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[tw1sters]

꒰ late twenties 🍊 she/her 🍋 woc in gmt-5 ꒱ ⤷ catalogue: masterlist / taglist / library

❗️ BEWARE: Minors do not follow; my stories range from tooth-rotting fluff to dark smut, but most are 18+. Proceed with caution and read warnings carefully!

CURRENT SPECIALS: In Time (Bucky Barnes), Taste of Heartbreak (Dick Grayson), Leave You to Love Me (Scott Miller) ON SALE: KENT Furniture-Breaking Collab (Clark Kent)

⏳ Horribly busy with work, all posts are scheduled. Apologies for delayed responses!

all interactions / follows come from @tw1stability

[iamthatonefangirl]

— sun's out, buns out !

✩ what better way to celebrate the second anniversary of brat than to force the winter soldier to have his very own brat summer? ✩

( flashing lights / epilepsy warning. click read more at your own risk. )

graphics credit to @houseofhyde // video credit to @barnesonly // divider credit @/strangergraphics

[tw1sters]

wake up, kids, new barnes campaign merch just dropped

stay tuned for some filth and fun <3 prince bucky coming to a dashboard near you soon

[tw1sters]

In Time

After decades of war, Bucky finally finds some peace — until a broken kid who mirrors his past forces him to consider forgiving himself enough to start living.

▸ PAIRING & WC: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader — 3.8K ▸ WARNINGS: Insecurities, Bucky is grappling with forgiving himself, some mentions of canon-typical violence, comics!bucky so different technically from mcu!bucky ▸ A/N: wrote this when i was getting into reading comics and read the winter soldier (2018), highly recommend even if it's different from mcu bucky! anyways i loved seeing bucky in his big brother/parental role but also reckoning with the concept of forgiveness and second chances, and ended up with this idea. a lil different but hope you enjoy!

When Bucky defected from HYDRA, he never thought he would ever build himself another home. He could’ve gone back with Steve and stayed in New York. He could’ve stopped in his parents’ hometown in Romania to lay low. Hell, he could’ve landed himself in a cozy prison cell on an isolated island if the government didn’t pardon him for all his crimes as the Winter Soldier. 

Instead, Bucky chose to go home. Back to where it all started. Shelbyville, Indiana. 

After his parents passed, the deed to the home passed on to him. If he were to decide between a shoebox in the big city or a not-so-little house on the prairie, it’s a no-brainer. After years of war, or at least that’s all he remembers, it’s nice to be somewhere quiet where he starts his morning with birdsongs and the sounds of life. 

There’s also you. You’re the cherry on top of his much-needed sundae. You — his neighbor who spends your days toiling away at your farm, helping out with markets in town, running community fairs. An all-around girl-next-door. 

He had been worried about what people might think about him moving in here. After all, his case had been highly publicized. But this little town had welcomed him with open arms. They remembered his parents and made space for Bucky to slip right back in. 

You had been a big help in his transition into the town. Showing him around town, inviting him to dinners with your friends, and even doing weekly movie nights with him. With you, Bucky finds parts of himself that he may have lost. You look at him with faith. You don’t see what he sees when he looks in the mirror.

Not an ex-assassin. Not some hundred-year-old grump. Just Bucky.

Now, life should be all fine and dandy, right? Right. Except, Bucky has been thrown another curveball that he isn’t quite sure how to manage. 

When he pledged to use his powers for the greater good, he knew he wanted to focus his efforts on giving people a second chance. These are powers that he never asked for, but are ones he still has all the same. As they say, with great power comes great responsibility. 

Trading one massive organization for another, Bucky decided to join SHIELD — or at least do some contract work for them. He only takes on jobs that give people an opportunity to make amends. To make right all the wrongs as best they can. Think of it as a product of his guilty conscience. 

In this line of work, he never expected to stumble into the path of RJ Boyle. 

Well, stumble is an understatement. RJ had been sent to commit cold-blooded murder against him, vibranium sword in hand to take out Bucky’s own arm. The kid was lethal, trained to be the near-perfect child soldier. He was arrogant and mouthy — and a little bit broken. 

This kid is just that. A kid. A kid born into unfortunate circumstances. A kid whose weaknesses, whose vulnerability, had been used against him. Bucky knows more than anyone how HYDRA works; they break you down to build you back up, mold you into whoever they want you to be. 

It’s like looking at a reflection of himself. Younger. Angrier. 

It’s why Bucky decided to take him home — to his home. Show him a slice of the peace that he has managed to create since he left. Show him what his life could be outside of HYDRA. No longer does he need to follow orders to survive. He could just live.

But it’s hard to teach someone how to live when he himself is not yet familiar with the concept. He still has one foot in the real world and the other in the past. Shelbyville has become his safe haven, but parts of it still feel foreign to him. It’s like he’s playing house in a place that is not his. A story that doesn’t belong him, that is being narrated by someone else. A puppeteer from high above. 

RJ probably feels the same way, especially since Bucky uprooted him from the only thing he knows. Every time he thinks about this, that vein in his head pulses for attention. 

“You need to cut yourself some slack,” you smile at him, setting the coffee cup on the table. 

Bucky presses his fingers against his forehead, hoping that some of the pressure would ease his throbbing mind. He offers a grateful smile in return as he tips the cup back to his lips. “Thank you, needed this,” he murmurs. 

“Well, you do only come to me when you need coffee and eggs,” you say with a smirk, leaning back against your kitchen counter as your eyes sparkle at Bucky at your dining table. 

His heart slams against his ribcage, a common response to the way you curl your lips so easily at him. Part of him deep inside screams that he wants more than coffee and eggs, an internal voice begging to be declared out loud. He wants mornings and evenings with you. He wants to wake up with your face nuzzled up against his chest or the whiff of your lavender shampoo lulling him to sleep. But he doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants just yet. Not when it’s something that’s for him and only for him. 

Oblivious to his mental turmoil, you continue, “How’s the kid doing?”

When he took him in, he thought RJ would be thankful, that he would want this as much as Bucky had. But he knows better than anyone that you can’t just transition someone from a life built on pure survival and instinct and battle scars into a suburban, fictitious fairytale without consequences. 

For the first time in a while, Bucky has to admit that he is at a loss. He is dealing with a trained child assassin who is clearly traumatized from decades of having his brain torn apart, washed, rinsed, and repeated. Trained to do what he was told to do to stay alive. 

It also doesn’t help that the kid is a teenager, which means he is dealing with a severe case of age-appropriate rebellion. 

Doc Sampson, Bucky’s godsend of a therapist, is still working with him but obviously doctor-patient confidentiality prevents him from actually sharing anything meaningful. Bucky is constantly tempted to break into the office and steal the files, but he thinks that may be crossing some ethical and personal lines. 

“I…” he pauses, “I don’t know.” His answer is honest, desperate even. “Never raised a kid before. He’s not my biggest fan, which isn’t surprising since he did try to kill me. Failed, but tried nonetheless.”

“You’re a first-time parent. He’s a kid with a temper. Give yourself some grace. It’ll take him a bit to warm up. Going from back-to-back wars and missions to a quiet farmhouse with sheep bleating in your backyard is a big change.” 

Bucky understands that. The lack of stimulation and noise out here is something he had to get used to. His fingers are always itching to do something — anything. He wants to throw the white noise machine that Sharon had gifted him as a joke out the window. 

“Raising goats is easier than this.”

You laugh and the sound is sugar in his veins. He’s an addict and he’s not even sure he wants to quit. “Not as expensive too, but also presumably less rewarding. RJ seems like a good kid, I wouldn’t stress too much. He’ll come around.”

He wonders how you could say that so easily. Confidence laced into your syllables when you’ve barely met the kid. The only time RJ said more than a word to you was the first time you came over, saw him on the couch, looked at Bucky, and said, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

RJ was quick to point out, “He’s not my brother!”

Ouch. 

“You’ve got a lot of faith in people,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

“Never had a reason not to,” you shrug. “Life gave me good people. It brought me you, didn’t it?”

A blush is quick to furiously sprawl across his face, burning the skin with the heat of a thousand blazing suns. His lips unconsciously stretch into a ridiculously wide grin and he has to hide his childish delight behind the mask of his mug. Part of him knows that you like to tease him, say sweet nothings to see him squirm. Even now, he can see that devious little twinkle in his eye. Still, he can’t help but drink your compliments in like a man starved for affection — which he is. 

“Don’t get shy on me, soldier,” you grin at him again, eyes cataloging his face to identify what shade of scarlet he has turned into this time. 

It’s almost shameful how obvious he is with his crush. He might as well be writing your name on the margins and praying that you would say yes to sitting with him at lunchtime. Before he got turned into the Winter Soldier, before he replaced an arm with a hunk of metal, Bucky liked to think he was better with women. He was suave. He was charming. He always knew the right things to say. 

With you, he is in a perpetual state of being tongue-tied and carrying the perfect color of sunburnt. He is the epitome of constant embarrassment. 

He didn’t think it could get worse — he’s heard enough of Sharon’s not yet, Barnes? and Tony’s wow, you’re embarrassingly slow for a super soldier — but even RJ, who has been here all of five minutes, has caught on. 

The two of them are on a quick rendezvous to extract a former HYDRA scientist and relocate him into Sharon’s very safe hands. Right before they left, you had leaned against his doorframe, having visited to drop off some eggs.

“Dinner tonight?” You ask. “I can whip up some food for you and RJ if you aren’t back too late.”

Bucky should be focused on preparing for his mission. He’s mentally calculating the travel time while also counting the number of lashes in your eyes. You’re an incredibly delicious distraction in your dirt-covered overalls. 

He can only dumbly respond with, “Hm?”

“I said I’ll get kidnapped by aliens before you come back.”

Jerking up from looking at his gear, he cocks a brow at you. “Uh, dinner, right? You said dinner.”

“Yes, soldier.”

Bucky clears his throat, feeling that familiar weight of gratitude sit on his chest. “Dinner sounds good. You don’t have to, though. We’ll probably be back late.” 

“I can put something in your fridge.”

“You really don’t have to do that. We’ll raincheck it.”

“Always too busy for me, sarge.”

Bucky freezes, eyes darting up to meet yours. Are you saying— no, it can’t be right? You have so many friends. You probably have suitors lined up at your door, he should know this since he’s always checking on your front porch. 

But there’s no way that you would be flirting with him. Not seriously at least. “I’m not… too busy.”

You only hum, arms crossed over your chest. “Good luck. Be safe.”

He hates these moments the most. Leaving you behind. You’re not even his and he dreads the idea of saying goodbye to you before he jets off to his next mission. He never knows if this will be the last time he’ll see you, if he’ll get picked off without ever telling you how he feels about you. 

But then there is that niggling reminder that nudges the back of his brain, the one that drops a heaviness on his chest that makes the words on his tongue taste like lead. So he doesn’t say it. 

So he does what he always does. He murmurs his thanks before he slips onto his bike with RJ on his back. As he drives away, he watches your shrinking silhouette from his rearview mirror until you’re a speck in the distance. 

Now, he and RJ are both on the lookout in this cabin. 

“Dude, you’re so lame.”

“What?” Bucky frowns, still frowning out into the woods as his most recent target packs up his bag. When RJ doesn’t respond, Bucky reluctantly drags his eyes away to focus on the kid next to him. “What are you talking about? Also, did you really just call me dude?”

“You’re sitting here mooning over a woman who lives right down the street from you. You spend every second of free time you have with her and you still can’t ask her out?”

The kid may as well have struck him with a bullet, a clean shot straight through his chest. Bucky knows he isn’t exactly subtle about his affections, but he didn’t think he was that obvious either. At least, not to a point where even a moody, indifferent teenager would realize that he’s been secretly pining over his neighbor for the better part of his time here. 

“It’s not that simple, alright. Focus on the mission,” he grumbles, redirecting his gaze back into the quiet woods. He should concentrate on keeping the man safe, keeping RJ safe.  

Except, now he’s thinking about you and what you’re doing, so he isn’t exactly functioning at a hundred percent.

“I’m just saying, it’s kind of pathetic to see you like this. I thought the Winter Soldier was supposed to be formidable.”

Bucky releases another grunt as he waves the kid away. “I don’t go by that moniker anymore.”

“Can’t erase your past, dude. So what’s the hold up?”

The answer sits on the tip of his tongue. The words, the truth, are there. But it’s not one he is fully ready to reckon with yet. It’s not a problem with a solution, not an easy one at least. Not one that may even come in his lifetime. 

Saying it out loud would be admitting defeat. It’s a confession that he would never even say to a priest, let alone the kid next to him. It is a surrender he isn’t ready to commit to, especially when it means giving you up. It means being selfless one more time. 

When the two of them return home, exhaustion sitting heavy on his shoulders, Bucky instinctively goes to the fridge first. He already knows what he’s going to see there, but the anticipation still has his blood thrumming in his veins. The cool air greets him before he is met with the sight of tupperwares stacked on the glass shelves. Inside, he spots his favorite dishes in a true farm-to-table experience. 

It’s a sight he welcomes and appreciates whenever he goes on these late-night extractions. It only took one comment from him about how he’s terrible with maintaining his schedule for you to step up and take the mantle. 

It is in this moment of weakness, when his heart feels more tender in his chest, that he lets the admission slip. 

At first, it is only to the silence of his home. But Bucky’s no longer alone. 

His words are barely above a whisper, as if he is praying that the chilly night air would swallow them up and whisk them away. “I’ve done a lot of things. Things I’m not proud of. Things that I probably can never forgive myself for. While I’ve been working on atoning for my sins, it’s my burden to bear. I don’t want her to shoulder that with me.”

The fridge closes with a quiet thump as desolation swiftly sinks into his bones, like the swipe of a blade across his artery. The good doctor has always told him that it’s normal to carry the guilt, but that he shouldn’t let it linger. However, when his entire life has been riddled with a darkness that breeds that conscience unconsciously, Bucky has never learned any different. 

What he doesn’t expect is for RJ to say, “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

His brows instantly furrow as he turns to look at the kid. 

RJ rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his body as he glares at Bucky. His gaze is a mix of irritation and fury, tinged with a disappointment that hits harder than anything else. “You’re the one who told me that you knew what it’s like to have your life stolen from you, that you knew what it’s like to take it back. You told me that I wasn’t alone, that I didn’t have to be. But you can’t even practice what you preach, so how am I supposed to trust you?”

It’s ice cold in his veins. Like he’s been struck by lightning. Bucky knows he’s right, he’s always known it deep down. The demons that live in his mind will persist, but they shouldn’t stop him from trying to get some semblance of normalcy in his life. To find love and happiness again. It had been a dream once upon a time — the house with the white picket fence and children running across the lawn — but that dream has changed. 

The vision has morphed into a life that combines his past, present, and future. A life of protecting those who need it most, a life of living in the peace of his current existence, and a life of pursuing this lifelong fantasy to turn it into a reality. 

And all he has to do is take the first step forward. He has to gather the courage and stuff down pieces of his bitter guilt one at a time until he can live with himself again. Until he can forgive himself and realize that he deserves it. 

Deserves better things. Deserves you. 

RJ won’t believe that redemption is possible unless Bucky believes in it himself. So he swallows thickly, resolve hardening in his veins. “Alright then, watch me.”

The kid gives him a questioning look, following hot on his trail as Bucky marches out the door into the midnight that blankets his lawn. Your place is right next door, visible enough from his porch where RJ stands with a flickering light. Alpine curls around the kid’s legs curiously. 

His fist lifts and he moves on habit alone. He knocks on your door three times as he always does. 

When you open the door, clearly half awake and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, he stills. “Buck?” Your voice is a little raspy, the way it is in the morning when Bucky comes a few minutes too early. “What’s going on?”

“Shit, sorry, did I wake you up?”

Maybe he should’ve thought this through. He doesn’t even know what time it is. He probably looks like an asshole banging on your door at this forsaken hour. He’s also a mess. He smells like sweat, dirt, and gasoline. Adrenaline pumps through him faster than those hours earlier under the threat of enemy fire. 

What he should’ve done was shower, sleep, buy some fresh flowers from the farmer’s market, then ask you out at a normal hour. Like a normal person.

But when he glances at his house again, RJ waiting expectantly with that damned cocky eyebrow raised, he knows he can’t back down now. 

You yawn and stretch, a sliver of skin exposing as your shirt lifts. Bucky swallows. He needs to keep it together. “I fell asleep on the couch so I needed to get up to move to my bed anyway. What’s up?”

Don’t think about you in bed. Do not. He is not a child, he has self-control. Or so he likes to think. But then he sees the poutiness of your lips and Bucky has to subtly pinch himself to stop himself from kissing you. 

Because that would be crazy.

Right?

Once again, the words fall off somewhere in their journey from his heart to his mouth. His heart stutters against his ribs, flesh pulsing against his bones. His eyes dart around in search of comfort. 

And they land on you with your kind eyes and your bare feet. They land on RJ who stands there slightly doubtful, slightly hopeful. They land on Alpine who still regards him with cool affection, but a year of trust. They land on his home, this land, and the stretch of space between all of the things that formulate his life today. The redemption he is working towards. The peace etched onto every surface. The work in progress that persists. 

And he braves himself.

With a deep breath, he smiles gently at you. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me.”

