Bucky x reader masterlist. Based on my one and only Bucky playlist.
Hope to write more soon:D Song req/drabble req is open.
come out and play - Billie Eilish 1.9k
congressman! thunderbolts! bucky x civilian! reader
Bucky deals with the stress of being a congressman and events of thunderbolts* with you by his side.
touch tank - quinnie 1.7k
soft! Bucky x reader
Bucky keeps on finding excuses for you to miss your date.
WYD Now? - Sadie Jean 2.9k
ex-childhood bestfriend! Bucky x singer! reader
You think you see Bucky watching your show after years of no contact. It's probably just your imagination, right? So why can't you shake off this ache in your chest?
Dive - Ed Sheeran 3.7k
college athlete! fuckboy(?)! bucky x tutor! reader
Being halfway in love with Bucky is hard when your worlds don't collide. So you try to fit in more in his world by going to a party when asks you to, but it becomes more apparent now than ever that you don't belong.
no dude it's so cool how attached you are to that character who is singled out and ostracized due to the external monstrousness that clashes with their internal spark of humanity. and i love how drawn you are to themes of horror and love, nature versus nurture, otherness, isolation, and the abject. i bet you have normal feelings about your own personhood
someone pls write farmboy!clark kent x reader who just moved in into their dead grandpa’s farm (stardew valley much?). i repeat we need more farmboy clark kent in this app.
summary: the four times clark shows up unannounced bringing food, and the one time you pay him back with his favorite beef bourguignon.
word count: 2.2k
warnings: tooth rotting fluff, loverboy!clark, clark is a simp, clark using his superpowers to stalk reader (in a loving way), reader being implied to have a sweet tooth, food as a love language. not proofread (is it ever?)
ALSO im very sorry if i made inaccurate depictions of being a nurse, im very clearly not one but i did try my best to fact check everything! feel free to correct me if im wrong<3
a/n: the inspo for overpriced choco spread was ovomaltine because why is it so good but so expensive? anyways if im being honest i feel like this is my cutest work just yet!!! as always GIVE ME UR THOUGHTS ABT CLARK KENT BCS I AM DOWN BAD.
part 1, part 2,
Clark Kent is terrible at being subtle.
You learn this quickly in the days that follow. Because suddenly, he’s everywhere. He tells you he's just patrolling the neighborhood ("Civic duty," he insists, adjusting his glasses that do nothing to hide his tells). That the cocoa appearing at your nurses' station is pure coincidence. That folding your laundry while you're at work absolutely doesn't count as breaking and entering.
And you might believe him, if he wasn't so spectacularly bad at lying.
Case in point: In the five days since you showed up the Daily Planet unannounced, Clark has somehow managed to engineer no fewer than four accidental encounters. Though you’re using the term 'accidental' very loosely.
i. saturday, 7:23pm, metropolis general park
The park bench groans as you collapse onto it, your scrubs still smelling of antiseptic and the protein bar you'd inhaled three hours ago. You just finished your 12 hours shift about 20 minutes ago and your feet still throb in time with your pulse. You should go home, should shower, should eat something that didn't come wrapped in plastic. But first, this: five minutes where no one needs you to be competent.
The sandwich tastes like salvation. You're three bites in when a shadow falls across your lap.
Clark stands there holding an iced drink. No label, just condensation rolling down the waxed paper cup. He’s already pretending to sip from it when you notice him. “Oh,” he says, lowering the cup too quickly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
You squint up at him. "Don't you have weekends off?"
"Walking tour," he says, already sitting. His knee bumps against yours. "Clark." You point northeast with your sandwich. "Your apartment's twenty blocks that way."
"New podcast about urban birdwatching." He nods solemnly, like this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. Clark hesitates, then holds his drink out. “Thirsty?”
The first sip is perfect. Not too sweet, and with that hint of real peach pulp you love. Exactly how you'd liked it back then, back when he still knew all your orders by heart. Your eyes snap to his. Clark ignores your gaze, “What?”
