. Ask anyone. Your mother used to demand respect.”
He blinked up at you like you were the sun, gurgling some nonsense about “ba-da!” before grabbing his foot and trying to chew it.
You sighed, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re exhausting, and perfect. And I’m already losing this war.”
Just as you rocked him gently, trying to coax him into at least entertaining the idea of sleep, there was a knock at the door.
knock knock knock.
You froze, your hand resting on Jamie’s head. His body went still too, his laughter pausing as he tilted his head in curiosity, those wide, wondering blue eyes staring at the door.
There was nothing ominous about the knock. It was solid. Simple. But something in your bones went cold. Something deep and hidden in your belly clenched the way it had when Steve stood in that doorway a year and a half ago—holding a folded uniform and dog tags, with grief weighing down his eyes like stone.
You swallowed, whispered, “Stay here, baby,” as Jamie stared at you with a questioning look, still quiet.
You padded barefoot to the door slowly, every nerve in your body humming. The familiar creak of the hardwood beneath your feet didn’t comfort you like it usually did. Your hand trembled slightly on the knob, your heart pounding without rhythm.
You opened the door.
Steve stood there, tall and square-shouldered in his uniform, his hat tucked under one arm, and that soft, almost apologetic look in his eyes. You blinked, stunned, still registering the sudden appearance of him. Before you could even form a word—
He shifted.
And behind him stood someone else.
You didn’t breathe.
He was thinner and yet... bigger. Paler. His hair longer, jaw unshaven. The blue of his eyes more haunted. His shoulders stooped, as if the air itself weighed too much. A right hand holding a duffle. The other—
Your eyes dropped involuntarily.
And your breath stopped cold.
A gleam of dull silver. Seamless metal. The joints so real, so smooth, that for a split second, your brain couldn’t compute what you were seeing.
Your gaze snapped back to his face.
Bucky.
You stared.
And so did he.
Your knees almost gave out, hand flying to your mouth.
His eyes found yours—and they filled like floodgates breaking. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything.
He looked at you, like he’d been starved and was seeing food for the first time. He took one shaking step forward and whispered your name.
You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.
The tears came fast, blurring your vision, and then your arms were around his neck, and his good arm dropped the bag and wrapped around your waist as you collapsed into him.
You clung to him like your body remembered something your mind was still catching up to. Your fingers brushed the metal at his shoulder for half a second and you froze—staggered, breath caught—but then pressed your face to his throat, choosing his warmth over your confusion.
He was real. Cold metal and warm skin and heartbeat thudding under your hand. He was real.
Bucky buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he didn’t believe you were real, holding you with his one good arm like he’d never let go again.
“I thought—I thought I’d lost you,” you choked out, pressing your face against his cheek. “I thought—I held your dog tags, Bucky—God, I—”
“I know,” he choked. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”
Behind you, a little voice called from the living room. “Mama?”
You stilled. Bucky lifted his head.
His eyes were wide.
“That... is that him?” His voice cracked.
You nodded. Gently untangling yourself, you stepped back, reached for his hand, and led him a few steps inside.
You pulled him gently into the apartment, guiding him just far enough for Jamie to come into view—standing wobbly on two legs, gripping the edge of the couch for balance, his gaze locked on the stranger, with big, curious eyes.
“Jamie,” you said softly, crouching beside him, heart pounding, “baby, this is your daddy.”
Bucky’s breath hitched audibly. He dropped into a slow, careful crouch, almost like he was afraid he’d scare the child by existing.
Jamie waddled closer, curious, and unafraid.
Bucky stared, completely still.
Jamie blinked at him. Then his face cracked into a gummy, delighted grin. “Pup!” he declared, mispronouncing it as he pointed at Bucky.
Bucky let out a choked breath of a laugh—half-sob, half-shock. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, opening his arm slowly, still scared.
Jamie stepped into it without hesitation.
And Bucky wept as he held his son for the first time, cradling that tiny body like porcelain.
You moved beside them, touching his shoulder—his metal shoulder. He flinched slightly, but relaxed when your hand stayed steady.
You leaned in, whispering against the side of his head. “He’s been waiting for you.”
“I missed so much,” Bucky whispered hoarsely. “God... he looks like me. But he’s got your nose. He—he said Mama. He can talk?”
“Just a few words,” you murmured. “He took his first steps this summer.”
Bucky’s face crumpled, and he pulled Jamie closer to his chest. “I’m here now,” he said softly. “I swear. I’m here.”
Jamie reached up, tugging gently at his hair, and Bucky actually laughed—a real one this time.
And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest loosened—just a little.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦summary: You meet Clark Kent and Superman within the same week. Fall for them at the same time. Then put two and two together, and realize that maybe for once, you can have a good thing.✦
✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, friends to lovers, insecurity, light angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, love confessions, shameless smut (dry humping, slight body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: This takes place in a alternate world where Clark and Lois just never happened, because I will not stand for girlboss slander. Enjoy!✦
It’s one of those warm night that makes everything wet. Sweat sticking under your clothing and hair to your brow. The ground slick with dew and making you trip every five steps. The fog so dense that seeing more than a foot in front of you is nothing short of a miracle. The city buzzing around you, but in nothing more than a hazy, neon glow.
It’s rarer, in Metropolis, for these kinds of nights to happen. It’s something you’d expect from Gotham, or the upstate country sides.
But it’s here, and you’re going to punch a brick wall.
Walking alone is already something that sucks. Everyone tends to let their guard down and fuck around like idiots, thinking that Superman is just going to fall out of the sky and save them.
And he probably will.
But being saved by Superman is always a whole thing. People post a video of the rescues online if they can get one, and then suddenly you’re getting an exhaustive, unwelcome fifteen minutes of fame. The news wants to talk to you. Brands are reaching out to be sponsored by “Superman”—or at least someone who’s touched him, which they think is enough—and people are recreating your rescue as videos for clicks and likes.
It sounds like a fucking nightmare. At least if you get mugged you only have to talk to insurance.
And you’re not a helpless baby. You’re prepared, and alert, and lived in Gotham. Once a Poison Ivy burst into apartment, told you that your landlord had been secretly using doing illegal things with energy—either stealing it or using it too much, you hadn’t really been paying attention—and for some reason you had to die about it.
Compared to that, one person with a gun and shine of desperation in their eyes wasn’t much to be afraid of.
You’d be fine.
So you walk home from work every night—a hand tight on your bag and eyes scanning around the dark—and it hasn’t gone wrong yet.
But you also haven’t had a night like this one.
And when you hear the click of a gun, from a darker alleyway to your side, you’re more disappointed than anything else.
“Give- Lady, hey-“ A skinnier kid—with his hair ragged around his face and his fingers shaking slightly—slides out of the dark. “Stop walkin’, and give me your money.”
You turn with a sigh, tilting your head at him and squinting through the dark. “Just my money?”
The kid blinks at you. “Yes?”
That’s easy then. “Alright.”
“Alright? You’re just-“ The kid frowns. “You’re going to give it to me?”
“Well, what happens if I don’t?”
“I shoot you through the head and take it anyway?”
You give him a pointed look, and the kid scowls, cocking the gun.
“Are you trying to get smart with me, lady? That what this is? Some fucking mind trick?”
“Me?” You point at yourself in mock innocence, and shrug. “I would never. Do you want the coins as well?”
“I- Yeah.” The kid spits on your feet, and it seems more like a defensive mechanism than anything else. “Yes. Give me everything you’ve fucking got.” Then, as a last afterthought, he adds, “Bitch.”
“Hey.” You frown at him, hand stuck in your purse. “That’s pretty fucking rude. I’m being cooperative.”
The kid stares at you for a second, then shakes himself, raising the gun higher. “You got like a fuckin’ death wish, lady?”
“Not right now, no.”
“Jesus fucking- Stop being a bitch, and just give me your fuckin’-“
You never get to know exactly what the kid wanted you to do, because a lot of things happen at once.
Superman drops out of the sky, landing between you and the kid.
You grab your pepper spray out of the bad, using it liberally on the air and stepping off to the side, behind Superman’s back.
The kid fires his gun with a shout of pain as the chemicals hit him, hand blindly following your path behind Superman.
The shot echoes through the alley, making you wince slightly, but the bullet just crumples against Superman’s chest. The kid has ended up shaking and crying on the ground, the pepper spray quickly dissipating into the thick fog, and you sigh, tucking the empty container back into your bag.
“Alright, buddy.” You step out from behind Superman with a frown, kneeling down at the kid’s side. “Let’s see who you are.”
You roll him over as he whines in pain, and makes a weak attempt to shove you away that you dodge.
“Hey.” Superman’s voice cuts through the air, and it’s somehow deeper and higher than you thought it would be, all at once. You’ve heard him give interviews, in those on the street videos when someone gets lucky enough to corner him and ask for his favorite soup or whatever. In person, it feels slightly different.
Less god-like.
When you look up at him with a frown, he looking between you and the kid like he’s not quite sure what to do.
“That’s pretty rude, trying to hit someone who’s helping you.” He says, taking a step forward towards the kid. “And you,” he turns, his eyes seeming to shine in the low, misting light as they land on you. “Pepper sprayed me.”
You shrug. “And? You’re fine.”
“You didn’t know I would be fine-“
“I didn’t know you’d be here.” You look back to the kid, who seems to have resorted to just curling into a little ball. “And he shot you, if we’re keeping count.”
“We’re, uh- Not.” Superman clears his throat, and you can hear him walking closer behind you. “You can go, ma’am. I’ll take it from here.”
“I’m okay, thanks.” You keep rolling the kid until he’s on his side, and you can pull out his wallet.
Superman freezes. “Miss, if you’re stealing from him I have to-“
“I’m not stealing from him.” You roll your eyes, and Superman pauses, before muttering-
“It sort of looks like you’re stealing from him.”
You hum, pulling out the thick card of the kid’s driver’s license, and holding it up to the light. “That sounds like a you problem.”
Superman coughs, not taking off into the night to look for more crime, for some reason. You’re not really sure what he’s still doing here at all.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, please. This man is in medical distress, and I need to get him to a hospital.”
“Don’t take him to the hospital.” You mutter, and Superman frowns, kneeling down across from you.
“Listen, I understand that he just did something that caused you distress, but he’s still a person. He deserves the same care as anyone else, even if he’s made mistakes-“
“Yeah, I know that, dummy.” You roll your eyes, dropping the ID back into his wallet. “But this is a fake. And he doesn’t have an insurance card.”
Superman stares at you. “And?”
“He won’t be able to afford the hospital. This Fake ID is shit, he probably can’t even afford the pudding in the hospital cafeteria.” You tuck the man’s wallet back into his pants, then wrap your arms around his torso. “There’s a shelter, three blocks down. He should go there.”
You grunt, trying to drag him up, but you barely get him an inch off the ground before Superman’s jumping in, grabbing the man and pulling him into his arms, bridal style.
“Three blocks down?” He asks you, and you nod, wiping your hands on your legs.
“Yeah. Don’t tell them the mugging, though.”
“Why-“
“They’ll legally have to hand him over to the cops after.”
“And you… don’t want them to?”
“No.” You look up at Superman with a tight glare. “Do you?”
He’s not glaring at you. Superman is looking at you with an open, almost curious expression, his head titled to the side and lips in a strange sort of pout.
It hits you a little like lightning, how he does look like only a man—he’s got all the fearless humans have—but there’s something more. His skin is clear, posture perfect, and in the glow of the streetlamps, there’s a strange sort of angelic halo around his body.
And he’s handsome.
You’ve seen photos. You watch the news. You’ve been at work and listened to the interns fawn about how hot Superman is, and how they hope they need help because they’d love to be saved by him, but it’s just different in person. Striking, a little mind numbing, and making your skin buzz because he’s staring at you.
You wish he’d stop. It’s making you dizzy.
“No.” He says softly. “I don’t.”
“Alright then.” You cross your arms, raising your chin at him. He doesn’t just get to make you feel gooey with his eyes. “We’re in agreement.”
Superman chuckles, and that just makes your face heat more. “Yeah, I guess we are. Would you like an escort home, ma’am?”
“A- What?”
“May I walk you home.” He holds your gaze, and you might be about to burst into flames. “We can drop this man off together. I don’t think it’s that safe for you to be walking alone at night, even in a city as nice as ours.”
You swallow. “I have pepper spray.”
“You have empty pepper spray. That can will be useless, and I think you know that.”
“Well, I-“ You scowl, adjusting your jacket and standing up a little. He’s so fucking tall. It’s hard to intimidate someone so stupidly tall. “I don’t live very far. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Superman.”
He blinks at you, opening and closing his mouth once, then bows his head. “Goodnight, ma’am.”
Part of you wants him to stop calling you ma’am. You’re not a fucking ma’am, even if the gentleness and respect in his voice is making you feel even more lightheaded.
So you turn on your heels, and march out of the alley like nothing ever happened at all.
But you can still feel it.
Superman’s gaze.
When you glance over your shoulder—because you’re an idiot—he’s watching you walk away, the fog almost seeming to part just long enough for your eyes to connect, before he vanishes into the dark.
———
“You can’t say that.” One of your co-workers mutters, crossing out something on the paper before looking up at you with a sigh of your name. “You know you can’t say that. Last time Ms. Lane had to stop you from saying it. Do you know how bad it has to be for her to do that?”
You shrug, rocking the chair the chair your foot is resting on back and forth. “That’s not my fault, I didn’t make her.”
“You’re dodging the question.” Your coworker gives you a flat look, and you just smile in return.
“I’ve never dodged a question in my life.”
She sighs your name again, and shakes her head. “Just- don’t say it. We’ll get sued into the next century, you know that, and Luther doesn’t fuck around-“
“I don’t fuck around.” You mutter, spinning your pen in your hands. “And you know we’d win if we tried. It’s not defamation if it’s true, and his reputation is already so damaged he’d have no proof that my remarks caused his stocks to tank lower than hell-“
“Just don’t say it. Please.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. I won’t say the factually correct thing about how Luther is such a pathetic man-baby he’s been keeping a harem of ex-girlfriends, and everything he says about Superman is just what’s true about himself, he just can’t see it because whenever he looking in the mirror because he only sees the glare of his bald head.”
Your coworker sighs, right as the door pushes open. “Thank you for not saying it.”
“Listen, I’m so sorry I’m late.” A large, dark haired man with glasses and sharp jawline drops across from you, chair spinning as he gives you an apologetic look. “I just lost track of the time, thought this floor was the next floor, and- Gosh, I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
You frown at him, opening your mouth, but your words die as he stares at you. He’s acting like he’s looking at a ghost, with wide eyes and a startled flinch. He’s still holding his briefcase, grip white-knuckled, and your frown deepens.
Your co-worker clears her throat, and the man’s attention shoots away from a second.
It leaves you oddly cold.
“We haven’t been waiting long at all, Mr. Kent.” She gives the man a sweet smile, and he returns it in a second. “You actually just gave us enough time to finish our briefing.”
“Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He looks to you with another nervous expression, pushing his glasses up his nose, and your frown deepens. “Are you ready then, miss?”
“She’s all yours.” Your co-worker beams, shooting to her feet, and right before she leaves the conference room, you get a firm glare and a mouthed don’t fucking say it.
You ignore her. You’re not going to say it. And if you do, it will be naturally in the conversation, wherever it may come up.
The man is fumbling, across the table. Pulling out his notebook and laptop with clumsy hands, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, shooting you an nervous look every few moments, as if you’re going to jump across the table and bite him or something.
You lean forward, tilting your head, and he sits up straight.
“It’s nice to meet you, miss-“
“You’re not Lois.” You say, voice flat, and his ears turn red.
“Lois is, uh- She’s busy.”
“Busy?”
“Sick.” He mutters, pushing up his glasses again. “She caught something, in that bad weather we’ve been having. She’s very sorry she can’t make it, though.” He gives you a small, charming smile. “Gave me a whole speech about how you’re her favorite, and if I mess this up, she’ll strangle me.”
You hum, scanning over him wordlessly. It’s a strategy that works with almost everyone, staying silent until they get uncomfortable and blurt something. Something that, usually, tells you enough about them to sketch out a picture that lets you color in the lines how you want. When you’d used it on Lois, she’d stared back at you before asking if you were trying to intimidate her. When you’d met the Boravian president, he’d asked if they’d sent a mute to interview him and make him look like some sort of fool.
This man—Kent, your co-worker had called him—is just staring at you right back. Not uncomfortably, but silently. He’s fiddling with his pen and holding your gaze, waiting for you to break the silence.
You never break the silence. That’s losing.
Kent doesn’t seem like he’s trying to win, though. He just seems like he’s trying to be polite.
And after about five minutes of staring at each other in silence, he clears his throat, and frowns at you.
“Do you want some water? Or to call Lois? She can vouch for me, I promise.” He chuckles. “Actually, she’ll probably say I’m an okay journalist, and that I’m asking the questions she wrote.” He pauses, then holds up his notepad. “I am asking the questions she wrote. If that makes this better.”
It doesn’t.
But now you know what Kent is like.
Polite, gentle, kind.
You can work with that.
“I’m good, thank you.” You give him a sweet, slightly mocking smile, and he returns it with the same charming grin from before.
It’s throwing you off. You can’t be cool and collected and sharp, here. With Lois it’s like sparring.
With Kent, it’s just making you feel like a bitch.
“Great, then are we ready to- Oh shoot, Wait-“ He reaches back into his bag, then pulls out a tape recorder with a sheepish grin. “Almost forgot. Gosh, Lois would’ve killed me.” He places the recorder between you, and gives you another nervous grin. “Now, are you ready to get started?”
You nod, and he hits the record button. You’re silent as he rattles off the date and time, who you are—top human right lawyer, heavily involved in negotiations with the United Sates government about aide to Jarhanpur and immigration protections of Jarhanpurian refugees—and who he is.
Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet, sitting down for a conversation about the recent developments with Lex Luther using surveillance technology to tip off Immigration authorities about illegal refugees.
He gives you another handsome smile, before he asks the first question. You just stare at him. He doesn’t get to use his pretty face to throw you off your game.
“So,” he glances down at his notepad, then back to you. “You’re suing the United States government for unconstitutional detainment of Jarhanpurian journalist, claiming they were both complicit in and knowingly funded the unlawful imprisonment that goes against their first amendment right to free press. Is this correct?”
You nod. “Yes, Mr. Kent, it is.”
“Great. Um-“ He flips his notepad, squinting at the words. “The United States had claimed that they had no knowledge of Luther’s methods, and says that they never once paid him to contain a private American citizen. They also stated that, if they did use Luther to hold someone, they were not aware that their funding for his research was helping him to contain people for other countries. So…” He gives you another nervous smile. “What do you say to that?”
“I say that the government is not known for being truthful about their dealings, Mr. Kent.” You raise your brows at him. “At the very least, we know they paid to have Luther contain Superman. That alone indicates that they were aware of the security of his pocket dimension. And I also happen to have several victims of the holding, all legal immigrants from Jarhanpur who were critics of Boravia, who were kept in Luther’s harem jail.”
Kent frowns at you. “Harem jail?”
Shit. “There have been allegations that he used it imprison ex-girlfriends.”
“So you…” Kent’s lips twitch. “Call it a harem jail?”
“Yep.” You give him a challenging look. “And?”
“Nothing.” He looks down at his paper again, ears red. “Just sort of graphic, I think.”
“Graphic-“
“But funny.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass again. “I think it’s funny.”
There’s a fuzzy, warm feeling, over your skin. You don’t fucking appreciate it. “Oh. Thanks.”
He grins. “No problem. Uh- Right. There we were-“
Kent keeps asking you Lois’ questions, and while he doesn’t really have the edge that works you both up until she asks a hard hitter and you knock it out of the park, he’s not the worst to work with. He doesn’t fuck up the questions. He asks a few follow ups about crime rates and the responsibility of the United States to regulate business’. He even asks a pretty good question about the ethics Luther using federal funding when he’s a billionaire, and seems to have come up with it himself.
