To begin with, some warnings about this story: A/B/O Dynamics, Female Alpha, Male Omega, Some chapters may involve messing with the whole 'alphas are always dom and omegas are always sub' because I think nuance exists even in A/B/O dynamics, Fucking with the timeline (this is a blend of Canon, Legends, and original lore), Minimal use of Y/N (Explained in the first chapter), Reader is an alien species of my own creation and thus has a physical description, Familial bonds explored heavily, Clone rights explored heavily, Violence is more graphic than canon-typical however any graphic descriptions will be noted, AFAB reader, Not beta-read so I apologize for any mistakes.
Read on AO3
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Nine Point Five - Part Ten -
Miniseries
The Typist - Laszlo Kreizler and his Bitey Wife
Bite - Laszlo Kreizler x reader ft odaxelagnia
Chew - Laszlo Kreizler x reader ft odaxelagnia, prequel to Bite
Swallow - Laszlo Kreizler x reader ft odaxelagnia, prequel to Bite and sequel to Chew
Gulp - Laszlo Kreizler x reader ft lactation and mommy kink, sequel to Swallow
Alpha Mine - Laszlo Kreizler x reader ft Omegaverse, AU to The Typist series
Bokeh - Niki Lauda and his Photographer Wife (Mouse)
Muse - Niki Lauda x photographer!reader ft soft femdom and bondage and breeding
What Happens in Ibiza - Niki Lauda x photographer!reader x James Hunt ft threesomes, double penetration and anal
Life and Death - Niki Lauda x photograhper!reader x James Hunt ft heavy hurt/comfort and mild petplay
BrĂťlĂŠe - Dirk BrĂťlĂŠe and his Single Mama
Sriracha - Dirk BrĂťlĂŠe x single mom!reader ft sex toys/sybian
Red Carpet - Dirk BrĂťlĂŠe x single mom!reader ft breeding
Victory - Helmut Zemo and his Super Soldier
Pyrrhic - Baron Helmut Zemo x Reader ft 14k of HYDRA being the worst and Helmut Zemo being a consent king
Clutch - Helmut Zemo x Reader ft daddy kink, Hydra hunting and impact play
Oneshots
The Bath - Baron Helmut Zemo x Reader ft cockwarming
Ctrl and Power - Ernst Schmidt x Reader ft rough sex and secret relationships
Ganache - Tony Balerdi x Original Male Character ft food play and body worship
Requests and Prompts
Reader likes to come up behind Zemo and kiss or bite him
Roman Sionis fucking reader in his club and being a show off about it (and also he's a total switch)
Roman Sionis making female reader cockwarm him during a gang meeting
Obi-Wan Kenobi noticing female reader's tattoos after sex and pausing to enjoy them
It was a stupid argument that escalated into something bigger.Â
âShe was practically draped over you!â
âI didnât do anything!â
âExactly! You didnât do anything! You didnât push her away and then you have the nerve to snap at Sam when he was just being nice to me!â
âSam doesnât do nice, sweetheart, he just wants to see you naked.â
You gape, jaw practically on the ground as you tug another hairpin from your hair, sending a large chunk of hair tumbling from the updo. âAnd thatâs my fault?â
Bucky leans in the doorframe of your bedroom, arms crossed and jaw tensed. Somewhere between the apartment door and here, heâd taken off his tie and rolled up his sleeves. If you werenât so boiling mad, youâd be jumping his bones and pulling him into your sheets.
âYou donât understand.â Bucky grumbles, jaw ticking as he speaks.Â
You narrow your eyes, meeting his gaze in the mirror before whirling around. The last of your hairpins drop mindlessly from your hands onto the dresser with a small clatter that is entirely drowned out by the deep intake of air into your lungs.Â
âI donât understand?â Your voice is low, dangerous, arms crossed over your chest.
Bucky should feel like heâs in danger. Like heâs about to get mauled, because youâve got him cornered. He fucked up and he knows it, and with the one move he has left, he stalks towards you. Your chin raises to meet his gaze, unknowingly pushing your breasts higher into his view, the sight of the soft swell sending his blood rushing south.
âYou donât understand what you do to me,â Bucky husks, tilting your head back by your chin. Your jaw is still set, stubborn to the very end, but your blown pupils give you away. You want him just as bad. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. He kisses the corner of your mouth, but is deterred from your lips when you turn your head away from him, jaw still set in determination not to give into him.Â
He only smiles, kissing your neck and sucking at the spot he knows turns you to mush in his hands. Bucky lets his hands roam over your curves, mapping the skin of your waist and holding your body against his own.Â
âCome on doll, you mad at me?â He punctuates the question with a bite to the soft skin of your neck, soothing it with a gentle suck and eliciting a small moan from you. Bucky smiles into your skin, letting his lips brush against you as he teases and gropes at your body. âYou mad at me?â
Bucky thinks heâs got you exactly where he wants you. Pliant and soft, ready to forget all of this and fall into the bed to become a tangle of sheets and limbs until neither of you can do anything but say each otherâs names, lost in pleasure.Â
Heâs wrong.Â
Bucky is pushed onto his knees before he can even think. You look flushed, dress strap hanging loosely off of your shoulder and hair messy from his touch, but through it all, despite your body begging for him, your face is set in a hard line of determination. A small smile plays at your lips, leaning down to peck his lips sweetly. He slowly flexes his metal hand, itching to touch you.
âSomething you want, Barnes?â The taunt is smug and it becomes clear to you that the both of you know exactly who has the upper hand here.Â
Bucky rests his hands on your bare thighs, fingertips just shy of the edge of your lacy panties. He doesnât even know youâre wearing the lacy blue ones that drive him crazy. Yet.Â
âPlease, baby. Let me get my mouth on you, Iâm sorry. Let me Iâll prove just how sorry I am.âÂ
You tilt your head playfully, pretending to consider the proposition. Like you donât want his mouth on your cunt as much as you want to breathe. Like he doesnât know how to make you cum like anyone else.Â
Your foot lifts from the ground, still in the obscenely high and uncomfortable heels you put on to try and make yourself seem not as quite as short compared to him. Holding his gaze, you draw the toe up his leg, over his thick thigh and brushing across the bulging erection his dress pants do little to hide.
Try as he may, he cannot contain the shudder that runs through the body at your slight touch, subtly moving his hips in a pathetic attempt to chase the pleasure. It disappears as you raise your knee higher, resting your foot on his chest. The action lifts your dress enough to expose your core to him, soaked through the lace and glistening in front of him. His eyes are locked on the treat between your legs, tongue darting out to wet his plush pink lips.Â
âSee something you like?â You giggle, spreading your legs wider and pressing your foot into his chest to keep him at bay. A groan rumbles through his chest as you push your hips back, resting on the ledge of your dresser. âWords, Barnes.â
Bucky swallows, kissing your ankle remarkably chastely for the vulgarity spewing from the two of you. âYes. Yes. I can see how bad she wants it, angel; youâre so wet. Just spread your legs and let me eat.â
Hungry kisses make their way up your leg, Buckyâs stubble grating deliciously against your legs. His offer is tempting, and youâll give into him, but you need to have your own fun too. Make him feel a little bad. The sight of such a big, powerful man on his knees for you does something to you every time.
âBeg. Maybe Iâll consider.â
Buckyâs pride evaporates like smoke on the wind. âPlease, doll, please. Let me get my mouth on your sweet pussy. Itâs all I can think about. I donât care about anyone else. I donât want anyone else. Iâll die happy between your legs if you let me. She tastes so sweet. The sweetest honey. I know you want it too, I can see her clenching. Like a heartbeat between your legs, please-âÂ
His lewd words and promises make something stronger settle in your chest. Who needs simple when you have this?Â
You smirk, holding his gaze as the kisses grow hotter and wetter up your leg. âPlease, babyâŚâ Bucky gasped, pressing his body against your other leg.Â
A small nod from you is all it takes for him to surge up, pushing your dress up and and pulling your panties down in one smooth motion. âThank you, darling.â Bucky grins, yanking the panties from your ankle and putting them in his back pocket. He attaches his mouth to your cunt and sucks, making out desperately with your pussy. HIs hands are possessive, pulling you closer to him with possessive hands on your thighs.Â
Buckyâs mouth is worshipping, licking and sucking with an unabashed fervour. Itâs equally worshipful and claiming.Â
You can have your fun now, Bucky thinks smugly, with your hands fisted in his hair. Each groan and filthy word he says against your clit promises a long night, an unmissable dominant tone and a humiliating fire in his icy blue eyes.
summary: clark loves watching you hump his boots because i said so <3
CWs: this is just filth tbh. 18+ MDNI!, boot humping, finger sucking, one instance of clark being called "sir", a bit of dirty talk and degradation, fem!reader x clark kent, use of pet names (f!receiving), real sweet praise, the suit stays onnnnn!!!!, established relationship, reader obv knows clark is superman
@pinksplace this one's for you baby, i decided to pop it off of the back burner and put it up at the front bc you deserve it for being so lovely <3
Clark knows you love his Superman suit. He teases you about it all the time. Keeps it on just a little bit longer than he needs to when he returns to you from a late-night patrol since you like it so much.
He'll even land on your balcony harder than necessary if it's particularly late just to wake you up. And, of course, he feels bad for waking you up when you need your sleep. You have an earlier start than he does every morning, and unlike him, you actually need the sleep.
But then your pretty eyes flutter open when he slides open your balcony door and they land on him - on the bright blue fabric that seemingly glows even in pitch darkness, on the waterfall of his cape as it cascades over his back, on the symbol affixed to his chest all the way down to the bright red trunks and boots he's got on - and he knows he made the right choice.
You always get a specific glint in your eye when you see him in his suit. Of love, of lust, of adoration and awe. He never knows which one is causing the glint; he just knows he loves it more than words can ever hope to explain. To be wanted, needed, and loved by the world's prettiest woman?
That's what he's here for.
"I love your suit," you whisper. Soft. Sweet. Slow. A little drowsy. And yet, despite that, despite the yawn you're pushing out and the way you're rubbing your eyes, he knows what you want.
He could smell it on you as soon as your gaze landed on and registered him walking through that balcony door. He could hear the hitch in your breath and your heart hammering in your chest.
You want him. Already. That glint in your eyes pops up when you flash them his way and confirms it further.
"Yeah, honey," Clark softly replies. Punctuates it with a soft laugh as he slowly walks over to your bed and sinks down on the edge of it.
"I know you do. You're looking at me like I'm a piece of meat."
"You are a piece of meat, though. My favorite cut."
That's got him laughing again. He bends down to take his boots off while you're steadily rustling around in the sheets. Pushing yourself up, weight shifting and dipping the bed behind him.
"I think you're still half asleep," he mutters when you wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind. He sits back up to keep you from slipping off of him.
"Put me back to sleep, then," you whisper into his ear. Your breath fans out over his ear and, even though he never gets cold, he shudders.
"Haven't seen you all day. Missed you. Missed these bright colors and how good they look on you."
His jaw tightens as your lips brush over his skin. When he leans into you, the kisses you press on the shell of his ear and down the side of his neck get slower. They linger more. Your tongue and teeth make brief appearances, reminding him of just how much he missed you, too.
He had been so lost in your touch that he didn't realize your fingers began playing with the zipper at his side. The hidden one that releases him from the suit he knows you'd rather him leave on.
If you love it so much, why would you want him out of it?
With one lightning quick movement, he engulfs your hand in his. The frown you pressed against his jawbone riddles him with guilt, but he laughs it off and turns to look at you instead. When your eyes finally meet, and the moonlight bounces off of your face, he has to stop himself from swooning. Even like this - hair a mess, eyes heavy from recent sleep, adorned in one of his old beat up t-shirts from high school - you're drop dead gorgeous.
He swallows down that swoon and instead clears his throat. Shoots you his best sweet grin, the one he knows always gets you going. The one that pops his dimples out for you and steals the breath right out of your chest. The one that makes that glint in your eye resurface.
"I've got a better idea."
"You're doing so well for me, aren't you, sweet thing?" Clark coos. He's got the biggest grin on his face. Whether it's from pride or love for you, he doesn't know. But he can't wipe it off. How could he?
You've been humping his left boot for the last 10 minutes, hips pathetically rutting against him like you're some sort of heat-ridden, desperate little dog. The embarrassingly loud schlick sound that follows each shift of your body tells him everything he needs to know. Not only do you like this, but you've probably been wanting it.
He's never been happier than he is right now. Never been prouder.
He beams down at you. Drops his voice down just a hint deeper - deep enough that he knows your pussy's clenching around nothing - and purrs, "My good girl."
"Feels s'fucking good," you slur while your fingers claw at his thighs and you speed up your hips. If he didn't have anything on, you'd probably cut through his skin from how harsh your grip is. You hum out a breathy moan. The gentle bump of your forehead against his knee pulls a disappointed click of his tongue from him.
"Hey," he firmly calls out, reaching down so he can force your head up. He raises a brow. Gives your cheeks a squeeze when his fingers curl around your chin then winks at you.
"Eyes on me. You know better. Wanna see my pretty baby's face when she's going dumb from humping my boot."
That one almost gets you. The moan you belt out when he feeds you that insulting - or, rather, insulting to him - comment tells him that. He felt your hips stutter, and the way that your body tightened up, and the way that your thighs started to quiver.
"M'sorry, sir," you mumble. It was hard to hear it from how he's got your face squished, so he loosens his grip.
"Don't say you're sorry. Just don't do it again," he warns. He swipes his thumb over your bottom lip for a moment. When you take it upon yourself to open your mouth and suck his thumb into it, he's the one struggling to keep it together. He was already hard. Achingly so.
But when he sees his beautiful girl sucking on his thumb, when he feels her tongue circling around the digit and hears the soft moan she rumbles out against it? He thinks he might die. Might skip right over the orgasm and just die right here and right now.
"Goodness," he huffs, "you're gonna kill me, baby."
You giggle. Somehow, you always have the upper hand.
One of those hands sneakily travels up to the front of his trunks. You get a measly two seconds of palming his hardened cock and one rough jolt from Clark before he uses his free hand to pull you off of him.
"I don't think so," he hisses. He starts bouncing his leg that you're perched on up and down. When you drop your mouth open, moan, and your eyes roll back into your head, he finds that grin from earlier and displays it on his face once more.
"I think you should stay down there a little longer. Get a good look at this suit you love so much."
itâs 6:58 am and i fear this will be the only thought in my head all day. i meannnnn come on đŠ and YEAH, the suit stays on!!! god, iâm just thinking about looking up at him and seeing the way it fits, the way it cuts and contours his body, the way blue clings to his thighs, the way red shapes⌠iâm gonna stop there or else iâll never shut up. EVERYONE SAY THANK YOU C!!! this was amazing. OUTSTANDING. A MASTERPIECE. (canât spell masterpiece without c đ) #brickedupbeforesunrise
it's legitimately so funny Caleb and Beau fighting in the literal and narrative foreground about whether the other could be trusted while Fjord is in the background being a whole entire concern with his little villain arc that nobody else is really seeing
â clark kent x female!reader | blurb, smut MDNI | masturbation, clark is a little pervert and a peeping tom hehe, roommate!reader; wrote this after headcanonning clark being pathetic and desperate with @theworstwolvie wc.670ish
Clark spits into his hand, his palm cupping the length of him as he sinks his head back into the pillow, eyes falling shut.
He thinks about the breathy little moans leaving your mouth that he could only assume, no, hopeâ were the result of you fingering yourself in the bathtub. Thinks about you finally stepping out of the shower, skin glistening, radiantâ droplets of water clinging to the dip of your collarbones. Your towel wrapped low, just barely catching the curve of your breasts, offering him a torturous peek of your cleavage that he didn't look away from.
A heavy stroke, and the friction sends a jolt through him. Itâs almost embarrassing how little it takes to get him there when it comes to you.
He thinks about the way you had movedâ the slight flash of your ass as you bent down to reach for something, the line of your legs stretching. And then you had bent just a little more, the towel riding up even moreâ gosh, another flash of glorious skinâ and he was gone.
Some wretched part of him had wanted to almost, almost use his x-ray vision to see you. All of you.
He moans your name into the quiet room, imagining you sitting flush on top of him, squeezing the soft skin of your thighs in his large, calloused hands. Imagines you rolling your hips against him, agonisingly slow, his face buried into the valley of your plush breasts. Imagines how perfectly your pretty pussy would take in the length of him. He'd stretch you out, make you scream till everyone heard it outside the room, until they knew you were his.
His hips buck instinctively into his grip. A slick bead of pre-cum leaks from the shaft, and his mind wanders to your mouthâimagining those pretty lips he obsesses over all day, every day, sucking and licking him until he loses his mind. Imagines you crouched in front of him, from where he could see right down your back and to the beautiful curve of your ass.
He knows it'd be perfect. He knows you would be perfect, your body welcoming him as if it were designed specifically to fit him. How egotistical, he thinks, a ragged breath escaping him. To think you were made for him. But in the heat of this, it feels like the only truth in the world.
"Oh, Clark..."
He can almost hear your voice, the way your lips would shape his name in a breathless moan. The way you'd turn your pretty head away, eyebrows scrunching, lips making that perfect 'O', as he drilled into you, making you bounce on top of him and then you'd come all around him, bathing him in your wetness.
The thought is the breaking point. He fists his hand, jerking hard and fast, finally spilling all over his fingers as the image of your wet, warm body pressed against his own pushes him over the edge.
He's barely cleaned up when you tumble in through the room door, from a random party you decided to attend on a whim. Your shirt is hanging too low, over a skirt that's too short and it gives him an instant blood rush.
He's sure he looks pink and wide-eyed andâgolly, god, you're taking off your top. Shit, shit, shit. You're now clad in that lacy, pink bra he's found mixed with his laundry one too many times. The one that's a bit sheer on the cups and flashes enough skin to make him instantly hard.
