Iโve been deep in the trenches of fanfictions ever since I was 12. Life went on and almost a decade later of quitting reading fics, after watching Thunderbolts last year in theaters and saw a post on tiktok, then people recommending writers on comment section, here I am with probably a thousand fics read within nearly a year.
I'm truly grateful for all of the wonderful bucky fanfic writers on this platform as their fics saved me from a very dark place I was in and kept me alive until today.
In honour of my almost a year on tumblr, here are my favourite and re-read worthy fics (and I definitely re-read them more than once as they live rent free in my head lmao):
(warning: most of these are r18+. You are responsible of your own media consumption)
Uncle bucky by @iamthatonefangirl (I sent in anonymously before but she was the writer recommended in the comment section of that tiktok video I found talking about bucky in thunderboltsโbasically who I will give credits for restarting my fanfic reading journey. Honestly, I have no other words, but trust me when I say all of her works are chef's kiss. Uncle bucky is just on my top fav)
Rewind by iamthatonefangirl
For the love of game by @pellucid-constellations (this is honestly the one that made me create tumblr acc as I was initially reading for more than a month without one lmao)
Undisclosed by pellucid-constellations
Letters through time by @buckysleftbicep
Wildflowers by @superbassbuck
Grade A pain in my ass by superbassbuck
Lessons in love by @mandoalorian
The Education of James Buchanan Barnes by @danysdaughter
HR can't save you by danysdaughter
Attrition by @crybabycabin
Babydoll by @metal-armed-muse
A fever he can't sweat out by @epiphanyrogers
O come ye all faithful by epiphanyrogers
You up? by @iwritefanfictionsnottragedies
Touch tank by @rosesaints
Oral History by @cursedheartsclub
No strings attached unless by @kryptoclark
To whom it may concern by cursedheartsclub
Nerdy Bucky series Bucky this, Bucky that by @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two (my fav of hers <3)
Invisible by @danitcx
I think I've seen this film before by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky
No roster, just you by @salem-s
The right questions by @juniebjonesin
Douced in sequins by @miraclediviner this is the first one I ever saw of talent manager bucky x pop star reader and i'm so hooked
Guilty as sin by @redemptive-truth
Don't you ever end up anything but mine by @flowersforbucky
My neighbor is a prnstar by @brunchable
Show & tell by @nonotwithoutu
Null & void by @smorgaswhored
Property of j.b.barnes by @witchywithwhiskey
AITA by nonotwithoutu
His and his only for 24 hours by salem-s
Yes, ma'am by @night-scare
Lessons in chemistry by @d1stalker
Best laid plans by nonotwithoutu
For your consideration by @daydreamgoddess14
Only you by danitcx
Illicit affairs by @carmenberzattosgf
Happy meal by @sins-write-tragedies
Cuffing season by @phoenix-in-writing
Jealous-capades by @boysoconfusing
You're no good for me by @sinner-as-saint i love all of her writtings istg. This one is my most fav as it lives rent free in my head. Wish I could have a Bucky sugardaddy too
I'll follow you until you love me by sinner-as-saint
The burden of love by danitcx
Silversprings by @thatfoxygrl
Clark Kent talking you through it by @laceyfaeryy
Lovegame by @maiamore
I'm gonna kill Jimmy by @kissmyglxck
Girl next door by maiamore
Like the real thing by maiamore
(you think) he doesn't like you back by @staseras
If you leave, i forget how to breathe by danitcx
Lessons in lovemaking by @artficlly
Honey girl by @violentdelightsandviolentends
Vanilla cookies by staseras
He is touched starved by staseras
Growing pains by @lunexiax
Only ever you by @blowingbarnes my all time fav! Reread this more than five times already because this is of of those that lives rent free in my head. Still waiting for part two
Stormbound by @tw1sters
Superdick by @mcumorningstar
Lay me down by @godmadeaterribleerror
FรJATE FรJATE EN TU SECRETARIA by @herejustforbuckybarnes one of my fav congressman! Bucky fics
Note: I don't know yet if there will be a second part, but if you like it, I'll post it :)
Clark Kent x Female Kryptonian reader x Ultraman ยฟ?
Sinopsis: After years of loving Clark Kent in silence, a Kryptonian journalist watches the only person who ever truly understood her fall in love with someone else.
Your eyes drifted back to the view beyond the large window of your apartment. The city looked gray, just as it always did, but today that gray felt heavier, as though the sky itself had grown tired. A faint redness lingered around your eyelids, and the dark circles you'd been carrying for days were more noticeable than ever. You had slept badly, once again, and your body reflected it. Your breathing still came in uneven waves, as if something inside you had broken and could no longer be put back together. The world outside felt distant, so distant that you hardly cared what happened beyond those windows anymore. Only you existed, sitting on that couch with your gaze lost in nothingness.
Your heart beat slowly, painfully slowly, as though it no longer had the strength to keep going. It was the heartbeat of someone waiting for something while already knowing, deep down, that disappointment was inevitable. Like waiting for a phone call that never comes or for words that are never spoken. That was how your chest feltโempty and unbearably heavy at the same time. You looked down at your phone again, the same one as always, its screen dark. With a gentle tap, it lit up, and there it was. That photograph you treasured like the most precious thing in the world, as though it were the last memory of something that no longer existed. You let out a long, deep sigh, your fingertips brushing lightly over the image.
It was him.
Of course it was always him.
"Come with me. Come on, we'll be in Metropolis. The Daily Planet is where you belong."
His voice echoed through your mind once again, just as powerfully as the first day you'd heard it. So clear. So certain. So convinced.
And you, as always, had followed that voice without asking a single question.
Because whenever he spoke, you listened.
Whenever he asked, you gave.
Whenever he smiled, you smiled too.
Now, though, that voice felt different, like an echo that no longer belonged to you.
You should have realized it from the very beginning.
That was all you were to him: a traveling companion, someone who happened to share the same place of birth among the stars, the same powers that made him extraordinary. But despite the Kryptonian blood running through your veins, Clark only ever saw a human woman before he saw you.
It had always been that way.
And you had always known it.
You had simply refused to accept it.
You squeezed your eyes shut until tiny stars danced behind your eyelids. Your brows furrowed, and another sigh escaped your lips.
Why were you doing this to yourself?
Why were you still holding on to something that had never been yours?
You had met him in college, back when everything still seemed possible. He was the quiet boy who always sat in the back of the classroom, the one who looked as though he were hiding something behind those glasses. And you, with your own secrets, knew exactly what it meant to hide who you truly were.
Everything changed during a history field trip, when the bus veered off course and chaos erupted. Your friend nearly flew out of the bus after fainting, and in that moment you didn't thinkโyou simply acted. You activated your heat vision to push the bus back into place and used your strength to catch your friend before pulling her to safety.
Everything happened so quickly that you barely had time to process what you'd done.
But he saw it.
Clark told you one night, with that calmness that always defined him, as though it weren't a big deal. You barely spoke back then. You weren't even friends.
Then, all at once, he became your everything.
You felt seen.
Understood.
Like you finally weren't alone anymore.
That warmth inside your chest became something you never wanted to lose.
"People talked about you," you had told him that day, looking straight into his eyes.
"On other planets, Kal-El."
You called him by his true name with a smile that tried to hide just how much it meant to you to say it aloud.
"You're lucky you ended up on a planet that doesn't attract the attention of the people searching for you," you whispered, as though sharing a secret that only the two of you understood.
He smiled.
That smile.
The one that always unraveled you.
Then he nodded.
In that moment, everything made sense.
You had arrived on Earth when you were fifteen years old, alone and terrified, knowing nothing about this world. But the parents who took you in loved you as though you had always been their daughter. They taught you that humans weren't selfish, that they could be kind, compassionate, and generous.
And with Clark by your side, life felt right.
It felt as though everything had finally fallen into place.
Like you'd found something you'd been searching for without ever realizing it.
He convinced you to apply to the Daily Planet, and the two of you did it together, like a team. After living together in the same apartment for a year, you eventually found a place of your own directly across the hall from his.
It was routine.
Comfortable.
Safe.
You believed Clark would eventually see you as a woman instead of just his friend. He was so close, close enough to touch, close enough to dream about.
But time passed.
And he never took that step.
Then she appeared.
"No, it's just..." Clark said, his eyes shining with a light you'd never seen before. It was different, as though he had discovered something entirely new.
"God, I mean... Lois is... she knows so much."
He laughed softly, his cheeks turning pink like a boy talking about his very first love.
"Seriously," he repeated, almost as though he needed to convince himself.
"The woman you work with?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.
Your voice sounded far calmer than you actually felt.
You had seen her countless times.
Not with Clark.
At the Planet.
She was everyone's favorite. The one who always received praise. The one everyone admired.
You thought it would pass.
That it wouldn't change anything.
That everything would stay the same.
But then you saw them.
Normally, you worked alongside Cat as both a photographer and a reporter, which kept you away from the office most of the time. That day, however, you came back early.
The moment you stepped into the building, you saw them.
Clark was holding two cups of coffee.
With a smile that shattered your heart, he offered one to Lois Lane.
They stood there together, close enough that the rest of the world seemed to disappear around them.
You froze.
Watching them from a distance.
Feeling something inside you splinter apart.
"They look good together, don't they?" Jimmy teased as he appeared beside you without you even noticing.
You forced one of those smiles.
The kind you wore whenever you wanted to hide what you truly felt.
"I already told Clark he should ask her out," Jimmy added enthusiastically, as though he were doing the greatest favor imaginable.
"I hope it's soon," you replied.
Your voice sounded so natural that it almost surprised even you.
Jimmy nodded before heading back to work, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
The smile vanished from your face the moment he walked away.
You looked at Clark.
You could hear his heartbeat perfectly.
Fast.
Excited.
A rhythm you knew better than anyone.
Then you left.
Because they did look perfect together.
Like two puzzle pieces that had spent their entire lives searching for one another.
Like two magnets already pulled together, with only time separating them from becoming completely inseparable.
There was no place for you in that story.
And no matter how much it hurt...
You knew it.
But the real reason you now found yourself sitting silently on your couch with swollen eyes and smeared makeup was what had happened during that night out with your coworkers.
Everyone knew one another.
Including Lois.
Clark had already told her about you.
So she knew you as "Clark's friend."
The girl who was always by his side.
The one who shared his secrets.
The one who seemed to understand him without either of you needing to say a word.
You should have expected it.
You should have prepared yourself.
But when the music thundered through the room, when everyone else danced while you remained leaning against the bar, you saw Clark kiss Lois.
Your vision blurred instantly, as though someone had placed a sheet of fogged glass in front of your eyes.
Your hair fell loosely around your shoulders, the same hair you'd spent so much time carefully straightening, hoping he'd notice it and give you a compliment.
It became nothing more than another hairstyle.
He didn't notice.
He didn't notice that you were wearing the blouse he'd once told you looked beautiful on you, the one you'd carefully saved for a special occasion.
He noticed nothing.
Every bit of effort.
Every ounce of hope that maybe, just maybe, he would finally look at you differently...
Disappeared in a single second.
Your heart pounded so hard that you were certain everyone around you could hear it. But what shattered you the most wasn't the smile they shared after the kiss, or the blush spreading across Lois's cheeks, or even their fingers intertwined as though they were two perfect pieces of the same puzzle.
What truly broke you was when they walked over to you as though nothing had happened, as though you hadn't just watched your entire world collapse.
Then they laughed, and Lois said something while you picked up the glass of orange juice you'd ordered simply so you wouldn't have to drink alcohol.
"God, it must be awful not being able to get drunk. I guess alcohol tastes different for you," Lois said with an easy smile, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather.
You looked at her, confused at first. It took your mind a few seconds to process what she'd just said.
"What are you talking about?" you asked, your voice tighter than you intended.
"Oh, don't worry. His secret is perfectly safe with me. Besides, it's amazing knowing a woman can be just as strong as a man," Lois replied with a kind smile that somehow made you feel even worse. "But I won't pressure you to talk. Clark said it's only a matter of time before your warm personality comes out."
She let out a light laugh, as though it were some inside joke.
"I'll go get another drink," she said before walking away with the same confidence she'd arrived with.
You stood there frozen.
You looked at Clark, and he was watching Lois as though she were his entire world, as though the whole universe had narrowed down to her alone.
You pressed your lips together and swallowed the knot forming in your throat.
To anyone else, her comment had been harmless.
But to you, it carried years of ridiculous remarks, lingering stares, and whispered conversations that had filled you with insecurities.
Years of hearing you were too strong.
Too strange.
Too different.
Did Clark see you that way too?
Did he think that because you were so strong, you couldn't be fragile inside?
Did he really believe that just because you could lift a car with one hand, your heart couldn't break into a thousand pieces?
"Did you tell her your secret?" you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, nearly swallowed by the music.
He looked at you, and for a brief moment you caught something that resembled guilt in his eyes.
"Yeah... she figured it out. And I wanted her to trust me, so I told her who I really am," Clark said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"And while you were at it, you decided to tell your beloved my secret too?" you asked, unable to hide the sharp edge in your voice.
Clark looked at you again.
This time, he noticed you were angry.
"Lois is trustworthy," Clark said with the certainty he always seemed to have. "She won't tell anyone."
"It was my secret, Clark. I don't care if she found out about you. I..."
You stopped yourself.
The music kept pounding through the room, an irritating buzz echoing in your ears.
You stared at him, feeling anger and heartbreak twist together inside your chest.
"You've told her so much about me, haven't you? That's why she seems to know me almost as well as you do," you said, your voice trembling by the end.
He shook his head, though not with the confidence of someone who truly believed what he was saying.
"No, it's just..." Clark stopped, searching for the right words. "You're my best friend, and I thought... Lois likes meโI mean, I like Lois. I wanted to be honest with her."
Your eyes drifted toward Lois, who was already walking back with another drink in her hand.
Without thinking, you grabbed your purse.
You needed to leave.
You needed to breathe air that wasn't poisoned by the sight in front of you.
You hurried away, hearing your name being called behind you.
Clark tried to stop you, but you were already heading for the exit.
With your super hearing, you caught Lois saying something about "the noise must have overwhelmed her," followed by the sound of Clark's footsteps chasing after you.
Outside, the night air was freezing, slamming into your face with force.
You didn't care.
You didn't shiver like a human.
You couldn't feel the cold settling into your bones.
It did nothing to you.
The only thing you felt was anger.
Hot.
Bitter.
Rising through your throat like vomit you couldn't force out.
Knowing Clark had told Lois everything about you.
That everything the two of you had shared...
She now knew.
Your secrets were no longer yours and Clark's.
They belonged to Clark and Lois now.
There was nothing left that belonged only to the two of you.
You finally stopped when he continued following you.
The streets were empty, illuminated only by streetlights flickering as though they, too, were exhausted.
"I know... I was wrong," Clark said, using that gentle voice he always used whenever he wanted to fix things. "But you're important to me, and Lois deserved to know our story."
"Everyone has their own story," you said, your eyes burning as you looked at him. "Did you tell her where I came from? Did you tell her what happened to me on the other planet I lived on before I came here? Did you tell her all of that, Clark?"
Your voice broke on his name.
He looked at you with shame.
With that expression that confirmed everything you already knew.
"You stole my story!" you shouted, tears threatening to spill over. "You revealed things I only shared with you because you're so blinded by your love for her!"
"It wasn't like that... I just..." he tried to explain before stopping himself.
Maybe he had finally realized what he'd done.
Maybe, for just a second, he understood.
You didn't wait to find out.
You shot into the sky without caring who saw you.
You flew through the clouds, passing your apartment building with your purse still hanging from your shoulder.
Clark didn't follow you.
Because you knew he'd rather go back to Lois.
Because he wanted to protect her.
Because you were strong...
...and she wasn't.
Because you could send people flying with a single punch.
Because you could eliminate threats with the heat vision blazing from your eyes.
Lois Lane couldn't.
Lois was fragile.
Human.
She needed protection.
You didn't.
Tears filled your eyes as you flew, the icy wind crashing against your face but doing nothing to soothe the burning ache inside your chest.
You climbed higher and higher until you were above the city, watching its lights flicker below like tiny stars scattered across the earth.
Then you went home.
That was how you ended up curled up on your couch, your knees pulled tightly against your chest, your hair now a tangled mess after all the effort you'd put into straightening it earlier.
You slipped off your ankle boots with trembling hands, realizing that everything you'd done to look pretty had been for nothing.
Maybe that was the moment you finally understood.
Clark wasn't looking at you that way.
And he never would.
To him, you were the strong friend, the one who could always take care of herself. You had always been that way, even before arriving on Earth. And once you got here, nothing changed. You fought back against the people who tried to hurt you, against those who mocked you. You were strong by nature, by genetics. Hurting you was nearly impossible. With only the smallest fraction of your strength, you could knock down any man foolish enough to stand in your way.
"God, no one will ever want you. You're the man in the relationship," they used to tease before you even started middle school. The girls would laugh behind your back, whispering that you were too rough, too aggressive, that no boy would ever want someone who could break his bones with a hug.
"Don't wear skirts. You act more like a man," others would say, simply because you refused to let people walk all over you. Because whenever someone tried to hurt you, you fought back. Because you refused to stay quiet. Because you never lowered your head.
And so they called you manly, tomboy, freak.
Words that lodged themselves beneath your skin like tiny needles, one after another, until you taught yourself not to hear them anymore. Until you learned to smile and pretend none of it mattered.
You looked down at your hands.
The same hands that could crush steel as though it were nothing more than paper.
Kara loved her powers just as much as Clark loved his. She was proud of who she was, proud of everything she could do.
You weren't.
You wanted to be normal.
You wanted to blend into Earth.
To go unnoticed.
To avoid drawing attention to yourself.
That was why you didn't have a suit like theirs.
No cape.
No symbol across your chest.
You didn't fly around saving people like Clark or Kara did, unless someone happened to be within your reach.
You didn't use your powers.
You never used your strength.
At least not intentionally.
Sometimes, though, when Jimmy looked like he was about to throw his back out carrying heavy boxes, you'd pretend to be struggling even more than he was. Then, the moment he turned around, you'd lift every box effortlessly and stack them where they belonged.
Always carefully.
Always afraid someone might notice what you were capable of.
"Clark helped me."
That was always your answer.
A lie you repeated so often you had almost started believing it yourself.
But even then...
You had been exposed.
Lois knew.
And who knew how many other people did too?
Your feelings had to stay buried.
Your secrets weren't yours anymore.
Your identity had been revealed without your permission.
You wiped away your tears with the back of your hand, but they kept coming, as though someone had left a faucet running somewhere deep inside you.
"You're so strong. You don't need anyone."
"You can handle everything on your own. You always can."
But none of it was true.
You wanted someone to hold you too.
You wanted someone to tell you everything was going to be okay.
You wanted someone to see beyond your strength.
Beyond your powers.
You wanted Clark to see you as a woman.
Not as his strong friend.
Not as the girl who could handle everything on her own.
But maybe the world would never accept people like you.
Maybe Clark would never truly see you, because for him there was only Lois.
And nothing else.
You were merely another presence in his life.
A blurry memory he turned to whenever he needed something.
You remembered every single time you had held yourself together.
Every time you wanted to cry but couldn't because the strong one doesn't cry.
Every time you wanted to ask for help but stayed silent because you can do it on your own.
You had built yourself an armor made of strength.
But beneath it...
There was only a little girl who wanted to be loved.
And now, sitting on that couch with your makeup smeared and your heart shattered into pieces, you finally realized that armor had never protected you from anything.
It had only made you heavier.
You remembered the day, back in school, when a boy shoved you against a row of lockers and called you a freak.
You had simply looked at him, knowing you could have lifted him with one finger and slammed him into the ceiling.
But you didn't.
You stayed perfectly still.
Biting your tongue.
Swallowing every urge to show him what you were truly capable of.
Because if you did...
You would only prove everything they already believed about you.
And being different was already hard enough.
The memory slowly faded away.
You stood up from the couch and walked toward the hallway mirror.
You looked at yourself.
Your hair was a mess.
Your eyes were red and swollen.
The blouse you'd spent so much time choosing was now hopelessly wrinkled.
You stared at your own reflection.
At the girl who had always wanted someone to truly see her.
And for the first time, you wondered whether it was worth continuing to wait for someone to do it.
As soon as the sunlight slipped through the curtains, you slowly opened your eyes. The energy flowing through your body, the warmth radiating from the sun, almost made it seem as though nothing had happened. It was as if your skin and every cell within you were renewing themselves, as though emotional pain could heal as easily as your physical wounds always did.
But it couldn't.
No matter how rested your body felt, no matter how much strength the sunlight gave you, the weight in your chest remained exactly where it had been, unmoving, like a stone that refused to be lifted.
You sighed as you shifted beneath the covers.
It was Monday afternoon.
You hadn't stepped outside your apartment all weekend.
The blinds were still closed, silence filled every corner of the room, and you had done nothing but exist between your bedsheets and your thoughts.
You knew Clark was waiting for you to come out so he could talk to you.
You had heard him.
Of course you had.
Even when you didn't want to.
Your hearing always picked him up without your permission.
It was as though your body had been programmed to look for him, to find him, to know exactly where he was at every moment.
You had memorized the sound of his heartbeat.
Those slow, steady beats that had always filled you with peace whenever you listened to them.
Just as he had memorized Lois's heartbeat, you had memorized his.
It wasn't something you could control.
It was as natural as breathing.
As instinctive as blinking.
He was on the other side of the wall, inside his apartment, and you could feel him there.
His presence pulled at you like a magnet.
Now, more than ever, you wished it didn't.
"I know you can hear me," he had said on Saturday morning.
You heard his voice clearly, as though he were standing right beside you.
Your hearing always searched for him, like a storm searching for calm.
His voice was so gentle, so full of emotion, that it made you feel things you didn't want to feel.
Even his laugh, a sound that had once felt like music to you, had become nothing more than a reminder of everything you could never have.
Without meaning to, your hearing always tuned itself to the sound of his voice.
Now you wished it wouldn't.
You wished you could switch off that connection between the two of you, as though it were nothing more than a light you could turn off and forget.
"I'm sorry. I truly am."
Clark didn't have to raise his voice.
He knew that.
He could have looked through your walls with his X-ray vision if he'd wanted to.
But he never did.
It was one of those boundaries neither of you ever crossed, one you both respected because privacy mattered.
That morning, while he spoke from the other side of the wall, you remained silent, staring at the ceiling as tears once again slipped down your cheeks.
"I should've thought about it. I was only thinking about myself. You know how important you are to me. Please... just talk to me."
Then he waited.
But no answer ever came.
You couldn't speak.
You couldn't even move.
The words remained lodged in your throat like thorns that refused to come out.
So you stayed there, staring at the ceiling while tears silently rolled down your face.
You thought about every time you'd imagined a future with him.
Every morning you'd woken up hoping that day would finally be different.
You thought about all the ways you believed the two of you might someday become something more.
That Clark would look into your eyes and finally notice the way they always lit up whenever you looked at him.
That he'd notice how you searched the skies every time there was a battle, even though you hated using your powers.
But if he needed you...
You would have used them for him without hesitation.
That your smile always grew wider whenever he laughed, whenever those dimples appeared on his face.
That your heartbeat changed whenever he was close.
It sped up.
It raced.
It completely lost its rhythm.
If he had noticed...
If he'd only paid attention...
Maybe everything would have been different.
Sunday passed slowly, stretching endlessly like an hour that refused to end.
You knew eating wasn't necessary.
Your Kryptonian body didn't need food the way humans did to survive.
You enjoyed eating.
You simply didn't need it.
Back in college, you used to skip meals to save money.
It wasn't because you didn't have any.
You just didn't want to spend it on something you didn't actually need.
Until Clark said something to you one afternoon while the two of you were sharing a park bench.
"If you don't eat, then what's the point of living?" he had said that day, breaking his sandwich in half with his large hands.
His eyes looked so blue beneath the sunlight that you found yourself staring at them for a second longer than you should have.
You smiled.
You accepted the half he offered you.
For a moment, everything felt perfect.
He had managed to make something as simple as eating feel important.
Now that memory hurt far more than it should have.
Your thoughts were interrupted by your phone.
It wasn't ringing.
It wasn't vibrating.
But the screen lit up with Cat's name.
You hesitated for a moment, staring at it, feeling like you didn't have the strength to talk to anyone.
In the end, you picked it up and answered, clearing your throat so your voice would sound as normal as possible.
"Finally, you answered! Where are you? Do you have any idea how worried I've been? Are you okay?" Cat asked so quickly you could barely keep up.
"Yeah," you replied, your voice sounding far more fragile than you wanted it to. "I got sick, but everything for the article we worked on is already scheduled."
You wanted to change the subject.
You wanted her to know that, despite everything, you'd still done your job.
"Hey, that doesn't matter," Cat said, her voice softening. "I thought something had happened to you, especially after I saw Clark's little shadow asking whether it was true that you hadn't come in. And him asking is weird because out of everyone here, he's the only one who should know where you are."
Cat paused, as though waiting for you to say something.
You stayed silent.
"I'm home, Cat. Don't worry. I'll be back tomorrow," you said, your voice sounding steadier even though you still felt completely broken inside.
"You left the party early too, sweetheart. You might be able to fool everyone, even Kent, but we both know what you saw."
This time, Cat sounded more serious.
More understanding.
You couldn't answer.
There weren't any words capable of describing what you felt.
"It's okay. Get some rest. Just... remember how beautiful you are. He isn't the only man in the world. Someone will come along who truly sees you."
Her words lingered in the air after she said them.
A comfort that somehow never quite reached you.
"See you tomorrow," you said before ending the call.
You turned your phone off without reading the messages Cat, Jimmy, and Clark had already sent you.
You didn't want to see them.
You didn't want to read the apologies.
You didn't want to face the reality that everything had changed.
You simply sat there, your phone still in your hand, feeling as though the world kept moving forward while you had been left behind.
Tuesday arrived, and it was as though you had decided to erase everything that had happened.
You were the first to fly toward the sun, letting its rays wrap around you and replenish your body as you floated weightlessly through space, doing nothing except absorbing the energy you'd drained over the weekend.
It had become a ritual.
A moment that belonged only to you.
A chance to feel whole again without thinking about anything else.
But that morning, even the sun felt different.
Its warmth couldn't quite reach the hollow that had formed inside your chest.
The moment you returned to your apartment, you hurried to get dressed.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing made you feel any different.
You arrived at the Daily Planet and followed your usual routine, but something inside you had hardened.
You ignored Clark all day.
Whenever he walked toward your desk, you found an excuse to leave, pretending you needed to print something.
Whenever he tried to talk to you, you quietly changed directions, as though the two of you had become magnets that now pushed each other away.
Even when you had coffee with Jimmy, you always made sure more people joined you so you wouldn't have to be alone with Clark.
You smiled.
You pretended everything was fine.
Inside, though, every smile cost you a little more energy than the last.
When work was over, you would barely make it to the restroom before waiting a few minutes and using your super speed to race home in the blink of an eye, locking yourself inside your apartment.
That became your routine for weeks.
A routine built on avoidance.
On eyes that never met.
On conversations that never happened.
Clark kept trying to get close to you.
You had already built a wall between the two of you.
One that seemed impossible to tear down.
Then Perry called for you.
"My office," he said, pointing at you with his index finger.
You walked over slowly, already convinced something bad was about to happen.
The moment you stepped inside, you saw him.
Clark was already there, sitting in one of the chairs with the same expression he always wore whenever he wanted to fix something.
Apparently, not even superpowers could help you escape your boss's orders.
You sat in the chair farthest from him.
Clark looked at you and offered a small smile.
You never saw it.
You were too busy staring down at your fingernails as though they were the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Finally, everyone's here," Perry said.
You looked up just as Lois, Cat, and Jimmy walked in, greeting everyone with cheerful smiles.
You looked back at Perry, waiting for him to explain why he'd called all of you in.
"The annual Journalists and Photographers Convention is here again," he announced. "I want all of you there. It'll be held near the Metropolis History Museum. They gave us six passes, and I thought the six of you should represent the Planet."
You couldn't refuse.
You had already missed a day of work.
Even though you wanted to decline, you knew accepting was the least you could do for Perry.
So you nodded, gathered your things, and left the office first, hoping Clark wouldn't follow you.
He did.
"Can we talk?" he asked as he walked beside you with that steady confidence he always carried.
"No," you answered without looking at him.
He gently caught your arm, forcing you to stop.
You looked at him.
His blue eyes searched yours, and for just a moment you felt your resolve begin to waver.
"I'm sorry," Clark said, his voice softer than you'd expected. "You're the only person who understands what it's like to be born the way we were. I don't want to lose you."
You remained silent, feeling his words trying to force their way back into your heart.
"I was wrong. I said too much, and... I didn't realize how terrible of a friend I was being. I really... you have no idea how much I miss you."
For a split second...
You almost believed him.
Instead, you pulled your arm free, brushing his hand away with more force than you'd intended.
"My secrets are now shared with someone who isn't even my friend," you said, your voice colder than you meant it to be.
You glanced toward Lois, who was laughing with Cat as though nothing had happened.
"How am I supposed to trust you again when I know you'll tell her everything?" you asked.
Without waiting for an answer, you walked away.
"Want to grab lunch?" Cat called after you.
You turned and found her smiling at you with that warm smile that always managed to make you feel a little better.
"Sure," you replied.
This time, your smile was genuine.
Cat looped her arm through yours, and the two of you walked toward the exit together, leaving Clark behind.
The day of the convention arrived sooner than you'd expected.
Everyone traveled together in a company van.
You sat in the front passenger seat beside Jimmy.
As the van drove through the streets of Metropolis, you found yourself laughing at one of Jimmy's stories.
For a moment...
You almost forgot everything.
"It's not funny. I mean... how did I forget?" Jimmy said, shaking his head without taking his eyes off the road. "I planned two dates at the same restaurant. I felt like such a jerk, but I honestly don't remember agreeing to go out with the other girl."
The embarrassment in his voice only made you laugh harder.
"Well, Jimmy, that red mark on your cheek speaks for itself," you teased, laughing again as the lightness of the moment settled around you.
"You'll learn eventually, Jimmy," Cat said from the back.
"You will. And if you don't, start protecting your cheeks," Lois added.
Everyone laughed.
You smiled as you looked out the windshield.
For just a moment...
Everything felt like it used to.
When they arrived, you grabbed your purse and closed the van door behind you.
You could feel Clark's eyes on you.
Heavy.
Persistent.
You looked at him for only a second.
He tried to smile.
You immediately looked away, as though meeting his eyes would burn you.
"Come on, Jimmy," you called as you walked over to Cat.
Together, everyone made their way toward the auditorium, admiring the banners and digital displays announcing the convention.
You occasionally scribbled notes into your notebook, trying to keep your attention focused on work.
Everyone settled into their seats in silence, waiting for the presentation to begin.
When you looked up, you noticed that several university students had also been invited, most likely the winners of the annual journalism competition.
Your attention drifted toward two students sitting a few rows ahead.
A red-haired girl.