He’s certainly better than almost any male journalist you’ve worked with. He doesn’t talk over you, or question your qualifications, or do anything but listen and nod like you’re saying something fascinating. You’re really not. You’re using words that are too big and talking too fast and discussing the constitution, one of the most boring topics of conversation.
But he’s still looking at you as if you’re doing Circe de Solie tricks in this bland little conference room.
He laughs at a few of your jokes, and it makes you buzz again.
At one point, you go to the bathroom, and when you get back he’s gotten you both cups.
You lean over it, then look back up to Kent. “What’s this?”
“Uh- Water?” He glances down at the cup, then you. “I figured after going to the bathroom, you might need to stay hydrated.”
That’s such a strangely fucking good thing to do. It’s making your heart beat too fast. “And if I say I just took a shit?”
Kent blinks. “I can get you a snack?”
You snort, and that seems to make him relax again. His shoulder slump and his eyes fucking sparkle like a cartoon character, when you take a sip of his water.
He’s like a fucking puppy turned into a human. You might be able to see his tail wagging.
“Alright, Kent.” You set the water down. “Let’s keep-“
“Clark.” He says suddenly, wincing to himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you but- Clark is alright. You can call me Clark.”
You stare at him, and he turns a little red.
“It’s my first name.”
“Yeah, I figured out that one myself.”
“Oh. Okay. Good.” He looks back down to his notepad, adjusting his tie like it’s burning him through the suit. “So- Next question is- Oh this is a good one. I mean, it’s rougher, but Lois told me you’re… Uh-“ He turns red again. “Never mind-“
“No.” You cut him off, leaning forward. “You don’t get to say Lois called me something then not tell me. What.”
He won’t look you in the eyes. “Just that you’re a little bit of a masochist. And that you were going to be… vulgar enough to make me blush.”
You laugh, soft and through your nose, and Clark looks at you nervously. “That’s it?”
“Uh- Yeah?”
“That’s nothing,” you wave him off, leaning back in your chair. “I thought you were going to say she called me a cunt or something.”
Clark gapes at you. “Gosh, no, she adores you. Told me she’d strangle me, if I messed it up-“
“I know.”
He frowns. “How?”
“You told me earlier.”
“Oh. I did, didn’t I. Darn it.” He gives you another nervous smile. “Sorry about that. Did I tell you about how she also said she’d dump boiling soup on me? And that it was the soup I made her.”
You smile, and it feels a little too wide and toothy, but Clark doesn’t move away. “No, you didn’t.”
“Well, she did. And I don’t think she’d ever call you a- That. You don’t seem like one at all?”
You raise your brows. “I don’t?”
“No, you seem like a… Ah- A really lovely lady.”
It’s hard not to laugh at that, even if Clark looks genuinely confused by your reaction.
“Okay, Kent-“
“Clark.” He corrects with a mumble, eyes bright and almost curious on yours, and now you feel warm.
“Clark.” You keep it together. He does not get to fuck you up. “What’s the good questions.”
“Right. Sorry, um-“ His eyes dart down to the notepad. “A lot of people are worried that by letting Jarhanpurian citizens and journalists into the country, we’re taking away jobs away from American’s and giving these immigrants shelter when they only bring danger. What would you like to say, to American’s who believe that?”
“That our country is built on the backs of immigrants.” You answer smoothly. “And the idea that they only bring danger is a frighteningly xenophobic myth that’s simply easy to believe. Lex Luther is an American citizen, and he nearly split Metropolis in half. Superman is, in all essence of the law, an illegal immigrant, and he’s saved countless lives. It’s the person, not their origin or government, who decides what they are. And the Jarhanpurian refugees have come here to be the good, strong and kind people they want to be. It is our job to protect them, and so far, we are the ones who have failed.”
Clark stares at you for a long, strange moment as your answer hangs in the air. For a second, you think he’s going to argue, or offer a counter question.
Instead he just clears his throat, turns off the recorder, and smiles at you.
“Thank you for talking to me,” he says your name with a warm smile, and the air feeling strangely light, when you take his hand.
It’s big and warm.
You have to bit your tongue as he smiles, because it’s making you want to smile back.
And when Clark walks away after a few more formal pleasantries, you’re just standing in the center of the room. He’s said your name in a deep, rich way that made your heart skip and breath hitch. He’d grinned and you’d felt warm, like a fucking idiot. Your goddamn knees feel sort of weak, because you’d been able to feel his heat from across the table.
Or that’s just still in you. Burning up from where your hands had connected, and through your whole body.
It’s a good thing you’ll probably never have to see him again.
You never want to feel that soft and dizzy, for a long, long time.
———
There’s a thud on the pavement behind you, and you don’t think before you react.
Your hand shoots into your purse, wrapping around your pepper spray, and you turn on your heels.
Right before you spray it, a big hand wraps around your wrist, and Superman takes the can from you with a small frown.
“Sorry.” He lets go of your wrist. “You just got it replaced, and I didn’t want you to use it for no reason. I’ve heard those things are expensive.”
They are.
You still scowl at him.
“Are you stalking me?”
He blinks, eyes widening. “No, I’m not. Swear on it. Superman’s honor.”
He places a hand over his heart with a grin, and you frown at him.
“It’s scouts honor.”
“I was never a scout, miss.” He gives you a small grin. “I don’t want to dishonor their badge.”
“Their scout badge?”
He nods, and you huff in amusement, shoving the pepper spray into your purse.
“Sure. Why not.”
“Well, those boys work very hard-“
“Most of them are rich kids whose parents can afford scouts.” You say dryly, and Superman frowns at the air.
“Huh. I suppose you’re right about that.”
“I know I’m right about it.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, frowning at him. “If you’re not stalking me, what are you doing here.”
“I’m… checking on you.” He gives you a bright, charming grin. “Just making sure you’re holding up well, after last week. Seeing if there’s anything else I can do to help.”
“To help me.” You narrow your eyes, and he keeps grinning.
“I think so. Doesn’t seem to be anyone else.”
You hum, staring at him, and he just stares right back.
It’s too long, that it takes him to break. And he breaks just like Clark Kent did, yesterday. Not with a nervous expression or uncomfortable shift.
Just with worry. Which makes you feel fuzzy.
Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t handle doing this twice.
“Are you feeling safe, walking home? Would you want- Maybe have a driver?”
“Could you get me a driver?”
“No.” He gives you another smile, and now you feel gooey. “But I could walk you home. To make you feel safe.”
“Hm.” You raise your chin, and he quickly adds. “Do you do that for everyone whose muggings you crash?”
“I mean, normally people call it saving.” He frowns, and you scoff.
“You didn’t save me. I was fine.”
“No- I mean, yes, you were, but I still helped.”
“How?”
Superman blinks at you. “I carried the guy. He’s okay, by the way, in case you were worried-“
“I wasn’t.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “I checked on him in the morning.”
“Oh. Good. Of course you did.”
Of course you did.
He says it like it’s a fact. He doesn’t even fucking know you.
“What does that mean-“
“Do you want me to walk- Sorry.” Superman sighs as you speak over each other, bowing his head. “You first.”
You stare at him, scanning over handsome features in the dark, and there’s something. It’s scratching at the back of your head, and it doesn’t have a voice yet, but it’s there. He’s being too kind, it’s odd. And he’s making your head feel a little light, and maybe you need to call the Metropolis facilities department, because there must be something in the water if you’re feeling this way twice in a week.
“Are you actually going to walk me home?” You ask, trying to make your voice venomous, the kind of predator’s warning that makes people back away and leave you to keep walking, alone in the dark.
If you succeed, it doesn’t seem to work on Superman.
“If you want me to, yes, I will.” He smiles at you, and it seems to light up the whole street.
You can’t look at it too long. Your knees will start to feel weak.
“Alright. Fine.” You turn on your heels, not looking back. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s- Okay. Let’s go.” Superman echoes your words, quickly catching up to walk at your side.
You walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s the kind of silence that leaks. That makes everything else feel bigger and quieter, until your breathing is shallower and your skin is prickling, and if there’s not something to fill up the creaks and horns of the night, you’re going to lose your fucking mind.
Superman isn’t even doing anything to make it worse. He’s just walking at a respectful distance next to you, looking around the streets like it’s all the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, and you want to punch him in the face.
“Is this all you do?” You blurt, and he looks at you with a curious expression.
“No? I mean, sometimes I fly-“
“Not walk.” You sigh, looking back out into the night. “Like- Aren’t there robberies and murders for you to be stopping?”
He pauses, tilts his head, then clicks his tongue. “I can’t hear any, no.”
“Can’t hear any.” You mutter under your breath, and he shrugs.
“Well, I have super senses, including hearing, and-“
“I know about the hearing, Supes. I just think it’s ridiculous.”
Superman blinks at you. “I- Ridiculous seems like a strong word-“
“It’s just- It’s not ridiculous. Well, it is, but-“ You sigh, glaring down at your nails like it’s their fault you’re fucking up your words around the pretty alien. “It’s crazy. To be able to hear a robbery across the city.”
“I can’t control it-“
“I know.” You shrug. “It’s just hard to imagine. I think it would overwhelm me, and I’d put a screwdriver through my head.”
“Oh.” Superman chuckles, and it’s a deep, low sound that feels like it fucking rolls through the night, and vibrates in your chest. “It can get overwhelming, I suppose. It’s just how I always am. Always have been.” He pauses, and you can feel his attention. “For me, not being to hear everything sounds terrifying.”
You hum. “Have you ever heard people have like- The loudest fucking sex?”
He coughs, and when you look over, his ears seem a little red. “Yes, but- I’ve sort of learned to tune out the grosser things.”
“Right.” You pause, then frown at him. “Do you poop?”
“Do I poop?”
“You’re Kryptonian, I don’t know how your bodily functions work.”
“They’re mostly similar to humans.” He says, amusement obvious in his voice. “Almost entirely similar, actually.”
You nod, looking back ahead. “So you do poop.”
“Yes. I poop.”
“Fascinating. I have a reporter friend.” You grin to yourself. “I’m going to sell that fact to her for a million dollars.”
Superman laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Something tells me she won’t be interested in that scoop.”
There’s a long beat, and you look back to see him grinning at you, wide and proud.
You groan.
“That’s fucking horrible.”
“You smiled-“
“I did not-“
“Yes, you did. I saw it. It was on your face, and it was a smile.”
“On my face is where all smiles happen- And it wasn’t a smile.” You glare at him, stopping in your tracks. “That was an awful joke. Zero out of ten.”
Superman mock flinches. “Ouch. That low?”
“Yeah. You should be sent to space jail.” You glance behind you. “And- This is me.”
“Oh.” He looks at the building, then back to you. “And you’re not just pretending it’s your building because of what just happened?”
That time, you do actually smile. “No, I’m not.”
He nods, then gives you another one of those knee-weakening smiles. “Well then, have a good night…”
There’s a long silence, and you never told him your fucking name.
You do, with your arms crossed over your chest, and he echoes it back.
Your stupid heart skips.
And he waits for you to go inside, before he takes off. Waits all the way until you’re in your apartment, and you lean out the window to wave at him mockingly, because he can hear you. He knows you’re inside.
He waves, grins at you, and shoots off into the night
You stand stupidly at the window, for a moment.
It’s just bad luck, twice in one week. Kent and Superman, making your breath hitch and body warm. It probably really is just something in the water.
So you close the curtains, and just pray this isn’t the kind of thing that comes in threes.
———
Someone shouts your name, and you’re not fast enough to dive behind the potted plant and make them think you pulled a magic trick.
You don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s too early to speak, too public to have to play nice about everything, too loud to do anything but press yourself against the wall of the little cafe and drink your coffee.
They haven’t even gotten your muffin yet.
You just want your fucking muffin.
Instead you have to just stare at the floor, hoping your lack of acknowledgment will make whoever knows you here think you have headphones in or something.
It almost works.
The person says your name again, then pauses. “I think she can’t hear me?”
“I, uh- I’m not sure.” Another voice—this one sending warm little shivers through your body, and Jesus Christ not again—mutters, a little lower than the first. “I think she just doesn’t want to be bothered, Jimmy.”
“Really? No, I think she can’t hear me.” Jimmy repeats your name, touching your shoulder lightly, and now you have to pretend you never heard him in the first place.
You look up with what had to be a horribly fake expression of surprise, your fingers curling on your coffee cup. “Oh. Hi, Jimmy, when did you get here?”
Fuck, that’s such a bad fucking lie. Somehow, Jimmy, with his million-dollar toothy grin and sweet freckled face, is buying it.
The guy standing over his shoulder, who gave you those stupid shivers, looks a little less convinced. Mostly nervous, like he’s caught the lie but doesn’t really want to fucking do anything about it.
And the good news is, these things don’t come in threes.
The bad news is, they come in two that just keep fucking popping up in your life. Like tall, hot weeds with puppy faces and deep voices and probably abs, given how he’s filling out that shirt.
You stare at Clark Kent.
He stares back at you, face a little red and mouth hanging slightly open.
“Hi.” You say, voice a little blanker and awestruck than you wanted—it doesn’t crack, but it does have a breathlessness that you don’t really fucking appreciate—and his smile is small, but genuine.
Which is really fucking annoying.
“Hey. I, uh- I like your pants.” He pushes his glass up his nose, still smiling at you, and Jimmy groans.
“Jesus, Clark, we gotta work on your compliments, Buddy.” He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, he was raised in a barn. He only knows how to flirt with like, cows. I’m working on it.”
Clark turns a shade of red that’s almost impressive, right as your face heats, and before either of you can protest, Jimmy’s pushing on.
“We have so much to catch up on, I was going to ask Lois to have you come out with us, but then she went and got herself sick. Which was really annoying because I had to deal with Clark’s twenty questions about interviewing, something he’s supposed to already know how to do.”
“I don’t usually do high profile people.” Clark mumbles, and Jimmy gives him a flat look.
“You interview Superman, dude.”
“Well, uh- That’s different? He’s a chill guy, all he does is like, save squirrels, that’s different than law stuff.” He grins at you again, and it’s still charming and attractive and dumb. “Your stuff is smarter. Above the Superman league.”
You can’t stop from smiling back. It’s not fair, how he does that. Maybe he’s a secretly meta with the ability to make people smile.
“That’s a little better, buddy.” Jimmy claps Clark back on the back, and it somehow manages to make the tower of a man stumble slightly. “See, my classes are working! Soon we’re going to have you on these streets, picking up ladies left and right.”
Clark sighs, shooting you a nervous look. “Jimmy, I’ve told you I don’t- That’s not what I’m trying to-“
“You don’t have to try, Clark. I mean,” he says your name, and it can’t take this long to get you a muffin. “Look at this face. I know I’d kiss it-“
“How do you get your interviews with Superman?” You raise your voice over Jimmy—this really isn’t a conversation you want to have right now—and Clark stares at you.
“What, uh- What do you mean? I just- We’ve built a relationship, that’s it-“
“Like how do you find him.” You keep our voice steady and bored. “Does he just appear on the street next to you? Or have, like- A key to your apartment?”
Jimmy snorts. “I don’t think Clark is dating Superman, if that’s what you’re getting out. Our guy is way out of that Kryptonian’s league.
Clark blushes again “Well, I- Uh- I don’t think that’s true-“
“Do you call for him? Does he have a phone number?” You keep pushing, and Clark shakes his head.
“No- I mean- Yes-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “He doesn’t have a phone number, but I just sort of call for him, and he hears me and shows up.”
Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Oh, cool. Can I be there next time you call for him?”
“Well- He doesn’t like other people being there. For security. One at a time.”
You frown. “He’s bulletproof, why does he need security?”
Clark stares at you. “That’s- A really good question. I’ll be sure to ask him next time.”
There’s a long silence, as you and Clark stare at each other, ended only by the barista calling your name for your muffin.
You promise Jimmy that you’ll go out for drinks with him, before you walk away.
You can feel Clark’s warm, curious stare, all the way until you walk outside.
And it might be branded on you, because you feel it a long while after as well.
———
“Superman?”
You call up to the sky, and you’re met with only whistling wind and the distance sound of car horns.
“Superman!” You raise your voice, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop the chill of the wind, and still nothing.
You’re alone. You’re calling him, like Clark does. And unless he’s already forgotten you, he has to be at least curious what you’re doing on the roof, calling his name.
But there’s nothing. Not even a whoosh or streak of red in the distance, showing you that he’s busy or circling around you like a bird or something.
“Superman, can you please-“ You sigh. This is so fucking stupid. “Can you come here, please?”
Silence.
You walk slowly to the edge of the roof, frowning out over the city skyline, and nothing’s even attacking right now. It’s not like he has a fucking day job to be occupied with, he’s Superman.
And it’s pretty fucking rude that he’ll show up for Clark and not you.
Your gaze slowly falls down, to the people rushing past on the pavement below you, smaller than ants. And you have an idea. It’s bad idea, and he’ll probably be really pissed at you, but it’s also an effective idea.
You drum your fingers on the railing, trying to weigh how important this is. In the grand scheme of the universe, not worth throwing yourself off a building for. In terms of all the people relying on you to win this case, absolutely worth throwing yourself off a building. And it’s not like you’ll die. Superman will save you.
“Please don’t do that.”
You whip around, squeaking in surprise, and stumble a step back. There’s a split second where your balance is gone, and you’re falling backwards, and God, that was a horrible idea and now you’re going to die because you’re a dramatic idiot-
But there’s a whoosh.
And a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly upright before you can topple off the edge.
Superman grins down at you, keeping you pressed against him, and your hands somehow ended up flat on his chest. He feels strong, under the suit. And you’re really not cold anymore, because he’s like a person fucking furnace.
A furnace with a nice smile and kind eyes and a little curl falling over his forehead that makes him look like an old movie star.
You’re staring at him. Your heart is going to fast, and there’s the buzzing feeling again, and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your balance by yourself. His proximity is making you drunk, and it’s not fair-
“Who’s stalking who now?” He says, voice rumbling through your chest, and you flush.
“Shut up.” You push him away, and he releases you in second.
His hand lingers on your forearm. To help you get upright.
Only to help you get upright. Nothing else.
He does not get to turn you into a fucking idiot, any more than he already has.
“I need to talk to you.” Arms cross over your chest. Chin raised. Voice firm. You’re going to win this conversation.
Superman just nods, still smiling. “Yeah, I think I figured that out myself. You know, you really don’t have to jump off a roof, I was on my way.”
Shit. “I wasn’t-“
“I think you were, but if you say you weren’t, okay. I believe you.”
“Well- I wasn’t.”
“Okay.” He shrugs, still fucking smiling, and he needs to stop being so kind. It’s making you feel more things you don’t have time for. “What did you need me for, so badly you weren’t going to jump off a roof?”
You flush. “I want to ask you questions. About being an immigrant.”
He raises his brows. “Oh? Like what?”
“Your experience. What it feels like not having a home to return to, or being divorced from the governmental ideals of your home. What you’re grateful for, what you’re not grateful. What you wish would change, what you think America needs to improve on. Why you stay here, when you of all people could feasibly go anywhere in the world.”
Superman blinks. “Well, for the last one, this is my home. And it’s not perfect, but I have no wish to be anywhere else.”
“I know that. But a lot of other people are in similar shoes, and having Superman echo their thoughts and sentiments would be good to hear. Plus you hold a lot of public sway.”
“I didn’t know you were a journalist,” he says your name with small laugh, and you shrug.
“It’s testimony. Are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to jump off the roof.”
“I’ll answer them. They’re smart questions, and anything to help people in my position. But…” Superman pauses, watching you with a strange expression, then lets out a long breath. “You never need to jump off a roof for my attention.”
It’s like he punched you in the fucking gut. You blink, pressing your lips in a tight line as your heart stumbles and your breath becomes shallow, the heat moving down to your lower gut. He can’t just say things like that while looking at you and being so kind. You’re not going to jump off the roof, you’re going to do something stupider, like trying to kiss Superman on his pretty, full mouth that says such sweet things.