"Heyyy, Clarkums," you murmur, clearly drunk and stumble towards your bed.
Clark eyes your skirtâ he could tear it right off if he just movedâthat rides up as you fall into the mattress exposing the thighs he was just imagining. Already, a new fantasy begins to play in his mind; one where he's pinning you against the door you just walked through, bunching that stupid skirt up to your waist, and seeing if youâd moan his name exactly the way he just rehearsed in his head.
KENT: A Clark Kent Furniture-Breaking Collaboration Masterlist
Looking for quality furniture or durable equipment? Have no fear, KENT is here! We guarantee the quality of all of our pieces â trust us, only Superman could break it.
(Alternatively, Clark Kent breaks a lot of furniture items during sex)
Warnings: Minors do not interact. All stories are NSFW 18+. Please be sure to read the content warnings in each of our catalogue items prior to reading!
In a world where Superman never became a journalist, he crafts custom countertops for a living. His biggest challenge isnât the work; itâs keeping his hands to himself around you long enough not to break what heâs trying to sell.
Under Pressure â @anon-188 (May 12)
⤡ on sale: bathtub
Clark canât leave you aloneâeven when he really, really should. the pressure builds⌠and something has to give.
Is This Desk Taken? â @pinksplace (May 14)
⤡ on sale: executive desk
A party. An empty office. A very pretty dress. A very tight dress shirt. A drink, maybe two. A note. A desk. A questionable amount of trust placed in some wood and Formica.
Horsepower â @sparklingsin (May 19)
⤡ on sale: lex luthor's ferrari
Tired of the parade of men falling at your feet at Lex Luthor's wedding and your silence from last night's fight, Clark decides to take you on a wild ride in his best friend's Ferrari.
One More Load â @kryptidfiles (May 21)
⤡ on sale: washer/dryer
"Sweetheart, unless completely irreparable: it stays." Newly moved into Clarkâs apartment, youâre trying very hard not to let his shitty washer and dryer ruin the honeymoon phase. Then one more load comes out damp, wrinkled, and still holding a soggy sock hostage at the bottom, and you finally snap. Clark walks in on you all bare legs and bad attitude, and decides if heâs handling the laundry, heâs handling you too.
Neighborly Favors â @thceseus (May 26)
⤡ on sale: couch
Clark Kent is the perfect neighbor and the ultimate gentleman. Baking cookies, fixing stuff around your apartment, always there with his reliable smile. So who's he to say no when you ask him to help build your new couch and⌠break it???
Going back to Smallville was supposed to be simpleâvisit his parents and keep them company for the weekend. Easy as pie, right? But when Clark comes face-to-face with a decade-old crush, a dinner at his ma's turns into bonding over apple pie, broken hearts, and a broken porch swing.
Off the Books â @heldbybarnes (June 2)
⤡ on sale: workout bench
Clark hires you off the books to help him control his strength in bedâbecause every partner before you has gotten hurt. You agree for the wrong reasons, pushing his limits on the workout bench until reinforced steel buckles and Clark loses control. He thinks youâre saving him. Youâre really making yourself the one thing he canât walk away from.
American Boy â @maiamore (June 4)
⤡ on sale: copier/printer
Staying at work late to impress the new editor-in-chief proves to be something Clark Kent isn't equipped to handle.
A very big shoutout to all my incredibly talented friends for participating in this brainrot collab. We're bringing our collective goon to the dash đ
Special thank you to @unificsation and Pink (pinksplace) for helping me with the inspiration for the masterlist header and Ash (sparklingsin) for creating the lovely fic headers above!!!
Without further ado, we hope you enjoy all the stories in this collection. Please be sure to reblog, comment, and like if you've read and enjoyed the story! Us writers always adore seeing feedback wink wink!!!
Although you and Clark disagree on all things Superman, you both find common ground in the copy room.
⸠PAIRING & WC: Clark Kent x Coworker F!Reader â 2.1K
⸠WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public fingering (copy room), Clark is a lil dirty
â¸Â A/N: thank you for the request baby @theworstwolvie i always love clark getting rage baited <33 made the smut softer because it's clark but god do i want him filthyyyy
⤠main masterlist
You and Clark Kent are not friends. Youâre barely even colleagues with how much you bicker and disagree. The two of you get into enough arguments that Perry has to intervene from time to time.Â
âThis is the Daily Planet, not a playground. If you two donât start playing nice with each other, Iâm gonna have to start doling out time-outs.âÂ
âWhat they need to do is deal with their sexual tension,â Jimmy mutters under his breath.Â
Itâs easy to explain, really. The two of you are simply moral opposites.Â
Clark thinks that Superman is doing the world a favor by saving every single living thing.Â
You think that Superman is costing the city millions of dollars every time he pauses to think about how to save an alien terroristâs life versus just taking it out.Â
Clark thinks that itâs inhumane for him to do that, because an alien is still a living creature.Â
You argue that those taxpayer dollars could go elsewhere, to actually support people on Earth rather than pay for the damages of superhero acts.Â
âThe time it takes him to save a squirrel or this extraterrestrial that is ruining the city is time he could be spending actually saving our city.âÂ
Clark nearly pulls out his hair, fingers tugging at his curls in frustration. âYou canât just kill something because you donât understand it. Their lives â or even a squirrelâs â matter just as much as ours!â
âHeâs just redirecting the train to run over five people instead of one,â you drawl out, twirling the pen in your hand. âHeâs increasing the risk of someone else getting injured or killed while heâs trying to save lives that are detrimental to society as a whole.â
âNo, heâs simply lifting the train so nobody gets run over,â Clark huffs. âItâs a silly thought to think that he canât save everyone.âÂ
âNo, itâs realistic. Just because heâs a superhero doesnât mean he makes perfect decisions.â
âI never said heââ
âOh my god, you guys are still on this?â Lois snaps. The two of you slam your mouths shut. âClark, donât you have that superhero policy piece due by tonight? And you, donât you have to get Perry your ideas for next weekâs economics column? Get back to work.â
A truce of sorts. For now. If not for the sake of the Planet, then it would be to avoid Lois Laneâs wrath.Â
However, the glares you throw in each otherâs direction are nothing short of lethal. Clark Kent is a naive, foolishly hopeful man. Living in a city like Metropolis makes you a cynic. Sometimes you think you might be better suited for Gotham, but youâre even more skeptical of a masked vigilante pretending to be some sort of hero.Â
The two of you steer clear of each other until you need to print out your pitches for the team meeting later today (Perry is old-fashioned like that). That is when you spot Clark frowning over the copy machine, jabbing it with annoyance when it refuses to budge.
Seeing him irritated only strengthens your urge to push him one step further.
âPrinting more puff pieces on Superman, Kent?âÂ
His eyes slide shut the moment your words land. You canât help the satisfied smile that curls on your lips. Another score on the board for you.
âNo, I need to get Perry my draft on the superhero policy, but this darned thing is jammed.â
âMaybe you should call your old pal, Superman, to help you.â
You can practically see the steam coming out of his nostrils as he looks up to the ceiling, begging for some form of patience from whatever higher power that exists.Â
Unfortunately â or fortunately, as youâre observing him, you notice something rather peculiar. A noticeable⌠change in Clarkâs clothes.
âYouâre soââ he inhales deeply, âinfuriating.â
âWell, you seem to enjoy being⌠infuriated,â you smirk, crossing your arms as your eyes fall to his slacks.
Sure enough, his pants are tented with the embarrassing evidence of his arousal. You donât think he even realized it until then, surprise etched into the rise of his brows. His cheeks flush a pretty shade of red as he turns away from you.Â
âIs that it, Clark? You start shit with me to get yourself off.âÂ
âThatâs absolutely not true!â He sputters but his eyes shift to your lips â brief but distinct. âYouâre just so vexing.âÂ
You smile as you take a step closer towards him, index finger landing on his very firm, very broad chest. âWant me to go on about how Superman could probably save the city millions in damages on that observatory if he simply took out that recent cyclops? Might get you to finish untouched.â
Clarkâs eyes are a sharp blue as they whip towards you. For once, you feel a shiver snake up your spine at the sight. His gaze has always been soft, tainted only by the frustration you fuel within him. But this look â this one youâre unfamiliar with â and youâre not sure if you should stick around.Â
Your throat dries when he takes a step towards you. Purposeful. Confident. âI should probably, um, gââ
âWhy are you in such a rush? You were so adamant about pushing my buttons before. Go on. Tell me more.â
Although your lips part, you find your voice has disappeared. Itâs cowering in the back of your throat somewhere as he backs you up against the table in the copy room. You glance at the exit, partially praying that someone would save you, partially hoping that nobody would ever see you worried about Clark Kent.
He wouldnât hurt a fly. He wouldnât do anything you wouldnât want.Â
But perhaps thatâs what scares you the most â how much you actually want this.
There was never any doubt that Clark is an attractive man. Curls that effortlessly fall against his forehead. An endearing, persistent frown on his face. Big, broad shoulders that still drown in his oversized suit. Glasses that slide down his face, one that youâre itching to fog up with your mouth over his.Â
All this time, seeing Clark flustered has been the highlight of your day. You love the shades of red that stain his pale cheeks. The annoyed click of his tongue. The tense clenching of his jaw. Youâve wondered before how he would look in bed â if heâd have the same expression in maintaining his self-control.Â
âCome on,â he coaxes, voice dropping a pitch lower as he ducks his head. His lips brush the shell of your ear. âSay more, sweetheart.â
Sweetheart. Your legs press together as a whimper slides out your throat.Â
âNot such a smart mouth now, are you? You just needed someone to keep that mouth busy. I can think of a few other ways to do that.â
You swallow. Clarkâs gaze latches onto your throat, then dips to your collarbone, where your chest rises and falls with your nervous breaths.
âAre you scared?â
You shake your head.
His smile tips an inch higher. âExcited?â
Slowly, you nod.
âYouâre so cute when youâre sweet like this,â he murmurs, hands setting aside his papers as they run down your waist to your hips. He hoists you up onto the table as your hands fly up for purchase on his shoulders.
Your heart is hammering against your ribs, it feels as if itâs about to burst through your skin. Clark tilts his head.
âYour heart is beating so loud.â
Can he really tell? Is it that obvious?
âCan you spread your legs for me?â
Your stomach flutters with something unknown. Something you havenât felt in a long time. Thereâs a weight to his voice that has your legs falling open almost automatically. He says it so charmingly, a request rather than a command. Clarkâs hand circles your ankle first before they slowly smooth up your thigh, hiking up your skirt around your waist.Â
âYouâre wet,â he notes calmly.Â
Youâve been leaking since you noticed his hard-on; you just didnât think heâd see the evidence of your own arousal. Heat floods your cheeks as you grab onto his hand to stop him. Yet, you donât budge an inch, you simply keep him there.Â
âSomeoneâs going to see,â you hiss.
âNo one comes around the copy room this time of day. Everyoneâs taking their break in the pantry on the other side.â
âBut what if someone does?â
Clark grins, âThen you better let me work on you fast.â His hand continues its journey north until it finds itself between your thighs.Â
His fingertips are firm but gentle as they press against your clothed core, soaking your underwear further as he digs it into your slit. A moan bubbles up your throat, which Clark quickly drinks in with his lips over yours.
âGonna need you to keep it down, honey. You donât want anyone walking in on us.â
Honey. Only he could make such sweet pet names sound incredibly filthy. Fortunately, you donât have time to second-guess this decision because then heâs working his magic. Awkward, nervous Clark doesnât shed a single sweat as he rubs along your pussy. He watches your every twitch, every hitch of your breath to his touch. He pushes when you gasp, he moves his fingers when you moan.Â
Before long, heâs pushing your panties to the side and easing his fingers inside you. Thick, long fingers that fill you up completely as he buries himself to his knuckles.Â
âGosh, youâre so tight,â Clark huffs against your neck, a breathless chuckle as he curls his fingers. âI canât imagine how youâd feel wrapped around me.â
The thought of him fucking you â spreading your legs wider, sliding his cock inside you, or maybe bent over the copier with your tits against the glass as he fucks deep into you â has you arching your back with a whine.Â
âYouâve always got such a mouth on you. Now, look at you, youâre so sweet for me. I never knew these lips of yours could make such cute little noises when youâre all filled up.â
âClark,â you rasp, âfuck. Donât stop.â
He doesnât. Instead, he fingers you faster, thumb finding your clit until youâre practically shaking under his touch. Your hips thrust forward in search of his hand, nearly begging for him to finger fuck you deeper, harder.Â
âThatâs a good girl. Just needed my fingers inside you, didnât you? Are you going to be nicer to me now? Now that I know what you sound like when you want something from me.â
You release another desperate whimper as Clark works his fingers somehow deeper inside you. You can feel your juices dripping all over his fingers, seeping through the gaps and pooling under your thighs on the table. Clark inhales deeply, as if he can smell you from this distance and groans into your neck.
âYou smell so good. Canât wait to taste you once you finish.â
Your pussy pulses around him like a second heartbeat, one that he certainly hears and feels, judging by the way he tenses against you. He continues to mutter sweet phrases in your ears, praising you for doing such a good job, scolding you for always being so frustrating, telling you how beautiful you are for giving in to him.Â
It doesnât take you very long to fall apart in his hands, cunt squeezing around him as your teeth sink into his suit-covered shoulder. Clark himself moans into your hair as you do so, body shuddering.Â
Then you realize whatâs just happenedâ
âYou came.â
He only hums.
âI didnât even touch you,â you whisper quietly.
âDonât need to. I like seeing you pleasuring yourself on my fingers.â
You didnât think this brute could get any sexier, but youâve been proven wrong. He seems intent on doing that a second time when he draws his fingers out of you, letting your panties slide back into place, before he brings his fingers to his mouth.Â
With his eyes locked on yours, he sucks his fingers clean and pulls them out.Â
You have to stop yourself from begging him to fuck you then and there.
His dimples deepen as he smiles at you.Â
You have to bite down on your tongue to keep your mouth shut.
âBack to the bullpen?â You squeak out.
âAre you going to keep aggravating me?â
âOnly if it gets you to get me off.â
Clark chuckles. âIâll see you here tomorrow at three.â
+ sam: youre the absolute cutest i love u so very much, thank you for this request miss c!!!
HUH???? FOR ME????? OH SAM PLEASE đđđđ THIS WAS SO GOOD WHAT THE FUCK IM SCREAMING WITH AND WITHOUT THE S HOLY SHIT!!!!
im a FOOL for a good enemies to lovers thing. an ABSOLUTE FOOL. I LOVED THIS. IT WAS SO HOT TO SEE CLARK FLIP A SWITCH SO QUICKLY ??? WTF IM GEEKING BRO THIS IS SO !!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AND HE CAME WITHOUT EVEN BEING TOUCHED ?? YOU KNOW ME AND MY INTERESTS SO WELL ??? I LOVE YOU SO MUCH IT HURTS WTF THANK YOU FOR FULFILLING MY REQUEST
anakin being a competent brat makes me *clenches fist*. here's a man that's daring and brash, capable of outmaneuvering enemies and strategising outlandish plans almost on a whim, and he does it all while pouting with that full bottom lip because damn it, he just wants Obi-Wan to pay attention to him
summary: you and your boyfriend decide to spice things up in bed.
tags: 18+ , MDNI , NSFW , smut , cowgirl , cuffs , yearning clark , creampie , p in v
a/n: sorry for my absence!
theme: freak
Clark was intently staring and simultaneously typing away on his laptop. The living room in his apartment was dimly lit by one warm lamp that sat next to him. Though, the bright light from his laptop screen was surely enough to illuminate everything anyways.
You peeked up from your phone screen, watching the way his brow furrowed while he worked. He was wearing something as plain as possible, sweats, a little too snug white tee, and fluffy socks, ones that matched the ones you were wearing too.
You sat just across from him on a single sofa arm chair, knees pulled close to your chest. Something about the way he was literally doing nothing stirred something deep inside you. He was adorable when he was focused.
You set your phone down and stood, padding over quietly across the hardwood. Clark's eyes flicked up the second you moved.
"Hey," he said softly, voice warm like always. "You okay? Need anything?"
You didn't answer with words. Instead you climbed into his lap, straddling his thighs. His hands automatically settled on your waist, thumbs brushing nervous little circles over your shirt.
"Hi," you murmured, inches from his lips.
"Hi there," he said back, shy as ever.
You kissed him slow and deep, tasting the faint sweetness of the coffee he'd had earlier. Clark melted instantly, a needy sound vibrating in his chest as his fingers flexed against your sides.
When you pulled back just enough to speak, your voice came out a whisper. "I've been watching you work⌠and all I can think about is riding you right now."
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, and let out a soft, shaky little laugh. "R-right now?â he stammered. "Gosh, I- I mean, yeah. Yeah, absolutely. Whatever you want, baby."
You grinned and slid off his lap, taking his hand to tug him toward the bedroom.
Once you had him in the bedroom, you pushed him gently onto the bed. Clark sat on the edge first, then scooted back when you gave him that look. He watched you with those big blue eyes, nervous and eager all at once, as you pulled the soft leather cuffs from the nightstand drawer.
His breath hitched. "Oh⌠those?"
"Mhm." You climbed over him, straddling his waist again. "Tonight I want you all to myself. Hands up, Kent."
Clark's cheeks turned red, but he obediently raised his arms, letting you loop the cuffs around his wrists and click them to the metal bed rails. The chain gave him just enough slack to move a little, but not much. He tested them once, lightly, then looked up at you.
"Good boy," you purred, and his stomach fluttered at your praise.