Your lips quirk up as you slump against the doorway, tilting your head in that way that makes him want to kiss you senseless. “Came over at midnight to get a booty call? Bold even for you, Barnes.”

Bucky chokes on nothing. Absolutely nothing. Panic flares at his chest over how his actions look. Of course, you’d think he’s being a complete and utter fool. A dog that his parents would be ashamed of. “No, not a— definitely not. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate that, but I figured I should take you out to dinner first. I want to take you out to dinner first. That Italian place down Second Street, the one with the green logo with the ravio that you like. I thought—”

A warm hand settles on his arm. “I’d love to,” you interrupt softly, “tonight at seven?”

He clears his throat, nodding his head a little too eagerly. “Yes, I can pick you up.” Which sounds dumb in hindsight because he lives right down the street. 

“On that death trap?” You eye his bike warily. “Absolutely not. I’ll meet you there.”

“No, I’ll get a car. I’ll borrow someone’s.”

You snort softly, lips twitching with a smile. “How about I pick you up in my car? Don’t need a knight picking me up on his white steed.”

Bucky tinges pink again. Good thing it’s dark out. “Sounds good.”

“See you tomorrow night, sarge.” Your voice is still gentle, kind. Then you look over his shoulder and wave at the sight behind him. “Night, RJ! Alpine!” 

He watches from his periphery as RJ gives a small wave back. For the first time in a very long time, his chest feels lighter — not in a way that it is empty, but that it is alive with hope. When he catches the shit-eating grin on RJ’s face and Alpine’s look of I-told-you-so, that voice inside his head quiets. 

Perhaps redemption is not his acts of heroism to compensate for the guilt that plagues his every slumber. Perhaps redemption comes in the unsaid forgiveness, the acts of kindness, and the optimism for something more. It starts with coffee and eggs and a promise of dinner at seven.  

As he stands on that porch, Bucky finally lets himself believe it, even a little — that he’s home, that he’s healing, and that this time, he might just deserve it.

+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!! see below for one of the scenes that inspired this fic! obviously not fully canon compliant but yknow it's the vibes

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[tw1sters]

I read one of your fics just now and tried to follow you and realized it was sammy HAHAHAH 😅🫶

IM WHEEZZINGGG ISLA PLEASEEE but i'm glad this means you still love me <3 mwah!

[tw1sters]

In Time

After decades of war, Bucky finally finds some peace — until a broken kid who mirrors his past forces him to consider forgiving himself enough to start living.

▸ PAIRING & WC: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader — 3.8K ▸ WARNINGS: Insecurities, Bucky is grappling with forgiving himself, some mentions of canon-typical violence, comics!bucky so different technically from mcu!bucky ▸ A/N: wrote this when i was getting into reading comics and read the winter soldier (2018), highly recommend even if it's different from mcu bucky! anyways i loved seeing bucky in his big brother/parental role but also reckoning with the concept of forgiveness and second chances, and ended up with this idea. a lil different but hope you enjoy!

When Bucky defected from HYDRA, he never thought he would ever build himself another home. He could’ve gone back with Steve and stayed in New York. He could’ve stopped in his parents’ hometown in Romania to lay low. Hell, he could’ve landed himself in a cozy prison cell on an isolated island if the government didn’t pardon him for all his crimes as the Winter Soldier. 

Instead, Bucky chose to go home. Back to where it all started. Shelbyville, Indiana. 

After his parents passed, the deed to the home passed on to him. If he were to decide between a shoebox in the big city or a not-so-little house on the prairie, it’s a no-brainer. After years of war, or at least that’s all he remembers, it’s nice to be somewhere quiet where he starts his morning with birdsongs and the sounds of life. 

There’s also you. You’re the cherry on top of his much-needed sundae. You — his neighbor who spends your days toiling away at your farm, helping out with markets in town, running community fairs. An all-around girl-next-door. 

He had been worried about what people might think about him moving in here. After all, his case had been highly publicized. But this little town had welcomed him with open arms. They remembered his parents and made space for Bucky to slip right back in. 

You had been a big help in his transition into the town. Showing him around town, inviting him to dinners with your friends, and even doing weekly movie nights with him. With you, Bucky finds parts of himself that he may have lost. You look at him with faith. You don’t see what he sees when he looks in the mirror.

Not an ex-assassin. Not some hundred-year-old grump. Just Bucky.

Now, life should be all fine and dandy, right? Right. Except, Bucky has been thrown another curveball that he isn’t quite sure how to manage. 

When he pledged to use his powers for the greater good, he knew he wanted to focus his efforts on giving people a second chance. These are powers that he never asked for, but are ones he still has all the same. As they say, with great power comes great responsibility. 

Trading one massive organization for another, Bucky decided to join SHIELD — or at least do some contract work for them. He only takes on jobs that give people an opportunity to make amends. To make right all the wrongs as best they can. Think of it as a product of his guilty conscience. 

In this line of work, he never expected to stumble into the path of RJ Boyle. 

Well, stumble is an understatement. RJ had been sent to commit cold-blooded murder against him, vibranium sword in hand to take out Bucky’s own arm. The kid was lethal, trained to be the near-perfect child soldier. He was arrogant and mouthy — and a little bit broken. 

This kid is just that. A kid. A kid born into unfortunate circumstances. A kid whose weaknesses, whose vulnerability, had been used against him. Bucky knows more than anyone how HYDRA works; they break you down to build you back up, mold you into whoever they want you to be. 

It’s like looking at a reflection of himself. Younger. Angrier. 

It’s why Bucky decided to take him home — to his home. Show him a slice of the peace that he has managed to create since he left. Show him what his life could be outside of HYDRA. No longer does he need to follow orders to survive. He could just live.

But it’s hard to teach someone how to live when he himself is not yet familiar with the concept. He still has one foot in the real world and the other in the past. Shelbyville has become his safe haven, but parts of it still feel foreign to him. It’s like he’s playing house in a place that is not his. A story that doesn’t belong him, that is being narrated by someone else. A puppeteer from high above. 

RJ probably feels the same way, especially since Bucky uprooted him from the only thing he knows. Every time he thinks about this, that vein in his head pulses for attention. 

“You need to cut yourself some slack,” you smile at him, setting the coffee cup on the table. 

Bucky presses his fingers against his forehead, hoping that some of the pressure would ease his throbbing mind. He offers a grateful smile in return as he tips the cup back to his lips. “Thank you, needed this,” he murmurs. 

“Well, you do only come to me when you need coffee and eggs,” you say with a smirk, leaning back against your kitchen counter as your eyes sparkle at Bucky at your dining table. 

His heart slams against his ribcage, a common response to the way you curl your lips so easily at him. Part of him deep inside screams that he wants more than coffee and eggs, an internal voice begging to be declared out loud. He wants mornings and evenings with you. He wants to wake up with your face nuzzled up against his chest or the whiff of your lavender shampoo lulling him to sleep. But he doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants just yet. Not when it’s something that’s for him and only for him. 

Oblivious to his mental turmoil, you continue, “How’s the kid doing?”

When he took him in, he thought RJ would be thankful, that he would want this as much as Bucky had. But he knows better than anyone that you can’t just transition someone from a life built on pure survival and instinct and battle scars into a suburban, fictitious fairytale without consequences. 

For the first time in a while, Bucky has to admit that he is at a loss. He is dealing with a trained child assassin who is clearly traumatized from decades of having his brain torn apart, washed, rinsed, and repeated. Trained to do what he was told to do to stay alive. 

It also doesn’t help that the kid is a teenager, which means he is dealing with a severe case of age-appropriate rebellion. 

Doc Sampson, Bucky’s godsend of a therapist, is still working with him but obviously doctor-patient confidentiality prevents him from actually sharing anything meaningful. Bucky is constantly tempted to break into the office and steal the files, but he thinks that may be crossing some ethical and personal lines. 

“I…” he pauses, “I don’t know.” His answer is honest, desperate even. “Never raised a kid before. He’s not my biggest fan, which isn’t surprising since he did try to kill me. Failed, but tried nonetheless.”

“You’re a first-time parent. He’s a kid with a temper. Give yourself some grace. It’ll take him a bit to warm up. Going from back-to-back wars and missions to a quiet farmhouse with sheep bleating in your backyard is a big change.” 

Bucky understands that. The lack of stimulation and noise out here is something he had to get used to. His fingers are always itching to do something — anything. He wants to throw the white noise machine that Sharon had gifted him as a joke out the window. 

“Raising goats is easier than this.”

You laugh and the sound is sugar in his veins. He’s an addict and he’s not even sure he wants to quit. “Not as expensive too, but also presumably less rewarding. RJ seems like a good kid, I wouldn’t stress too much. He’ll come around.”

He wonders how you could say that so easily. Confidence laced into your syllables when you’ve barely met the kid. The only time RJ said more than a word to you was the first time you came over, saw him on the couch, looked at Bucky, and said, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

RJ was quick to point out, “He’s not my brother!”

Ouch. 

“You’ve got a lot of faith in people,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

“Never had a reason not to,” you shrug. “Life gave me good people. It brought me you, didn’t it?”

A blush is quick to furiously sprawl across his face, burning the skin with the heat of a thousand blazing suns. His lips unconsciously stretch into a ridiculously wide grin and he has to hide his childish delight behind the mask of his mug. Part of him knows that you like to tease him, say sweet nothings to see him squirm. Even now, he can see that devious little twinkle in his eye. Still, he can’t help but drink your compliments in like a man starved for affection — which he is. 

“Don’t get shy on me, soldier,” you grin at him again, eyes cataloging his face to identify what shade of scarlet he has turned into this time. 

It’s almost shameful how obvious he is with his crush. He might as well be writing your name on the margins and praying that you would say yes to sitting with him at lunchtime. Before he got turned into the Winter Soldier, before he replaced an arm with a hunk of metal, Bucky liked to think he was better with women. He was suave. He was charming. He always knew the right things to say. 

With you, he is in a perpetual state of being tongue-tied and carrying the perfect color of sunburnt. He is the epitome of constant embarrassment. 

He didn’t think it could get worse — he’s heard enough of Sharon’s not yet, Barnes? and Tony’s wow, you’re embarrassingly slow for a super soldier — but even RJ, who has been here all of five minutes, has caught on. 

The two of them are on a quick rendezvous to extract a former HYDRA scientist and relocate him into Sharon’s very safe hands. Right before they left, you had leaned against his doorframe, having visited to drop off some eggs.

“Dinner tonight?” You ask. “I can whip up some food for you and RJ if you aren’t back too late.”

Bucky should be focused on preparing for his mission. He’s mentally calculating the travel time while also counting the number of lashes in your eyes. You’re an incredibly delicious distraction in your dirt-covered overalls. 

He can only dumbly respond with, “Hm?”

“I said I’ll get kidnapped by aliens before you come back.”

Jerking up from looking at his gear, he cocks a brow at you. “Uh, dinner, right? You said dinner.”

“Yes, soldier.”

Bucky clears his throat, feeling that familiar weight of gratitude sit on his chest. “Dinner sounds good. You don’t have to, though. We’ll probably be back late.” 

“I can put something in your fridge.”

“You really don’t have to do that. We’ll raincheck it.”

“Always too busy for me, sarge.”

Bucky freezes, eyes darting up to meet yours. Are you saying— no, it can’t be right? You have so many friends. You probably have suitors lined up at your door, he should know this since he’s always checking on your front porch. 

But there’s no way that you would be flirting with him. Not seriously at least. “I’m not… too busy.”

You only hum, arms crossed over your chest. “Good luck. Be safe.”

He hates these moments the most. Leaving you behind. You’re not even his and he dreads the idea of saying goodbye to you before he jets off to his next mission. He never knows if this will be the last time he’ll see you, if he’ll get picked off without ever telling you how he feels about you. 

But then there is that niggling reminder that nudges the back of his brain, the one that drops a heaviness on his chest that makes the words on his tongue taste like lead. So he doesn’t say it. 

So he does what he always does. He murmurs his thanks before he slips onto his bike with RJ on his back. As he drives away, he watches your shrinking silhouette from his rearview mirror until you’re a speck in the distance. 

Now, he and RJ are both on the lookout in this cabin. 

“Dude, you’re so lame.”

“What?” Bucky frowns, still frowning out into the woods as his most recent target packs up his bag. When RJ doesn’t respond, Bucky reluctantly drags his eyes away to focus on the kid next to him. “What are you talking about? Also, did you really just call me dude?”

“You’re sitting here mooning over a woman who lives right down the street from you. You spend every second of free time you have with her and you still can’t ask her out?”

The kid may as well have struck him with a bullet, a clean shot straight through his chest. Bucky knows he isn’t exactly subtle about his affections, but he didn’t think he was that obvious either. At least, not to a point where even a moody, indifferent teenager would realize that he’s been secretly pining over his neighbor for the better part of his time here. 

“It’s not that simple, alright. Focus on the mission,” he grumbles, redirecting his gaze back into the quiet woods. He should concentrate on keeping the man safe, keeping RJ safe.  

Except, now he’s thinking about you and what you’re doing, so he isn’t exactly functioning at a hundred percent.

“I’m just saying, it’s kind of pathetic to see you like this. I thought the Winter Soldier was supposed to be formidable.”

Bucky releases another grunt as he waves the kid away. “I don’t go by that moniker anymore.”

“Can’t erase your past, dude. So what’s the hold up?”

The answer sits on the tip of his tongue. The words, the truth, are there. But it’s not one he is fully ready to reckon with yet. It’s not a problem with a solution, not an easy one at least. Not one that may even come in his lifetime. 

Saying it out loud would be admitting defeat. It’s a confession that he would never even say to a priest, let alone the kid next to him. It is a surrender he isn’t ready to commit to, especially when it means giving you up. It means being selfless one more time. 

When the two of them return home, exhaustion sitting heavy on his shoulders, Bucky instinctively goes to the fridge first. He already knows what he’s going to see there, but the anticipation still has his blood thrumming in his veins. The cool air greets him before he is met with the sight of tupperwares stacked on the glass shelves. Inside, he spots his favorite dishes in a true farm-to-table experience. 

It’s a sight he welcomes and appreciates whenever he goes on these late-night extractions. It only took one comment from him about how he’s terrible with maintaining his schedule for you to step up and take the mantle. 

It is in this moment of weakness, when his heart feels more tender in his chest, that he lets the admission slip. 

At first, it is only to the silence of his home. But Bucky’s no longer alone. 

His words are barely above a whisper, as if he is praying that the chilly night air would swallow them up and whisk them away. “I’ve done a lot of things. Things I’m not proud of. Things that I probably can never forgive myself for. While I’ve been working on atoning for my sins, it’s my burden to bear. I don’t want her to shoulder that with me.”

The fridge closes with a quiet thump as desolation swiftly sinks into his bones, like the swipe of a blade across his artery. The good doctor has always told him that it’s normal to carry the guilt, but that he shouldn’t let it linger. However, when his entire life has been riddled with a darkness that breeds that conscience unconsciously, Bucky has never learned any different. 

What he doesn’t expect is for RJ to say, “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

His brows instantly furrow as he turns to look at the kid. 

RJ rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his body as he glares at Bucky. His gaze is a mix of irritation and fury, tinged with a disappointment that hits harder than anything else. “You’re the one who told me that you knew what it’s like to have your life stolen from you, that you knew what it’s like to take it back. You told me that I wasn’t alone, that I didn’t have to be. But you can’t even practice what you preach, so how am I supposed to trust you?”

It’s ice cold in his veins. Like he’s been struck by lightning. Bucky knows he’s right, he’s always known it deep down. The demons that live in his mind will persist, but they shouldn’t stop him from trying to get some semblance of normalcy in his life. To find love and happiness again. It had been a dream once upon a time — the house with the white picket fence and children running across the lawn — but that dream has changed. 

The vision has morphed into a life that combines his past, present, and future. A life of protecting those who need it most, a life of living in the peace of his current existence, and a life of pursuing this lifelong fantasy to turn it into a reality. 

And all he has to do is take the first step forward. He has to gather the courage and stuff down pieces of his bitter guilt one at a time until he can live with himself again. Until he can forgive himself and realize that he deserves it. 

Deserves better things. Deserves you. 

RJ won’t believe that redemption is possible unless Bucky believes in it himself. So he swallows thickly, resolve hardening in his veins. “Alright then, watch me.”

The kid gives him a questioning look, following hot on his trail as Bucky marches out the door into the midnight that blankets his lawn. Your place is right next door, visible enough from his porch where RJ stands with a flickering light. Alpine curls around the kid’s legs curiously. 

His fist lifts and he moves on habit alone. He knocks on your door three times as he always does. 

When you open the door, clearly half awake and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, he stills. “Buck?” Your voice is a little raspy, the way it is in the morning when Bucky comes a few minutes too early. “What’s going on?”

“Shit, sorry, did I wake you up?”

Maybe he should’ve thought this through. He doesn’t even know what time it is. He probably looks like an asshole banging on your door at this forsaken hour. He’s also a mess. He smells like sweat, dirt, and gasoline. Adrenaline pumps through him faster than those hours earlier under the threat of enemy fire. 

What he should’ve done was shower, sleep, buy some fresh flowers from the farmer’s market, then ask you out at a normal hour. Like a normal person.