You need to calm the fuck down. You’ve met him three times, and this is nothing more than a professional interview.
You can’t kiss Superman.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” You drawl, pulling out your phone to record.
He just nods, and takes a step forward. If you wanted to, you could reach out and poke his chest. There’s heat, radiating off his body again.
Calm the fuck down.
You’re not going to make a habit of calling for him. If this goes well, you’ll have everything you need from Superman, and you can go back to living a quiet, long, focused life.
Alone.
Without any stupid, kind puppy-men making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’d like to let everything crumble down and just be warm.
———
You turn the corner too fast. Slam right into a large, broad chest with a squeak.
A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly to your feet. There’s a strangely familiar feeling to it, that your slightly addled brain—a little from shame, a little from drinking—can’t quite place.
Then you look up, and it would be nice to burst into flames, or melt into the ground.
Clark Kent is blinking down at you, and he looks almost unfairly good in a suit. You don’t know why a journalist works out so much—and he doesn’t seem like the type to be a gym rat—but his muscles are almost pushing out of his dress shirt, and you can feel them under your fingers where you’ve grabbed his shirt, and why are his eyes so blue.
“Hi.” He says your name, glancing down to where your bodies are pressed together, before back to you with a small blush. “You look nice.”
You do look nice. You spent three hours today, making sure you looked nice for the fancy gala. At least five people have told you that you look nice since you got here, because you’d put so much fucking effort into it, it’s a little impossible not to notice.
For some reason, it wasn’t the appreciative look from Bruce Wayne and smirk—his hand brushing over your lower back and eyes hooded with desire—that got your to feel like you were glowing.
It’s Clark, and his stupid, honey-like voice that’s getting under your skin. You look nice. He thinks you look nice. Enough to say it so truly, as if it’s just a fact of the universe. With a gentle element of kindness, like he’s acknowledging all that work it took you to get here.
With his red ears, like you look so nice it’s doing something to him.
Which isn’t fair.
“You look nice, as well.” You manage to get out, and he grins.
“Thanks. I mean, it’s nothing really. Less expectations for me, I think.” He helps you to your feet, before taking a carefully step back. “I’m not giving the big speech tonight.”
“Oh, well- Yeah.” You try to smile back. It’s too easy. “Do you think you could, though? In my place?”
Clark laughs, and there it goes again. Making you feel like you’re fucking shining. “I would, but I don’t think I can trick people into thinking I’m you.”
“Not with that attitude you can’t.”
“I think it’s a little more than the attitude. I don’t have your gravity.” He gives you another small smile, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, he’s holding out your champagne flute. “I caught this, by the way. But- If you’re giving your speech, maybe go easy?” He blushes, shaking his head. “Not that I’m telling you what to do. You- If this is like, your process. Do your process.”
You blink at him, then the champagne. You’re not sure how the fuck he caught it and you, without spilling a single drop.
And when you take it back, you’re fingers brush, and fucking electrically shoots through your whole body.
You down the rest of the champagne in one swig, and Clark gapes at you.
“It is my process.” You mumble, carefully wiping your chin. “It’s called get buzzed so I forget people are looking at me.”
Clark chuckles, glancing at your glass. “Do you, uh- Do you want me not to look at you? While you’re talking? If that helps?”
“Yes. Close your eyes for the whole speech.” You sigh, spinning the flute between your fingers, and Clark nods.
“Okay. But- I think you’re going to great no matter what. You’re good at talking and- Um- Captivating.”
Melting is back on the table. You feel a little dizzy. “Captivating?”
Clark nods, fidgeting with his tie. “I mean, you’re passionate. Makes me- And, uh, everyone else- Makes us like listening to you.”
“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”
This is too nice. You’re going to fly out of your skin if you don’t shift it. And Clark is opening his mouth, probably so say something else that’s sweet, so you blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
“Do you have any pets?”
“Uh-“ Clark blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Not really, no. My cousin has a dog that I watch sometimes, but that’s about it.”
You nod, looking down to your shoes. Looking him in the eyes feels dangerous. “Is it a cute dog?”
“Yeah, but he’s also….” Clark pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Rowdy. Do you have any pets?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay. Um- Do you like pets.”
“Of course I like pets.” You frown at him. “My apartment just doesn’t allow them, so- I mean, I guess I sort of do have a cat, but she lives with my mom.”
Clark’s face lights up slightly. “You have a mom?”
“Yes? Most people do, I think, even if it’s just like a donor-“
“No, I meant like- Do you get to see her a lot?” He clears his throat, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like, does she live in the city?”
“No, but- She’s not far.” You pause, and either the drinks or Clark’s presence are loosening your tongue, because you add, “I’m from Gotham. And I’ve told her to come here like- A lot. But she doesn’t want to leave home.”
“Oh.” Clark nods. “That makes sense. Not her refusing to leave but- I mean, that makes sense as well, it is her home, and I don’t think you could drag my parents from their farm. But they don’t live in Gotham, they’re in, uh- Kansas. I’m from Kansas. And you’re from Gotham. Which is what makes sense.”
You stare at him, and he coughs, giving you a smaller, slightly ashamed smile. It’s impossibly fucking endearing.
“It makes sense that I’m from Gotham?” You finally say, and he nods.
“You’re tough.”
That makes you flush. Which isn’t fair. “What’s your cousin’s dog’s name?”
“Kr- Oco.”
You frown. “Kroco?”
“Coco.” He says quickly, taking a small step forward. “What about your cat?”
“Godzilla.”
Clark laughs again. “That’s a good name.”
“Thank you.” You’re smiling again, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at your shoes. “I came up with it.”
“I bet you did.”
You don’t get to know what that means. You want to. So fucking bad. You want to understand why Clark is saying so many nice things and why he’s so handsome and why he’s still talking to you. At no point has he tried to end the conversation and escape. He just kept grinning and talking and saying nice things, right up until one of your co-workers comes up behind you and drags you away for the speech.
And when you’re giving it, it’s impossibly easy to find Clark in the crowd.
Towards the back, somehow shining to through the glare of the spotlights.
Eyes squeezed shut the whole time.
———
You have the willpower of a sheep on cocaine.
Already easy to herd.
Very easily baited by more cocaine.
Cocaine being a handsome superhero, who you haven’t been able to shake since you shouted for him on a roof.
It started the night after the Gala. You’d walked home you with skirt hiked up and jewelry left upstairs in your office—because you’re not a fucking idiot—and Superman had dropped out of the sky with his stupid smile.
“Do I need to wait for you to get mugged again, to say you shouldn’t walk alone at night?”
You’d laughed softly, and kept walking right past him. “Are you going to let me get mugged?”
“No, that’s why I’m here now. Offering my escort services to ladies in need.”
That had gotten you to stop. You’d had to.
You’d started laughing so hard that if you didn’t, you would have fucking fallen over.
Superman had stared at you with a bemused smile, taking a half-step forward, like he was worried you’d been hit with something.
He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, still giggling.
“God, that- That’s-“ You’d snorted, and he’d reached for you carefully.
“Are you-“
“I’m fine, dude, that’s just- I can’t believe people thought you have a harem.”
He’d frowned. “Well, I don’t-“
“Yeah, I know.” You’d laughed again, and he’d frowned.
“I’m sorry, I just- I’m not quite sure what the joke is.”
You’d drawn back up, giving him an amused look. “What do you think an escort service is?”
Superman had blinked. “I’m going to walk you home.”
“Wrong. You handsome, sweet alien, that is so wrong.”
He’d—impossibly—stood a little taller. “Handsome?”
Shit. “Yeah, pretty boy. You’ve got a nice face.” You’d doubled down like it was nothing, and it had seemed to be an effective strategy. “You know that. People make thirst edits of you on the internet.”
“They do?”
“Oh.” You’d beamed at him. “I have so much to show you.”
And every night after that, he’d walked you home. It’s an effective system. You show him the online form that’s dedicated to trying to convince to actually form a Harem, and he gets to make sure you’re never mugged. You wave to him from the window—which is far too romantic, yet you can’t stop doing it—and then he grins at you, and blasts up, up, and away. There are a few nights that he misses, but there’s always a sticky note on your fire escape saying dragon trying to burn down the harbor, see you tomorrow, with a little smiley face.
You’re keeping them in your nightstand. And it’s not like anyone is going to find them anyway, so that’s not pathetic.
But it might make you a bad person.
Because you’re putting them right next to the other thing in your nightstand.
The second dose of cocaine.
Clark won’t stop popping up either. And it doesn’t start in the same seeking you out way that it does with Superman, but it builds faster. Into something more. Something bigger than you might be able to handle.
It starts shows up for drinks, with Lois and Jimmy. Which should be nothing.
But the universe is out to get you. So it’s everything.
“I’m so glad he didn’t scare you off.” Lois said with a dramatic sigh, setting down her beer. “You’re my favorite person to interview.”
Jimmy had frowned. “Why, because you don’t get to interview a lot of women?”
“No, Jimmy, I interview plenty of women. It’s just- The unfortunate thing about most of the women in power right now is-“
“They’re all fucking cunts.” You’d finished for her, and Clark and Jimmy had choked on their beers with impressive comedic timing. “Which is mostly an unfortunate byproduct of the system. It’s hard to be in a significant position of power and be a good person.”
“I don’t know.” Clark had frowned. “I mean, there must be a lot of pressure. And I’m sure they’re not happy with compromising their morals, it just- It must be hard.”
Lois had shrugged. “Or they’re all just cunts.”
“That’s- Seems like a harsh word-“
“Once I was at a congress hearing.” You’d said dryly, and Clark had looked at you with his full, unwavering attention. It had made you more drunk than the beer. “And one of the congresswomen asked why I was betraying American women by supporting bringing such violent rapists into our country. Her husband isn’t allowed within a hundred yards of schools.”
“Oh.” Clark had frowned. “Well, I hope she realizes she can divorce him. Or- Maybe something will get her to turn around? Like an- Intervention?”
Lois had snorted. “What, from God?”
“No, not God, but- I don’t know.” He’d looked at you, his tone so fucking sincere. “I’m sorry she said that to you.”
You’d had to look down to hide your flush. “It’s okay. Happens.”
Clark had frowned, like it shouldn’t.
But you hadn’t scared him off.
He’d come to another night of drinks. Then another. Then five more, until Jimmy got sick and Lois had an article due, and it was just you and him, sitting across from a booth so small your knees bumped, and hands brushed with every gesture.
“So, why journalism?” You’d asked. “You don’t seem to have the same passion for it that Lois does.”
He’d chuckled, pushing up his glasses. “No, I guess I don’t. And I don’t know, I like talking to people. Hearing their stories. Nice, stable career, you know?”
You’d opened your mouth, but barely spoken before Clark has shaken his head.
“Wait, you probably don’t know, do you. You’re passionate about everything you do.”
“I- Yeah. I am.” You’d swallowed, and he’d kept saying those things like they were obvious. Looking at you like you’re fascinating. Like he could see right through you, and whatever was in there, he liked. “I mean, I like what I do, but I do it because I want to do more.”
Clark had nodded, taking a slow drink of his beer. “Bigger ambitions, huh?”
“Yeah. Do you just-“ You’d frowned. “Not have those?”
“I hate to break it to you,” he’d said your name with a small grin. “Most people don’t. Almost all the folks I know aren’t necessarily happy with what they got, but they’re not lookin’ to make the Earth spin clockwise.”
You’d blinked at him. “What?”
“Sorry, that’s just- Something my Pa says.” He’d blushed, looking down to the table. “I’m trying to say it’s admirable. To want to change things and actually, uh- Do it.”
“Thanks.” You’d whispered, and he’d grinned.
“No problem. Mind if I guess your ambition?”
Normally, you would’ve minded. But it was Clark. And you’d sort of been desperate to know what he thought of you. “Be my guest.”
“President. Or- Actually.” He’d examined you, slowly and with an element of light, playful amusement that had made you giggle. “United Nations, but maybe still Congress?”
You’d laughed, shaking your head, and Clark had raised his brows.
“Am I close?”
“Maybe.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you take a drink. “But I’d rather eat glass than go into politics.”
“Ah, right. Sorry.” He’d grinned. “Just got caught up in the idea of you showing that rude congress woman what a good person looks like.”
Your grip had tightened on your bottle. “You think I’m a good person?”
“Yeah.” He’d shrugged. “Of course.”
Of course.
You let the conversation keep going. Clark had told you about some game he and Jimmy went to, and how he’s pretty sure Jimmy’s sick because a supermodel was slobbering over him all afternoon. You’d told him about how you’d won a big litigation about your case, and smiled at your fingers when he’d made a big, happy deal about it. And the night had flashed by until it was almost two in the morning, and you’d been kicked out the bar.
And Clark had asked if you wanted him to walk you home, and you’d said no.
Not because you hadn’t.
But you’d wanted to see Superman.
Because you aren’t a good person.
That night, Superman had landed on the sidewalk next to you, and you’d smiled at your fingers.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry,” he’d fallen into pace so fast beside you. “Got busy.”
“If people need saving-“
“No, I was just talking to someone important.”
You’d hummed. “Oh? Can you tell me, or is it classified super business?”
He’d laughed. It had been a few months, and it wasn’t making your heart skip any less. “Super business, I’m afraid. Actually, I have a question for you.
“I might have an answer.”
“Alright, well- If you could be a meta, like me-“
You’d mock gasped. “You’re a meta? Why did you tell me?”
“Very funny.” His voice had been flat, but you’d been able to hear the amusement, and it had made you shine. “I just want to know what kind of powers you’d want to have.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m curious, is that not allowed?”
“No.” You’d squinted at him in the dark, he’d stared right back, and your heart had skipped a beat. Shit. “It’s allowed. But it’s suspicious.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less suspicious in the future.”
“Thank you.” You’d paused, thinking about his question, and you’d been walking closers and closer lately. Almost as close as you’d been to Clark, in the bar.
And you’re a horrible person.
“I think I’d like to be able to speak any language.” You’d told Superman, speaking slowly. “But like, any language. Plants and computers and animals, too. Understand and talk to all of them. If it’s communication, I’d be able to do it.”
“Ah. That’s one of the best ones I’ve heard.” Superman had smiled at you in the dark, and you hadn’t even needed to ask. “I might know someone who’d like his power to be knowing the weather.”
“Knowing the weather, like-“
“Just a weatherman. With total accuracy.” Superman had smiled to himself. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it makes him happy.”
You’d kept walking, and talking, and laughing until you reached your apartment. Then you’d waved to him from your window, and he’d vanished back into the night.
The next day, there had been a knock on your door. You’d opened it to find Clark, shifting on his feet with a book in his hands and a nervous smile.
You’d frowned at him. “How do you know where I live.”
“Oh, uh- I-“ He’d cleared his throat, something like alarm flashing over his face. “You’re not going to like it. I, um- I sort of stole your contact from Lois. And she had it, so- Now I have it.”
He’d been beet red, and you might have pushed it if he didn’t look like he was about to make himself pass out.
So you’d just nodded, watching him carefully. “And… Why are you here?”
He’d let out a sharp breath, holding up the book. “Just want to give you this. I don’t know if you have time to take care of a plant- You’re so busy I’m guessing you don’t- Which isn’t bad, but-“
“Clark-“
“They’re pressed flowers.” He’d said quickly, opening the book for you to see. “My Ma taught me how to make them. To celebrate winning your case.”
You’d stared between him and the flowers, your eyes starting to sting because that was so fucking sweet, and you want to sink teeth and claws into his pretty face, or maybe just let him tear you apart, or-
Just keep growing. Up and up, into whatever kinder, softer thing Clark is made of.
That had terrified you.
“I- I won a litigation of my case.” You’d whispered, voice breaking, and Clark had shrugged.
“Still worth celebrating.” He’d said softly, and that had felt like a dose. You never wanted him to go too far, where you wouldn’t be able to find him.
You’d put his flowers in your bedside drawer. And the sticky notes Superman’s been leaving keep building up.
Bar night after bar night, you lose track of time with Clark, because you don’t want him to go, but you still let Superman walk you home.
You stare at the flowers and notes in your drawer, and you might be forgetting how to not smile at either of them.
And worst of all, you don’t really want to remember at all.
———
The world is spinning.
And you giggle to yourself, because the world is always spinning. Always going round and round and right back to where it started, but a million miles away, and now you can just feel it.
Either because of the many, many drinks you’d slammed down in an attempt to soften some sort of self-sharpening edge, or because of Clark’s proximity.
“Oh, gosh.” He catches you around the waist, as you walk up the stairs, and you giggle again. “Let’s slow down, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Aw.” You smile, wiggling around to face him. “You care about me.”
Clark frowns. “You know I care about you. I don’t think I’ve made that a secret- Woah-“
You fall forwards, right into him, and press your face into his neck.
“You smell good.” You mumble. “Like… rain.”
Clark pauses, hand splayed on your back. “Is that good?”
“I like it.” You whisper, fingers curling on his sleeves. “This jacket is nice.”
“I mean, it’s alright.” He frowns at the jacket, then you. “Do you want it?”
You nod, mostly because your drunken, addled brain isn’t connecting one and one to mean two.
Clark had asked if you wanted it. You’d been staring at where his button up was slightly undone, as if you’ve never seen bare skin before.
Yes, you want him. So bad it’s making your stomach flip, although that might just been the liquor.
It’s a heavy, crushing disappointment like titanium, when he just props you carefully against the stairwell wall, and helps you into his jacket. You pout at the floor, trying to savor how it’s warm and smells like him, but now you’re chasing a painting of a ghost that’s haunting you from a foot away.
You turn, pout deepening, and try to march up the stairs by yourself.
You trip, because the world is spinning and you don’t have any balance.
Clark catches you, because the world is spinning and he’s Clark, so it’s just one of those things that happens.
You fall. He’s there, strong with an arm around your waist.
This time though, he picks you up with a small grunt.
Something distant and vigilant in your head is wondering why he grunted picking you up but never while carrying you up four flights of stairs.
It’s drowned out by how warm he is, and how much you want him.
“Why do people call them guns?” You mumble to yourself, poking his biceps, and Clark frowns.
“Well, if you asked my Pa, he’d make some joke about them being lady killers, then say that we shouldn’t be killin’ ladies. Should be treating them well.” He chuckles, and you stare up at him because in the florescent light of the hallway, he somehow looks like an angel.
“I like it when you talk about your parents.”
Someone needs to put a muzzle on you, before you say anything else truthful and dangerous.
But stupid, perfect Clark always wants to hear what you’ve got to say.
“Why?”
“I dunno,” you play with the folds of his collar, as he sets you down on your couch. “Makes you seem real.”
Clark’s brows furrow. “Do you no think I’m real.”
“I think.” You grab the lapels of his shirt, yanking him down to your eye level. “That you are too good.”
“…To be real?”
“Yes.” To be yours. “And no. Can you tell me your cow’s name again.”
“Bessie. What do you think I’m too good for, if it’s not being real-“
“Shhhhhhh.” You press a finger to his lips, frowning out your window. “Oh. No.”
Clark tenses. “What’s wrong.”
“I can’t tell him I’m busy.” You whisper, tears starting to sting at your eyes, and Clark reaches up to carefully brush them away.
“Tell who, sweetheart. I can, uh- I try to pass on a message. If this guy is important to you.”
You don’t understand the frown in his voice. “No. You can’t find him. It’s Superman.” You whisper the last part, and Clark blinks.
The world is starting to get fuzzy. Everything feels heavy, and it would be nice to maybe go to sleep.
But Clark says your name, so you slump forward into him as your body demands that you listen.
“You- Um- You know Superman?”
“Yeah.” You mumble against him, pulling his jacket a little tighter. “Walks me home. Why I don’t go with you.”
“Oh.” Clark pauses. “And you’d rather have him? Walk you home, I mean?”