A blond boy wearing glasses.
They were speaking quietly, but every word reached your ears with perfect clarity.
"See? This is our world," the boy said.
A small, bittersweet smile appeared on your face before you even realized it.
"I know, Jack, but this world feels way too big for me," the girl admitted.
The insecurity in her voice felt painfully familiar.
"As long as it's the two of us, it'll feel small enough. We'll figure it out together," the boy replied as he adjusted his glasses with a gesture that somehow reminded you of Clark.
You lowered your gaze.
His words echoed inside you long after he'd finished speaking.
Then your phone vibrated.
Your chest tightened before you could stop it.
"Last time we came here as college students, and now we're journalists :)"
It was a text from Clark.
You locked the screen without replying and slipped your phone back into your purse.
Then you looked toward the stage again, your expression unreadable as you listened to the presentation and continued taking notes.
You weren't angry because he'd fallen in love with someone else.
As much as it hurt, you could understand that.
No one chooses who they fall in love with.
If Clark had found Lois, you were willing to accept it.
What you couldn't forgive was the betrayal.
The way he'd shattered your trust by revealing your secrets.
Those secrets had been your safe place.
The parts of yourself you'd shared only with him.
Now they belonged to someone else.
More than anything else, that was what broke you.
It wasn't unrequited love.
It was knowing he'd told someone else everything you were without ever asking for your permission.
You felt something before it happened.
It was like an electric current racing down your spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with imminent danger. You lifted your gaze, searching through the crowd, trying to identify the source of that feeling. But everything seemed normal. People were listening attentively to the talk, students were taking notes, and camera flashes lit up the stage every now and then. You sighed, thinking maybe it was just your imagination, and turned your attention back to what the speaker was saying.
Then you felt it.
A vibration, deep and powerful, shook the ground beneath your feet. A massive explosion rocked the entire place, making the walls tremble and people scream as they grabbed onto whatever they could. The lights flickered, and for one second, everything became chaos. The main door burst open, and a man ran in, his face twisted with panic.
"They're attacking the place!" he shouted, his voice swallowed by the screams of the crowd.
You looked around, assessing the situation with the speed your years of training had given you. You spotted the emergency exit at the lower level, and you knew it was the only safe way out.
"Move!" you shouted, helping people to their feet and gently pushing them toward the exit.
Then you saw the two students in front of you, the blond boy and his red-haired friend. He was holding her by the arm, shielding her with his body while she trembled with fear.
"They're going to attack the emergency exits," you said, your voice sounding steadier than you expected.
Without thinking, you ran, leaping between the seats and moving with an agility you couldn't explain. You arrived just in time to stop them from opening the door. One second was enough for you to throw yourself over them, covering them with your body as the emergency door exploded in a rain of fragments. The students stared at you with wide, terrified eyes, unable to understand how you had gotten there so quickly.
"There," you whispered, pointing to the side as you stood up.
A sharp pain shot through your leg, and you looked down to see a shard of glass from a table embedded in your calf. Without hesitation, you pulled it out in one swift motion, and the wound began closing almost immediately. No one was looking at you. Everyone was too busy running.
Clark looked at you from across the room, and in his eyes, you saw a mixture of worry and gratitude. He used the explosion of one of the walls to slip away, and within seconds, he was dressed as Superman, ready to act. He got Cat and the others out, including Lois, then returned to face the attackers.
Meanwhile, you protected the two college students, guiding them toward the stairs.
"This way," you said, running toward the main exit.
When you reached the outside, the cold evening air struck your face, and you saw Clark fighting two strange figures. One of them was a woman whose body seemed to be made of silver nanobots, shifting and glowing like a swarm of fireflies. The other was a man completely covered in black, even his face, with strength that matched Superman's. You turned your head and saw strange soldiers aiming unfamiliar weapons at civilians. You knew they needed Superman. He was the only one who could stop them.
Taking advantage of the soldiers rushing toward the building, you aimed your heat vision at the roof. The beam of energy struck the structure, and the ceiling began collapsing in pieces, creating a curtain of smoke and debris. Superman flew out immediately, and his eyes met yours.
It lasted only an instant, barely a second, but something passed between you.
As though the broken trust still hung by a thread.
As though that wordless communication you had always shared still existed.
He understood.
You had used your powers so he could save the people.
But then the man in black lunged at you. His arms closed around your body with brutal strength, and before you could react, he was already dragging you backward, pulling you away from where you stood. The screams of the crowd multiplied, and you heard Cat shouting your name in desperation.
Clark tried to throw himself toward you, but the woman made of nanobots stepped into his path, striking him with enough force to send him flying several meters back.
"No!" you heard Clark shout, but his voice began fading as the man in black carried you farther and farther away, bursting through the roof of the building and out into the open air.
Everyone left below thought a human had been taken, an ordinary journalist.
They didn't know you weren't like them.
And maybe it was better that way.
The wind struck your face as you flew in your captor's arms. You clenched your fists, feeling rage gather in your chest. You weren't going to stay still. You weren't going to let him take you without a fight. Once you were far enough from the building, once you knew no one could see you anymore, you acted.
You broke free from his grip with a violent movement, using your strength to push yourself away from him. The man in black flew back several meters, surprised, and in that brief hesitation, you took your chance to hit him. Your fist slammed into his chest, and you felt the force of the impact travel up your arm.
But he didn't fall.
He stumbled, yes, but he recovered quickly.
He launched himself at you again, and you moved with agility, dodging his outstretched hands as he tried to grab you. An aerial dance began, with you retreating and him chasing you, both of you moving through the clouds as though the sky itself had become your battlefield. You found one moment of advantage, a single second where he lost his balance, and you struck him hard, feeling his body shift from the impact.
But he was fast.
Faster than you expected.
He recovered almost immediately and, instead of attacking you, changed his strategy. Instead of striking you, he grabbed you as though he wanted to shove you toward something.
Then both of you began to fall.
The wind whistled in your ears as you plummeted. The ground rushed closer and closer, and you couldn't stop the force he was using against you. Within seconds, the sky became a green blanket of trees, and the impact with the ground was brutal.
You landed in a forest, the crack of branches and dry leaves accompanying the heavy thud of your fall. You rolled several meters, feeling dirt cling to your clothes and hair. You lifted your head quickly, searching for your attacker among the undergrowth.
The man in black rose slowly.
So did you.
The two of you stood there, facing each other in the middle of the forest, surrounded by silence and the breeze moving through the treetops. There was no more movement, only your uneven breathing and the sound of leaves crunching beneath your feet.
You shifted into a defensive stance, ready for whatever came next.
You were no longer in the city.
You no longer had to hide who you were.
Here, in the middle of nature, you could use all your strength, all your powers.
You were breathless, your body still tense and your fists clenched, ready to charge at him again.
But the man in black didn't move.
He only stood there in the middle of the forest, his mask covering his face and his hands falling to his sides. The crunch of leaves beneath his feet was the only sound that broke the silence.
Then something small fell from his chest.
A metallic device that clinked when it hit the ground and rolled a few centimeters.
And from it, a voice came through. Human. Of course it was human, as though the device connected him to another place.
"There are malfunctions. He's... losing it."
Then, with one hand, he crushed it and looked at you.
Even though you couldn't see his face beneath the mask, you knew he was looking at you.
You blinked several times, confused, and he, the man in black, tilted his head like a curious animal watching you from a distance, analyzing you.
Then he spoke.
His voice was strange, broken, as though he wasn't used to using it. Every word seemed to cost him an immense effort, as though he had to remember how sounds were formed.
"You... here... better," he said.
What kind of joke was this?
This man had kidnapped you, dragged you through the sky, and slammed you into the middle of a forest, and now he was telling you that you would be better here. You let out a bitter laugh, one made more of disbelief than amusement.
"I don't have time for games," you said.
With one powerful impulse, you tried to fly.
But he was faster.
He grabbed your arm with a strength that startled you, and both of you crashed to the ground among branches and dirt. You rolled several meters before standing up, furious, feeling earth cling to your clothes while anger burned in your chest like a flame you couldn't put out.
"Who are you?" you shouted, your voice echoing through the trees, bouncing off the trunks like a sound that refused to disappear. "Tell me who you are and what you want from me!"
He stood slowly, in no hurry, as if he had all the time in the world. He said nothing. He only shook his head when you tried to move away again.
"You... not go," he said.
His voice sounded firmer this time, though it still carried that broken quality, like someone who hadn't spoken in a very long time, as though the words got stuck in his throat before they could come out.
"Why not?" you asked, your heart beating fast, so fast it felt like it might tear out of your chest. "What do you want? Why did you bring me here?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he slowly lifted his hands and touched the edge of his mask. Without rushing, with movements that seemed calculated, as though every gesture had a purpose, he removed it completely.
And then you saw him.
Your breath caught in your throat.
It was Clark.
No.
It wasn't Clark.
He was identical to him, but different.
He was an imposing, rough, imperfect version of Superman, with rigid muscles that seemed carved out of stone instead of flesh. The difference was minimal, but it was enough for you to know it wasn't him. His features were slightly misaligned, as though someone had tried to copy a perfect face but failed to finish the final details. Unlike Clark's impeccable hairstyle, his dark hair was noticeably longer and unkempt, lacking the careful order Clark always maintained. His face was the same, but there was a hardness in his expression that Clark had never had, a cold and empty look that sent a chill down your spine.
"Ultraman," he said, pointing at himself with his thumb before gesturing to the U on his suit.
His voice was still broken, but now it carried a weight you hadn't noticed before.
"Kill... Superman."
You blinked, trying to process what you had just heard.
Ultraman.
The name was unfamiliar, but the intention behind it was clear.
This man, this twisted version of Clark, had come to kill Superman.
To kill Clark.
The same Clark who had broken your heart, yet you still couldn't fully hate. Despite everything, despite the lies and the secrets, he was still important to you.
You stood there in silence for a moment.
Then, without thinking, you moved closer to him.
His eyes followed you with that empty stare, without expression, without emotion, as if he were looking through you instead of at you.
You stopped a few steps away from him, your chest tight and your head full of questions you didn't know how to ask.
"Are you going to kill me too?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, almost a whisper lost among the leaves.
He shook his head, and his fingers pointed toward the broken device on the ground.
"People... from here," he said, clumsily touching his chest where the device had been removed, the one that had seemed to give him orders. "Not know... about you."
He repeated the words as though he wanted to make sure you understood, as if every syllable were a brick building an explanation that could barely stand.
"Why did you bring me here? I'm Superman's friend, the man you're planning to kill," you said, still unable to believe what your eyes were seeing. "I don't understand."
He tilted his head like a dog hearing a new sound, and his forehead furrowed slightly, as though he were trying to process your words.
You assumed he didn't understand, because he seemed to want to speak but kept stopping, as if the words slipped away from him just as he was about to say them.
Then he sighed.
A deep sound that seemed to come from somewhere far inside him.
"Energy... yours... draw me... protect you," he said, each word sounding like an effort, as though he were pulling strength from some dark place within himself.
Then he flew away with force, moving so fast you could barely see him.
You rose into the air with super speed and, using your vision, realized he had left with the other soldiers and the woman who had attacked.
But you didn't know who they were.
You didn't know where they came from or what they truly wanted.
You descended carefully, touching the ground as your legs trembled slightly, and sighed, releasing all the air you had been holding.
You took out your phone.
Clark was calling.
You answered.
"Where are you? I'm still in the suit. I can attack him and..." Clark said, his voice worried and rushed, as though he were about to fly straight to you.
"I'm fine. I'll fly back to the apartment. Just act like Superman rescued me," you said sharply, feeling the words leave your mouth with an edge you couldn't soften.
Before hanging up, you added, "Clark, do you have any idea who they were?"
You swallowed, feeling the knot in your throat.
"I have no idea," he admitted, then sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "But I feel like Luthor is involved."
You nodded, even though he couldn't see you, feeling the name resonate inside you like the toll of a bell.
"Fine," you said, and hung up without another word.
You stayed there in the middle of the forest, phone in hand and your head full of questions with no answers.
Ultraman.
Luthor.
The broken device.
The energy that had drawn him to you.
None of it made sense.
You flew back, feeling the cold night air cling to your skin as you approached your apartment.
When you arrived, you called back everyone who had been trying to reach you, making sure they knew Superman had saved you and brought you home, that you were fine and only wanted to rest.
But the truth was, you couldn't rest.
You paced back and forth across the living room, arms crossed, your mind spinning like a carousel that refused to stop.
The face of that man, that Ultraman, made you go pale every time you remembered it.
He was identical to Clark, and yet so different at the same time.
Had they made a clone of Clark?
Or was it something else?
Questions piled up in your head like a storm you couldn't calm.
And then another question arose.
Why was he interested in you?
What reason did he have to pull you away from the area he seemed to consider dangerous?
summary I You agreed to keep it casualโjust sex, no feelings. But when loving Bucky in silence begins to break you, walking away is the only thing you can doโฆ even if it destroys you both.
tags | Thunderbolts Spoilers??? I guess, tower fic, 18+ (MDNI), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, obsessive!bucky, fem!reader, miscommunication, dumbasses in love, platonic!bob x reader
a/n | new acc, this was to cute to write. Enjoy! REQUESTS ARE OPEN
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated โจโจ
แดแดsแดแดสสษชsแด
divider by @cafekitsune
It was always like this.
His body above yours, surrounding you, drowning you in heat and hunger like you were oxygen to him. Like fucking you was the only way he knew how to breathe. Like if he didnโt bury himself inside you right now, heโd come apart at the seams.
Bucky kissed you like he was starvingโmouth hot and bruising, tongue claiming yours with an edge of desperation that never quite dulled. His hands were everywhere, rough and sure, sliding under your tank, gripping your waist, dragging you beneath him like he was scared youโd vanish if he didnโt anchor you down.
You didnโt fight it. You never did.
Because this was the only version of him you could haveโthe one that came alive behind closed doors. The one who groaned your name like a curse when you kissed down his throat, who pulled your panties down with shaking hands, who slid into you with a sound like it hurt to finally be inside you.
โFuck, doll,โ he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, hips grinding into you deep and slow. โYou always feel so fuckinโ good. You were made for me.โ
God, it sounded like love. It always did.
His mouth found your neck again, biting gently, sucking bruises into your skin like a claim no one would ever see. And your hands clutched his back, nails digging in, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as you rocked your hips up to meet every thrust.
You wanted to believe this was real. That it meant something more. That the way he looked at youโeyes dark and blown wide, lips parted, breath raggedโwasnโt just lust.
But you knew better.
Youโd agreed to this.
No feelings. No mess. Just heat and need and late nights tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.
Still, you craved itโhimโin ways you couldnโt admit. Not even to yourself.
Bucky fucked you like you were a secret he couldnโt bear to keep. His metal hand gripped your thigh, forcing it higher around his hip, while his other tangled in your hair, tugging gently to expose your throat. He licked a stripe up your neck and groaned when you whimpered.
โDonโt hold back, baby,โ he said, voice low and rough. โWanna hear you.โ
You moaned for him, because you always did.
And he gave you everything. Thrust after thrust, deep and controlled, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out. Your bodies moved together like muscle memoryโpracticed, perfect.
You cried out when he hit that spot, again and again, stars bursting behind your eyelids as your orgasm built too fast to control. He felt itโknew itโand his grip tightened, pace faltering just slightly as he pressed harder, deeper.
โThatโs it, sweetheart,โ he growled. โCome on, give it to me.โ
You shattered.
Your body seized around him, nails raking down his back, mouth falling open in a silent cry as pleasure tore through you in waves. And Bucky? He didnโt stop. He chased his own release through the pulsing grip of your cunt, moaning your name like a promise heโd never make aloud.
โFuckโgonna comeโshit, fuckโโ he gasped, slamming into you once more before spilling inside with a groan so raw it made your chest ache.
He collapsed against you, face buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged.
You held him, like you always did. Tangled in the afterglow, skin slick with sweat, hearts still racing. And for a moment, you let yourself pretend.
That maybe this time would be different.
That maybe heโd stay.
That maybe he'd roll off of you, cup your cheek, and tell you he couldnโt keep pretending this didnโt mean something.
But instead, he sighed. A soft, satisfied sound. Then rolled onto his back, pulling his arm behind his head.
He didnโt look at you.
He never did after.
You stared at the ceiling, heart pounding in your throat, your body warm and full and hollow all at once.
And all you could think was:
I want him to touch me like that in the daylight.
I want him to want me when weโre not naked.
But he didnโt. Or wouldnโt. Or couldnโt.
You werenโt sure which hurt more.
The kitchen in the tower was quiet, save for the soft clatter of a cutting board and the low simmer of something bubbling on the stove. You stood at the counter, knife in hand, carefully dicing onions while Bob sat beside you, his own cutting board a chaotic mess of uneven pepper slices and cucumber spears.
He was squinting at the vegetables like theyโd wronged him personally.
โI swear,โ he said, furrowing his brow as he tried to slice a tomato without completely demolishing it, โthese things are out to get me. Slippery little bastards.โ
You chuckled, shaking your head. โYou donโt have to help, you know.โ
โNo, I want to. Itโsโฆ nice.โ He shrugged. โDomestic. Also, I read somewhere it builds team trust or something. Shared food prep.โ
You snorted. โWhereโd you read that?โ
โA Reddit thread about Dungeons & Dragons, actually.โ
You laughed for real that time. โOf course.โ
The smell of garlic and rosemary floated through the air. The oven clicked softly as it preheated. Outside the window, the sky was grey and moodyโclassic New Yorkโbut there was something warm about the kitchen. Safe. Familiar. Even with the quiet ache in your chest that you were pretending wasnโt there.
You kept chopping. So did he. Or tried to.
โYโknow,โ Bob said after a beat, holding up a mutilated chunk of bell pepper, โI donโt think Iโm ever gonna be a culinary genius. Might have to accept that my gifts lie elsewhere.โ
โLike sitting on the couch and watching TV?โ
โAnd comic relief,โ he added proudly. โTwo very underappreciated superpowers.โ
You gave him a sidelong look, smirking. โYouโre not wrong.โ
He grinned. Then, more softly, โI like this, though. Being part of a team. Even if itโs weird sometimes. Even if people yell. Or punch through walls. Or if Alexei keeps pitching us matching uniforms with capes.โ
You snorted again, setting down your knife. โHe has been obsessed with that lately.โ
โRight?โ Bob said, picking at a cucumber slice. โBut even with all the chaos, itโs good. I never really had this before. A group. People who give a damn. Who check in. Itโs likeโฆ like being part of a weird, violent little family. And I know Iโm not the mostโฆ stable, but I feel likeโlike Iโm seen. Cared for. Loved, even. Not in the romantic senseโthough Walker did call me โacceptableโ once, which Iโm counting as progress.โ
You laughed softly againโbut it was different this time. Quieter. Shorter.
Bob didnโt seem to notice.
He kept talking, absently stacking pepper pieces into a leaning tower. โI donโt know. It just hit me earlier when Alexei dragged me to look at fabric swatches, and he was complaining about the thread count like we were planning a wedding. I was likeโฆ this is insane. But alsoโthis is nice. Like I matter. Like I belong.โ
The sting started slow. So faint you barely noticed it at first.
A tightness behind your eyes. A pull at the corners of your mouth. Something twisting low in your stomach like a warning bell you were trying very hard to ignore.
Bob looked over at you with an easy smile, still speaking, voice gentler now. โI guess I just wanted to sayโฆ Iโm glad Iโm here. Iโm glad I get to be around people who give a damn. Thatโs why I love being on this team.โ
And just like thatโit cracked.
The sting sharpened. The pressure behind your eyes pulsed hot, and your throat closed up around the sudden, suffocating weight of it.
Because all you could think was:
God, I want that too.
To feel loved. Chosen. Not just useful when someone needed to blow off steam. Not just fucked behind closed doors and forgotten in the light of day.
You bit the inside of your cheek hard, forcing yourself to blink fast, to keep your head down, to move your hands like nothing was wrong. But the tears came anywayโsilent, slow, slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.
You tried to wipe them away subtly, turning toward the sink, pretending to rinse your hands. But it wasnโt subtle enough.
โWhoaโoh no,โ Bob said, his eyes going wide. โDid Iโdid I say something wrong?โ
You shook your head quickly, facing away. โNo. No, itโs not you. I swear.โ
He stood up beside you, hovering awkwardly, clearly panicking. โIs it the peppers? I knew I was butchering them. I knew they looked sad but I didnโt think they were tear-worthyโโ
A shaky laugh broke out of you, even as you tried to wipe your face. โBob, no. Stop. Itโs not your fault.โ
He hesitated, frowning deeply, hands fidgeting at his sides. โIs itโdo you want me to go? I didnโt mean to mess anything upโโ
You turned to him, eyes red, cheeks wet, and smiledโsmall and painful.
โI justโฆ needed to hear that,โ you said softly. โWhat you said. About being seen. Cared for. Loved.โ
Bobโs face softened immediately. โOh. Oh. I get it. Iโm sorry.โ
โNo,โ you said again, shaking your head, voice barely a whisper now. โDonโt apologize. You didnโt do anything wrong.โ
He reached out, then hesitated, then finally rested a hand gently on your hand. โFor what itโs worthโฆ I think whoeverโs making you feel like youโre not those things is an idiot.โ
You gave him a wobbly smile, another tear slipping free. โYeah.โ
Bob didnโt ask more. He didnโt need to. And you were grateful for that.
Instead, he just stood with you in the quiet hum of the kitchen, as the smell of dinner simmered in the background and the sky outside darkened to evening.
And all you could thinkโover and overโwas:
I canโt do this anymore.
The second the quinjet touched down, Bucky unbuckled and stood, impatient fingers already tugging off his gloves. He barely registered Yelenas's debrief, or the way Ava elbowed him and muttered something about getting sleep for once. He just nodded and walked out, barely hearing her call after him.
He didnโt want sleep.
He wanted you.
Heโd been thinking about you the entire mission. About the way you always curled up on the couch when you thought no one was watching. The way youโd made blueberry muffins the morning before they left and snuck him one while everyone else was busy fighting over the coffee machine. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiledโjust for him.
No one had to know.
No one did know.
And that made it easier to pretend this wasnโt killing him.
That this wasnโt something he wanted every damn day.
He reached your hallway before he even realized how fast heโd been walking. It was lateโ11:07 by the glowing red digits on the hallway clock. Most of the tower was asleep. But your light was still on.
He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, nerves flaring. He always got like this before seeing you. Like some teenager with a crush instead of a 100-year-old ex-assassin whoโd watched entire countries fall.
But you made him feelโฆ different. Human.
He raised his hand and knocked, soft and firm.
And then the door openedโand there you were.
A soft lime green nightgown hugged your body in a way that made his breath catch. It clung to your curves, all sleepy and ethereal and warm, and for a second, all he could do was look at you.
His chest ached.
God, you were beautiful.
He didnโt wait. He didnโt think. He reached out, cupping your face in both hands, drawing you in like a man starved for warmth and memory. His lips found yoursโsoft, reverent, desperate. He kissed you like you were the last safe thing he had.
And then your hands pressed against his chest.
Not pulling him closer.
Pushing him away.
He pulled back, blinking. His brows knit together. โWhatโs wrong?โ
You looked up at him, eyes already glossy, mouth parted like the words hurt too much to say. โBuckyโฆ we need to stop.โ
His stomach dropped.
The hallway suddenly felt ice cold.
โWhat?โ His voice cracked, quiet and rough. โWhat do you mean?โ
You looked down, fingers curling into the fabric of your nightgown, and stepped back just slightly. โWhat weโve been doingโฆ thisโฆ it needs to end.โ
It hit him like a punch to the ribs. All the breath knocked from his lungs.
โIโI donโt understand,โ he said. โDid I do something? Say something? If Iโโ
โNo,โ you cut in gently, and it broke him how kind your voice still was. โYou didnโt do anything wrong.โ
โThen why?โ He was still holding your gaze, desperate. โIs itโฆ is it someone else?โ
You hesitated.
That was enough of an answer.
You nodded once. โIโveโฆ met someone. And this would complicate things.โ
The lie hung between you like smoke. Fragile. Choking.
Bucky swallowed hard. His hands had dropped to his sides, and he clenched them into fists before forcing them open again. He was trying to stay calm. He had no right to be angry. You werenโt his.
Youโd never been his.
But still, the ache that bloomed in his chest was unbearable. His heart was thundering, cracking in real time as he stared at you, unblinking.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell you that no one could touch you the way he could. That no one could possibly know you the way he did. He wanted to grab you, beg you not to leave him in the dark again.
But he didnโt.
Because you deserved better than that.
You always had.
He cleared his throat, voice suddenly hoarse and distant. โOkay. If thatโs what you want.โ
You blinked at him, a flicker of pain crossing your face. Then you leaned in, so gently it almost made him flinch, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Soft. Final.
โGoodnight, Bucky.โ
You stepped back inside your room.
And the door closed.
He stood there for a long time.
He didnโt move. Didnโt breathe.
Just stared at the closed door like he could will it to open again. Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, this wouldnโt be real.
But it was.
And all he could think was:
You found someone else.
Youโthe one person who made him feel like maybe he wasnโt ruined. Who baked for the team. Who held him after nightmares without asking questions. Who looked at him like he wasnโt just the Winter Soldier, or some washed-up relic, or some broken man with too much blood on his hands.
You looked at him like he was worth something.
And now you were gone.
He backed away slowly, footsteps hollow against the corridor floor, heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out.
It was just supposed to be sex.
It was never supposed to hurt like this.
It started small.
You werenโt avoiding Buckyโnot outright. But you were pulling away, and he felt it in every single subtle shift like a blade under the skin.
No more soft smiles in the hallway.
No more plates quietly set in front of him when you made dinner.
You still said โheyโ in passing, still nodded when he entered the room, still asked if he wanted coffee when the whole team was aroundโbut your eyes didnโt linger anymore. You didnโt touch him. You didnโt look at him the same way.
And that quiet, gentle retreat was worse than a clean break.
Because it gave him just enough to hope. And not enough to hold.
It drove him mad.
He tried to play it cool. Tried to remind himself that youโd made your choiceโthat youโd moved on. That there was someone else. But the words haunted him like a ghost he couldnโt punch, couldnโt outpace.
Who the fuck was he?
Where did you meet him?
Was he better than Bucky? Was that it?
Was he stable, normal, sweet? Did he hold you in the morning, trace your spine with soft fingers, kiss your forehead and mean it?
The thoughts ran wild in his mind like wildfire. And soon, it stopped being curiosity. It became need. Obsessive. All-consuming.
He started watching. Not youโhe couldnโt stomach how far away you already felt. No, he watched everyone else.
Was it someone on the team?
Someone new?
Someone from missions? The tower? That goddamn bar you liked downtown?
He noticed every time you laughed at someone elseโs joke. Every time you left a room too quickly. Every time your phone lit up and your smile didnโt quite reach your eyes. It was driving him insane.
Ava didnโt look up from the security feed she was reviewing. โWhat?โ
He cleared his throat, leaned against the console like this wasnโt eating him alive. โYโknow. Sheโs beenโฆ out more. Wondered if youโd noticed her with someone.โ
Ava gave him a look that said you have five seconds before I tear this conversation apart with a crowbar. โSheโs not a suspect, Barnes.โ
โI know,โ he said quickly. โDidnโt mean it like that. Justโwondered.โ
She paused. โYou checking up on her?โ
He shrugged. โJust being observant.โ
โThen observe your own damn lane,โ she muttered, turning back to her screen. โSheโs allowed to have a life.โ
โAre you drunk?โ she asked, one eyebrow raised as she watched him pace the kitchen while you chatted with Bob across the room.
โNo.โ
โThen you sound like a madman.โ She sipped her tea. โYou are obsessed.โ
โIโm justโโ
โYou had her,โ she interrupted, calm and sharp as a knife. โYou had her when it counted. And now youโre circling like a lonely wolf because someone else has her?โ
โYou knew about us?โ
โI am a literal spy, Bucky.โ
โI just donโt know who it is.โ
โYouโre not entitled to know,โ she said simply, and walked away.
โShe has mystery man, huh?โ he said, delighted, cracking open a beer like they were old pals trading war stories. โAh, young love! Reminds me of my fourth loveโno, fifth. It was confusing time. She had beautiful thighs. We met during a snowstorm, and she carried me to safety like bear.โ
Bucky stared at him, hollow-eyed.
Alexei clapped a massive hand on his shoulder. โYou cannot compete with new love, my friend. It is fire. It is danger. But! Sometimes fire burns out. And when it does, you be there with flowers. Or your shirt off. Both work.โ
Bucky cornered him while he was grabbing cookies from the kitchen. Big mistake number two. He tried to sound as casual as possible.
โSo, uh. You and her hang out sometimes, right?โ
Bob blinked, brow furrowing. โUhโฆ yeah? Sheโs awesome.โ
โSheโs been acting different. With me.โ
Bob fidgeted, clutching a cookie like a shield. โI mean, sheโs been normal with me. Maybe a little sad? But also like, really pretty. But sheโs always pretty, so thatโsโuhโnot relevant.โ
Bucky stepped closer. Bob stepped back, hitting the counter.
โI was joking, Bucky. Please donโt punch me.โ
Bucky took a deep breath, backed off. โSorry.โ
Because no one knewโor if they did, they werenโt telling.
And every time he saw you, something inside him twisted.
The way you laughed with Ava over your shared playlist. The way you sat on the arm of the couch next to John during a debrief. The way you ruffled Bobโs hair like a big sister, patient and teasing.
He saw you with everyone.
And he didnโt know which of them you were fucking.
Which of them made you smile when you looked at your phone.
Which of them got to hold you the way he used toโlike you were theirs.
And it was killing him.
He started losing sleep. His nights were spent pacing his room, replaying every kiss, every laugh, every small moment with you. He couldnโt go to the kitchen without thinking of you cooking in it. Couldnโt walk by your room without hearing your voice.
Because the truth was, he hadnโt stopped wanting you.
Not for a second.
But he hadnโt thought he deserved you.
Heโd told himself it was better this way. That he couldnโt be what you needed. That he was too broken, too guarded, too haunted.
He didnโt want to drag you into his shadows.
But now you were in someone elseโs light.
And Bucky Barnesโsuper soldier, ex-Winter Soldier, world-class killerโwas unraveling.
One glance. One silence. One laugh that wasnโt his to earn.
At a time.
It had been two weeks.
Two weeks since that night at your door. Since you told him you were seeing someone. Since your lips brushed his cheek like a goodbye that had already been decided, like the end of a story he hadnโt realized was even being written.
And stillโno one.
Not a name. Not a face. Not even a damn clue.
No late-night laughter through thin walls. No footsteps sneaking down hallways. No signs of you sneaking off to a date. You still had the same quiet routines. The same soft smile when Bob told one of his nervous jokes. The same stretch in the mornings when you walked into the kitchen with sleepy eyes and socks that didnโt match.
But different.
He still watched you.