You took your time peeling his shirt off, kissing down his chest as you went. Every little touch made him shiver and whimper. When you tugged his sweats and boxers down, his cock sprang free, slapping his abs. Clark let out a soft whine, hips twitching up instinctively.
"Easy," you teased, wrapping your hand around him and giving one slow stroke. "Look at you⌠so worked up already."
"Y-Yeah," he gasped, head falling back against the pillow. "Feels so good when you touch me. Please don't stopâŚ"
You stripped yourself next, slow enough to make him watch every inch. His eyes were glued to you, mouth slightly open.
When you were fully naked, you crawled back over him and positioned yourself right above his cock, letting the head brush against your soft folds.
Clark's wrists pulled lightly at the cuffs, the chain rattling. "Baby⌠please. I need you. I wanna feel you so bad-"
You grabbed the base from under you, lined him up perfectly, and sank down on him slowly.
The sound he made was pure heaven. A sad little whimper. You braced your hands on his chest and started rolling your hips, riding him slow and deep at first. Clark's eyes fluttered shut, then snapped open again like he couldn't bear to miss a second of you on top of him.
You started moving faster, hips rolling in a steady rhythm that had the bed creaking softly beneath you. Clark's breath hitched with every downward slide, his cock stretching you so perfectly it made your toes curl.
"Gosh⌠you feel incredible," he whined. "So warm and tight around me⌠I could stay like this forever. Please- keep going just like that."
You reached between your bodies and started circling your clit, and his blue eyes locked onto the movement like it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "Fuck... 'm gonna come." You moaned, head falling forwards.
Clark's breath caught in a high, whiny keen. "Yes- yes, please- come on me. I wanna feel it so bad. Youâre squeezing me so good, gosh- I'm trying to hold back but you feel too amazing-"
Your thighs started to tremble as you rode him harder. Clark was practically vibrating underneath you, wrists pulling at the cuffs, metal groaning faintly under the strain he was trying so hard not to unleash.
The coil in your belly snapped. You cried out, clenching hard around him as your orgasm crashed over you, hips stuttering. Clark's mouth fell open in pure awe as he watched you come undone.
"Oh- oh gosh-" he whimpered, his own hips jerking up desperately. "I feel you- you're pulsing around me- it's so warm and tight- I can't- I can't hold it-"
Right as your climax peaked and your walls fluttered wildly around him, Clark's control finally shattered.
With a sharp metallic creak, the cuffs broke clean apart. His hands flew to your hips instantly, holding you down as he thrust up into you with deep powerful thrusts.
"Oh fuck! Clark!" You cried out, clinging onto his shoulders for dear life.
"Baby- I'm sorry, I couldn't- ahh-!" His voice was high and whiny. He was chasing his own release now, buried so deep inside you that you were seeing stars. "You feel too good- gosh, I'm coming-!"
His head tipped back against the pillow, glasses completely fogged and sliding down his nose, mouth open in a desperate groan. One last hard thrust and he spilled inside you. You cried, still trembling from your own orgasm, nails digging into his shoulders while he rode it out.
He kept moving through it, lazy little rolls of his hips as he emptied himself completely. "So warm⌠thank you, babyâŚ" Until finally he stilled, chest heaving, arms wrapping around your waist.
Clark's hands stroked slow, soothing circles over your back. He let out a shaky, embarrassed little laugh. "Golly⌠I really tried to stay cuffed. I swear I did." He tilted his head to look at you, cheeks flushed dark pink, one hand coming up to sheepishly push his glasses back into place. "But when you came like that⌠I just- I lost it. Couldn't exactly hold back anymore."
You smiled up at him, brushing a damp curl off his forehead. "It was hot as hell, Kent."
He smirked. "Yeah? Youâ're not mad I broke them?" He raised one hand up, the cuff link dangling from his wrist.
You laughed softly and kissed him, slow and sweet.
summary: you and your boyfriend both work for the daily planet. yourself being a photographer. your boss insists you find a good photo of superman. luckily for you, he so happens to be your boyfriend.
tags: 18+ , MDNI , NSFW , smut , cowgirl , yearning clark , creampie , p in v
a/n: i liked this one a lot
theme: redbone
"Clark, please, just like three pictures?" You tugged on his sleeve, voice soft but insistent. "No one can ever get a clear shot of Superman. The paper's running that 'Hero of the Year' feature next month and all we have is blurry cellphone garbage. One good candid set and Perry will finally stop breathing down my neck."
Clark's cheeks went pink the second you said the name. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to smile too wide or blush too hard.
"You know I can't just⌠pose," he mumbled. "It feels⌠unnatural."
You scooted closer, sliding your hand up his arm until your fingers brushed the soft black tee he was wearing.
"I'm not asking Superman. I'm asking my boyfriend, who happens to be the strongest, fastest, most ridiculously handsome man in Metropolis, to let me take a few quick candids. For the paper. For journalistic integrity." You batted your lashes, knowing exactly what that did to him. "Please, baby? It'll be fast. Then we can go right back to this crap."
He let out a shy little laugh that turned into a nervous exhale. "You're impossible." But he stood up anyway.
You grabbed your camera, the good one, not the Daily Planet issue, and waited for him on the open space between the couch and the windows.
Clark waddled to the bedroom, tussling with his hero costume, before revealing the familiar blue and red suit hugging every perfect line of his body. His boots hit the hardwood floor as he emerged from the dark hallway. The red cape hung loose down his back, the big gold "S" gleaming in the low lamplight. His hair was already slightly mussed from pulling the suit on, and without the glasses his blue eyes looked almost too intense.
Clark shifted his weight, suddenly awkward in the bright overhead light of his living room. "Where do you want me?"
"Well it's going to be an interview type candid, so sit on the couch." You stood up from the place you were sitting on, and motioned for him to take your spot.
Clark nodded, a shy little smile tugging at his lips as he moved past you. He lowered himself onto the couch with that carefulness he always used when he was trying not to break anything. The cushions dipped under his weight, and the suit stretched deliciously across his broad chest and thick thighs as he settled back.
You stared at the way he subtly spread his legs, before catching yourself and backing up to line up the shot. You raised the camera, heart beating a little too fast for what was happening.
Click.
First shot: him looking slightly to the side, thoughtful, the hero listening. The lamplight kissed the sharp line of his jaw and the strong column of his throat.
Click.
Second shot: you told him to lean forward a little, elbows on his knees, like he was about to answer a serious question. The position pulled the blue fabric tight over his shoulders and made the red trunks sit even lower on his hips.
Just then, Clark let out a shy chuckle, letting his head fall into his hands. "This is so... silly."
You couldnât help the soft laugh that escaped you at the sight of him. Big, powerful Superman with his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking with that adorably embarrassed chuckle.
"It's not silly," you said, lowering the camera just enough to meet his eyes when he peeked through his fingers. "You have no idea how good you look right now."
He rubbed the back of his neck again. "You always say that," he mumbled, voice soft. "But sitting here in the suit on our couch while you take pictures⌠it feels ridiculous. Like I'm playing dress-up or something."
You stepped closer, still between his spread knees, and gently pulled his hands away from his face so you could see those beautiful blue eyes. "It's not dress-up. It's you." You placed your palm flat to his chest, pushing him back against the couch. "Now come on, lean back again for me."
He looked up at you, neck craned to look at your face. His eyes looked so soft, so pleading. He looked adorable, and sad. Like a puppy.
Without thinking, you raised the camera.
Click.
Clark blinked. "Wh-What was that for?"
You smiled down at him, slow and warm, flipping through the camera's gallery to find the picture you just took.
"That one was just for me," you murmured, voice dropping softer. "Because you look so sweet right now." You raised the camera to look at the photo closer. "And you look hot too. Like super hot I wanna do not so nice things to you on this couch."
He shifted on the couch, the suit pulling tight across his chest as he tried, and failed, to hide how much your words affected him. "I'm not⌠I mean, gosh, you always do this to me," he whispered.
You smirked. "Okay, just like one more." You backed up again, aligning yourself on one knee to get more depth. "Sit up right."
Clark hesitated, slowly sitting upright. He crossed his leg over his knee, one hand settling just over his crotch.
You paused, looking up from behind the camera lens. "What are you doing?"
He blinked, "I'm... sitting upright?"
You sighed. "Uncross your legs, I need one of you just looking relaxed."
Clark's blush deepened instantly, spreading down his neck. He uncrossed his legs with a shy little nod. He tried to settle his hands casually on his thighs. And when you looked back into the camera, you could see how he was obviously tenting in his red trunks.
You swallowed hard, lips parting for a second before speaking. "Are... are you hard?"
Clark froze on the couch, eyes widening like a deer caught in headlights. His hand twitched where it rested on his thigh, quickly covering the area.
"I⌠umâŚ" He let out a nervous little laugh. "Yeah⌠gosh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to⌠happen so fast. It's just, you're kneeling there, looking up at me through the camera like that, and saying those things about wanting to do not-so-nice stuff⌠it's a lot. You're really pretty when you get that focused look, and I-" He cut himself off with a shaky exhale, thighs shifting. "I can't help it. I start thinking about you and I just⌠get like this."
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a flutter mixing with the low heat bubbling in your stomach. You tried to play it cool, but your fingers trembled slightly on the camera as you kept it raised,
You bit your lip, voice coming out softer than you intended. "It's⌠okay. I mean, it's not bad. It's just⌠really obvious." Your gaze flicked down again despite yourself.
You swallowed again, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks flaming. "Can I⌠take a picture of this too? Just for us. Not for the paper. I want to remember how you look right nowâŚ"
He nodded so fast it was almost comical. "Yes, of course."
You slowly raised the camera again, only letting his lower half be seen, focused in on the visible strain in his trunks.
Click.
You stared at the gallery a second too long, heat flooding your face. Your own shyness made your pulse race, but you couldn't look away.
"Does it⌠look bad? I feel so exposed like this." He kept his thighs parted for you, blue eyes fixed on your face with that heartbreaking, yearning look.
"It doesn't look bad," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. Your cheeks were burning. "It looks⌠really good. Really big. I can see everything."
You lowered the camera just enough to meet his eyes. "Can... can you take off the suit, just below here?" You motioned with both hands, slicing horizontally just below the greater trochanter of the femur.
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, and gave you the tiniest nod. "O-okay," he whispered, voice low. "If that's what you want."
He shifted on the couch, the cushions dipping under his weight. With careful hands he peeled the blue fabric downward, slowly sliding the suit past his narrow hips and thick thighs. The red trunks came with it just enough to stay on, but the motion left the entire upper half of his body exposed. Powerful arms, the deep V of his hips, the solid planes of his chest, and most importantly, his cock.
It sprang up fully now that nothing was restraining it, thick and heavy, flushed dark with arousal. Clark's breathing had gone shallow, his chest rising and falling faster.
He looked devastating like this. Superman unzipped, sitting on your couch with his thick, leaking cock completely bare and throbbing in the open air while he watched you with soft, pleading blue eyes.
You stared, heart pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it with his super-hearing.
"GoshâŚ" Clark breathed, shifting his hips. The movement made his cock bob. "I feel so⌠exposed. But the way you're looking at me right now⌠it's making it worse. Or better. I can't tell anymore."
You bit your lip, trying to ignore the slick ache between your own thighs. "It's⌠really pretty. You're really pretty like this, Clark."
He let out a soft, embarrassed whimper and spread his legs a little wider without being asked, offering himself to your gaze. "I like when you look at me. Even when it makes me this hard. Especially when it makes me this hard."
You raised the camera again, hands still shaky.
Click.
The shot framed his bare cock perfectly. Thick, glistening, resting heavy against his abs while the blue suit bunched around his powerful thighs.
"I want you... to touch yourself. For me." You whispered, just barely peeking from behind the camera lens.
He breathed, voice shaky and sweet. "You really want that?"
You nodded, too shy to speak again right away.
Clark swallowed hard, then gave you the smallest, most earnest nod. "Okay⌠for you. Anything for you."
His big hand moved slowly, almost hesitantly, down his body. He wrapped his fingers around the thick base of his cock, and the moment he touched himself a soft, embarrassed whimper slipped out of him. His grip was gentle at first as he gave one slow stroke from base to tip, spreading the slick pre-come down his shaft.
"OhâŚ" he gasped, hips twitching upward into his own hand. "It feels⌠different when you're watching."
You kept the camera raised, but your own breathing had gone shallow.
Click. Click.
You clicked once, then again, capturing the way his large hand looked wrapped around his cock, the way his abs tensed with every slow pump.
Clark's eyes never left your face. His cheeks were flushed dark red, neck burning, but he didn't stop.
"Like this?" he whispered, voice hoarse.
You bit your lip hard, trying to ignore the insistent throb between your own legs. "Yes⌠just like that. You look so good, Clark. So hard for me."
He let out another soft whimper, the sound so needy it made your stomach flip.
You lowered the camera slightly, unable to resist reaching out with your free hand. Your fingers brushed his thigh first, then slid higher until they rested just below where his own hand was working his cock. Clark shuddered at the light touch, his strokes faltering for a second.
"Keep going," you whispered, shy. "Don't stop touching yourself."
Click.
You lowered the camera, and let your other hand reach up higher, replacing Clark's own hand with your own.
"Can I�" you whispered, voice barely there, cheeks burning hotter than ever.
Clark's breath hitched. His blue eyes were wide and glassy. He nodded so eagerly. "Yes," he breathed, voice cracking softly. "Please. I want your hand instead of mine."
You gently pried his fingers away and wrapped your own around the thick, heated length of him. He was even hotter than you expected.
Clark's head tipped back against the couch with a broken, sweet moan. "Oh⌠gosh, babyâŚ"
The sound went straight between your legs. You tried to ignore the heavy throb of your own arousal, but it was impossible with him spread out like this.
You angled your camera back up again, capturing your hand, fresh set of french tip nails carefully stroking him base to tip.
Click.
You bit your lip, trying to steady your breathing even as heat flooded your face. You kept stroking him, slow pulls that made wet, obscene sounds fill the apartment every time your hand moved over the slick head.
"You're⌠leaking so much," you whispered, voice barely above a breath. You twisted your wrist gently at the top, letting your nails graze lightly along the sensitive underside, and Clark shuddered hard.
"Ah, sweetheart," he gasped, head falling back against the couch again. "That feels⌠really good. Your hand is so soft and warm and-" He was cut off by his own whimper when you rose to your feet, slowly easing your touch off him.
You set the camera down softly on the coffee table, and rustled with the button of your jeans.
Clark's head lifted instantly, blue eyes widening as he watched you. "Sweetheart�" His voice was rough, barely more than a whisper. "Are you�"
You didn't answer with words. Heat burned across your cheeks as you pushed your jeans down your hips, letting them pool at your ankles before stepping out of them. You climbed onto the couch, straddling his thick thighs carefully. You reached behind you, and picked up the camera again.
You sat just on his thighs, his cock positioned right at your pubic symphysis. Your panties were still on, but you'd probably soaked your way through them at this point.
You lifted the camera with slightly shaky hands, angling the lens down to capture the filthy sight. Your soaked panties stretched over your pussy, Clark's thick, leaking cock pressed flush against the damp fabric.
Click.
You bit your lip hard, trying to steady your breathing even as fresh heat flooded your core. You rocked your hips slowly, letting his thick length slide back and forth against your soaked panties, the friction teasing both of you mercilessly.
Click.
Clark moaned softly, a needy, embarrassed sound that went straight between your legs. His hands finally settled on your hips, gentle but trembling with restraint.
You finally hooked your fingers into the waistband of your soaked panties and tugged them down your thighs, kicking them off completely.
Click.
You set the camera on the arm of the couch, no longer able to focus on anything but the feeling of his thick cock sliding through your folds. Bracing both hands on his chest, you lifted your hips just enough to line him up with your entrance.
Then you sank down.
The stretch was immediate and perfect. But so intense you fell over onto him, chin on his shoulder, trembling on top of him. You whimpered into his ear, "Clark... you're so big. I- can't..." In all fairness, you were not used to being the one on top.
Clark's big hands instantly sliding up your back to hold you gently. "Shh, sweetheart⌠it's okay," he whispered, voice so incredibly tender. His lips brushed your temple. "You're doing so good for me."
He stayed perfectly still, buried halfway inside your tight heat, letting you adjust.
"It's fine, I just need a second..." You whimpered again, face buried in the crook of his neck, inhaling the clean, warm scent of him. "I want you all the way inside," you admitted softly, voice muffled against his skin. "But⌠it's a lot like this."
Clark pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your head. "Then let me help you, baby. Just a little." His hands simply guided you, slowly easing you down the rest of the way until your ass met the bunched fabric of his suit and he was buried to the hilt inside you.
You both moaned out in sync, Clark hissing through his teeth, and yourself burying your face into his neck.
"Gosh⌠baby," Clark whispered. His arms wrapped around your back, holding you close while he stayed perfectly still, letting you adjust. "You're so tight⌠so warm."
You whimpered again, lips brushing his neck. You lifted your head just enough to look at him. His face was flushed dark red, blue eyes glassy and locked on yours. You braced your hands on his broad chest, the gold and red "S" emblem under your palms, and started to move. Slow, careful rolls of your hips that dragged his thick cock along every sensitive spot inside you.
Clark's head tipped back against the couch, a sweet, needy whimper escaping him. "Yes⌠just like that. You're riding me so well, baby." You rode him deeper, a little faster, the bunched fabric of his suit rubbing against the backs of your thighs with every downward stroke.
Clark's hands slid down to your waist, holding you tenderly as he whispered against your ear. "You're so beautiful like this⌠taking my cock. Taking Superman's cock."
You moaned into his neck, hips rolling faster as the pleasure built. "Who knew... Superman was so generous to his fans."
Clark let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. "Gosh⌠don't say that," he breathed, cheeks burning as he tilted his head to nuzzle against your hair. "You're not just a fan. You're my girl."