“I dunno. But don’t worry.” You yawn, the world slowly falling down into black. “He’s not real either.”
———
It had hit you, with the splitting headache of a hangover. You’d stared at yourself in the mirror, and been unable to get it together expect to form one conclusion.
You love Clark.
And you open the drawer, and see the flowers and the sticky notes, and know that he deserves far better. Not you.
Never you.
Someone good like him. Who does it so easily, and trusts like he does—with everything in him—and can hold his heart in both their hands.
You can’t.
Because you might be a really bad person.
Leaning over the roof of your apartment, breath fogging up the air, you wait. For an answer, that only one person can offer you, even if he doesn’t know.
You’re not sure if either of them know. It would make it a lot easier if one didn’t, and was just friendly.
Or if one felt nothing, and you’d been reading too much into it all.
That would split you in fucking half. But that feels like it’s going to happen no matter what.
At least if neither of them want you, you’ll have both pieces to stitch yourself back together.
But first, you need to know.
“Do I need to tell you not to jump?” Superman says from behind you. “Or are you just trying to talk to me again?”
You smile into the dark, voice a little too soft. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”
“Okay.” You can hear the frown in his voice “And were you going to jump?”
“No.”
“You know, that time I actually believe you.”
You turn to look at him in the dark, and it never fails to stop your heart, when he smiles at you. You thought you’d get past it. Get used to how it seems to light up the dark.’
But there it is.
The little skip that you get high on now, because it means he’s looking at you, and there’s never been anything better.
Or maybe just one thing better.
Or the same.
Jesus. You look away, bowing your head to stare at your hands, and Superman clears his throat.
“Are you feeling okay?” There’s a beat. “Anything I can help with?”
“No. Nothing you can-“ You sigh. “Can I just ask you something?”
“Always.”
You run your fingers over the rough rock of the roof wall, keeping your eyes fixed on everything below. There are shadows moving down there, people walking the streets alone through the dark. That’s where you belong, not up here. Not where the sun would hit you, golden and bright, when it breaks the horizon.
Superman mutters your name, and a warmth heats over your skin.
You push it out, before you can think better.
“Do you think I have bigger ambitions?”
He’s silent for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”
“Like- With my life. I- I know someone who’s happy with everything he has, he- He knows everything he wants to be, and-“ You swallow, your voice starting to hurt. “I don’t know if I am.”
“Is it your job? Or someone doing something-“
“No, it’s me.” You turn to look at him, pressing your lips tight together, because you won’t cry. “I’m doing too much and I- It’s still not enough, and I- I don’t- I don’t know where I’m going. I feel like I’ve been in the same orbit for so, so long and it was fine but now it isn’t and- I don’t- I’m tired.” Your voice cracks, and Superman takes a small step forward. “I’m barely doing anything, and I’m so tired, and I don’t want to be tired anymore but I don’t know how to- I’ve never-“
Your voice dies, because it’s cracking and if you don’t pull it the fuck together soon, you’re going to cry.
Superman moves forward in a blink. Wraps his arms around you, and cradles your head to his chest as the tears start to silently roll.
He just holds you in the dark for so long, and there must be better things for him to be doing, but he’s not trying to move. It’s not until you’re breathing him in at a steady pace, that he loosens his grip enough for you to push back.
And when you do, he holds your face between his hands, wiping the tears slowly from your eyes.
“I think you do enough.” He murmurs, and you sniff. “Don’t argue with me about this one. You do. You tell me about work, and you do good things. Thing most people are afraid to, because you don’t seem to have that setting. Whatever rest you want, you deserve, because you,” he says your name, his gaze locked onto yours. “Do more than most anyone I know.”
You wipe your nose with your sleeve, mumbling into the cloth. “Everyone you know probably penguins or something, with where you live.”
“In the Arctic?” He laughs softly, attention on you still so affectionate and tender. “Yeah, I guess I know a few penguins. They’re good guys. One of them got me an icicle for my promotion.”
You frown at him. “Your promotion? You have a boss?”
“I’m my boss. I gave the promotion to myself.”
“That’s so stupid.” You smile at his shoes, and he slowly tips your gaze back up, right onto his.
“Yeah, but it made you laugh. I’d say it was worth it.”
You take a long, deep breath, and it’s too easy to get lost in him. In this moment. You don’t want to get swept away in it.
So you press your face to his neck, and just breathe.
He smells a little like rain. Feels a little like a home.
And it’s not a question anymore. You have your answer.
You know.
———
You’re clinging to the walls of the room. Gripping your glass like a lifeline and scanning over the crowd, trying to calculate when it’s going to thin out.
When you’re going to be able to escape.
It’s not life or death. You just really don’t want to be here. At the big, important event Metropolis is throwing for the new Bavarian president. You’re not sure if they’re trying to make amends—or a new plan—but you know you’re only here so they can say you’re here. So in the morning they can talk about how they have nothing to hide, and how the tattered relationship of Boravia and Jarhanpur are healing, all because of America.
You’d told your boss that going was a stupid idea.
He said you had to, or he’d replace you on the Jarhanpurian refugee case.
So now you’re standing on the edge of the party, watching it move around you, and trying not to think about anything at all.
If you think about things, you think about ways out of here. Ways like sneaking up to the roof, and asking Superman to get you out. If you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about how the buffet table has the exact type of bread rolls Clark likes, because he’s told you about them multiple times.
No matter what, you end up feeling like you want to cry. And you don’t, because you’re a fucking professional, but fuck if you don’t want to.
It’s mostly just lonely. You had a plus one, but you can’t bring yourself to ask Clark if this is anything—not when you’re sort of always looking out the window—and you ended up going alone.
That’s probably how this is going to end anyway.
Might as well get in some fucking practice.
Someone calls your name from across the room, and you brace for the impact of some Boravian diplomat about to berate you or an ambassador who’s going to make stunted conversation trying to convince you that you’re a bad person. You don’t need them to do that—you’re already so fucking good at doing it yourself—so they’re just going to be wasting everyone’s time.
But it’s not a cruel, taunting diplomat.
It’s Jimmy, pulling a nervous looking Clark behind him.
“Hey!” Jimmy stops right in front of you, and it takes a Herculean amount of effort to look at him and not Clark. “Why are you here, I thought they’d be trying to stop you from knowing this is even happening.”
“I think it’s a weird chess move.” You turn your glass in your hands, and measure out the perfect amount of time to wait before you look up and give Clark a smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He responds so quickly, he looks a little surprised with himself. “I- Uh- Are you at least liking the food?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “They have the bread rolls you like.”
Clark blushes, fidgeting with his tie. “I know, we- Uh- We’ve been here a bit-“
“Clark ate a whole basket of them.” Jimmy tells you, and you can’t stop your soft laugh. “Then he got upset because he thought he might have taken them away from everyone else-“
“But I didn’t.” Clark jumps in quickly. “They put another basket out- I can go get you one. Do you want one?”
You don’t give a fuck about bread rolls. “Yes, please.”
Clark stands a little taller now that he’s got a mission, and smiles at you before he vanishes into the crowd. He’s left you tapping your nails on your champagne glass, giving Jimmy a tight smile.
“What are you guys doing here?” You ask, and Jimmy shrugs.
“Lois wants this and the protests about this covered. She decided to do the protests, gave me the event. I,” he holds up a press badge. “Am working.”
“You and Clark?”
“He’s interested in this kind of thing.”
“He is?” You frown at the crowd, and Jimmy nods.
“Guess he doesn’t talk about it with you. Invasions and genocide aren’t romantic at all.”
Your heart moves into your throat. “They aren’t- What-“
“Hey, has he asked you his power question yet?” Jimmy cuts you off, mostly looking out at the crowd, and you frown.
“His what?”
“Past few months he’s been asking like, everyone we know what power they’d want as a meta.” Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets, giving you a curious expression. “Started when he was talking to Lois about if she thought Superman being able to hear everything is weird. Then he asked her what power she would want, then he asked me, then he called his parents or something- I don’t know what’s up it, but it’s a pretty good question.”
“It… is.” You frown, and there’s that thing in the back of your head. The one that had been drowned out by liquor, then pain, but now how nothing but noise around it. And it’s getting louder. “What’s Clark’s answer?”
“Um- I don’t think he’s actually said.” Jimmy shrugs, then gives you a winning grin. “But I’d know the weather. If you want to know.”
“You’d know the weather.”
“Yeah, like a weatherman, but I’m always right.”
“That’s pointless, Jimmy.”
“To you, maybe. I would figure out how to turn it into a fortune.”
You open and close your mouth, the something in your head getting louder, but it doesn’t turn into words before Clark reappears through the crowd, holding two of the not small bread rolls in one hand.
“I got them.” He says you name, and your stupid stomach does a happy, traitorous little flip. “Here, I got you butter as well, in case you want to use that.”
He shoves the rolls into your hands, holding your gaze, and your fingers brush. He’s standing so close, he doesn’t need to be this close, but you never want him to move away-
“Clark,” Jimmy mock gasps. “Did you get two so she could give you one?”
“I- No, of course not-“
“I’m just teasing you, man.” Jimmy claps him on the back, scanning out over the crowd. “Alright, I gotta go do my job, or Lois is gonna crucify me.”
Clark wrinkles his nose. “I think that’s a little dramatic-“
“It’s not dramatic enough, and you know it.” Jimmy grins between you and Clark. “Be safe, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
You want to grab him, before he disappears into the crowd. Not because you don’t want to be alone with Clark, but because you do. More than almost anything. So you need a buffer, before you do something stupid.
But Jimmy vanishes, and you have to stuff a bread roll into your mouth to occupy it. Clark just stands next to, still far too close, making your head fucking spin.
He clears his throat, voice low enough that only you can hear, and you might be leaning into his gravity.
“You must hate this.” He mutters, and you swallow.
“I don’t like it.” You mumble, and—because now there’s no bread to block your sappy feelings from spilling out of your mouth—add, “It’s better now, though.”
Clark raises his brows. “Yeah?”
You nod, shoving the second bread roll into your mouth, and Clark won’t stop looking at you. Like you’re the sunrise, as your cheeks push out like a chipmunk and your lipstick smudges slightly.
Even his voice has a kind of soft reverence, when he speaks. “Do you like them? The bread rolls.”
“They’re good,” you try to say through the mouthful, but it comes out more of a wordless grumble, and you stare at Clark for a moment before you both start laughing.
It shatters whatever strange tension had just bene in the air. Everything flows smoother, as you talk about the food and drinks and how made up this whole thing is. Clark compliments your dress and you’ve never felt warmer. You think you could go out into the dead, winter night and still feel this warm.
The air is getting lighter and lighter. You might be in danger of floating away.
“So,” you give him a curious look, and he mirrors it.
“So?”
“Jimmy says you’re interested in all these events.”
“Oh. Well- I guess I am, yeah.” He’s watching you carefully, words slower than usual. “I just like to know what’s going on in the world. Part of my job, right?”
You hum. “Aren’t most of your articles about Superman?”
He coughs. “Yeah, well, he’s interested in this too. You know how everything went down, with Boravia. He likes to keep tabs on it. And I like to know what I’m probably going to talk to him about.”
The thing is starting to ring in your ears. “How often do you talk to him?”
“I don’t know, every few nights?” Clark smiles, but it’s more taut than usual. Almost nervous. “How often is too often?”
He’s saying it like it’s a joke.
You’re not sure it is.
“I mean, you talk to him. He’s a great guy to talk to. Right?” He gives you a strange look, and you sigh.
“He is, yeah. But I don’t interview him.”
“Yes you- I mean, you interviewed him for your case, right?”
“Maybe.” You shrug, narrowing your eyes, and Clark coughs.
“Well, I don’t get why it’s a big thing, right. I’m interested in things. He’s interested in things. You’re interested in things. And- Yeah. We’re all interested in the same things, and we talk about them, and- I mean, he must have mentioned to you as some point how he talks to me all the time. Mutual friend.” He pauses. “I’ve told him about you.”
You tilt your head at him, lips pressed tight together. “You have.”
“Yeah? I mean, after we talk shop, sometimes he asks how life is, and- I’ve told him about you, and he- He also really likes you-“
“You really like me?”
Clark’s ears go red, and you feel a little guilty—you’re sort of treating him like a hostile witness—but the thing in your head is so fucking close to piecing itself together, you just need to push a little more.
“Yeah, I like you.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass. “But- Superman does to. You’re the best, and- We talk about you all the time.”
You just keep staring at him, because that should make you feel sick. The two men you love, talking about you without you there, when you don’t even know which one you’d want forever.
But it’s just making you suspicious. Because there’s something so slightly fucking off.
“Superman has never once mentioned you, Clark.” You say carefully, and he winces.
“Ouch. I mean, all is fair in- You know-“
“Love and war?” You finish, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more nervous. “Which part of this is which?”
He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and right before you’re about to find the words, the world finds them for you.
Clark’s head shoots up, drawing up to his full height, and pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks over the crowd. And there’s this smallest fucking shift in all your thoughts, as if a veil is being lifted.
They have the same fucking face.
You don’t know how you missed it, but they have the same fucking face.
Your mouth barely opens to tell him that you know, before the first gunshots ring through the air. Clark grabs you around your waist, and the world turns into a rushing, cold blur. You’re not even sure what’s happening, besides your arms wrapping around his neck and the air being knocked from your lungs.
Then you’re outside, in the freezing cold. Clark steadies you with wide eyes, pulling off his jacket and dumping it into your hands.
“Put this on and go home.” He mutters, words so fast you almost don’t catch them. “Take a cab, don’t walk. I’ll pay for it, I just- I can’t go with you tonight- I’m sorry-“
You gape at him. “Go with- Clark, what the fuck-“
“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and shoots off into the night.
Flies off into the night.
Leaving you alone, on the cold street, with his jacket strangled in your hands and the world upside down.
———
You’re pacing outside his door. You have been for almost an hour, waiting for him to get home.
He’ll have to be back soon. It’s past five, you don’t think he has plans tonight, and even if he doesn’t he’d probably have to stop back home to get something.
It’s okay.
You can wait.
You have the week off, because your boss feels back for putting you in the middle of a terrorist attack. When he’d told you, he’d looked at you like he expected you to protest.
Normally, you would have. Slowing down wasn’t the thing to do, not when you were so close to the finish line—even if it kept moving further and further away—and a single faltered step or second to breathe might lead to you falling so far behind.
But this isn’t a normal week.
And Superman said you deserve some rest, so you’re listening to him.
It’s just that rest might not mean the same thing to you that it meant to him. Rest meant answers. Rest meant three days combing over older Superman reports, and drawing out a timeline of Clark’s life to see if things lined up, and writing down everything either of them have ever said to you, to see what lined up.
And it did.
Of course it did. It all falls together an avalanche, leaving you standing in to rubble and looking to the sky and wondering how you ever fucking missed it.
He says your name, and you turn to see Clark staring at you from down the hall, grip white-knuckled on his bag.
“Clark.” Your voice sounds faraway and cool. You don’t want to be a bitch to him.
You don’t know how else to be.
“Are you alright?” He takes a half-step forward, and you wrap your arms around your stomach. Of course he’s just worried about you. Asshole. “I wanted to come check on you, I promise. There’s just been a lot to deal with, and- I wasn’t sure if…” He clears his throat, watching you nervously as you just stare at him. “You’d want to see me?”
“Really?” You raise your chin. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you, Clark?”
“Um...” He glances around the hallway. “Why don’t you tell me, and we can see if we have the same reasons?”
“No, I think you should tell me first.”
“It’s just- I don’t think I should, because what if our reasons aren’t the same and mine sounds crazy-“
“Is your reason that I know?” You snap, narrowing your eyes. “Because I know.”
Clark stares at you for a long, wired moment, then lets out a long, defeated breath. “Can we do this inside, please?”
You nod, and step off to the side so he can open the door. Clark gives you another one of his small, nervous smiles as he brushes past you, and it doesn’t feel any different from before. When he’d sat too close to you at the bar.
Or stood to close, on the street.
That’s the worst part of it. Is not you’re not angry, or bitter, or heartbroken. You just feel stranded. Like you’re hanging over a pit and trying to work out if it’s worth falling, or trying to claw your way back out.
Because if you’re right—and you are—you could have something. Everything. What you’ve spent so much time on, convince yourself that it really wasn’t going to matter.
But once you have it, it’s real. Something you can lose. Something you can fuck up or neglect or break.
It’s a good thing.
Clark—taking your jacket because he’s a stupid gentleman and brushing warm hands on your upper arm—is a good thing. He’s the good thing, the one that everyone looks to for hope, that everyone wants. The god among men, who leaves you little sticky notes and fumbles all his words and makes you trust his every compliment because he always says them like they’re just obvious truths.
And you can’t figure out how to hold that in your hands, even if you get to use both.
You don’t know how to wrap your head around the idea that you could just have something good.
“So.” Clark takes a step back, as if he’s trying to offer you space. “You, uh- You know.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“And I’m guessing you figured it out after…” He trails off, and you sigh.
“After you flew me outside, then took off like a rocket? Yeah, Clark, that kind of gave it away.”
He frowns. “You didn’t know before?”
“I had a theory.” You mumble, and his brows furrow.
“But you didn’t know.”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“Darn it, I- I was really sure you knew. Wouldn’t have done that if- Shoot-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, hugging yourself tighter, and he freezes. “Am I right?”
“Uh-“
“Are you Superman?”
“I-“ He lets out a slow breath, and nods. “Yeah.”
Clark seems to lock your gaze to his as he reaches up, and slowly pulls off his glasses.
It’s such a small shift. He stands a little taller, even as his features remain nervous and weary, and his face seems to almost shift. It’s the same face—you know, logically, that’s it’s the same face—but it’s like your head couldn’t fully connect the two into one, couldn’t hold them at the same time.
But you can now.
And your mouth falls open as Superman stares at you with an almost fearful expression.
“I- How?”
“The glasses?” He glances down to them with a frown. “Well, they’re hypnoglasses, so-“
“No, I mean- How did I not know?” You take a step back, shaking your head. “I- I talked to you every day and every night and it took me months to put it together, and that was only after I realized- Fuck-“
“Don’t- Wait-“ Clark takes a large step forward, arms twitching like he wants to reach for you. “The glasses make sure you don’t know, that’s the point of them, and it’s not like I told you-“
“Why?” Your voice is rising, and you take another step back. “Why are you telling me now, why- Why did you keep coming to me as Superman when I was talking to you as Clark, why- Which one of you is the real one-“
“Both. Both are real, there wasn’t- I’ve always been both- And I just wanted, I guess any reason to talk to you, so I sort off just indulged both, and-“ He takes another step forward, and you take another one back. “Can you please stop walking away? I know that you’re mad at me, and I- I understand, but- Please, just listen-“
“Why didn’t you hate me?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, everything rising so fast up your throat like an eruption, and Clark freezes.
“I couldn’t hate you.”
You shake your head, your back hitting the wall. “No, I- I was talking to both you and- You at the same time, and- I was-“ You cut yourself off, pressing further back, and Clark takes a smaller step forward.
“Are you worried that I was jealous of myself?”
You nod weakly, and Clark sighs.
“No,” he says your name, voice firm, and takes another step. “I mean- No. I mean, I thought about it. Which one would make you happier. But I kept finding that you were always happy, and I- I thought maybe if I told you, you’d be happy. And we could laugh about it, and you’d say something- Uh-“ He stops, barely a foot away. “I mean, it’s kind of stupid now.”
“What?” You whisper, and Clark frowns.
“Do you really want me to say it?”
You nod, and he runs a hand over his face.
“Just maybe- Like- I love you either way. Both ways. I want you both ways, and wow, what a great way this worked out, that I get to love both of you, because you’re the same person. How convenient.” His ears are a little red, and he mumbles. “Most of it was just going to be you saying you love me.”
You swallow. “How do you know I love you?”