Not like beforeโwhen heโd admire the slope of your shoulders, the way your nose scrunched when you were concentrating, or how your hands always smelled faintly like vanilla and cinnamon. No, now he watched you with something closer to desperation.
He was trying to catch you.
Catch you in a lie. Catch you with him. The one who apparently meant enough to end everything you and Bucky had.
But nothing ever happened.
Instead, he saw things that confused him more.
You started going out on your own more oftenโmidday errands, little walks, solo grocery runs even though there was food delivery and team shoppers. And he followed once.
Not to spy, he told himself.
Just to know.
You walked into a bookstore first. Wandered the aisles slowly. Bought two paperbacks and left without speaking to anyone. Then you stopped by a floristโpicked out a single bouquet of fresh lilies, something subtle and quiet.
He expected you to deliver it to someone.
But instead, you brought it back to the tower and placed it on the dining table. Just something to brighten the space, like you always did.
You went to the park next. Sat on a bench. Ate a pastry. Fed the ducks.
Alone.
He watched from across the street, feeling something cold settle in his chest.
When you returned, he waited a few hours before asking Yelenaโcasually, as he always did, which fooled absolutely no one anymore.
โYou know where she went today?โ
Yelena raised an unimpressed eyebrow. โShe went to clear her head. Like normal people.โ
โNot with anyone?โ
โDo you think she is incapable of being alone? Because that says more about you, Barnes.โ
He didnโt answer.
He stopped asking questions after that.
Because it was dawning on himโslowly, painfully, in piecesโthat there was no โsomeone else.โ There never had been.
You hadnโt lied to hurt him. Youโd lied to protect yourself.
And he had made you feel like you had to.
The thought made him sick.
He started noticing more, thenโnot just your absence, but the echo of what used to be. How you still made muffins for the team on Mondays. How you always passed out Advil after training. How you left soft music playing in the kitchen while cooking like you didnโt know anyone was listening. How you still took care of everyone except yourself.
He noticed how tired you looked sometimes. How your smile faltered when no one was looking. How your laugh had a hollow note nowโlike it had to fight its way out.
He noticed how you stopped meeting his eyes entirely.
And he finally asked himself what he had been to you.
Not just the sex. Not just the soft groans in the dark or the way your body curved into his like you were made for him.
But the mornings.
The muffins.
The hand you placed on his back after nightmares.
The way you listened when no one else could see he was slipping.
The way you waitedโpatient, hopefulโfor something more from him.
And he hadnโt given it.
Not because he didnโt want to.
Because he thought he couldnโt.
He had told himself he wasnโt ready. That he was too broken. That he would only ruin something good and pure if he touched it too deeply. But the truth was, heโd already touched it. You had given him your heart in small, quiet ways, and he hadnโt even noticed until it was gone.
And now you were hurting, silently, because of him. Because youโd fallen for someone who told you not to. And heโd let you think he didnโt feel the same.
Until now.
He couldnโt sit still.
Heโd tried. For two days. Two full fucking days since the realization broke through him like a goddamn lightning strikeโand heโd tried to be patient. Tried to breathe. Tried to think.
But he wasnโt thinking anymore.
He was moving.
Searching.
Every room. Every hallway. The kitchen, the gym, your roomโempty. He was spinning, chest tight, mouth dry, pacing like an addict itching for a fix, until finallyโ
Laughter.
The living room.
His boots hit the floor fast. He rounded the corner and stopped.
You were there. On the couch.
You, Bob, and Yelena.
Golden Girls was playingโDorothy mid-quip, the volume just low enough to keep conversation alive. You were laughing, body relaxed, tucked into the corner with a blanket over your legs and a mug in your hand.
And he didnโt hesitate.
He walked straight in. Right past Bobโs curious look. Right past Yelenaโs raised brow.
Straight to you.
You looked up immediately, your smile faltering when you saw his face. The tension in his shoulders. The storm in his eyes.
โBucky?โ you asked, sitting up. โAre you okayโ?โ
โI think I love you.โ
It spilled out of him like it had been waiting behind his teeth for weeks.
You blinked.
Bobโs mouth dropped open mid-sip.
Yelena turned fully toward him, brows lifted to her hairline.
He didnโt care.
โNoโโ Bucky swallowed hard. โNo, thatโs not right. I know I love you.โ
You stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly. Stunned.
Buckyโs heart pounded against his ribs, chest tight and burning. โI know itโs not the way I shouldโve told you. And I know I donโtโfuck, I donโt deserve to say it after everything I didnโt say before. But I need you to hear me now.โ
You still didnโt say anything. Just stared.
Then your hand twitched. Slid to your opposite arm.
And you started pinching your skin.
Buckyโs brow furrowed. โWhatโฆ what are you doing?โ
Your voice was breathy, soft. โTrying to wake up.โ
โWhat?โ
โIโm pinching myself,โ you said, barely louder than a whisper. โTrying to wake up. Because thereโs no way this is actually happening.โ
Bucky felt something in him break.
He took a shaky breath, stepping closer, dropping to his knees in front of you. His voice was rough but steady now.
โItโs real. I swear to you, itโs real.โ
You stared at him like he was a ghost. Like he wasnโt allowed to be saying this.
โIโve been losing my mind,โ he continued, voice cracking slightly. โThinking there was someone else. Trying to believe youโd moved on because it was easier than facing the truth.โ
You swallowed hard, but didnโt speak.
โAnd the truth isโI was scared.โ He laughed, humorless, shaking his head. โI thought I wasnโt enough. That Iโd mess it up. That I couldnโt give you what you deserve.โ
He looked up at you now, eyes wide, glassy.
โBut then I realizedโฆ you are what I deserve. Youโre everything. Youโre the reason this damn place feels like home. You cook for us even when no one thanks you. You remember everyoneโs coffee orders. You make playlists for Bob and knit Ava a goddamn scarf even though she acts like she doesnโt care. You bake when youโre anxious, and I fucking love when you bake. You hum when you clean. You take care of everyone and let yourself break when no oneโs looking.โ
He reached up, brushing your arm where youโd been pinching.
โAnd I didnโt see it. Not really. Not until it was too late.โ
A beat.
Then, softlyโโBut maybe itโs not too late.โ
Yelena had stopped breathing. Bob looked like he might cry. But none of them mattered right now.
Just you.
Buckyโs voice dropped to a whisper. โI love you. And Iโm sorry it took me so long to figure it out. But I know it now. And Iโm not running from it anymore.โ
You didnโt say anything for a long moment.
Just looked down at him.
And your eyesโฆ your eyes were full.
You couldnโt breathe.
He was on his knees in front of you, staring up with those wide, heartbreak-blue eyes, his voice still echoing in your ears like a song you hadnโt heard in years but somehow still knew all the words to.
I love you.
And now he was waitingโwatchingโlike his whole world depended on what you were going to say next.
Your throat felt thick. Your heart was pounding so hard you were surprised no one else could hear it. You blinked fast, trying to keep your vision clear, but the tears were already threatening to fall.
You stared at him for a long moment, lips trembling, and whispered, โPromise me this isnโt a dream.โ
Buckyโs breath caught. He reached up, brushing your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. โItโs not,โ he said, voice wrecked. โItโs not, baby. I swear.โ
And then you saw the moment he broke.
The last thread of restraint snapped, and suddenly he was risingโleaning in, closing the space between you before you could even think.
His lips met yours, soft and trembling at firstโalmost reverentโthen deeper, hungrier, like he couldnโt bear to hold back another second. You gasped into his mouth, one hand flying to his jaw, the other looping around his neck, pulling him in like you were afraid he might vanish.
He groaned against you, like the sound of your mouth opening for him undid something inside him.
And then he climbed onto the couch, practically on top of you, bracing one knee beside your hip as he leaned down, his hands burying themselves in your hair. Your back hit the cushions, breath caught in your throat, and the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the feel of his body pressed into yours, the desperate, perfect weight of him finally, finally there.
His thumb stroked the line of your jaw as he kissed you again, deeper now, and you let yourself sink into it. Into him.
Untilโ
โโฆGuys?โ Yelenaโs voice cut in, dry and deeply unimpressed. โWe are still here.โ
You froze.
Bucky pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead to yours, his lips still hovering over yours, his chest rising and falling like heโd just run ten miles. You were both breathless, giddy, flushed.
โI forgot they were here,โ you whispered, blinking up at him.
โMe too,โ he said, smiling against your cheek.
From the other end of the couch, Bob cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. โSoooโฆ should we leave now?โ
โNo,โ Yelena snapped immediately. โWe were here first. This was very sweet two minutes ago, and now itโs making me deeply uncomfortable.โ
You laughed into Buckyโs shoulder, muffling the sound.
He just chuckled and kissed your temple before whispering, โStill not a dream, I swear.โ
You smiled up at him, and for the first time in a long time, it didnโt feel like something you had to fake.
Summary:ย After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.
Word count:ย 2.1k
Warnings:ย Some angst and miscommunication
a/n:ย I love this trope!! It was so fun to write a little one and I loveee reading it. I hope you enjoy!! Thank you for reading ily โค๏ธโค๏ธ
Masterlist
~~
You fought off the swell of your throat with tight lips, stirring the contents of the pot with unnecessary care. He was staring at you. He had been staring at you from the moment he came inside, but there was nothing you could do about itโnothing you should do about it.ย
The spices from the haphazardly thrown-together dinner were beginning to burn your eyes. This felt awful. The past week had felt awful.ย
After overhearing Bucky call you intense, everything you felt was amplified.ย
It had been an accident, you being at his apartment at that exact moment. You were dropping by unannounced, but you hadnโt even knocked on the door before his words had vibrated past the locked threshold of the door. And then you had left.ย
You had taken great care to be less intense over the past week. This was the first time Bucky had been in your apartment since that day, and that hadnโt been without struggle. He asked to come over several times, even showing up and knocking on the door while you pretended to be asleep. It all felt very juvenileโthe ignoring and avoiding and missing calls. But you didnโt know how else to respond.ย
You loved Bucky. You loved him and it felt intense, but, apparently, things had moved too fast for him. A few months of dating were not enough. You were too much.
You had told him you loved him for the first time just days before you overheard his confession, so connecting the dots hadnโt been very hard.
You were too much.ย
Avoiding him had been made easier by your intense work schedule. You stayed overtime and texted brief excuses. That had worked for a time. But last night, Bucky showed up at your office with a bag of takeout and an uncomfortably furrowed brow, and you knew it was probably time to face this.ย
You gave him space for a week, and now it was time to practice being less intense in person. You couldnโt avoid him forever. And it hurtโbeing away from him for too long. Not that you would admit that. Not now.ย
โI donโt know how good this is going to be,โ you huffed out a laugh, ladling noodles into two bowls. โItโs a new recipe, and Iโm kinda low on groceries.โย
When you glanced up at Bucky sitting on the couch, his smile looked strained. โโM sure itโll be great.โย
You replied with a short smile, glancing down at the bowls as you joined him in the living room. You sat far enough away for it to make senseโone cushion over, not halfway in his lap like you used to. The television created a soft backdrop of some show you werenโt paying attention to, but the meal was otherwise silent.ย
You missed kissing him.
When he came in, you gave him one quick press of your lips and then darted back to the kitchen, ignoring the feel of his hands on your waist as they rushed to grab you. He was only doing all of that to appease youโthe calls and trips to your office and the affection.ย
If you let him do what he didnโt want to do, you would lose him.ย
โWell,โ you prompted, your teasing smile almost wobbling over the bowl. โHow is it?โย
Bucky caught your eye from the other side of the small couch. His expression narrowed on your mouth, and then he winced, almost imperceptibly.ย
Something dropped in your gut.ย
โItโs good, sweetheart.โย
You kept up your smile, but as you turned back to your meal and pretended to watch TV, everything felt final. Your jaw was stiff as you took your next bite, the food tasting like nothing and curdling in your stomach. You hadnโt done enough. You hadnโt given him enough space. He had been so adamant about coming over because this was the end.ย
You left your bowl half-filled when you placed it on the coffee table, the smell of it nauseating. The inside of your cheek was bleeding from where you bit into it.ย
โDone already?โ Bucky asked. He had finished a few minutes before you, his dish next to yours, and his arm looped back behind the couch. He wasnโt touching you. Almost, but not.ย
โYeah,โ you replied. The single word sounded unstable, and you cursed your throat for feeling so thick with anxiety. You looked at Bucky from the corner of your eye, only to find his eyes closed and his expression pinched.ย
Your lips parted. Were you going to beg? That would only make it worse, surely. Too intense, too much.ย
Maybe this would be for the best. Some time for a break wouldโ
โPlease, tell me how to fix this.โย
You blinked at the TV, and then you blinked over towards Bucky, lips still parted but no words escaping them.ย
A pause as breath was caught in the heaviness of your chest, and then, โWhat?โย
Bucky moved his tongue to his cheek, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He was wearing a hoodie today, and it felt so uncharacteristic that you had almost been distracted at the door.ย
โI canโtโฆ I canโt lose you, okay? I donโt know what I did, but you gotta tell me or Iโmโโ his hands came up to run over his head and fall at the nape of his neck. โโjust tell me what I did, sweetheart. Please.โย
He turned to look at you then, only a foot of space between you but the distance almost stifling. Your hands clenched atop your knees, and he watched them, eyes flickering to any movement you made. He tracked your unsteady breath, the way your gaze couldnโt stay rooted in one place, and each minute shift in your features.ย
โI donโtโI donโt understand,โ you offered, because it was the truth.ย
Buckyโs jaw rocked to the side. โYou barely said three words to me this week. You didnโt want me overโdidnโt want to see me. I fought through your building security to bring you dinner, and you lookedโฆ Baby, I walked through the door and looked about ready to cry. I mean, you didnโt evenโyou barely even kissed me today.โย
Your gentle sigh weighed down your chest. You dropped your gaze down to the couch, unaware that Bucky was desperately trying to find himself there, leaning his head down to no avail. This didnโt make any sense. You really couldnโt do anything right, it seemed.ย
โItโs justโbaby, I thought you saidโโ Bucky started, speaking in such disjointed sentences you looked up to try and parse them out. His shoulders untensed as you did, but then he said, โThought you loved me, is that still true?โ and the confusing swirl of emotions turned to devastation.ย
โI do,โ you fervently replied, shaking your head as if that made sense. โOf course I do, Bucky, but youโฆโย
โI what?โ Bucky rushed to get clarification, the vulnerability so clear on his face it made you ache.ย
โI thought I was too much for you. I was trying to give you space. I thought you were going to end things tonight.โย
โWhy in the hell would you think that?โ he exasperated, the words harsh but his delivery of them so gentle.ย
You bit into your bottom lip and let out another breath, the pressure on your chest looming down into your ribs. The fists on your knees moved to pick at a loose thread on the couch.ย
โI came by on Saturdayโto your apartment, I mean. You left your jacket in my car, and I knew you were going to be out late with Sam.โย
โBut I didnโtโโย
โI never actually got inside your apartment,โ you revealed, knocking your head to the side, still unable to fully meet his gaze.ย
A tick of silence passed.ย
โYou heard me.โย
This was the worst part. It made you seem immature, eavesdropping from the hall of his building. It made you seem immature, and you were also petty because you avoided him for a week. You fought the urge to allow the couch to swallow you whole.
โI didnโt mean to hear you,โ you stressed, pulling and tugging at the loose corner of your cushion. โI left pretty quickly. I didnโtโโย
โHey,โ Bucky interrupted. He placed fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. The concern in his features masked lingering hurt, and you moved your hands into your lap to squeeze them together instead. โWhat did you hear, baby?โ
You flickered your gaze between his eyes. โIโm not mad at you. I understand, you know? I wouldnโt wantโโย
โY/n. What did you hear?โ
โThat you think Iโm too intense. That thisโusโis too much, maybe.โย
Bucky kept you in his hold, but he closed his eyes. The hurt melted from his face only to be replaced with something akin to regret. He shook his head slightly, jutted out his jaw, and then he looked at you once again, his features strained.ย
โDamn,โ he whispered. The fingers under your chin moved to cup your cheek, rubbing soothing shapes there. โThought you were leaving me, did you know that? Whole time this has been my own fault. God.โย
Bucky shifted forward on the couch until your legs were pressed close. You untucked yours to accommodate him, greedy for the contact despite your confusion, and he only got closer. When his forehead touched yours, you gave in to the burn in your waterline, vision blurrier than it had been.ย
โI love you so goddamn much,โ Bucky began, moving back only an inch to find your watery gaze. โWhen I said you were intense, I meant that this is the most Iโve ever felt for someone. That the intensity was mutual. That maybe, at the rate weโre going, it would be too much for you. I was asking Sam for adviceโseeing if he thought I should back off.โย
โYou?โ you asked, the word crackling in your throat.ย
โYeah, me, sweetheart. Not you. I was afraid you were gonna bolt one of these days. Iโm not exactly the easiest to get along with, according to quite a few people, and I know that loving you means that Iโm probably the worst around you.โ
The muscle at the corner of your mouth twitched, and along with it went the stress that had settled in every nerve ending in your body. The tension in your jaw released, your chest began to ease, and the only remaining negative was the sadness at Buckyโs confessionโat his fronted vulnerability.ย
You reached up to catch his wrist in your grip, and he responded by bringing his other hand up to hold you fully.
โI love you,โ you affirmed. Buckyโs own smile was sad. โIโve never thought about โbolting.โ I spent this entire week sad and lonely because I was afraid you were going to leave me. I was trying to show you that I could beโฆ chill, I guess.โย
โChill?โ Bucky repeated with a scoff-like laugh, brows shooting up as he brushed his thumbs along the dampness of your cheeks. โI drove past your apartment every night this week. I used that shampoo you left in my shower just to make my bed smell like you again. I wroteโฆGod, I wrote you this letter because I figured maybe if you got something in the mailโโย
โYou sent me mail?โ you interrupted.ย
Buckyโs face blushed a bashful pink, his mouth open in a defensive smile. โWe can forget about the mail, okay? Now that weโre talking it out.โย
โRight. Iโm going to check my mail when you leave.โย
โHey,โ he demanded, his playful, pointed look reorienting you to the reason behind the tears now drying on your face. When you settled back into his gaze, Bucky readjusted you in his hands, bringing your head into his shoulder until you were fully in his arms. โI love you, you got that? Iโm sorry you heard what you did and thoughtโthought that wasnโt true. Youโre the best thing thatโs ever happened to me. I never want to feel like that againโlike Iโm losing you.โย
You tightened your fingers into the material of Buckyโs hoodie, taking a moment to relish in his arms around you. You nodded against him, hoping that would suffice, and it did. He kissed the side of your head and leaned back against the couch, bringing you with him.ย
โCanโt even check the mail,โ Bucky eventually grumbled out. โYouโre crazy if you think Iโm leaving any time soon.โ
pairing: bucky barnes x emergency room nurse!reader
summary: itโs your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. and his name, traced endlessly across your skin. you've always been meant to cross paths this way. (soulmate au!)
word count: 11.4k words
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, praising, piv, overstimulation, shower sex, creampie, face riding, dirty talk, ungodly levels of yearning, mentions of violence and clinical situations, death, explores heavy themes
Youโve gotten very good at waking up without hope over the years.
Your alarm goes off at 4:48 a.m. because you refuse to wake up on the hour like everyone else. Itโs a small rebellionโpointless, probably, but in a life built from shifts and protocol, those twelve minutes feel like something you own.ย
The soulmark itches before you even lift the blankets. You donโt touch it. Havenโt in years. It rests on your left side, just under the ribs, where your arm folds when you cradle a patient or scrub blood from your skin. The nameโs still there. James Buchanan Barnes. Etched like a brand.ย
You learned to stop reading it a long time ago.
You were thirteen the first time you felt it โ not the weight of it, not really, but the press of inevitability. The skin just under your ribs itched for three days straight, and no matter how you scratched, how you pressed cold washcloths to it or distracted yourself with school or swimming or the terrifying newness of puberty, it pulsed with the promise of something you couldnโt name.
"Maybe you're allergic to something," your mom said, more distracted than concerned, passing you a bottle of calamine lotion while balancing a phone call.
Then, the name came in the middle of the night.
Youโd woken up disoriented, not from a nightmare exactly, but from the sense that something had shifted. That your body was no longer just your own.ย
You pulled up your pajama shirt with trembling hands, stomach flipped inside out with something like fear. Or awe. And there it was, written in a careful, antique script like it had always been there โ James Buchanan Barnes.
You said it out loud. Just once. Just to see if it sounded real.ย
The next morning, you pretended to look up World War II details for an eighth-grade project. Typed his name into Google with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking.
Thisโthis definitely wasn't what you were expecting. You were expecting someoneโฆ someone at least closer in age, someone who was maybe going through the same strenuous expectations of middle school, someoneโฆ someone who was alive.
It was underwhelming at first. Just a name. A war vet. Deceased. You didn't think you'd find him so easily. You spiraled past Wikipedia into forums your school firewall probably wouldโve blocked if they knew what they were doing.ย You dug deeper. Wikipedia spiraled into conspiracy forums. Articles turned into footnotes, turned into theories, turned into pictures. Redacted documents. Old photographs.
That was when your chest started to ache.
He wasnโt a boy.
He wasnโt even a man in the way people are alive.ย
He was history, frozen in sepia. James Buchanan Barnes, colloquially know as Bucky, a soldier, missing in action. You found an old black-and-white photo with him half smiling in uniform, arm slung casually around the Captain America's shoulders, and your throat closed like youโd been punched from the inside. Because he looked real. Not just an idea, not just a ghost.
And you loved him. You didnโt mean to. But there it was.
That summer, you begged your parents to take you to D.C. "For the exhibits," you said. "The history. Please."
You cried in the car. Your mom reached back and handed you a bottle of water. โCarsick?โ she asked.
"Yeah," you lied, watching trees blur past as the pit in your stomach grew deeper.
At the Smithsonian, your eyes scanned every exhibit like you were searching for a face in a crowd. You found him in a war displayโjust a photo, again. Yellowed and framed. A plaque. Sergeant Barnes. You stood there too long. An older woman beside you glanced over, then away, probably confused as to why this pre-teen was staring at the display with such fervent intensity.
You didnโt touch your mark.ย
Not there. Not in public. But you felt it, a phantom pulse echoing under your ribs. Like it knew. Like it missed him too.
That was the first time you understood what it meant to lose something before you ever had it. To mourn a future that could never come.
That summer, you grieved a stranger.
The rest of those months passed in a fog. Friends talked about boy bands and sleepaway camps and the boy from seventh grade who cried during dodgeball. You started reading old war journals and relics and Stark experiments just to feel closer to a time youโd missed. By the start of the school year, you'd already gone through your U.S. History syllabus and back.
At night, you lay awake imagining what it wouldโve been like to meet him before the fall. What youโd say. If heโd be kind. If heโd recognize you.
If heโd regret it.
By sixteen, you had your mind made up. Not because you wanted to save peopleโthough you didโbut because it felt like the only thing that made sense. Something tethered. Something present. Youโd learned how to triage your own feelings, how to hold grief without crumbling under it. ER nursing made too much sense. You wanted the immediacy. The clarity of purpose. The adrenaline to chase out the what-ifs.
You told your guidance counselor it was about the job stability.
You didnโt say that you needed a life that moved fast enough to keep you from looking back.
You got good at it. Fast. Precise. Reliable. The type of person they called first when a kid came in coding, when someoneโs chest had to be cracked open at bedside. You learned how to operate under pressure. How to compartmentalize. You learned to move toward chaos, not away from it.
And eventually, you stopped looking at the name. Not because it fadedโit never didโbut because it became too familiar. Like a scar. Like an old story you didnโt tell anymore, because no one would believe it.
Because you hardly believed it yourself.
.
You peel yourself out of bed, step into the shower. The water doesnโt stay hot for long, but you donโt need it to. You just need enough heat to convince your muscles to move, your brain to stop stalling. The morning ritual is muscle memory now: shampoo, rinse, conditioner (leave-in), scrub your face, try not to look at yourself too closely. By the time youโre dressed and out the door, youโve spoken zero words and swallowed two ibuprofen with the stale dregs of yesterdayโs coffee.
The drive to the hospital is quiet, but not peaceful.ย
The cityโs in that strange twilight lull between night and morning, where the drunks have staggered home and the nine-to-fivers havenโt yet left their beds. It feels like a ghost town with too many ghosts. Some days, you swear the silence carries weight. Residual grief, maybe.ย
You park in the far corner of the lot because the closer spaces are already claimed by the truly unwellโnurses who never go home, residents who sleep in call rooms, attendings who live to round. You used to be like them. Youโve grown out of the martyrdom. Or maybe youโve just run out of energy to perform it.
The hospital doesnโt smell like death, not exactly. It smells like ammonia and latex and that synthetic lemon cleaner thatโs supposed to mask the rest. You wave to the front desk nurse, badge in, and clock your shift the way you have every day for the last six years.ย
Your soulmark is never mentioned. Not because people donโt see it, though you keep it hidden well, but because no one talks about soulmarks anymore. Itโs passรฉ. Soulmate matching used to be romantic. Now itโs considered a statistical liability. There are support groups for people like you, sure, but they mostly spiral into grief therapy and long-winded self-help monologues. You tried one once. A woman wept about her soulmate dying in Sokovia. Another talked about her mark changing. Yours never did.
Soulmate politics are complicated now. Too many anomalies. Too many cases like yours.
Thereโs a thread on Reddit dedicated to soulmarks tied to dangerous people. Super soldiers. Villains. Politically gray mercenaries. Your nameโhis nameโcomes up sometimes. You donโt engage. You lurk. Scroll through the comments. Watch strangers try to figure out what theyโd do if it were them.
The consensus always boils down to one thing: If your soulmate is a killer, you have a moral obligation to reject the bond.
You donโt know if you agree. You donโt know if you disagree either.
Most days, you just ignore it.
Your shift starts like any other. A stabbing. A toddler with a fever. An elderly man who doesnโt remember how he got here. The trauma bay gets two back-to-back ambulance drop-offs, both from the same freeway accident. The paramedics hand off a broken woman in pieces. You get her on oxygen. You get her to CT. You get her prepped for surgery. You donโt think about her name, or her face, or what mightโve been the last thing she said.
You think about the steps. You think about the chart.
This is what makes you good at your job.
You care. You just donโt let it show anymore.
Lunchtimeโif you can dignify that title with a limp vending machine sandwich and fifteen minutes of couchโis spent in the staff lounge, watching reruns of The Great British Bake Off with the volume off. The man on screen is assembling an architectural sponge cake. You feel emotionally invested. Mostly because you think it might collapse.
One of your colleaguesโZoya, you think, though youโve never quite decided if you like her or notโslides onto the couch beside you with the weary grace of someone whoโs been on her feet for nine hours. Sheโs got a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other.
โI read the polls,โ she says, chewing like the bar personally insulted her. โPeople are actually fired up this time around.โ
You hum in response. Noncommittal. You donโt take the bait.
โThey say Barnes is running for Congress,โ she adds casually, eyes flicking sideways toward you. โThat surprises me. Who woulda thought?โ
You donโt blink. Donโt flinch. Just peel a piece of lettuce off your sandwich like itโs offended you. โGuess being an Avenger's not the high-paying career it used to be.โ
Zoya snorts. โSeriously. You think heโs for real?โ
You lift one shoulder. โI think Iโve seen stranger things on C-SPAN.โ
She lets out a low whistle. โStill wild, though. Imagine finding out your soulmate is, likeโฆ that guy.โ
You glance at her. Smile. Tight. Unreadable. โYeah,โ you say. โImagine.โ
She doesnโt press. You both go back to watching a woman on screen cry over underbaked choux pastry.
Itโs easy now. Easier than it used to be. Pretending he doesnโt matter. Pretending you donโt know his voice by heart. Donโt remember the way your mark burned that day in the laundromat. Donโt still check the news for his name the way other people check the weather. Itโs a skill.
And like all your best skills, it was learned the hard way.
.
When you get home that night, your legs ache, and your stomach hurts from too much caffeine and not enough food. You drop your bag on the couch, toe off your shoes, and stand in the middle of your kitchen for ten full seconds trying to remember what it means to rest.
Your phone buzzes on the counter. A missed call. Your ex. You donโt call back.
Instead, you go to the sink, wash your hands out of habit, and glance down at the faint outline of the mark under your scrub top.
You trace it, just once. Not enough to mean anything.
Just enough to remember that itโs still there.
.
You were twenty-four when you first saw his face in motion. In reality.
It was a Tuesday. You remember because it was your one day off that month, and youโd spent most of it in a laundromat trying to get the smell of bile and bleach out of your scrubs. You were curled up on the plastic bench by the window, still damp from rain, watching a battered flatscreen overhead.
BREAKING NEWS: GLOBAL MANHUNT UNDERWAY FOR FORMER SOVIET ASSASSIN.
You didnโt flinch when the words came up. At first, they didnโt mean anything. But then the photo appeared, grainy and indistinctโa security cam freeze-frame. Dark jacket, metal arm, face caught mid-motion.
There he was. James Buchanan Barnes.
You felt it like a punch. Air gone. Sound sucked from the room. Your hands tightened around a bottle of Tide.
They said he bombed the Vienna International Centre. Killed a king. Injured dozens. Your brain refused the narrative, but not because you knew better. You didnโt. It was just โฆ incongruent. Cognitive dissonance. You couldnโt square the name on your skin with the cold, feral man on the screen. But that didnโt stop you from watching.
You didnโt leave the laundromat. You sat there long after your clothes finished drying. Hours, maybe. Absorbing every second of the footage. Reading every chyron.
You watched the raw surveillance clips when they hit the webโhim running, being chased, fighting like something born in a lab. Like something not quite real.
And then, all at once, the world tilted.
He was real.
Not a myth. Not a name in a book or a mark burned into your side to haunt you. Real. He was breathing the same air, walking the same crumbling sidewalks, looking over his shoulder beneath the same indifferent sky. There was this thrumming under your skinโlouder than your heartbeat, sharper than breathโthat said he's alive. Not long-dead. Not lost to time. But here. On this earth. Behind your eyes. And somehow, you had to keep living like that wasnโt the most destabilizing fact youโd ever known.
You memorized the cadence of how people said his name.
At some point, you realized you were shaking.
That week, your mother called, like she always did. You didnโt tell her. She asked how work was. You said fine. She asked if youโd seen the news. You said you hadnโt.
You started keeping your left side covered, even in the shower.
In the weeks that followed, he became a name everyone knew. The Winter Soldier. The media dug up every blurry photo from seventy years of history, every CIA leak, every whisper in a dossier. You catalogued them without meaning to. It wasnโt obsession. Not exactly. It was survival.
Then came the reveal: it wasnโt him. Not exactly. Not only him.
Mind control, they said. Brainwashed. Hydra.
You read the words like they were gospel. Like they explained something they didnโt. Like they offered you absolution by proxy. You hated that you wanted to believe it so badly. You hated how much of yourself you saw in the hollow of his eyes when he was caught on camera againโrestrained, confused, a man unraveling.
You hated that you understood it.