You braced your hands more firmly on his chest and started riding him with deeper rolls, lifting until only the thick head remained inside you, then sinking back down slowly, letting him feel every tight inch of your walls dragging along his cock.
Clark's head fell back against the couch with a sweet, broken moan. "Oh⌠baby, yes. Just like that. You're taking me so deep. I can feel you squeezing me every time you come down. It's- gosh, it's so good."
His hands slid up your sides, then back down to grip your hips with careful reverence. "You're so wet for me⌠I can hear it every time you move."
You whimpered, hips snapping a little faster, the pleasure coiling tighter in your belly. The bold "S" under your hands a constant reminder of exactly who you were fucking. Your sweet, dorky boyfriend who also happened to be the strongest man alive.
Clark's hands trembled on your hips as he fought to stay still for you, eyes never leaving your face. "Baby⌠you're getting close, aren't you?" he whispered. "Please don't hold back."
You buried your face in his neck again, hips moving faster, chasing that building heat as Clark held you close, whispering sweet, filthy encouragement against your ear.
"ClarkâŚ" you gasped, voice cracking. Your hips snapped faster, chasing the edge that was rapidly approaching.
Clark's hands slid up your back, one tangling gently in your hair while the other held your waist, helping you keep the rhythm. "You feel so perfect," he panted against your ear. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel you."
The coil inside you snapped. You cried out softly into his neck as your body twitched with the pulsing waves of your orgasm. Your thighs trembled violently against his suited hips, your heated walls clamping and squeezing his length. "Ohhh, fuuuck-" You whined right into Clark's ear.
Just as you slowed, Clark's grip on your hips tightened and he started to move with you. Short, sharp thrusts upward that met your ass. "Oh- sweetheart," he panted against your ear. "I can't- I can't hold back much longer."
You whimpered at the new intensity, your sensitive walls still fluttering around him as he fucked up into you from below. You moaned into his neck, nodding frantically as you rocked down to meet his thrusts. "Yes- Clark, please. Come inside me."
With a soft, broken moan of your name, Clark buried himself to the hilt one last time. His cock pulsed hard inside you as he came, thick, hot spurts flooding deep into your pussy. He held you tightly against his chest through every twitch and shudder. Ensuring you couldn't escape, not that you wanted to anyways.
Clark's arms wrapped around you protectively, one hand gently stroking your back as he pressed soft, reverent kisses to your shoulder and temple.
"You okay?" he whispered. His cheeks were still flushed, hair tousled. "Was it too much? I tried to be careful⌠I didn't want to hurt you."
You smiled against his neck, still catching your breath, and kissed the warm skin there. "It was perfect," you murmured. "My sweet, generous Superman."
Clark let out a shy little laugh. "You're the only fan Superman would give his special services to."
You couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped you. "Lucky me," you teased gently.
âŚBucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!âŚ
âŚsummary: bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?âŚ
âŚwarnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, ceo!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, virgin!reader, dating apps, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, kinda boss x secretary, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (fingering, teasing, stripping, soft dom!bucky, dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, mutual masturbation, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smutâŚ
âŚwc: 13.9kâŚ
âŚAuthor's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!âŚ
Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesnât even know it.
You wish you could blame him. Slash his tires and scream in his face, maybe drain the oil from his bike or mess up his lunch order. But he wouldnât deserve that, and youâd just end up homeless on the street. Youâd have to sell your body, but youâve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldnât get you anywhere when youâd just given his best friend food poisoning.
And Bucky wouldnât deserve that. Heâs perfect. Heâs a mountain youâd love to scale, if you hadnât always been horrid at climbing. Youâd dig your nails into his chest, and maybe just keep him at eye level forever. So you could watch that quiet joy that only shines for the people he really, truly likes.
Youâre a member of that rare club. Itâs taken years of small kindnessâ and lingering in Steveâs shadow to get there.
Even if you wanted to, youâd never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasnât taken away your wits.
The same wits that tell you, itâs not worth the risk.
It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. Itâs too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When youâd asked Natasha whyâSteveâs a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you donât tell HRâsheâd just shrugged.
âItâs not Steve thatâs making them quit.â Sheâd hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.
You hadnât. You still donât. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.
Bucky.
James. Youâre trying to call him James, in your head. Itâs more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.
In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend heâs there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that heâs loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he canât take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.
But Bucky doesnât just stare at you. Itâs one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, heâs lucky we love him.
You do love him.
Buckyâs perfect. When youâd met him, heâd seemed as if heâd fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. Youâd never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. Youâd barely been able to breathe, and itâs only gotten harder since youâve known him.
At first look, Buckyâs a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. Heâs cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesnât waste time on things that donât matter, and youâd like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.
That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of itâs fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage youâve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.
But Bucky likes to ruin your life.
Itâs been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.
You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and itâs incredibly rude that he wonât just cut it out so you can focus.
âHowâs your mother?â You ask one night, when itâs just you and Bucky.
James. When youâre alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, itâs important to remember you should be calling him James.
âMy⌠Mother.â
Heâs staring at you like youâre crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesnât get to win.
âYou said she was moving.â You shrug, and Buckyâs tongue flicks over his lips.
âI did say that.â
âYeah. I know.â You pretend to turn over a paper. âI was there.â
Bucky snorts, and itâs enough to yank your attention up. Heâs shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.
âWhat?â
âNothinâ.â Â
âWhat-â
âMy motherâs doinâ just fine.â Bucky says, staring at you across the room. âShe loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.â
You swallow. âOh, I- I didnât mean to-â
âDonât hurt yourself.â BuckyâJames, but itâs impossible to remember when he looks at you like thatâsmirks. âIâd want you over me every time, too.â
Thereâs no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isnât humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Buckyâs low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.
You donât succeed.
But thatâs a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.
Because thatâs where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.
Bucky is a mountain of a man, but youâve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, youâve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. Itâs just⌠Never happened. And youâre certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You donât have a death wish, and youâre certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.
So in reality, youâre never going to risk anything. Youâve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every dayâtechnically he buys himself lunch, but youâre allowed to get whatever you wantâand you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.
You havenât had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.
Buckyâs might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-
No.
Nothingâs worth it. Not when Bucky wouldnât even want you anyway.
Youâd rather have the gloves.
âYou get a plus one to this event, you know?â
You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. âHuh?â
Steveâs lips twitch. âYou get a plus one.â
âOkay?â
âWasnât sure you knew.â He shrugs. Your frown deepens.
âOf course I knew. I send out all the invitations.â
âHm.â
âWhatâs hm? What does hm mean?â
âJust hm. Do you have the numbers, about-â
âTheyâre in front of you, Steven.â You narrow your eyes. âWhatâs hm mean.â
âTold you, nothing-â
âWhat.â
Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Buckyâs mother, and you. At the time, youâd laughed it off and rolled your eyes.
With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, youâre starting to think that last part might be true.
âYouâve just always had that plus one offered.â Steve mutters, looking at the reports like theyâve suddenly turned into something interesting. âNoticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.â
âI knew.â You snap, and Steve sighs.
âYeah, I thought you did.â
âThen whyâd you ask-â
âYou wanna get lunch?â Steveâs voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. âI think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?â
Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you canât stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
You have never used your plus one. Youâve never needed to.
Thereâs never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. Youâve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steveâs sideâbecause he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, youâll slack when youâre deadâand glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Buckyâs arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.
He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldnât mind that youâre not experienced and-
You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.
But is Steveâs noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe heâs noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if heâs noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, heâs going to realize that youâre in love with his best friend, and heâs going to tell Bucky, and youâre going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you arenât emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-
You need a date.
Itâs the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you donât want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You canât ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and youâre not even sure where youâd find the time.
Which leaves one option.
Dating apps.
There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. Youâre by no means ugly, and youâve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that youâre not sure what youâre looking for, because youâre really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people youâre Steve Rogerâs personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.
They wonât see. None of them will see.
And youâll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.
âYou never tell me about your family.â
Buckyâs words are so low you almost donât hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.
âYou never ask.â
His lips twitch down. âIâve told you about my family.â
âSo?â
âUsually.â He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. âWhen you tell someone about yourself, itâs an⌠Exchange of information.â
âAn exchange of information?â You snort. âIs that a CIA thing?â
âNot everything I do is a CIA thing.â
âEverything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.â
âNat was better at it than I was.â He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when heâs frustrated. For a grown man, itâs always rather adorable. âIâd like to know about your family.â
âIâŚâ You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.
Heâs staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.
âWhy?â
âBecause. Weâve worked together a while. I know⌠A lot about you.â He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. âYou know about me.â
âUh huh. Thatâs usually how being friends works.â
Bucky sighs. âYeah, well. Youâve met my mother. She adores you.â
âShe doesnât adore me-â
âShe adores you.â
He says it like itâs really not up for debate. You flush. âOh- Okay.â
âEveryone you meet adores you.â Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. âAnd I tell you everything about me.â
You donât think thatâs true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Buckyâs just like thatânot big on sharingâso you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but itâs far from everything. âBu- James-â
âBucky.â He corrects, and you sigh.
Heâs not making that part easy, either.
âBucky.â You say, smooth and careful. âYou know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But Iâm not all that interesting.â
âI disagree.â He mutters. âYouâre impossibly interesting.â
You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldnât be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and heâs got those big, deft fingers that youâve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and heâs giving you compliments. Compliments like theyâre just breathing, like he doesnât even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.
âWhat do you want to know?â You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, itâs going to drag you under like quicksand.
âWhatâs your favorite kind of flower?â
âMy favorite flower-â
Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.
âI donât know. Iâve never really thought about it.â
Bucky grunts. âWell, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.â
âI- Iâve never been given flowers.â
âYouâve never-â Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. âEver?â
You can hear the what about that he wonât say. What about a boyfriend.
If heâs not brave enough to ask itâalthough you donât understand why heâd careâyou donât have to be brave enough to answer it.
âNo. Never ever.â You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.
You have Buckyâs attention, and you both wish heâd take it back and never want him to stop pushing. Youâve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and youâd rally rather not explore what that means right now.
âYou need to sign these.â You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Buckyâs hands again.
Theyâre curled in fists. Youâd like them inside you-
You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. âSteve told me not to let you go home, until you did.â
Bucky chuckles at that, though thereâs still a strange look in his eyes. âNot let me go home, huh.â
âYes, sir.â You drawl.
Buckyâs knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.
âAnd how would you stop me from gettinâ home, kid?â
âWith lots of talent.â You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. âAnd my body.â
Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee mustâve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.
âFine. Iâm fine.â He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. âPapers.â
He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.
âJames, are you-â
âBucky.â He grunts. âPapers, sweetheart.â
You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. Youâre not sure whatâs happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you donât want to overthink it.
Itâs only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I
Sweetheart.
You canât blame him. He canât know what that does to you.
You really need to find that date.
It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.
Steveâs on a conference call, and youâre lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. Youâre only there in case he forgets something, and you donât have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what youâre saying.
The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.
Hence, the dating apps.
Itâs almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.
But youâre also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.
Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but heâs built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength youâve seen straining through Buckyâs suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kidsâhis sisterâs, according to the captionâbut you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the childrenâs hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person youâd been worried youâd get pregnant watching him.
Leon has nice eyes, but theyâre not as pretty as Buckyâs. Cal is in the military, but heâs beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesnât make you feel bubbly like Buckyâs. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobsâall their photos showing them driving Maseratiâs and drinking expensive whiskeyâbut one of the things youâve always loved about Bucky is how he doesnât brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150âhe always grumbles that he just needs it to tell timeâand he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.
You squint at Damienâs profile, and heâs got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you donât know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.
You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.
James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glanceâbeefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photoâand squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.
You snort, and scroll lazily down. Jamesâ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual funâyou canât be causal, or have fun, but itâs always nice to pretendâlocated thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-
Located thirty feet away.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager. Â Â
Fucking- Fuck-
You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. Jamesâ next photo doesnât show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. Youâve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.
Next photo.
Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. Sheâd taken him home, and youâd heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. Youâd been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. Youâd spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.
Which means-
You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.
Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like heâs made of stars.
Heâs seen this photo. Everyone whoâs been on his dating profile has seen this photo.
You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.
Your thumb drifts a little to the right.
You swipe yes on Buckyâs profile.
And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words Itâs a Match! Shoved into your face.
You scream, and throw your phone across the room.
Steve looks at you like youâre insane. You feel insane.
âAre you-â
âI need to go to the bathroom!â You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but youâre already running.
You have to pass Buckyâs officeâright next to Steveâsâto get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.
Heâs on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.
Like he can sense you, he looks up.
Your eyes meet.
And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.
Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.
âBut- I can help-â
âI know. Iâm telling you not to.â He gives you a small smile. âYouâve earned the break.â
âSteve-â
âYouâre allowed to just rest,â he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. Youâre not.
âPlease give me something to do.â You plead, and Steve sighs.
âKid, you donât have to prove something-â
âPlease.â If you donât have anything, youâre just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And thatâs a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.
Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and theyâre just enough to distract you.
Barely.
Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasnât seen it at all, and youâre hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.
Itâs your best hope. That heâll just never know.
But he matched with you, too.
He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. Thatâs a thing you hear men do.
Buckyâs not the type to do that.
Heâs also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you donât know him as well as you thought you did.
But youâre pretty sure you do.
This is making your head hurt.
Your real best bet is that someoneâs been catfishing as James Barnes, but thereâs no real hope of that with the bar photo. Youâre going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. Youâre not very patient. And youâre not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-
Your phone buzzes.
Message from James.
You throw your phone again. He knows.
Death is looking lovely right now.
Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesnât push you to come back. If anything, heâs still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.
âItâs going to help more than⌠What youâre doing right now.â He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.
âThis is helping plenty.â You mutter. Steve sighs.
âLook, Iâm really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldnât take it if you didnât need it.â
âBut?â You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.
âBut I wish youâd tell me what was goinâ on.â He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. âSo I could help.â
You give him a tight smile. âSteve-â
âAnything you need. If I canât get it, Iâm sure Bucky or Nat could-â
âSteve.â You donât want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why youâve gone into hiding. âI- I really donât want to talk about it.â
Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.
âCan you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?â He asks after a week. âPeople are noticing Iâm missing my brain.â
You laugh softly. âIâm sick.â
âBut youâre not.â
Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Buckyâs sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and youâve read none of them. You donât want to hear his gentle rejection, because itâs going to crush you into fine, little pieces.
âWeâre worried about you.â Steve says. âAnd again, no rush to come back, but I donât know how to work my own schedule and Buckyâs started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-â
âBuckyâs pacing?â You blurt, and Steve blinks.
âYeah? Think he misses you, too.â
You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.
Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.
And you donât want to know. That heâs been thinking about. That heâs been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.
âIâll be back soon.â You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You donât want to know. âJust- A few more days.â
Steve looks at you like he doesnât believe you. You donât believe you.
But youâre a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesnât have to be anything at all.
Youâre going to keep going, and this wonât have to have been anything at all.
Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that youâre okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a rowâand you think heâs blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasnât snitched about anythingâbut the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.
And Bucky.
Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.
Almost.
Heâs staring more than he used to, and heâd always stared quite a lot. When youâre left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steveâs office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasnât paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.
âWhat?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?â
He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you donât see it.
You still havenât looked at the messages. Youâre not going to. And he hasnât brought it up, so itâs like nothing ever happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now youâre suspended in a world where Bucky doesnât even treat you like a friend anymore.
Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.
âDid something happen?â He asks softly. âDid Bucky⌠Say something to you?â
You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. âWha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, itâs fine.â You laugh, high and nervous. âEverythingâs fine.â
Steve hums, and he doesnât believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. âYou know⌠Iâve known Bucky a long time.â
âI know. Iâve read the about page.â
He laughs, shaking his head. âNo. I mean, yes, but-â He sighs. âBuckyâs not good at⌠Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.â
âOkay.â Heâs shown you nothing but silence and stares.
âAnd he, um- Heâs a good guy-â
âIâm aware.â
âI know you are, but-â Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. âJust, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you donât want to, donât. Iâd rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that heâd pressure you,â he adds quickly. âBut if thereâs ever⌠Anything. And Iâve been wrong about⌠Stuff. Just know youâre as valuable as he is.â
Heâs speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. âOkay.â
âOkay.â Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. âAnd is there⌠Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?â
Itâs a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steveâs kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.
But you donât need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.
âNo.â You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. âWhy, is there something you need to tell me?â
Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. âNo. Just⌠You were missed.â
Thereâs a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.
âBy everyone.â
You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.
Later that day, Bucky goes into Steveâs office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.
You stare at Buckyâs head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.
When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and youâd like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like heâd grabbed your chin and demanded it.
His eyes are shining on yours, and youâve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if heâs disgusted, just from the sight of you.
âYou look nice.â He rasps, and you canât tell if youâre glowing or burning out.
âThank you.â
He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. âWe all missed you.â
âIâve been told-â
âI missed you.â He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming youâre not even sure what to do with yourself.
Youâve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-
âI, uh- Iâll leave you to it-â
âYou too.â You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. âI- I missed you too.â
He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you donât see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.
You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.
Endlessly and uselessly love it.
Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.
It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.
You get a night off. Steve has a date, and itâs the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.
You are resting.
By catching up on emails.
Thereâs a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You donât move from the couch at first, because you think itâs a mistake.
Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.
Not a mistake.
Bucky. Thatâs Buckyâs voice.
You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you havenât even seen him yet, but heâs already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like youâre made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You canât really stand at all.
When you finallyâsomehowâmake it to the door, Buckyâs standing on the other side like heâs awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like youâre holding his life in your hands.
You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.
âHi.â You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.