“This is my order.”
“Is it?” He scratches the back of his neck. “Weird coincidence.”
"You never get pulp." You swirl the ice cubes. "Said it feels like drinking fruit guts.”
He rubs the back of his neck. "Maybe I was being dramatic."
You should press him. Should ask why he's holding a drink he wouldn't touch, why there's flour dusting his collar, why his shoes are slightly charred at the soles like he'd landed too hard on asphalt. Instead, you take another sip. "Walk me home?"
Clark's smile could power the city grid. He stands, offering his arm like you're at some fancy gala instead of a park littered with pigeon feathers. "Thought you'd never ask."
As you walk, his pinky brushes yours. You don't mention how he matches his stride to your exhausted shuffle. How he carries the drink so the ice won't melt too fast. How he's been doing this since you were kids—showing up with exactly what you needed, long before you knew to ask.
ii. sunday, 1:15pm, at the grocery store just down the block
Your Sunday grocery run is sacred. One block from your apartment, same time every week, where the cashiers already know to save you the slightly bruised discount bananas. You’re stretching for a box of your favorite cereal on the top shelf when:
“Need a hand?”
A familiar warmth presses against your back as Clark’s arm brushes past your shoulder, easily retrieving the cereal. The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon clinging to him makes no sense in this cramped aisle, not unless he’d just come from the nicer grocery near his building, the one with its proper bakery section.
Yet, here he was, standing in your sad neighborhood market holding a basket with exactly three items: one banana, a cinnamon roll (from said nicer store, you notice), and your exact brand of chocolate spread. The one you’d always have to argue is “worth the cost for emotional stability” to anyone that saw you buying it.
"Are you following me?" you hiss, glancing at the security cameras. Clark adjusts his glasses with his free hand, “I was in the neighborhood.” "For one banana?” You gesture to his basket. “And my favorite chocolate spread?” Clark blinks at the basket like it's betrayed him. "They were... on sale."
“What? the nicer store near your building doesn’t do sales?”
Clark’s ears go pink. He ignores your question completely and goes, “Well, since I’m already here,” he lifts the basket slightly, “any chance you’d help me finish the cinnamon roll?”
“Fine,” you sigh. “But only because you got the good kind."
So somehow, Clark finds himself walking beside you back to your apartment, cinnamon roll tucked protectively in his arm like a peace treaty. The walk home is quiet, except for the soft rustle of grocery bags and the occasional clink of jars. Clark hums something under his breath you don’t recognize, and you’re half-convinced it’s the jingle from your cereal commercial.
At your building, he waits as you fish out your keys, already shifting his basket to make room for yours. “This feels oddly domestic,” he mutters, smiling. After you find your keys, the door swings open and shut behind you.
Somewhere between sorting bruised bananas and debating how much chocolate spread is socially acceptable to eat in one sitting, the cinnamon roll gets split down the middle, napkins forgotten. And if your favorite mug ends up in his hand by late afternoon, well—pastry diplomacy is a powerful thing.
iii. monday (technically tuesday), 3:04 am, metropolis general
The cardiac monitor's steady beep is the only sound in the unusually quiet nurses' station. You've been on your feet for eight straight hours when you notice the thermos. It sits where your clipboard should be, wrapped in that familiar blue plaid towel Martha Kent always sends with Clark's care packages.
You twist the lid off. The scent of cocoa hits you immediately. The marshmallows are the tiny store-brand ones that never fully dissolve. It's steaming hot though, and when you take a sip, it’s perfect.
Beneath the thermos sits a foil-wrapped grilled cheese, still warm enough that the cheese oozes when you press the edges. The wheat bread is slightly flattened, toasted unevenly, one corner charred. American cheese (or something vaguely in that family) clings stubbornly to the foil in melted strings.
A post-it note sticks to the foil:
Sorry about the burnt corner
- C
The post-it’s edges curl from the sandwich’s residual heat, the handwriting is unmistakably Clark’s. Underneath the words, a lopsided doodle of a frowning toaster with smoke coming out.