But when he glances at his house again, RJ waiting expectantly with that damned cocky eyebrow raised, he knows he can’t back down now. 

You yawn and stretch, a sliver of skin exposing as your shirt lifts. Bucky swallows. He needs to keep it together. “I fell asleep on the couch so I needed to get up to move to my bed anyway. What’s up?”

Don’t think about you in bed. Do not. He is not a child, he has self-control. Or so he likes to think. But then he sees the poutiness of your lips and Bucky has to subtly pinch himself to stop himself from kissing you. 

Because that would be crazy.

Right?

Once again, the words fall off somewhere in their journey from his heart to his mouth. His heart stutters against his ribs, flesh pulsing against his bones. His eyes dart around in search of comfort. 

And they land on you with your kind eyes and your bare feet. They land on RJ who stands there slightly doubtful, slightly hopeful. They land on Alpine who still regards him with cool affection, but a year of trust. They land on his home, this land, and the stretch of space between all of the things that formulate his life today. The redemption he is working towards. The peace etched onto every surface. The work in progress that persists. 

And he braves himself.

With a deep breath, he smiles gently at you. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me.”

Your lips quirk up as you slump against the doorway, tilting your head in that way that makes him want to kiss you senseless. “Came over at midnight to get a booty call? Bold even for you, Barnes.”

Bucky chokes on nothing. Absolutely nothing. Panic flares at his chest over how his actions look. Of course, you’d think he’s being a complete and utter fool. A dog that his parents would be ashamed of. “No, not a— definitely not. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate that, but I figured I should take you out to dinner first. I want to take you out to dinner first. That Italian place down Second Street, the one with the green logo with the ravio that you like. I thought—”

A warm hand settles on his arm. “I’d love to,” you interrupt softly, “tonight at seven?”

He clears his throat, nodding his head a little too eagerly. “Yes, I can pick you up.” Which sounds dumb in hindsight because he lives right down the street. 

“On that death trap?” You eye his bike warily. “Absolutely not. I’ll meet you there.”

“No, I’ll get a car. I’ll borrow someone’s.”

You snort softly, lips twitching with a smile. “How about I pick you up in my car? Don’t need a knight picking me up on his white steed.”

Bucky tinges pink again. Good thing it’s dark out. “Sounds good.”

“See you tomorrow night, sarge.” Your voice is still gentle, kind. Then you look over his shoulder and wave at the sight behind him. “Night, RJ! Alpine!” 

He watches from his periphery as RJ gives a small wave back. For the first time in a very long time, his chest feels lighter — not in a way that it is empty, but that it is alive with hope. When he catches the shit-eating grin on RJ’s face and Alpine’s look of I-told-you-so, that voice inside his head quiets. 

Perhaps redemption is not his acts of heroism to compensate for the guilt that plagues his every slumber. Perhaps redemption comes in the unsaid forgiveness, the acts of kindness, and the optimism for something more. It starts with coffee and eggs and a promise of dinner at seven.  

As he stands on that porch, Bucky finally lets himself believe it, even a little — that he’s home, that he’s healing, and that this time, he might just deserve it.

+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!! see below for one of the scenes that inspired this fic! obviously not fully canon compliant but yknow it's the vibes

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[tw1sters]

continued taglist: @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite

[tw1sters]

In Time

After decades of war, Bucky finally finds some peace — until a broken kid who mirrors his past forces him to consider forgiving himself enough to start living.

▸ PAIRING & WC: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader — 3.8K ▸ WARNINGS: Insecurities, Bucky is grappling with forgiving himself, some mentions of canon-typical violence, comics!bucky so different technically from mcu!bucky ▸ A/N: wrote this when i was getting into reading comics and read the winter soldier (2018), highly recommend even if it's different from mcu bucky! anyways i loved seeing bucky in his big brother/parental role but also reckoning with the concept of forgiveness and second chances, and ended up with this idea. a lil different but hope you enjoy!

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When Bucky defected from HYDRA, he never thought he would ever build himself another home. He could’ve gone back with Steve and stayed in New York. He could’ve stopped in his parents’ hometown in Romania to lay low. Hell, he could’ve landed himself in a cozy prison cell on an isolated island if the government didn’t pardon him for all his crimes as the Winter Soldier. 

Instead, Bucky chose to go home. Back to where it all started. Shelbyville, Indiana. 

After his parents passed, the deed to the home passed on to him. If he were to decide between a shoebox in the big city or a not-so-little house on the prairie, it’s a no-brainer. After years of war, or at least that’s all he remembers, it’s nice to be somewhere quiet where he starts his morning with birdsongs and the sounds of life. 

There’s also you. You’re the cherry on top of his much-needed sundae. You — his neighbor who spends your days toiling away at your farm, helping out with markets in town, running community fairs. An all-around girl-next-door. 

He had been worried about what people might think about him moving in here. After all, his case had been highly publicized. But this little town had welcomed him with open arms. They remembered his parents and made space for Bucky to slip right back in. 

You had been a big help in his transition into the town. Showing him around town, inviting him to dinners with your friends, and even doing weekly movie nights with him. With you, Bucky finds parts of himself that he may have lost. You look at him with faith. You don’t see what he sees when he looks in the mirror.

Not an ex-assassin. Not some hundred-year-old grump. Just Bucky.

Now, life should be all fine and dandy, right? Right. Except, Bucky has been thrown another curveball that he isn’t quite sure how to manage. 

When he pledged to use his powers for the greater good, he knew he wanted to focus his efforts on giving people a second chance. These are powers that he never asked for, but are ones he still has all the same. As they say, with great power comes great responsibility. 

Trading one massive organization for another, Bucky decided to join SHIELD — or at least do some contract work for them. He only takes on jobs that give people an opportunity to make amends. To make right all the wrongs as best they can. Think of it as a product of his guilty conscience. 

In this line of work, he never expected to stumble into the path of RJ Boyle. 

Well, stumble is an understatement. RJ had been sent to commit cold-blooded murder against him, vibranium sword in hand to take out Bucky’s own arm. The kid was lethal, trained to be the near-perfect child soldier. He was arrogant and mouthy — and a little bit broken. 

This kid is just that. A kid. A kid born into unfortunate circumstances. A kid whose weaknesses, whose vulnerability, had been used against him. Bucky knows more than anyone how HYDRA works; they break you down to build you back up, mold you into whoever they want you to be. 

It’s like looking at a reflection of himself. Younger. Angrier. 

It’s why Bucky decided to take him home — to his home. Show him a slice of the peace that he has managed to create since he left. Show him what his life could be outside of HYDRA. No longer does he need to follow orders to survive. He could just live.

But it’s hard to teach someone how to live when he himself is not yet familiar with the concept. He still has one foot in the real world and the other in the past. Shelbyville has become his safe haven, but parts of it still feel foreign to him. It’s like he’s playing house in a place that is not his. A story that doesn’t belong him, that is being narrated by someone else. A puppeteer from high above. 

RJ probably feels the same way, especially since Bucky uprooted him from the only thing he knows. Every time he thinks about this, that vein in his head pulses for attention. 

“You need to cut yourself some slack,” you smile at him, setting the coffee cup on the table. 

Bucky presses his fingers against his forehead, hoping that some of the pressure would ease his throbbing mind. He offers a grateful smile in return as he tips the cup back to his lips. “Thank you, needed this,” he murmurs. 

“Well, you do only come to me when you need coffee and eggs,” you say with a smirk, leaning back against your kitchen counter as your eyes sparkle at Bucky at your dining table. 

His heart slams against his ribcage, a common response to the way you curl your lips so easily at him. Part of him deep inside screams that he wants more than coffee and eggs, an internal voice begging to be declared out loud. He wants mornings and evenings with you. He wants to wake up with your face nuzzled up against his chest or the whiff of your lavender shampoo lulling him to sleep. But he doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants just yet. Not when it’s something that’s for him and only for him. 

Oblivious to his mental turmoil, you continue, “How’s the kid doing?”

When he took him in, he thought RJ would be thankful, that he would want this as much as Bucky had. But he knows better than anyone that you can’t just transition someone from a life built on pure survival and instinct and battle scars into a suburban, fictitious fairytale without consequences. 

For the first time in a while, Bucky has to admit that he is at a loss. He is dealing with a trained child assassin who is clearly traumatized from decades of having his brain torn apart, washed, rinsed, and repeated. Trained to do what he was told to do to stay alive. 

It also doesn’t help that the kid is a teenager, which means he is dealing with a severe case of age-appropriate rebellion. 

Doc Sampson, Bucky’s godsend of a therapist, is still working with him but obviously doctor-patient confidentiality prevents him from actually sharing anything meaningful. Bucky is constantly tempted to break into the office and steal the files, but he thinks that may be crossing some ethical and personal lines. 

“I…” he pauses, “I don’t know.” His answer is honest, desperate even. “Never raised a kid before. He’s not my biggest fan, which isn’t surprising since he did try to kill me. Failed, but tried nonetheless.”

“You’re a first-time parent. He’s a kid with a temper. Give yourself some grace. It’ll take him a bit to warm up. Going from back-to-back wars and missions to a quiet farmhouse with sheep bleating in your backyard is a big change.” 

Bucky understands that. The lack of stimulation and noise out here is something he had to get used to. His fingers are always itching to do something — anything. He wants to throw the white noise machine that Sharon had gifted him as a joke out the window. 

“Raising goats is easier than this.”

You laugh and the sound is sugar in his veins. He’s an addict and he’s not even sure he wants to quit. “Not as expensive too, but also presumably less rewarding. RJ seems like a good kid, I wouldn’t stress too much. He’ll come around.”

He wonders how you could say that so easily. Confidence laced into your syllables when you’ve barely met the kid. The only time RJ said more than a word to you was the first time you came over, saw him on the couch, looked at Bucky, and said, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

RJ was quick to point out, “He’s not my brother!”

Ouch. 

“You’ve got a lot of faith in people,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

“Never had a reason not to,” you shrug. “Life gave me good people. It brought me you, didn’t it?”

A blush is quick to furiously sprawl across his face, burning the skin with the heat of a thousand blazing suns. His lips unconsciously stretch into a ridiculously wide grin and he has to hide his childish delight behind the mask of his mug. Part of him knows that you like to tease him, say sweet nothings to see him squirm. Even now, he can see that devious little twinkle in his eye. Still, he can’t help but drink your compliments in like a man starved for affection — which he is. 

“Don’t get shy on me, soldier,” you grin at him again, eyes cataloging his face to identify what shade of scarlet he has turned into this time. 

It’s almost shameful how obvious he is with his crush. He might as well be writing your name on the margins and praying that you would say yes to sitting with him at lunchtime. Before he got turned into the Winter Soldier, before he replaced an arm with a hunk of metal, Bucky liked to think he was better with women. He was suave. He was charming. He always knew the right things to say. 

With you, he is in a perpetual state of being tongue-tied and carrying the perfect color of sunburnt. He is the epitome of constant embarrassment. 

He didn’t think it could get worse — he’s heard enough of Sharon’s not yet, Barnes? and Tony’s wow, you’re embarrassingly slow for a super soldier — but even RJ, who has been here all of five minutes, has caught on. 

The two of them are on a quick rendezvous to extract a former HYDRA scientist and relocate him into Sharon’s very safe hands. Right before they left, you had leaned against his doorframe, having visited to drop off some eggs.

“Dinner tonight?” You ask. “I can whip up some food for you and RJ if you aren’t back too late.”

Bucky should be focused on preparing for his mission. He’s mentally calculating the travel time while also counting the number of lashes in your eyes. You’re an incredibly delicious distraction in your dirt-covered overalls. 

He can only dumbly respond with, “Hm?”

“I said I’ll get kidnapped by aliens before you come back.”

Jerking up from looking at his gear, he cocks a brow at you. “Uh, dinner, right? You said dinner.”

“Yes, soldier.”

Bucky clears his throat, feeling that familiar weight of gratitude sit on his chest. “Dinner sounds good. You don’t have to, though. We’ll probably be back late.” 

“I can put something in your fridge.”

“You really don’t have to do that. We’ll raincheck it.”

“Always too busy for me, sarge.”

Bucky freezes, eyes darting up to meet yours. Are you saying— no, it can’t be right? You have so many friends. You probably have suitors lined up at your door, he should know this since he’s always checking on your front porch. 

But there’s no way that you would be flirting with him. Not seriously at least. “I’m not… too busy.”

You only hum, arms crossed over your chest. “Good luck. Be safe.”

He hates these moments the most. Leaving you behind. You’re not even his and he dreads the idea of saying goodbye to you before he jets off to his next mission. He never knows if this will be the last time he’ll see you, if he’ll get picked off without ever telling you how he feels about you. 

But then there is that niggling reminder that nudges the back of his brain, the one that drops a heaviness on his chest that makes the words on his tongue taste like lead. So he doesn’t say it. 

So he does what he always does. He murmurs his thanks before he slips onto his bike with RJ on his back. As he drives away, he watches your shrinking silhouette from his rearview mirror until you’re a speck in the distance. 

Now, he and RJ are both on the lookout in this cabin. 

“Dude, you’re so lame.”

“What?” Bucky frowns, still frowning out into the woods as his most recent target packs up his bag. When RJ doesn’t respond, Bucky reluctantly drags his eyes away to focus on the kid next to him. “What are you talking about? Also, did you really just call me dude?”

“You’re sitting here mooning over a woman who lives right down the street from you. You spend every second of free time you have with her and you still can’t ask her out?”

The kid may as well have struck him with a bullet, a clean shot straight through his chest. Bucky knows he isn’t exactly subtle about his affections, but he didn’t think he was that obvious either. At least, not to a point where even a moody, indifferent teenager would realize that he’s been secretly pining over his neighbor for the better part of his time here. 

“It’s not that simple, alright. Focus on the mission,” he grumbles, redirecting his gaze back into the quiet woods. He should concentrate on keeping the man safe, keeping RJ safe.  

Except, now he’s thinking about you and what you’re doing, so he isn’t exactly functioning at a hundred percent.

“I’m just saying, it’s kind of pathetic to see you like this. I thought the Winter Soldier was supposed to be formidable.”

Bucky releases another grunt as he waves the kid away. “I don’t go by that moniker anymore.”

“Can’t erase your past, dude. So what’s the hold up?”

The answer sits on the tip of his tongue. The words, the truth, are there. But it’s not one he is fully ready to reckon with yet. It’s not a problem with a solution, not an easy one at least. Not one that may even come in his lifetime. 

Saying it out loud would be admitting defeat. It’s a confession that he would never even say to a priest, let alone the kid next to him. It is a surrender he isn’t ready to commit to, especially when it means giving you up. It means being selfless one more time. 

When the two of them return home, exhaustion sitting heavy on his shoulders, Bucky instinctively goes to the fridge first. He already knows what he’s going to see there, but the anticipation still has his blood thrumming in his veins. The cool air greets him before he is met with the sight of tupperwares stacked on the glass shelves. Inside, he spots his favorite dishes in a true farm-to-table experience. 

It’s a sight he welcomes and appreciates whenever he goes on these late-night extractions. It only took one comment from him about how he’s terrible with maintaining his schedule for you to step up and take the mantle. 

It is in this moment of weakness, when his heart feels more tender in his chest, that he lets the admission slip. 

At first, it is only to the silence of his home. But Bucky’s no longer alone. 

His words are barely above a whisper, as if he is praying that the chilly night air would swallow them up and whisk them away. “I’ve done a lot of things. Things I’m not proud of. Things that I probably can never forgive myself for. While I’ve been working on atoning for my sins, it’s my burden to bear. I don’t want her to shoulder that with me.”

The fridge closes with a quiet thump as desolation swiftly sinks into his bones, like the swipe of a blade across his artery. The good doctor has always told him that it’s normal to carry the guilt, but that he shouldn’t let it linger. However, when his entire life has been riddled with a darkness that breeds that conscience unconsciously, Bucky has never learned any different. 

What he doesn’t expect is for RJ to say, “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

His brows instantly furrow as he turns to look at the kid. 

RJ rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his body as he glares at Bucky. His gaze is a mix of irritation and fury, tinged with a disappointment that hits harder than anything else. “You’re the one who told me that you knew what it’s like to have your life stolen from you, that you knew what it’s like to take it back. You told me that I wasn’t alone, that I didn’t have to be. But you can’t even practice what you preach, so how am I supposed to trust you?”

It’s ice cold in his veins. Like he’s been struck by lightning. Bucky knows he’s right, he’s always known it deep down. The demons that live in his mind will persist, but they shouldn’t stop him from trying to get some semblance of normalcy in his life. To find love and happiness again. It had been a dream once upon a time — the house with the white picket fence and children running across the lawn — but that dream has changed. 

The vision has morphed into a life that combines his past, present, and future. A life of protecting those who need it most, a life of living in the peace of his current existence, and a life of pursuing this lifelong fantasy to turn it into a reality. 

And all he has to do is take the first step forward. He has to gather the courage and stuff down pieces of his bitter guilt one at a time until he can live with himself again. Until he can forgive himself and realize that he deserves it. 

Deserves better things. Deserves you. 