“I- uh- I don’t? I mean, I do have a reason, but it might be not- Sound. And if I’m wrong, that’s fine and we can forget the whole thing, but-” He takes a half-step forward. “Your heart. It goes really fast, when I’m near you, and, uh-“ He coughs, eyes darting down your body. “I can- Sometimes- Not that I’m trying to, but it just- It happens, and I can’t control it-“
“Clark-“
“I can smell you.” He mumbles, and your eyes widen. “So- I know there’s something. Might be wrong about love, though.” He looks at you under hooded eyes, and your face might be burning. “Am I wrong?”
You want to tell him that he’s not wrong. To tell him that he’s not wrong, that you’ve loved him for longer than you care to say aloud, and fell for both version because it was him. It wasn’t just a craving not to be alone anymore, it was him. Your heart moved in the same rhythm because it was playing the same song. Love for Clark.
But you don’t want to mess it up. Say it wrong. Open your mouth and just start crying, because it’s so sweet and embarrassing all at once.
So you just push out, in barely a breath. “Do you want to be wrong?”
“No.” He answers so fast, and your nails dig into your sides.
“And- What would you have said?” You blink at him slowly, choosing every word so carefully. “In your… dream scenario?”
“That I love you, too.” He takes another step forward, and you don’t flinch away. There’s nowhere to run anyway. No reason to. “That I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time, because I don’t like lying to you but- I just wanted to make sure.”
“Make sure?” You frown. “What, that I wouldn’t- Turn you in?”
Clark’s eyes widen. “What? Gosh no, I- I just wanted to check that you felt the same and that- I don’t know, it would be worth it. Not that you’re not worth it. That me telling you would just- End in nothing. That I wouldn’t be putting you in that danger just to have gotten caught up in my feelings.”
You swallow, scanning over his open, handsome features. He means every word he says. He always does.
And you have to ask.
“Is it worth it?”
Clark nods, giving you a small grin. “Yeah. I’d say it is.”
You nod, staring at each other in the dark, and the moment maybe drags on for a million years. Or only a second. It doesn’t matter, because you’re here. With Clark standing over you, one of his arms braced next to your head and the other slowly, lightly tracing up your arm. And he loves you.
So you could waste away, and it would feel like you were drowning in daylight the whole time.
“Can I kiss you.” Clark whispers, and you nod.
“Yes, please.”
His hand trails up, sending shivers through your body and making your knees weak, and ends up resting on your face. He stares at you with such open affection and reverence, it’s going to put you in danger of crying again.
When he dips down, he just brush a soft, warm kiss over your cheek, and you grab a fistful of his shirt.
“Sorry.” He tries to lean back, eyes wide. “I- Uh- I should’ve asked you what you wanted, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“
“Clark.” You hold his panicked gaze, feeling his muscles flex as his breathing grows heavy. “I want you. Just- Touch me.”
His eyes dart down to your lips, voice hoarse. “Touch you?”
You nod, and his throat bobs.
“How much?”
“All of it.” You try to sound commanding, but it’s just sort of coming off needy.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“All of it.” He echoes, and slowly leans down to ghost his lips over you. It makes your whole body light up, just from such a light touch, and you try to yank him down but he’s stronger. Doesn’t even budge an inch.
“Clark-“
“Are you sure you can take all of it?” He murmurs, lips still brushing over yours, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a question of pure, true concern. “I mean, we can try, but if you want to stop, during any of it, you can just tell me and I’m never going to take it personally. Okay?”
You stare at him, and Jesus, you might be about to fall over just from that. He’s so close. He can’t be this close and just do nothing.
“Can you, uh- Just say that you want it, please?” Clark looks a little worried, his thumb tracing over your lower lip, and you smile.
“I want it.” You give him a small smirk. “Please.”
He stares at you for a moment, eyes flashing with something dark, and his voice drops to an octave you’ve never even heard it before.
“Alright.” He murmurs, and you suddenly realize exactly how pinned you are between him and the wall. “Whatever you want, baby.”
You barely get a second to process what that means, before Clark’s pulling you up into a long, deep, hot kiss. It’s consuming. Sets of every nerve in your body with how carefully he moves, how deliberately he holds you. How you feel both weightless and burning, in his arms and under his attention. His mouth works quickly against yours, like he’s been starved for it, all as his hands find a respectful place to rest on your body—under your thigh and around your back—and seems to be carefully holding back his weight over you.
It unravels you so fast. Lights a fire in your gut and makes your legs spread. Your hips grind for more friction, broken sounds of need falling from your lips. Clark dips down to kiss your neck and shoulders, and you yank on his hair when his hand on the back of your thigh slowly starts to rub higher and higher.
“Clark- Oh-“ You gasp as his knee pushes up between your thighs, and start to fuck yourself desperately against him. “God, please-“
“I know.” He mumbles, pressing a soft kiss over your lips. “I’ve got you, I’ll make it feel good, just-“ He grabs your hips, starting to drag them as a slightly different, rougher angle, and your head falls back with a moan. “There you go.”
His voice is gentle and deep in your ear, and he keeps kissing you almost anywhere he can reach, as you keep chasing release against him.
A loud, broken whine falls from your lips when he pulls away, right before your release.
“Sorry.” Clark kisses you again, groaning when you try to bite on his lower lip. “Just give me a moment, baby don’t want to do it here, and- Come on-“
He scoops you fully into his arms, bridal style, and you squeak as the air rushes past you. There’s barely a moment to register what’s happening before you’re flat on your back in a soft bed, and Clark is kissing you into the mattress.
His bed.
You’re in his bed.
But somehow, everything that’s happening feels like yours.
Clark is so sweet. With everything he does, he’s just good and sweet, and it’s going to drive you out of your mind. He asks again, before taking off your clothing, and when you nod feverishly, he kisses you again with a smile on his lips.
“You’re so pretty.” His hand rests carefully in your hair, and he pushes the kiss a little deeper. “You’re going to look even prettier when you cum, sweetheart, probably like a painting.”
You flush, a small moan escaping your lips, because somehow Clark just saying something like cum is dirtier talk than anything you’ve heard in your life.
He catches it. Of course he is.
He’s paying such good attention to you, rubbing a hand on your hips and letting you grind up against his bulge. Every few moments, his hand will trail up your side right as the need in pussy starts to unbearably ache, and it will offer a brief respite that just falls into more need.
It’s like he’s trying to learn everything, with almost nothing.
And worst of all, it’s working.
Clark leans up, watching you with a curious expression. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
Your mouth falls open, his words rushing straight into your dripping cunt, and Clark’s nostrils flare.
“Yeah?” He leans down, the hand on your waist slowly moving to draw big circles on your hips. “Do you like it when I say dirty things?” He says your name, voice still so gentle, and you like to sink into the sheets forever.
“Maybe.” You whisper, trying not to squirm as his hand moves slowly between your legs, rubbing against your inner thighs without ever touching where so you desperately need him. “But- I you don’t want to-“
Clark leans down, silencing you with a deep, hot kiss, and devouring your moan as his palm finally presses against your cunt.
He groans over you, starting to rub it back and forth at such a tortuous pace, and your mouth falls open in a long plea.
“Oh my god- Please- I- I can’t- I need more-“
“Relax, baby. I’ll give you more.” He mutters, and when you try to wiggle below him, all it takes a deeper press of his palm, and you’re trapped. “I’ll give you anything, don’t worry about me.”
You hum, and his words are like a drug. You don’t have to worry. You can just relax, because Clark says to, and he doesn’t say anything that isn’t true.
“Do you like your clothing?” He kisses a spot below your ear, words rolling through your body, and you barely shake your head before you hear the rip.
There’s not even a second to feel cold, before all of Clark’s heat is over you. He seems to have taken his clothing with yours—cock pressing against your pussy, back strong beneath your hands as you try to map out his body—and you’re so quickly lost in the feeling of just being close to him. Kisses over your face as he ruts against you and holds you with such care.
You’re going to implode, though, if he doesn’t touch you properly. And you’re about to start begging when suddenly Clark is pulling you both upright, so you’re falling over his chest and sat in his lap.
Clark grunts, as you writhe above him, and your eyes flick down.
You might be drooling. He’s palming himself with strict, controlled movements, his face pressed into your neck as he sucks dark marks on your throat.
“Is it…” You trail off, words broken up by a moan as Clark finds a sensitive spot. “Do- Is that part of Kryptonian- Fuck-“
Your back arches, as Clark’s hand moves to your dripping pussy, slowly sliding two fingers inside and crooking them right against that deep, hyper-sensitive spot.
“Don’t know.” He mumbles. “Never checked. Shit, you’re so soft, and-“ He grunts as you clench around his finger. “I’m going to wreck you, sweetheart, going to play this sweet pussy until it’s soaking my cock-“
“Clark-“ You whine. “Fucking- Don’t just say that-“
“Why not?” He smiles against your skin, starting to kiss his way back over your face. “You like it, don’t you. Want it all.” He pulls his finger out, and before you can grab his wrist, he spanks your pussy. Just once, lightly, not enough to cause more than a sting. But enough to make you yelp a prayer of his name.
“Oh- I-“ You go limp as he does it again, and you meet his hooded, arduous gaze with a soft whine. “Yes, Clark, God-“
He just keeps watching you. Grinding and rolling above him as he traces his thumb around your clit, then drags his fingers through your dripping folds.
He brings you arousal, gathered on his fingers, up to his mouth.
Licks it clean, with a low, guttural sound from his chest.
“So damn good.” He mutters, before pressing his thumb lightly to your mouth. “I swear I don’t think you’re real sometimes, sweetheart, you’re so- God-“
He groans as you suck on his thumb, moaning at the taste of your own need for him, and Clark drags you into a long, rough kiss. Falls flat on his back and starts to jerk his hips up into you, cock brushing torterously on your clit.
“Clark.” Your fingers scratch at his chest. “Please-“
“Right. Uh- C’mon.” He grabs your ass, shifting you so that he can see your puffy, soaked cunt, and nods to himself. “That’s good, yeah- Hold on, baby. Relax.”
You nod, but no amount of sweet words could’ve prepared you for this. How fucking good it feels as he lifts you up like it’s nothing, and slowly drags you down onto his cock. He’s splitting you open and moaning as he does it, looking up at you like you’re an angel while filling you up so good you can’t remember your own name.
He gives you a long moment to adjust, both your breathes ragged, an almost growling noise escaping his lips when you flutter around him.
You pout down at him, trying to drag yourself back and forth for a little friction, and that’s all it takes to get Clark moving.
He’s not going to let you do this yourself. He holds you by your hips and guides you back and forth on his cock, hitting every single spot inside of you, rutting up every few moments to kiss your cervix, and- Fuck-
“God, yes-“ You moan, throwing your head back as your dragged right up to the edge. “Clark- Yes, fuck- Feel so fucking big-“
He groans your name. “Don’t- If you keep talking I’m gonna- Fuck-“
“What?” You giggle breathily, and Clarks hands are going to leave bruises on you in the morning. It’s still not feeling him enough. “Fill me up? Fuck me stupid?”
Clark groans, twitching inside of you. “God, you got fuckin’ how much I- I wanna-“
“You said you’d give me everything.” You whisper, looking at him with your best glossy, needy eye. “I want all of you, Clark, please- Make me feel it, show me how much you- Oh-“
He flips you like you’re nothing, drawing out fully before slamming back in, and swallows the scream of his name with a harsh kiss.
“I’ll make you feel it, pretty girl.” He mutters, setting a rough, unforgiving pace. “Love you so much, I wanted to go slow, but- You want to get cockdrunk, don’t you. Want to stop using that big brain and just feel good.”
You moan, already so close to the edge. “Clark, please-“
“I told you, baby.” The kiss he gives you is almost taunting, with how he’s wrecking your cunt. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”
And he does.
Clark fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every kiss on your lips and face and neck seem made to brand you, and his hand worship your body with such care, but every touch is firm and certain. He maps your body with his hands and thrusts into you with such borderline fervor, you don’t think you’re ever going to feel anything but Clark again. It’s the only word you know. The prayer that falls from your lips, over and over until you’re shaking and burning like a live-wire, desperate for just some release.
Before you can even beg for it, Clark’s thumb finds your clit, and starts to rub it at an inhuman speed.
“Cum for me, darling.” He almost growls in your ear. “Show me how good it feels, fucking say my name-“
You scream, just as he wanted to, and almost white-out as your orgasm wrecks through your body. Your pussy squeezes around Clark, overwhelmed and dripping with his perfect abuse of your pleasure, and he moans in your ear as he cums. You might have passed out for a second, from the feeling of him holding you so tight, fucking you through both your orgasms and muttering your name, over and over as you float down.
He helps you clean up. Of course he does. Uses a warm cloth on the mess between your thighs, before carrying you to the bathroom. Starts the shower as you pee, then coaxes you into the warm shower, because you’re going to be sore in the morning.
You have to convince him to get in with you. You’re pretty sure trying not to make assumptions, or take advantage of you.
So ask him if you can stay, and try not to feel too big when he nods eagerly.
But you have him.
All of him.
And you’ve maybe never felt more peaceful than when you’re folded back in his arms, just resting in his bed.
“Was that good?” He mutters in your ear, and it’s not fair. How perfect he is.
You nod weakly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, did you-“
“It was amazing.” He turns his head to kiss your cheek, warm breath fanning over your cheek as he laughs. “Probably should’ve told you sooner, if this is what it got me.”
“Maybe.” You whisper. “But we’re still here, right?”
“Yeah.” Clark hums. “And I- I think I’m just happy I get to love you at all.”
You push on his chest to look at him, and when he smiles, you smile right back.
“I’m happy, too. And I- I do love you.” You lean down, letting your nose bump against his. “So much.”
Clark grins, pulling you down into a full, slow and lazy kiss, and you bask in it. The warmth on his body, and the light, happy feeling in your chest. Sinking deeper and deeper in, making you know that you don’t really need to see through the dark of Clark’s room.
You have him.
And that makes everything clear.
✦End note: Superman brainrot got me. guys✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader✦
✦summary: There are very few people in the world that Clark truly, deeply, does not like. And you get on his nerves more than anyone else. But hate and love are very close emotions, aren't they?✦
✦warnings/tags: enemies to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, shenanigans, hella smut, lots of porn in this plot (emotional sex, dumbification, dirty talk, inexperinced/sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, squirting, big dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 13.7k✦
✦author's note: rewatched Bridgerton season 2 and had to enemies to lovers about it. Enjoy! Request from bestie @lilithxlm✦
Clark doesn’t judge people. Not really.
He was raised better than that. He knows better than that. There are all kinds of things that can affect why someone is grumpy, angry, or acting poorly.
And maybe he judges actions sometimes, but good people do bad things, and annoying things, and dumb things. Kara does dumb things all, and Clark still loves her. She’s still a good person. Even Luthor has something in him, that Clark finds redeemable. He’s very proud of being bald, and he has a passion for his work. That’s two, whole things.
Clark’s never met someone he couldn’t find anything good in. Sometimes it is… Work. To find the thing. But it’s always there, and that just means the work was worth it.
Then he met you.
You must have something. Everyone has something. But it is impossible to find that something, when you’re always launching LuthorCorp missiles at him and threatening him with lab grown kryptonite. Clark didn’t even know that stuff could be grown in a lab, until he landed down in your labs for some run-of-the-mill standoff, and found himself face to face with your pretty eyes, and a gun, loaded with kryptonite bullets.
Not that you’re pretty. You’ve got objectively nice features, and Clark is far from blind, but beauty does not speak to character.
Not that you’re beautiful, either. And even if you are, it’s rotted away by whatever is on the inside. Whatever runs so deep, he can’t find that tiny blossom of good, no matter how hard he tries.
“You don’t want to do this.” He’d told you, that day in the lab.
When you’d smiled, it had reminded Clark of the wolves that used to hunt Ma and Pa’s sheep. The ones that hadn’t been afraid of him, and had gnashed and snarled until he dropped them miles away from the farm.
“You don’t know anything,” you’d drawled. “About what I want to do.”
That had seemed fair. He really didn’t. “There would be a death on your conscious-“
“This wouldn’t kill you, you fucking pussy.” You’d rolled your eyes, and Clark had blinked.
“That language doesn’t seem necessary-“
“Oh, I’m sorry, boy scout.” You’d smirked. “It wouldn’t kill you, you flying, caped, monkey-squirrel, sweet baby of justice.”
“I-“ That had been strangely hurtful. “I’m just here to turn off Luthor’s reactor, okay-“
“It’s not Luthor’s reactor.” You’d snapped. “It’s mine.”
“I hate to break it to you, but it kind of says Luthor on the side-“
“I’m well aware of what it says.” Your lip had curled, and Clark had tilted his head.
“You know, this thing is probably going to blow and take out the whole city.”
You’d scoffed. “No, it won’t.”
“I have friends who are professionals in this kind of thing, they say it will.”
“Your friends are wrong.”
Clark had shrugged. “Maybe you’re wrong.”
“I’m never wrong.” You’d raised your chin, and his lips had twitched slightly. He towered over you—he towered over everyone—but watching you trying to be taller was like some puffed up, feral cat. He’d pick you up with one hand and not even blink.
Not that he’d try to pick you up. You were a lady, and a human.
Although lady was by the loosest definition.
“Everyone is wrong sometimes,” he’d said gently, and you shrugged.
“I’m not everyone.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being like other people-“
“I know.” You’d smirked. “But I’m not.”
This had been deeply frustrating. “Okay, just- Look, I really need to turn off your reactor-“
“And I’m really going to shoot you if you do that.”
Clark had rubbed a hand over his face. “I mean- I’m really asking you not to-“
“That’s not how shooting someone works. This,” you’d waved your gun. “Isn’t a mutually consenting act.”
“It’s- You’re going to kill thousands of people! Let me-“
“No.” You’d hissed when he took a step forward. “It’s perfectly safe, and you’re not touching it.”
“If it was perfectly safe, would Lex Luthor have funded it?” Clark had challenged, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “Would he have really taken a chance on something that’s actually going to help people besides himself?”
Your eyes had narrowed, and for a brief second, Clark had thought he’d gotten through to you. It had been a glorious second. He’d decided that you really were pretty, and beautiful, and all the other adjectives to describe someone who had a face like the moon.
Then you’d shot him. Point blank in the chest.
Clark had been shot a lot before. He’d been exposed to kryptonite a lot before, as well.
That had maybe been the first time he’d thought he was dying. When he’d woken up, Gary told him he’d been groaning a woman’s name in his sleep.
Your name.
Clark had decided he didn’t like you. Maybe you weren’t a bad person—he was clinging to the idea that deep, deep, deep down you’d shot him because you were being blackmailed, or were deep undercover, or Lex had you under some kind of mind control—but Clark didn’t like you. It wasn’t even the shooting thing. It was something deeply you, that wiggled into him like a worm in an apple, and made his blood pressure rise at the sound of your name.
And you’d been right. The reactor hadn’t blown up. But that was luck from a very thin draw.
Next time, Clark would stop you. Then he’d tie you to a chair and have a very long, in-depth conversation where he figured out something to like about you, then everyone could move on.
Lois has a new informant. She won’t say who it is, no matter how much Clark causally pokes.
“Confidentiality, Kent, you know I can’t tell you.”
“Yeah, but- It’s me. You know me, Lois, I’m not going to tell anyone-“
“It doesn’t matter that it’s you.” Lois sighes, giving him a pointed look. “I promised her I’d keep it between us, and that doesn’t mean turning right around and telling anyone. I worked really hard to get her to trust me. I’m not blowing that for anyone.”
Clark raises his brows. “So it’s a woman?”
“I- Yes. But that,” she points a finger sternly, giving Clark a firm glare. “Is all you get.”
“Well, do you at least really trust her?” He braces his hands on his hips. “If she’s informing you on Lex Luthor, that means she’s close, and- You know I think anyone can change, but you should always be careful with Luthor’s people.”
You.
Clark is thinking, very specifically, of you.