Your phone buzzes.
Clark K. (3:09 AM): Don't check the cameras by the supply closet.
You stare at the message. At the sandwich. At the clock counting down your rare moment of respite. The math doesn't lie. Clark has a morning shift at the Planet in less than five hours. He should be asleep. But the marshmallows are shaped like little stars. And the sandwich is cut diagonally, just how you like it.
You (3:09 AM): go to sleep clark
You (3:10 AM): thank u though
Outside the window, a shadow moves between the parking lot lights. Too fast to be human, but not fast enough to escape your gaze.
iv. tuesday, 8:28 pm, your apartment
A clatter jolts you awake.
Your sleep-fogged brain registers three things in rapid succession. One, the smell of sesame oil and ginger. Two, the distinct sound of your microwave beeping. Three, a very familiar voice muttering, "No, that's not—why would you—oh come on—“
You shuffle into the kitchen to find Clark wrestling with a stack of takeout containers, his dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The counter looks like a buffet exploded. It’s stacked with white containers, and three sets of chopsticks (why does he need three??).
Clark sets down the container he was holding with deliberate care. "So, funny story,” He adjusts his glasses. "I may have... overestimated how much chinese takeout one person can eat."
You stare at the feast. There are literal racks of dumplings. "And you broke in because...?"
"I didn't! I knocked first. For like... ten minutes." He rubs his neck. "Then I heard your stomach growling in your sleep and got concerned."
"That's not—" Your traitorous stomach interrupts you with an audible growl. Clark's eyes light up. “See! Your body agrees with me,” he says. “Anyway, since we’re both here…” He trails off, suddenly very interested in rearranging the napkins.
You raise an eyebrow, amused by his awkward napkin origami. “Clark,” you drawl, crossing your arms. “Are you trying to emotionally manipulate me with all these food you’ve been bringing me?”
He looks up mid-fold and says, “Only a little.” Then, as if the food might win the argument for him, he nudges a container toward you. You glance down. Soup dumplings. The ones that always sell out by 7PM. The chopsticks are already split. The chili oil is on the side, exactly how you like it. The care in the details undoes you more than any grand gesture could.
With a sigh, you reach for the container. “If I take one bite, does that mean I’m condoning this stalker behavior?”
Clark beams, already plucking the plumpest shrimp from his garlic noodles and depositing them in your box. “Just eat, sunshine.”
Outside, a car alarm wails. The microwave finally stops protesting. And in your too-small kitchen, with takeout containers covering every surface, something fragile and precious slots back into place.
v. wednesday, 5:10 pm, the daily planet
You don’t usually make stops before a night shift. Metropolis General demands your full attention and then some, and you like to keep the hours before it clean, undisturbed. But you find yourself standing at the Daily Planet’s front desk anyway, fiddling with the strap of your work bag.
“Hi, um, sorry,” you tell the receptionist — a different one from your last visit. “I’m looking for Clark Kent?” She looks up with a polite smile. “Oh! You can head right in. He’s on the fifth floor, newsroom. Desk with all the plants, you can’t miss him.”
You thank her under your breath and make your way to the elevators. The ride is short. When the doors slide open, you’re hit with the same hum you remember, the murmur of voices, clacking keyboards, and the occasional ring of a desk phone. It’s exactly how it was the last time you came.
You spot Clark at his desk, bent over a mess of notes, glasses slipping low on his nose. His tie’s loosened, sleeves rolled up, and he’s frozen mid-type, like he somehow sensed you the moment the elevator doors opened. Then he looks up.
His whole face lights up. “You’re here,” he says, standing so fast his chair rolls back into the desk behind him with a thud. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Surprise,” you say, grinning as you set your insulated bag down on the corner of his desk. “Payback for the last four days. Homemade beef bourguignon. Your favorite.”
His expression shifts—surprise, delight, and something warmer, softer, just under the surface—before he smooths it into a smile.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Sunshine.”