RJ won’t believe that redemption is possible unless Bucky believes in it himself. So he swallows thickly, resolve hardening in his veins. “Alright then, watch me.”

The kid gives him a questioning look, following hot on his trail as Bucky marches out the door into the midnight that blankets his lawn. Your place is right next door, visible enough from his porch where RJ stands with a flickering light. Alpine curls around the kid’s legs curiously. 

His fist lifts and he moves on habit alone. He knocks on your door three times as he always does. 

When you open the door, clearly half awake and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, he stills. “Buck?” Your voice is a little raspy, the way it is in the morning when Bucky comes a few minutes too early. “What’s going on?”

“Shit, sorry, did I wake you up?”

Maybe he should’ve thought this through. He doesn’t even know what time it is. He probably looks like an asshole banging on your door at this forsaken hour. He’s also a mess. He smells like sweat, dirt, and gasoline. Adrenaline pumps through him faster than those hours earlier under the threat of enemy fire. 

What he should’ve done was shower, sleep, buy some fresh flowers from the farmer’s market, then ask you out at a normal hour. Like a normal person.

But when he glances at his house again, RJ waiting expectantly with that damned cocky eyebrow raised, he knows he can’t back down now. 

You yawn and stretch, a sliver of skin exposing as your shirt lifts. Bucky swallows. He needs to keep it together. “I fell asleep on the couch so I needed to get up to move to my bed anyway. What’s up?”

Don’t think about you in bed. Do not. He is not a child, he has self-control. Or so he likes to think. But then he sees the poutiness of your lips and Bucky has to subtly pinch himself to stop himself from kissing you. 

Because that would be crazy.

Right?

Once again, the words fall off somewhere in their journey from his heart to his mouth. His heart stutters against his ribs, flesh pulsing against his bones. His eyes dart around in search of comfort. 

And they land on you with your kind eyes and your bare feet. They land on RJ who stands there slightly doubtful, slightly hopeful. They land on Alpine who still regards him with cool affection, but a year of trust. They land on his home, this land, and the stretch of space between all of the things that formulate his life today. The redemption he is working towards. The peace etched onto every surface. The work in progress that persists. 

And he braves himself.

With a deep breath, he smiles gently at you. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me.”

Your lips quirk up as you slump against the doorway, tilting your head in that way that makes him want to kiss you senseless. “Came over at midnight to get a booty call? Bold even for you, Barnes.”

Bucky chokes on nothing. Absolutely nothing. Panic flares at his chest over how his actions look. Of course, you’d think he’s being a complete and utter fool. A dog that his parents would be ashamed of. “No, not a— definitely not. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate that, but I figured I should take you out to dinner first. I want to take you out to dinner first. That Italian place down Second Street, the one with the green logo with the ravio that you like. I thought—”

A warm hand settles on his arm. “I’d love to,” you interrupt softly, “tonight at seven?”

He clears his throat, nodding his head a little too eagerly. “Yes, I can pick you up.” Which sounds dumb in hindsight because he lives right down the street. 

“On that death trap?” You eye his bike warily. “Absolutely not. I’ll meet you there.”

“No, I’ll get a car. I’ll borrow someone’s.”

You snort softly, lips twitching with a smile. “How about I pick you up in my car? Don’t need a knight picking me up on his white steed.”

Bucky tinges pink again. Good thing it’s dark out. “Sounds good.”

“See you tomorrow night, sarge.” Your voice is still gentle, kind. Then you look over his shoulder and wave at the sight behind him. “Night, RJ! Alpine!” 

He watches from his periphery as RJ gives a small wave back. For the first time in a very long time, his chest feels lighter — not in a way that it is empty, but that it is alive with hope. When he catches the shit-eating grin on RJ’s face and Alpine’s look of I-told-you-so, that voice inside his head quiets. 

Perhaps redemption is not his acts of heroism to compensate for the guilt that plagues his every slumber. Perhaps redemption comes in the unsaid forgiveness, the acts of kindness, and the optimism for something more. It starts with coffee and eggs and a promise of dinner at seven.  

As he stands on that porch, Bucky finally lets himself believe it, even a little — that he’s home, that he’s healing, and that this time, he might just deserve it.

+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!! see below for one of the scenes that inspired this fic! obviously not fully canon compliant but yknow it's the vibes

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[tw1sters]

hey!! i love love love your writing!! i was wondering if you would ever be open to a part 2 of “already yours”? maybe a time jump to the summer (since it’s june 👀)? i’m just so in love with that version of bucky and would love to read more of him… like literally even a drabble LMAOO thanks! 🫶

aah this is so sweet of you!!! i honestly love that version of him too <3 right now i can't imagine what i would write for them aside from pure fluff (which i've never been very good at) but i'm always open if inspo were to strike me!!! i'll give it a lil more thought to see if i can come up with anything heheh but thank you again!!

edit: just as i clicked post, i got an idea so hoping to find time to write this at some point and post it before summer is over!

[heldbybarnes]

off the books

pairing: clark kent x reader | 4.5k words

warnings: 18+ only, explicit smut, power imbalance (superhuman strength), morally gray reader, obsession/possession themes, manipulation, guilt kink vibes, furniture destruction (workout bench), rough sex (consensual), overstimulation, praise + control dynamics

summary: clark hires you off the books to help him control his strength in bed—because every partner before you has gotten hurt. you agree for the wrong reasons, pushing his limits on the workout bench until reinforced steel buckles and clark loses control. he thinks you’re saving him. you’re really making yourself the one thing he can’t walk away from.

a/n: biggest shoutout to @tw1sters for allowing me, a virgin chud of a clark girlie, into her stellar event. further shoutout to the wonderful @sparklingsin for this sexy ass banner. i'm still salivating. if this fic sucks it was not my fault (yes it was tf?) i wrote this in a fever dream for bucky and made it into a clark fic during a time of weakness. enjoy my frens

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The first time Clark Kent says it out loud, it’s in a voice so careful it barely disturbs the air between you.

“I need help.”

You pretend you don’t notice the way his hands are clenched behind his back—like he’s holding himself in place by sheer will alone. You pretend you don’t notice the way he keeps his weight distributed, controlled, as if he’s afraid the wrong shift might crack the concrete under his boots. You pretend you don’t notice the faint tremor under all that restraint.

Because if you look too closely, you’ll give yourself away.

And you can’t afford that.

Not when you’re already picturing the headline in your mind like a private little prayer.

Superman learns to be gentle.And you’re the only one he trusts enough to teach him.

The offer comes to you off the books, like a confession slid across a table instead of money.

A place. An hour. A promise that no one will know your name.

And then, after a pause that tastes like shame, the real truth:

“Every time I’ve tried,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, “someone gets hurt.”

It’s not an admission that makes him smaller. It makes him terrifying in a new way—because he isn’t talking about bruises the way ordinary men do. He’s talking about physics. He’s talking about the reality that a good night can become a hospital visit if he forgets himself for half a second.

He swallows, and you watch his throat bob like he’s forcing down something sharp.

“I can’t—” He stops. Starts again. “I want to be… normal. With someone. I want to be able to let go without… without being afraid of what I’ll do.”

You nod like you’re a professional. Like your pulse isn’t kicking against your ribs.

“What exactly are you asking me to do?” you say.

He looks at you then, properly—blue eyes too honest, too bright. The kind of eyes that make people trust him with their lives.

“I want you to help me practice,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Control. Feedback. Limits.”

Practice.

Like this is a skill he can learn the way he learned flight. Like you can run drills until his body understands what his mind has been doing alone for too long.

You should say no.

You should tell him there are therapists for this, doctors, specialists who won’t get tangled up in the way your stomach drops at the idea of him losing control on top of you. You should tell him this is a terrible idea, morally and practically and in ways that will haunt him if it goes wrong.

Instead you ask, “Why me?”

His mouth opens. Closes.

Then, softly, “You didn’t flinch.”

A beat.

“You didn’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”

Another beat, the air humming with the effort it takes him to say it.

“You looked at me like I’m a person.”

You let your expression stay smooth, careful. You let him believe it.

Because the truth is uglier than that.

You didn’t flinch because you’re not afraid of him.

You’re hungry for him.

And you’ve always been the kind of person who learns best by touching the fire.

He takes you to the place he trains when he needs the world to stop looking at him.

It’s underground, somewhere beneath Metropolis, a hidden room carved out of bedrock and reinforced like a bunker. No windows. No cameras. Just fluorescent lights that cast everything in stark honesty.

There’s a heavy-duty workout bench bolted into the floor like an altar.

Steel frame. Thick padding. The kind of equipment built for gods who don’t want to accidentally kill anyone.

Clark stands in the center of the room with his hands at his sides, posture rigid, like he’s bracing for impact.

“I’ve never brought anyone here,” he says.

You circle the bench slowly, letting your fingertips ghost the worn edge of the padding. It’s been used. Punished. Tested.

“You’re trusting me with a lot,” you murmur.

He nods once, sharp. “I have to.”

There’s something about that—about his need, his honesty, his desperation to be safe—that makes you want to bite.

Not him. Not yet.

Just… the idea of it. The control. The power in being the one person he can’t do without.

You set your bag down on the floor and pull out what you brought: a small bottle of lube, a simple set of cuffs with soft lining, a piece of fabric that could be a blindfold or a gag depending on how you fold it.

His gaze flicks to each item like he’s cataloguing weapons.

“You came prepared,” he says quietly.

You shrug, like you’re casual. Like you didn’t spend last night imagining the exact shade of red his cheeks would turn when you put him on his knees.

“This is training,” you say. “Training needs structure.”

His nostrils flare. He looks away, then back, as if forcing himself to stay.

“What do you need from me?” he asks.

It’s the question that matters.

Consent isn’t just a checkbox with someone like him; it’s the only thing that makes this anything but catastrophic.

You step closer, closing the distance until you can feel the heat of him—sun-warm, steady, impossible.

“I need you to be honest,” you say. “If anything feels wrong, you tell me. Immediately.”

His jaw tightens. “I will.”

“I need you to listen,” you continue, voice even. “To my words. To my body. To what I say and what I don’t.”

His eyes track your mouth like it’s the most important thing in the room.

“And I need you to understand something,” you add, and let your gaze hold his until he can’t look away.

“This only works if you let me lead.”

His breath catches—just a little, but you see it.

“I can do that,” he says, like it’s a vow.

You smile faintly.

“Good,” you murmur. “Then we start slow.”

Slow is a lie you tell him so he’ll agree.

Slow is the way you get your hands on him.

You have him sit on the bench first, feet planted, posture too perfect. He looks like someone preparing for an interview, not someone about to be touched.

You stand between his knees and place your palms on his thighs through his sweats.

He stills like a statue.

“Breathe,” you remind him.

He inhales. Exhales.

You lean in, close enough that your voice can stay quiet and still reach him.

“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” you say.

His throat works. “Hurting you.”

“That’s the big picture,” you say gently. “I mean right now. In this moment.”

He hesitates.

Then, barely audible: “That if I start… I won’t be able to stop.”

Something inside you thrills, sharp and bright.

You tilt your head. “Is that what’s happened before?”

His eyes close for half a second, like he’s bracing against memory.

“Yes,” he admits. “Not… like this.” He gestures vaguely, to the room, to you, to the setup. “But I lose track. I forget. Everything feels too—too good and then—”

He cuts himself off, shame rolling off him in waves.

You slide your hands up his torso slowly, feeling the solid heat of muscle under fabric, the way his body reacts even when his mind is trying to be polite.

“Then we build a system,” you say. “We make it so you don’t have to rely on fear to stop you. You rely on me.”

His eyes open, blue and raw.

“You’ll tell me to stop,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And if I can’t—”

“Then we use tools.” You lift the cuffs slightly, letting them glint under the lights. “We use limits that aren’t negotiable in the moment.”

His gaze drops to them. He swallows.

“Do you want that?” you ask.

It matters that he chooses it.

He nods once.

“Yes.”

You step back, and his shoulders visibly loosen with the permission.

“Good,” you say. “Stand up.”

He does immediately.

You move behind him, fingers brushing his wrists as you guide his hands back.

He tenses for a second—instinct, not refusal—and you feel the war inside him: power vs surrender.

“Clark,” you say softly.

He stills.

“I’m going to cuff you,” you tell him. “Not because I don’t trust you. Because you don’t trust yourself.”

His breath shudders.

“Okay,” he whispers.

You loop the cuffs around his wrists and secure them to the bench’s anchor points. He tests them automatically—gentle pressure. The bench doesn’t budge.

His eyes flick to you, uncertain.

“You’re stuck,” you say, voice calm. “And that’s the point.”

Something like relief crosses his face, quickly buried.

You step around him to face him again.

“Say your safe word,” you instruct.

He frowns. “We need one?”

“Yes,” you say, and don’t let him argue. “Pick something you won’t say by accident.”

His lips part. He thinks.

“Starling,” he says finally.

A strange choice. A soft one.

You nod. “Starling means everything stops immediately. No questions.”

He nods too, solemn.

Then you touch him.

Just a fingertip along his jaw, the edge of his mouth, the curve of his throat.

He inhales like he’s been starving.

“Tell me where you hold the most tension,” you murmur.

“My shoulders,” he says, voice strained.

You slide your hands up, kneading the thick muscle there, feeling how hard he is even while he tries to relax.

“Good,” you say. “We start by making you feel good without making you lose control.”

He lets out a shaky laugh.

“That seems… unlikely,” he admits.

You smile, slow.

“That’s why you hired me.”

You take your time undressing him, not because you’re kind, but because every second he has to wait is a lesson.

Patience. Control. Listening.

His shirt comes off first, folded neatly like he still thinks he’s in danger of wrinkling it. His skin is warm, gold under the lights, covered in faint marks that look like they came from things trying and failing to hurt him.

You trail your fingers along one of them, and his chest rises sharply.

“Sensitive?” you ask.

“Everywhere,” he admits. “I… I feel things strongly.”

You hum, pleased.

His pants come next. His boxer briefs after that.

When he’s bare, he looks almost embarrassed by how perfect he is—like it’s an accident he keeps apologizing for.

His cock is already hard, thick and heavy against his abdomen, and the sight of it makes your mouth go dry.

You don’t touch it yet.

Instead you undress yourself slowly, letting him watch. Letting his eyes take you in like he’s afraid if he blinks, you’ll vanish.

You climb onto the bench carefully, straddling his lap. The cuffs pull his arms back just enough to keep him open, vulnerable.

His breath catches when your bare skin meets his.

“Okay,” you say softly, hands on his shoulders. “Rule one: you don’t move unless I tell you.”

His eyes widen. “I—”

“Do you understand?” you press.

He swallows hard. “Yes.”

“Good,” you whisper, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He trembles.

You reach down, wrap your hand around him once, just enough to make him jerk.

He sucks in air like he’s drowning.

“Still,” you remind.

He goes rigid, fighting himself.

You slick him with your palm and then lift slightly, guiding him to your entrance.

He looks at you like you’re about to save him.

“Tell me if you’re okay,” you say.

“I’m okay,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Are you?”

You smile.

“I’m better than okay.”

And then you sink down onto him.

He makes a sound that doesn’t belong to someone who is also supposed to be Superman.

It’s too broken, too needy—like something inside him finally snapped in the right direction.

You set your hands on his chest, feel the thunder of his heart under your palms, and move slowly.

For a few minutes, it almost feels gentle.

Almost.

His restraint is visible, the way he holds himself back like he’s gripping a wild animal by the throat. He stays still when you tell him. He bites down on every instinct to thrust up into you.

You roll your hips, take him deeper, and he shudders so hard the bench creaks.

“Good,” you murmur. “That’s good control.”

His laugh is breathless. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” you say, and lean down to drag your mouth along his throat.

He goes taut.

Your teeth graze his skin—just a hint—and he gasps, eyes squeezing shut.

“Still,” you warn.

He obeys.

You should be proud.

Instead you feel the ache of temptation, the way you want to push—just to see what happens when he breaks.

You pull back, meet his gaze.

“Tell me what you want,” you say.

His eyes are bright, desperate. “You.”

“That’s not specific enough,” you tease.

He swallows.

“I want to move,” he admits. “I want to—fuck, I want to take control.”

You tilt your head. “And what happens when you do?”

His jaw clenches, shame flashing. “I don’t know.”

“That’s why we’re here,” you say softly, and then, like kindness, “We’ll do it in steps.”

But the truth is you’ve already decided.

You don’t want to fix him.

You want to be the line he crosses and can’t uncross.

You shift your hips faster, riding him with more intent, your breath starting to hitch. His eyes track your movement like he’s trying to memorize it—like he’s afraid he’ll never get this again.

“Clark,” you breathe, and his focus snaps to you instantly.

“Yes?”

“You’re doing so well,” you praise, and feel his whole body tense at the words. Praise hits him like a drug.

You smile at that. File it away.

Then you press a hand to his jaw, force him to look at you.

“I’m going to let you move,” you say. “But you have to listen. If I say stop, you stop.”

His breath is ragged. “I will.”

“If I say slow down, you slow down.”

“Yes.”

“If I say ‘Starling,’ everything ends.”

He nods hard.

You hold his gaze another beat, as if you’re making sure he means it.

Then you shift your weight forward, bracing your hands on the bench near his shoulders, and whisper:

“Okay.”