Because nobody moved on, and Clark has not stopped you.
If anything, he’s found more and more reasons to dislike you. And Lois insists her new informant is reliable, but now Clark is also worried that you’re going to find this mystery woman, and do something to her. You’re everywhere like that. He thinks you might be more dangerous than Luthor.
And you were always hovering somewhere behind Lex now, pretty and sharp-tongued and annoying. Clark couldn’t fight Lex when you were always just there watching. It felt like you were judging him, which he didn’t care about, but he still didn’t like.
Every time he slipped up in a fight, he could see you in the corner of his eyes, tilting your head like you were about to dissect him. If he was trading remarks during a fight and you were there, it was always impossible to find something smoother and more confident than whatever slipped like music from your lips. When it was your invention he was on, he’d started bringing back up in case you tried to shoot him again, but instead—in a much more inconvenient fashion—you’d decided to find a new way to evade him, every single time.
“You’re five minutes late.” You’d drawled a few months ago, not looking up from your desk as Clark and Guy landed in your lab.
Usually, by now, Clark had put a villain through at least three lab rebuilds. He liked seeing what they did with the new place, how they’d improved on it from the old one that he’d either wrecked in a fight, or gotten them kicked out of for committing a multitude of crimes.
You’ve had the same lab, the whole time. He was getting sick of its soft colored walls and clean floors, of all the strange clutter you kept between parts on the desk. It was mocking him.
“I didn’t know we were on a timer,” he said your name, and you hummed.
“You don’t know a lot of things, Superman. And I doubt Guy Gardener is going to help you fill in the gaps.”
Next to him, Guy had scowled. “How the hell did you know-“
“I have security, you know.” You’d spun in your chair, giving them a flat look. “And you’re the only one he hasn’t tried to use yet.”
You’d smiled, and it had been all full-lipped and sweet. Your hair had fallen a little over your face. You never smiled at Clark like that.
He’d felt kind of sick. You smiling just seemed to have that effect on him.
“I think you know why I’m here-“
“Of course I know why you’re here.” You’d cut Clark off with an insulted glare. “And you know what I’m going to say, and we both know how this is going to end. We can catch up first, if you want. I’ve been getting really into baking, since we last caught up.” You’d spun in your chair, and now you were smiling at Clark, but it was colder. Mocking. “My friend is having a baby, so I’m making cookies.”
Guy had frowned. “For… A newborn baby?”
“For her, dumbass.”
He’d blinked. “Wow, you’re- Mean.” Guy had grinned, and Clark remembered why he’d decided to bring him last. “I like it. Question, what are your superpowers again, and do they come out in any weird sex ways.”
You’d snorted. “No.”
“No, no superpowers, or no sex stuff-“
“Yes.”
Guy had frowned, looking down at his outfit like that was why he might be getting rejected. Clark had cleared his throat, saying your name in the way he always forced himself to. Gentle. Like he was talking to a rabid animal.
“We’re going to take the code to the beacon, now-“
“Supes.” You’d sighed, kicking your feet lazily. “You don’t need to do the whole thing anymore. It’s just me.” You’d smiled. “Come fight, and lose.”
Clark’s jaw had ticked. You said it so goddamn confidently, and once again, you were right.
He and Guy had given it their all, but you’d been ready. You were always ready, and always smiling, and always right, and it made Clark want to beat his own head against a wall.
“Bye!” You’d waved cheerfully when he’d retreated, beaming all bright and pretty. “You’ll get me next time, big guy!”
There had been a fever like feeling in his body, when he’d flown away. You hadn’t even shot him this time.
“What’s that girl’s deal.” Guy had grumbled while they patched up, scowling at the air. He’d gotten the worst of it.
“I don’t know. She just… Showed up one day.”
And like a weed, he hasn’t been able to get rid of you since.
It was driving him out of his mind.
Clark was running out of people to back him up. He was getting more and more distracted by your presence, and he was starting to recognize your smell. There was this cinnamon-apple candle you lit to stem off the chemical lab smell, and you used a similar kind of perfume, and every time he smelled it that fever returned. It got to the point that he’d smell the air for you like a dog, the second he touched down in a fight.
He’s worried it’s turning into an obsession. He even asked Luthor about you. About where you came from, why he hired you, anything to help him understand exactly what made you so… you.
“Why, Superman?” Luthor had smirked. “You like something you’re seeing? Because let me tell you, she’s more than worth the purchase, if you’ve got the money. Or you could just pick her up and carry her off, like the ogre brute that you are-“
Clark had knocked him out. He wasn’t going to entertain that.
But he still started watching closer, the way you and Luthor interacted. It was more than boss and employee. You smiled at him. He’d defend you in a fight, which was never a good sign.
Clark didn’t think he’d ever felt sicker, than when he pictured you and Luthor.
Together.
You smiling at him. Quipping at him without any venom or mockery in your voice. Tossing your air and batting your eyelashes, and-
He actually had no idea how you’d flirt. Clark pictured it something similar to a predator corning prey, but there was no bigger apex in this ecosystem than Luthor himself.
That was what Jimmy called a power couple.
Clark didn’t like it.
He didn’t like that, like that weed, no matter how he tried to pick away his thoughts of you they always grew back. You were stuck to him like a plaque, like a moss, like a parasite. You took his attention, his energy, a lot of his pride, every time you knocked him down without lifting one finger, your hair never even getting messed up in the fight.
Clark doesn’t like you.
He thinks he might hate you. He’s never really hated someone before, and he doesn’t like that either.
But he’s trying, so hard, to find something for you. And there’s nothing.
And he hates you even more, for that. For shaking him, and everything he knows. For getting such an iron hold on him without trying, digging your fingers in and leaving marks so deep, they don’t even fade when he doesn’t see you for months.
He hates that he still looks for you in those months. That it’s not relief when you’re gone, but something cool and light in his chest when you’re back. He tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the fever. They’re not useful feelings, in dealing with the everything about you. He thinks they’re just byproducts of the hate, because he never feels them with anyone else.
Clark’s a grown man. He thought he’d felt most things.
And now you’re here.
And he’s really never hated anyone more.
“Kent.” Lois taps his desk, her voice a hushed whisper. “I need a favor.”
Clark looks up from his desk with a frown. Lois doesn’t ask for favors a lot. Lois doesn’t ask for anything a lot. ”What’s wrong?”
“Remember that informant I’ve been working with? The one who helped me break the piece about LuthorCorp and the animal experimentation?”
Clark nods. He remembers that clearly. Just as clearly as he remembers your lab, and all the super-powered bears that attacked him in your defense.
“Well, she told me she thinks Luthor is onto her. And I know he’s onto me.” Lois sighs, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ve had someone following me all week. My phone isn’t bugged, but I never let it leave my pocket, and- I checked my laptop. Someone installed a malware, it’s been downloading my emails to an off-bank server.”
Clark’s hands curl on his keyboard. “You think they’ve gotten to your woman-“
“No. She’s smart.” Lois frowns. “She’s been using some kind of extra-burner email? I don’t know. She explained it, I didn’t really follow. You’ll see.”
“Okay, that’s good.” Clark pauses. “I’ll see?”
“Yeah. That’s the favor.” Lois pats his shoulder. “You’re taking over for me.”
“Lois, I-“
“Look, she’s got a lot of information. I can’t tell you anything specific, but this is the best source I’ve gotten, maybe ever. I’m not losing her.”
“Well, you and I- We’re different.” Clark leans back in his chair with a pleading expression. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help. He’s just worked with Lois’ informants before, and they’re all very disappointed he’s not Lois. “Did you ask her, if she’d be fine with me taking over-“
“Oh, I told her everything. And don’t worry.” Lois smiles. “She’ll go easy on you.”
“Easy?” Clark laughs nervously, adjusting his glasses. “I mean, It’s just a meeting, right?”
“Sure, buddy. Just a meeting.”
Lois is good at a lot of things. She isn’t good at being reassuring.
But Clark can’t say no. Not to her. Not when it’s something that’s going to help people.
He’ll meet the informant. Maybe she’ll be able to help him take down Luthor for good.
And, a tiny, bitter little voice crows from the back of his head, maybe she’ll be able to help him take you down.
Clark needs to stop predicting things. He’s bad at it.
He walks into the library at noon on a Wednesday, just like Lois told him to. He sits in the romance section, his posture straight, his expression perfectly approachable as he scans politely over the titles on the shelf. His One Desire. Her Sin. The Roses In Lace. Lost at Sea. Found at Sea. Lost in Him. Found in Him. There seems to be a pattern, and he wonders about the overlap between stories. The informant is running late. Maybe she decided she didn’t want to work with him. Clark’s never loved these romances, but there must be some appeal to them if they’re so popular. Reading is always good for you, and—as he takes one of the books off the shelf—he decides there isn’t really a better way to kill the time.
It’s a bit of a drudge. The prose is lacking, and the two characters seem to have less chemistry than the cows back home. Clark re-reads a few sentences over and over—the word cock is used quite a lot, and it’s starting to sound fake in his head—and the positions they’re getting into can’t be physically sound. Maybe he’s imagining them wrong.
“You’re amazing.” She whispers, her lips tinkering over the soft, meaty flesh of his ear.
This man must have big ears. And Clark pauses, because there’s a faint smell of vanilla and apple, and it makes him look up with a frown.
He must be imagining things. Or maybe his brain just associates you with meaty ears. Brains are strange like that. And you are haunting every facet of his life.
“I want you.” He growled. “You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen. My whore.”
Clark’s frown deepens. He doesn’t think this book is for him.
“That one is bad.”
Clark looks up from the book, and his jaw drops.
You’re standing across the table from him, your head tilted slightly, eyes locked onto his.
“The sequel is better.” You hum, pulling out a chair. Sitting down. “I think the author really took the criticism of this one into consideration. She stopped using the word meaty so much.”
Clark blinks like an idiot. He doesn’t think he’s ever actually been this close to you before. You’re wearing normal-people clothing, instead of a lab coat with the LuthorCorp brand logo. You’ve got sunglasses on the top of your head, and your face is open and relaxed, but that might just be your inherent smugness.
Whatever perfume you use is suffocating him. Clogging his thoughts, smoking out everything but the ringing song of your name.
“Are you the bird?” You ask him, still tilting your head, and it’s kind of like how you look at him during fights.
You know. A loud alarm blares in his head. You know he’s Superman.
Clark laughs weakly, adjusting his glass. “I- Uh- I’m a human man.”
Why the fuck would he say it like that. He never says it like that. He’s been lying about his identity his whole life, and he’s never been such a fool to call himself a ‘human man’-
“Congratulations?” You look like you’re trying not to laugh, and Clark feels his face heat.
There’s the fever again. Your attention is searing, and it’s winding his muscles so tight his hand has to curl into a fist on his knee. Maybe it’s your perfume. Maybe it’s some kind of secret pheromone.
“Are you, um-“ He looks around the empty shelves. “Are you looking for something?”
You tilt your head again. Clark swallows.
“I, uh- I can help you find it.”
“No.” You lean forward, and Clark is frozen in his seat. “I think I found it myself.”
Oh.
No.
The bird. Lois told him her informant would ask for the bird, and he’d have to say he was still growing wings. He remembers the conversation clearly. He even told Lois he thought that was a little convoluted, and she’d laughed.
But now you’re in front of him. And you always make his—incredibly controlled—thoughts all scrambled and messy.
He adjusts his glasses again, clearing his throat. “I’m not a bird.” He says slowly. “I’m still growing wings?”
You smile.
And that’s not the smile he’s seen on you in the lab, or the saccharine, almost siren-like one you gave Guy.
It’s real. It’s a real smile, that makes your eyes shine like stars. The light pours out over you, and you look even more beautiful than before, and Clark didn’t think that was possible.
He didn’t think he’d find himself leaning forward, instead of away. His body drawing itself forward like a boulder being dragged out to sea. He’s not a movable man. He’s trained himself to think and restrain his every movement, every craven or hungry desire, for the safety of everyone around him.
But you smile.
And he can’t do anything but move.
“I’m Clark Kent.” He sticks out a hand, and you glance down with an unreadable glint in your eyes.
“Clark Kent.” You echo, and he nods.
“Sorry I’m not Lois.”
You smile again, at that. It sends a rush through Clark like a drug.
“I’m not.”
You take Clark’s hand. He’d always thought your skin would be cold and scaly, like a crocodile.
It’s warm. Soft and warm, your fingers brushing over his wrist. His head spins, and he swallows on his own, bubbling, confusing thoughts. They’re more bursts of emotion. Sparks you’re making fly through his body, and a sticky feeling over his heart that oozes like honey.
You say your name, and Clark bites down an I know.
I know you. You’re the bane of my existence, and I think you might’ve put Lois under a spell. You’re putting me under one now. Let me go, because I know what you are.
He’s so sure, that he knows what you are.
But you settle into the seat, and smile again, and Clark doesn’t think he knows anything at all.
The first interview goes well, if not a little awkward. Clark stumbles over his words, and finds himself staring at you a little longer than normal. Worse, you don’t seem fazed by it, just smiling right back and batting your eyelashes like some kind of doe he knows is made of teeth.
That’s the truly confusing part. Clark knows you. He thinks he knows you. He was pretty sure, that he knew you.
And the woman sitting across from him at the table is not you.
“How’d you meet Lois?” He asks casually, as you’re wrapping up. It’s a reasonable question. Naturally curious for anyone, not just Clark, who might have a pit growing in his stomach, that can only be fed by knowing more about you. “I mean- I’ve seen you on the news. You’re close with Luthor. She said she had an informant-“
“Didn’t think it would be me?” You smile again, and he coughs.
“Didn’t think it would be anyone close to him.”
“Well.” You shrug, sliding your sunglass back over your brow. “Close is a very strong word.”
You don’t offer him more than that. He doesn’t get a chance to ask.
When you leave, he stands in the romance section for about three minutes, trying to figure out what just happened. Trying to make sense of a world that’s flipped, and constant in his life being changed.
He hates you. It’s been about a year and a half since you showed up, and Clark has become very certain in the fact that he doesn’t hate anyone, expect for you. Lois would call that an exception that proves the rule.
And suddenly, you’re splitting the rule clean down the middle, with a single smile.
When he gets back to the Daily Planet, he relays almost everything that happened to Lois. He leaves out how he’d stared, and how pretty your eyelashes were, and how when you laugh for real it’s a musical sound. Like a bird, ringing through the air and calling everything else in response. Clark swore he felt a dizzying cloud form in his chest, when he heard your real laugh.
But that’s not something Lois needs to know, so he doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t tell anyone.
He just thinks about it. Over, and over, and over again. He put your next meeting on the calendar. He stares at the date, and finds that pit in his stomach trying to gnaw at time. To get you closer again.
When the day comes, he goes early with an extra coffee in hand. He decides he’s trying to test how much you really trust him. Most villains never accept food or drink from anyone. They’re too paranoid.
The first part of his plan goes wrong when you’re there first. Waiting at the same table as before, reading one of the romance books off the shelf. You don’t look up, when Clark sits across from you.
His foot bumps yours, under the table. He forces himself to ignore how the small touch shakes him like lightning.
“You’re early.” You say, and he smiles.
“We’re here at the same time.”
“I know.” You glare at him over your book. “And I’m early. But I’m always early.”
“You were late last time.”
“I was testing you last time.” You shrug. “I wanted to see if you’d give up, and leave.”
Clark blinks. He’d suspected that. It had been another part of his plan, to try and make you admit that everything you do is calculated and crude in some way.
He really hadn’t expected you to just… admit it.
“Did I pass the test?” He asks, a little stupidly. You finally set the book down, and smile.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Oh.” He swallows. “Can I ask what my grade is right now? If I’m still being tested?”
Your smile widens. It’s an enchanting sigh. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Yeah. You are.”
Clark wishes he knew what that meant.
He wishes his own plan was better, too. He offers you the coffee, and you take it, but maybe you just like free coffee. He did get it from the fairly expensive place down the street.
Your fingers brush, when you take the cup from his hands. It’s worse than the foot. He’s almost stunned for a second, his eyes locked onto you like you’re a magnet.
He learns nothing. You’re just as restrained and open as the first time, when he finally remembers he’s supposed to be interviewing you. He asks about Luthor’s plans down at the harbor, and you tell him about the deep-sea mining and threat to the environment. He asks if Luthor knows about the risks. You laugh, and it’s a little dry, but still one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard.
“You think he cares?”
Clark knows he doesn’t. He’s just surprised you know, too.
“Well,” he clicks the recorder off, and you raise your brows. “You do work for him. You know him better than I do.”
“Hm.” You take a long sip of your coffee. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“It has to be, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe. But I don’t think it is.”
It’s good to know that, even when you’re being nice, you’re still infuriating. “You’re the closest member of his inner circle.” Clark argues. “You have to at least know a little about him. I only interview him.”
“You interview me. And Superman. Do you not know us?”
Clark swallows. “I know Superman. But- We work closer on things.”
“Things?”
“Yeah. I can’t say anything else.” He sits up a little. “Superhero business.”
You just give him another strange look. “Does he ever talk about me?”
Clark blinks. He thought you just forgot he existed, every time he flew away. “Uh- No?” He’s worried if he talks about you once, he’s never going to shut up. “Why? Do you- What do you think of him?”
“Of Superman?”
Clark nods, and he has to drag himself back from leaning over the table. He doesn’t know why he’d let himself ask that. But it’s too late to take it back.
“I work for Lex Luthor.” You shrug, turning your coffee in your hands. “Opinion is a luxury I’m not afforded.”
He frowns. “Everyone gets an opinion. You can have it privately, but you still must have one.” You must think of me too.
“Maybe I do.”
“So you do.”
“Maybe.”
“You can tell me, if you agree with Luthor that he’s a- a plague sent to destroy humanity-“
“I don’t think that.” Your voice is suddenly harsh, and Clark blinks.
“Then what do you think?”
You tilt your head at him, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. Clark snaps a pencil between his fingers.
Your gaze drops down to the fractured pieces, and you smile again. Clark realizes his breathing is shallow, because—for reasons he’d rather not thing about—this matters. You matter.
“I think he’s good man.” You say slowly. “And I think he’s a hopeful fool, and- Dangerous. To me.”
Clark swallows. He can’t think of anything to say, so he just nods, and goes back to his pre-planned questions.
He thinks about your answer, for the rest of the week. It plays over and over in his mind, and he writes it on scraps of paper at his desk. It should make more sense. He should be able to let it go.
But it’s a part of you. And Clark’s never been good at letting you go at all.
Clark’s dependent on the pheromone theory now. Because if you’re just like this—if you just consume his thoughts and follow him into his dreams, all on your own—he thinks he might be screwed.
He’s screwed.
Clark counts down the days until you meet, and tries to talk to you as much as he possibly can when you’re there. He wants to understand, how you can be the impossibly enchanting woman across from him at the table, and the crude shell of a person who hovers behind Luthor at every press event and meeting.
The woman you are here is good. Amazing. Still made of some barbed wire, but Clark’s getting better at weaving through it. And it’s not even that he’s uncovering that rot he’d always thought you to be made of. You’re just… Not made of it. Not here.
Here, you’re made of flowers and honey and soft, summer fire. Here, Clark can picture you laughing with wind in your hair, teasing him without any venom all the time. He likes everything he learns about you here.
He doesn’t understand how you’re the same person.
“Do you like these books?” He asks, nodding to the shelves of romance, and you shrug.
“So what if I do?”
“Nothing. Everyone- They can like whatever they want. I just… Didn’t peg you to enjoy The Summer of Sin.”
Your face relaxes slightly. “Why not? Do I not look like a romantic?”
Clark swallows. He thinks you look like everything. He barely knows better than to say it. “I’ve imagined you’re more of a nonfiction enjoyer.” He settles on smoothly.
There’s a glint in your eyes. He knows immediately he’s made a mistake.
“You’ve imagined me?”