The voice comes from a woman leaning against the next desk over, nursing a coffee like she’s been watching this unfold since you stepped off the elevator. Dark hair, sharp eyes, a knowing smirk. She doesn’t bother hiding her amusement.
Across from her, a guy with a camera around his neck nearly drops it. “No way,” he says, staring. “You’re real.”
You blink. “Uh… hi. Sorry, have we met?”
“Lois,” the woman says, holding out a hand. “Lane. And that’s Jimmy.”
“Jimmy Olsen,” the guy adds with a quick wave, half-hidden behind a camera strap. You shake their hands, still trying to find your footing. Just as you open your mouth to introduce yourself, Jimmy beats you to it.
“You’re the Sunshine,” he grins. "I've got, like, twelve candids of this guy smiling at his phone when—"
“weshouldreallyeatthisbeforeitgetscold,” Clark cuts in quicky, the tips of his ears pink. He shoots Jimmy a quick look, then turns back at you. “Thank you. This is… really nice.”
Lois mouths really nice? to Jimmy, miming an exaggerated swoon.
Clark ignores them, his attention laser-focused on you. “Walk you to work?” he asks, already grabbing his jacket with one hand while the other hovers near your back, not quite touching but close enough that Jimmy makes kissy faces behind his camera.
As Clark guides you gently towards the exit, you turn and give Lois and Jimmy a warm smile. "It was nice meeting you both."
"Likewise, Sunshine," Lois says with a wink. Jimmy gives you an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
The elevator doors close on their laughter, leaving you alone with Clark in the sudden quiet. He exhales, long-suffering, but can't hide the way his thumb brushes against yours when he takes the insulated bag from you.
"Sorry about them," he murmurs, holding the lobby door open with his shoulder. The late afternoon sun catches in his glasses when he looks down at you. "But... thank you. For coming. For this." He lifts the bag slightly. You bump your shoulder against his arm. "I like them. And you're welcome."
His fingers find yours as you step out onto the sun-warmed sidewalk, swinging gently between you like the most natural thing in the world. Somewhere behind you, muffled through glass, you're almost certain you hear Jimmy's distant whoop of victory. But right now, with Clark's hand warm in yours and the city stretching golden before you, you find you don't mind at all.
Summary: Girl (you) go boy's (Clark's) apartment. Girl & boy eat. Girl & boy talk.
Word count: ~2k
Warnings: HEART TO HEART TALK, reconciling kinda, tension, Clark being Clark (awkward and shy and precious), Clark being an implied stalker if you squint(he means well), still slow burn. Not proof read.
A/n: This is my version of the 12 minutes clois living room scene. Honestly I'm not the best with dialogue heavy stuff so bear with me here. I can't can't can't wait to add krypto to this.
As always please interact<3, I'm always looking for a chance to talk about the movie whenever I can, I know my friends are so tired of me bringing up this movie.
part 1, part 3
Clark’s place is quite spacey, cozy in a way that you'd expected. There are books stacked on the coffee table, a quilt Martha must have sent draped over the couch, and a faint smell of coffee and cinnamon.
As you glance around, something on the bookshelf makes you pause. A small framed photo. Of younger you and Clark. You both are smiling, sunburnt and windblown, crammed into the same hoodie after some long-forgotten summer storm. You blink. “You have a picture of us?” Clark looks up from the kitchen, almost sheepish. “Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just.. I had the frame lying around and I didn’t know what to put there. Then I remembered that Ma insisted that I bring the photo album with me when I moved. You know, the big one with the faded blue cover? She stuffed it full of old pictures before I left Smallville—there’s like, five of just you and me eating watermelon on the porch—anyway, that one fell out when I was unpacking, and I guess I just… kept it.”
He’s rambling now, voice picking up speed, and his cheeks a tiny shade of rosé. He stopped chopping the carrots a while ago, knife resting forgotten on the cutting board, hands gesturing aimlessly as he talks.