.
Then came the Blip.
The morning the sky broke, you were in trauma bay three with a man whoโd been impaled on a metal pipe. You blinked, and he was gone. Just โฆ gone. The pipe, slick with his blood, clanged against the floor, still warm. Your brain froze. Your hands kept moving.
Your friend Ashley vanished mid-joke during lunch break. Half your ER staff was gone by the end of the day. You worked thirteen more hours without blinking. You only remembered bitsโsomeone screaming in the stairwell. Someone trying to break into the pharmacy. A girl with burns and no parents left to consent to treatment. You remember the air smelling like copper and panic. The vending machines ran out by day two.
When you finally got home, your building was quiet. Too quiet. The streets were deserted, eerie and raw like the aftermath of a dream you couldn't fully wake up from. Someone had looted the gas station across the street. You stepped over broken glass to get inside.
You turned on the TV. Sat down on the floor. Let the flickering images wash over you in silence. Aerial shots of cars abandoned mid-commute. Apartment buildings full of empty beds. Hospitals choked with the chaos of subtraction.
Then his name came up. Just for a moment. In a reel of the missing.
James Buchanan Barnes. Missing. Presumed dust. It seems like the world would never get tired of those three words recurring in your life like a sick joke, like a sucker punch.
You knew it before they even confirmed it. Knew it in your bones. The soulmark burned for days after. A phantom itch. A psychic scream. You whispered to the room, โNo. No, no, noโโ
You didnโt go to work the day they called it. That he was gone. That it wasnโt speculation anymore.
You called out sick, which you never did. Stayed under the covers with your curtains drawn and your phone turned facedown. You didnโt cry. Not in the way that wouldโve felt cathartic. There was no release. Just weight. A steady pressure under your sternum, like your lungs were packed too tight with silence.
Grief like that doesnโt come all at once. It drips. Slow. Insidious. A lifetimeโs worth of maybes collecting in your throat.
You tried to tell yourself he wasnโt yours.
That you didnโt know him.
That the mark didnโt mean anything.
That you didnโt feel the loss like your own skin folding in on itself.
But you stopped wearing crop tops after that. Stopped sleeping on your left side. Stopped reading the news altogether, because every time they mentioned his nameโeven in passingโit felt like someone reaching inside your chest to twist the knife, just to see if youโd bleed.
Your friends thought you were just burned out. Work was hard. Everyone was struggling.
โHave you tried meditating?โ someone asked once.
โHave you tried shutting the fuck up?โ you almost said. Instead you smiled. Said you were fine. You let them believe it.
You threw yourself into the ER. Picked up extra shifts. Took on the worst cases. Became the one they called for the ugly onesโthe resuscitations that didnโt work, the organ donors, the impossible parents waiting for bad news. It gave your hands something to do. Gave your grief a mask.
You were so good at pretending you didnโt care that even you started to believe it.
But sometimes, on the drive homeโwhen the city was too quiet and the sky too emptyโyou caught yourself glancing at the passenger seat like someone should be there. Like youโd forgotten to pick him up.
You imagined what heโd be like. Not the soldier. Not the assassin. Not the man they called the Winter Soldier like he was myth, not bone.
Justโฆ a person.
Would he have been quiet in the mornings? Would he have let you take the last piece of toast? Would he have liked dogs? Would he have hated how sterile hospitals feel? Would he have looked at you like your name was written on him, too?ย
The mark never faded. You used to check. Stupidly. Desperately. You read somewhere once that when a soulmate dies, the mark vanishes. But yours didnโt. Not even a little. It stayed sharp. Clear. Unforgiving.
You donโt know if that made it better or worse.
All you knew was this: it didnโt matter if the world called him a ghost. He was real to you.
And he was gone.
And you had to go to work tomorrow, like none of it ever mattered.
.
Time passed. You got used to the silence.
Then, five years later, he came back.
Just like that.
No fanfare. No press release. Just a name in a sea of billions. Alive again. Somewhere in the world.
You didnโt sleep for three days after that either.
.
He resurfaced differently this time. Tactically invisible. Not a headline anymore. Then, out of nowhereโa year or two laterโhe announced his candidacy for Congress.
You nearly laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it felt so surreal, so absurdly mundane, that your brain short-circuited. It had been three back-to-back 12-hour night shifts. Your scrubs still smelled faintly of antiseptic and vending machine coffee. Your eyes burned. Your feet hurt. And there he wasโyour mark, your ghostโprinted five feet tall next to a mattress ad.ย
You stared. Read the copy three times. Just to be sure it wasnโt a hallucination.
You told yourself not to look him up. Then you got home and did it anyway.
His campaign site was minimal. No donation pop-ups, no splashy endorsements. Just a simple landing page, a schedule of town halls, and a single embedded video labeled Why Iโm Running.
You clicked play.
It started with silence. Then the low rasp of his voice, steadier now, filled your apartment.
โIโm not here to pretend Iโve always done the right thing,โ he said. โIโm not here to sell redemption. Just accountability. Iโve seen what happens when systems break, when good people fall through the cracks. And I believe we can build better.โ
There were no slogans. No party jargon. Just him, seated on a worn bench near a city garden, hair shorter than you remembered, jaw shadowed with a few daysโ growth. Still armored, but softer. Realer. He didnโt mention soulmarks. Or the war. Or the weight of being a name that history couldnโt agree on.
But he didnโt need to.
You watched the video twice. Then again the next night.
And you didnโt vote for him.
You didnโt vote against him either.
You justโฆ waited. Watched. Tracked the polls like you were taking a patientโs vitals. Checked for signs of movement. Hoped it wouldnโt all combust before the finish line.
When he won by 6.4%, you sat in your dark apartment, phone lit in your palm, and felt something in your chest go still. Not relief. Not pride. Justโฆ a strange, anchored kind of knowing.
He was out there. Alive. Choosing something. Choosing this.
And somehow, that meant something to you, too.
.
You still donโt talk about it. But every so often, you read the transcripts from his interviews. You pretend itโs because he talks about legislation affecting healthcare infrastructure. It isnโt.
Youโve never reached out. Never driven past one of his town halls. Never liked a single post.
But you know which office he holds. You know the hours of his community clinic situated right by the VA. You know what color his suit was the day he was sworn in.
The name on your ribs has not changed. It probably never will.
And maybe heโs never thought of you at all.
It starts with a nosebleed.
Youโre just off shift. Third one this week. Your badge is clipped to your hip, your hands smell like latex and soap, and your brain is somewhere between REM and resignation. Youโre half-waiting for the crosswalk light to change when you see a man slump against the side of the public library and slide down like his bones have given up.
At first, you think: drunk. Happens more than youโd like to admit, and it's Brooklyn you're talking about. But then you see the way his hand curls against his thighโcontrolled, but shakyโand the tight set of his jaw. His suit is immaculate. Not a homeless guy. Not a junkie. And that look on his face? Thatโs not intoxication.
Thatโs pain.
You cross the street. Instinct before thought.
โHey,โ you call, crouching near him. โYou okay?โ
He looks up. Thereโs a beatโhalf-second, maybe lessโwhere neither of you speaks. His eyes are blue. Really blue. And heโs not just handsome, heโs specific. Recognizable in a way that drops into your stomach like a lead weight.
You know who he is. You've spent half your life committing him to memory, watching him coming and going like a revolving door.
Selfishly, instinctively, you can't help but glance down at his left handโcovered by a glove. He notices, shifting slightly, uncomfortably.
Finally, he blinks. โIโmโyeah. Fine.โ
โThatโs a lie,โ you say, because youโre too tired to be polite. โYouโre about to pass out. Iโm guessing low blood sugar. Maybe dehydration.โ
He breathes through his nose like itโs an old habit, like heโs used to being clocked and is choosing not to bristle. โI was just at a council meeting. Forgot to eat.โ
โDrink anything?โ
โTwo coffees and a Red Bull.โ
You stare at him. โJesus Christ.โ
His mouth twitches. Just barely. โI didnโt say it was a good idea.โ
You glance around. Itโs midday. Plenty of foot traffic, but no oneโs stopped to help him. Of course not. Most people pretend not to see, even if he's a U.S. representative who's helped save the world a handful of times. New Yorkers have learned to mind their own business these past couple of years.
โAlright, Mr. Barnes,โ you say, because you donโt want to say James or Bucky, not the name etched on your skin. โCan you stand up?โ
He lifts an eyebrow. โYou know who I am?โ
You consider lying. โYeah.โ
His expression doesnโt change, but something in him goes still. A readjustment. Like heโs running probabilities behind the curtain of his eyes.
โAnd you still came over,โ he says.
โDonโt take it personally. It's my civic duty; Iโd help a mediocre politician too if they were about to eat pavement.โ
A snort. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head: โLucky me.โ
You help him to his feet. He leans on the wall. Doesnโt quite use you for balance, though you think he might want to. You guide him into the nearest air-conditioned bodega and deposit him on a bench near the pharmacy counter. Buy two bottles of Gatorade and a protein bar. You donโt ask for reimbursement.
He drinks like it hurts to swallow. Like heโs out of practice with kindness.
โThanks,โ he says. Eventually.
You nod, sitting on the far end of the bench. โYou should probably have a handler.โ
โI do,โ he says dryly. โShe left five minutes before I remembered I hadnโt eaten.โ
You glance at him sidelong. โSo what, sheโs in the wind?โ
โTexted her,โ he replies. โTold her I was fine.โ
โYou always lie to the people trying to keep you alive?โ
Something flickers at thatโtoo fast to name. โSometimes.โ
A silence settles. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But charged.
You glance down at your hands, then back at him. โDo you get nosebleeds a lot?โ
โNot usually.โ
โGood. If it starts again, youโre going to the hospital.โ
His smile this time is faint, but real. He takes a glance at your scrubs, gears turning in his head. โYou work there?โ
โYeah.โ
โDoctor?โ
โNurse.โ
He gives a little hum. โMakes sense.โ
You frown. โWhy?โ
โBecause you didnโt flinch.โ
The statement lands oddly. โNew Yorkers donโt usually flinch at guys hunched against the wall mid-day.โ
โNot that,โ he says. โMe.โ
You meet his gaze. Donโt look away. โWell. Maybe they should.โ
He stares at you for a long moment. You get the sense heโs parsing something. Not calculating. Listening. Not just to what you said, but how you said it.
โYou didnโt tell me your name,โ he says.
You open your mouth. Then close it.
And for the first time in your life, you think: If I tell him, heโll know.
Youโre not sure what scares you more. Him knowing. Or him not.
He notices the hesitation. His eyes dropโunintentionally, you thinkโtoward your ribs. Just a flicker.
You say, quietly, โDonโt do that.โ
He nods once. Doesnโt ask again.
Another moment passes. You hand him the rest of the protein bar.
He doesnโt say thank you again. He just eats it.
Eventually, he stands. A little steadier now. You watch him check his phone. You think he might offer to walk you somewhere, but he doesnโt.
Instead, he looks at you like heโs memorizing something. Then:
โYou know,โ he says, โthere was a time I thought sheโd be dead.โ
Your heart skips.
You try to sound normal. โWho?โ
He doesnโt smile. Not this time. Just studies your face.
โMy soulmate.โ
You freeze.
โFigured sheโd died during the Blip,โ he continues. โOr worse. Thought I felt it. But I came back and the mark was still there. So. Who knows.โ
You inhale slowly. โWhat would you have done if it was gone?โ
โMoved on,โ he says.
You nod. Try to play it off. โThat easy, huh?โ
โNo.โ His voice drops a register. โBut I wouldโve had to.โ
Silence again. He exhales. Checks the time. Nods once.
โWell,โ he says. โThanks for saving me from an embarrassing death outside a library.โ
You stand too. โWasnโt gonna let a congressman die on my watch, Mr. Barnes."
He gives a lopsided smile, and suddenly, you see a flicker of that man you saw in the Smithsonian all those years ago. โCall me Bucky. I'm just a guy, today.โ
Then, softer: โSee you around.โ
You donโt say anything. Just watch him go.
When you finally look down at your ribs, you expect the name to be glowing or bleeding or something dramatic.
It isnโt.
Itโs just there. Quiet. Permanent.
.
You donโt see Bucky again for months. He's gone from James Buchanan Barnes to Bucky, and it feels like foreign territory.
Not in person.
You follow his trajectory the way you follow the weatherโwarily, with one eye on the exit. A year into being entrenched in politics, and he gets pulled into a team, a superhero one, nonetheless. The new Avengers become a household name, or something close to it. You donโt pay for the streams, but you hear the headlines. Theyโre sent in to handle things that the rest of the government wonโt touch. Places too messy. People too expendable.
Their first mission didn't have a name. Just a black void on every screen.
For New York, it was basically another Tuesday.
It starts mid-shift.
Youโre in the middle of helping intubate someone when the power flickersโjust once, like the buildingโs held its breath. Everyone stops. Monitors beep a half-second late. The trauma bay lights blink. Then come back. Then cut out again.
You keep your hands steady. Overhead, a resident says, โIs it just us?โ
Someone else says, โNo, itโs the whole block.โ
And then your phone buzzes.
Not a call. A national alert.
EMERGENCY ALERT: ANOMALOUS EVENT IN PROGRESS. SEEK SHELTER.
You finish the procedure anyway. You donโt panic. You donโt run. You switch to battery-powered floodlights and keep your mask on. Thatโs the thing about being on the inside when the world starts to fall apart. You donโt get to pause.
Outside, the sky changes. It turns the color of old bruises. A gash opens above the skylineโwide, black, impossibly still. Something like a mouth. Something worse.
They call it the Void later. You never see it in person. Not really. You just feel the air change, the pressure drop. You feel the way every patient suddenly stops bleeding. The way everyone holds their breath.
And then, hours later, the lights flicker back on.
The void collapses into itself like it was never there.
And just like that, you keep working.
Afterward, the news trickles in. Bucky was there. Of course he was. He and the others were part of whatever last-ditch plan got the void to close. Whatever sacrifices were made, theyโre classified. What isnโt: the look on his face when they put him on the podium afterward.
You watch it from the break room, over a vending machine lunch.
The new Avengers are announced. Not the old guard. A stitched-together lineup of whoeverโs left, whoever didnโt run, whoeverโs willing to keep showing up.
Bucky stands at the edge of the stage.
He looks like a man being honored at his own funeral.
You watch the broadcast until it ends.
You donโt say a word.
.
Two weeks later, you run into him again. And itโs so dumb, so ordinary, you donโt even realize whatโs happening until youโve already said yes.
Youโre coming out of the pharmacy with three daysโ worth of migraine pills and a jug of Pedialyte, and heโs justโฆ there. Baseball cap, dark coat, looking like he hasnโt shaved in a week. The glove's off, his metal hand shining under the sterile lights. He spots you before you spot him.
โHey,โ he says, not quite surprised. โFunny seeing you here.โ
You squint. โYou okay?โ
โI was gonna ask you the same thing.โ
You glance down at the bag in your hand. โPharmacy run.โ
He nods. โIโm heading to get coffee. Want one?โ
You open your mouth. Pause. And then, God help you, you say, โYeah. Sure.โ
You donโt talk about the void.
You talk about everything but.
The cafรฉ is half-empty. He orders a black coffee and a lemon poppy seed muffin like someone trying to prove theyโre still human. You ask for a chai. He insists on paying.
You sit across from each other, not touching. Not leaning. But thereโs something in the air between youโcharged, familiar. Like a room youโve walked into before in a dream.
โStill at the hospital?โ he asks.
โYeah. We donโt really get to retire. Or take vacations.โ
โThatโs a shame.โ
You shrug. โItโs a calling. Or a curse. Not sure.โ
โI know the feeling.โ
You sip your chai. He breaks the muffin in half and doesnโt eat it.
Thereโs a pause. Thenโ
โYou never told me your name,โ he says again. Not quite a question.
You watch him. Something in your chest thuds like recognition.
You set your cup down.
โI didnโt think you wanted it.โ
He blinks. โWhy wouldnโt I?โ
You glance at the window, at the people outside walking past like none of this matters. Like the world didnโt almost end. Like the two of you arenโt teetering on some invisible edge.
โI donโt know,โ you say finally. โBecause you didnโt press.โ
He doesnโt speak for a second. Just watches you, something gentle and old in his eyes.
Then he smiles. Kind. A little bit weary around the edges.
โBecause I wanted you to give it when you were ready.โ
The silence between you shifts. Not heavier. Just realer.
You say your name.
It fills the air between you like a quiet truth.
He breathes it in like it means something.
โCan I see you again?โ he asks.
Your throat tightens. But your voice stays steady.
โYeah,โ you say. โI think you can.โ
You donโt say anything as you leave the cafรฉ. Just nod goodbye and let the door close between you. But later, when you replay the afternoon in your mind, it lingers. The quiet between words. The fact that he didnโt ask to see the mark. That he didnโt flinch.
The fact that when you said your name, it felt like exhaling. You donโt expect to see him again so soon. Not really.
But you do.
Twice that week, by accident.
First, it's after an especially gruelling night shift. The sun's barely even peeking through the trees yet, and you're covered in miscellaneous bodily fluids and there's bags under your eyes that weigh you down. Outside the bodega near your building, where you planned on getting bread and bananas and off-brand electrolyte packets. Heโs coming out with a six-pack of seltzer and one of those microwave dinners that scream I-donโt-trust-a-stove as you're coming in. You nod at each other, and, looking down at your scrubs and your state, he asks if you just got done.ย
You nod. "Every Tuesday at 7 AM."
He asks how your shift went. You lie and say easy. He doesnโt call you on it.
The second time, youโre on a park bench halfway through a sandwich you donโt want, getting some much-needed air during your lunch break when a shadow falls across your lap.ย
Itโs him, in jeans and a threadbare henley, hair mussed like he slept wrong. It's oddly domestic. You resist the urge to tuck a stray strand behind his ear. โDidnโt take you for a turkey club kind of girl,โ he says, like this is the kind of thing youโve always talked about. You offer him half without thinking. He takes it.
Itโs not every day. Not even often. But you start to spot him in places you never used to. On the corner outside the pharmacy. At the edge of the farmerโs market. Once in the hallway of the clinic where you pick up your medical license renewal. He doesnโt make it obvious. He doesnโt insert himself. But heโs there.
And slowly, without meaning to, you start looking for him.
Thereโs a night when the ER is chaos and the weather is worse and your body is vibrating with exhaustion. Your car's given out on you. You miss your bus. You consider calling an Uber, then donโt. Youโre standing under the overhang by the staff entrance, shivering in your scrubs, scrolling your phone for nothing in particular, when headlights sweep across your shoes and stop.
A car idles. Familiar. Black. Out of place like a shadow with wheels.
You squint into the window, and of course, itโs him. โStalking me?โ
He straightens, just a little. โYou said your shift ended at seven.โ
โI did,โ you say, walking toward him. โDidnโt mean it was an invitation.โ
His mouth twitches. โConsider it a standing offer.โ
You glance at the car, then back at him. โYou gonna tell me how you got a vehicle this inconspicuous, or is that classified?โ
He opens the passenger door. โPerks of being an Avenger.โ
You eye him. โIs this kidnapping?โ
โIf it is, itโs the most considerate kidnapping ever. I brought snacks.โ
You get in.
It becomes a habit after that.
Thatโs the first ride.
It becomes a habit. Not a routine, exactly. That would suggest he comes at the same time, says the same thing, follows a pattern. He doesnโt. Heโs unpredictable in the way thunderstorms areโsudden, insistent, quietly necessary. Heโs justโฆ there. Enough times that your coworkers start raising eyebrows. Enough times that you stop pretending itโs odd.
You donโt talk about the soulmark. Not directly.
But you talk about other things.
The price of gas. The merits of different hospital coffee. He tells you, offhandedly, that he used to hate mornings until he had to start facing them at 5 a.m. with a loaded weapon. You tell him youโve delivered twins in a supply closet. Neither of you laughs, but the air warms between you.
One evening, he brings you tea instead of coffee. He says itโs because you looked like you hadnโt slept. You want to ask how he knew. You donโt.
You get used to the way his presence takes up space. Quietly. Without pushing. You start saving podcasts to share. You start to notice the way his metal hand rests against the gearshift like heโs forgotten itโs not flesh.
He learns your tells. Which sigh means youโre burned out and which means youโre hungry. He doesnโt always talk, but he listens better than most people speak.
And slowlyโterrifyinglyโyou start to want him to be there.
.
Bucky never texts.
Not once.
He calls.
Always.
Even for the smallest things. A grocery question. A movie suggestion. A let-me-know-when-youโre-done. Sometimes you donโt pick up, and he doesnโt leave a voicemail. Just calls again an hour later like itโs the most natural thing in the world.
One day, you ask him why.
Heโs driving, one hand on the wheel, the otherโmetalโresting on the gearshift like it belongs there.
โI donโt like waiting for a response,โ he says, after a beat. โFeels like talking to a wall.โ
You nod. โMakes sense.โ
He glances at you, then adds, โAlso, I can't type for shit. And autocorrect thinks Iโm a lunatic. My PR manager thinks I'm a walking liability waiting to happen."
You don't know what makes you snort first; the thought of him keyboard smashing his phone or the fact that he has a goddamn PR manager.
Then, the first time you see the arm up close, heโs asleep on your couch.
Youโre supposed to be watching a movie. You don't even know who initiated, who invited who over. But something old and black-and-white is flickering on the screen, one of his picks. But somewhere around the twenty-minute mark, he dozed off. His hoodieโs bunched up at the elbow, metal catching the lamplight.
You donโt stare. Not really. But you donโt look away either.
Itโs not the glossy, hyper-chrome finish you remember from the surveillance footage. Not the Soviet brutality of jagged red stars and burnished steel. This oneโs different. Sleeker. Sleek but brutal. Matte black and dark silver, subtle gold veins etched faintly between the segmented platesโWakandan tech, you realize. Lightweight. Adaptive. The sort of engineering that moves with a person, not against them.
It looks like something alive. Something that remembers things.
You wonder if he remembers itโs there. If it registers temperature. Pressure. Pain. If the nerves ghost in that space the same way yours do when your fingers go numb from fatigue. If it ever aches when it rains.
You donโt ask.
Not yet.
He stirs, eventually. Looks at you through half-lidded eyes.ย
โDid I miss the plot twist?โ
โYou missed a wedding, a car crash, and three dramatic monologues.โ
โDamn,โ he mutters, stretching.ย His hoodie pulls a little higher. You glimpse the sharp, seamless lines of the elbow joint. Compact. Clean. Not like a machineโlike an exoskeleton. Like armor. You look away. โWe can rewind.โ
You shrug, smirking into your mug. โI donโt know. Iโm kind of emotionally invested now. I might want you to suffer through the confusion with me.โ
He huffs a quiet laugh, still half-asleep, eyes flicking toward the screen.
You donโt rewind.
You just sit there, the credits rolling, and listen to him breathe as he falls back to sleep. You start to wonder what it would be like to fall asleep with his hand on your side. With the mark between you, not unspoken, but accepted. Real. You start to feel it againโthat pull. The one you used to ignore. The one you used to press down like a bruise that wouldnโt fade.
This is what soulmates are about, you think. What theyโre meant to be.
Not the fireworks. Not the rush. Not the storybook symmetry or the neat little bow at the end. Not the lightning strike of recognition. Itโs quieter than that. Slower. Messier. Built of hours and questions and the space someone leaves you to be tired, to be flawed, to be real.
You think maybe itโs this โ the way he handed you your coffee earlier exactly the way you take it without ever having asked. The way he watches the road when you donโt want to talk and turns the music up just a little, like a soft wall between you and the world. The way he never reaches for your hand, but always lets his linger close enough that you could.
Itโs the consistency. The patience. The terrifying kindness of being seen when youโre not trying to be. When your armorโs off, not because you dropped it, but because he never asked you to put it on in the first place.
Thereโs something in your chest that loosens when heโs near. Some old tension that stops buzzing like an alarm.
And maybe thatโs what the mark is. Not fate, not prophecy, but permission. A tether, yesโbut one you can pull at your own pace. One you can choose.
And every day you donโt walk away, youโre choosing him.
Even if neither of you has said it yet. Even if neither of you knows how.
โYou ever get tired of people looking at you sideways?โ you ask him once, on a late-night walk back from a diner you guys have started to frequent together. Youโve both got milkshakes in hand because Bucky insists theyโre a cornerstone of civilization, and youโre learning not to argue when he gets weirdly nostalgic.
He takes a sip. Shrugs. โUsed to.โ
โAnd now?โ
โNow I donโt care.โ A pause. โIt helps that you donโt.โ
You look over. Heโs not smiling, but heโs softer. Always is, around you. Less edge. Less shield.
โI used to,โ you admit. โWhen I was younger. I thought itโd fade. The mark.โ
He nods, like heโs heard that before. Like he understands more than you meant to say.
โIt didnโt,โ you add.
He glances at you, then at your side. Not lingering. Just a flicker.
โGood,โ he says, so quietly you almost miss it.
You stop walking. โWhy?โ
He doesnโt look at you. Just finishes his drink. Crumples the cup in one hand.
โBecause Iโm still here,โ he says, like it should be obvious.
And it is.
Somehow, it is.
He cooks, occasionally. Not well. But with effort. One night, he burns a grilled cheese so thoroughly the fire alarm goes off. You have to wave a towel at the smoke detector while he swears under his breath and throws the pan in the sink.
Youโre still laughing when he sets two very sad sandwiches on the table and mutters, โFine. Next time, we order.โ
โThereโs gonna be a next time?โ
He gives you a look. โUnless Iโm banned from your kitchen.โ
You pick up half a sandwich. โYouโre on probation.โ
He watches you take a bite. Raises an eyebrow.
You chew. Swallow. โTastes like regret and cheese.โ
That gets a huff of laughter. He doesnโt laugh easilyโnot fullyโbut youโre learning the sounds he makes when heโs amused. The little exhales. The under-his-breath muttering. The half-smile he hides behind his hand.
Youโre learning all of it.
And youโre starting to think heโs learning you too.
One night, heโs quiet.
Not in the usual way โ not in the half-aware, hands-in-pockets, Iโve-seen-too-much kind of way you've learned he wears like a well-worn, favorite coat. This silence is heavier. Not a thing heโs hiding from you, but a thing heโs holding. Something sharp and delicate and dangerous, like broken glass wrapped in cloth. You donโt know what it is yet, but you feel it.
Youโre curled up at opposite ends of the couch, legs almost touching, the ghost of his knee brushing yours whenever either of you shifts. The movieโs still playing, long-forgotten. Itโs just noise now. A screen flickering in the background while your heart waits.
He inhales like it hurts. And thenโ
โCan I tell you something?โ
His voice is quiet. Too quiet. And heโs not looking at you Blue eyes staring straight ahead at the TV, the little space between his brows wrinkled into something indecipherable.
You blink, slowly. โYeah,โ you say, just as softly. โOf course.โ
That gets a breath out of him. Not a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just something let loose. You watch him stare ahead, fixed on a point in the middle distance like itโs safer than you. Like your face is too much to hold right now.
โI used to hate it,โ he says. โThe mark.โ
You donโt move.
You donโt breathe.
โI thoughtโโ He rubs the heel of his hand over his sternum, just once, like something aches there. โI thought it was some kind of punishment. Like the universe picked me just to prove it could.โ
Your heart twists.
He still wonโt meet your eyes. But heโs speaking now, and it feels like something old and knotted finally starting to unravel.
โI didnโt know what it meant, not really. Not at first. Just this pain. A weight. And then the name came, and it didnโt mean anything. Just letters. A future that didnโt make sense.โ
His hand tightens, flexes, then drops into his lap again. You watch the way his fingers curl, restless and bare.
โAnd then it did mean something. And it got worse.โ
He swallows. Hard.
โBecause I looked you up.โ His voice dips, almost like heโs ashamed of it. โWhen I got the chance. I knew. Who you were. Where you were. For years. I didnโtโI didnโt do anything about it. But I knew.โ
Something tightens in your chest. A coil. A knot. He looked for you. All those years, he searched and he reached and he wanted all the same. You want to reach for him, but you wait. You feel like if you breathe wrong, he might vanish.
โI kept thinkingโif I left it alone, if I stayed away, maybe the universe would rethink it. Give you someone better. Someone cleaner. Someone safe.โ
Finally, his gaze flickers to you. Brief. Bracing. The kind of look you imagine heโs given a thousand times in battle โ checking to see if the person beside him is still alive.
โAnd I thought I could carry that,โ he says. โI thought if I ignored it long enough, maybe itโd fade. That maybe youโd forget, or never know. And I could justโlive around it.โ
His laugh is bitter. Not sharp, exactly, but cracked around the edges.
โBut it didnโt fade. You didnโt fade.โ
You feel like youโve stopped breathing entirely.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted together. The mark under your ribs aches in quiet sympathy.
โYou know whatโs worse than feeling like you donโt deserve someone?โ he asks, eyes fixed somewhere near your ankles. โFeeling like you do, for just one second. Like you could, if only you were different. If only everything hadnโt already happened.โ
He sits back again. Slower this time. Exhausted.
Your chest is tight, full of static. Your eyes sting.
โI used to see your name and think, how cruel. That someone like you had to carry the weight of someone like me.โ Bucky finally looks at you again, and thereโs nothing distant about it. Itโs searing. Devastating. โBut then you showed up. That day at the library. And Iโโ
His voice falters.
He swallows again, blinking hard. โIโve spent so long being looked at like Iโm a weapon. Like Iโm a ghost. But you looked at me likeโโ He stops, breath caught in his throat. โLike I was real. Like youโd known me. Like I wasnโt a mistake.โ
You blink fast, because the alternative is crying.
โAnd I didnโt know what to do with that. I still donโt know what to do with that,โ He exhales, a quiet tremor in his chest. โI donโt know if Iโll ever be the person who deserves this. Or you. Or the mark. But I want to be.โ
He turns toward you fully now, and for the first time, he doesnโt look away.
โI want to try,โ he says, softly. โIf youโll let me.โ
You reach for his hand. Like itโs something sacred, and your fingers meet his.
You donโt say anything right away. Thereโs no need. His hand tightens around yours like an answer. Like a prayer. And under your ribs, where the mark lives, you feel it โ not a tug, not a weight, but a warmth. Like the sun, breaking through after years of winter.
He doesnโt let go of your hand.
His fingers are rough in some places, calloused in others, warm where it counts. He holds you like heโs learning how. Like maybe the trick is not to grip too tight, but not to let go either. That sweet, aching middle ground. Like maybe youโre something breakableโbut not fragile.
Youโre not sure how long you sit like that. Just the two of you, suspended in this strange, soft liminal space between the past and whatever comes next.
The TV hums in the background. The couch dips where your knees almost touch. You swear you can hear his pulseโyours tooโskipping every third beat, then rushing to make up for it.
Heโs still watching you like heโs waiting for you to vanish.
You speak first. Barely a whisper. โI think I started loving you before I even knew what it meant.โ
His eyes close, slow. As if the words are a balm. Or a blade. Youโre not sure which.