“Move.”

The change is instant.

Clark’s hips drive up like he’s been shot out of a cannon—and then he catches himself, stops mid-thrust with a strangled sound. His muscles are shaking with effort, his face tight with restraint.

He looks at you like he’s waiting for punishment.

You moan instead.

“Good,” you gasp. “Yes—like that, but slower.”

He forces himself down to something controlled, something almost human.

Almost.

The bench groans again under the new rhythm, the metal complaining in stressed little screams.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, taking him deeper, and his breath breaks.

“You feel—” he chokes, eyes wild. “You feel so good.”

“I know,” you pant. “Stay with me.”

He nods, jaw clenched, and keeps moving.

It’s still controlled, still careful—until you tilt your hips just right and a sound tears out of him, raw and helpless.

His thrust stutters.

You feel the edge of him slipping.

And you—god help you—you lean into it.

“Clark,” you moan, and his eyes snap to yours.

“Don’t hold back from me,” you say, soft as a sin. “I can take it.”

He freezes.

“That’s—” he starts, panic flickering. “That’s not—”

“You hired me because everyone else got hurt,” you whisper, lips close to his. “Let me be different.”

It isn’t fair. You know it isn’t.

But you watch the words land like a match in dry tinder.

His control wavers.

He swallows hard. “Are you sure?”

You nod, slow. “Yes.”

You are sure of one thing only:

You want him ruined.

You want him addicted.

You want him looking at you like the only safe place he’s ever had.

You shift again, and he groans like he’s in pain.

His thrusts speed up, heavier now, the force behind them increasing. The bench starts to shudder under you, bolts vibrating.

“Slower,” you tell him, testing.

He slows—barely.

“Good,” you murmur, and then you give him what he really needs: permission dressed up like trust.

“That’s it,” you whisper. “Use me.”

A sound rips out of him—too raw, too broken.

His hips drive up harder.

The bench squeals, metal legs flexing under stress that wasn’t meant to exist.

You brace yourself on his chest, fingers digging in.

He looks at you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing he can grab.

“I’m going to—” he gasps, panic rising. “I’m going to lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you breathe, and roll your hips to meet him.

He tries to stop. You feel it—the way his body fights, the way he attempts to pull back, to slow down, to do the right thing.

But you keep moving.

You keep coaxing.

You keep whispering the exact kind of praise that makes him unravel.

“Good,” you moan. “So good, Clark—God, you’re perfect—just like that—”

His restraint snaps.

Clark’s thrusts turn brutal, unstoppable. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, the bench crying out under every impact.

The reinforced steel legs buckle with a sharp, violent shriek.

The entire frame dips.

Padding tears with a ripping sound like fabric giving up.

You yelp, startled, but his hands—still cuffed, still restrained—flex helplessly as his body surges upward again, chasing you like he’s lost the ability to think.

“Clark!” you gasp, half warning, half name-saying prayer.

He looks wrecked, eyes blown wide, mouth open in a sound that’s more animal than man.

“I can’t stop,” he chokes.

You should say Starling.

You should end it.

Instead you hook your legs tighter and pull him deeper.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

The bench gives another sickening groan, steel joints cracking under pressure. One of the anchor bolts shears clean off with a metallic snap, skittering across the floor.

Clark makes a broken sound and slams up into you again, harder, the force rattling your teeth.

The pleasure is too sharp, too intense, turning your limbs weak. It feels like being claimed by something holy and catastrophic.

Your body takes it because you told him it could.

Because you wanted this.

Because you wanted to be the proof that he can lose control and still not destroy the person beneath him.

His breath is a ragged roar in your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he begs, even as he keeps moving. “Please—tell me to stop.”

You bite your lip, eyes stinging with the strange, vicious tenderness of it.

“Look at me,” you demand.

He drags his gaze to yours, frantic, guilty, desperate.

“You’re not hurting me,” you lie—because you can feel bruises blooming already, can feel the way tomorrow will ache, can feel the risk like a thrill under your skin.

“You’re making me come,” you say instead, and watch something shatter in his face.

His thrusts turn feral.

The bench finally gives up completely.

Steel legs fold inward with a violent crunch. Padding splits, foam spilling out like a wound. The entire structure collapses under you, dropping you both a few inches onto the floor with a crash that echoes through the bunker.

Clark freezes instantly—panic flashing so hard it’s almost blinding.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. “Are you—”

You grab his face with both hands.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” you snap, voice shaking.

He stills, eyes wide.

“I’m here,” he whispers, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. “I’m here.”

You’re still straddling him despite the ruined bench, still full of him, heat pooling between you. The cuffs pull at his wrists awkwardly, but he doesn’t even seem to notice them—he’s too focused on you, on the fact that you’re breathing.

“Move,” you tell him, softer now. “Finish.”

His throat works. “I—”

“Clark,” you murmur, and tilt your hips just enough to make him shudder. “You can. I’m right here.”

He exhales like surrender.

Then he starts again—slower now, careful, shaking with the aftershock of fear and need. His control returns in pieces, as if the crash sobered him.

His eyes never leave your face.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he begs.

“It hurts,” you admit, because honesty matters now, when the danger is real.

His whole body locks. “Starling?”

You swallow, pulse racing.

You could stop.

You should stop.

Instead you shake your head.

“It hurts because you’re real,” you whisper. “Because you’re—because you’re you.”

His face crumples, relief and desire twisting together.

You roll your hips, slower, meeting him halfway. You make it something you can both survive.

When you come, it’s with your forehead pressed to his, your hands cupping his jaw like you’re holding him together. Your whole body clenches, and Clark makes a sound like grief as he tries not to move too hard.

“Good,” you whisper shakily, breathless. “Good—there, just like that—”

He loses himself again, but this time it’s not violent.

It’s desperate.

He comes with a broken sob, hips jerking up, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted like he can’t believe he’s allowed to feel this.

When it’s over, he goes still—shaking, breathing hard, the cuffs still holding his wrists back like a reminder that he can’t take what he wants unless someone gives it.

You stay on him, chest rising and falling, listening to his heart slam against his ribs like it wants out.

Slowly, he opens his eyes.

They’re wet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers immediately. “The bench—I—”

You touch his cheek, thumb smearing the corner of his mouth.

“It’s just a bench,” you say.

His laugh is a broken thing. “It was reinforced.”

“And you’re Superman,” you reply softly, like it explains everything and nothing.

He looks past you at the wreckage—steel twisted, foam spilling, bolts scattered. His face tightens, shame starting to rise again.

“I shouldn’t have—”

You interrupt him by pressing your mouth to his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s a claim.

He kisses you back like he’s starving.

When you pull away, you keep your forehead against his.

“You didn’t hurt me,” you say again, firmer this time. “You scared yourself. There’s a difference.”

He swallows. “I lost control.”

“You listened when I told you to slow down,” you remind him. “You asked permission. You checked on me. You stopped when the bench broke.”

His breath shudders. “Because I thought I’d killed you.”

You smile faintly, wicked and soft all at once.

“But I’m here,” you say. “And you’re here. And you’re not alone in this.”

Something shifts in him at those words—something that looks suspiciously like hope.

And you hate how much you like being the one to put it there.

He stares at you like you’re a miracle.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You could tell him the truth right then.

That you didn’t come here to fix him.

That you came here because you wanted to be the one person he couldn’t forget. The one person his body would learn as safe, not because you’re a saint, but because you’re selfish enough to want the weight of him.

Instead you brush your thumb over his lower lip and say, “We can keep training.”

His eyes widen, earnest. “You’ll come back?”

You lean in, mouth close to his ear.

“That depends,” you murmur.

“On what?”

You pull back just enough to look at him, let him see the edge of your smile.

“On whether you can handle the fact that I’m not doing this for free,” you say.

His brow furrows. “You named a price.”

You hum. “Not that kind of payment.”

He blinks—confused, vulnerable.

You kiss him again, slower now, letting it sink in.

“When you start to trust me,” you whisper against his mouth, “you don’t get to decide you’re better off without me.”

His breath catches.

It’s an ugly thing to say. Possessive. Sharpened by intent.

He should flinch.

He doesn’t.

He looks at you like you just handed him permission to stop running.

“I don’t want to be without you,” he admits, voice shaking.

The words land in your chest like a trophy.

Good.

You ease off him carefully, body aching, and reach up to undo the cuffs. Your fingers brush his wrists, already reddening from the strain of holding him back.

His hands come free, and for a second he just stares at them like he doesn’t trust them.

Then he cups your face with both palms—so gentle it’s almost reverent.

“I thought I couldn’t have this,” he whispers. “I thought it would always be—dangerous.”

You swallow, throat tight.

“It is dangerous,” you say honestly.

His eyes flicker. “Then why—why would you—”

Because you want to be wanted by something that could destroy you.

Because you want him tethered to you by guilt and need and the memory of how good it felt to finally let go.

Because you want to be the pretty little casualty he can’t walk away from.

You don’t say any of that.

You just press your hand over his heart and feel it hammering.

“Because you’re worth the risk,” you lie, and watch his face soften like you’ve given him everything.

He kisses your knuckles, careful.

Then he looks over your shoulder at the wrecked bench again, and a hysterical little laugh escapes him.

“I’m going to have to replace that,” he says, voice hoarse.

You glance back at the twisted steel and torn padding, the foam spilling like snow.

“Consider it progress,” you say.

He shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—relief and awe mixed together.

Then his gaze returns to you, and the smile fades into something deeper.

“I can’t—” he starts, then stops, as if he’s afraid to name it.

“Can’t what?” you ask softly.

He steps closer, slow like he’s approaching a wild animal.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits. “Even before—before tonight. I—”

He laughs once, bitter at himself.

“I thought I was being selfish. Wanting someone. Wanting this.”

You tilt your head, feigning curiosity while your stomach flips with satisfaction.

“And now?” you ask.

His eyes burn into yours.

“Now I think I’ve been starving,” he says.

You let the words sit there, heavy and hot.

Then you step into him, press your body against his, feel the way he goes still like he’s afraid to break you even with a touch.

You reach up, thread your fingers through his hair, and pull his mouth down to yours.

“Then eat,” you whisper.

His hands slide to your waist, shaking.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, like it’s his religion now.

You smile.

“Yes,” you say, and mean it in the worst way.

Because he thinks this is the beginning of his control.

And maybe it is.

But it’s also the beginning of something else—something messier, darker, more tangled.

A need he’ll start to associate with your voice, your touch, your permission.

A tether that will tighten every time he comes apart in your hands and finds you still there afterward, warm and breathing and refusing to be scared.

You kiss him until his control starts to fray again, and you feel the moment it happens—the instant his body remembers what it did to that bench, the instant guilt rises like a tide.

You pull back and cup his face.

“Look at me,” you say.

He does immediately.

“You’re not a monster,” you tell him.

His eyes shimmer.

“And you’re not alone,” you add, softer. “Not anymore.”

He exhales like a man being forgiven.

Then he pulls you into his arms, careful as a prayer, and holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.

You close your eyes against his shoulder, smiling to yourself.

Because this is the part he doesn’t understand yet:

You’re not here to save him from himself.

You’re here to make sure he never finds his way back out of you.

[tw1sters]

cant believe this event is what devirginized you from clark. im so excited. thank you for gracing us with your wonderful fic <33 i love seeing my big boy get so soft

“I want you to help me practice,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Control. Feedback. Limits.”

my tongue is out btw

“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” you say. His throat works. “Hurting you.”

pls he's so sweet

Then, barely audible: “That if I start… I won’t be able to stop.”

i didnt ask you to???

When he’s bare, he looks almost embarrassed by how perfect he is—like it’s an accident he keeps apologizing for. His cock is already hard, thick and heavy against his abdomen, and the sight of it makes your mouth go dry.

gonna eat him

“I want to move,” he admits. “I want to—fuck, I want to take control.”

oh she clenched

His laugh is a broken thing. “It was reinforced.” “And you’re Superman,” you reply softly, like it explains everything and nothing.

my cute bby

You’re here to make sure he never finds his way back out of you.

iktrrrrrr

oh my oh my kennedy

[tw1sters]

Taste of Heartbreak

Heartbreak isn’t loud — it’s quiet, creeping, and cruel. You thought letting Dick Grayson go would break you. You never imagined it might kill you.

▸ PAIRING: Dick Grayson x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: so many reader insecurities (it's that kind of angst), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, probably non-canon compliant things bc im new to this world, reader gets extremely hurt, hospital scenes ▸ WORD COUNT: 7.2K ▸ A/N: this is actually the first dick fic i ever wrote but didn't post until now! i seem to have a thing for exploring insecurities in relationships when im writing a new character (see clark and bucky). i love him so much, he is sooo loverboy. tom taylor's is also such fine shit jfc. i hope you enjoy <3 if you do, all likes/comments/reblogs are appreciated :)

The movies always describe heartbreak as devastation. A tragedy. A travesty. They talk about the feeling of their hearts being ripped out of their chest, beating bloody until they cease completely. They speak of the way their hearts stop suddenly, abruptly; a flare of panic only momentary before everything stills. 

What they don’t tell you is that that’s not at all how heartbreak works. Heartbreak is oftentimes dramatized for the sake of entertainment. An exaggeration of the moment a heart splinters into a million pieces, parts that are impossible to glue back together into a whole.

Real heartbreak occurs quietly. It chips at you slowly; small cracks at first until you can no longer ignore the gaping wound in your chest. The missing center behind your ribcage. By the time you realize what has happened, the hole is too big to fill. The chasm impossible to bridge. They don’t tell you that it sneaks up on you, the curl of a cold-blooded snake around your neck that restricts your ability to breathe, to function. It hisses in your ear, a gentle whisper that only gets louder when the puncture isn’t tended to. 

Before you know it, the serpent has bared its teeth and sunk its poison into you. 

You didn’t think you would experience heartbreak with Dick Grayson. The man is loyal, loving. He anticipates your needs before you can even determine what’s missing. Raised to be observant and thoughtful, Dick is a fierce protector of those he cares about. You happen to be lucky enough to be one of them. 

You’ve seen how he is with his family, his friends, the people that he chooses to protect with his body, mind, and soul. There is not a thing he wouldn’t do to keep those he cherishes safe, even if it means sacrificing himself. 

Because of all this, Dick has to juggle one too many priorities. Not only are they things he already planned on doing, but he also has to account for the emergencies that crop up from time to time. Given that this is Blüdhaven, time to time means all the time. 

You’re used to it. Coming in second, that is. 

Your relationship with Dick is relatively new. Your dates aren’t life or death. So when he has to up and leave in the middle of dinner, it’s something you’ve grown accustomed to. The moment his phone vibrates on the table, you set your expectations. 

The first vibration, he ignores. 

The second one, his eyes flick down to his device before he refocuses on you.

Third time’s the charm. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly after you finish recounting your day. “Let me just check and make sure it isn’t anything urgent.”

But you already know the answer to that. It’s always urgent. It’s the city. You can’t blame him for it. Corruption is the norm in Blüdhaven; it bleeds through every crack and corner. From the police commissioner to the mayor, to the elites. Dick is ambitious, he thinks he can rid the city completely of its decrepit moral compass. 

The flicker of guilt that passes through his baby blues is the first sign. Then comes the sour curl of his lips when he realizes that he can’t disregard the threat alert from Oracle. Then comes the sympathetic look when he finally turns back to you. 

It’s that look that you can’t stand. That’s the one that always gets to you. Because you don’t want him to pity you. 

So you plaster a smile onto your lips and nod. “Go. The city needs you.”

Apologies automatically fall from his lips as he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, presses his credit card into your hands, and takes off. His dinner sits cold on the pristine white tablecloth. 

And you wonder if there will ever come a time when Blüdhaven will no longer need Nightwing. Or Dick Grayson. 

Maybe then you’ll have a chance at coming first. 

In his defense — and perhaps it comes from months of making excuses first for him as a friend and then as a lover, he does try. He tries to make time for you, slipping you into the little gaps he has in between investigations, philanthropic work, and patrols. It’s how you met him in the first place. 

Your job at the community center allowed you some governmental access which you used to help him take down a few bad apples in the mayor’s office. Small-time fry. But then he started doing more work for the people, building affordable housing and programming to help the city’s children, and you started seeing more of this elusive Dick Grayson. 

At first, you had been starstruck. The man is renowned all throughout the city — a savior to the good, a menace to the bad. The more time you spend with him, the more you learn about the Dick that he doesn’t show to the outside world. 

It’s the man who is weary down to the bone, cutting off one evil head only for two more to grow. It’s the man who bears the city’s burdens on his shoulders, carrying the weight of a million expectations with the limited resources that he has. It’s the man who slinks back into your arms after a long day and curls himself around you like it’s the only place he is meant to be. 

Falling in love with Dick had been all too easy. It’s like taking a nosedive off a cliff, knowing you’ll land in a wide-open ocean with a life jacket. 

When you find out that he also spends his nights as the masked hero Nightwing, he had been wary of how you would react. It’s ridiculous to think that you would feel anything other than pride when you see him in full gear for the first time. 

For some reason, Dick feels… further once you learn this fact. He already felt unattainable before —untouchable — as this generous, intelligent billionaire, heir to the famous Wayne family. Now that you know he is also a crime-fighting superhero, you feel those buried feelings of insecurity rise to the surface. The creeping voices clawing into your skin to question how you could ever be an adequate partner for him. 