All the time. Most of his thoughts circle around you, and it’s even worse than before. Clark’s found himself memorizing every detail about you he can scrape, weaving them together like a gorgeous, puzzled tapestry of a woman he knows he’s obsessed with. There’s no use fighting it anymore, when he wakes up and wonders what you’re doing. When he wanders through the day seeing you in every ray of sunlight through the windows and longer shadow on the floor.
He’s hoped, at some point, that he’d find the string of you that unravels the whole thing. That tells him he was right the first time, and you’re no work of art. Just so shiny he’d been blinded, and everything he’d thought the first time had been right.
But that string isn’t coming. And the more Clark learns about you, the more every color he’d painted you with become inverted.
You’re not shiny up close. You’re just… Glorious. Like water catching on the ocean, exposing the glittering rocks and life below.
“I- I don’t- Not in- I think about you, yes, but-“
“What do you think about me?”
Clark’s face must be burning red. He really wishes you’d stop looking at him. “A lot of things.”
That unreadable look flashes over your features. “Are they good?”
There’s something oddly heavy, in your voice. Clark can almost feel it in his hands, fluttering and delicate.
“Mostly. Yes.” He tries to offer you a smile. “But you are strange.”
You scowl. “I am not strange-“
“You like romance books-“
“Which is very normal.” You raise your chin, and Clark grins. It gets cuter every time. “They’re fun, Clark. Sometimes, you just need fun.”
“What’s fun about them?” He really wants to know. He wants to understand you.
“I- I don’t know.” You glare down at your hands. “It’s escapism. You get to imagine that you’re a princess or something, instead of- Just another fucking person.”
Clark frowns. “I don’t think you’re just another person.”
You snort. “Yeah. I know.”
“I’m serious, you- You’re a genius-“
“I’m tired.” You say firmly, and Clark realizes that you are.
There are bags under your eyes, almost perfectly covered by concealer. Your lips aren’t chapped, but there’s a little puff on the lower one from chewing, and your shoulders slumps. He doesn’t know how he never noticed before.
Maybe you just never showed him. Never let him see.
“I know,” you speak slowly, not looking him fully in the eyes. “That these books are stupid. But I like them. They- They help.”
“Help? With-“
“Everything.”
“Oh.” He swallows. “I could help. If you ever- Needed it. With anything.”
And he means it. He really would.
You smile at him, and he wants to ask if you think about him too. Not Superman—a hopeful fool, dangerous to me—but just Clark.
Instead, he just smiles back, and reveals in the way he sees your gaze relax.
He likes you like this. You’re really not that different, when he thinks about it, and he doesn’t understand how he was ever so wrong.
Clark is beginning to give up on understanding.
He just wants to know you.
He’s back in your lab, for the first time since he took over for Lois. It’s about the docks, and the deep-sea mining, and the pump that you told him—told Clark, at least—was going to be put in the water. Jimmy found out that the pump was going to be filling the bay with a toxic chemical that’s been compared to a truth serum.
Clark can’t understand why you’d tell him, if it was your design.
And he doesn’t understand why you’re just lying on the floor of your lab, scrolling on your phone when he arrives.
He clears his throat, and you sigh, craning your neck to frown at him.
“You’re here.”
“You and Luthor are going to pump the water with chemicals that will alter the free will of the people in Metropolis.” He’d been rehearsing, on the flight over. He’s trying to sound more heroic, and not dwelling on why. “Hand over the pump, and we can do this the easy way.”
Your lips twitch. “You mean the way where I kick your ass, and then walk away untouched.”
“I don’t know if you kick my-“
“Yes, I would.”
Yes, you would. “Just- Tell me where the pump is, please.”
“Oh, there’s no pump.”
Clark blinks. “What.”
“I don’t have a pump. I made that up.”
“Wha- Why would you do that-“
“I was testing something.” You shrug, patting the floor next to you. “Sit down.”
Clark squints at the floor next to you. There’s nothing under it. When he looks at the ceiling, there’s nothing there either. You’re just… Asking him to sit down.
He pulls his cape behind him, and sits with his legs crossed at your side. You flop back down, your knees pulling up and your arms around your stomach. Clark doesn’t expect the silence to last so long. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, especially as they start to itch. Something about you is magnetic. There’s a wrinkle in your brow he wants to soothe with his thumb, but that might end with him getting shot again-
Your eyes suddenly lock onto his, and Clark swallows. In the low light, they glow like gemstones. He thinks he could get lost in them, if he was allowed to. Even if he wasn’t really sure what he’d been diving into, he’s come to find that you don’t exactly fall into predictably.
He likes trying.
Clark thinks he might want to learn everything about you, until he’s the only person in the world who understands.
“Hi.” You whisper, your eyes still locked onto his.
Your voice is softer than he’s ever heard it before. It’s unsettling, like silence before a storm.
“Are you alright?” He asks kindly, and your eyes narrow.
“Should I not be?”
“I don’t know. That’s kind of why I’m asking.”
He tries to smile at you, welcoming and warm. Your lips twitch. That’s better than nothing.
Even if you sigh, and look back up to the ceiling. Leaving Clark leaning a little forward, wondering if it’s wrong to lean closer, and try to drag your attention back.
“Is there something you need help with?” He offers, and you let out a soft, huffing laugh.
“No. Not that you can help with.”
He frowns. “I don’t know. I- I’m actually pretty good.” He clears his throat. “At helping with things. It’s my job, in case you didn’t know.”
You laugh, and this time it’s a little louder. “You know what, I think I’ve heard.”
“You think?”
“I watch the news.”
“Ah.” Clark tries to read further into your expression. He doesn’t think he’s very good at it. “And what do you think, when you’re watching the news?”
“Of you?” You’re looking at him again. He sits up. He doesn’t want you to look away.
Clark nods. “I, um- I know they do a lot of pieces on me.” He clears his throat. “I read the Daily Planet.”
“Oh, you read it?”
“I’m not a big TV person.” He shrugs lamely, and you laugh again.
“Sure.”
The silence lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just… Odd. Clark doesn’t think he’d ever been in your lab this long without suffering an injury. It’s kind of nice. When he looks up at the ceiling, he realizes there are stars painted all over the tiles. That must be new. He would’ve seen it before, if it wasn’t-
“I had a bit of an… episode.” You murmur, and he thinks you might be reading his mind. “Last night. I started doing that, and couldn’t stop, and now…”
You trail off, and Clark takes a deep breath through his nose. He can only smell you, and that intoxicating perfume. “You air out the paint already?”
“I used a spray.”
“That you… invented?”
You smile. “That I bought from Costco.”
“Oh.” He’s making himself an idiot again. “I didn’t know you could paint.”
“I don’t anymore.” You’re silent for another moment, and Clark tracks your every breath. “You know, you’re from there.”
You point at the ceiling, and Clark cranes his neck to see the sky. You’re pointing to a cluster of stars a few tiles over, and it takes him a second to understand what you mean. You didn’t just paint the sky.
You mapped it. The constellations, accurate to the clear nights in Kansas he remembers so well.
And it feels like you mapped a part of him.
Clark looks down at you, and finds you watching him silently. He lays down slowly, just so your shoulders are brushing. When he offers you another smile, you return it.
He looks back to the sky, and lets himself exhale.
You’re not going to attack him, and he’s not going to ask why.
He’s just going to lie here, and watch the unmoving stars.
“I wanted to be an alien when I was a kid.”
Your words are sudden. As far as Clark had known, you’d been talking about LuthorCorp coverups. “Huh?”
“When I was like, five.” You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. “I wanted to be an alien.”
“Oh.” Clark blinks. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to be something.”
“You are something.”
“Well, I wanted to be more.”
“What, an evil scientist?”
You go silent, and Clark wants to kick himself. That was rude, he’s never rude like that, you just- You do something to him. You make his brain fuzzy and his manners fade, clinging with sunken claws for control of his tongue and hands. He’s been thinking about touching you a lot. About grazing his hand over the small of your back when you walked by, or hugging you before you leave, to see how you’d fit in his arms.
He thinks you’d fit well. That whatever is making you tired and sad, he’d be able to wrap over you and fend it away. He’d keep you afloat like a lifejacket.
If you dragged him down with you, he might let you do that too.
He doesn’t think you would. Right now, you’re staring at your hand, lips pressed in a tight line, and Clark feels like a jerk.
“I- I didn’t mean-“
“It’s okay.”
“No, I’m sorry-“
“It’s fine.” You snap, and Clark swallows. “I’m fine.”
“You, um- You kind of don’t sound fine.”
“Well, I am.”
Clark doesn’t know how to push against you. He has all the strength in the world, but you’re the most immovable things he’s ever seen. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
You’re silent again, and Clark adjusts his glasses. Lois is going to kill him, if he just ruined this. And he won’t even fight back. He’d deserve it, for making you look so sad.
“I’m not evil.” You mutter, and Clark sits up.
“I know-“
“But I’m not-“ You shake your head, still looking at your hands. “I’m not you.”
Clark frowns. He doesn’t understand what that means. “I mean… Yeah. You’re not Lois either. Or Luthor.”
You laugh, but it’s not full. It’s that hollow laugh you use, when Clark doesn’t understand something. “No. I mean- Yes, but that’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?” He asks quickly.
You stare at him. For a long, long moment, you’re looking right at Clark, and he’d swear the world stopped spinning if he didn’t feel the ground slipping from under his feet as his body tries to crash, face-first, into yours.
“I don’t know.” You say softly. “But- I wanted to be an alien.”
The words are supposed to mean something to him. He can hear it, ringing in your tone.
But either he’s not smart enough to understand, or you’re too smart, and you’ve dumbed it down for him so much it means nothing anymore.
“I didn’t want to be an alien.” He says carefully, trying to test the waters. “But- I wanted to be a farmer. Like my parents.”
You tilt your head at him, and Clark clears his throat.
“I think you’d be a good farmer. You’d like the sky. The quiet. You- You’d like it.”
He doesn’t think you’d like the bugs or the mud, but he doesn’t say that. That’s not important.
All that matters is your small smile, and the way you relax again.
And Clark thinks this really might be something big. Bigger than just an obsession.
He feels his whole world ease, when you smile. And he thinks it might be love.
He goes to your lab, for no good reason. There’s nothing for him to fight you about, no false plans to investigate. He just wants to see you, and he thinks he might be welcome.
He still hovers outside the window for five minutes, just to talk himself into it. Last time might have been a fluke, and he’s about to get shot again.
Clark decides that it’s worth the risk.
“Why were you outside for so long?” You’re lying on the floor again, and Clark sighs.
“Cameras?”
“Mhm.”
He smiles to himself, sitting at your side. “I was trying to figure out if you’d try to kill me again, if I came inside.”
You scoff. “I have never tried to kill you.”
“I have injuries that say different-“
“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.” You look right at Clark as you say it, and he balls his hand into a fist.
He wants to trace the line of your teasing smile. He wants to memorize it.
It’s one of the last things he has to memorize about you. The most forbidden thing.
And he wants it more than anything.
“I believe that.” He says, and your smile widens.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Clark lies down, and you turn your head to hold his gaze.
Your breath is warm, fanning over his face. Your hands are crossed over your stomach, and there are tiny little divets in your face that Clark is only able to really notice this close. Your eyes are a little uneven, and your teeth a little crooked, and it’s all perfect.
“Can I ask you something?” You breathe, and he nods without thinking.
“Anything.”
You hum, fidgeting with your fingers as you look back up to the ceiling. “What do you think of me?”
It’s not what Clark expects, but you have such a habit of stunning him, he’s learned to recover fast. Clark clears his throat, watching your profile like if he stares enough, he’ll close his eyes and see you clearer than he does in his dreams.
“You don’t have to answer-“
“I think you’re a good person.” Clark murmurs, and you look back to him with wide eyes. “And I think you’re angry, and you should be, but- I think you’re a threat.”
“A threat?” Your brow furrows, and Clark shakes his head.
“To you.”
“You think I’m a threat to myself-“
“And to me.”
“I- But not anyone else?”
Clark shakes his head. “No. Not to anyone else.”
You laugh that hollow sound, and look back to the ceiling. “Someone once told me I was evil.”
Clark cringes. “He was an idiot-“
“He was right.”
You look to him, and there’s something so sad and heavy in your eyes, Clark is sure the only way to get rid of it is to burn it away.
But all he can do is shake his head. “No. He wasn’t.”
“I’m a threat to you.”
“I know.”
“You’re Superman.”
“I’m aware.”
That gets a tiny smile. “Historically, threats to Superman are evil.”
Clark pretends to consider your words for a second, even though he already knows his answer.
“There are different ways to be a threat. There’s offensive, and defensive, and- Distractions.”
“Is that what I am? A distraction?”
Clark lets himself smile at that. You have no idea.
“I’m here, aren’t I.”
You laugh softly, your eyes still not leaving his.
“I read a romance book last week,” he adds, trying to get you to understand without spooking you away.
“Did you like it.”
“It was enlightening.”
“What,” you snort. “About sex?”
“No.” He snorts. “I’m- I know about that.”
“You’re a boy scout, Supes, it’s not insane-“
“I have everything humans do.” He gives you an amused look, and suddenly, you’re silent, your eyes shining in the dark.
“Yeah?” Your voice is barely a breath, and Clark shrugs.
“Yep. There were just some things in that book I don’t think anyone can do. Or- I guess, but it would take a lot of work. And most human men don’t have that stamina.”
He’s expecting a little, smart remark of and what, you do? But you’re just silent. Gaping at him, your face softly flushed. Clark isn’t sure what he did.
But he likes how relaxed you look. If it’s because of his conversation, he’s more than happy to offer more.
“I might read another, if you have any recommendations.”
“Really?”
He nods. “I didn’t like it a whole lot, it was very… explicit. But I’d read another.”
He doesn’t say for you.
But with the way your eyes widen slightly, he thinks you understand just fine.
“I’ll bring you some on Wednesday.” You whisper, and Clark grins. Gifts. That’s progress.
It’s only hours later, when he’s alone in his apartment, that he realizes what he said.
How, just like always, you scrambled him. You blurred lines.
Superman doesn’t know about the romance books. Clark does. But he just slipped into you like always.
Clark doesn’t swear, expect under two circumstances.
Sex, and when he’s really fucked up.
And when he realizes he’s all but told you he’s superman, there’s only one thing he can think.
Shit.
You’re not there, the next day.
Clark goes to the usual section, and you’re not there waiting for him. He waits until the librarians start to look at him weird, then he sends you a short, worried email, and leaves.
You don’t respond. He’s checking every five minutes, and the hours creep slowly as he refreshes, over and over and over, hoping this time he’ll just get a sign that you’re alive.
He doesn’t think you’d turn him over to Luthor. You’ve been working against Luthor for a while, with Lois, and even if you wanted to—which you wouldn’t—you’d have to admit that you’d been meeting him as Clark, and letting him into your lab.
Or you could just lie. You’re quite a good liar.
No.
You wouldn’t tell Luthor.
Clark still feels like his skin his trying to crawl off his body, the longer he waits. He considers asking Lois if you ever stood her up, but he already knows the answer.
You know. You know.
And now, you’re gone.
Clark drags his feet home. He’d flown to your lab after leaving the Daily Planet, and you weren’t in your lab, or any of the LuthorCorp building. Some part of him should be glad, if you just picked up and ran. Maybe you can find a farm, far away from Luthor, and live a nice, quiet life.
But most of him just misses you. And is worried, and wants you to come back. It would be creepy, to scour the whole planet to try and find you. And it would probably take a few days, if he’s really looking. But he could do it.
He’s trying to remember how much PTO he has banked, when he climbs the stairs to his apartment. You can’t have gone that far, unless you used a portal. Then you could be anywhere. If you’re on another planet, that’s going to take weeks, and if you’re in another galaxy that might be months-
You’re on the couch.
Clark opens his door, and finds you on his couch.
You smile at him, like you didn’t just break into his apartment. “Hi.”
“I- What are you-“
“I didn’t want to show up at the Daily Planet. Would have been asking for open fire.”
“Asking for- What the heck are you talking about-“
You pull up your oddly dirty shirt, and Clark feels his bones get heavy and cold. There’s a pattern of deep, purpling bruises all over your stomach.
You’re hurt. He’d been so stupefied by your presence, he somehow hadn’t noticed you were hurt.
His bag slips from his hand, as he rushes to your side. You wince, hissing through your teeth when his fingers graze one of the marks, and Clark swallows down his blurred anger and panic.
“You- Who-“
“Luthor.” You mutter. “Turns out he also has cameras.”
Clark’s gaze shoots up, and he finds you already watching him. “And he did this.”
“He got angry I wouldn’t tell him who Superman is.” You say flatly. “When we were clearly so cozy.”
His hands fist. If he went now, he’d be back within ten minutes, and Luthor would be chained to the top of the Eiffel tower, his bald head freezing off.
But you’re in front of him now. And that’s what needs to matter.
“Okay. We- We need to get you in a bath. I have a bath.”
“Wow, aren’t we fancy.”
He gives you a flat look. “Don’t sass me. I can leave you on the couch, you know.”
You tilt your head at him, and smile. “No, you won’t.”
Clark stands up, braces his hands on his hips, and glares at you. You glare right back, and he doesn’t know why he thought he’d ever possibly win this.
He groans, ducks down, and picks you up. You smile at him, and he sighs.
“I know. Don’t- You don’t have to say it.”
Your smile just widens, and Clark thinks he can lose a lot of fights, if they make you smile.
While you take the bath, he waits in his kitchen. You’re going to need to ice that, but he doesn’t actually have ice packs. He’s never needed them.
He flies up a little north to get them. You’ll be fine on your own for five minutes, and he doesn’t want to accidentally get you ice that melts too fast, or isn’t cold enough, or anything less acceptable than you deserve.
It’s a welcome distraction, too. From thoughts of you, in his bathtub. Naked and breathing slowly, your thighs pressed together underwater, or spread wide, baring you up to be seen-
Clark sticks his face in the snow. This is the last bit of control he’s managed to keep, the last leash he’s still on. He won’t let it slip now.
You’re wrapped in a towel on the couch, when he gets back. Clark frowns, and opens his mouth.
“I’m not made of glass.” You snap before he can speak, and he sighs.
“I know, but you are injured. It’s not good to put extra strain, when your body is already trying to recover-“
“Are you a doctor now, too?”
Clark stares at your scowl, and it slides off in a second. You look back to your hands, your voice turning into that smaller one he doesn’t think you use with anyone else.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay, you’ve had a long day-“
“No. I- I was- I’m sorry.” You glare at him again, like you’re challenging him to try and refuse the apology again.
He wouldn’t dare.
“Okay.” He approaches you slowly, holding up his makeshift ice. “I- I got this for you.”
You frown at him. “A wet hand?”
Clark follows your gaze, and groans. He’d spent too long staring at you, and forgotten to wrap it in cloth. The ice melted.
“Alright, I’ll just go get more-“
“Don’t you have frost breath.”
Oh. He does.
But he wishes he protested more about that being a bad idea. It means he has to kneel down in front of you, very carefully open up your towel, and pretend he can’t see the underside of your breast as he blows on your stomach. Your whole body twitches under his hands, pinning you gently to the couch.
He’s still in control.
“How’d you know where I live?” He asks between breaths, and you grunt.
“I looked it up the day after we met.”
Clark looks up at you in surprise. “What? Did you do that with Lois-“
“No. Lois isn’t Superman.”
His fingers curl on your sides, and you blink at him with an oddly soft shine in your eyes.
The day you met. The day.
“You’ve-“
“Yeah.”
“But- I was wearing the glasses-“
“I know.” You smirk. “How ever did I figure it out.”
Clark rubs a hand over his face. “No, you don’t understand, they have this- It’s like a magic trick, that’s literally supposed to be impossible.”
“Shit.” You laugh weakly, your body curving from the pain. “I think you should ask for a refund.”
Clark chuckles, pinning you a little tight to the couch. He doesn’t want you to be able to move too much. You might get more hurt.