โI used to feel you before I understood how,โ you continue, voice steady now, stronger with each word. โNot in the mark. Not in the skin. But in the air. In the quiet. Iโd be washing blood off my hands at three in the morning and thinkโIโm not alone. Not really.โ
His throat moves with the effort of swallowing. He doesnโt speak. Not yet. Youโre not done.
โI hated you for it too, for a while,โ you admit. โFor making me hope. For giving me something to lose before I ever had it.โ
You shift, close the last few inches between you. He doesnโt flinch. Just watches, gaze dark and wide and impossibly open.
โI didnโt want this to be real. Because if it was, it meant I could break. That I had something to break for.โ
He breathes out your name. Just once.
You touch his face. Thumb trailing the edge of his cheekbone. He leans into it like heโs forgotten what it means to be held. โI see you,โ you whisper. โI see you. Not the headlines. Not the soldier. Not the mark. Justโฆ you.โ
And something inside him unravels. Not all at once. Not like a dam breaking. But like a thread pulled gently until whatโs been bound up for too long begins to loosen.
โI love you,โ he says, and itโs not polished. Not pretty. Itโs real. Broken around the edges. Bare and breathless. โI love you, and itโs terrifying.โ
You nod. Because you know.
He exhales. Then moves.
He kisses you like he means it. Like itโs the first and last time heโll ever be allowed. His lips press to yours, slow at first, exploratory. Like heโs trying to memorize the shape of it. The feel. You breathe him in. Let your hand slip to the back of his neck, anchor him there.
He doesnโt rush.
His hands, warm and steady, skim your waist like heโs relearning what it means to touch without taking. To be given something instead of stealing it. He pulls you closerโnot to possess, but to be sure youโre still there.
When he parts from you, itโs just for breath.
You lean your forehead against his. โWeโve already survived so much,โ you whisper. โWhatโs one more impossible thing?โ
His laugh is soft, unguarded. It shakes a little at the end.
You tilt your face, kiss him againโdeeper this time. His response is immediate. Hands tightening, lips parting. You taste the urgency in him, the tremble beneath restraint. Your mouth moves against his like a promise. Like maybe thisโyouโwas what the mark was always meant to lead to.
Not fate. Choice.
His metal hand brushes your hip, steady and impossibly gentle. He maps the curve of your ribs like heโs memorizing the lines of his own name. You press your palm to his chest, feel the echo of your name there too. Not carved in flesh, but in feeling. In ache. In the quiet places only the two of you have ever touched.
โCome here,โ he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.
Youโre already there.
Bucky kisses your neck. Your shoulder. The space just under your jaw. He doesnโt rush the way his hands roamโcareful like heโs turning the pages of something sacred. You think your heart's going to burst or stop at any given moment, because there's no way, absolutely no way he's real.ย
When he pushes your shirt and your bra up over your head, your hands quickly move up to knot through his hair, anchoring them there until he's groaning and mumbling against your skin. He leans down, open mouthed kisses along the way until he finds what he's looking for, taking a pert nipple into his mouth and playing with the other with his metal hand. "Bucky, Iโ"
He doubles down, holding you closer against his core so he can feel you bucking against him, grinding uselessly against the rough fabric of his jeans so he can feel you pulse, head flooding your core. "Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop, Bucky, I'mโ" You sigh breathlessly when you look down and he's got your nipple between his teeth, gently tugging as he looks up at you with too innocent blue eyes. Like he's not pulling you apart.
"I won't stop, sweet girl," Bucky shakes his head, laughing softly like he can't believe it. "Don't even think I could, if I tried."
The rest of your clothes end up as a pile on the floor, and then it was just Bucky slowly undressing in front of you between your knees. It's enough to make you lose your breath, but his next words sends another sharp heat to pool between your legs.ย "I'm gonna make you feel so good. You're so good to me, youโfuck, I'm gonna take my time with you. You gonna keep being good for me?"
"Yes, yes," You whispered, arms coming to wrap around him as he carries you to your bed, nails scratching lightly on the toned muscles of his back. "I'll be so good, I wanna feel goodโjust be with me."
He comes back to you, bare and ready and when you glance down, you can't help the gasp that escapes you. He's big. Bigger than you've ever had, thick and heavy and weeping at the tip. Gorgeous. Fuck, he's gorgeous. At the quiet sound, he pulls back a little bit, just enough to ask, with concern that's mixed with a little bit of amusement. "You okay, baby?"
Baby. Baby. The word rings in your ears, pushing another quiet, needy sound through your lips that Bucky's all too eager to swallow. But then suddenly, he stops and you have to resist the urge to whine. He presses a kiss against your skin, eyes searching yours. "Baby," Fuck, there's that word again. "I'mโI didn't bring anything with me. I don't wannaโ"
You part your thighs without being told and the want in your voice is so clear, so evident. "Bucky, I'm clean. I'm on the pill, and I want you so bad, I need it. I need you inside me, want you to mark me, fill me until I'm overflowing with you."
He curses, looking at the way you're spread out underneath him. His hand reaches out to cup you where you're glistening and swollen and impossibly soft. "I can't say no to that, can I?"
"No," Your legs hook around him as he situates himself between your legs, your heart rate rising as he's so, so goddamn close, you can feel his body heat. "No, you can't."
When he finally sinks himself inside of you, you feel like you're being consumed. It's like your birthday and Christmas and the fucking Fourth of July, all in one, making you moan and swoon in a way that you know will have your neighbors sending a strongly worded complaint in the morning.
He's hard and fast and brutal, rocking against you while he sings praises into your hair, and you're wondering how you've ever been able to live without this. How you can't possibly live without this ever again, but then his hand, warm and on a mission, snakes its way beneath your stomach and pulls and pinches at your clit, and it sends you on another high.
Bucky groans. "Just what you needed, huh, baby?"
You nod, moaning out his name in reply.
One particularly hard thrust, after pulling almost all the way out and then rearranging you in a way that should be impossible, and you're falling apart on him as he fucks you through it. He loves you, he loves you, and he means every single word.
When he cums, it hits you like a train, still reeling from the aftershocks of your last orgasm when he groans and roars, putting his face to your throat and babblesโbaby, sweet thing, the love of my life.
Afterwards, you just wanna lay in the mess with him, tangle yourself up with his legs and arms and get stuck there, but you'reโthe mess between your legs is sticky and quickly drying and the though of Bucky, soaking wet and dripping with water under the spray of yourโ
"Shower," you murmur. And Bucky nods against you, leaning down so he can wrap his arms around you and carry you down the hall to the bathroom.
It doesn't end there.
You ride his face under the shower. He's so good, on his knees like this was penance. For not being there for years, for not coming home to you sooner. His name rattles around your mouth and his tongue makes delicate, soft little shapes on your clit and nibbles against your thighs when you squeeze him just the right amount to make him a bit dizzy. A cool hand on your back, heat rushing in between your legs. His beard sending pinpricks up your spine as you curl your hips closer to his mouth.
Thenโall at once, you on his tongue with a stuttered gasp, head spinning as he laves you with all sorts of praise. His other hand snakes up, circling and rubbing your clit like a man on a mission. "Oh god, oh god."
"Let me have all of it, sweetheart, baby, god. Let me taste you."
You do, of course, fucking of course, you let him. "My baby, taking everything ya want from me. I'll always give it to you. Christ."
When Bucky moves over your body, standing up to his full height, you're all too eager to taste him on your tongue. He's smiling lazily against your lips, like he's won a fight. It's sweet, it's a little sticky, it'sโgod, it's so fucking attractive, the way his lips and his stubble shine under the bathroom lights with your juices. "Say my name, Bucky, say itโ"
He says your name, over and over and over and it's perfect. The water continues to spray above you, soaking both of you, but especially him as it dribbles down to the base of his cock. When he sinks into you, thick and heavy and ready until your shoulder blades knock against the cool tile, you both hold your breath until he's all the way inside, flush against your skin.ย
There's his hands on your hips, a momentary pause, before his hips start snapping against yours. His dark hair, sopping wet and falling into his face, barely concealing the way he grits through his teeth. "Fuck."
You love him so much. You don't think you've ever felt a love so all-encompassing, a love that sets you on fire. You'd give him absolutely anything, everything he wants. Your words fail you, but it's the only thing you can think of as he continues to pound into you, up against that sweet, sweet spot that sends your vision spinning. In the haze of your mind, you can hear yourself moaning, beggingโ
Then you're falling apart again, cumming with a silent scream.
"There you go," Bucky groans and suddenly, you can feel it too, the way he fills you up, throbbing and pulsing inside of you. Until he was empty and you were full. "There you go. So good, baby. Been so good."
All at once, it all comes back to you.
The bathroom is fogged with steam, the mirror a blurred memory of your shapes, blurred edges, the safe hush of water hitting tile. He doesnโt speak when you finally wrench yourself apart from him, just to move behind him, doesnโt tense when your hands press against his shoulder blades to guide him just slightly asideโenough to step in beside him, under the spray. He shifts automatically, lets you in. Like itโs instinct now.
The water is hot, almost too hot, but he doesnโt flinch. He crowds you a little, warm chest to your back, arms curving around your middle like youโre something to protect. Or anchor to. Or both.
You feel the kiss of cold tile against your front, his breath low against your shoulder. It should be overwhelming. Should make you squirm. But instead, it feels inevitable. Like exhaling. Like gravity doing what it always does.
You lean back into him, and he lets you turn. No push. No pressure. Just a subtle retreat that gives you space. When your eyes find his in the low light, heโs already watching you, his gaze open in the way it only is now, after. After everything. After the storm and the silence and the choosing.
โPass me the soap,โ you murmur.
He obliges. Hands you something dark and nondescript, expensive-smelling and purposefully plain, like everything else he owns now. The scent hits as you squeeze a dollop into your palmโcedar, maybe. Bergamot. Clean, and quietly masculine. Like him.
He runs a hand through his hair, rinses under the stream, half turning away from you, blinking water from his lashes.
โUh-uh,โ you chide gently. โGet back here.โ
His brow lifts, bemused, but he obeys. Always does, when itโs you. You rub your hands together to lather the soap, then step forwardโcloser than necessary. Not because you want to tease. Because you want to see.
You start at his sides, palms gliding slowly over his ribs, where old scars have long since faded into muscle. He sucks in a breath, low and sharp. Not from heat. From the contact.
Your fingers move across his stomach, up over the dip in his chest, across the swell of his shoulders. He stands perfectly stillโexcept for the breath hitching in his throat, the twitch of his jaw. You press your body to his, full skin-to-skin, and feel his chest rise beneath your breasts, slow and tight.
He watches you like heโs never been touched like this before. Like the softness is the part that breaks him. Not the hunger. Not the fire. But the care.
You rise up on your toes, sliding your hands over the back of his neck, around the nape. One hand slips down between his fingers, rubbing suds over the back of his hand. His metal arm stays still at his side, but his flesh handโฆ it flexes beneath yours. Tightens around your fingers like something unbearable is unraveling in his chest.
Thatโs when you look up. Thatโs when you see it.
He looks wrecked. Not from what happened in bed. Not from anything physical. But from thisโthis ridiculous, tender act of washing him like he matters. Like youโre not asking anything in return. No demands. No debt.
Just love.
And he knows. You can see itโsee the realization in his face as clear as sunlight on glass. He knows now, as fully as you do, what this is. What youโve been. What you are.
You want to look away. Want to laugh it off, run, bite something smart and quick and false between your teeth just to fill the silence. You donโt.
He takes your wrist gently in his flesh oneโfingers cradling the inside like itโs something delicate. Then, with his other, his metal thumb presses to your skin.
He traces a letter. Then another.
Itโs not rushed. Not uncertain. The motion is familiar. Repeated. You've traced over his name countless of times, and the rough pad of his pointer finger goes through a path you've known for half your life.
Your throat tightens.
โYou,โ he says quietly, voice rough from emotion and steam and everything in between.
He takes your hand gently and takes it to his ribs, where your name's resided for the better part of his life. โAnd me.โ
You stare down at the mark heโs making, not because itโs visible, but because itโs real. You can feel it there, etched into the space between heartbeats.
โYou and me,โ he murmurs again. โAlways was gonna be.โ
Then, still holding your wrist, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. Softly. As if you were made of prayer.
Thereโs nothing else to say. No big revelation. No sudden orchestral swell.
Just this. Just the sound of the water, the warmth of his chest against yours, the slow unraveling of every wall you ever built around the part of yourself that's wanted to believe in love since you were thirteen, staring at your skin in awe.
Later, there will be groceries. Buses. Shifts at the hospital. He'll have to go back to being an Avenger. Other lives moving in parallel lanes around yours.
But right now, itโs this.
Itโs weightlessness.
At the end, it's just your name, written in that soft fog of his breath. And his name, traced endlessly, infinitely across your skin.
Sinopsis: After unexpected overtime threatens your plans with Clark, the two of you rush to Smallville for a beloved town festival.
Warnings: Fluff, established relationship, mild stress, work pressure, small-town teasing
WC: 4,200 words approx.
No. The last thing either of you had planned was staying at work this late. When you finally looked up from your monitor and noticed the clock, a weight settled in your chest. It was already almost four in the afternoon, and the two of you had important plans. You let out a deep sigh as your fingers moved to your forehead, gently massaging your temples in an attempt to ease the tension that had built up after so many hours staring at the screen. The exhaustion lingered in your eyes and at the back of your neck, but you couldn't complain out loud because you knew Clark was just as tired.
The overtime had been an unexpected punishment. Just as the two of you were packing up to leave, backpacks already slung over your shoulders and excited to get an early start, your boss had called you into his office. Perry had explained that he needed your help with a breaking story, that Lois was out of town with Jimmy, and that there was no one else he could trust. It wasn't really a requestโit was an order disguised as a favor. And even though deep down you knew there hadn't been any other choice, you couldn't stop yourself from feeling a little frustrated.
You glanced over at Clark, who was sitting beside you with his fingers still resting on the keyboard, his face illuminated by the glow of the monitor. His blue eyes moved quickly as he read through the files the two of you had spent the past several hours reviewing. Despite everything, he didn't seem nearly as bothered as you were. Maybe because he was more patient. Or maybe because he genuinely believed everything would work out in the end. But you knew him well enough to recognize the tiny line that formed between his brows whenever something weighed on his mind, and right now it was there, etched into his forehead like a small crease.
You reached over and rested your hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body through the fabric of his shirt. You gave him a gentle squeeze, hoping to reassure him with such a simple gesture. Clark turned his head toward you, and your eyes met. There was no need for words anymore. The bond between the two of you had grown strong enough that sometimes silence said everything.
"We'll make it there on time," you whispered, leaning closer to place a brief but tender kiss against his dark curls.
For just a moment, the scent of his shampoo surrounded youโthat familiar smell you had long since begun to associate with home and peace. Clark nodded slowly as a faint smile appeared on his lips, though you noticed it looked almost forced, as if he were trying to convince himself that everything would be okay.
"I know," he replied quietly, but his voice carried far less confidence than his words.
It was Friday. Under normal circumstances, the two of you would already be back at your apartment by now, changing clothes and getting everything ready before heading out. Your usual time to leave work was three in the afternoon, but that week you had requested permission to leave earlyโspecifically at one-thirty. The reason was the town festival, the annual Smallville tradition that Clark had looked forward to with the same excitement ever since he was a child.
Clark had spoken about that celebration with so much enthusiasm that you couldn't help but catch his excitement every single time he brought it up. He had told you that during that special time of year, the people of Smallville filled the streets simply to spend time together. Some handed out little bags of candy to children, others served hot coffee or pumpkin juice to the adults strolling through town, and the more generous families prepared homemade dishes to share without charging a single cent. It was a celebration of community, kindness, and togetherness. And for Clark, who had grown up there, it meant far more than just another fair.
He had told you that when he was little, his parents would take him walking through the streets lit by hundreds of warm lights, and every year he felt the same comforting warmth blooming inside his chest. Seeing neighbors smiling, sharing food, and chatting with one another had become one of the memories that shaped who he was. That was why, this year, Clark had told Martha and Jonathan that he wanted to hand out his own candy bags to the children. Martha had volunteered to bake her famous chocolate cookies the week before, and he had been genuinely excited about giving them away with you by his side.
Even while he told you these stories, his eyes sparkled in a way that always made you smile without even realizing it. You already knew Martha and Jonathanโyou had met them during your third month of dating, when Clark decided it was finally time to introduce you to his family. And now, after eight months together, your relationship had become much more serious. You couldn't wait because this would be your first year celebrating in the town where Clark had grown up, where he'd spent his childhood, and where he'd learned to become the man he was today.
More than anyone else, you understood what all of this meant to him. It wasn't just about handing out candy. It was about sharing a piece of his childhood with you, showing you the streets where he'd run as a little boy, the places where he'd hidden with his friends, and the little shops where he'd bought ice cream during the summers. Clark had even insisted on driving there in his pickup truck, despite having the ability to fly there in seconds if he wanted to. But to him, tradition wasn't about getting somewhere quickly. It was about arriving with your heart, living every moment, and enjoying the journey without rushing.
"The truck makes it more special," he'd told you one evening over dinner. "It's not the same as flying there. Driving down the highway, watching the scenery change, seeing the town lights appear in the distance... that's part of it."
And although you knew he was right, you also understood that the real reason he wanted to drive was because it meant more time together. More time to talk, to listen to music, and to watch the sun disappear behind the endless cornfields. Clark wanted to show you the entire drive again, even though you'd already done it before, because he insisted that this particular night was different. He said the people of Smallville lined the roads with glass jars filled with candles, placing them along sidewalks and lamp posts until they created a glowing path that welcomed every visitor into town. They also hung colorful papel picado decorated with stars, pumpkins, and little animals that danced in the breeze, making a soft rustling sound that felt like a constant whisper accompanying everyone who walked beneath them.
You remembered perfectly the day Clark came home carrying two enormous boxes. Three weeks earlier, you'd heard the front door open and walked out of the kitchen to see what he'd brought.
"Honey, where have you been? What's all this, Clark?" you asked as you watched him lower both boxes onto the floor without showing the slightest sign of fatigue despite their size and apparent weight.
Clark smiledโthat smile of his that always made you feel as though everything in the world was exactly as it should be.
"It's everything we need to make the best candy bags for the kids," he said proudly as he placed the boxes on the living room table.
Curious, you stepped closer while he opened one of them. Inside was a large black bag, and when you unzipped it, you found dozens of clear cellophane treat bags, perfect for packaging candy. But what truly caught your attention were the designs printed on them. Every single bag displayed a brightly colored image of Superman, his red cape billowing behind him and the famous crest emblazoned across his chest.
You picked one up and looked back at him with a raised eyebrow, trying to hide your smile.
"Superman?" you asked, amusement coloring your voice.
Clark shrugged, putting on an innocent expression.
"There weren't any others, sweetheart," he said.
There absolutely were.
You knew he was lying. He had gone to several candy stores and craft shops, and you knew perfectly well he could have found bags decorated with animals, flowers, or just about anything else. He had chosen those on purpose.
Before you could tease him about it, he cupped your face in both hands, gently cradling your cheeks, and kissed you. It was brief, but overflowing with affectionโthe kind of kiss that made you forget whatever complaint you had been about to make.
"I didn't greet my girlfriend when I got home, and that's just bad manners," he said.
Then he leaned in again and placed another soft kiss on your forehead, as though he wanted to make absolutely sure you knew just how important you were to him.
The weeks passed, and the two of you worked on the candy bags together. Every evening after dinner, you'd sit in the living room with the television playing softly in the background while filling each bag with colorful candies, chocolates, and the cookies Martha had sent. Clark carefully tied every single bag shut with ribbon, making sure each one looked perfect. You helped by counting the candy and organizing everything into boxes so nothing would get crushed.
It became a project the two of you sharedโone that somehow brought you even closer together.
But then Friday finally came.
Just as the two of you were ready to leave, Perry had called you into his office, and suddenly the entire plan had fallen apart. Now, after hours of unexpected overtime, you had finally finished. Clark had told you he'd already sent over the files, and you quickly reviewed them to make sure everything looked right.
"I got them. I'm just going to check everything over," you said as you moved your mouse across the screen.
He nodded and remained silent for a moment, watching you with that intensity that sometimes made you feel nervousโbut in the sweetest way. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, and when you looked up, you found yourself meeting his blue eyes.
"Do you really think we'll make it in time to hand out the candy bags to the kids?" he asked, and there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice, as though he feared all the effort he'd put into this would end up being for nothing.
You let go of the mouse and looked directly at him, your confidence coming from how badly you wanted this moment to be special for him.
"Yes, Clark, we will," you answered firmly. "I'm not going to disappoint those kids... and I'm definitely not going to disappoint my boyfriend."
You watched a faint blush spread across his cheeks.
He lowered his eyes with that shy little smile that only you ever got to seeโthe one that always made you want to wrap him in your arms.
The two of you focused on work for a few more minutes, and finally, when the clock struck four in the afternoonโan entire hour past your usual time to leaveโyou clicked the Send button.
"Done," you sighed in relief, leaning back in your chair for just a second.
You picked up your bag and glanced at your watch.
The festival started at seven, but you still had to stop by the apartment first. You needed to grab your backpacks with your clothes and personal belongings, along with the three boxes filled with the candy bags you'd spent weeks putting together with so much care. After that, you'd have to head out onto the highway from Metropolis, and traffic at this hour was always horrible.
You quickly did the math in your head.
It was four.
You'd get home around four-thirty.
Leave again by five.
With traffic... you'd probably arrive in Smallville around eight that evening.
Four hours altogether, counting the city traffic and the drive to town.
You sighed.
Maybe it wasn't enough time.
But giving up wasn't an option.
"We'll have to take the shortcut back to the apartment," you murmured, almost to yourself, as you slipped your laptop into your backpack.
Clark looked at you in surprise.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his eyes instinctively scanning the empty office hallway, as though making sure no one could overhear.
"Yes," you replied without hesitation, adjusting your bag over your shoulder.
The two of you made your way up to the rooftop of the Daily Planet without anyone noticing. After saying goodbye to Perry with polite smiles and quietly slipping out of his office like two teenagers getting away with a prank, you hurried through the empty hallway toward the staircase that led to the roof.
The afternoon wind hit your faces the moment you stepped outside.
Clark reached for your hand while making sure no one had followed you.
Below, the city stretched endlessly, overflowing with traffic, noise, and movement.
But none of that mattered right now.
The only thing that mattered was getting home as quickly as possible.
Clark wrapped a firm arm around your waist, and you instinctively held onto the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of his body pressed against yours as he prepared to take off.
It wasn't the first time you'd flown with him.
But every single time, your stomach still tightened the instant his feet left the ground.
The wind whistled in your ears as the city blurred into streaks of lights and colors beneath you while he effortlessly wove between skyscrapers with a grace that never stopped amazing you.
Only seconds later, the two of you were hovering outside the window of your apartment.
Clark carefully slid the window open so you could climb inside without any trouble.
He helped you through first, keeping a steady hand around your waist while you stepped one foot inside, then the other.
The moment your shoes touched the living room floor, you turned just in time to watch him slip in behind you with the same effortless agility as always.
You didn't waste a second.
You hurried toward the bedroom, pulling both backpacks from the closet and placing them on the bed to make sure everything was packed.
"Don't carry anything heavy, sweetheart," Clark said from behind you as he approached with quick steps. "Just make sure we have the chargers and our jackets."
You nodded without stopping your inspection.
You unzipped both backpacks, reaching inside to feel for the phone charging cables before checking that the portable battery packs were still where they belonged.
Then you walked over to the closet and pulled out two thick jackets. Even during that time of year, Smallville nights tended to get chilly.
You folded them quickly and laid them neatly on top of one of the backpacks.
While you were doing that, Clark had already started changing.
He slipped out of his work shirt and tossed it into the laundry basket before pulling on a loose plaid button-up and a pair of well-worn but comfortable jeans.
You changed as well, trading your office blouse for a soft sweater and a pair of dark pants that were much more practical for walking around town.
Your work clothes joined his in the laundry basket.
Once you were finished, you grabbed the large travel bag where you packed both jackets, the chargers, and a few personal belongings for the two of you.
Meanwhile, Clark had already carried the backpacks and the three boxes filled with candy bags down to the entrance of the apartment building, carefully stacking them so nothing would fall over.
You quickly ran through a mental checklist to make sure you hadn't forgotten anything: the truck keys, the jackets, the candy, the backpacks with extra clothes, the chargers, and your phones.
Everything was ready.
Finally, you pulled the apartment door shut with a firm click, and Clark picked up the jackets you'd packed, draping them over his arm while you grabbed one of the backpacks.
The two of you headed downstairs to the parking garage, where Clark unlocked the truck with the remote. The rear doors swung open, and he loaded every box and backpack with the effortless strength that never failed to amaze you, arranging everything neatly in the back while you climbed into the passenger seat.
The engine rumbled softly to life.
Clark settled behind the wheel, adjusted the rearview mirror, and pulled out of the parking garage.
The drive to Smallville was a long one, but one of the many wonderful things about being with Clark was that he could spend hours talking about something without ever growing tired of it. Somehow, it always helped him relax, even when the two of you were stuck inside a vehicle.
You listened attentively as he shared stories from his childhoodโabout climbing trees just to watch the sunset, or about all the ways he'd hidden his powers whenever he played with the other kids in town.
Sometimes his stories made you laugh.
Other times, you simply enjoyed the sound of his voice while watching through the window as the crowded city slowly gave way to wide-open fields.
About halfway there, you stopped at a gas station.
Clark shut off the engine while you stretched your legs.
The convenience store glowed with bright white lights that contrasted beautifully against the orange sky of the setting sun.
He went inside and returned a few minutes later carrying two sandwiches, a bag of potato chips, and two bottles of water.
When he climbed back into the truck, he handed you your share with a smile.
"I didn't want us getting there hungry," he said as he started the engine again.
The two of you ate while driving, sharing the chips and passing the bottles of water back and forth.
The farther you got from the city, the quieter the road became.
Before long, the constant chorus of horns and engines had been replaced by the gentle whisper of the wind and the soft music Clark had playing on the radio.
Then, at seven-thirty that evening, you realized Clark hadn't been exaggerating.
The very moment the Welcome to Smallville sign came into view, something in the air seemed to change.
There were no impatient drivers.
No blaring horns.
None of the endless noise that filled Metropolis.
Instead, there was only a quiet sound...
A gentle murmur that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
The streets were decorated with colorful lanterns and garlands stretched from one lamp post to another.
People wandered through town carrying bags, chatting with one another, smiling as they walked.
Without realizing it, you found yourself smiling too.
Tiny lights twinkled between the branches of the trees, and several homes had carved pumpkins glowing softly in their front yards.
Everything looked so warm.
So inviting.
So completely different from the endless rush of Metropolis.
"We made it in time... isn't it magical?" Clark asked, glancing toward you for only a second before returning his attention to the road.
His smile was genuine.
His eyes shone with the same excitement they always did whenever he talked about his hometown.
"It really is," you whispered, feeling as though words simply weren't enough to describe how beautiful everything looked.
Clark steered the truck toward Smallville's town square, where a large crowd had already gathered.
Rows of tables had been set up, and many of the townspeople were already serving food and drinks.
He parked nearby and turned off the engine.
The two of you climbed out, leaving your backpacks inside the truck and putting on only your jackets now that the cool evening air had begun settling in.
Clark opened the back of the truck and effortlessly lifted all three boxes of candy bags, stacking them on top of one another as though they weighed absolutely nothing.
He carried them over to where his parents were standing.
The moment Martha saw him approaching, an enormous smile spread across her face when she noticed the two of you together.
"I'm so happy to see you both!" Martha exclaimed as she hurried over and wrapped you in a warm, tight hug.
She still carried that familiar scent of fresh baking and cinnamon that always made you feel at home.
"We baked more cookies for when you got here," she added as she stepped back, smiling at you affectionately.
"We're sorry we're late," you said, unable to hide the guilt in your voice for not having been there from the beginning, even though you knew it hadn't really been your fault.
Martha simply shook her head and gave your arm a gentle pat.
"That doesn't matter," she said warmly. "What matters is that you're here."
Meanwhile, Jonathan walked over with his usual calm stride and kind smile.
"Clark texted us," he said, giving your hand a firm shake before pulling his son into a quick hug. "But I'm glad you both still made it."
Clark had already opened the boxes and begun taking out the clear cellophane candy bags decorated with Superman.
The children nearby immediately crowded around him the second they spotted the candy.
It didn't take long before a small, makeshift line had formed.
Every single child greeted him like he was an old friend.
Some happily called out, "Clark!"
Others simply giggled and stretched out their hands, eager to receive their little candy bags.
Martha and Jonathan took their places beside one of the tables and began handing out the chocolate cookies they'd baked earlier that afternoon.
You walked over to Clark and stood beside him, watching the way he treated each child with endless patience and kindness.
His eyes sparkled as he handed out the candy bags, asking each child how they were doing or whether they'd already gone to see the town lights.
Every child who stepped up received one of his genuine smiles, and some of them even thanked him with quick little hugs that he happily returned.
"Hey, Clark... is she your girlfriend?" a little boy asked, pointing at you with a curious finger. A dinosaur backpack nearly as big as he was hung from his shoulders.
Clark looked at you, and his smile only grew wider.
"She is," he answered immediately, without even a second of hesitation. "She's my girlfriend."
The little boy stared at you with wide eyes before looking back at Clark.
"She's pretty."
You laughed softly and bent down to hand him an extra candy bag.
His face lit up, and he ran off toward his friends without another word.
Then, from somewhere behind you, you heard a woman's voice that made you stop in your tracks.
"I'm sure Clark's already practicing for when the two of you have kids," she said playfully, clearly teasing.
Both of you froze for a moment.
You didn't recognize the woman, but you were certain Clark did. In a small town like Smallville, everyone knew everyone else.
Turning around, you saw a group of women standing near the cookie table, watching the two of you with knowing smiles.
"Martha must be thrilled," another woman chimed in.
Heat immediately rushed to your cheeks.
An older gentleman standing behind them added in a deep but friendly voice,
"Wedding first, don't you think?"
Clark kept handing out candy, nodding politely as he did, but his eyes drifted toward you with an expression that mixed embarrassment and affection.
Once the line of children finally began to thin out, he quietly walked over to you and gently took your hand.
"Don't feel pressured..." he whispered, leaning close enough that only you could hear him. "You know how people are around here... everyone gets involved in everyone else's business."
He smiled sheepishly.
"I know you want to focus on your career first... and I support that."
"Your dreams come before mine."
As he spoke, he lifted his free hand and gently brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face, carefully tucking it behind your ear with such tenderness that a lump formed in your throat.
"I'm not feeling pressured, Clark," you assured him, holding his gaze.
"I'm not afraid of imagining a future with you... a wedding... children," you admitted aloud for the very first time, surprised by how steady your own voice sounded.
"In fact..."
A small smile spread across your face.
"It's one of my dreams."
Clark simply stared at you for several seconds.