âHey.â
âWhatâre you-â
âI wanted to check on you.â He blurts, and you freeze. âAnd- Talk.â
You ignore that last part. Itâs the last thing you want to do. âIâm fine.â
Buckyâs pretty lips tug down. âYou took two weeks off.â He mutters. âYou donât even take sick days.â
You swallow. âI- I was trying to take care of myself-â
âBy working the whole time?â He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.
Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.
âYouâre supposed to be takinâ tonight off too.â He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.
âYouâre not my boss.â
Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. âTrust me, doll. Iâm fully aware of that.â
Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.
âJamesâŚâ
âBucky.â He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.
âBucky, I- Iâm fine, really-â
âI brought you flowers.â He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.
Heâs holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. Itâs a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.
Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried theyâll dissolve the moment you touch them. They donât. And Bucky clears his throat.
âI, uh- I gave you options, and-â He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. âCan I come in? Please?â
You canât think of a good reason to say no. You donât even think youâd get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.
And now Buckyâs in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-
No.
You canât think like that. Itâs not going to help anyone, not by far.
He brought you flowers.
To apologize for breaking your heart.
Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression youâve ever seen on his handsome face.
âTell me if Iâm steppinâ over the line.â He starts, urgent and pleading. âYou gotta tell me if Iâm steppinâ over the line.â
âBucky-â
âWe both know why Iâm here.â He takes a step forward. You take a step back.
Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.
âI- Iâm sorry.â You mumble. âI didnât mean to-â
âYou didnât?â Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. âAt all?â
You blink. âNo, I- I donât know.â
âYou donât know if you meant it?â
You nod, and Buckyâs jaw works tight.
âCould you?â
âWhat?â
âCould you mean it?â He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.
âJa- Â Bucky.â You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, youâre too fragile to fall for it. âI- I donât know.â
âWhy not?â He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. âIs it me?â
âIs it you?â
âYeah, I- I mean- You donât really date.â He clears his throat. âAnd Stevieâs never told me why, âcause- Iâm not your boss, but Iâm not not your boss- âs what Sam says-â
Youâve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like heâs not sure of the next work. Itâs just as endearing as the display at the desk, but youâre even less sure what to do with it. âBucky-â
âIf itâs just me that youâre not- Thatâs the reason.â Heâs standing over you now. Bowing his head. âThen thatâs fine. Iâm not gonna be an ass about it. ButâŚâ His shoulders slump. âIf itâs not that. Then I- Iâd like toâŚâ
He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.
But youâre lost. Nothing heâs saying is making sense, and youâre almost being dragged under by the current of his words.
âWhat?â You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.
âYou never answered my messages.â He mutters. âFigured Iâd need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.â He clears his throat, lips twitching. âEven if itâs a no.â
âEvenâŚâ You frown. âEven if whatâs a no?â
His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. âIâm⌠Asking you out. On a date?â
Oh.
What.
Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club. Â
You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.
âYou read my messages, right?â
You shake your head, and he groans.
âI- Iâm sorry-â
âNo, itâs- Itâs my fault.â He mutters. âNat told me you were oblivious-â
You cut him off indignantly. âI am not oblivious-â
âWe matched on a dating app.â He drawls, lips twitching slightly. âAnd youâre shocked Iâm askinâ you out.â
You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. âI thought you made a mistake.â You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.
He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper thatâs just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.
Bucky follows you.
Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Buckyâs arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Buckyâs tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. Youâve been swept out to sea, and thereâs no hope of being dragged out to shore.
And with how Buckyâs looking at you, youâre not sure youâd ever ask to be saved.
âYou.â Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. âAre not a mistake. And if someoneâs been tellinâ you that you are.â He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. âTheyâre damn lucky youâre lettinâ them make it.â
Dear God. Youâre not strong enough for this.
âJamesâŚâ You breathe out, and his brows knit. âBucky. Donât.â
He tenses around you. âDonât?â
âDonât.â You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. âDonât do this.â
Bucky leans a little back, but doesnât pull fully away. âWhy not? I told you, if itâs not âcause of me, we can work it out-â
âBucky-â
âIâll quit.â He says suddenly, and you gape.
âYouâre the boss, you canât quit-â
âThere are like, four bosses.â Bucky waves you off. âFive if weâre countinâ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckinâ work. Iâll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-â
âBucky.â You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. âJust- Stop. You canât quit, you shouldnât-â You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.
Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. Itâs so pathetic, but youâre tired and overwhelmed and you canât take him doing this to you twice. Youâre not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you canât handle him pretending you are.
âItâs not nice.â You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.
Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as youâd always imagined. You wish you werenât crying when it finally happened.
âWhatâs not nice.â Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.
âYou.â
âMe?â
You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.
âWhat about me isnât nice?â
You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You canât stop. Itâs like a reflex. âYou canât- You canât say that stuff. âS mean.â
âMe tellinâ you Iâd quit for you is mean?â
âYou donât mean it.â
Bucky tenses. âI do mean it-â
âNo, itâs not- Iâm not-â You swallow, breathing him in. âI donât just wanna beâŚâ
You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. âBe what?â
âBe fun.â You mumble. âI canât do fun, you know than, and- And if youâre not serious, then-â
âIâm dead serious.â Bucky grunts, and you swallow.
âJames-â
âNo. Listen to me.â He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so youâre at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.
Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like youâre the most important thing in the world.
âI am serious about this. About you.â He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. âI have wanted you since I met you. Donât look at me like that,â he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. âI have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and Iâve been obsessed with you so much, Natâs slapped me about it twice.â
You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You canât look at him right now. âYour profile said looking for casual.â You mutter, and Bucky snorts.
âLast year, Sam made that thing for me. âCause I was obsessed with Stevieâs new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.â
âHm.â You peek at him. He looks sincere. âDid you?â
âI got under many someoneâs.â He shrugs. âDidnât have Samâs intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.â
You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.
âI want you.â Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and heâs still not looking away. âYouâre in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. Itâs all I need. Please.â
And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesnât even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and youâve just been waiting for him to realize it since.
But-
âIâm a virgin.â You blurt, and Bucky blinks.
âOkay-â
âI canât do what others can. For you. And I- I donât know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-â Youâre rambling. âI just donât know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and Iâm not- Youâre very- You.â
You gesture over his everything, and Buckyâs lips twitch.
âThat a problem, doll?â
âNo. God, no. Youâre perfect, Iâm just- Not? And thatâs not really fair to you-â
Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.
Youâve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. Itâs always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.
And nothing has done it justice at all.
Kissing Bucky is awkward for a secondâhis lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then rebootsâand then itâs like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Buckyâs, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.
One of Buckyâs hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. Heâs all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.
The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.
Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.
His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.
âI like you.â Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.
âBucky-â
âYouâre what I want.â He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. âYour body.â He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. âIs a bonus.â
You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky mightâve sucked your soul out with that kiss. Youâd like him to do it again.
But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.
âYou like me too.â He mutters, watching you like heâs somehow still unsure.
âMhm.â You say, and he stands a little taller.
âHow long-â
âThe same.â
âOh.â He grins. âGood. Thatâs- Good-â
You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. Itâs not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. Itâs almost painful. You need him.
Bucky pulls away again. Youâre going to punch him.
âJesus.â He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. âYou gotta slow down, baby-â
âDonât want to.â You breathe, pulling at his shirt. âWant you, Bucky. Want you now.â
His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. âYou⌠Youâre a virgin-â
âThen show me.â
Bucky says your name, and now heâs the one begging. But youâre not letting him off this easy.
âShow me, Bucky.â You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.
He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.
âPlease.â You whisper. âAnything. I just want to feel you.â
âFeel me.â He echoes, like he canât believe it. âYou wanna feel me?â
You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.
âAnd you want me to show you.â He rasps. âAll the different ways I can make you feel good.â
You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Buckyâs eyes shoot open.
âYeah?â He grunts, and you whine.
âYeah. Yes. Please-â
He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like heâs trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like heâs trying to leave a mark.
âWanted this for so long.â He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. âWanted you. So fuckinâ bad.â
You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You canât have enough of him. Heâs warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. Youâd like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.
âSo gorgeous.â Buckyâs hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. âThought about you all the time, hated beinâ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havinâ you be mine.â
âI- I wanted you too.â You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. âAlways wanted it to be you, never- Oh-â
You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. Heâs holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.
âNever anyone else,â you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Buckyâs thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.
Itâs a perfect pressure where youâd been craving any of his attention, and itâs a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.
Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss. Â
âNo one else.â He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. âNever gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,â he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. âSure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkinâ of you.â
Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. âBucky, you donât have to-â
âIâm not lying.â He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.
You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like youâre looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.
âNo one,â he murmurs. âWas ever gonna live up to you. First few months Iâd fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like Iâd done you wrong.â
âYou- You didnât-â
âYeah, I did. We coulda been doinâ this a lot sooner.â
You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Buckyâs dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.
âWhat if Iâm notâŚâ You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. âWhat if I donât-â
Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.
âWhat if Iâm not the fantasy, Bucky.â You look back up with your best pleading eyes. âWhat if that- That idea of me isnât worth what you thought?â
His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You canât tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you canât reach him again.
Buckyâs lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.
âI love you,â he mutters. âI told you. And remember,â he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. âIâm helpinâ you through it, right?â
You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.
âTrust me?â
âYes.â You breathe, and he grins.
âGood girl.â
Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. Youâre shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.
Like heâs reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. âYou enjoyed other things before?â
You nod, unable to tell if thatâs another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.
âLike what?â He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. âTell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.â
âI- I want to be under.â You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you wouldâve rather died with an hour ago. âWant you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.â
Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.
âTell- Tell me how good Iâm doing. And- Other stuff.â
He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like heâs going to eat you alive. âOther stuff?â He rasps, and you nod weakly.
âIf you can- Can do that.â Itâs hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until youâre voice is high and breathy. âDo that, and- and be-â
âBe a little mean?â He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.
âA little mean.â You echo, and Bucky grins.
âYes, maâam.â He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. âThink thatâs enough outta you for now.â
âWha- Bucky-â
He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you canât follow.
âBucky, come back-â
âNope.â He grins, like he knows youâre already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. âYou want me to show you?â
You scowl. âJames-â
âCall me whatever you want, baby. You ainât gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.â He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. âWant me to show you.â
He wonât come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and youâre hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesnât even lean closer.
âAlright.â He stands a little taller. âStrip.â
You blink at him. âWhat?â
âStrip.â
âLike, completely?â
âHm.â He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldnât make you feel more turned on. âYep. All of this, off.â
He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like heâs expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.
But at this point, youâre going to explode if he doesnât make you cum. And youâve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.
Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Buckyâs looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.
Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way youâve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like heâs trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.
âPants.â He grunts, and you smile sweetly.
âPlease?â
Bucky chuckles, like he canât believe you. âJesus, woman-â
âItâs polite-â
âIf you donât take your pants off.â He grunts, giving you a firm look. âIâm gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.â
You swallow. That doesnât sound all that bad, but-
Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.
âNext time?â
He softens slightly, and nods. âNext time. Pants.â
You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Buckyâs mercy.
And heâs just watching you.
Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.
You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.
Suddenly heâs back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.
âLook at you.â He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. âBetter than a dream.â
âThank you.â Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. Youâve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, itâs simply not enough. âBucky- You-You need to touch me-â
âI know.â He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. âNeed you to be ready, just-â
His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.
Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. Youâre panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.
âShirt.â He grunts. âGet my shirt off.â
You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Buckyâs relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.
âI know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.â He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. âTold you Iâve been thinkinâ about it forever. âBout every single way Iâd take you if I got the chance. And Iâm gonna show you all of them,â he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. âBut tonight, weâre takinâ it easy.â
You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. âI- I donât want easy-â
âI know, baby.â He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. âBut youâre so sensitive.â
If you had the power right now, youâd hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.
âYou need to take care of the buttons.â He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. âThey need a little extra attention.â He rubs his thumb back and forth. âBefore we get goinâ.â
âFuck- Bucky-â You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. âFuck you-â
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. âWeâre getting there, needy girl.â
You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what heâs doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.
âThatâs it.â Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. âDoesnât that feel good, baby?â
You nod, watching him move on you. âBu- Bucky-â You pull on his collar. âHelpâŚâ
âYouâve got it.â He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. âJust keep tryinâ.â
There is no world where you have it, but Buckyâs words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.
âAll the ways Iâve pictured havinâ you.â He mutters. âThis is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.â
âYouâre- Youâre touching me-â
âNot like I could touch you.â He says, a deep promise in his voice. âTold you, Iâm going easy on my best girl. But if I wantedâŚâ
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. âBucky-â
âEvery time Iâve seen you, layinâ on the couch.â He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. âIâve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckinâ body. Touching these tits,â he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. âTouchinâ this sweet little pussy.â He plays with your clit like it a toy. âAnd makinâ you squirt all over Stevieâs nice cushions.â
âIâd look at you.â You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. âIn your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.â
Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. âShit, Iâve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock âtill youâre sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever youâd bend over Iâd just want to drag your ass back and fuck it âtill you were drooling.â
âFuck, yes.â Youâve given up on the shirt.
Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Buckyâs crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.
âShit, you- Canât just fuckinâ-â Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.
âNeed it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-â
âNo.â He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. âCanât be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad youâre just grabbinâ for it, wasnât even able to get my shirt off-â
âItâs a mean game.â You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.
âYou started it.â He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until youâre just groping for something of him to hold onto.
âWhy canât you just- Just fuck me-â
âBecause you wanted to be a good girl.â Buckyâs kisses are turning slow. Lazy. Heâs groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.
Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind youâd be happy to lose for him, if heâd just take it.
âAnd I want to show you.â Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. âBut youâve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?â
You shake your headâyou do not want a breakâbut Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.
âBu- Bucky-â
âLook at me.â He orders, and you donât have another choice. His voice is magnetic.
With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.
Being fucked by him might kill you.
Itâs a risk youâre willing to take.
âHi.â He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.
âHi.â
âYou still in this?â
You nod, and Buckyâs throat bobs.
âIâd like you to say it-â
âYes, sir.â You canât help yourself from saying it.
Itâs supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like youâve lost your mind.
âYouâre lucky youâre so pretty.â He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. âOtherwise youâd be a really fuckinâ brat.â
You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like youâve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.
âOne day.â He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. âIâm gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckinâ suffocate between your legs.â
Youâre shaking, watching him. Heâs talking like heâs predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-
âYouâre so reactive,â he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. âThink I could make you squirt on me. Itâll be like this,â he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. âLike this. But my tongue,â he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. âAnd your needy clit beinâ sucked like Iâve got some fuckinâ candy.â
He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. Itâs almost blindingly good.
âYouâre makinâ such nice sounds for me.â Bucky mutters. âBet youâll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.â
You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think itâs going to snap, Buckyâs hand moves back down.Â
âYou feel this, baby?â He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. âSheâs ready for me.â
âYes.â You breathe. âReady, Bucky, please- Wait-â
You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time itâs for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.
Heâs a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.
Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.
âLegs around me.â He orders, and you obey. Itâs nice to be this close to him.
Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.
âShit- Bucky!â You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. âOh- Ooh-â
Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and itâs a nice wealth to be crushed under. Youâre losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You donât know how heâs kept it together so long. You feel like youâre going to cry with desperation, and youâre fully at his whims.
This is nice, though. Itâs a hot pressureâstill far from what you need, but enough to tide you overâand Buckyâs wall of muscle around might be the best things youâve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.
âBu- Bucky-â
âIâm gonna start slow.â He murmurs, low and commanding. âThen pick it up. Fuck you âtill you canât walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.â He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. âThat sound good?â
You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.
âGood girl.â You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. âStay down.â
You donât understand the request until heâs moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.
Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.
âEasy.â He murmurs. âRelax.â
You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.
And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.
Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.
His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.
Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.
âLet me see you.â His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. âNice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.â
You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You canât stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. Youâve been waiting long enough as it is.
Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.
âYou just walk around all the time?â He teases. âWaiting for some cock to fill you up.â
You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Buckyâs throat bobs.
âYeah?â
âMhm.â You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. âNeed to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.â
He swears under his breath. âLegs a little wider. Now.â
You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.
âDirty girl.â He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. âSo fuckinâ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldnât you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.â He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. âMy smart fuckinâ baby, begging for my cock.â
âDonât- Donât tease-â You mumble, and Bucky grins.
âBut youâre so pretty when I do.â
He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Buckyâs hands are gentle against you. And you know.
Heâs going to treat you well.
âYou think you can let go for me?â His question is gentle. Almost soft. âAlways workinâ so hard.â He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. âIâm gonna take care of you, arenât I.â
âYes.â You whisper. âPlease.â
Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. âThatâs right. You just gotta take it.â
You donât get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.
And youâre not a blushing nun. Youâve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.
This is different.
Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.
âBreathe.â He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. âBreathe, baby.â
You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Buckyâs neck, and clawing at his shoulders.
He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isnât feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or youâre going to lose your mind.
âMore.â You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.
âAre you-â
âYes- Fuuuuck-â
You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you couldâve ever felt possible. Your body feels like itâs singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you werenât even sure was real.
Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.
âShit- Relax.â His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. âLet me in, babydoll, come on-â
The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.
Buckyâs head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. Youâre just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.
âYou feel⌠fuckinâ perfect.â
Buckyâs voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.
You might have already lost your mind.
âYou too.â You breathe out, and he chuckles.
The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.
âOh⌠God.â You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.
âYou gotta stop doinâ that-â
âCanât.â You whine. ââS- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-â
His muscles shift around you, and thatâs enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.
You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.
âFor someone who asked me to teach her, youâre bad at takinâ directions.â
âYou- Bucky-â Heâs fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. âYou- You knew that already-â
âI did.â He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. âItâs something that I love about you, yâknow? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.â
He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.