How could you — someone so normal, so average — compare to the living legend Dick Grayson?

Of course, once the Nightwing gates are open, you also see the people he surrounds himself with. Martians. Kryptonians. Shapeshifters. Trained assassins. And Barbara Gordon — how do you even begin to describe Barbara Gordon?

Between Kori and Barbara, you were convinced that Dick had a thing for redheads. Dick reassured you that he really didn’t have a particular preference. No, no preference in terms of hair, but you can clearly see the pattern — all of his exes are skillful. Powerful. Hot.  

Gorgeous in a way that takes your breath away. Not only that, they’re fierce and bold and intelligent. They are out there saving the world day in and day out, whether it’s through ultraviolet energy projections or hacking into the most secure servers on the planet. 

That monster inside of you peeks around the corner with its talons out, ready to pierce through your fragile heart once more. You hate yourself for even thinking this way. It’s part of his job, these are his friends. You should feel lucky that you were even introduced to them. 

But that feeling has taken root and consumed your heart. Insufficient. Inadequate. Incapable. Who are you compared to all this greatness? 

It’s why you keep your head down, why you keep your mouth shut even as the fissures begin to appear in your heart. You disregard them, brush them off as a temporary blip in your confidence. You tell yourself that you’re lucky Dick’s even giving you the time of day. You can’t be another burden for him to bear. You should be making his life easier. 

So when he apologizes, you wave off his concern and tell him to go out there and save the world, Boy Wonder, because that’s what he does. The world comes first. You come second. It’s how it’s always been. It’s how it should be. 

The deeper you try to bury these feelings, these insecurities, the greater the cuts you slice inside your heart. You’re carving it out slowly, an excruciating process as you try to preserve what’s left of your emotions. 

Dick makes it up to you each time with flowers, with butterfly kisses, with the gentle touch of his hand. He promises you that next time will be better. He keeps his word. A few dates over the course of a few weeks, uninterrupted time, undivided attention. You’re on cloud nine by the time he drops you off at the doorstep, lingering for a fraction longer, enough time for you to invite him in to stay. 

He does. Every time. 

There are nights he returns to your side in uniform. His suit ripped, blood coating his skin crimson. These are times you’re reminded that he’s mortal. Human. You’re reminded that you could so easily lose him in all the work that he does. 

Nothing makes you feel more powerless than knowing that all you can do is help him tend to the aftermath. Your hands shake when you dab the antiseptic, when you wipe off all the red, when you wrap up the gauze around his body. 

You’re different from Barbara who guides him, who serves as his eyes and ears, and maps him a solution and exit each time. You’re different from Kori who fights alongside him with powers that he doesn’t have. You’re different from Bruce, Jason, Tim, and Damian, who know him in such intimate ways, moving in sync as he works through the city. 

You are someone watching from the sidelines. A character that could be so easily removed from his story, and nobody would blink twice. 

The thought pains you, but you suck it up and deal with it anyway. It’s easy to let these thoughts go when Dick murmurs saccharine sweet phrases into your neck. It’s easy to forget your place when he marks constellations across your body when he feels like having your company. 

You didn’t think it could get worse. You can only help. Right?

But you’re proven wrong the one time you’re all gathered at the Wayne Mansion. It’s a family dinner. The mood is light, the drinks are flowing, the food is delicious. Laughter ripples through the table and, for once, you aren’t overthinking your place at the table. 

That is, until an alarm sounds and everyone is immediately on high alert. They all seem to know what to do, whipping into action quickly while you sit there frozen. 

Dick gears up and then stiffens when he remembers you still at the dinner table, watching them all in awe and surprise. He looks at Alfred who is also preparing to help with the potential invasion of the mansion, then looks at you. “Stay here, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You open your mouth, ready to offer your assistance, but stop when you look around the room. How can you possibly even think about helping these heroes? They are the heroes of the story. You are the damsel in distress. 

“Okay,” is all you manage to say.

True to his word, Dick returns a few hours later. You’re right where he left you. He looks relieved to see you untouched, immediately coming up to you to inspect you. “Are you okay?”

Even when the worst is happening, his concern is on you. You’re adding more weight to his already hefty load. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him. “Is everyone else okay?”

He softens and nods. “Yeah, they’re okay. Let’s get you home, yeah?” 

Dick’s kisses should’ve chased away those worries as they always have, but the feeling persists. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. An invisible scar you can’t heal. The feeling festers and grows, sprawling into this ugly hopelessness inside of you. 

It doesn’t disappear when Dick picks you up from work the next day, chattering on about the programs he is hoping to stand up with the help of the new mayor. 

It doesn’t disappear when the two of you run into Barbara outside of his apartment, telling him that there’s work to be done with Blockbuster.

It doesn’t disappear when Dick shoots you an apologetic look, asking for a rain check on your movie night — even when he’s already carrying the bags of popcorn and treats. 

The more you think about it, the more you consider where you stand with Dick. He’s already so busy with everything else. The last thing you want to be is another item on his checklist, another to-do to cross off. He already has enough on his plate, you don’t want to make it harder for him by adding another thing for him to complete. 

So you do what you thought was best. 

“I don’t think this is working out, Dick.”

Dick’s gaze falters, a shudder in his confidence. “What— why would you say that?”

“You’re very busy. You have a lot of things going on. I don’t think a relationship is a good idea right now.” Not for you, you add in your mind. This is for Dick, you remind yourself. This is to help him, the only way you know how. 

He’s quiet, lips pinched together as he frowns. The two of you were supposed to get lunch together, but you thought it best to sever it clean before the two of you sit down for what would likely be an awkward meal. So here you two are, standing in front of a restaurant. People mill about, barely paying you any mind. Some pause to look at Dick in admiration, but he is only looking at you. 

“Is this what you want?” His voice is lower when he asks this. 

No. But, of course, you don’t say that. 

“Yes. I think this is what’s best.”

A part of you wants him to resist, wants him to fight for you. That selfish part of you begs him to beg you to stay, to tell you that he wants this as much as you do. That he cares about you as much as you do him. 

But the responsible voice inside of you wants him to agree and walk away. 

Luckily – or not, he agrees with the latter. So the two of you hug and part ways. You walk away with shoulders held high and the tears streaming down your face. You don’t let him see it. You never want him to see it. 

And that’s the day you walked away from Dick Grayson.

It may be dramatic to say that there is your life before Dick and a life after him. You never thought you would ever consider romance to be the end-all-be-all of your life — and it isn’t. But Dick Grayson is something special, isn’t he? He isn’t just any romance. 

He is the romance. 

The type that sticks to you, a permanent fixture like he’s been tattooed and engraved into an everlasting mark on your skin. He clings to you like a persistent memory. No matter how many drinks you swallow, how many things you do to keep busy, you can’t seem to shake the thought of him when you’re alone.

The nights are the worst. The world inside your head is too quiet, even in a city like this one. Even when there are sirens blaring from every corner of your apartment and neon lights glare into your bedroom, you’re left to pick apart the decision you’ve made, constantly turning it over in your mind to determine whether it was the right one. 

There are nights when you find yourself reaching for your phone, your thumb hovering over his contact. It would be easy to call him, to ask for him back. You miss him, incredibly so. It would be so simple to send him a text saying as such. 

I miss you. What are you doing tonight?

Thinking of you, are you thinking of me?

I made a mistake. Will you have me again?

You try not to think about him, but the ask is akin to asking you not to breathe. Thinking about Dick comes naturally to you. It’s in the places you frequent, the ghost of him is the only constant lurking in the shadows. It’s the voice inside your head, calming you down when the city gets too much. It’s the absence that you feel the most — the sudden quiet when you don’t have him talking to you about his day, about his family, his friends, his ambition. The silence when he isn’t peppering you with follow-up questions about your week, sincerity and genuine curiosity entwined into his every syllable. 

And just as you’re swirling into this black hole, your phone lights up with an email reminder. A date the two of you were supposed to have. Movie tickets booked weeks ago because you had been so excited to see it, Dick had purchased the tickets immediately. With everything that has happened, you completely forgot to cancel it. 

However, instead of wallowing, you decide to go for it anyway. You’ve been cooped up in your home for too long, burying yourself under this mountain of self-despair. Quality time with your friends helped, but it didn’t cease the voices at night when you’re alone. 

The movie is good, it could’ve been better if you didn’t have this empty seat next to you. The theater is full and yet there is this one gap that sticks out like a sore thumb on opening night. Your mind is half on the movie and half imagining what it would be like to be here with Dick.

He would get popcorn ahead of time, with extra butter, just the way he knows you like it. He would get sweet tea, not cola, because he knows how you don’t like to pair bubbly drinks with airy snacks. He would let you hold onto the bucket and take it as an opportunity to reach closer to you whenever he grabs a handful, even sliding an arm around you to tuck you into his side. When the popcorn is gone, he would hold your hand, squeezing whenever he thinks you need the extra support. 

It’s an almost miserable experience. It’s pathetic how far gone you are for him that you can’t even enjoy time by yourself anymore.

But as they say, heartbreak is supposed to get easier with time. Eventually, you won’t remember what his touch felt like, the warmth of his body next to yours. You won’t think about him every time you pass by the basketball court he used to frequent to keep the neighborhood kids company. You won’t cry when you realize how many people you’ve gotten to know and lost in the process. You won’t think about him and you’ll remember that you can be perfectly content on your own again. 

You try not to fall under the weight of your worries as you step out of the theater. Everyone else filters out in pairs or groups, and you’re left standing there alone in the golden light that casts a glow across the rain-streaked sidewalk. You’re waiting for a cab. A cab that you will soon learn won’t find you. 

Not when you feel the breath down your neck.

“Aren’t you a pretty little bird?”

The unknown voice has you jumping, but not too far when a firm grip wraps around your bicep. Your eyes flash to betray your fear as you take in the masked assailant. He looks familiar, like a photograph hung somewhere in the back of your subconscious. Maybe one of Dick’s files that he tends to strew across your coffee table. 

“You’re Grayson’s girl. I’ve seen you around with him. Blockbuster’s going to want to see you.”

“I’m not— we’re not—” together, you want to say, but you don’t get a chance to finish your words when the man zaps you out cold. 

By the time you wake, there is a dull throbbing on your side where you’ve been electrocuted. The room smells of wastewater but looks relatively clean. You must be near the sewage plant. There is no one in the room and your eyes quickly dart around. What would Dick do in this moment? 

Your hands are tied up with a rope behind your back, feet against the legs of the chair. You systematically go through your surroundings. A shelf with all sorts of items. Books, random paraphernalia, and a glass bottle at the top. An idea pops up in your head, the films you watch finally coming in helpful; it might not be one that Dick approves, but he’s not here to scold you right now. 

Based on the distance and the weight of the chair, you scooch your way towards it. You use your shoulder to bump the shelf, rattling it with the little force you have. You can hear the bottle stumble a bit, but it’s not quite there yet.

Another hard push with your limited movement has it finally dropping on its side, rolling down the shelf until it lands, split in pieces, on the ground next to you. Now, you have to carefully drop yourself onto the floor, making sure you’re not getting the shards on your skin. There is no graceful way to do this, so you just tip yourself over. With your face pressed against the cold cement floor, your hands wriggle around behind you to grasp a piece of the glass, slicing the tip of your finger in the process, but at least you have this. 

Slowly, you use the jagged edge to cut through the rope. It’s an arduous process. The entire time, you’re praying that maybe — on the very off-chance — Dick is still keeping track of you. That he’ll notice your disappearance. Maybe he’ll come to your rescue. It’s a naive thought, but it’s the hope that you cling to.  

When your wrists are finally free, you get to work on your ankles. Another slice on your leg in your hurry to break free before your captors return. You don’t know where you are or how you plan to escape, but that tiny window looks promising. 

You’re halfway up the wall, standing on your chair, struggling to unlock the window when the front door swings open. You whip around and see the imposing figure duck into the room. Fuck. It’s Blockbuster. He is the man who’s been out for Dick’s blood for as long as you can remember. 

And now he has you, trapped in this room. His broad frame takes up nearly half the width of the space. You fiddle with the lock faster, praying for some miracle that you can escape in time. 

But the man doesn’t even give you a chance — his thick arms wrap around your torso before he lifts you up and throws you back onto the ground. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you hear bones cracking. The pain that shoots through you is fast, blistering, blinding. It’s hot-white and has your vision spotting. 

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty bird?” Blockbuster rumbles in vile amusement. “You’re not leaving this room. You’re not leaving this space until I get some answers.”

“Answers about what?” You spit out, the liquid coming out in a smattering of red on the grey floor. 

“Grayson. I want to know his weaknesses, his vulnerable points. I want to know everything there is to know about him to destroy him.”

The wide smile that stretches across his face has your stomach churning in disgust. He crouches on the floor, leans towards you, close enough that his platinum hair brushes against your face. 

“Or maybe you’re it. Maybe you’re his only weakness. Maybe I already have the pretty bird in my hands to take him down.”

“He’s not going to let you get away with this, or anything. He’s going to destroy you before you even come close to him.”

Blockbuster laughs, the sound booming. “This bird’s got claws. I can see why Grayson likes you. Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll break each one before you leave today. I’ll make sure you can’t sing for him anymore. I’ll make you squawk.” 

The threat settles in deep in your gut and your heart plummets six feet under. 

Then it begins. The beating, the brutalizing. You’re on the ground, against the wall, and flying through the air. Your face, your ribs, your hair, your legs, your arms. It goes on and on for what feels like hours. The only light you see is the one that hangs overhead, but even that begins to fade as your eyes struggle to stay open. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, strained wheezes slipping past your lips in your desperate attempt to stay alive. The glass bits you were so adamant on avoiding before are now affixed to your skin like glitter. 

Your vision goes between white and red and pitch black. When you start to lose consciousness, he jolts you awake again. The only sounds ringing in your ear are his questions, now a jumbled blur of words, and a cacophony of foul laughter. 

You’ve never been religious but in those final moments, you pray. You pray for a savior. You pray that you’ll survive this. You pray that Dick doesn’t have to see you in your final moments.

Despite all that has happened, you like to hope that Dick still cares — and when Dick cares, you know he would live with this weight for the rest of his life. The last thing you want to leave him with is another burden to carry. 

Your ears start ringing from the abuse you’ve undergone. At some point, the pain no longer flares, it ebbs and flows as your body grows numb. Not a single part of you untouched. You don’t think the man even has questions anymore; he only takes ill gratification in the fact that he has destroyed something of Dick’s. 

You swear you hear a different voice, a different sound. No longer your screams or his laughter. A curse, a thud, a yell. Your brain can’t fully comprehend it, not when your senses can no longer be trusted. Not when they barely work. In the spread of red, you see glimpses of blue and black. 

You hear your name. You hear it before you feel a gentle touch, a brush that’s barely there on your head. 

Then it all goes black. 

“We need you to let her go. Sir, we are trying to help.”

“You don’t know what she’s gone through—”

“We will work to diagnose all her injuries. For now, we need you to let us do our jobs.”

“I’m surprised she’s still breathing. The damage she’s taken…”

“Let’s just get through this and let the family know.”

“Sir, this is family only—”

“I am her family,” Dick’s voice snaps back. You’ve never heard him raise his voice like that before. 

Then you hear someone else, more stern, still warm. Bruce. “If you’ll allow my son to stay with her, she doesn’t have family in the area. I’ll handle the paperwork, if you’ll lead me.”

“Sweet girl, I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m not leaving.”

“Dick, you need to eat at least. You can’t help her like this.”

“I’m the reason she’s here to begin with. I’m not leaving her.”

“How’s she doing?” The deep baritone, you think it’s Bruce. 

Dick’s voice frays at the edges, like he’s barely keeping it together as he inhales. You can feel his eyes on you. “Better. Doctors think she’ll be fine but she doesn’t have the energy yet to be fully conscious.”

“She’s a strong one. She’ll be fine, Dick.”

A pause. You wonder how Dick looks, if he’s been eating— “I don’t think I can ever forgive myself if she isn’t.”

“I should’ve been there with her, you know. We bought those tickets weeks ago. I thought she refunded them when she broke up with me. Didn’t think she’d go alone to such a late showing.” 

A sigh. More high-pitched. Maybe Barbara. She’s been worried sick about him based on how many times she has come to visit. Her voice is more familiar than others. “You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known that would happen.”

“It’s Blüdhaven, of course, something like this would happen. I should’ve expected this, that’s my entire job.” 

“Babs sent me here to deliver this. Can you please just eat first? Everyone’s worried about you.”

There’s the rustling of a plastic bag. You hope that Tim picked up Dick’s favorite Thai spot downtown, the one with the pad see ew he likes. Hopefully, that’ll cheer him up. “Thanks, but I’m good for now.”

“Dick, you’re not doing anyone any favors by punishing yourself. What would she say if she saw you like this, huh?”

“Well, she can’t really say anything now, can she? Because of me.”

“Stop blaming yourself. It’s Blockbuster’s fault. She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Should’ve been me in this bed.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. God, I’ll do anything — I’ll give up anything. Just please wake up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t do this without you. I need you to wake up, pretty girl. Need to see those eyes again. Need you looking at me again.”