He didn't say a single word.
It was as though he was trying to process everything you'd just told him.
Then, slowly, he leaned in and kissed you.
It was a soft kiss...
But it carried every feeling the two of you couldn't possibly put into words.
You kissed him back without hesitation, closing your eyes as the warmth of his lips melted against yours.
Around you, several neighbors who had been watching couldn't help reacting.
"Awww..."
A few chuckled fondly.
Others smiled to themselves.
The sound made you smile against Clark's lips before you pulled back just enough to look at him again.
Fear simply didn't exist when you were with Clark.
Whenever he was by your side, everything felt easier.
Lighter.
Even talking about a future that, not so long ago, you'd never dared to imagine now felt natural...
Beautiful...
As though it were the only thing in the world that truly made sense.
okay, after much deliberation (3 seconds) ive decided to just make a masterlist for my โclark kent is a bloodhound and canโt keep hands off his girlโ fics ๐
Description: a series of fics detailing Clark Kentโs horniness for his favorite girl
Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!Reader
Warnings: lots of smut and suggestive content, proper warnings in each chapter/drabble
part one: clark kent the bloodhound (drabble)
part two: clark kent gets the nerve (drabble)
part three: boy, i understand (full fic: 4.1k words)
part four: take it to the floor (full fic: 2k words)
Request/sort of: You know there's nothing going on between Clark and Lois, not anymore. You know he loves you. That doesn't mean it doesn't sting.
A continuation for different - may need to read it first for some context.
Clark Kent x Reader
Word Count: 4.7K
Content: MDNI. Slightly suggestive but no smut. Angsty and fluffy. Talks of insecurity, jealousy, comparing Clark to an ex. I insinuate reader isn't white/blue eyed. Mentions of a parent hitting reader, could be triggering but I didn't mean it like that. Just sort of explaining reader's mouth vomit.
A/N: Hello dearest tumblr. This was supposed to be a short lil blurb but it got out of hand as per usual. I hope I do the idea justice! Thank you for taking the time to read my work, I really appreciate it. Love always, mani.
I'd suggest to get a better dive into Lois jealousy: This piece by Kyrptidfiles and this one by satellite-evans
divider creds!
It wasnโt eating you up. It wasnโt the reason you had ruined your fresh manicure by biting on your nails and ended up spitting pieces of nail polish into a napkin. It wasnโt the reason youโd spent every night this week in your friendโs apartment like you were hiding from something or worse, scared to be alone with your thoughts. It had nothing to do with the fact that you had been spending the afternoon working in the archival desk with said friend and not in your desk. You said you were working with many archives, and it made sense. It didnโt have anything to do with the fact that for the life of you, you could not handle the Clark & Lois show. Not this week. This week when Perry had said he was disappointed with your last issue because it lacked โemotionโ. The week when your favourite bra didnโt fit the way it used to and made you feel like you didnโt belong in it. Not the week when you had fought with your sister over something so trivial and dumb; why her wedding would be in a serious ballroom downtown when sheโd always dreamed of a Forrest-y one. When you saw Bella and Edwardโs wedding, everything about it made you swoon at ten years old. You didnโt want her to compromise the things she wanted, and she was pretending it didnโt bother her giving her husband this one.
This week you needed shelter; you need love and affection and maybe a good fuck to get your mind lighter and clear. But no, of course not. God didnโt play it like that with you. Clark was working on a big, important piece with Lois and not only where they eating, breathing and moving together, they did it with such finesse and the flow of two people who knew each other deeply. And they did. Lois knew Clarkโs secret; Clark knew about Loisโ daddy issues. They had fucked, for Godโs sake. They had a year to get to know each other before you even appeared in their lives.
And itโs not like you thought they were cheating. You really didnโt. But that they didnโt mean they didnโt want to. That there werenโt linger stares, touches of excitement or moments of connection where they thought โwe shouldnโtโ. That they were a much better fit, they made much more sense, and it was something you knew everyone knew. Like it was an open secret, and they were just waiting for the ball to drop.
โSugar, you wanna go with me to buy a purse tomorrow? I bought new crimson heels, and they need a matching purse. Iโll even throw in one of the really expensive matcha you like.โ Cat asked as she sat on your desk and poked at your cheek to get you attention from where you seemed like the computer was threatening to bite you.
โSure, just us?โ
โYeah, Lois seems pretty busy, but I guess-โ
โNo, just us is perfect. And the matcha of the month at Matchacha has an Amarena cold foam.โ You smiled up at her, Cat smiling and nodding.
โGreat! Itโs a date. Iโll leave you to it.โ She squeezed your shoulder before standing up and walking back to her desk, just as Clark was arriving back to his from Perryโs office. You shrunk back into your computer fast, not leaving a second wasted on your historical dive into US-Venezuela relations when Clark stopped at your desk.
โYouโre dating Cat now?โ He teased, smirking down at you. You looked up and smiled back because you werenโt mad, not really. You were justโฆ scared. Envious. Undermined and cynical.
โYeah, weโre going shopping and going to get the matcha of the month.โ You responded and looked back down, fingers now hovering nervously over the keyboard.
โOh, right. I said Iโd take you last week for that- Iโm sorry, sweetheart.โ His face dropped a little when he realized it might as well be a date because Cat was taking you to do what Clark had failed to.
โItโs fine, youโve been busy. You donโt even like matcha.โ
โYeah, but I shouldnโt be too busy for you.โ
โBut you are, and itโs fine.โ You mumbled, not even realizing what you said sounded like it wasnโt actually fine.
โBaby, Iโm sorry. How about I come over tonight? Itโll be a little late since Lois and I have a meeting, but I can still make it worth your while.โ The last part was a promise of indecency. You knew that Clark never asked you for sex or affection straight up. He said it between jokes and hooded eyes, heโd tell you he was hungry while moving his hand up your thigh or ask you to go home while kissing your neck. But what, heโd get himself riled up with Lois and since he couldnโt have her, youโd be the next best thing? Oh, shit. You were consumed by it now. You were being irrational and catty.
โNo- uhm, we have craft club tonight and Iโm staying the night at Joanโs. Her husbandโs away and she feels lonely. Scared. Needs a big, strong men to protect her. Couldnโt find one but I know my way around a zurriaga โ a stick with a piece of leather. My dad used to smack me with it. Soft, though! I have one in my closet. Anyways, canโt tonight.โ Stop fucking talking. Jesus. Every time you lied, youโd have to add an ultra-personal and graphic story to make up for it. So, the thing about Joan was mostly a lie. But the zurriaga story was true, your dad did smack you with it and then gifted it to you when you moved. Sometimes hard. But you didnโt want to freak out Clark.ย He was good and pure and had been nothing but kind to you the past nine months youโd been together. Clark nodded with his lips pursed and a confusion that said he didnโt know if to ask further questions.
โRight, Iโm going to the Metropolis University library to speak to a Latin American history professor. Wish me luck.โ You said, standing up so fast youโd think you would be the one with superpowers and shoved your laptop into your bag, stumbling on your moccasins slightly. He immediately grabbed your waist to help your balance.
โGood luck, baby. I love you, okay?โ Clark said firm and honest and you believed him. You did, which is why the feeling overwhelming your body was guilt about feeling like this. Because you shouldnโt and you swore you wouldnโt. You swore if you were ever in a relationship again you wouldnโt worry all the time. You wouldnโt believe every insecurity racking up your brain. That was before this situation had started though, before Clark knocked you off your feet and Lois became one of your closest friends. You nodded and squeezed his hand twice, walking away from him.
You heard it before you saw it. Clark was early, a really rare occurrence and there was Lois ranting about something sitting on his desk next to him. She was wearing a skirt and had her legs crossed, her bare knee so close to Clarkโs hands it made you dizzy. She was airy and bubbly and Jimmy stood in front of her laughing along too. She was a beacon of beauty, light, intelligence. The darling of the daily planet.
You gulped and tried to keep a straight face as you stepped into the threshold of the office. You were quiet, having thrown over a sweater Joan lent you this morning, grey and lumpy and just like your taste. Clark would usually look up when you entered a room, he swore he could smell you and hear your heartbeat faster than anything else. But this time, he had his nose in his coffee cup and his ears pressed on Loisโs loud voice. You faded into the background against her. Great. You hung around the reception a minute longer, listening to Kate tell you about a paper delivery problem when Perry stepped out of his office with someone else, probably around his age.
โAnd these two are my best reporters. Kent and Lane.โ He pointed to them, the other man nodding and looking at them.
โAnd theyโre like a power couple?โ The man rose his hand and motioned at the two. Your breath hitched as you watched.
โI donโt reckon. Probably should, though.โ Coffin, nailed. Your boss, who had just this Monday ripped you a new one because of your lacklustre article, had just said he thought Clark and Lois should be together.
โTheyโd look good together.โ Oh. That hit harder than it needed to. You were different. Very different from Lois and Clark, blue eyes and white skin. And that was a new insecurity you hadnโt dared to explore this week. You said bye to Kate and finally walked towards your desk, stupidly in front of Clarkโs and you wondered if heโd notice if you switched it, change with Ron and get some distance between them. Clark finally looked up, a warm smile taking over his face when he spotted you.
โHey, you are late, miss.โ Lois teased as she noticed you too, smiling at you with the warmness of a friend.ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย
โRight, sorry.โ You couldnโt say you were right on time but had been standing at the entrance for what felt like ages. Lois gave you a confused look when you didnโt tease back, watching you move into your routine. You placed your water bottle on the desk, let your hair free from the claw clip and located your notebook.
โHoney, hi. I texted you last night.โ Clark stood up and walked around towards you, he knew you werenโt a fan of PDA so he just took your hand into his, wrapping his hand around your pinky when you threatened to move it. You felt guilty to let him touch you when youโd spent the whole week doubting his goodness and his love.
โOh, sorry. We had some tequila and tapped out early.โ This one was true.
โYou were doing crafts drunk?โ He asked with a small laugh, imagining your clumsy hands trying to mold some air-drying clay and whining about it getting under your nails.ย You became whiny and filter less when tipsy. He wished he was there to see it.
โThe drinks were after.โ You watched as he placed one hand on your arm and felt the soft fabric of your sweater.
โHm, right. Did you talk to your sister?โ
โNo, not yet. Itโll be fine by Saturday.โ You shrugged, because you were siblings and that was just what you did- fight and then pretend nothing happened, laugh over breakfast and then repeat the cycle.
โAh, okay. Is this sweater new?โ What was he? The FBI? Whatโs with the questioning?
โNo. Okay, Iโm heading down. Have a good day.โ Clak frowned impossibly sweet, like it upset him that you didnโt have anything else to say. Nothing sweet to mention, no compliment about his hair he had styled the way you liked this morning, no knowing smile about his twisted tie. You were acting weird the whole week, shrugging him off but he thought maybe you needed space and were on your period or something (you werenโt, he could very creepily smell your cycle). You wore pants and sweaters the whole week, even though you usually liked adding a dress or a skirt. He held onto you when you tried to walk away.
โHey, slow down. Stay with me for a minute. Talk to me.โ He pleaded, urging to shake you or kiss you to see if youโd snap out of whatever it was that was making you like this.
โDonโt wanna keep you, you and Lois need to work. Wonder team and all.โ
โOh, please, heโs all yours, heโs insufferable.โ Lois added, you tried to smile at her, but she noticed it didnโt reach you eyes, not even your cheeks. You felt like she was giving you her permission to be with your man and it made you feel so small. But you knew, you knew it was all inside your head and no harm was done and you knew, but knowing didnโt make you feel better.
โWeโre almost done, either way. Cโmon, letโs go for a coffee and tell me about your week. I miss you, baby. You seem off.โ Clark asked and tried to pull you closer to him, nose nuzzling into your hair and a smile inevitably appeared just feeling you close, having you to breathe in made him feel lighter.
โIโm- I do have a deadline. Iโm fine, just on my period.โ You werenโt, he knew you werenโt. As he tried to think of what to say, you left his grip and turned on your feet fast and away from him.
โIโm- Iโll be downstairs.โ You yelled and didnโt look back. His touch felt like pity, his words felt like obligation, his eyes looked like he was picturing someone else. And he wasnโt- he really wasnโt, you tried to know that. You tried to push it deep into your brain. But the comment had settled it, what you knew everyone thought and what you suspected Clark could be trying to ignore because he wanted to do right by you. But it felt heavy in your chest, you saw Dean in some of his words, how he talked to you so carefully like you were a grenade and how he looked at you with confusion and disappointment when you acted this way. It gave you acid reflux and made you feel too hot under your skin.
โDo you think Iโd look good with some highlights?โ
โYeah, you would. Wanna try something new?โ Cat responded as she stirred the fabric in the shelf, trying to look for her size.
โMaybe, I donโt know. Just-โ
โFeeling antsy? You look antsy.โ
โYeah, justโฆ weird in my own body. Like Iโve lost control.โ You said and sipped on your drink, still watching Cat sort through the underwear to find the last piece for her 5 for 60 deal.
โMaybe buy something that makes you feel good? Youโd rock that bra.โ
โHow could you possibly know that?โ You shrunk your eyes and suspected this was just a way to get you to buy something and make her feel less guilty of all that she shopped. You glanced at what she was pointing at, and it was admittedly beautiful, pink with flowers and lace.
โOkay, miss sassy pants. Thatโs a good shade of pink for your skin tone, you love embroidery and you hate wiring. If you like it, youโll rock it.โ
โOh, you really know me.โ You just responded, Cat giving you a firm smile and rolling her eyes. You walked up to the bra and looked at it closer, running your fingers over the embroidery.
โI do, honey. Whatโs up with you? Is it about Perry?โ You debated on asking, wondered how royally you would fuck up everything if you admitted it bothered you- if you told her about what Perry and his colleague said, about how you had lied to Clark to avoid him because you were upset about him and Lois being so glued at the hip.
โYeah.โ
โHey, Joan.โ Clark said as he walked into the archive room, looking at the woman with cherry red hair and a seemingly glued on frown that only changed for you. You seemed to be able to do that to people. Clark was enamoured with the fact that you had made the whole building love you so fast. He got the security guard to learn his name after the third gifted snickers bar and six months. He learned yours a week in. He knew why, you had the grace of Lady Di, the humour people would pay for and when you werenโt carrying baked goods, you still smelled like sweetness. How could anyone not love you? How had he even gotten so lucky to be the one that got to love you the most?
โDo you need anything? I need to go pick up my husband from the airport.โ She glanced as she was putting her things away, seemingly getting ready to leave.
โNo- no, I can look for it myself. How were crafts last night?โ
โWhat crafts? Itโs every other week.โ Joan looked at him like he was being weird and Clarkโs face dropped.
โYou- you werenโt with-โ
โI was. But she invited herself over, we drank while watching Love Actually and fell asleep. Sheโs the only person Iโd let interrupt my precious nights alone.โ Clark gulped, nodding to Joan. So, you lied about your period, lied about crafts and about Joan needing you. You were definitely avoiding him and hiding the reason why.
โBye then.โ Joan announced, done with the conversation and stepped out of the archive, leaving Clark alone. He hadnโt actually come down for a document; he wanted to pry if you had said anything today about why you were acting strange. But he got an answer either way. His heart started beating faster and a weird tension took over his neck and shoulders like he had been clenching his jaw the whole day. He quickly went back to the newsroom, coming up to Lois and Jimmy who were also getting ready to leave.
โI- I think my girlfriendโs mad at me.โ Clark announced, making both persons turn to him in an amused grin.
โYou think? Youโd know if she was, she almost beat me up for saying her lunch smelled weird.โ
โWell, that was really mean, but I- she lied about her plans last night and has been working downstairs the whole week.โ Clark was confused as to how he hadnโt noticed before, he had actually been busy this week, but heโd never seen you mad or really upset. You hadnโt had a fight yet- just small spats that ended in both of you laughing.
โNow that you mention it, I invited her for lunch today and she said she had plans already, then I saw her eating a sandwich on the staircase. Sheโs been weird to me too.โ Lois said, eyebrows raising as she connected the dots.
โWell, those could have been her plans.โ Jimmy joked, not getting the seriousness because you were always such a chill person. But he frowned when he remembered you biting your lips trying not to cry when you left Perryโs office on Monday. It was the same expression you had when you went to watch the sheep movie last month, whimpering into your sweater. And the same one you had when Clark and Lois were high fiving every two seconds on Tuesday.
โYou donโt think itโs aboutโฆ you two?โ All three of them looked confused as Jimmy was the one to connect the dots before them. Shit, should he have gone into reporting?
โOf course it is, idiots.โ Steve said, standing next to them and laughing like they were morons for not noticing it. Clarkโs mouth went dry, a twitching taking over his right eye. He looked flushed, this reaction compared to slight Kryptonite poisoning, like his body was rejecting everything going on right now and how he didnโt fucking realize.
โWhat-โ
โOn Monday, Perry laid onto her about her article โ she told me, because you two werenโt here. When you came back, you immediately sat together and started sharing coffee. She left then. Itโs been the same all week, as soon as she sees you two being buddy-buddy, she leaves.โ Is Steve a better person than them?
โOh god- fuck.โ Lois shut her eyes, feeling nauseous. You were so nice, such a good friend, such a good girl and she had a hand in making you feel bad when she knew. She knew about your ex, about your fiddling hands when you told them how sometimes it still affected you and how Cat hugged you. She was a dick. A horrid friend, an evil woman. If Lois was freaking out, Clark was so out beyond that. The man of steel was shivering and twitching. Jimmy was cringing at them, seeing both people with genuinely good intentions and who both adored you look sickened at the way they had acted.
โYou know, you really should pay more attention to your girl. I can take her off your hands, if you canโt be bothered-โ
โSteve.โ Jimmy warned, but Clark couldnโt defend himself because Steve was right. He needed to handle it, fast before you got in your head further and he couldnโt do much to pull you out.
It was fine, it was on sale. It was cute. It did look good on your skin tone. You look at your reflection on the mirror behind your bedroom door and tried to like it, Hole playing loudly on your speakers to try and drown out your thoughts. You sighed finally, looking for your shirt and dropping it with a yelp when you saw what was neither a bird or a plane hovering outside your window, it was an image of red and blue and a face filled with such sorrow it was clear through the glass. You held your hand to your heart that was threatening to jump out of your chest, rolling your eyes at the fact that Clark couldnโt just fucking knock on a door. You walked out of your room and opened the balcony, motioning him in while you went back for your shirt.
โBaby, I canโt begin to tell you how sorry I am. I feel absolutely horrible.โ He said as soon as he stepped in and followed you into your room. You shrunk your eyes at him, frowning.
โWhat did you do?โ You asked carefully, hands defensively up like you were ready to burst into tears and punch in embarrassment. It couldnโt be happening to you again; this time it was worse because it was your friend-
โFor being such an ass this week. Iโve been neglecting you and been working with Lois and I know how that would feel. How it looks.โ Ah, he realized.
โOh, you donโt have to be sorry for that. Itโs your job and your priority. Iโm not mad.โ
โI know youโre not mad because youโre wonderful but youโre my priority too. Iโve been a horrible boyfriend if it isnโt clear.โ
โItโs fine, Clark. Really. Iโm not going to break up with you or anything.โ You were confused as to why he was so regretful and he was confused as to how you didnโt get why he was apologizing
โItโs not about that, honey. I want you to be happy and secure- not run and hide in the archive because you feel bad. I should never make you want to be far from me. I should make you feel loved and safe.โ You sat down on your bed, sighing. You didnโt want this to turn into that. Thatโs why you didnโt say anything.
โClark, itโs nothing-โ
โNo, donโt say that. Donโt undersell what you feel, I donโt think youโre crazy. I shouldโve noticed you had been off and done something. Pressed harder. Been better.โ
โI could have said something, too. Itโs just not fair to be upset when youโve been together since before I even got here. You guys are partners. Everyone thinks you two should be together. Even Perry.โ You shrugged, like you accepted defeat in a competition no one else was participating in. She wins, they win. Clark knelt down in front of you, shaking his head.
โWhat- why would Perry-โ
โThis morning. He told his colleague he thought you two should be together. They said you looked like an all American couple.โ Clark groaned, eyes closed as he imagined how that would feel to listen. If he heard he would have said something, done something.
โNo- no, me and Lois donโt-โ
โWell, you did before. Youโve been inside her. Came inside her, she knows what you look like when you-โ His hands found your face, holding you to look at him before you kept spiralling.
โHey, no, donโt do that. Yes, it happened. We were together, but it was awkward and it was mistake. We both knew it from the get-go; heart wasnโt in it. I didnโt even finish inside her, I wore a condom and pulled out and I think the second time didnโt even count I got a phone call and we stopped.โ You laughed sadly, making him smile at his overt attempt to make you feel like you were way more special and better. Clark immediately softened when he saw you smile, feeling like he had won slightly.
โItโs nothing, barely remember and youโve clouded my mind ever since I met you. You and your beautiful eyes, I donโt think about anything else. Thatโs why I was putting everything into this piece; Iโve sort of been lagging because youโre really distracting.โ
โIโm sorry.โ You mumbled, pouting like you actually felt bad. He laughed slightly, sporting those award-winning dimples as he squeezed your cheeks and placing your forehead against his, staring into your eyes and honestly, can he buy contacts? It makes you shake and wither.
โNever be sorry about that, honeybee. You canโt help it. Not your fault Iโm in love with you.โ You huffed, rolling your eyes and looking away. The music in your bedroom was still loud and angry.
โIโm not saying Iโm not gonna work with Lois or anything because itโs dumb and I know you donโt want that, but Iโll always be there for you first, okay? And Lois is just a background character, youโre the protagonist.ย Youโre all I see. All I need. Tell me you get that.โ You would try, really try not to let fears and irrationalities cloud your brain whenever something slightly off putting or reminded you of the things that had happened before. Because Clark never lied, never undermined you or mislead you. He never hid you or dismissed you. He wasnโt Dean. He was the man that flew the skies, protected the earth and came back down to pull you into his arms ask you about what you wanted for Christmas. You knew what you had was solid, it was real and it was all Clark had ever known. It was all you ever wanted to know.
โAlright, yeah.โ
โYeah? Okay. Good. Great. Donโt lie to me though, Joan told me.โ He mentioned and you cringed, nodding.
โSorry. Just didnโt want to admit it.โ
โI know, baby. Still, you donโt wanna know how it felt to hear you lie to me. Thought you were actually dating Cat.โ Clark teased.
โAs if. Shouldโve seen her today, we went into Victoriaโs Secret and they knew her by name.โ You did feel a little bit like an ogre next to her.
โThatโs where you got that little number you had on?โ Clark whispered, hands dropping your face to rub up your thighs. Your eyes went wide open, not realizing that while waiting for you to see him outside he had definitely seen the try on.
โYou saw it?โ
โMaybe. Show me, just to be sure.โ You agreed, standing up and taking off the oversized shirt you had put on. Clark hissed immediately, hands on your hips to pull you back down and closer to him. His breath was hot on your skin as he looked at your chest unashamedly, how the lace pressed softly onto your skin and the embroidery drew on the sides of your breasts, all contrasting with your skin tone into a beautiful, blinding, irresistible view. The suit was suddenly too tight, too smothering just like it felt when he put it on and flew to you, so deadly afraid of what could be going on in your mind.
โIโm- uh, donโt even know what to say.โ He was blushing, swallowing the saliva that was pooling up in his mouth.
โCan you try?โ
โItโs uhm- it should be illegal. I think Iโm going to have to quit my job. Or at least write a new segment: just an ode to you and your excellent lingerie choices.โ You laughed, pushing him away slightly.
โCat chose it.โ
โI- I think I need to get on venmo and tip her.โ Clark smiled as you giggled, shaking your head at his ridiculous complements. Everything was worth it if it made you smile like that. You licked your lips, placing a hand at his cheek and he immediately kissed your wrist, a reflex.
โJust gonna talk it up then?โ
โNo, Iโm gonna put my mouth to very, very good use.โ
Note I don't even know what this is, you guys. I wanted to post this when the world cup started but then things happened and then my team was eliminated last sunday and now i am sad. Anyways, Bucky is a football/fรบtbol (i can't call it soccer) player here and reader is a singer... why is she a singer? the real question is, why not? Also, Becca being the best wing woman? We love to fucking see it. There's smut here, it's very soft and barely there but it's there so, be aware.
The roar of the stadium was a physical thing, a wave of sound that vibrated through the concrete and into the very marrow of your bones. Youโd felt it a thousand times from the stage, a different kind of energy, a different kind of love. But this was something else. This was raw, primal, and utterly centered on twenty-two men chasing a ball. You were tucked away in the family box, feeling like a fraud in a sea of jerseys and painted faces, all thanks to a persistent, and frankly, terrifyingly enthusiastic, young woman named Rebecca Barnes.
Her grip on your arm was like a vice, her eyes wide with a star-struck fervor that was both endearing and slightly alarming. โOh my God, oh my God, heโs looking this way! Did you see that? He just winked! I think he winked at you!โ
You followed her gaze to the pitch, where her brother, Bucky, was indeed jogging back into position, a stray lock of dark hair plastered to his forehead, his focus absolute. He hadnโt winked at the box; you were certain of it. He was too locked in, a predator on the hunt. But you couldnโt bring yourself to crush Beccaโs spirit. She was the reason you were here, after all.
It had started with a simple, direct message on Instagram. A string of emojis, a gushing declaration of love for your latest album, and a plea for a signed poster. You had a soft spot for earnest fans, and her profile, a collage of your album art and her brotherโs football stats, was a clear indicator of her two main obsessions. Youโd sent the poster, and a short, friendly note. A week later, you were the subject of a near-daily barrage of messages from her, culminating in a surprisingly persuasive argument for why you should attend a match.
"Itโs not just a game, itโs a cultural experience! And my brother is the best player on the team, I swear. Youโll get to see a real athlete in his element. Please? For me? For the signed poster?"
The request had been so absurdly earnest, and you were so desperately bored of the endless cycle of studio sessions and promotional interviews, that youโd said yes. And now, here you were, watching the man himself, James Buchanan Barnes, or โBuckyโ as everyone called him, orchestrate the game with a quiet, devastating intensity.
He wasnโt a flashy player. There were no showboating tricks or flamboyant dives. His game was built on grace and power, a deceptively languid stride that exploded into breathtaking speed. Heโd receive a pass, control it with a single, effortless touch, and then send it screaming across the pitch to a teammate with laser-guided precision. He was the fulcrum, the quiet engine that made the entire machine work. It was captivating. And you absolutely hated how captivating you found it.
The media had been having a field day since the first grainy photos surfaced of you leaving a charity gala together three months ago. Youโd been seated at the same table, a stroke of luck for the gossip columns, and a single, perfectly timed photograph of him leaning in to hear you over the din of the crowd had ignited a wildfire of speculation. "Sunshine Girl and Winter Soldier!", "Barnesโs New Flame?". The rumor mill had been churning ever since, and your publicist was having a coronary. The constant use of your nicknames were a lot now and youโd done your best to quell the speculation, issuing a brief, diplomatic statement about a chance encounter and a shared acquaintance. Heโd done the same, a clipped, dismissive reply to a reporterโs question that youโd seen on a sports highlights reel. Youโd scoffed at his curtness, even as a tiny, traitorous part of you felt a prickle ofโฆ something. Annoyance, youโd told yourself. Pure professional annoyance. That night at the gala, youโd exchanged perhaps five words, polite nothings about the food and the acoustics of the hall. It had been nothing. Absolutely nothing. And yet, youโd found yourself scrolling through photos of him later that night, cursing your own curiosity.
The match ended in a decisive victory for his team, Barnes scoring the final, stunning goal with a shot so powerful it seemed to bend the air around it. As the final whistle blew, Becca, who had been practically vibrating with excitement, looked at you with pleading eyes. โYou have to come to the afterparty! Please? Itโs at the hotel where theyre staying. Everyone will be there, and Bucky will be so happy to see you.โ
You opened your mouth to politely decline, to cite the need for an early night, but the words died on your lips. You saw him then, jogging over to a section of the stands where some children were waving. He signed a jersey, his face breaking into a genuine, unguarded smile that softened the hard lines of his jaw. It was a disarming sight, a flash of kindness that felt entirely at odds with the taciturn, intimidating figure youโd been building in your head.
Becca followed your gaze, a knowing smile playing on her lips. โHeโs not usually like that, you know. With the press, I mean. He loves seeing the fans, mostly the young ones.ย Heโs always soโฆ closed off. But ever since that gala, heโs been different. Quieter. He doesnโt talk about it, but I can tell. He asked me about you, you know. Casual, like he didnโt really care. But I know my brother.โ She paused, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. โItโs been a long time since I saw him that captivated by someone. Heโs not the type to have flings. Heโs so careful, so private. Itโs not like heโs checking out women left and right. Iโm almost sure itโs been a really long time since he went out with anyone. You shouldโve seen him that night at the gala. He couldnโt stop looking at you.โ
You felt a flush creep up your neck. โIt was just a conversation, Becca. Barely even that.โ
โSure,โ she said, her tone dripping with amused skepticism. โJust a conversation. Itโs been just a conversation the, what? Twenty times you have seen each other in just three months? Thatโs why heโs been acting like a grumpy bear for three months, right? Come on. One drink. For me?โ
โFine,โ you heard yourself say. โOne drink.โ
The private club was a haze of dark wood, low lighting, and thrumming bass. The atmosphere was raucous, a celebration spilling over with champagne and triumphant back-slapping. You were a fish out of water, a creature of spotlights and silent recording booths, not this boisterous, testosterone-fueled environment. Becca was immediately swept away by a group of friends, leaving you to fend for yourself.
You were nursing a glass of the rosรฉ wine Becca loves talking about, trying to find a corner to disappear into, when a large, warm presence materialized at your back. โYou came.โ
His voice was a low rumble, laced with the barest hint of surprise. You turned. Bucky Barnes, no longer in his kit but in a simple, dark henley and jeans, looked even more formidable up close. He smelled of soap and expensive cologne and a faint, clean musk that was entirely his own.
โYour sister is very persuasive,โ you replied, your voice cooler than you intended. โSheโs also very observant.โ
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. โThat she is. Sheโs been talking about you for months. She claims youโre a big deal.โ
The statement was blunt, almost an accusation. You bristled. โItโs not a competition, Barnes. Iโm just a person who makes music.โ
โSo Iโve heard.โ He took a sip from the bottle of beer in his hand, his gaze never leaving yours. It was unnerving, this directness. โYouโre good. I listened to your album. The new one.โ
The admission caught you completely off guard. Youโd assumed he was just humoring his sister, that your career was an abstract concept to him, a distant world he had no interest in. โYou did?โ
โDonโt look so surprised,โ he said, his lips twitching. โI have ears. And Becca has a very loud speaker system. It was hard to avoid. Has been non-stop at the apartment since last week you released it.โ He paused, his eyes searching yours. โBut I didnโt want to avoid it. The song about the city at night. That one stayed with me.โ
You remembered the song. It was a deeply personal one, written during a period of intense loneliness, about the feeling of being surrounded by millions of people and yet completely, utterly alone. The fact that he had not only heard it but connected with it sent a strange thrill through you. โThatโsโฆ actually really kind of you to say. Thank you.โ
He nodded, a small, almost shy gesture that was so at odds with his public persona. โI mean it.โ He gestured with his beer bottle towards a quieter corner. โWant to get out of this chaos?โ
You should have said no. You should have cited your impending departure, your need for a quiet night. But the press of bodies and the relentless chatter were suffocating, and the idea of a momentโs respite with someone who, despite your best efforts, you found increasingly intriguing, was too tempting. You followed him to a small, secluded balcony overlooking the city skyline. The cool night air was a balm on your heated skin.