âNot right now, though.â His lips twitch. âBet youâd tell me anythinâ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?â
Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. âAny- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-â
His thumb swipes your clit, and itâs like a tiny shock you canât even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.
âThink I donât want you to talk right now.â Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. âWeâre a little past that, arenât we sweetheart?â
Thereâs something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else.Â
âYe- Yes.âÂ
âMightâve fucked you nicely, if weâd just talked a month ago.â He raises his brows. âBut you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.â
âI- I was-â
âI know.â He kisses your nose. âYou are a fuckinâ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.â
âI- I did.â You confess. âNeeded your cock, Bucky. Youâre- Youâre so big-â
You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Buckyâs sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.
Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.
âYou feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?â He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. âAll yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.â
You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.
âYouâre a natural.â He groans against your skin. âMade for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-â
He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.
âYouâre trying so hard, arenât you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.â
âI- I am, Bucky- Please-â
âYou gonna be good and listen to me, now?â
You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.
âHands on my shoulders.â He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. âMouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.â
He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Buckyâs lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.
âJust like that. Good, isnât it?â
âSo good.â You whine, and Bucky hums.
âStay just like this for me, doll.â He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didnât know you could make is pulled from your chest.
âBuuccky-â
âI know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.â He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. âIâve got you now.â
And he does.
Buckyâs got you so good, youâre already ruined for anyone else.
He fucks you the same way heâs been kissing and touching you. Like heâs trying to lay a claim. Make it so thereâs no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but itâs not rapid. Itâs the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what heâs doing.
If thereâs a pleasure point on your body, Buckyâs finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you canât think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. Youâre tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.
He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. Youâre so wet itâs smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like itâs going to explode.
Buckyâs beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you donât. Youâre probably already screaming.
âI- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-â
You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. Youâre writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.
âYou having some trouble, babydoll?â Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.
You nod, shaking with the need to snap. Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.
âLet go for me.â He squeezes your ass. âJust let go.â
Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before youâre coming with a scream of his name.
Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and youâve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.
Thereâs nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.
He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.
Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. Itâs slower, like heâs trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.
âThat wasnât too-â
âPerfect.â You whisper, and he relaxes.
âGood. Good.â He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.
For a second, you just watch each other.
And with Bucky looking at you like youâre the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.
He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like youâre a princess, a treatment you never thought youâd want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.
He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.
You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.
He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.
âWe got things to talk about.â He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.
âI know.â
âI was serious, about all of it-â
âI believe you.â
Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.
It doesnât matter if youâre the most anything in the world.
To him, you seem to be the world. And thatâs more than enough.
âIâd like to take you out.â He says. âOn a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-â
âYes.â You beam. âYes, please. Iâd like that a lot.â
âŚEnd note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.âŚ
âŚIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŚ
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You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark canât know about your crush, okay? Youâd die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k
Ëâ§ę°á â¤ď¸ ŕťęąâ§Ë
You never thought youâd get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadnât wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You canât have a crush on someone you donât know. Itâs idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. Youâre not alone in loving everything about him âitâs easy. You arenât ever confronted with the bad in his good.Â
And then heâs standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and thereâs blood running down your face from your temple and youâre crying, because it hurts, because youâre in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next.Â
He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness.Â
âIâm sorry,â he says, âtake a deep breath, maâam. Deep breath.âÂ
âItâs blâ bleeding.â
âI know.âÂ
You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.
You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.
âItâs okay, sweetheart,â he murmurs, his voice a new shade, âitâs alright, youâre going to be fine, I promise. Iâm gonna press this to your head, and weâll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, Iâll take you down and we can get you some real help.âÂ
You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as theyâll go to follow his movements. It doesnât hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe itâs the way heâs talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him.Â
The photos of him online donât do him justice.Â
âItâs not bad. I know it hurts, but,â âhis hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightlyâ âitâs because itâs so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesnât mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.âÂ
âYouâ youâre real help.âÂ
He holds your gaze. âYeah?âÂ
You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. Itâs all over. Heâs lucky your head wound doesnât start spurting. âYeahâ yeah, Iâ Superman.âÂ
His smile is everything. âWhat?â he asks patiently.Â
âIâm a big fan ofâ of yours.âÂ
âYou are?âÂ
âYouâre so brave,â you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. âSo brave. Andâ andâŚâÂ
âSorry,â he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. âThank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.âÂ
âYouâre so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, andâ youâre prettyâŚâÂ
âPretty?â he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm.Â
You wince. âYeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.âÂ
âItâs okay. I wonât hold you to anything you say. Youâre injured, after all.âÂ
His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. âNo, Iâm not lying. I mean it. Youâre really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it doesââ You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.
âDonât get wound up, Iâm sorry. I believe you. Letâs try to stay calm.âÂ
Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Supermanâs arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse.Â
âI donât usually get crushes on people,â you inform him. âBut it was hard not to get one with you. Youâre even nicer than I thought youâd be.âÂ
âItâs easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.âÂ
Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesnât know you, he never will, and youâre okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, youâre glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy.Â
â
A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet.Â
âAre you sure you donât need more rest?â he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.
âIâm sure.â
âItâs okay if you need more time to recover. Youâre still wearing a dressing.âÂ
âItâs a bandaid, Clark, and itâs to hide the scar for now, itâsââ
âItâs still a wound.âÂ
âItâs fine! You saw it, you know itâs fine.âÂ
Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. Youâre fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you couldâve had. You didnât throw up, or collapse, youâd simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolisâ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.
âIt looked awful, it still does.âÂ
âIt looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.â
âVery unfortunate.âÂ
You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. âClark, you donât have to sulk.âÂ
âIâm not sulking! I just donât see whatâs wrong with staying in bed for now.âÂ
âI have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.âÂ
He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. âWell, youâre sitting down all day. Doctorâs orders.âÂ
âShow me your oath and Iâll consider it.âÂ
âPlease?âÂ
He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like youâre fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. âOkay, sure. You can wait on me all day.âÂ
âYes. Thank you.âÂ
Clarkâs your best friend because âno matter how much it might confuse youâ he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend youâre interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clarkâs never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return.Â
You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where heâd come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he couldâve stopped it.Â
âIâm sick of working already,â you say.Â
âThen letâs go home.âÂ
âClark. Iâm being conversational.âÂ
âDonât tease me,â he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy.Â
âHave you been working out?âÂ
âCan you stop?âÂ
âCan I stop? Youâre a nightmare.â
Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day.Â
âÂ
Youâre laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin ânoise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobodyâd be able to find you up here.Â
The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but thereâs nothing. For a few minutes, you canât hear anything at all.Â
The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, heâs there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. Youâve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and youâve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isnât here to hurt you.Â
âIâve been looking for you.âÂ
âYou were?â you ask.
âI wanted to make sure you were doing okay.âÂ
You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. âIâm fine. Iâm fine, did youâ Youâre here to see if Iâm okay?âÂ
His smile strengthens. âIs that okay?âÂ
You stammer, âOf course itâs okay!â A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. Heâs not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. âIâm great, Superman. All healed up.âÂ
âAre you sure? You still haveââ He gestures to your bandaid.Â
âItâs to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.âÂ
âDoes it hurt?âÂ
âNo, of course not.âÂ
âWhy of course not?âÂ
Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isnât the right word for him. Thereâs something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts youâre wearing have you worrying youâre underdressed in his eyes. Theyâre pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. Youâd had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Supermanâs fully clothed in comparison.Â
His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks.Â
âIt doesnât hurt,â you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. Heâs perfect, so your head doesnât hurt.Â
âYou seem a little flustered, is all.âÂ
âOh. Oh, well, itâs hot out, and Iâm not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.âÂ
âYouâve never met a metahuman?âÂ
âNo, never.âÂ
âWeâre just like everybody else.âÂ
You laugh.Â
âNo, really,â he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. âIâm just like you, you donât have to be nervous.âÂ
âSorry.âÂ
âNow what do you have to be sorry for?âÂ
You laugh again, a giggle youâd never admit to. Heâs strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.
âWhat are you reading?â he asks, nodding to your lap.Â
âOh, uh. Uh, itâs called The Ocean?â You straighten up the book to show him the cover. âItâs good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think itâs supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,âÂ
âWhy is he looking for his father?âÂ
âHeâs missing after a terrible war. Itâs one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.â
âMaybe Iâll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.âÂ
He waits in the quiet. Youâre sure heâs going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility.Â
Superman finally smiles. âI promise to bring it back,â he says simply.Â
âSure. Well, take your time.âÂ
â
How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?
You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. Sheâd spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesnât mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesnât bring it up to complain. Heâs sympathising with her, how lonely she must be.Â
You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him wonât budge.Â
Youâd made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably wonât come back.Â
âHey.âÂ
You lift your head.Â
Clarkâs looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery youâve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â he asks. His voice is weak with worry.Â
âNothing.â
âItâs something.â
âItâs really not.âÂ
âIt definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you donât have to tell me, but Iâll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.âÂ
âFood for thought. Eat this, Kent,â you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel.Â
Clark grabs your foot. âCome on. I know somethingâs wrong, and I donât understand why you wouldnât tell me, butâŚâ He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.
âIsnât that cold?â you ask.Â
âItâs tepid,â he allows after a sip.
You laugh, so he laughs. Itâs a lovely sound.
âAgain. Again, you donât have to tell me whatâs wrong, but Iâd listen if you wanted me to.â
âDonât try and make out like youâre not keeping secrets.âÂ
Clark goes slack-jawed. âSorry?âÂ
âYou donât tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.âÂ
âYou do?âÂ
You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. Youâre wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes theyâll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands.Â
âYouâre dating Lois Lane,â you say.Â
His fingers dust your elbow. âWhat?âÂ
âYouâre sweet on her, arenât you? Plus, youâre busy all the time. Youâve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?âÂ
âIâm sorryââ
âIâm not. Iâm happy for you.âÂ
Clark shakes his head. âBut Lois and I⌠I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.âÂ
You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. âOh. Sorry, Clark.âÂ
âDonât be. I shouldâve told you, but it was new and then it was over.âÂ
âYou shouldâve told me,â you agree, âbut I sort of get why you didnât. Iâm your girl best friend. Thatâs a thing.â
âYouâre my best friend,â he promises, no âgirlâ prefix necessary. âThatâs not why it ended, Lois isnât like that. It was⌠we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.â
âWell, sheâs a girl.â
âThat she is. Youâre all the same, arenât you? All dazzling.âÂ
He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clarkâs your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and youâre his best friend because heâs good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.
âYouâre âdazzlingâ too,â you say. âYou are.â
Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do.Â
âNot that cold,â you murmur.Â
âI never realised you were such a liar.âÂ
âI donât really lie to you, Clark.âÂ
He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. âI know.â
â
âSo, this bookââ
You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground âSuperman catches them in two hands.Â
Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby.Â
âFuck,â you complain.Â
âIâm sorry.â Superman laughs at you. Laughs. âSorry. But this book, is there a sequel?âÂ
âWhat?â you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag.Â
âI think I need a sequel.â He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. âI think it ruined my life.âÂ
âThereâs no sequel. Butââ donât spoil the ending for me, you almost say. âDid you enjoy it at all?âÂ
âIt was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?âÂ
âUh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didnât have time for a while ân now Iâm usually too stirred up to settle down.âÂ
âYou cook.âÂ
You blink. âYou googled me?âÂ
âNo, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little authorâs window. You made pumpkin pie.â
âFor Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if itâs the holidays.âÂ
âIs that true?âÂ
You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, letâs not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him.Â
Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Supermanâs tall figure standing in the sun, and though youâd wish heâd managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that thereâs nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun.Â
âDo you want to come with me?â he asks.Â
Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you.Â
âYeah,â you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears.Â
âYeah?â He offers an arm. âCome here.â
Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. âAlright?â he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight.Â
âWhere are weââ
The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.
The sky is more than blue when youâre in it.Â
Thereâs nothing you can say about it. Youâre terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which youâd been taken up with him, but beyond that, thereâs nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blueâ
âItâs not as scary as you think, right?â he asks, his head angled down to yours.Â
âI expected you to have to shout. I donât know why.âÂ
âItâs windier in the air, but weâre close. I donât need to yell.âÂ
âYouâre lucky I didnât get many groceries.âÂ
âYou arenât heavy.âÂ
Youâre delighted. âThis is a paper bag, you realise! Iâm surprised it didnât explode the second you got me up here!âÂ
âIâll be careful. Youâre precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.â
âI donât remember much of it.âÂ
âThatâs okay. I do.âÂ
You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he wonât simply let you go, and have you fall.Â
âThis is amazing,â you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows youâd never noticed from the ground.Â
âYeah,â he says. âItâs something.âÂ
You glance up to find him still staring at you.Â
The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldnât believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldnât believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldnât believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close.Â
âDonât feel guilty, please,â you say.Â
âWhat?â He sounds as though heâs woken up from a nap.Â
âAbout what happened. It wasnât your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.âÂ
Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. âIâŚâ
âIf this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You donât⌠I donât know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. Itâs like⌠someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.â You offer a brash smile. âBut Iâm just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.âÂ
âYouâre not making this any easier for me.âÂ
You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms.Â
âIâm not a very easy person,â you say.Â
Superman presses his nose to your cheek.Â
âI think youâre giving me tachycardia,â you whisper.
He hears it. Doesnât answer for a while, and when he does, itâs to neither of the things you said before.
âLet me take you somewhere new,â he says.
â
A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they wonât stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clarkâs a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you.Â
He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. âToo hot in my apartment,â you say.Â
âWhatâs wrong with the AC?âÂ
âItâs leaking.âÂ
âIâll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?â he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket.Â
âOh, Clark, canât you just leave me alone?â you plead.Â
He laughs like a kid. âI love when you do that.â
âWhat?âÂ
âI donât know, is it sarcasm? I donât think thatâs apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? Youâre really convincing. Itâs funny.â
âI can be funny.â
âI know, thatâs what Iâm saying. Youâre really funny. Can you do it some more?â
âNow itâs not natural, though.âÂ
âPlease?â
âLeave it alone, Clark. Youâre such a beg.âÂ
He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet youâd like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path.Â
Thereâs a small park not far from your apartment thatâs been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. Theyâre all rounded. One table is shaped like an âSâ. Another like a filled in â8â.Â
You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a âCâ. âFor Clark,â you say, pleased.Â
âAdorable.âÂ
You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. âGonna pour it into my mouth, too?â you tease.Â
âDo you not want me to be nice to you?âÂ
And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together.Â
Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. âThis is your only bad trait,â he says happily. âYou never tell me when youâre cold.â
âIâm not that cold.â
âSure youâre not. Look, come here,â âhe pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angoraâ âyou act like youâre such a plague, likeâ I donât know, like I wouldnât wanna know that youâre cold.â
âI donât act like that.âÂ
âYou do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.âÂ
You lean on him.
Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.
And you think, I know you.Â
But you donât know why.Â
â
Clark can't believe this is happening again.Â
He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: heâs going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He shouldâve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he mightâve told you from the moment he met you, thatâs how sure he was that heâd love you. As a friend âhis best friend, half of his life. Thereâs this ease, like heâs known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life.Â
And lately.Â
Oh, lately. Clark canât get a handle on things. He hadnât realised he was falling in love with you, isnât even sure thatâs the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly heâs at the mountain top and the air is thin, and heâs looking for you, aching for relief, and youâre sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth.Â
Or thatâs what heâd like to think.Â
Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. Heâd like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome.Â
He knows he wonât lose you, but heâs worried you donât want what he wants. Heâs gotten so close to having you, heâs not sure he can take being any further apart than this.Â
Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with babyâs breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. Theyâre beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if heâs lucky.
Itâs on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins.Â
The light goes out.Â
It doesnât make logical sense. Heâs outdoors. Itâs the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come.Â
He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth.Â
It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey.Â
Clark wonders if he shouldâve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.
â
What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans arenât want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows theyâve cast down onto Metropolis. Itâs like smoke.Â
The dark makes it hard to breathe.Â
You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. Itâs not ânot unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.
You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clarkâs not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but youâre sure heâs out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if youâre not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast?Â
Youâd said, just some eggs please if you want eggsÂ
Youâd said, hey, are you safe? Whatâs with the dark?Â
Youâd said, clark please text me back right now, Iâm freaking out, do you need me to come get you?Â
He wonât answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where itâs darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground.Â
And Clark Kent is out there all alone.Â
You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clarkâs blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on.Â
Heâs gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clarkâs going to ground you. But youâd rather be grounded than all alone.Â
â
Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust.Â
He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what itâs like to have legal blindness, and heâd felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then heâd found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. Heâs in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too.Â
He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly.Â
âKrypto?â he asks into the smog.Â
His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise.Â
âOw!âÂ
Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws.Â
âKrypto, stop! Jeez, stop. Youâre such a paiâ Ow! Get off.âÂ
Krypto nibbles his shoulder.Â
Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasnât killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it.Â
He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he canât feel the sun, but heâs not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them.Â
âKrypto, stay.âÂ
Krypto tilts his white blurry head.Â
âYouâre not helping.âÂ
Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air.Â
Krypto stays down, for now.Â
Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.
âClark?âÂ
He stops dead in the sky.Â
âClark?â you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. âClark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!â
He says your name.
âClark? Iâm here!âÂ
Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe.Â
He has to keep you safe.Â
â
Youâre watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.
â
Thereâs a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because heâs scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.