“Was it something I said?” He asks, and you shake your head.
“I- I just knew, okay? That’s it. It doesn’t have to be a big thing.”
Clark thinks it does have to be a big thing. It should be a huge thing, that you’ve known the whole time, and just… said nothing.
But you’re still injured. And Luthor might be looking for you.
So he just sighs again and blows on your stomach. Your back arches into him, this time. If he couldn’t see the flutter of your eyes and ripple of your body under his hands—clearly trying to react as little as possible—he’d think you were torturing him on purpose.
“You should stay here.” He mutters. “Until it’s safe.”
You scoff. “No. I’m not doing that.”
Clark frowns. “Luthor isn’t going to let up until he finds you-“
“I can disappear-“
“Not right now. Not like this.” He grazes his thumb over your bare skin, and a noise awfully close to a moan escapes your lips.
“Clark, fuck-“ Your head tips back, your hand shooting into his hair, and that was a really bad idea.
Your moan might be the most addictive sound he’s ever heard. That’s a selfish thing for his focus to be, right now.
“You’re staying here.” He says firmly, then pauses. “Or- Lois can take you. If that would be more comfortable.”
He doesn’t want it to be. He wants you here, where he can keep you safe himself, and talk to you all the time. But it’s not about him.
“No.” You snap. “I’ll go in the morning-“
“I’m not letting you do that.”
“Oh, you’re not letting me-“
“I’m not just- Just going to sit here and let you walk out, only to find out that Luthor grabbed you and now I have to go save you!” Clark’s voice is rising, but you don’t balk. You just roll your eyes, and lean your head back on the sofa.
“Please. You- You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what? Stop you from getting yourself hurt?! You work with Luthor, you know what he’s capable of-“
“You know what I’m capable of.” You hiss, and Clark shakes his head.
“And I know you’re a better person than he is, you won’t go to the same- The same insane extremes-“
“Won’t I? You said it, you said I’m an evil scientist-“
“You know I didn’t mean that-“
“Don’t I?”
“Yes, you do-“
“Do I-“
“Stop doing that!” Clark shouts, and your mouth snaps shut.
He doesn’t know when, but he’d risen up on his knees. Your faces are only inches apart, your eyes wide and lips parted, and for once Clark’s got you completely quiet. He grabs your knee lightly. He doesn’t want you to go away.
“You are infuriating.” He mutters, holding your gaze. “And confusing, and I- I don’t understand howsomeone so… So-“ He shakes his head. “So you ended up with someone like Luthor. But I know that you’re not evil. And I know that Lex- He doesn’t forgive grievances. He won’t just let you go, and I’m not letting you get hurt.”
You stare at him for another handful of minutes. When you speak again, your voice is small. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why would you care.” You whisper. “I- I know what I’ve done-“
“It was never really you-“
“Then what I helped do, and I- I was just young, and stupid, and I didn’t have a lot of choices and he listened but- I still-“ You reach up, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Like he’s the last thing you have to hold onto in the world. “You stopped. You stopped asking me to stop, and you- I thought you gave up.”
Clark’s lips twitch despite himself. In way, he had given up.
He’d stop trying to convince himself there was anything about you that needed to be fixed.
“You’re not exactly a moveable person,” he mutters your name, leaning a little closer. “And I- I guess I just decided I didn’t care.”
“You didn’t care-“
“What you were doing. Or- Why. I trusted you.” Clark swallows. Your noses are bumping, and your skin is warm under his hands. “And I want to help. Let me help.”
You stare at him, and for a second, he thinks you’re going to try and pull away. So he says the only thing he’s been able to think of you, letting it fall from his lips with ease.
“I love you.” Clark strokes his thumb over that furrow in your brow, and your breath hitches. “Please. Let me help.”
Silence lingers again. It’s the loudest he’s ever heard.
And this time, you don’t break it.
You just nod.
Your eyes fall to Clark’s lips, then dart back up. Your breathing is coming shallow, and your skin is getting warmer. Clark’s drowning in you, in being this close, and then he smells it.
Need.
You need him, and he wants to give. To show you that something can be soft, that you’re worthy of every bit of care he has to offer. He leans in, just enough to brush his lips over yours.
You open for him in a second, a moan falling from your lips.
And Clark lets everything in him snap.
He surges up. Grabs your jaw to keep you steady, and kisses you with everything he’s let wind up inside him for months. His lips move against yours in a smooth rhythm, his tongue tracing over the line of your teeth before pressing down your throat. He can’t find himself to have enough of you, doesn’t think there can be enough. You taste a little salty, and your moans are soft and loud, and it’s just as addictive as the rest of you.
Clark presses over you, careful that his weight doesn’t crush you. You tip your head even further back, until your eyes are fluttering whenever he pulls away to catch the shortest breath. The kisses are sloppy, like neither of you can bear to pull apart for a second. His hand on your thigh wanders up, tracing over soft, hidden skin under your towel, and you shiver. For a second he’s ready to pull back, check that he’s not hurting you more, but you’re kissing him with the same desperate fervor as before. You let out a sweet little gasp when Clark squeezes your thigh, and his lips twitch.
You like.
You like this plenty.
Clark tips your head a little to the side, dragging his lips down your throat, letting his hand knead against your skin. You’re reactive, every light touch making your whole body shake. Clark has to bite down a groan, as the smell of your arousal starts to flood his senses. He nips under your neck, and a breathy whine leaves your lips, one hand shooting into his hair.
“Clark- Oh- Oh my god-“
“I know.” He mutters, sucking on the small hurt. “You got no idea, how long I wanted this. Thought I was going crazy, sweetheart, you have no idea-“
You make a mumbled sound, pulling on his hair, and Clark glances up to find you staring at him with shining, doe-like eyes. It knocks the air out of him, and that’s not supposed to be possible.
But you defy a lot of things, for him. What’s just one more?
“You,” he drops his brow against yours, and your hands press flat on his chest. “You are beautiful.”
Your lower lip wobbles, and Clark kisses you slowly. Lazily. He’s got you, pliable and wanting below him. If he’s taking anything he’s offered, he’s doing it for you, not to you.
And it pays off immediately, when you start to work yourself up. Your kisses turn frenzied, your hips rolling up into his hand, and Clark’s fingers brush against wetness, dribbling down your thighs. He groans against your lips, and is rewarded with another high, breathless plea.
“Want you.” He mutters, keeping his hand firmly planted down, closer to your knee. “I’ll be gentle, swear it, just- Want you-“
You nod, your mouth slack, and Clark pulls up with a small frown.
His hand on your head drags down to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing over your swollen lips. They hang open, and he has a feeling if he pressed his thumb forwards, you’d take it with shiny eyes and a moan.
But you’re just staring at him. All your bravado is gone, and you’re just blinking at Clark with a glazed, lustful expression.
“Can you say you want this?” He rasps, pressing his brow lightly over yours. “Tell me, baby. I can give you anything, but- You gotta tell me.”
You nod again, and Clark gently taps your lips.
“Words.”
“Yes.” You whisper, your fingers digging against his skin. “Clark, please, yes. I- I want you, want you so bad, please-“
Clark kisses you again, a little worried if he lets you keep going, you’re not going to be able to stop. You moan happily against his lips, and whine when he pulls away again.
He presses his brow back against yours, and lets his gaze drag slowly down your body. The towel has fully fallen away, exposing you to the room, and he thinks he’d be drooling, if he had a little less self-control.
“Holy…” He drags one hand slowly down your bare side, feeling the blood rush into his cock. “Fuck, baby, you’re- You’re amazing.”
Clark expects a teasing response, about the swearing. Instead he only gets silence, and when he glances back up, you’re staring at him with the widest, most flustered expression he’s ever seen. He squeezes your waist, and your hand flies up to cup his cheek. Clark smiles, and kisses the inside of your wrist, watching your breath catch from such a small touch.
Just to test, he moves his hand from your thigh to just under your breast, cupping your ribs and letting his thumb graze over your nipple. The reaction is immediate. You shudder, eyes batting and a long, musical whine filling the room.
Clark raises his brows, and your flush deepens, your eyes darting away. He can’t have that.
He mutters your name gently, and you shake your head, still avoiding his gaze.
“I- I’m fine-“
“You don’t look it.” He says, rising fully up so no matter where you try to look, you’re going to see him. “Sweetheart, I need you all into this-“
“I am all- You know-“
“I don’t. And you’re not looking at me.”
You sigh, dragging your face back, but keeping your eyes squeezed shut. Clark frowns, worried that your injuries are worse than he thought, and you’re trying to push through it for his sake when he should be taking care of you and letting you rest-
“I’m not…” You take a heavy breath, your nose scrunched in the most adorable way he’s ever seen.
Clark says your name, and you shake your head, your arms wrapping around your stomach.
“I don’t do this.” You blurt, body curling into the cushion. “I don’t- I- Sex isn’t- I have a job.”
He blinks at you. “I… Also have a job-“
“You have a life.” You cut him off with a mumble. “I- I work. And I go home. And I look at the internet, then I work again, and I- I don’t- This.” You gesture between your bodies. “I don’t do this.”
Clark stares at you for a second. Your flustered, embarrassed expression, your heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Do you… Want to-“
“Yes.” Your eyes shoot open, pleading on his. “But- I just-“
You shake your head, looking back to some random spot on his shoulder.
“I’m not- I’m not good at it.” Your voice is small. “And you’re- You’re-“
Just to test something, Clark squeezes under your ribs again. A loud moan falls from your lips, your eyes wide on his as your whole body grinds up in response to the touch.
“Clark…” You whine, and he grins, ducking down to kiss you, slow and soft.
You melt right into him, another pretty sound escaping when he moves his full hand to palm at your breast.
“Oh- Oh my-“
“I’ve got you.” He kisses away your flustered pleas. “I can take care of it, baby, you don’t need to do anything.”
Your nose scrunches again, and Clark thinks you’d protest if you weren’t already so dazed from light touches.
He needs to work you up as much as he’s allowed. Needs to see what you’re like when you’re nothing but putty in his hands, because he loves your smart mouth, but he also loves the softness that only he gets to see.
This part of you, molten and writhing as the kisses grow more intense, is all Clark’s.
He drops one hand, keeping the other firmly planted on your breast, and starts to tease over your soaked folds. You arch into him, and he presses back down gently, giving you a stern look.
“I’ve got it.”
“Clark-“
He kisses your neck and you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair.
“Let me, baby.” He mutters against your skin, his thumb dragging over your clit. “Please.”
You nod, your body already going limp under his hands, and he grins.
Clark starts to kiss down your body, letting his hand against your core slowly work you up.
“You’re soaked.” He open-mouth kisses your neglected breast, petting your pussy with two fingers, letting them dip into your fluttering entrance with every touch. “You like me this much, sweetheart. ‘Cause I know how much I like you.”
He slaps your cunt lightly, and grins at the loud whine of delight that tears from your lips.
“There you go.” He slides two fingers slowly inside you, biting back a groan at how easy they go in, your walls fluttering around him. “That’s it.” He licks your nipple, scissoring his fingers slowly, stretching you open. “That’s a good girl, takin’ it so good for me.”
Oh, you like that. Your clench tight around him, dripping down his fingers, and Clark groans against your skin. Just the smell of your need is intoxicating, he needs to taste you or he thinks he might go mad.
“Lookin’ so pretty for me, sweet girl.” He kisses down your stomach, careful of your injuries. “Shit, your pussy is tight, bet it’s gonna feel so good ‘round my cock-“
You moan loudly, and Clark grins, tongue tracing over your hip bone as his fingers drag over your walls, looking for that gummy spot that’s going to give him what he wants. He finds it fast, and marvels in the way your whole body trembles, your fingers pulling weakly at his hair like you’re not sure what to do with the pleasure he’s giving you.
He watching your mouth hang open, as he crooks his fingers and starts to rub inside of you. Another lewd sound falls from your lips, and it’s the best thing Clark’s ever heard. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then the opposite thigh, then right over your clit. He keeps himself feather light and teasing, watching your body quiver with anticipation. He presses hard inside you, hovering his lips right over the little button, and grins.
“Relax for me, baby.” He orders, and you whine, but try. Clark can see how much you’re trying, but he’s already wound you up too much.
“I need- Clark-“
“I know. I’ve got you.” He uses his free hand to pull your pussy lips over from your clit, exposing the swollen nerves fully.
He blows on it once, starting to rub his fingers furiously inside you, and that’s all it takes.
The sight of you coming might be the best thing he’s ever seen. You’re gorgeous, shaking and writhing above him, the sound leaving you sounding like a siren call, his name the only word possible to make out between your moans. He needs more. He needs all of it.
Clark starts to lick your clit, light and fast, and your orgasm drags on. You won’t stop spasming around his fingers, still working you open, and your eyes get impossibly wide as you realize what he’s doing.
“Clark- Fuck- Oh-“ Your head throws back, your thighs wrapping tight around his head. “Oh- Oh- Oh my god-“
He doesn’t need to come up for air. He doesn’t need air anymore, not when he has this. He shoves his face fully into your pussy, starting to pump his fingers in time with the work of his tongue, and in no time your thighs are trembling, your body limp from the second orgasm he drags out. You’re gushing all over his face, your pussy so oversensitive that when he pulls out and just traces his fingers over your hole, your body arches like he’s fucking you into the couch.
You’re more than ready for him, but he still takes his time. He was right. You taste better than you smell, and he thinks he could get drunk on it. Clark drags his tongue down to your entrance, letting himself lap up your release with a loud moan. He’s so hard it hurts, and you’re so perfect, he might be about to blow it in his pants.
It’s an effort, but he pushes himself back up over you. You’re blinking at him all doe-eyed again, and he smiles. When he leans down to kiss you, you’re somehow more desperate than before.
“That good?” He asks softly, and you nod.
“So good.” You moan. “So- Oh my god-“
Clark’s fumbling with his belt buckle as you scratch at his chest, and you whimper against his lips as he drags the head of his cock against your puffy pussy. He marvels at the way you’re already trying to relax, your hips angling up to invite him in.
“You that desperate for some cock, baby?” He teases gently, and you nod like a bobblehead. “You want me to fill this pussy up, fuck you ‘till you can’t walk?”
“Fuck,” you breathe out, your head tipping back like you don’t even have the strength to keep it up. “Clark- I- I-“
He kisses you deeply, muttering against your lips. “Say it. Say you want me, sweetheart, beg for me-“
“Clark-“
“You can do it,” he taps the head of him against your clit, and you squeak. “You’re so smart, you know how to say please-“
“Please.” You breathe, your eyes glossy, voice barely a breath.. “Please, please, fuck- please, I love you, I need you so bad-“
Clark slams over you, his head getting clouded as it absorbs your words. You love him. You love him.
He’d give you the world.
“Good girl.” He grunts, just to see you get all pretty and flustered about it, even as his dick grinds against your drenched cunt. “That’s my good girl, love you so much- You- Fuck- You have no idea-“
And he feels a swell of pride, at how well you’re reacting just to his words. You’re restless below him, not taking anything but just silently begging, and he’s going to give you it all.
“Lie down,” he kisses you lightly, guiding you onto your back in the cushions, hiking one leg up over his shoulder and pressing the other back into your chest. You pussy is on full display, letting his rub it gently as you settle into the folded position. He looks up to find you gaping at his cock, and he grins.
“You- You’re-“
“I know.” He clears his throat. He tries not to think about it. It’s far from the most important thing about him. “I’m gonna be gentle-“
“I- I don’t know- I don’t think I can take it-“
“Yeah, you can.” He leans down, kissing you sweetly. “You will.”
You whine doubtfully, but Clark knows what he’s doing. He keeps his lips working against yours, his thumb rubbing your clit slowly as he starts to slowly push himself inside. Your mouth falls into a pretty little O, and he chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth.
“I know.” He coos, rubbing a little firmer. “You’re doin’ so good for me, sweet girl, taking me-“ He bites back a groan as you wrap around him, warm and gummy and perfect. “You’re takin’ me so well, you’ve got it, almost there.”
You moan beneath him, and the sound vibrates around Clark’s dick. He has to bite his tongue, to stop himself from coming right there. He’s really not sure how long he’s going to last, but nobody can blame him.
Not with you, cockdrunk and gaping under him. He lets you adjust, when he bottoms out, and your breathing is shallow and breathy in his ear. He coos the best praise he can, while also trying to drag himself back under control.
When he rises up, dragging his hips slowly back, your arms wrap around his neck, and he groans.
“You feel so good.” He groans. “So fuckin’ good, I- Jesus.”
He pushes forward again, and you look up at him like he’s more than a god. More than the hero.
You look at him like he’s the sun itself, and he’s shining just for you.
He thinks he is.
So again, he lets himself snap.
Clark starts his pace slow and lazy, making sure he’s angled to drag over your g-spot with every thrust. He keeps his voice low, kissing all over your face, helping you through it.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “That’s a good girl, all pretty and dumb for me, you’re letting it feel good, aren’t you sweetheart?” He taps your cheek, pressing forward a little harder, and grins at your whimper. “Come on, you’re so good at telling me what you’re thinking-“
“More.” You breathe out, and Clark swallows. “More, Clark, more-“
“Yes, ma’am.” He grunts, slamming his lips over yours, and maybe another time he’ll be able to find it in him to tease you.
Today, he just needs to give.
He picks up pace without any further warning, and finds his own words slipping away fast. You squeeze around him, every time he bullies that soft spot inside of you, and the sound of your breathless gasps mixed with his cock slamming in and out of your cunt is almost too much for him to bear. He busies himself with kissing you everywhere he can reach, letting his hands wander to memorize every spot that makes you arch further into him, making the angle deeper, until he’s pressing against your cervix.
“Shit,” he groans, pressing his face deep into your neck. “Gonna cum, baby, need- Where do you-“
You don’t answer with words. You lock your arms around him tighter, rolling your hips up and keeping him thrusting, shallow and rough, against you. He’d laugh if his head wasn’t fogged with your touch, your body moving so well against his.
Clark pushes his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit back and forth as fast as he can. You shriek, overwhelmed by the sensation, and try to crawl away, but Clark pulls you tight into his chest.
“Can’t- Can’t take another-“
“Yes, you can.” He grunts, kissing your open mouth. “You can do it, baby, do it for me, come on-“
You cum with a scream of his name, and Clark feels something hot and wet flooding over his dick, as you contract tight around him. You’re squirting, gushing over his cock, and it drives him right over the edge. He feels himself snap, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks into your through his release, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
When he’s done, you’re trembling beneath him, your lips brushing over his jaw like you’re trying to kiss him, but don’t have enough strength. Clark takes over for you, turning his lips to capture yours in a lazy, loving kiss.
He grabs his shirt off the floor, along with a blanket tossed onto the coffee table, and uses them to cover you while he gets a cloth to clean you up with. You’re limp on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dazed smile, and Clark feels that pride blooming back in his chest, knowing he made you feel so good. You don’t fight it, when he dabs away your mixed releases, then pulls you into his arms. Brings you to the bathroom, waiting patiently while you pee before carrying you to bed.
If you need, he’ll sleep on the couch. But you’re getting the bed.
You sit in his lap, face pressed into his neck, and he drags his hand up and down your spine. You’re so soft, and his.
Like this, you get to just be his.
“You really love me?” You breathe against his ear, and he nods.
“Yeah. A whole lot, actually.” He pauses, then mutters, “And you-“
“Really.” You tilt your head, giving him a tiny smile. “So much.”
He chuckles, kissing you gently again. He’s never going to get tired of it. Never going to get tired of you.
“Stay here.” He mutters against your lips. “With me. If- If you want to, of course-“
“I do.” You breathe. “I want to.”
Clark leans back, cradling your face in his hand. “Really.”
You nod nervously, and he grins.
You smile back, tentative but real, and Clark presses back down into a kiss.
He doesn’t think there’s anything that’s quite as good as this.
As good as you, content and happy in his arms.
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