โThank you,โ you said, leaning against the railing. โFor the rescue.โ
โDonโt mention it.โ He stood a respectful distance away, but his presence was immense, filling the small space. โBecca got a bit carried away, Iโm guessing. Sheโs a force of nature.โ
โSheโs wonderful,โ you said, and you meant it. โShe reminds me of myself a little, when I was her age. All that passion and energy.โ
He was quiet for a moment, studying the city lights. โWe lost our mom a few years ago. I had to step up, be the parent and the brother and I try to be the brother mosto f the time. She was only thirteen andโฆ sometimes I think she clings to things, to people, because itโs easier than being alone. Sheโs nineteen now but I still see that little girl, you know?โ
The confession was unexpected, a crack in his carefully constructed armor. It made you see him in a new light, not just as a sports star or a reluctant acquaintance, but as a man who had shouldered a terrible burden and tried to protect the person he loved most. The way heโd been at the gala, the way heโd looked at you across the table, suddenly made a different kind of sense. He wasnโt just an aloof athlete; he was a man who carried weight, who chose his connections carefully.
โThatโs why you took her to the game?โ you asked softly. โBecause she wanted to go?โ
He shook his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips. โNo. I didnโt take her. She avoids that most of the time but she wanted you there, said she wanted to see if you were actually a real person because she has only seen you in the parties.โ He laughed, a low, gravelly sound that did something strange to your stomach. โShe just has a way of getting what she wants. Sheโs a lot like you, I think. You didnโt want to come, did you?โ
โNo,โ you admitted, surprising yourself with your honesty. โBut Iโm glad I did.โ
He turned to face you then, and the air between them grew thick, charged. His gaze traveled over your face, pausing on your lips before meeting your eyes again. โThe press is having a field day, you know. Has been since that gala.โ
โTell me about it,โ you scoffed. โMy publicist is convinced Iโm going to get eaten alive by the tabloids. She nearly had a heart attack when those photos came out.โ
โTheyโre saying weโre a couple,โ he stated, a hint of something unreadable in his voice. โAgain.โ
โTheyโre saying a lot of things,โ you countered, trying to match his dismissive tone. โItโs just gossip. Itโll blow over.โ
โYeah,โ he agreed, but his voice was quiet. โIt will.โ He took a step closer, and you were suddenly acutely aware of every inch of space between you, or the lack thereof. He was close enough that you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the flecks of lighter blue in his irises. โBut what if I donโt want it to?โ
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. This was a terrible idea. He was a public figure, just like you. Getting involved would be a PR nightmare, a tabloid frenzy. But the look in his eyes, that potent, focused intensity that youโd first noticed at the gala, was making your brain short-circuit. He wasnโt looking at you like you were a conquest, a notch on his belt. He was looking at you like heโd been waiting, like this moment had been building for months.
โYouโre a public figure,โ you managed, your voice a little breathless. โWe both are. This is insane. People will talk.โ
โMost things worth having are,โ he murmured, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. The touch of his fingertips on your skin was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. โThe press, the speculation, the whole circusโฆ it doesnโt matter. Not if you donโt want it to. And I donโt. Iโve been thinking about you since that night at the gala. Couldnโt get you out of my head.
He was so close now, his scent enveloping you, the heat of his body a palpable force. Your logic was screaming at you to pull away, to laugh it off, to retreat to the safety of your carefully constructed world. But the rest of you, the part that was tired of being alone, of the constant performance, was whispering something else entirely. The memory of how heโd looked at you across that crowded room, the way heโd leaned in, the brief, electric brush of his fingers against yours as heโd passed you a glass of champagneโit had all been simmering beneath the surface for months.
โJamesโฆโ you started, but the protest was weak, a mere whisper.
โThatโs my name,โ he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. โSay it again, please.โ
And then his mouth was on yours. The kiss wasnโt gentle or tentative. It was demanding, possessive, a claim. It was the culmination of months of denial, of stolen glances and suppressed curiosity. His lips were firm and warm, tasting of beer and something uniquely him. Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. A shudder ran through him at your touch, and he pulled you closer, deepening the kiss. His hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, and he kissed you like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could sate a hunger heโd been carrying for far too long.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and dazed, he rested his forehead against yours, his breathing as ragged as your own. โWe should probably go inside,โ he muttered, but he made no move to let you go. โBefore someone sees. I donโt want to share this. Not yet.โ
โProbably,โ you agreed, but you were still clutching his shirt, your body humming with a need you couldnโt name.
He didnโt take you inside. He took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and led you away from the balcony, down a quiet hallway, and into a small, private room that was clearly reserved for him. It was a simple space, a leather couch and a table, a far cry from the opulence of the club at the hotel. . His grip was firm, possessive, his thumb tracing idle circles on the inside of your wrist as he pulled you along. The private room was a small, simple space, but he didnโt stop there. He guided you through another door, one you hadnโt noticed, and suddenly you were in a different world entirely.
He pushed it open, revealing a bedroomโhis bedroom, you realized with a jolt. It was surprisingly minimal, all dark wood and crisp white linens, a king-sized bed dominating the space. A single, soft lamp cast a warm glow over the room.
As soon as the door clicked shut, the world outside ceased to exist. The noise, the lights, the pressureโit all melted away. The only thing that remained was the heat of his gaze, the rapid beat of his heart against your palm as you traced the hard line of his jaw.
โYouโre a menace,โ you breathed, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. โLeading me to your bedroom like this.โ
โIโve been called worse,โ he whispered, his voice husky as he leaned in to kiss your neck. โBut Iโll take it. Coming from you. You have no idea how long Iโve been thinking about this. About you. Iโve been going out of my mind. Three months of watching you on every screen, hearing your voice on the radio, and I couldnโt do a damn thing about it.โ
His mouth was on your pulse point, a hot, wet sensation that made your knees buckle. You could feel the sharp edge of his teeth, the soothing flick of his tongue, and it sent a sharp bolt of pure, unadulterated want straight to your core. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, a soft gasp escaping you as he found a spot that made your vision blur.
โYou smell incredible,โ he murmured against your skin, his words a warm puff of breath that raised goosebumps on your arms. โI donโt think Iโve been able to think clearly since you walked onto that balcony. Since the gala, really. You ruined me.โ
He pulled back, his eyes dark and hungry as they roamed over your face, your body. He was searching for permission, for a sign that you wanted this as much as he did. You answered by pulling him down for another kiss, this one slower, deeper, a promise whispered against his lips.
His hands moved from your hair, tracing a path down your spine, the heat of his palms searing through the thin fabric of your dress. He found the zipper at your back, his fingers fumbling for a moment before he let out a frustrated growl against your lips. โThis is a very complicated dress,โ he mumbled, his accent thickening with his frustration, a fact that sent a surprising thrill through you.
โIt wasnโt supposed to be easy,โ you whispered, your voice laced with a giddy, breathless laughter. โBut itโs gonna be worth it, James.โ
He finally managed to undo the zipper, a low sound of triumph rumbling in his chest as the fabric loosened. The dress slithered down your shoulders, pooling around your feet in a whisper of silk. He took a step back, his gaze dropping, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face as he took in the sight of you in just your lace underwear.
โFuck,โ he breathed, his voice reverent. โYouโre trying to kill me, honey. Youโre the most beautiful thing Iโve ever seen.โ
He reached for you again, his hands possessive, his touch sending jolts of pleasure through your body. He unhooked your bra with surprising dexterity, his thumb ghosting over your hardened nipple, making you gasp. He lowered his head, his hot mouth closing around the peak, his tongue swirling and teasing until you were a trembling mess in his arms. The scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin was a delicious friction, a contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. He lavished attention on both breasts, his hands cupping and kneading, his mouth worshiping, and you could feel the evidence of his own desire pressing insistently against your thigh.
โBucky, please,โ you begged, not even sure what you were asking for, only knowing you needed more. โI need you.โ
He answered your plea by sweeping you off your feet, carrying you the few steps to the bed and laying you down with a surprising gentleness. He loomed over you, a dark silhouette against the dim light, and the sight of him, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a raw hunger, took your breath away. The white sheets were cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his body hovering above you.
He shed his shirt in a single, fluid movement, revealing a canvas of taut muscle and pale skin, his body honed to a perfect edge of athletic power. A trail of dark hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans, and your fingers itched to touch him, to trace the lines of his body. You reached up, your hands gliding over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the muscles jump beneath your touch. He groaned, his eyes closing for a moment, as if your touch alone was enough to undo him.
โYou have no idea,โ he murmured, his voice strained, โhow long Iโve wanted to feel your hands on me. Iโve replayed that night at the gala a hundred times, wondering what it would be like if Iโd just had the courage to ask for your number. Wondering what youโd feel like beneath me.โ
He lowered himself, his lips tracing a path down your stomach, leaving a trail of searing kisses. He paused at your navel, his tongue dipping in, and you shuddered beneath him, your fingers threading through his hair. He worked his way lower, his mouth hot and demanding, his stubble leaving a delicious burn on your sensitive skin. He reached the waistband of your panties, his fingers hooking into the delicate fabric and pulling them down, his movements slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. He discarded them carelessly, his focus entirely on the expanse of skin now bared before him.
He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing your legs apart, and the sight of him there, his dark hair contrasting with your pale skin, was almost too much to bear. He looked up at you, his eyes hooded and dark with desire. โIโve been dreaming about this,โ he admitted, his voice a low, rough growl. โAbout tasting you. About hearing you fall apart because of me.โ
And then his mouth was on you, and coherent thought became impossible. His tongue was a revelation, skilled and relentless, finding every sensitive spot with devastating precision. He licked a broad, flat stripe up your center, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it gently into his mouth. The sensation was electric, a sharp bolt of pleasure that made your hips buck against his face. He groaned against you, the vibration sending another wave of sensation through your body.
He was methodical, almost reverent, his mouth working you with a focus that bordered on obsession. He alternated between broad, languid licks that had you writhing and quick, targeted flicks of his tongue that made you gasp his name. He slid one thick finger inside you, then another, curling them just right, finding that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. He pumped them slowly at first, matching the rhythm of his tongue, then faster as your moans grew louder, more desperate.
โLook at me,โ he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. โI want to see your face when you come.โ
You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze as he continued his assault on your senses. The sight of him between your thighs, his lips slick with your arousal, his eyes burning with a possessive hunger, was enough to push you over the edge. Your climax hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, your back arching off the bed as a cry tore from your throat. He didnโt stop, his tongue continuing its relentless rhythm, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until you were a trembling, gasping mess beneath him.
When the waves finally subsided, he crawled back up your body, his skin slick with sweat, his eyes hooded with a deep, possessive satisfaction. He kissed you, and you could taste yourself on his lips, an intimacy that was both shocking and utterly perfect. He was hard against your thigh, the evidence of his own desire impossible to ignore, straining against the denim of his jeans.
โTell me what you want,โ he whispered, his voice raw with need. โTell me, and itโs yours. Anything.โ
โI want you,โ you managed, your voice still breathless. โI want all of you. Please, Bucky.โ
He rolled off the bed, his movements quick and purposeful. He crossed to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer and retrieving a foil packet. He held it up, his eyes meeting yours, a question in his gaze. You nodded, your eyes never leaving his, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a small, approving smile.
He returned to the edge of the bed, his fingers working the button of his jeans with deliberate slowness. He pushed them down, along with his boxer briefs, and you finally saw all of him. He was beautiful, every inch of him, his cock thick and straining, the tip glistening with evidence of his arousal. The sight of him made your mouth water, made you ache with the need to feel him inside you.
He tore the foil packet open with his teeth, a gesture that was unexpectedly primal, and rolled the condom on with practiced ease. He wasnโt shy about it, not fumbling or awkward. He handled it with the same confidence he brought to everything else, his eyes never leaving yours. He was a man who knew what he wanted and wasnโt afraid to take it, and the knowledge that what he wanted was you sent a thrill of pure, unadulterated power through your body.
He crawled onto the bed, covering your body with his, the heat of him searing against your skin. He positioned himself between your thighs, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance, and paused, his eyes searching yours.
โLook at me,โ he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. โI want to see your eyes when Iโm inside you. I want to remember this. Every fucking second.โ
You held his gaze as he pushed into you, a slow, deliberate thrust that stole your breath. He was big, stretching you in a way that was almost overwhelming, but the fullness, the completeness of it, was intoxicating. He stilled for a moment, giving you time to adjust, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged.
โYou feel amazing,โ he groaned, his voice a low, guttural sound. โSo perfect. Like you were made for this. For me. Fuck, Iโve been dreaming about this for months. You have no idea.โ
He began to move, a rhythm that was both powerful and controlled, a testament to his athletic grace. Each thrust was a deep, deliberate stroke, hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars. He was a man possessed, his focus absolute, his every movement designed to bring you both to the edge and beyond. His hands roamed your body, gripping your hips, sliding up to cup your breasts, his touch possessive and reverent all at once.
โYou feel so good,โ he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and raw. โSo tight. So perfect. I could stay inside you forever, you know that? Just like this.โ
He shifted his angle, and a new wave of pleasure built within you, coiling tight and fast. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his back, your nails raking across his skin as you felt yourself soaring. He groaned at the sensation, his thrusts growing deeper, harder, more urgent.
โThatโs it,โ he urged, his voice a husky growl. โLet go, baby. I want to feel you come undone for me. Iโve been waiting so long to see you like this.โ
He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down in a circular motion that made you gasp. The dual sensationโhis thick length filling you, his thumb working your sensitive nubโwas too much, too good. You felt the pressure building, a coil winding tighter and tighter in your belly.
โBucky, Iโm going toโโ you gasped, the words dissolving into a moan.
โThatโs it,โ he commanded, his hips never slowing. โCome for me. Let go. Iโve got you, honey.โ
His thrusts became more erratic, more desperate, and you knew he was close too. The thought of him losing control because of you, because of the way your body felt wrapped around him, sent you hurtling over the edge. Your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave, your vision going white as you cried out his name, your body clenching around him in a series of rhythmic, pulsing contractions.
The sensation of you coming undone around him was too much for him to bear. He thrust into you one last time, a deep, grinding stroke, and you felt him shudder, a low, ragged cry escaping his lips as he spilled himself inside you, buried as deep as he could go. His hips continued to twitch, small, involuntary thrusts as he rode out his own climax, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, his weight a warm, comforting presence, his heart hammering against your chest in a frantic rhythm that matched your own. He pressed soft, lazy kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, as if he couldnโt get enough of the taste of your skin. His hands roamed your body, gentle now, soothing, as if he was memorizing every curve, every plane.
Finally, he propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with an expression you couldnโt quite decipher. His eyes were soft, almost reverent, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a slow, satisfied smile. โWell,โ he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. โThat was better than the game and we know that was really amazing, I did great there.โ
A surprised laugh bubbled out of you, breaking the tension. โHumble,โ you teased, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. โVery humble. Youโre a jerk.โ You say, knowing heโs joking.
โItโs not a competition,โ he said, echoing your earlier words, his smile widening. โBut if it was, I think I just won.โ He paused, his expression softening. โIโve been thinking about this for months, you know. I didnโt think it would actually happen. I didnโt think youโd ever want me.โ
You traced the furrow between his brows, the worry lines that had settled there, and felt a surge of affection so powerful it nearly stole your breath. โI didnโt think youโd ever want me either. You seemed soโฆ uninterested at the gala. Like I was just another person in the room.โ
He laughed, a low, self-deprecating sound. โUninterested? I couldnโt take my eyes off you. I was terrified youโd notice. I spent the whole night trying to find an excuse to talk to you, and when I finally did, I said something stupid about the food. Iโve been kicking myself for three months.โ
You rolled your eyes, but you couldnโt stop the smile that spread across your own face. โThe paps are going to have a field day when they find out I was in your private room for an hour.โ
โLet them,โ he said, the earlier anxiety gone, replaced by a newfound certainty. He kissed the tip of your nose. โLet them talk. Itโs just noise. You and me, weโre something else. Something real.โ He paused, his expression growing serious. โWeโre gonna be here way more than an hour, honey.I think Beccaโs going to lose her mind. Sheโs been shipping us since that gala.โ
You groaned, burying your face in his chest. โDonโt remind me. Sheโs really been going non-stop, saying that youre great all the time and not a dipshit like most football players.โ
He laughed, a full, genuine sound that you could feel vibrating through his whole body. โLet her. Sheโs just that enthusiastic. Sheโd probably be a good wedding planner. Has a lot of energy.โ
โAnd a lot of opinions,โ you added, laughing along with him. The sound of your laughter mingled in the dimly lit room, a perfect, private harmony.
He didnโt move right away. He stayed above you, his body a warm, solid weight, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. He kissed you again, softer this time, a slow, languid kiss that held no urgency, just a deep, quiet contentment. His hand slid down your side, over your hip, cupping your thigh and hitching it higher around his waist. He was still inside you, softening but still present, and the intimacy of it made your heart ache.
โI donโt want this to be just tonight,โ he murmured against your lips. โI donโt want to wake up tomorrow and pretend this didnโt happen. I want to see you again. I want to take you on a real date, somewhere without cameras and screaming fans. I want to get to know you, the real you, not the version of you that the world sees.โ
You looked up at him, at the vulnerability in his eyes, and felt something shift deep in your chest. This wasnโt just a hookup. This wasnโt a one-night stand. This was a beginning, a tentative, fragile beginning to something that could be so much more.
โIโd like that,โ you said softly. โIโd like that a lot.โ
He smiled, a real smile, one that reached his eyes and made him look years younger, carefree in a way you hadnโt seen before. He kissed you again, and you could feel the promise in it, the hope of something new.
Later, he rolled off of you, his body leaving yours with a reluctance that was palpable. He disposed of the condom in the small bin beside the bed, his movements unhurried, and then returned to you, pulling you into his arms. He tucked you against his side, your head on his chest, his hand stroking your hair. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was a soothing lullaby, and you felt yourself drifting, wrapped in warmth and the scent of him.
โIโll drive you home,โ he murmured, his voice a low rumble in his chest. โIf you want. Or you can stay. Thereโs a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. I keep them for Becca, but you can use one. Whatever you want.โ
You tilted your head up to look at him, at the man who had been a reluctant, frustrating presence in your life for months, now looking at you like you were the only person in the world. The fame, the scrutiny, the endless performanceโit all faded away. There was only him, and the promise of more. โOkay,โ you said, your voice a quiet whisper. โYeah. Iโd like to stay. Iโd like to wake up with you.โ
He smiled, that devastating, unguarded smile, and pulled you closer. โGood. Because I wasnโt really planning on letting you go anyway.โ
And as you lay there, wrapped in his arms, the soft glow of the lamp casting dancing shadows on the ceiling, you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was just the beginning. The months of denial, the forced indifference, the careful distance... it all crumbled away. There was only him, and the weight of his arms, and the knowledge that whatever came next, youโd face it together.
The way he fills you is surreal. The thickness of him makes your gummy walls stretch to their limit, warm and wet while they grip him tight.
He groans lowly once his hips are flush against yours, your thighs spread wide to make space for his huge body.
You're so full, pussy completely yielding around his heavy cock, and Clark can see that there's not a single thought left in that pretty head of yours.
He presses down on your lower belly and just grinds his hips against yours, rubbing against your g-spot, his fat head brushing your cervix.
You squirm at the feeling of him throbbing deep in you, breathlessly whining out, โClark.โ
โIt's so much to take, baby, I know. But you're doing so good,โ he assures, leaning down to kiss your jaw. โMy good girl.โ
Every thrust empties you completely before filling you to the brim again. Over and over, he fucks into you, feeling the way your body struggles to fit his girthy cock even though youโre delighted to have him in you.
โBreathe, baby, breathe,โ he reminds you when your little whines and mewls turn into quick, shallow gasps. You try to obey but struggle a little because it feels like youโre so full of him that thereโs no space left for air.
And when you two are done, you end up stuffed full of his cum, the thick, creamy liquid warm as it pools against your cervix. It coats your inner walls and drips out of you, dribbling down your ass to gather underneath you on the bed. Clark is quick to help you into a pair of panties so your sore pussy doesnโt waste a single drop of his sticky release <3
โก please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
Clark Kent masterlist
---
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
warnings: angst, relationship distress, dynamic neglect, severe public panic, physical injury (head trauma, bleeding, concussion), and mild themes of endangerment/near death experience.
notes: i was gonna add more but it wouldve been wayyyyyy to long.. so pt3 when?! also slightly proofread!!
wc: 1.9k
๐โ โน part 1
the elevator doors slid shut cutting off the desperate echoes of clarkโs voice.
the moment the steel walls enclosed you, your composure completely broke.
you collapsed against the mirrored wall of the elevator, sliding down until you hit the cold floor.
a breathless sob tore out of your throat, so loud it echoed.
you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, your wet coat soaking through to your skin, but you didn't care.
your chest was heaving so violently you couldn't catch your breath.
Itโs just easier....
the words repeated in your head, a cruel mantra that pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat.
he had lied.. he had left you alone in the dark with cold food and lit candles so he could drink wine in his sweatpants on his ex girlfriend's couch.
by the time the elevator hit the lobby, you scrambled to your feet, wiping furiously at your face.
you didn't just walk out of the building, you broke into a run, rushing past the startled doorman and straight back into the storm, desperate to let the freezing rain wash away the humiliation burning on your skin.
when you finally threw open the door to your own apartment, the silence inside was suffocating.
the candles had burned down to stubs, leaving behind the faint smell of vanilla and melted wax.
the two plates of dinner still sat on the counter, perfectly arranged and cold.
"easier," you choked out, your voice shaking.
you walked over to the table and with a sweep of your arm, knocked both plates off the surface.
they shattered against the hardwood floor, ceramic exploding into a dozen pieces, pasta and sauce splattering across the room.
you didn't stop there.. you lunged toward the dining table, grabbing the vase of flowers youโd bought fresh that morning and hurled it against the wall.
the glass shattered, water and crushed petals raining down onto the floor.
you tore the cushions off the couch, threw the decorative pillows across the room, and grabbed a framed photo of you and Clark from the bookshelf, a photo taken at a park where he was looking at you with what you thought was love and threw it face down onto the floor, the glass cracking down the center.
you trashed the place until your lungs burned and your hands were shaking from the adrenaline.
you stood in the center of the room, panting, looking at the mess you had created.
it was the first time the apartment actually matched how you felt on the inside... completely broken.
you exhaled before moving, you dragged your large suitcase to the bedroom.
you didn't pack everything, just your clothes, your laptop, and the absolute essentials.
your phone buzzed on the counter.
lois: please answer me. i am so, so sorry. itโs not what it looks like, i swear to you. let me come over. let me explain. please don't hate him.
you stared at the screen but didn't reply.
it's not what it looks like... please don't hate him.
you scoffed and instead, you blocked her number and then, you blocked his.
wrapping your now dry coat tighter around yourself, you grabbed your suitcase, stepped over the broken glass, and let the door click shut behind you.
๐โ โน
you'd rather be anywhere but here, you've avoided the office for as long as you could but today perry said he needed you here.
a week had passed since you've spoken to either of them.
the silence between you and clark shifted from uncomfortable to deafening.
you kept your eyes glued to your monitor, your fingers flying across the keyboard with a rhythmic click clack.
you could feel clark's eyes on you from across the room, but you didnโt look at him.
not when he drops a file on your desk or when he clears his throat.
every time he builds up the courage to speak, you conveniently pick up your desk phone or rush off to the copy room.
you're making yourself unreachable, and it's driving him out of his mind.
you can hear clark's footsteps before he actually reaches your desk, so you keep your eyes locked onto your computer screen.
he stops right at the edge of your desk and out of the corner of your eye, you can see him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, nervously adjusting his glasses.
he looks entirely drained, the guilt weighing down his broad shoulder, the bags under his eyes are dark.
"hey," he starts, his voice quiet and hesitant. "you've been typing for three hours straight... you uh you need to take a break. let me get you something from the cafeteria? a snack, or... or some tea?"
you don't blink or pause, you just hit the backspace key a few times and keep typing.
clark lets out a small, ragged breath, leaning in slightly closer so his words don't carry across the busy bullpen.
"honey, i know you're furious with me and you have every right to be. what you saw at lois's apartment"
you snapped your head toward him, tilting it slightly as if analyzing a stranger. your eyes narrowed, drilling into his.
clark froze, the words dying in his throat as his eyes locked onto your face taking in every feature like it'd be the last he'd ever see them again before he spoke quietly.
he reached out, lightly brushing your hair from your face before caressing the side of your face. "... i know how it looked... and i know how much i hurt you by lying about where i was. i just want a chance to explain it properly."
he drops his hand, waiting, hanging on the hope that youโll at least respond but when you turn your head to stare back at the screen.
a look of quiet desperation crosses his face and he swallows hard.
"i'm not going to force you to talk to me here," he says softly. "but please, just give me a chance to make it up to you. let me take you to dinner tonight.. we can just sit down, and i will tell you everything. no secrets. i promise."
you remain still, your expression blank as you scroll down a spreadsheet.
realizing he isn't going to get a verbal answer, he reluctantly pulls a small pad of bright yellow sticky notes toward himself.
he grabs a pen from your desk organizer, his hand trembling just a fraction as he quickly scribbles down the name of a quiet restaurant downtown, along with a time.
he peels the sticky note and gently presses it onto the corner of your desk, right next to your keyboard where you can't possibly miss it.
"eight o'clock," clark whispers, his blue eyes searching your face one last time, practically begging for another glance. "i'll be waiting for you at our favorite table by the window. i really hope you come."
eight o'clock.
by the time 7:30 PM rolls around, the office has emptied out and you sit alone, staring at the note.
every logical instinct tells you to go back to your hotel room and let him sit there.
he lied to you, used his job.. the very thing that constantly tears him away from you as a shield to cover up the fact that he was with his ex girlfriend.
the humiliation in loisโs apartment hadn't faded.. if anything, sitting in the quiet of the office had only made it feel worse.
you feel like an afterthought and yet, your heart betrays your pride.
you want him to fix it, to give you a piece of truth so undeniable that the knot in your chest finally unspools.
so, you grab your coat, pull the sticky note from the desk, and leave.
8:05 PM
the sign of the restaurant shines through the rain streaked window of the cab.
you step out, the door of the restaurant chiming as you walk inside.
the inside is intimate, warm and lit by candles.
you scan the room, bracing yourself to see his broad shoulders slumped over the table, nervously checking his watch.
but the table by the window is completely empty.
a familiar knot forms in your stomach and you pull out your phone... 8:07 PM.
he's seven minutes late.
no, you tell yourself, biting the inside of your cheek as you sit down at the empty table.
he said heโd be waiting and he wouldnโt do this tonight.. not after everything.
you tell yourself he's just caught in traffic or that perry threw a last minute rewrite at him.
you make excuses for him, even now, because what could be the truth hurts too much to face.
9:00 PM
an hour crawls by.
the hostess brings you a glass of water, offering a polite smile that feels entirely pitying.
the bustling dinner crowd begins to thin out, the laughter of happy couples surrounding you sounds like a mockery.
every single time the front door chimes, your head snaps up, your heart doing a pathetic, hopeful leap only to sink lower when itโs a stranger stepping in from the cold.
9:30 PM
half an hour later.
you stare at your phone and there's nothing.. no texts or missed calls and you had unblocked him before you stepped through the door.
the anger thats been in you this past week starts to form into a sickening ache...
is he back at loisโs?
10:00 PM
the restaurant is dead and the staff are quietly sweeping the floors and stacking chairs in the back corner, their hushed voices a subtle hint that youโre overstaying your welcome.
a realization sinks into your chest..
he stood you up.
to explain away a lie, he gave you another promise, and then he broke that one too.
you pull your coat over your shoulders, your body tense with humiliation and exhaustion.
standing up from the table, you slide a generous stack of bills out of your purse, far more than enough to cover the untouched glass of water and the time you took up occupying their best table by the window.
as you walk toward the front entrance, you stop by the hostess stand where a tired looking server is wiping down menus.
"i'm so sorry for keeping you all late," you say, your voice tight as you force a small, apologetic smile. "thank you for letting me stay so long."
the server looks up, her eyes softening with a wave of pure sympathy that almost makes your composure crumble on the spot. "don't worry about it, sweetie. have a safe night, okay? it's really coming down out there."
you nod quickly, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, and push open the heavy glass doors.
you walk blindly, your head ducked against the harsh wind as you begin to walk down the cracked sidewalk of the downtown district.
the towering office buildings shut out what little light the night sky has left
your mind is trapped in a loop of humiliation.
he promised, with his hand trembling, and swore there would be no more secrets.
and you, desperate to believe him, sat in an empty restaurant for two hours like a fool.
a sudden, earth shattering boom rips through the air, vibrating so violently that you stumble.
you freeze, it wasn't thunder and before you can even process it, there's a wave of police cars speeding down the street, one siren echoing after the other.
you shrug it off and keep walking but then the corner of the intersection half a block ahead erupts.
a wave of people come screaming around the brick building, bodies fleeing the main strip.
it starts with a handful of late night commuters, but within seconds, it grows into a desperate flood of dozens of people.
umbrellas are abandoned on the flooded ground, crushed by feet as everyone sprints for their lives.