What did it say? youâd asked.Â
To be good.Â
You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time.Â
Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesnât have a bruise or cut. He doesnât look anything like Superman had as heâd flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain.Â
Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this.Â
You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. Thereâs a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit.Â
After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision.Â
âHey,â a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. âOh, hey, sweet girl, hey⌠itâs okay. The pain wonât last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, itâll kick in.âÂ
âUhââ
Clark makes a sound. âOh.âÂ
You let your eyes slide to him. Heâs checking his wrist where itâs resting on you.Â
âI was sleeping for a long time, I⌠Honey, Iâll get a nurse.âÂ
âNo,â you breathe.Â
âYeah, honey, Iâll get a nurse,â he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion thatâs somehow palpable and implacable. âItâs no good, you being in pain like this. Iâll come right back.âÂ
âClark, donât go,â you whine.Â
Itâs like the world has been placed heavy on your head.Â
Clark offers you relief. âI wonât go if you donât want me to. Tell me whatâs hurting, and Iâll fix it.âÂ
You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. Itâs not pain youâre being smothered in.Â
âOkay,â he murmurs.
For a while, you donât talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until itâs tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you canât. Youâll never duck away from his fingertips ever again.Â
Where heâd been unhurt, he isnât unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. Heâs long. Itâs simple work.Â
âYou read The Ocean,â you whisper.Â
âI read all your annotations, too,â he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw.Â
You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy.Â
âI didnâtââ Oh, you canât say it. You hadnât meant to want him like this. You hadnât known he was Superman, and isnât that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret.Â
He doesnât rush you.Â
Youâre ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck.Â
âIâm embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,â you say plainly.Â
âSuperman didnât tell Clark anything,â Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy.Â
âBut you know it all.âÂ
âI know you,â he agrees.Â
âIâm really⌠sorry. Iâm sorry, Iââ You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. âClark, Iâm sorry. I shouldnât have come out looking for you. I didnât realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.âÂ
âDo you even remember?â he asks.Â
Mildly. Youâd woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs.Â
In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasnât), turned to you, and said, with Clarkâs dorky intonation, âThatâs seriously beautiful, huh?â Â
âYou have nothing to be sorry for.â
âButââ
âYou donât. I wonât argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, andâŚâ He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like youâve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. âI wasnât honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasnât fair.âÂ
âYou really are⌠him?â you ask weakly.Â
âYeah, I am.âÂ
Clark sits up as a doctor opens your roomâs door.Â
âEverything okay?â she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. âHey, youâre up! Can we get you some dinner now?âÂ
âYou skipped breakfast,â Clark tells you.Â
âI was awake for breakfast?âÂ
âBarely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,â the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. âI just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadnât thrown up again.âÂ
You flush. âIâm fine.âÂ
Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart.Â
âIâm worried you havenât gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,â the doctor explains, âmuch better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!âÂ
âI donât feel very hungry.âÂ
âThe painkillers youâre on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? Iâll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.âÂ
You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted.Â
âOh.âÂ
The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions.Â
âWhatâs wrong with me?â you ask.Â
âYou got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think itâs just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.â He puts his hand on your stomach gently. âHere. Almost as long as your arm, but itâs a surface cut. You landed on debris. Iâm sorry, myâ honey. Sorry.âÂ
You canât fight the chills or your bewilderment. âWhat for?â
âI didnât get to you fast enough.âÂ
âClark.â Your mouth is dry. Heâs pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesnât go unnoticed. âIâm okay, babe.âÂ
He laughs wetly.Â
âIâm fine,â you promise, quieter now. âHow couldnât I be? Youâre so gentle.âÂ
Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel.Â
âYouâre gentle,â you promise under your breath, âI told you that before, didnât I? Youâre kind, and brave, andâ itâs not your fault I went looking for you.âÂ
âI should be comforting you. I should be helping you,â he whispers.Â
âYou wonât catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.âÂ
His head flinches up, like heâs realising for the first time that you know who he is.Â
Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You canât help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand.Â
âWhat did you think of the book?â you ask finally.Â
âI didnât know you liked to read,â he says.Â
You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers theyâd been talking about. âItâs not like itâs the most alarming secret, between us.âÂ
He lets out a wounded whine. âWhy do you hate me?â he asks.Â
âYouâre due some hazing.âÂ
âCanât you take pity on me?â he asks.Â
You curl your fingers around his where theyâd otherwise been limp. âIâm not really half as cool as Iâm trying to act, Clark.âÂ
He sulks beautifully. âI think youâre lying to make me feel better.âÂ
Only a little.Â
â
Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent âbest friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy whoâs vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queriesâ is Superman.Â
And Superman?Â
Heâd been courting you.Â
The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously.Â
âIs that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?â you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious.Â
âNo. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, likeâ platonically, Iâve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop andâ and romantically, I donât know. I guess I didnât realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldnât let me.âÂ
âSorry?âÂ
âI tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.âÂ
You hold him by the shoulder. âThat was real?âÂ
âDo you dream about it?â he asks knowingly.Â
âIt was really going to be a kiss?âÂ
He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. âBest kiss of your life,â he promises.Â
âProve it.âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
Itâs been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. âDo you not want to kiss me?âÂ
âYou know I do.âÂ
âSo kiss me.âÂ
He pinches your chin. âIf you wanted a kiss, you couldâve just taken one,â he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes.Â
âFrom Superman?â you ask with a little scoff.Â
He moves his head from left to right. âFrom me,â he says.Â
There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books youâd underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way youâd watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as youâd fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. Youâve been more honest with him than youâve dared to be previously.Â
Clark has repaid you in kind.Â
Did you know, heâd confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and heâd demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything Iâm good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I donât need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, Iâm just like you?Â
How could I know that? youâd thought. Why are you telling me this? youâd asked instead.
I want you to know.Â
Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better.Â
Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.
You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you couldâve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, youâd never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How heâd take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp.Â
Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you.Â
âDid you want me to tell you how it ends?âÂ
You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. âSorry?âÂ
âThe Ocean? You never finished it.â
âOh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.âÂ
Clark grins. âAfter,â he promises, leaning down for another kiss.Â
Ëâ§ę°á â¤ď¸ ŕťęąâ§Ë
thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading!Â
summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
word count: 14.5k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst
Clark was pacing. Not unusualâhe did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomedâbut this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasnât the usual âPerry wants three rewrites before lunchâ kind of stress. This was real panic.
You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. âClark, youâre going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.â
He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. âSmallville.â
You blinked. ââŚThatâs a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.â
He shot you a lookâhalf exasperated, half pleading. âThereâs a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.â
âOkay,â you said slowly, sipping your coffee. âAnd this is a crisis becauseâŚ?â
Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. âBecause theyâve beenâŚasking if Iâm seeing anyone. For months.â He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. âAnd I may haveâŚimpliedâŚâ
âOh, Clark.â You set your cup down with a grin. âYou didnât.â
âI did,â he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. âI didnât mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely andâI panicked. I didnât want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy Iâd found someone, and by the time I realized what Iâd done it was too late.â
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. âSo let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now youâre about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?â
Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. âExactly.â
âThat is hilarious,â you said, fighting back giggles.
He peeked at you through his fingers. âItâs not funny.â
âItâs so funny. Youâre basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.â
He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. âThatâs why I wanted to ask you something.â
Your eyebrows rose. âOh boy. This sounds serious.â
âWould youâŚâ He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. âWould you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they donât think Iâm a complete failure at dating.â
You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But noâClark Kent didnât joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.
âOh my God,â you breathed. âYou are in a Hallmark movie.â
He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. âSo you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.â
He winced. âWhen you say it like thatââ
âClark, thatâs not fake dating. Thatâs method acting.â But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didnât know what to do with them. And suddenly⌠you werenât laughing anymore. âWell,â you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. âIâve always wanted to see Smallville.â
The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like youâd just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. âYou will? Really?â
âYeah,â you said, shaking your head at him. âBut you owe me, Kent. Big time.â
He grinned, sheepish and grateful. âDeal.â
And just like that, youâd agreed to be Clark Kentâs fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?
---
Clarkâs apartment was exactly what youâd expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.
You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. Heâd insisted on making teaâbecause apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.
He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.
âSo,â you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, âwe should probably set some ground rules.â
âGround rules?â he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.
âObviously,â you said. âFake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If weâre going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.â You ticked off on your fingers. âWe need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conductââ
âRules of conduct?â His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.
âYes,â you said firmly. âFor example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this âspur of the momentâ stuff.â
He choked a little on his tea. âKissing?â
You raised an eyebrow. âClark, if your entire hometown thinks youâve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. Youâre not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.â
He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. âI just⌠didnât think about that.â
âYou didnâtâClark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?â
âI panicked!â he said, voice higher than usual. âI just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasnât thinking that far ahead.â
You laughed, shaking your head. âUnbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree itâs necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.â
Clark looked up at that, indignant. âI wouldnât do that.â
âOh, you wouldnât?â You leaned forward, smirking. âYouâve got thirty yearsâ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you wonât let me suffer?â
His ears turned pink. âIâd never embarrass you on purpose.â
You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant itâyou could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.
âFine,â you conceded softly. âRule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number threeâŚâ You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. âWe need a believable backstory. How we met, how long weâve been together, that sort of thing.â
Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. âThatâs easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.â
You narrowed your eyes. âThatâs boring. And vague. If people ask questions, youâll fold like a cheap suit.â
He frowned. âI donât fold.â
âYou fold,â you said flatly. âYouâre too nice to lie convincingly.â
He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. âI can lie!â
âClark,â you said sweetly, âwhat did you have for breakfast this morning?â
ââŚToast,â he replied, after an oddly long pause.
You arched a brow. âUh-huh. And that little hesitation wasnât suspicious at all.â
âI did have toast,â he muttered, flustered. âI just also had⌠three pancakes.â
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. âExactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, youâll crack in seconds.â
Clark sighed, conceding. âSo what do you suggest?â
âWe build a story with details,â you said, warming to the task. âSomething casual but sweet. Like⌠you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized weâd been accidentally dating for weeks already.â
His mouth softened into a smile. âThatâs actually⌠really nice.â
âSee? Believable and romantic.â
Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. âOkay. That works. And, um⌠how long have we been dating?â
You tapped your chin. âLong enough that meeting your parents isnât weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?â
He nodded thoughtfully. âThat sounds right.â
You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad youâd stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each otherâfake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. âWhat?â you asked.
âNothing,â he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you werenât entirely sure what that meant.
You shook your head, setting down the pen. âAlright, Kent. Weâve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.â
Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. âWhat could go wrong?â
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. âOh, donât say that.â
---
The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on drivingâsomething about âwanting you to see the view,â though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.
The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasnât hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his worldâcornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.
By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Marthaâs flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesqueâlike the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kentâs girlfriend could unravel in an instant.
Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. âOkay. This is it.â
You glanced at the farmhouse. âYour childhood home. No pressure at all.â
âYou donât have to be nervous,â he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. âMa and Pa⌠theyâll love you.â
The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. âI meanâtheyâll love meeting you. Because youâre⌠you know⌠nice.â
You bit back a smile. âSmooth, Kent.â
Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.
âShowtime,â you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.
Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. âWeâve got this,â he said softly.
Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.
Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. âClark Jerome Kent, you didnât tell me youâd be here this early!â
Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. âHi, Ma.â
Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. âAnd this must be the mystery girl weâve been hearing about.â
Oh God. Here it wasâthe test.
Clarkâs hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. âMa, Pa⌠this is my girlfriend.â His voice wavered only slightly. âWe, uhâwe work together at the Planet.â
Marthaâs face broke into the warmest smile youâd ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. âWell, arenât you just lovely. Iâve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, Iâve got pie cooling on the counter.â
Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. âBetter warn her about your Maâs pie, son. Once youâve had it, youâll never eat another slice without comparing.â You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smileâreassuring, like youâd passed the first round
Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathanâs. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.
Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clarkâs ears went red at that, but he played along. âIt was good takeout,â he muttered defensively.
You smiled into your fork. âIt was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. Thatâs when I knew he was trouble.â
Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. âSounds like our boy.â
Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.
Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. âSorry about all that. They, uh⌠they can be a little enthusiastic.â
âTheyâre wonderful,â you said honestly. âHonestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out soâŚâ You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.
He tilted his head, curious. âSo what?â
You shook your head quickly. âSo polite. Thatâs all.â
He didnât push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, âjust so you know, uh⌠thereâs a chance theyâll show you baby pictures tonight. They⌠do that.â
You grinned. âCanât wait.â
Clark groaned. âYouâre supposed to dread it.â
âWhy? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.â
His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at youâreally lookedâthere was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasnât regretting a thing.
The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredibleâsavory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadnât even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.
Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of hisâlike he wanted to guide you but wasnât sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if heâd been caught.
The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. âSit, sit,â Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. âClark, donât let her hover. Sheâs company, not a farmhand.â
âI wasnâtâMa,â Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was⌠nice.
Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. âSo,â she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, âwhatâs it like working with Clark?â
You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. âWell,â you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, âheâs punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But heâs also⌠dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.â
Marthaâs eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. âSheâs exaggerating,â he muttered.
âAm I?â you teased. âYouâre the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.â
Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. âOh, I like you.â
Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. âMa, no.â
âYes,â she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. âIf youâre bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.â
Jonathan smirked. âBrace yourself.â
You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. âOh my God,â you breathed, grinning. âLook at those curls.â
Clark covered his face with his hand. âPlease donât.â
But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. âHere he is at five, trying to wear his fatherâs work boots. Couldnât lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this oneâoh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.â
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. âA cape? Really?â
Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. âI was imaginative.â
âYou were adorable,â you corrected. âDonât fight me on this, Kent.â
Jonathanâs eyes twinkled as he added, âThat pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.â
By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. âI like how she teases you,â she said to Clark. âYou need someone who doesnât let you get away with hiding.â
Clark shifted uncomfortably. âMaâŚâ
But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expressionâthe faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.
Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, âheâs happy with you here. I can tell.â
You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. âOh, well, weââ You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. âHeâs easy to be around.â
Martha smiled softly, knowingly. âThat he is.â
When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a momentâbarely a flickerâyou saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.
Like he really was happy you were there.
And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule youâd written down.
---
The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt differentâpeaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.
You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked⌠comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy whoâd grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.
âCouldnât sleep?â he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.
You shrugged, joining him. âToo quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.â
Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than youâd ever seen them in the city.
For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. âSo. Pillowcase cape, huh?â
Clarkâs head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. âMy motherââ
ââis a treasure,â you cut in, grinning wickedly. âAnd she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?â
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. âPlease donât.â
âNo, really, it makes sense!â You leaned against the railing, smirking. âThe cape, the heroics, the dramatic posesâit all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, Iâm impressed. Youâve been workshopping the look since you were seven.â
Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. âIâm never forgiving Ma for that.â
âYou should thank her,â you teased. âIf not for her laundry, the world wouldâve been deprived of Supermanâs fashion choices.â
âI canât believe youâre making fun of me for this,â he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.
âOh, Iâm never letting this go,â you said firmly. âNext time you swoop in to save the day, Iâm going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.â
He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasnât embarrassed so much as he was⌠delighted that you were delighted.
The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.
âItâs funny,â you murmured after a moment. âYou always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But hereâŚâ You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. ââŚyou just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.â
He turned toward you, his expression soft. âI like being just Clark. At least here, I donât have to pretend as much.â
Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.
Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. âWell, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.â
His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.
The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. âYou two donât stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.â
Clarkâs ears went pink again. âYes, Ma.â
When she retreated, you smirked. âShe thinks weâre sneaking kisses out here.â
Clark nearly choked. âWhat? Noââ
âRelax,â you said, fighting a grin. âI didnât say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.â
He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. ââŚI suppose thatâs true.â
You leaned back, eyes twinkling. âDonât worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.â
Clark groaned. âYouâre going to make this week unbearable, arenât you?â
âAbsolutely,â you said cheerfully. âThatâs what fake girlfriends are for.â
But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting closeâtoo closeâon the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.
And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.
---
Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected thatâfarm boy habits die hardâbut you hadnât counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone whoâd been teased mercilessly the night before. âSorry,â he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. âDid I wake you?â
You blinked blearily at him. âYou mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, youâre just the cherry on top.â
His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. âI thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If youâre up for it.â
You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. âYouâre really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?â
Clarkâs expression faltered. âWe donât have to. I just thoughtââ
âIâm kidding,â you interrupted, fighting a grin. âGive me ten minutes. Iâll even make myself presentable for Smallville.â
He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. âYou donât have toââ
âYes, I do,â you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.
The drive into town was short. Clarkâs truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadnât changed in fifty years.
Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisieâs, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. âClark Kent!â an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. âWell, Iâll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.â
Clark flushed but smiled politely. âGood morning, Mr. Jenkins.â
âMorning,â the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. âAnd whoâs this?â
Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. âThis is my girlfriend.â
It was the first time youâd heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasnât borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. âWell, ainât you full of surprises, Kent.â
By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. âYou realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?â
Clarkâs smile was small, almost apologetic. âYeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.â
âFantastic,â you muttered. âBy lunchtime, someoneâs probably going to ask me when the wedding is.â
The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. âWell, if it isnât Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?â
âYes, maâam,â he said politely.
âAnd whoâs this?â she asked, smiling at you.
âMy girlfriend,â Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.
The waitress grinned. âWell, sheâs prettier than the last girl you brought in here.â
Clark nearly choked. âThere wasnâtââ
âSheâs teasing,â you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. âRelax, Kent.â His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. âYou get flustered so easily.â
âI donât,â he protested weakly.
âYou do,â you said, amused. âIâm starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. Youâre going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.â
Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. âIâll get better at it.â
âI hope so,â you teased. âBecause if not, Iâm going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.â His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. âKidding,â you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.
Clark muttered something that sounded like ânot funny,â but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.
When the food cameâpancakes stacked high, eggs, baconâthe smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. âThis is dangerous,â you said between bites. âIf I lived here, Iâd weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.â
âYouâd get used to it,â Clark said with a chuckle. âSmallvilleâs good at simple comforts.â
He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced youâmy girlfriendâwith the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.