“I wasn’t, like, planning to display it or anything. I mean, I thought it was a good picture—well, not a good picture, I look like I got hit by a lawnmower, and you’re sunburnt, and the picture’s pretty blurry, but it just… made me smile. And the frame was there. And I figured, you know, until I find something better—”
He stops himself. His cheeks have turned full red, eyes flicking toward you, then quickly away.
“Anyway. It’s just a photo. I can put it away if it’s weird.”
You tilt your head slightly, amused by his demeanor. It’s not like you found it weird in the first place. If anything, you found it very sweet. You’d never admit this to him, but you still have a locked album filled with photos of you and him from years ago saved in your phone, and you open it at least once a week. You had deliberately moved those data from your old phone to your new one that you bought just three months ago, when you moved to metropolis.
You blink slowly, then smile. “You know, you could’ve just said you missed me.”
Clark looks at you, eyes wide. “I—what? No, I mean—well, yes, but—not like—”
“I miss you too, Clark.” You cut him off. “More than you could ever imagine.” And nothing you said could be more true. He’s grinning from ear to ear now, the kind of grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look exactly like the kid you used to build pillow forts with and sneak extra pie slices to when Martha wasn’t looking.
“Yeah, I think I miss you more,” he finally admits. You look into his eyes, in search for the truth. A moment passes, then another. Clark clears his throat and shifts back into action, the emotional fog lifting just slightly as he focuses on the chopping board. You take your seat by the counter, watching as he works.
“Alright,” he says, more to himself than to you, “carrots are in. Now the potatoes, garlic, bay leaves…”
The stew is warm and filling. You’re not sure if it’s actually good, or if you just miss Clark’s cooking. Either way you try to eat it slowly, perhaps in part because you don’t want this moment to end. But it does, faster than you realize.
If you weren’t so hungry, you’d have drawn it out longer. Savored it. Stretched the meal into something that could’ve passed for forever, just to stay here, in the same room as him, where the silence feels less like distance and more like something lived-in.
“You finished?” Clark asks, as he gently takes the bowl from your hands. His fingers brush yours as he does. You nod. He stands and moves toward the sink, and you follow him into the living room without thinking.
“Come sit.” He gestures to the worn couch, the quilt Martha sent draped over the back. You settle in, the couch soft beneath you. Clark shifts beside you, elbow resting on the back cushion, eyes watching you more than the room. For a while, neither of you say anything. It’s not silence so much as it is calm.
Then, you draw in a breath. “Hey, do you remember that day on the playground?” He looks over, brow knitting. “Which one?”
You glance down at your hands, fingers lightly picking at a loose thread in the quilt. “The one where those older kids wouldn’t leave me alone. I think I was eight? They took my backpack and dumped all my stuff on the gravel.”
Clark shifts beside you. “Right,” he says slowly, the memory coming back to him. “I think I ran faster than I meant to.”
You look over at him. “You definitely did. You were halfway across the field before anyone even saw what was happening.”
He lets out a small breath through his nose. “I remember that. They didn’t see me coming either.”
“You were so mad,” you say. “Didn’t even stop to say anything. Just yanked my backpack out of one of their hands and pushed them to the ground.”
Clark rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw red, I guess.”
“You didn’t,” you say. “Not really. But you didn’t even get hurt, and I still cried the whole walk home.”There’s a pause. You keep your eyes on the quilt.
“I couldn’t explain it back then,” you admit. “But I think I know why now.” There’s a quiet intensity in his gaze now, he’s waiting for you to say your next words. “I wasn’t crying because of them,” you say. “Or the mess they made. I think I was crying because it was you. Because even when I knew you’d be okay, I couldn’t turn off the fear.”
You exhale slowly, fingers resting against the faded stitching. “It’s not about whether you’re strong enough. It’s that you went into it, and I was stuck watching.” Clark shifts, but stays silent. “I hated that part,” you admit. “That I couldn’t do anything. That I had no control. That if something had gone wrong, I would’ve just had to stand there and let it.”
“I guess… what I’m trying to say is, I can never stop worrying about you.”