“I swear I’ll do better. I’ll work harder. Please. Don’t take her away from me.”

When your eyes finally flutter open, you feel as if it’s been years since you’ve seen the light. The bright fluorescent lamps above blind you as you groan and turn away. Crust nearly keeps your eyes shut but you reach up to brush them away, only to wince at the searing pain by your side.

“Hey, pretty girl, easy. Don’t move too fast. You’re hurt.” 

Dick. You slowly turn to the side to find him there. Then you briefly analyze your surroundings. 

White. All white. Hospital. The only splashes of color are in the flower arrangements sitting at the end of your bed. Large and wild. Alive. 

You’re alive. 

Christ, you’re alive. 

But Dick — he looks disheveled, the most you’ve ever seen him at least. There’s certainly more than a day’s worth of stubble peppering his jaw, his blue eyes shadowed by the circles surrounding them. His hair is a mussed-up mess, like he’s been running his hand through it nonstop for days. 

He’s fast to approach, gentle to touch. You swear you see the slight tremble in his fingertips as he brushes your hair away from your face. His eyes search yours, drinking you in like he is memorizing every inch of you. Old habits die hard, you suppose. He’s probably cataloging your injuries as if the doctor hasn’t done that already. 

“Hey, Dick,” you smile weakly, the stretch painful. Your throat feels dry, your voice comes out grainy. There’s a stiffness around your neck, which you soon realize is a brace. It hurts to breathe, let alone speak. “What day is it?”

Dick scrambles to grab the glass of water at your bedside table. He eases the rim between your lips, letting the cool liquid slowly pour between your chapped lips. “Easy, not too much. Not too fast,” he whispers, then adds, “Been four days.”

“Hmm, that’s a while, huh? Hope my boss doesn’t fire me for missing work that long. God knows we’re understaffed.”

Your attempt to laugh falls short when you feel the piercing twinge in your stomach, and it comes out as a raspy cough instead. 

Dick’s eyes widen and you shake your head to reassure him. You don’t like the way his forehead creases in concern, how dim his usually bright eyes are. Dick forces a smile at your poor endeavor at humor. “No, I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetheart. Called in for you.”

“Good. What a waste of PTO though.”

“Sweet girl,” Dick breathes out, closer this time as he leans forward and presses his lips against your temple. You barely feel it, still slightly numb under the bandage wrapped around your head. His breath is shaky when he exhales. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been there.”

You roll your eyes, but it only makes your head ache. “Don’t be silly. Why would you have been there? It wasn’t as if we had plans.”

“We were supposed to go together. We—” Dick chokes on his words as he sits on the chair next to your bed, bringing your hand up to his face and flattens the back of it against his cheek. “I’m sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that I wasn’t there.”

“You were, Dick. You came for me. I knew you would.”

“I wasn’t fast enough.”

“You were as fast as you could be.”

“I didn’t get him. I wanted to, but you were there and you were hurt and I needed to get you to the hospital first. He escaped and—”

“You’ll get him next time.”

“I let you get hurt.”

“You didn’t do anything except save me.”

Dick’s lips quiver as he inhales again, as he looks at you. 

“I love you.”

Then you hear another sharp gasp. Yours. 

“I love you. I should’ve told you that a long time ago, pretty girl. I love you so much. I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I should’ve fought harder for you. I just— I thought you deserved better than me. Someone who could treasure you properly. Hopefully, someone who loves you as much as I do, even if I don’t think it’s possible.”

Your throat is tight. Whether it’s the tears or from the injuries you’ve sustained, you’re not entirely sure. Your question is only answered when you taste the saltiness on your tongue, your fingers reaching up to touch the wet mess rolling down your face. 

“But I can’t let you go. People think I’m selfless, but god — I’m so fucking selfish when it comes to you. Never want you to leave my side again. I want you close so I can protect you, keep you safe, love you proper. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I want to remind you of it every day. I took it for granted before, but never again. I love you. I’ll do it right this time, if you’ll let me. If you’ll still have me.”

“Dick…”

“God, look at me babbling away when you should be resting,” Dick huffs, disgruntled with himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the doctor. I should’ve done that first.”

“Stay.”

“I have to—”

You reach for his fingers again, intertwining them. It’s been a while since you’ve had his big hands up close. These hands always remind you that you’re safe, that you’re his. Gentle, a contradiction against the harsh touch of Blüdhaven. “Just for a little while.”

Dick glances between the door and your joint hands in conflict. He caves in to you, because — of course, he does. He’s never been one to deny you when you want to touch him. It’s his weakness. If Clark had his Kryptonite, he had you. 

“For a little bit,” he murmurs reluctantly, “but I want them to check on you right after this, okay? I have to make sure you’re good.” 

For a while, the two of you let the silence seep in. It wraps around you like a blanket, warm and steady. The worries of the past few days — even the past few weeks — seem to melt away as you let your eyes slide close once more, your head pressing back into the pillow. Dick’s fingers twitch in your hand and you give him a squeeze to assure him you’re okay. 

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. You can’t meet his eyes. Not for this. “I wasn’t scared of Blockbuster. I was scared of what would happen if you found me a minute too late. If I didn’t make it.”

“Wh— why would you be scared of that?”

“Because I know you’d blame yourself. You already have, even though you saved me. I didn’t want to be another weight to carry. Another burden on your shoulders.”

There is a fracture in Dick’s voice when he says your name. Like a prayer. Like a desperate plea. “You could never be a burden. I— I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t make it in time. I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Might make things easier for you,” you try to tease, but the joke lands bitter on your tongue. “One less thing to worry about. I guess I already was when I ended things.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, you can’t even hear him breathe. So you turn to look at him again, curious eyes finding his slumped shoulders. “Don’t even joke about that. That’s not something I’m entertaining. I’m never not worrying about you,” he mutters, “kept tabs on you even after you broke up with me. I wanted to make sure you always had someone looking out for you, even if it’s someone you didn’t care about anymore.”

You frown then. “Why would you think I don’t care about you?”

His head tilts in question then, brows furrowing. “Isn’t— I mean, isn’t that why you ended things? Because you weren’t interested in me anymore. I wasn’t a great boyfriend, I know that. I should’ve done more. That’s on me. I just thought, you… didn’t care about me anymore. Maybe you found someone else.”

“Dick, oh my— no, not at all. I just—” your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the truth hanging on the tip of your tongue but you refuse to let it slip. 

He looks at you with such earnest eyes, ones that urge you to continue. 

How can you say no to him? How could you think for one second you could let him go?

“I thought it would be easier for you, if we broke up,” you admit quietly and are immediately answered by the deepening of his frown, “you have so much going on. Between Nightwing, Blüdhaven and Gotham, and all the community outreach you were doing, it just didn’t seem like you had time for a relationship. It’s not as if I was helping you in any way, I can’t really do that. Not like the others. So I did what I thought was best.”

The look on Dick’s face now, you don’t think you ever want to see again. He looks absolutely crestfallen. His lips slightly parted, eyes carrying the sort of melancholy that comes after a loss. “You— fuck, you thought that breaking up would be easier for me? How can you— what would even make you think that? I know I’ve been busy and I haven’t been the best boyfriend, but god, you— you never made things harder. Ever. If anything, I feel so much lighter with you around. I feel as if I could breathe again. When this city chokes out the last of me, I know I’ll at least have you. And god, I wasn’t perfect, I was a terrible boyfriend, but you put up with me. I don’t know why you did for as long as you did, but— I didn’t know that’s how you felt with me. I wish you’d told me.”

A laugh of disbelief escapes him, rising from his chest with acid on his tongue. 

“You were always so patient. I thought— I thought that’s all you wanted from me. A few dates here and there. I didn’t want to ask more of you, didn’t want to scare you off. I can be intense, overwhelming. I know I can certainly be, and I didn’t want you to think I was being too demanding.” 

“Dick, you’re… unbelievable. Do you know how much I admire you? Everything that you do? Sometimes, I don’t know what you see in me. When you have all these incredible people around you, when you’re doing all these incredible things. I didn’t think I’d be… enough.”

Dick stands then, cupping your face in his hands. His eyes are wild, alive now. It’s as if he’s been electrified in the last few moments of your conversation. “You are more than enough. You’re everything. Every day I see how hard you work, how much of your heart you put into this city and its people, and it reminds me of why I want to protect this city. It’s because of you. I want you safe, I want you happy here — with me. God, I fucking love you, you know that. I’m going to remind you of it every day. If you’ll let me have you again, I promise you — you’ll never have a doubt in your mind ever again when it comes to where you stand with me. You’ll see what I see in you.”

You crack another small smile, cheeks aching. You’re probably ripping open a couple of stitches, but it’s worth it when Dick breathes a sigh of relief. “Love you too, Dick.”

The smile he offers you is magnificent. The kind that you memorize, print, and tuck away for safekeeping on a rainy day. He presses another kiss to your forehead, then your hand. Firm this time. More confident. He hesitates before he leans to brush his lips against yours. 

And it feels like homecoming. 

“I’m going to put a tracker on you from now on. I’ll drop you off at work and pick you up. I’ll install new security measures in your office and our apartment—”

“Our?”

He freezes then flushes, pink tinging his neck. “If you want. I mean, I think you’ll be safer there. I know we haven’t been together long but I’ll feel better if you’re with me. We can spend more time together, I don’t have to let you go at the end of the day. If you’re not comfortable, I’ll set up a separate room for you first — not to say I won’t be crashing in there every night, but—”

“Dick,” you reprimand teasingly. “I’ll think about it. That’s a big move.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. You don’t have to. I’ll implement new security cameras and sensors at your place. I’ll booby trap some of the windows so no one can break in. We’ll upgrade your—”

“Dick,” you say again, softer this time. “Your offer isn’t a bad thing. I just… I have to think about it. I love you, I do. It’s just been a lot.”

He nods solemnly and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Always working. Always looking for a solution. 

“It’s not a no, baby.”

The pet name has him perking up, his eyes illuminating for the first time in a while since you’ve seen him. Crystal blue staring right back at you. 

“And Dick—”

“Yeah?”

“Probably time to get the doctor. I might’ve split open a few stitches.”

“Oh, shit yeah.” He jumps to his feet, ready to run out when you call for him again. He pops his head back in, gaze curious, happy, concerned. 

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, pretty girl.”

dick is flying to (taglist): @catclaw1 @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @alli0-0 @avgdestitute @parker-barnes-af @onecojg @lynnidc @winnichu173 @c3liaaaaa @my-drvidess @fruitypebsworld @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @take-it-on-the-run @a-very-fictional-girl @eiaf4uwn @vivianna2392 @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @its-pomegranite @athenxt

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[finco99]

The kinda angst/hurt+comfort that soothes my soul 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Exploring this theme of angst with Dick Grayson ALWAYS has me hook, line and sinker, cuz the work ethic this man is idealized for always comes with a high cost.

It's just so juicy with potential to think about what the other side of the coin to his efficiency looks like. For all the ways this man goes above and beyond to stretch himself thin for love and responsibilities, what do the marks and cracks look like?

So, SO good 💙🌺✨️

[tw1sters]

aaaah this is so kind of you to say!!!! this is exactly what i was thinking of when i was reading his comics, esp if he ever ended up dating a 'civilian'. thank you so much for reading, i'm so glad you enjoyed it!!!

@lnikkido CRYING, i threw it with sm love i promise

[tw1sters]

stories shared in may !

if you're curious what you missed this month...

ꕥ Spilled Milk ; Clark Kent Public PWP in a custom counter shop | 4K ⤷ part of the KENT furniture-breaking collab !

ꕥ Million Miler ; Scott Miller Headcanons of first class flyer!Scott with flight attendant!reader ⤷ a fun little collaboration with @/maiamore !

ꕥ Leave You to Love Me ; Scott Miller You can't watch Scott fall in love with someone else | 2.6K

ꕥ Taste of Heartbreak ; Dick Grayson Breaking up with Dick may break you | 7.2K

it's a very david corenswet month! the KENT collab is also almost complete so please show all the fics lots of love <3 check out all my monthly round-ups and masterlist !

[tw1sters]

SAMMM i've barely been on tumblr but OH MY GOD YOUR ORANGE THEME IS SO JUICY??? LIKE I CANT EXPLAIN IT. seeing ur theme makes me want to munch on an orange with you,,,

love u

FELLIIIIIII WELCOME BACK BABYYYY i hope you're working hard and resting hard for your exams <3 you're gonna kill em <333

and omg thank you, we shall munch on oranges together when death szn is over!!! HOT GIRL SUMMER SOON

[tw1sters]

I don’t want this to come off as rude, that is not my intention!! but will you still be writing about Bucky? Not saying I don’t love your recent works, I do tremendously! I’m just curious

omg no, don't worry!!! bucky unfortunately has not been sparking joy for me recently (aka nothing big is inspiring me to write for him) and i've just been hyperfixated on other characters. that said, i do have a small bucky fic queued up for june and then another longer one i'm planning for july!

tldr; fret not, i will eventually find my way back to him but do expect some variety in characters in the near future as i work through my cooking tw1sters event requests and my other obsessions heheh <3

[tw1sters]

how i see myself !

tagged by the bootiful @blowingbarnes, @superbassbuck, and @pinksplace <3 full-pressure tagging lovelies @unificsation @stanmarvelous @theworstwolvie @maiamore @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @thceseus

bonus under the cut

my life these days feeling like this but i didnt wanna taint my entire personality with it. but also i haven't really been writing so if i'm a little absent forgive me.

[tw1sters]

okay I just wanted to say because I’ve been reading your works on ao3 for a bit, and I was looking thru the dick grayson x reader tag and clicked the post abt insecure reader & breakup without looking at the author, and obvi i love my angst + comfort so I ATE THAT UPP, then my gaze shifted to the top of the screen and i realized it was YOU!!! so i just wanted to let you know how much i appreciate your writing and they are my fav bedtime stories LOL

fuckkkk you got me crying fr. my writing is all over the place in terms of fandoms and i havent posted dick in a while (only one in december rip) so the fact that you've read my ao3 and then somehow found your way to this new fic makes me weep.

thank you so much for taking the time to read my silly stories and to even send me this message. i'm glad i can keep you company at night <33 hope you have the most wonderful weekend!!!

[tw1sters]

i was randomly thinking about this scene in my head, like from a movie, and i was vaguely remembering what it was— just the lines and stuff, i couldn’t remember the name of the movie— when i remembered i was actually remembering how i visualised a scene from “right to love” & i feel like that’s just a testament to how good your writing is <3

i hope you don't mind but i kept this message in my inbox for a little longer because this found me at a very emotionally vulnerable time in my life and it had me in tears. this is such a huge compliment and i cannot thank you enough for sharing this with me!!! i'm so happy that you enjoyed that story and pictured it as a movie??? hello!!

[tw1sters]

Taste of Heartbreak

Heartbreak isn’t loud — it’s quiet, creeping, and cruel. You thought letting Dick Grayson go would break you. You never imagined it might kill you.

▸ PAIRING: Dick Grayson x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: so many reader insecurities (it's that kind of angst), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, probably non-canon compliant things bc im new to this world, reader gets extremely hurt, hospital scenes ▸ WORD COUNT: 7.2K ▸ A/N: this is actually the first dick fic i ever wrote but didn't post until now! i seem to have a thing for exploring insecurities in relationships when im writing a new character (see clark and bucky). i love him so much, he is sooo loverboy. tom taylor's is also such fine shit jfc. i hope you enjoy <3 if you do, all likes/comments/reblogs are appreciated :)

The movies always describe heartbreak as devastation. A tragedy. A travesty. They talk about the feeling of their hearts being ripped out of their chest, beating bloody until they cease completely. They speak of the way their hearts stop suddenly, abruptly; a flare of panic only momentary before everything stills. 

What they don’t tell you is that that’s not at all how heartbreak works. Heartbreak is oftentimes dramatized for the sake of entertainment. An exaggeration of the moment a heart splinters into a million pieces, parts that are impossible to glue back together into a whole.

Real heartbreak occurs quietly. It chips at you slowly; small cracks at first until you can no longer ignore the gaping wound in your chest. The missing center behind your ribcage. By the time you realize what has happened, the hole is too big to fill. The chasm impossible to bridge. They don’t tell you that it sneaks up on you, the curl of a cold-blooded snake around your neck that restricts your ability to breathe, to function. It hisses in your ear, a gentle whisper that only gets louder when the puncture isn’t tended to. 

Before you know it, the serpent has bared its teeth and sunk its poison into you. 

You didn’t think you would experience heartbreak with Dick Grayson. The man is loyal, loving. He anticipates your needs before you can even determine what’s missing. Raised to be observant and thoughtful, Dick is a fierce protector of those he cares about. You happen to be lucky enough to be one of them. 

You’ve seen how he is with his family, his friends, the people that he chooses to protect with his body, mind, and soul. There is not a thing he wouldn’t do to keep those he cherishes safe, even if it means sacrificing himself. 

Because of all this, Dick has to juggle one too many priorities. Not only are they things he already planned on doing, but he also has to account for the emergencies that crop up from time to time. Given that this is Blüdhaven, time to time means all the time. 