"he's killing them! he's picking up the cars!" a man screams, his voice hoarse with terror as he sprints past you, his tie flying over his shoulder, his eyes wide.
a woman trips on the slick curb just a few feet away, her heels skidding out from under her.
she hits the wet concrete hard, crying out as the crowd blindly swerves around her, too consumed by panic to stop.
you instinctively step forward to help, but the momentum of the crowd hits you.
a rushing shoulder slams into yours, forcing you forward, your head slamming against the concrete with a sickening crack.
everything goes white, your head is ringing and the noise around you is deafening, slaps of wet shoes, the ragged, breathless screams of children being dragged by their arms, and the blare of police sirens in the distances.
a throbbing ache is at the base of your skull, and when you blink, hot rain washes over your face except itโs too thick and warm.
you reach up with a trembling hand, your fingers brushing your forehead, and they come away stained a dark crimson.. you're bleeding.
you try to push yourself up onto your elbows, but your limbs feel like lead and the stampede of people don't care that you're down.
heavy boots and soaking sneakers splash violently into the puddles just inches from your head.
a heel catches the fabric of your coat, dragging you a few inches, while another foot just slightly misses stomping directly onto your hand.
you are completely invisible to them and if you stay flat on your stomach, youโre going to get trampled to death.
adrenaline forces your body to move despite the dizziness.
you push yourself up trembling hands and knees and the ground sways beneath you, while you gasp for breath, you begin to crawl, dragging your heavy, soaked coat through the water.
you lose your sense of direction entirely.
instead of reaching the shelter of the storefront doorway, you accidentally crawl off the lip of the curb and slide directly into the open, empty street.
the stampede remains confined to the relative safety of the sidewalk but you are completely exposed.
the massive, armored villain stands in the center of the intersection, his eyes fixed on the remaining police line.
with a guttural snarl, he digs his heavy fingers deep into a crumpled, overturned sedan.
he lifts the multi ton vehicle over his head with sickening ease and launches it forward.
but itโs not aimed at the cops, the trajectory is completely off.
it's hurling through the air directly toward you.
time seems to slow as you stare up from the wet street, paralyzed by the sheer horror of whatโs coming.
the massive underbelly of the car blocks out the flashing emergency lights, casting a large shadow over you as it tumbles end over end through the heavy rain.
your completely frozen, it feels impossible to move, impossible to run.
you can feel the rush of wind pressing down on you as the falling metal begins its final, crushing descent.
you close your eyes and brace for the impact but the crushing weight of the falling car never comes.
instead,the sound off concrete shattering rips through the air directly infront you, so powerful it blows the rain away in a wide, circular shockwave.
the deafening screech of tearing metal explodes right over your head as the shadow stills.
trembling, you force your eyes open through the blood and rain falling down your face.
standing over you, his feet planted firmly into the now dented concrete, is superman.
"are you okay ma'am?!" his voice clear and steady through the rain.
he's holding the entire crumpled sedan above his head with one hand, his jaw clenched as he effortlessly hurls the massive piece of steel away, sending it crashing into an empty, abandoned building down the block where it canโt hurt anyone.
the savior of metropolis is standing right in front of you.
his red cape snaps in the rough winds, and the streetlights catch the bright 'S' across his chest.
he looks completely invincible.
but as he turns his head to look down at you, the confident aura of superman completely fractures.
he freezes.
through your dizzy, blurred vision, you can see his face perfectly.
superman is staring at you with a look of absolute horror. his chest heaves, his breath catching in his throat so sharply it looks like heโs the one who just took a physical blow.
his eyes track the dark crimson blood dripping down your forehead, your soaked, shivering clothes, and the way you are helplessly sprawled on the wet pavement.
he drops to his knees, sinking straight into the deep puddle without a care for the mud or the freezing water soaking into his suit.
before you can even gasp through the pain, his massive hands are framing your face.
his palms are calloused and warm, completely covering your cheeks, but they are shaking violently against your skin.
he cradles your head with tender care, his thumbs brushing frantically across your cheekbones to wipe away the rain and the dark blood that wonโt stop leaking from your hairline.
"hey, hey....look at me, you're okay, hmm," he begs, his voice cracking.
"it's okay.." words tumble out of him in a breathless, frantic rush.
the resonant voice that superman uses when he addresses crowds or speaks on the news is completely gone.
in its place is a soft, broken whisper filled with terror.. a voice that hits your concussed, foggy brain with a wave of familiarity.
It's a voice you know intimately, stripped of all its usual calm.
he leans down so close his face is basically against yours, using his broad shoulders and the heavy fabric of his cape like a makeshift tent to block out the biting wind and the downpour.
his eyes are wide and wild with guilt as they track the injuries on your face again, the way you are shivering uncontrollably, and how close that car actually came to ending everything. a ragged, choked sob catches in his throat.
"i've got you, baby, i've got you. you're okay, i promise you're okay," he murmurs against your wet hair, entirely forgetting the rest of the city, the damage echoing down the avenue, and the fact that he is wearing a symbol meant for millions.
in the middle of the dark street, the hero has completely evaporated.
the mask has slipped without him even realizing it, leaving only a terrified man holding onto his entire world.
he presses his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips as he closes his eyes.
"i'm so sorry. oh God, my love, i'm so, so sorry. i shouldn't have been late. i'm right here."
you look past the bright 'S' on his chest, past the heavy red cape, and look straight into his wide, terrified eyes.
through the static of your concussion, the familiar slope of his jaw and the specific, frantic cadence of his breath finally cut through the illusion.
the impossibility of it settles into your chest, an unsure realization.
"clark...?" you breathe out.
itโs barely a whisper, more like a faint, breathless question easily swallowed by the howling wind, but his entire body goes completely rigid at the sound.
his chest stops heaving and his thumbs freeze against your wet cheeks, eyes widening in shock as it hits him that you've seen past the suit.
but you don't have the strength to wait for an answer.
the pulsing concussion has you passed out, your head lolls back against his arm, your eyelids fluttering shut as your body goes completely limp in his embrace.
"no, no, no.. hey! sweetheart, wake up! look at me!"
๐โ โน
the first thing that returns to you is the smell.
that sterile scent of rubbing alcohol and heavy bleached linens.
then comes the sound, there's a rhythmic, electronic beep that echoes in the quiet room, a steady, comforting pulse that keeps time with the throbbing ache at the base of your skull.
you force your eyelids open, but the harsh light above makes you wince, a low groan escaping your dry throat.
the ceiling is made of those familiar, white acoustic tiles... a hospital.
"honey?!... hey, take it easy. don't try to sit up just yet."
the voice is soft but cautious, and instantly draws your eyes to the right side of the bed.
clark is sitting in a cramped hospital chair pushed right up against your mattress.
he looks completely exhausted, his flannel shirt is wrinkled, his heavy winter coat draped over the back of the chair, his glasses sitting squarely on his nose, and his blue eyes are bloodshot.
the moment he sees you looking at him, his shoulders drop in a massive, visible wave of relief.
he reaches out, his large, warm hand carefully enveloping yours where it rests on the stiff hospital sheets.
his fingers are trembling slightly, his thumb gently tracing the back of your knuckles.
"the doctor said you have a concussion, and they had to put a few stitches on your forehead and the gash on your cheek," clark says softly, his voice raspy as he leans a bit closer.
he looks down at your hand. "but you're going to be okay. they're just keeping you for observation."
you look at his hand wrapped around yours, and a spike of hurt flares in your chest.
with a tight frown, you pull your hand completely away from his grasp, tucking your fingers beneath the stiff hospital blanket.
the sudden movement makes your head throb but you ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on him.
clarkโs thumb freezes, he looks down at his open palm for a fraction of a second, his expression fracturing with a look of hurt before he slowly lets his arm drop back to his lap.
"where were you?" you ask, your voice raspy, the exhaustion making the words sound heavier than you intended.
you stare at his wrinkled flannel shirt, "i waited for hours, clark. you didn't text. you didn't call. i was sitting there by myself like an idiot, and then the whole city went to hell while i was trying to get home."
clark looks completely devastated.
he flinches slightly at your words, his jaw tightening as he stares at the white blanket between you.
he opens his mouth to say something, to give the usual clumsy excuse about a deadline, a lost phone, or getting caught in transit but the words seem to catch in his throat.
he looks up at you through his thick glasses.
the silence stretches between you, you turn your face away from him, staring fixedly at the blank white wall opposite the bed.
the sight of his slumped shoulders and his guilty, exhausted face is just too much to handle on top of the throbbing ache in your skull.
"just go home, clark," you say quietly.
your voice is flat, stripped of all its anger, leaving only exhausted exhaustion.
beside the bed, Clark goes still. "darling, please... let me stay. just let me make sure you're okay..."
"i am okay," you interrupt, still refusing to look at him.
you pull the rough hospital blanket higher up around your shoulders, physically shielding yourself from him. "the doctors are watching me. i don't need you here. just... go home. go back to the daily planet, or wherever it was that was more important than meeting me."
out of the corner of your eye, you see him open his mouth to plead, to give you some kind of explanation, but he stops himself.
a ragged exhale escapes his lips.
slowly, the vinyl chair groans as he stands up. he towers over the bed, he goes to walk but stops.
he leans down into your space and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"I am so, so sorry," he whispers against your skin, his voice filled with regret.
"i'll... i'll go," he whispers, "but i'm leaving my phone on. if you need anything.. anything at all.. just call me. please."
you don't answer, you just close your eyes.
he pulls back slowly, as if pulling away from you physically pains him, before turning and making a quiet, reluctant exit from the room.
the soft click of the latch signaling that you are finally alone.
your eyes stay closes, your chest aching with something that has nothing to do with your injuries.
you expect to feel a sense of relief now that heโs gone, now that you don't have to look at his guilty face or listen to the excuses you were sure he was going to make.
but instead, the anger and hurt begins to drain away, leaving behind a feeling of loneliness.
you shift slightly on the stiff mattress, and a sudden vivid image flashes behind your closed eyes.
not the empty restaurant table or clark in his wrinkled flannel.
you see a cape blowing in the wind, a blue and red figure kneeling in a flooded street, unbothered by the storm.
you feel the ghost of massive, trembling hands framing your face with terror, and a voice deeper, stronger, but carrying that exact same, frantic cadence whispering sweetheart and my love into your wet hair.
your heart rate spikes, the monitor beside you accelerating slightly.
hands that could crush steel, yet held you as if you were made of glass.
the monitor beeps faster, its frantic rhythm filling the quiet room as your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.
the voice, the breathless, cracked panic of the city's hero as he knelt in the mud, crying over you, calling you darling, calling you my love.
it wasn't the booming voice Superman used on the news, it was a voice you knew personally, a voice that felt like home.
โclark...?โ
the breathless question you had whispered right before passing out echoes perfectly as you repeat it out loud.
warnings: angst, relationship distress, dynamic neglect, severe public panic, physical injury (head trauma, bleeding, concussion), and mild themes of endangerment/near death experience.
notes: i was gonna add more but it wouldve been wayyyyyy to long.. so pt3 when?! also slightly proofread!!
wc: 1.9k
๐โ โน part 1
the elevator doors slid shut cutting off the desperate echoes of clarkโs voice.
the moment the steel walls enclosed you, your composure completely broke.
you collapsed against the mirrored wall of the elevator, sliding down until you hit the cold floor.
a breathless sob tore out of your throat, so loud it echoed.
you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, your wet coat soaking through to your skin, but you didn't care.
your chest was heaving so violently you couldn't catch your breath.
Itโs just easier....
the words repeated in your head, a cruel mantra that pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat.
he had lied.. he had left you alone in the dark with cold food and lit candles so he could drink wine in his sweatpants on his ex girlfriend's couch.
by the time the elevator hit the lobby, you scrambled to your feet, wiping furiously at your face.
you didn't just walk out of the building, you broke into a run, rushing past the startled doorman and straight back into the storm, desperate to let the freezing rain wash away the humiliation burning on your skin.
when you finally threw open the door to your own apartment, the silence inside was suffocating.
the candles had burned down to stubs, leaving behind the faint smell of vanilla and melted wax.
the two plates of dinner still sat on the counter, perfectly arranged and cold.
"easier," you choked out, your voice shaking.
you walked over to the table and with a sweep of your arm, knocked both plates off the surface.
they shattered against the hardwood floor, ceramic exploding into a dozen pieces, pasta and sauce splattering across the room.
you didn't stop there.. you lunged toward the dining table, grabbing the vase of flowers youโd bought fresh that morning and hurled it against the wall.
the glass shattered, water and crushed petals raining down onto the floor.
you tore the cushions off the couch, threw the decorative pillows across the room, and grabbed a framed photo of you and Clark from the bookshelf, a photo taken at a park where he was looking at you with what you thought was love and threw it face down onto the floor, the glass cracking down the center.
you trashed the place until your lungs burned and your hands were shaking from the adrenaline.
you stood in the center of the room, panting, looking at the mess you had created.
it was the first time the apartment actually matched how you felt on the inside... completely broken.
you exhaled before moving, you dragged your large suitcase to the bedroom.
you didn't pack everything, just your clothes, your laptop, and the absolute essentials.
your phone buzzed on the counter.
lois: please answer me. i am so, so sorry. itโs not what it looks like, i swear to you. let me come over. let me explain. please don't hate him.
you stared at the screen but didn't reply.
it's not what it looks like... please don't hate him.
you scoffed and instead, you blocked her number and then, you blocked his.
wrapping your now dry coat tighter around yourself, you grabbed your suitcase, stepped over the broken glass, and let the door click shut behind you.
๐โ โน
you'd rather be anywhere but here, you've avoided the office for as long as you could but today perry said he needed you here.
a week had passed since you've spoken to either of them.
the silence between you and clark shifted from uncomfortable to deafening.
you kept your eyes glued to your monitor, your fingers flying across the keyboard with a rhythmic click clack.
you could feel clark's eyes on you from across the room, but you didnโt look at him.
not when he drops a file on your desk or when he clears his throat.
every time he builds up the courage to speak, you conveniently pick up your desk phone or rush off to the copy room.
you're making yourself unreachable, and it's driving him out of his mind.
you can hear clark's footsteps before he actually reaches your desk, so you keep your eyes locked onto your computer screen.
he stops right at the edge of your desk and out of the corner of your eye, you can see him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, nervously adjusting his glasses.
he looks entirely drained, the guilt weighing down his broad shoulder, the bags under his eyes are dark.
"hey," he starts, his voice quiet and hesitant. "you've been typing for three hours straight... you uh you need to take a break. let me get you something from the cafeteria? a snack, or... or some tea?"
you don't blink or pause, you just hit the backspace key a few times and keep typing.
clark lets out a small, ragged breath, leaning in slightly closer so his words don't carry across the busy bullpen.
"honey, i know you're furious with me and you have every right to be. what you saw at lois's apartment"
you snapped your head toward him, tilting it slightly as if analyzing a stranger. your eyes narrowed, drilling into his.
clark froze, the words dying in his throat as his eyes locked onto your face taking in every feature like it'd be the last he'd ever see them again before he spoke quietly.
he reached out, lightly brushing your hair from your face before caressing the side of your face. "... i know how it looked... and i know how much i hurt you by lying about where i was. i just want a chance to explain it properly."
he drops his hand, waiting, hanging on the hope that youโll at least respond but when you turn your head to stare back at the screen.
a look of quiet desperation crosses his face and he swallows hard.
"i'm not going to force you to talk to me here," he says softly. "but please, just give me a chance to make it up to you. let me take you to dinner tonight.. we can just sit down, and i will tell you everything. no secrets. i promise."
you remain still, your expression blank as you scroll down a spreadsheet.
realizing he isn't going to get a verbal answer, he reluctantly pulls a small pad of bright yellow sticky notes toward himself.
he grabs a pen from your desk organizer, his hand trembling just a fraction as he quickly scribbles down the name of a quiet restaurant downtown, along with a time.
he peels the sticky note and gently presses it onto the corner of your desk, right next to your keyboard where you can't possibly miss it.
"eight o'clock," clark whispers, his blue eyes searching your face one last time, practically begging for another glance. "i'll be waiting for you at our favorite table by the window. i really hope you come."
eight o'clock.
by the time 7:30 PM rolls around, the office has emptied out and you sit alone, staring at the note.
every logical instinct tells you to go back to your hotel room and let him sit there.
he lied to you, used his job.. the very thing that constantly tears him away from you as a shield to cover up the fact that he was with his ex girlfriend.
the humiliation in loisโs apartment hadn't faded.. if anything, sitting in the quiet of the office had only made it feel worse.
you feel like an afterthought and yet, your heart betrays your pride.
you want him to fix it, to give you a piece of truth so undeniable that the knot in your chest finally unspools.
so, you grab your coat, pull the sticky note from the desk, and leave.
8:05 PM
the sign of the restaurant shines through the rain streaked window of the cab.
you step out, the door of the restaurant chiming as you walk inside.
the inside is intimate, warm and lit by candles.
you scan the room, bracing yourself to see his broad shoulders slumped over the table, nervously checking his watch.
but the table by the window is completely empty.
a familiar knot forms in your stomach and you pull out your phone... 8:07 PM.
he's seven minutes late.
no, you tell yourself, biting the inside of your cheek as you sit down at the empty table.
he said heโd be waiting and he wouldnโt do this tonight.. not after everything.
you tell yourself he's just caught in traffic or that perry threw a last minute rewrite at him.
you make excuses for him, even now, because what could be the truth hurts too much to face.
9:00 PM
an hour crawls by.
the hostess brings you a glass of water, offering a polite smile that feels entirely pitying.
the bustling dinner crowd begins to thin out, the laughter of happy couples surrounding you sounds like a mockery.
every single time the front door chimes, your head snaps up, your heart doing a pathetic, hopeful leap only to sink lower when itโs a stranger stepping in from the cold.
9:30 PM
half an hour later.
you stare at your phone and there's nothing.. no texts or missed calls and you had unblocked him before you stepped through the door.
the anger thats been in you this past week starts to form into a sickening ache...
is he back at loisโs?
10:00 PM
the restaurant is dead and the staff are quietly sweeping the floors and stacking chairs in the back corner, their hushed voices a subtle hint that youโre overstaying your welcome.
a realization sinks into your chest..
he stood you up.
to explain away a lie, he gave you another promise, and then he broke that one too.
you pull your coat over your shoulders, your body tense with humiliation and exhaustion.
standing up from the table, you slide a generous stack of bills out of your purse, far more than enough to cover the untouched glass of water and the time you took up occupying their best table by the window.
as you walk toward the front entrance, you stop by the hostess stand where a tired looking server is wiping down menus.
"i'm so sorry for keeping you all late," you say, your voice tight as you force a small, apologetic smile. "thank you for letting me stay so long."
the server looks up, her eyes softening with a wave of pure sympathy that almost makes your composure crumble on the spot. "don't worry about it, sweetie. have a safe night, okay? it's really coming down out there."
you nod quickly, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, and push open the heavy glass doors.
you walk blindly, your head ducked against the harsh wind as you begin to walk down the cracked sidewalk of the downtown district.
the towering office buildings shut out what little light the night sky has left
your mind is trapped in a loop of humiliation.
he promised, with his hand trembling, and swore there would be no more secrets.
and you, desperate to believe him, sat in an empty restaurant for two hours like a fool.
a sudden, earth shattering boom rips through the air, vibrating so violently that you stumble.
you freeze, it wasn't thunder and before you can even process it, there's a wave of police cars speeding down the street, one siren echoing after the other.
you shrug it off and keep walking but then the corner of the intersection half a block ahead erupts.
a wave of people come screaming around the brick building, bodies fleeing the main strip.
it starts with a handful of late night commuters, but within seconds, it grows into a desperate flood of dozens of people.
umbrellas are abandoned on the flooded ground, crushed by feet as everyone sprints for their lives.
"he's killing them! he's picking up the cars!" a man screams, his voice hoarse with terror as he sprints past you, his tie flying over his shoulder, his eyes wide.
a woman trips on the slick curb just a few feet away, her heels skidding out from under her.
she hits the wet concrete hard, crying out as the crowd blindly swerves around her, too consumed by panic to stop.
you instinctively step forward to help, but the momentum of the crowd hits you.
a rushing shoulder slams into yours, forcing you forward, your head slamming against the concrete with a sickening crack.
everything goes white, your head is ringing and the noise around you is deafening, slaps of wet shoes, the ragged, breathless screams of children being dragged by their arms, and the blare of police sirens in the distances.
a throbbing ache is at the base of your skull, and when you blink, hot rain washes over your face except itโs too thick and warm.
you reach up with a trembling hand, your fingers brushing your forehead, and they come away stained a dark crimson.. you're bleeding.
you try to push yourself up onto your elbows, but your limbs feel like lead and the stampede of people don't care that you're down.
heavy boots and soaking sneakers splash violently into the puddles just inches from your head.
a heel catches the fabric of your coat, dragging you a few inches, while another foot just slightly misses stomping directly onto your hand.
you are completely invisible to them and if you stay flat on your stomach, youโre going to get trampled to death.
adrenaline forces your body to move despite the dizziness.
you push yourself up trembling hands and knees and the ground sways beneath you, while you gasp for breath, you begin to crawl, dragging your heavy, soaked coat through the water.
you lose your sense of direction entirely.
instead of reaching the shelter of the storefront doorway, you accidentally crawl off the lip of the curb and slide directly into the open, empty street.
the stampede remains confined to the relative safety of the sidewalk but you are completely exposed.
the massive, armored villain stands in the center of the intersection, his eyes fixed on the remaining police line.
with a guttural snarl, he digs his heavy fingers deep into a crumpled, overturned sedan.
he lifts the multi ton vehicle over his head with sickening ease and launches it forward.
but itโs not aimed at the cops, the trajectory is completely off.
it's hurling through the air directly toward you.
time seems to slow as you stare up from the wet street, paralyzed by the sheer horror of whatโs coming.
the massive underbelly of the car blocks out the flashing emergency lights, casting a large shadow over you as it tumbles end over end through the heavy rain.
your completely frozen, it feels impossible to move, impossible to run.
you can feel the rush of wind pressing down on you as the falling metal begins its final, crushing descent.
you close your eyes and brace for the impact but the crushing weight of the falling car never comes.
instead,the sound off concrete shattering rips through the air directly infront you, so powerful it blows the rain away in a wide, circular shockwave.
the deafening screech of tearing metal explodes right over your head as the shadow stills.
trembling, you force your eyes open through the blood and rain falling down your face.
standing over you, his feet planted firmly into the now dented concrete, is superman.
"are you okay ma'am?!" his voice clear and steady through the rain.
he's holding the entire crumpled sedan above his head with one hand, his jaw clenched as he effortlessly hurls the massive piece of steel away, sending it crashing into an empty, abandoned building down the block where it canโt hurt anyone.
the savior of metropolis is standing right in front of you.
his red cape snaps in the rough winds, and the streetlights catch the bright 'S' across his chest.
he looks completely invincible.
but as he turns his head to look down at you, the confident aura of superman completely fractures.
he freezes.
through your dizzy, blurred vision, you can see his face perfectly.
superman is staring at you with a look of absolute horror. his chest heaves, his breath catching in his throat so sharply it looks like heโs the one who just took a physical blow.
his eyes track the dark crimson blood dripping down your forehead, your soaked, shivering clothes, and the way you are helplessly sprawled on the wet pavement.
he drops to his knees, sinking straight into the deep puddle without a care for the mud or the freezing water soaking into his suit.
before you can even gasp through the pain, his massive hands are framing your face.
his palms are calloused and warm, completely covering your cheeks, but they are shaking violently against your skin.
he cradles your head with tender care, his thumbs brushing frantically across your cheekbones to wipe away the rain and the dark blood that wonโt stop leaking from your hairline.
"hey, hey....look at me, you're okay, hmm," he begs, his voice cracking.
"it's okay.." words tumble out of him in a breathless, frantic rush.
the resonant voice that superman uses when he addresses crowds or speaks on the news is completely gone.
in its place is a soft, broken whisper filled with terror.. a voice that hits your concussed, foggy brain with a wave of familiarity.
It's a voice you know intimately, stripped of all its usual calm.
he leans down so close his face is basically against yours, using his broad shoulders and the heavy fabric of his cape like a makeshift tent to block out the biting wind and the downpour.
his eyes are wide and wild with guilt as they track the injuries on your face again, the way you are shivering uncontrollably, and how close that car actually came to ending everything. a ragged, choked sob catches in his throat.
"i've got you, baby, i've got you. you're okay, i promise you're okay," he murmurs against your wet hair, entirely forgetting the rest of the city, the damage echoing down the avenue, and the fact that he is wearing a symbol meant for millions.
in the middle of the dark street, the hero has completely evaporated.
the mask has slipped without him even realizing it, leaving only a terrified man holding onto his entire world.
he presses his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips as he closes his eyes.
"i'm so sorry. oh God, my love, i'm so, so sorry. i shouldn't have been late. i'm right here."
you look past the bright 'S' on his chest, past the heavy red cape, and look straight into his wide, terrified eyes.
through the static of your concussion, the familiar slope of his jaw and the specific, frantic cadence of his breath finally cut through the illusion.
the impossibility of it settles into your chest, an unsure realization.
"clark...?" you breathe out.
itโs barely a whisper, more like a faint, breathless question easily swallowed by the howling wind, but his entire body goes completely rigid at the sound.
his chest stops heaving and his thumbs freeze against your wet cheeks, eyes widening in shock as it hits him that you've seen past the suit.
but you don't have the strength to wait for an answer.
the pulsing concussion has you passed out, your head lolls back against his arm, your eyelids fluttering shut as your body goes completely limp in his embrace.
"no, no, no.. hey! sweetheart, wake up! look at me!"
๐โ โน
the first thing that returns to you is the smell.
that sterile scent of rubbing alcohol and heavy bleached linens.
then comes the sound, there's a rhythmic, electronic beep that echoes in the quiet room, a steady, comforting pulse that keeps time with the throbbing ache at the base of your skull.
you force your eyelids open, but the harsh light above makes you wince, a low groan escaping your dry throat.
the ceiling is made of those familiar, white acoustic tiles... a hospital.
"honey?!... hey, take it easy. don't try to sit up just yet."
the voice is soft but cautious, and instantly draws your eyes to the right side of the bed.
clark is sitting in a cramped hospital chair pushed right up against your mattress.
he looks completely exhausted, his flannel shirt is wrinkled, his heavy winter coat draped over the back of the chair, his glasses sitting squarely on his nose, and his blue eyes are bloodshot.
the moment he sees you looking at him, his shoulders drop in a massive, visible wave of relief.
he reaches out, his large, warm hand carefully enveloping yours where it rests on the stiff hospital sheets.
his fingers are trembling slightly, his thumb gently tracing the back of your knuckles.
"the doctor said you have a concussion, and they had to put a few stitches on your forehead and the gash on your cheek," clark says softly, his voice raspy as he leans a bit closer.
he looks down at your hand. "but you're going to be okay. they're just keeping you for observation."
you look at his hand wrapped around yours, and a spike of hurt flares in your chest.
with a tight frown, you pull your hand completely away from his grasp, tucking your fingers beneath the stiff hospital blanket.
the sudden movement makes your head throb but you ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on him.
clarkโs thumb freezes, he looks down at his open palm for a fraction of a second, his expression fracturing with a look of hurt before he slowly lets his arm drop back to his lap.
"where were you?" you ask, your voice raspy, the exhaustion making the words sound heavier than you intended.
you stare at his wrinkled flannel shirt, "i waited for hours, clark. you didn't text. you didn't call. i was sitting there by myself like an idiot, and then the whole city went to hell while i was trying to get home."
clark looks completely devastated.
he flinches slightly at your words, his jaw tightening as he stares at the white blanket between you.
he opens his mouth to say something, to give the usual clumsy excuse about a deadline, a lost phone, or getting caught in transit but the words seem to catch in his throat.
he looks up at you through his thick glasses.
the silence stretches between you, you turn your face away from him, staring fixedly at the blank white wall opposite the bed.
the sight of his slumped shoulders and his guilty, exhausted face is just too much to handle on top of the throbbing ache in your skull.
"just go home, clark," you say quietly.
your voice is flat, stripped of all its anger, leaving only exhausted exhaustion.
beside the bed, Clark goes still. "darling, please... let me stay. just let me make sure you're okay..."
"i am okay," you interrupt, still refusing to look at him.
you pull the rough hospital blanket higher up around your shoulders, physically shielding yourself from him. "the doctors are watching me. i don't need you here. just... go home. go back to the daily planet, or wherever it was that was more important than meeting me."
out of the corner of your eye, you see him open his mouth to plead, to give you some kind of explanation, but he stops himself.
a ragged exhale escapes his lips.
slowly, the vinyl chair groans as he stands up. he towers over the bed, he goes to walk but stops.
he leans down into your space and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"I am so, so sorry," he whispers against your skin, his voice filled with regret.
"i'll... i'll go," he whispers, "but i'm leaving my phone on. if you need anything.. anything at all.. just call me. please."
you don't answer, you just close your eyes.
he pulls back slowly, as if pulling away from you physically pains him, before turning and making a quiet, reluctant exit from the room.
the soft click of the latch signaling that you are finally alone.
your eyes stay closes, your chest aching with something that has nothing to do with your injuries.
you expect to feel a sense of relief now that heโs gone, now that you don't have to look at his guilty face or listen to the excuses you were sure he was going to make.
but instead, the anger and hurt begins to drain away, leaving behind a feeling of loneliness.
you shift slightly on the stiff mattress, and a sudden vivid image flashes behind your closed eyes.
not the empty restaurant table or clark in his wrinkled flannel.
you see a cape blowing in the wind, a blue and red figure kneeling in a flooded street, unbothered by the storm.
you feel the ghost of massive, trembling hands framing your face with terror, and a voice deeper, stronger, but carrying that exact same, frantic cadence whispering sweetheart and my love into your wet hair.
your heart rate spikes, the monitor beside you accelerating slightly.
hands that could crush steel, yet held you as if you were made of glass.
the monitor beeps faster, its frantic rhythm filling the quiet room as your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.
the voice, the breathless, cracked panic of the city's hero as he knelt in the mud, crying over you, calling you darling, calling you my love.
it wasn't the booming voice Superman used on the news, it was a voice you knew personally, a voice that felt like home.
โclark...?โ
the breathless question you had whispered right before passing out echoes perfectly as you repeat it out loud.
He's looking up at you with wide eyes through foggy glasses, big hands desperately pawing at every inch of your waist and hips. You're smiling down at him, hands on his chest as you lazily roll your hips on his cock, his reddened tip leaking deep inside your pussy.
"Goshโฆ feels s'good," he manages to babble between whines, voice shaky and lashes fluttering with every movement. His words spur you to roll your hips faster, grinding his fat cock right against your cervix, wet squelching sounds harmonizing with his now louder whimpers.
His thick arms pull you down onto his chest, needily wrapping around you as he stuffs his face into your sweaty shoulder. His hips desperately buck upward, creamy slick mixed with his earlier load coating his length with every fervent rut. The viscous mixture creates an obscene glide between your bodies.
This is how it always ends, with him holding you as close as possible, your bodies practically mended together into one. Clark's a clingy man, something you knew before. The intensity of it still surprises you when he suffocates you against him as he thrusts inside, stretching you full for hours.
"Need to cum 'n you, please sweetheartโฆ" he begs, voice slightly muffled against your skin. His balls are tight and aching, covered with slick and cum, slapping against your ass with every needy rut.
"Go ahead. Y'deserve it," you whisper with a kiss against his temple. His body immediately responds to your reassurance, unloading inside your sloppy pussy with a final, impaling thrust from below. Hot white load fills you up and oozes onto his pelvis, his twitching hips making it drip onto the sheets. His cries fill the room, his voice broken and high.
You slowly grind onto him, milking every drop out of him through his climax. His cock throbs hard making your pussy clench and spasm around him. His body starts to relax, his hold loosening around you as he trembles, breaths uneven as he comes down.
He's so fucked out, eyes glossy and mouth swollen. Too bad the tremulous sight turns you on all over again.
bucky's babygirl @jarnesbames108 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