By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.
After breakfast at Maisieâs, Clark offered to give you âthe tour,â which seemed ridiculousâyouâd seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didnât protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.
The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.
It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so wellâquiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you werenât paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.
You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. âClark? That you?â
A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clarkâs face lit up with recognition. âPete,â he said, shaking the manâs hand. âItâs been a while.â
Pete glanced at you, curious. âAnd this must beâŚ?â
Clarkâs hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. âMy girlfriend,â he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. âWe came down for the wedding.â
Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. âWell, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Donât let him fool you,â he said to you, âhe was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.â
You laughed, squeezing Clarkâs hand just enough to make him squirm. âSome things never change.â
Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.
As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, âyou didnât have to encourage him.â
âOh, but itâs fun watching you squirm,â you teased. âBesides, youâre very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.â
Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, âwe should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.â
You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.
At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. âClark Kent, as I live and breathe! Havenât seen you in years.â Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. âAnd whoâs this pretty thing?â
Clarkâs voice didnât even waver. âMy girlfriend.â
The woman beamed. âWell, arenât you two a pair. Heâs always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.â
You smiled politely, but when you caught Clarkâs pink ears, you nearly laughed. âDonât worry,â you said sweetly. âI plan to.â
Outside the shop, Clark groaned. âYouâre enjoying this too much.â
âYouâre not?â you asked, arching a brow.
He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to sayâsomething true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.
By the time you made it back to the truck, youâd been introduced as Clarkâs girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. âWell. That was exhausting.â
Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. âThat was Smallville.â
You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked⌠happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.
---
The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.
Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. âClark Kent!â someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.
You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. âThis is my girlfriend,â Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man whoâd been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stoneâand not in the way you expected.
The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. âSo this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.â
âOh, Iâm very real,â you said, smiling as Clark went red. âAnd Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.â
âOf course he has,â Lucy said warmly. âHe always was.â
The groomâbroad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sunâshook your hand firmly. âBrave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyoneâs gonna talk.â
You laughed lightly, squeezing Clarkâs hand beneath the table as you all sat down. âLet them. I can handle it.â Clarkâs glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.
Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.
The conversations flowed easily at firstâneighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. âSo,â an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. âHow did you two meet?â
Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. âWe worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew weâd been accidentally dating for weeks.â The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if youâd passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didnât stop.
âWhat was your first date like?â someone else chimed.
You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. âIt was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didnât want the night to end.â
The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasnât embellishing. He wasnât grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.
The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. âDance with me?â Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.
You blinked. âClark, people are watching.â
âThatâs the point,â he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.
Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.
But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. âYouâre good at this,â you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.
âIâm trying not to step on your toes,â he admitted, smiling faintly.
âYouâre doing fine.â
The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held youâit didnât feel fake. It didnât feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didnât let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadnât quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.
Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. âYouâre enjoying this too much,â you teased, though your voice wasnât as steady as you wanted.
Clarkâs smile was soft, almost shy. âMaybe I am.â And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.
The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night skyâvast, jeweled with stars, endless.
You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.
Clarkâs hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. âYou did good,â you said finally, breaking the quiet.
He glanced at you, puzzled. âGood?â
âConvincing,â you clarified. âNot even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.â
His mouth twitched. âPractice makes perfect.â
âPractice, huh?â you teased, tilting your head to study him. âWell, if you keep this up, youâre going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.â
Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. âDonât say that.â
âItâs true,â you pressed, amused. âYou really didnât notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.â
âSheâs married,â Clark protested.
âDoesnât mean sheâs blind.â That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fieldsâthe relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldnât resist, you said, âso, Kent. About that dance.â
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. ââŚWhat about it?â
âYou didnât seem like a man faking it.â
His jaw worked, but he didnât answer right away. The truckâs engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. âI wasnât trying to fake anything.â
The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. âClarkâŚâ
He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. âI just meantâit was nice. Thatâs all.â
You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say moreâand saving you from having to admit you werenât sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.
Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like youâd been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. âYou donât have to come out to chores tomorrow if you donât want to. Most people donât find feeding chickens relaxing.â
You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. âIâll think about it.â
When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldnât be accidental, not anymore.
At the door, you paused. âGoodnight, Clark.â
He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, âgoodnight.â You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldnât quite bring himself to voice.
---
The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings werenât so bad after all. âMorning,â he said. âI made pancakes.â
Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. âDo you ever not make pancakes?â
âTheyâre easy,â he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. âBesides, Ma says Iâve been hooked on them since I was five.â
You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were goodâfluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. âSee? Worth it.â
After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protestedâhalfheartedlyâuntil he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like heâd done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. âYouâll like this part,â he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.
The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. âThey look⌠aggressive,â you muttered.
âTheyâre harmless,â Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. âCome on.â
Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. âSee?â Clark said reassuringly. âThey just want food. Here.â He handed you a scoop of feed. âScatter it on the ground, not on yourself.â
You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold henâa plump white one with a sharp little beakâmade a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. âClark. Clark, itâs coming at me.â
He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. âSheâs fine. Just toss it further away from you.â
âSheâs not fine! Sheâs charging!â The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. âClark!â you shouted, scrambling toward him. âDo something!â
Finally looking up, Clark triedâand failedâto hide his grin. âSheâs just curious.â
âSheâs a demon,â you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. âThat thing is going to kill me.â
Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. âYouâre safe,â he said, still chuckling. âI promise.â
You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. âYou think this is funny?â
âA little,â he admitted, eyes twinkling. âI didnât know you were afraid of chickens.â
âIâm not afraid,â you insisted, scowling. âI just have⌠a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.â
Clarkâs smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. âDonât worry. Iâll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.â
âGee, thanks, Kent. Youâre my hero.â
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at thatâsomething flickering in his eyes, something you couldnât quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.
âCome on,â he said, voice a little rougher than before. âThereâs more to see than just chickens.â Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. âYouâll like this better,â he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. âCows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.â
You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didnât look dangerous, but they also didnât look like creatures you wanted charging at you. âFriendlier?â you asked doubtfully. âTheyâre huge.â
Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. âJust follow my lead.â
He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presenceâuntil one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. âClark.â
He glanced back at you. âWhat?â
âItâs coming this way.â
âThatâs okay,â he said calmly. âTheyâre curious animals. Just stand still.â
The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. âClark, itâs not walking. Itâs charging.â
âItâs not charging,â he said, though his brow furrowed now. âShe probably just wants to sniff you.â
âSniff me? Clark, sheâs the size of a car!â
By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked inâClark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backwardâinto youâand the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.
The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clarkâs jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. âDid Superman just get taken out by a cow?â
Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. âDonât start.â
âOh, Iâm starting,â you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. âThe man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.â
His ears went pink. âHer nameâs Daisy.â
That only made you laugh harder. âEven better.â
Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, âIâm never going to live this down, am I?â
âNot a chance,â you said, still giggling. âIf the chickens didnât take you out, at least the cows did.â
He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gazeâsomething warm, unguardedâthat made your laughter catch in your throat. âGlad I broke your fall, at least,â he murmured.
The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. âDonât flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.â
Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with himâliterallyâdidnât feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didnât think hair could manage.
Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a motherâs could. âWhat on earth happened to you two?â
Clark winced. âThe cows.â
âThe cows?â
âThey, uh⌠got curious,â he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.
You ignored it. âOne of them full-on tackled him.â
Marthaâs hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. âA cow tackled you?â
âBumped into me,â Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. âIt wasnâtââ
âShe flattened him,â you cut in, grinning. âAnd took me down too, by the way. So much for Supermanâsmall-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.â
Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. âYouâre never going to let that go, are you?â
âNot in a million years,â you said sweetly.
Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. âWell, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.â
You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, âsome of us more than others.â Clark shot you a look but didnât argue.
Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. âThought you might need this,â he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like⌠Clark.
âThanks,â you said, taking it from him. âYouâve got grass in your hair, by the way.â
He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. âHere.â Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. âGuess I lost the fight, huh?â
âYou lost to a cow, Kent,â you reminded him, grinning. âThereâs no coming back from that.â
âTechnically, you went down too,â he pointed out.
âDetails,â you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.
His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. âAnyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we canât be trusted unsupervised.â
Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. âYeah. Good idea.â
---
Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.
Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about âshowing up respectable.â
And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he triedâand failedâto wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. âYouâre going to strangle yourself,â you said finally, stepping into the room.
Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like youâd caught him in something compromising. âItâs⌠fine. Iâve got it.â
âYou donât,â you said, laughing softly. âCome here.â
He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologneâsomething subtle, woodsyâdrifted around you as you worked. âStand still,â you murmured, looping the tie neatly. âYou wear these every day and you still donât know how to tie one?â
âI usually donât rush,â he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. âGuess Iâm nervous.â
Your eyes flicked up to his. âAbout the wedding?â
âAbout all of it,â he said simply.
Something in your chest tightened, but you didnât push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. âThere,â you said softly. âNow you look like you could charm a whole town.â
Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. âThanks.â
Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. âWell, donât you two look nice.â
Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. âYour son cleans up well.â
Martha winked knowingly. âHe does.â
The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of babyâs breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. âYou two ready?â he asked as he grabbed his jacket.
âAs weâll ever be,â Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.
The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clarkâs hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.
By the time the church came into viewâwhite clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guestsâyou were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clarkâs entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didnât say anything. Just⌠looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, âweâll be fine. As long as we stick together.â
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. âTogether. Got it.â
When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if thisâthis closeness, this easeâwas really something you could just pretend.
The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.
Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walkedâneighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. âDonât look now,â you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, âbut weâre officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.â
Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. âTheyâll get over it.â
âWill they?â you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. âFeels like weâre about to be written into the town newsletter.â
That earned you a faint, amused smile. âThereâs no newsletter.â
âOh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if itâs just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.â He huffed a quiet laugh but didnât argue.
The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.
Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: Iâm here. Youâre not alone.
The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could makeâfilled with promises of âforeverâ and âhomeâ and ânothing fancy, just us.â The brideâs voice trembled as she said âI do,â and the groom grinned like heâd won the lottery.
Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound likeâwhat promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.
The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. âThey look happy,â he murmured.
You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. âYeah. They do.â
When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, âdonât they make a picture?â
Another voice replied, âMartha must be over the moon.â
You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.
Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. âIs it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?â
Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. âPretty much. Smallville doesnât have secrets. Just⌠stories waiting to spread.â
âGreat,â you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. âBy now, half the town has us married with three kids.â
His lips curved into a smile, but he didnât look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. âWould that be so bad?â
You blinked. âWhat?â
Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirkâjust something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. âI mean,â he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, âIâm not saying⌠I justââ He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. âForget it.â
You tilted your head, studying him. âClark.â
He sighed, shoulders slumping. âYou make this whole thing feel⌠easier than I thought it would. Thatâs all.â
The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. âWell, you picked the right fake girlfriend. Iâm very convincing.â
But Clark didnât laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. âYeah,â he said softly. âYou are.â
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the cornerâit all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. âReception time,â he said, his voice steadier than his expression.
You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. âRight. Reception.â
The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.
As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt itâthe way people were watching, whispering. âHere we go again,â you muttered, leaning closer to him.
Clarkâs lips quirked faintly. âThey mean well.â
âSure,â you said. âUntil one of them asks when weâre having kids.â
You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. âThis is her,â Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like theyâd been waiting for this exact moment. âThe girlfriend I told you about.â
The women descended like hawks.
âOh, isnât she lovely.â
âClark, you clean up nice, donât you?â
âLook at the way heâs holding her handâso sweet.â
You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.
Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the brideâs uncle leaned across to ask, âso how long have you two been together?â
âFour months,â you answered quickly, sticking to the story.
âFour months?â The man grinned. âWell, Iâll say thisâhe looks at you like itâs been forty years.â
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. âGo on,â Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. âDonât just sit there. Dance with her.â
Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. âWould you like to dance?â
You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touchâit didnât feel fake. Not one bit.
The song ended, but Clark didnât let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the brideâs voice rang out. âBouquet toss!â
A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. âThis is ridiculous,â you muttered, glancing back at him.
He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. âTradition.â
The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, âlooks like Clarkâs next!â
Your face burned. Clarkâs ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. âGuess thatâs our cue,â he murmured.
You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. âDonât get any ideas, Clark.â
The cheers still hadnât died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, âbetter start ring shopping, Clark!â and âdonât let her get away!â
Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. âI told you this would happen,â he muttered, his voice low, just for you.
âOh, donât blame me,â you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. âYouâre the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.â
Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, âkiss her, Clark!â
The chant caught like wildfire. âKiss her! Kiss her!â
Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretendâhandholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. âWhat do we do?â you whispered, your throat dry.
âTheyâre not going to let it go,â he murmured, voice taut with nerves. âIf we donâtââ He didnât finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.
You swallowed hard. âSo weâŚ?â
His Adamâs apple bobbed as he nodded. âOnly if youâre okay with it.â Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowdâs chant grew louder, impatient. Clarkâs hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. âItâs just for show,â he whispered. âRight?â
âRight,â you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.
And then he kissed you.
It was tentative at first, carefulâlike he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clarkâsolid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.
Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didnât want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.
Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.
The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. âGuess that sold it.â
You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. âYeah. Totally believable.â
But as you looked up at himâat the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldnât quite look awayâyou both knew the truth.
It hadnât felt fake at all.
---
The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didnât speakâdidnât dareâbecause every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.
You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. âLong day,â he said finally, voice quiet.
âYeah,â you agreed. âYour whole town knows my life story now.â
His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didnât quite reach his eyes. âTheyâll forget in a week.â
You snorted. âYou donât actually believe that.â
For the first time since youâd left the reception, his gaze lingered on youâsteady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. âYou should get some rest. Tomorrowâll be busy too.â
âRight.â
You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadnât rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directionsâhis room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. âGoodnight, Clark.â
He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. âGoodnight.â His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between youâlouder than any words you couldâve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.
Leaning back against it, you let out the breath youâd been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched itâbut it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.
And maybe⌠thrilling.
---
Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kissâthe kiss most of all.
You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.
Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softenedâthen he quickly looked back at his plate. âMorning,â Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. âSleep well?â
âFine,â you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.
Jonathanâs eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. âYou both look a little tired. Long night?â
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. âReception ran late,â he said smoothly.
Marthaâs smile was quiet, knowing. She didnât press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Marthaâs occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different nowâcharged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.
When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. âYouâll be heading back today?â
Clark nodded. âYeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.â
Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. âWell, weâre glad you came. Both of you.â
Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. âDrive safe.â
The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, âCome back soon.â Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, âso. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.â
Clarkâs hands tightened faintly on the wheel. âIt wasnât an act to them.â
You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. âClarkâŚâ
He shook his head, cutting you off gently. âI just meanâthey believe it. Thatâs what matters.â
You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.
The silence between you wasnât uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something elseâfull, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didnât mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you⌠it was coming home, too.
---
The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when youâd left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadnât paused at all while you were gone.
But you had.
You slipped back into the rhythm easily enoughâsorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.
You didnât talk about Smallville. You didnât talk about the kiss. You didnât talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.
Normal.
Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at youânot exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.
The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldnât ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. âDo I have ink on my face or something?â
Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. âWhat? No. Why?â
âBecause you keep staring,â you said lightly, arching a brow. âAt my face. My mouth, actually.â
Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. âIâI wasnâtââ He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. âI was justâthinking. Aboutâabout the article.â
You bit back a smile. âRight. The article on zoning ordinances thatâs apparently written across my lips.â
His expression was pricelessâcaught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.
You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.
Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you werenât thinking about zoning ordinances either.
The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.
But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didnât shrug it off, and he didnât remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.
And through it all, Clark was Clarkâearnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes youâd catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like youâd caught him red-handed. âProblem?â youâd ask innocently.
âNo,â heâd mutter, ducking behind his screen.
And still, the cycle repeated. It didnât help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. âSo, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?â
Your pen froze mid-sentence. âWhat?â
Jimmyâs grin widened, oblivious. âOh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybodyâs talking about it.â You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clarkâs reactionâhis chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. âOh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, donât wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.â With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.
You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.
The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple thingsâsharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notesâseemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.
By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didnât. He only offered a small, quiet smile. âSee you tomorrow.â
You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. âSee you tomorrow.â As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didnât know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.
---
It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.
Youâd been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled youânot loud, but steady, unmistakable.
When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked⌠disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like heâd just come from something he didnât want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyesâthose soft, steady eyesâwere brighter than usual, like he hadnât been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.
âClark?â you asked, confused. âItâs late. What are youâ?â
âIâIâm sorry,â he blurted, shifting on his feet. âI didnât mean to wake you, if you wereâwere sleeping. I justââ
He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. âI couldnâtâgo home withoutââ
âClark,â you said gently, stepping back to let him in. âYouâre rambling. Come inside.â
He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.
âYou look like you wrestled a tornado,â you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.
âSomething like that,â he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head. âWhatâs going on?â
Clarkâs jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. âIâve been trying to ignore it,â he admitted, his voice low, rough. âBack at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was justâpretend. That it didnât matter.â
Your heart thudded. âClarkâŚâ
He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way youâd never seen before. âBut it does matter. More than I thought it could.â
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. âWhat are you saying?â
Clarkâs hands flexed at his sides, restless. âI want to kiss you again.â The words tumbled out, fast, like heâd been holding them back for too long. âI know we said it was fakeâthat it was just for show. But I canât stop thinking about it, and Iââ His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. âI donât want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just⌠between us.â
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.
âClark,â you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, âfor someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.â
His laugh was shaky, breathless. âI know.â
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. âThen stop talking.â
And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.
This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything youâd both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.
âThat,â Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, âthatâs what I wanted.â
You smiled, your heart racing. âGood. Because I think I want it too.â