You tried it a lot of times. To push your worries down. It’s going to be fine. He’s more than strong enough, fast enough, smart enough. When has he ever not made it out? is what you keep telling yourself, and all of them are true as it can be. But the logic never held for long.
You couldn’t not worry about him when you were younger, not with him throwing himself into every situation that wasn’t his to fix. Standing up to bullies, or whatever it was. Sometimes it was older kids starting fights. Other times it was full-grown adults yelling in the middle of the street. A guy trying to rob the gas station. Someone breaking into a neighbor’s truck. It didn’t matter if it seemed reckless. If he got hurt (even though he rarely did). Or if it scared the hell out of you. He’d come back and say, “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
Then you thought you would stop worrying after he moved to Metropolis. Whatever it was he was going to get himself into, you wouldn’t be there to watch it. Wouldn’t have to see the way he threw himself into things without thinking, wouldn’t have to stand there helpless, heart in your throat.
So it was going to be fine. Right? Oh, how wrong you were.
Because the silence was worse. When the calls came less and less, you had to deal with not knowing. Not hearing from him for days. A dropped call in the middle of a sentence. A voice that sounded more tired every time he did answer. You’d check the news without meaning to. Scan headlines you didn’t want to read. Every building collapse or explosion downtown, your first thought was always him.
Even when you stopped talking, you couldn’t stop worrying. You told yourself you had no right to anymore. That he had his own life, his own world now, and you weren’t part of it. But it didn’t matter. The instinct was still there. Just like it was in his genes to care, to throw himself into danger without thinking twice. It was in yours to look for him in every headline, every siren, every space where he might’ve been.
You don’t say anything after that. Just sit with it. You weren’t expecting a response, not really. Clark rubs the back of his neck, the way he always does when he knows he’s messed something up but isn’t sure how to fix it.
“I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to make you worry,” he says after some time. “I figured if I kept my head down, didn’t tell you much, maybe you wouldn’t have to carry any of it.”
You let out a breath. “That’s not how it works.”
“I know that now,” he mutters. You glance over. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw tight. You can almost see the gears turning in his head.
“I wasn’t trying to shut you out,” he adds. “I just thought… the less you knew, the easier it’d be.”
“For who?” you ask.
That gets him. His mouth opens like he’s got something to say, then closes again. He swallows. “Yeah. Fair.”
You shake your head. “You do this thing where you act like if you just carry it all yourself, nobody else gets hurt.” Clark presses his lips together, but he doesn’t argue. He just nods, once, like he’s been told.
“I’m not mad,” you sigh. “Just… you’re not invisible, Clark. Not to me.”
He looks down at his hands. “I wasn’t trying to be." You glance at him. “You kind of were.” He doesn’t argue that.
“I just didn’t want to turn it into your problem,” he says after a moment. “Guess that was stupid.”
“Yeah,” you say. “It was.”
Clark huffs quietly through his nose. “Didn’t mean to screw it up. I just didn’t want you stuck worrying about me all the time.” You shrug. “You’re about 2 decades too late for that.” He shifts closer to you. “Can’t help it.” You sigh and lightly brush your fingers over his knuckles. “I know.”
The two of you stay like that for a while. Not saying anything. Just sitting there, hands resting together, barely touching. His thumb shifts under your palm. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you.
You glance at the clock on his wall. Nearly midnight. Clark follows your gaze. He sighs. “It’s late,” he says.
“I should head back,” you stand slowly, easing your hands from his. He’s already rising with you. “I’ll walk you.”
You give him a look. “You don’t have to. I actually live really close by.”
“I know,” he says, reaching for his jacket. “But that alley off Monroe gets sketchy after dark.” You pause. “How do you know I walk that way?”
He hesitates for a second. “You mentioned it once." You narrow your eyes. “No, I didn’t.” Clark avoids your gaze, shrugs a little too casually. “Maybe I just guessed.”
“Clark.”
He grabs his keys, already opening the door. “Let’s go.”