You’re used to it. Coming in second, that is. 

Your relationship with Dick is relatively new. Your dates aren’t life or death. So when he has to up and leave in the middle of dinner, it’s something you’ve grown accustomed to. The moment his phone vibrates on the table, you set your expectations. 

The first vibration, he ignores. 

The second one, his eyes flick down to his device before he refocuses on you.

Third time’s the charm. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly after you finish recounting your day. “Let me just check and make sure it isn’t anything urgent.”

But you already know the answer to that. It’s always urgent. It’s the city. You can’t blame him for it. Corruption is the norm in Blüdhaven; it bleeds through every crack and corner. From the police commissioner to the mayor, to the elites. Dick is ambitious, he thinks he can rid the city completely of its decrepit moral compass. 

The flicker of guilt that passes through his baby blues is the first sign. Then comes the sour curl of his lips when he realizes that he can’t disregard the threat alert from Oracle. Then comes the sympathetic look when he finally turns back to you. 

It’s that look that you can’t stand. That’s the one that always gets to you. Because you don’t want him to pity you. 

So you plaster a smile onto your lips and nod. “Go. The city needs you.”

Apologies automatically fall from his lips as he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, presses his credit card into your hands, and takes off. His dinner sits cold on the pristine white tablecloth. 

And you wonder if there will ever come a time when Blüdhaven will no longer need Nightwing. Or Dick Grayson. 

Maybe then you’ll have a chance at coming first. 

In his defense — and perhaps it comes from months of making excuses first for him as a friend and then as a lover, he does try. He tries to make time for you, slipping you into the little gaps he has in between investigations, philanthropic work, and patrols. It’s how you met him in the first place. 

Your job at the community center allowed you some governmental access which you used to help him take down a few bad apples in the mayor’s office. Small-time fry. But then he started doing more work for the people, building affordable housing and programming to help the city’s children, and you started seeing more of this elusive Dick Grayson. 

At first, you had been starstruck. The man is renowned all throughout the city — a savior to the good, a menace to the bad. The more time you spend with him, the more you learn about the Dick that he doesn’t show to the outside world. 

It’s the man who is weary down to the bone, cutting off one evil head only for two more to grow. It’s the man who bears the city’s burdens on his shoulders, carrying the weight of a million expectations with the limited resources that he has. It’s the man who slinks back into your arms after a long day and curls himself around you like it’s the only place he is meant to be. 

Falling in love with Dick had been all too easy. It’s like taking a nosedive off a cliff, knowing you’ll land in a wide-open ocean with a life jacket. 

When you find out that he also spends his nights as the masked hero Nightwing, he had been wary of how you would react. It’s ridiculous to think that you would feel anything other than pride when you see him in full gear for the first time. 

For some reason, Dick feels… further once you learn this fact. He already felt unattainable before —untouchable — as this generous, intelligent billionaire, heir to the famous Wayne family. Now that you know he is also a crime-fighting superhero, you feel those buried feelings of insecurity rise to the surface. The creeping voices clawing into your skin to question how you could ever be an adequate partner for him. 

How could you — someone so normal, so average — compare to the living legend Dick Grayson?

Of course, once the Nightwing gates are open, you also see the people he surrounds himself with. Martians. Kryptonians. Shapeshifters. Trained assassins. And Barbara Gordon — how do you even begin to describe Barbara Gordon?

Between Kori and Barbara, you were convinced that Dick had a thing for redheads. Dick reassured you that he really didn’t have a particular preference. No, no preference in terms of hair, but you can clearly see the pattern — all of his exes are skillful. Powerful. Hot.  

Gorgeous in a way that takes your breath away. Not only that, they’re fierce and bold and intelligent. They are out there saving the world day in and day out, whether it’s through ultraviolet energy projections or hacking into the most secure servers on the planet. 

That monster inside of you peeks around the corner with its talons out, ready to pierce through your fragile heart once more. You hate yourself for even thinking this way. It’s part of his job, these are his friends. You should feel lucky that you were even introduced to them. 

But that feeling has taken root and consumed your heart. Insufficient. Inadequate. Incapable. Who are you compared to all this greatness? 

It’s why you keep your head down, why you keep your mouth shut even as the fissures begin to appear in your heart. You disregard them, brush them off as a temporary blip in your confidence. You tell yourself that you’re lucky Dick’s even giving you the time of day. You can’t be another burden for him to bear. You should be making his life easier. 

So when he apologizes, you wave off his concern and tell him to go out there and save the world, Boy Wonder, because that’s what he does. The world comes first. You come second. It’s how it’s always been. It’s how it should be. 

The deeper you try to bury these feelings, these insecurities, the greater the cuts you slice inside your heart. You’re carving it out slowly, an excruciating process as you try to preserve what’s left of your emotions. 

Dick makes it up to you each time with flowers, with butterfly kisses, with the gentle touch of his hand. He promises you that next time will be better. He keeps his word. A few dates over the course of a few weeks, uninterrupted time, undivided attention. You’re on cloud nine by the time he drops you off at the doorstep, lingering for a fraction longer, enough time for you to invite him in to stay. 

He does. Every time. 

There are nights he returns to your side in uniform. His suit ripped, blood coating his skin crimson. These are times you’re reminded that he’s mortal. Human. You’re reminded that you could so easily lose him in all the work that he does. 

Nothing makes you feel more powerless than knowing that all you can do is help him tend to the aftermath. Your hands shake when you dab the antiseptic, when you wipe off all the red, when you wrap up the gauze around his body. 

You’re different from Barbara who guides him, who serves as his eyes and ears, and maps him a solution and exit each time. You’re different from Kori who fights alongside him with powers that he doesn’t have. You’re different from Bruce, Jason, Tim, and Damian, who know him in such intimate ways, moving in sync as he works through the city. 

You are someone watching from the sidelines. A character that could be so easily removed from his story, and nobody would blink twice. 

The thought pains you, but you suck it up and deal with it anyway. It’s easy to let these thoughts go when Dick murmurs saccharine sweet phrases into your neck. It’s easy to forget your place when he marks constellations across your body when he feels like having your company. 

You didn’t think it could get worse. You can only help. Right?

But you’re proven wrong the one time you’re all gathered at the Wayne Mansion. It’s a family dinner. The mood is light, the drinks are flowing, the food is delicious. Laughter ripples through the table and, for once, you aren’t overthinking your place at the table. 

That is, until an alarm sounds and everyone is immediately on high alert. They all seem to know what to do, whipping into action quickly while you sit there frozen. 

Dick gears up and then stiffens when he remembers you still at the dinner table, watching them all in awe and surprise. He looks at Alfred who is also preparing to help with the potential invasion of the mansion, then looks at you. “Stay here, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You open your mouth, ready to offer your assistance, but stop when you look around the room. How can you possibly even think about helping these heroes? They are the heroes of the story. You are the damsel in distress. 

“Okay,” is all you manage to say.

True to his word, Dick returns a few hours later. You’re right where he left you. He looks relieved to see you untouched, immediately coming up to you to inspect you. “Are you okay?”

Even when the worst is happening, his concern is on you. You’re adding more weight to his already hefty load. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him. “Is everyone else okay?”

He softens and nods. “Yeah, they’re okay. Let’s get you home, yeah?” 

Dick’s kisses should’ve chased away those worries as they always have, but the feeling persists. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. An invisible scar you can’t heal. The feeling festers and grows, sprawling into this ugly hopelessness inside of you. 

It doesn’t disappear when Dick picks you up from work the next day, chattering on about the programs he is hoping to stand up with the help of the new mayor. 

It doesn’t disappear when the two of you run into Barbara outside of his apartment, telling him that there’s work to be done with Blockbuster.

It doesn’t disappear when Dick shoots you an apologetic look, asking for a rain check on your movie night — even when he’s already carrying the bags of popcorn and treats. 

The more you think about it, the more you consider where you stand with Dick. He’s already so busy with everything else. The last thing you want to be is another item on his checklist, another to-do to cross off. He already has enough on his plate, you don’t want to make it harder for him by adding another thing for him to complete. 

So you do what you thought was best. 

“I don’t think this is working out, Dick.”

Dick’s gaze falters, a shudder in his confidence. “What— why would you say that?”

“You’re very busy. You have a lot of things going on. I don’t think a relationship is a good idea right now.” Not for you, you add in your mind. This is for Dick, you remind yourself. This is to help him, the only way you know how. 

He’s quiet, lips pinched together as he frowns. The two of you were supposed to get lunch together, but you thought it best to sever it clean before the two of you sit down for what would likely be an awkward meal. So here you two are, standing in front of a restaurant. People mill about, barely paying you any mind. Some pause to look at Dick in admiration, but he is only looking at you. 

“Is this what you want?” His voice is lower when he asks this. 

No. But, of course, you don’t say that. 

“Yes. I think this is what’s best.”

A part of you wants him to resist, wants him to fight for you. That selfish part of you begs him to beg you to stay, to tell you that he wants this as much as you do. That he cares about you as much as you do him. 

But the responsible voice inside of you wants him to agree and walk away. 

Luckily – or not, he agrees with the latter. So the two of you hug and part ways. You walk away with shoulders held high and the tears streaming down your face. You don’t let him see it. You never want him to see it. 

And that’s the day you walked away from Dick Grayson.

It may be dramatic to say that there is your life before Dick and a life after him. You never thought you would ever consider romance to be the end-all-be-all of your life — and it isn’t. But Dick Grayson is something special, isn’t he? He isn’t just any romance. 

He is the romance. 

The type that sticks to you, a permanent fixture like he’s been tattooed and engraved into an everlasting mark on your skin. He clings to you like a persistent memory. No matter how many drinks you swallow, how many things you do to keep busy, you can’t seem to shake the thought of him when you’re alone.

The nights are the worst. The world inside your head is too quiet, even in a city like this one. Even when there are sirens blaring from every corner of your apartment and neon lights glare into your bedroom, you’re left to pick apart the decision you’ve made, constantly turning it over in your mind to determine whether it was the right one. 

There are nights when you find yourself reaching for your phone, your thumb hovering over his contact. It would be easy to call him, to ask for him back. You miss him, incredibly so. It would be so simple to send him a text saying as such. 

I miss you. What are you doing tonight?

Thinking of you, are you thinking of me?

I made a mistake. Will you have me again?

You try not to think about him, but the ask is akin to asking you not to breathe. Thinking about Dick comes naturally to you. It’s in the places you frequent, the ghost of him is the only constant lurking in the shadows. It’s the voice inside your head, calming you down when the city gets too much. It’s the absence that you feel the most — the sudden quiet when you don’t have him talking to you about his day, about his family, his friends, his ambition. The silence when he isn’t peppering you with follow-up questions about your week, sincerity and genuine curiosity entwined into his every syllable. 

And just as you’re swirling into this black hole, your phone lights up with an email reminder. A date the two of you were supposed to have. Movie tickets booked weeks ago because you had been so excited to see it, Dick had purchased the tickets immediately. With everything that has happened, you completely forgot to cancel it. 

However, instead of wallowing, you decide to go for it anyway. You’ve been cooped up in your home for too long, burying yourself under this mountain of self-despair. Quality time with your friends helped, but it didn’t cease the voices at night when you’re alone. 

The movie is good, it could’ve been better if you didn’t have this empty seat next to you. The theater is full and yet there is this one gap that sticks out like a sore thumb on opening night. Your mind is half on the movie and half imagining what it would be like to be here with Dick.

He would get popcorn ahead of time, with extra butter, just the way he knows you like it. He would get sweet tea, not cola, because he knows how you don’t like to pair bubbly drinks with airy snacks. He would let you hold onto the bucket and take it as an opportunity to reach closer to you whenever he grabs a handful, even sliding an arm around you to tuck you into his side. When the popcorn is gone, he would hold your hand, squeezing whenever he thinks you need the extra support. 

It’s an almost miserable experience. It’s pathetic how far gone you are for him that you can’t even enjoy time by yourself anymore.

But as they say, heartbreak is supposed to get easier with time. Eventually, you won’t remember what his touch felt like, the warmth of his body next to yours. You won’t think about him every time you pass by the basketball court he used to frequent to keep the neighborhood kids company. You won’t cry when you realize how many people you’ve gotten to know and lost in the process. You won’t think about him and you’ll remember that you can be perfectly content on your own again. 

You try not to fall under the weight of your worries as you step out of the theater. Everyone else filters out in pairs or groups, and you’re left standing there alone in the golden light that casts a glow across the rain-streaked sidewalk. You’re waiting for a cab. A cab that you will soon learn won’t find you. 

Not when you feel the breath down your neck.

“Aren’t you a pretty little bird?”

The unknown voice has you jumping, but not too far when a firm grip wraps around your bicep. Your eyes flash to betray your fear as you take in the masked assailant. He looks familiar, like a photograph hung somewhere in the back of your subconscious. Maybe one of Dick’s files that he tends to strew across your coffee table. 

“You’re Grayson’s girl. I’ve seen you around with him. Blockbuster’s going to want to see you.”

“I’m not— we’re not—” together, you want to say, but you don’t get a chance to finish your words when the man zaps you out cold. 

By the time you wake, there is a dull throbbing on your side where you’ve been electrocuted. The room smells of wastewater but looks relatively clean. You must be near the sewage plant. There is no one in the room and your eyes quickly dart around. What would Dick do in this moment? 

Your hands are tied up with a rope behind your back, feet against the legs of the chair. You systematically go through your surroundings. A shelf with all sorts of items. Books, random paraphernalia, and a glass bottle at the top. An idea pops up in your head, the films you watch finally coming in helpful; it might not be one that Dick approves, but he’s not here to scold you right now. 

Based on the distance and the weight of the chair, you scooch your way towards it. You use your shoulder to bump the shelf, rattling it with the little force you have. You can hear the bottle stumble a bit, but it’s not quite there yet.

Another hard push with your limited movement has it finally dropping on its side, rolling down the shelf until it lands, split in pieces, on the ground next to you. Now, you have to carefully drop yourself onto the floor, making sure you’re not getting the shards on your skin. There is no graceful way to do this, so you just tip yourself over. With your face pressed against the cold cement floor, your hands wriggle around behind you to grasp a piece of the glass, slicing the tip of your finger in the process, but at least you have this. 

Slowly, you use the jagged edge to cut through the rope. It’s an arduous process. The entire time, you’re praying that maybe — on the very off-chance — Dick is still keeping track of you. That he’ll notice your disappearance. Maybe he’ll come to your rescue. It’s a naive thought, but it’s the hope that you cling to.  

When your wrists are finally free, you get to work on your ankles. Another slice on your leg in your hurry to break free before your captors return. You don’t know where you are or how you plan to escape, but that tiny window looks promising. 

You’re halfway up the wall, standing on your chair, struggling to unlock the window when the front door swings open. You whip around and see the imposing figure duck into the room. Fuck. It’s Blockbuster. He is the man who’s been out for Dick’s blood for as long as you can remember. 

And now he has you, trapped in this room. His broad frame takes up nearly half the width of the space. You fiddle with the lock faster, praying for some miracle that you can escape in time. 

But the man doesn’t even give you a chance — his thick arms wrap around your torso before he lifts you up and throws you back onto the ground. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you hear bones cracking. The pain that shoots through you is fast, blistering, blinding. It’s hot-white and has your vision spotting. 

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty bird?” Blockbuster rumbles in vile amusement. “You’re not leaving this room. You’re not leaving this space until I get some answers.”

“Answers about what?” You spit out, the liquid coming out in a smattering of red on the grey floor. 

“Grayson. I want to know his weaknesses, his vulnerable points. I want to know everything there is to know about him to destroy him.”

The wide smile that stretches across his face has your stomach churning in disgust. He crouches on the floor, leans towards you, close enough that his platinum hair brushes against your face. 

“Or maybe you’re it. Maybe you’re his only weakness. Maybe I already have the pretty bird in my hands to take him down.”

“He’s not going to let you get away with this, or anything. He’s going to destroy you before you even come close to him.”

Blockbuster laughs, the sound booming. “This bird’s got claws. I can see why Grayson likes you. Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll break each one before you leave today. I’ll make sure you can’t sing for him anymore. I’ll make you squawk.” 

The threat settles in deep in your gut and your heart plummets six feet under. 

Then it begins. The beating, the brutalizing. You’re on the ground, against the wall, and flying through the air. Your face, your ribs, your hair, your legs, your arms. It goes on and on for what feels like hours. The only light you see is the one that hangs overhead, but even that begins to fade as your eyes struggle to stay open. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, strained wheezes slipping past your lips in your desperate attempt to stay alive. The glass bits you were so adamant on avoiding before are now affixed to your skin like glitter. 

Your vision goes between white and red and pitch black. When you start to lose consciousness, he jolts you awake again. The only sounds ringing in your ear are his questions, now a jumbled blur of words, and a cacophony of foul laughter. 

You’ve never been religious but in those final moments, you pray. You pray for a savior. You pray that you’ll survive this. You pray that Dick doesn’t have to see you in your final moments.

Despite all that has happened, you like to hope that Dick still cares — and when Dick cares, you know he would live with this weight for the rest of his life. The last thing you want to leave him with is another burden to carry. 

Your ears start ringing from the abuse you’ve undergone. At some point, the pain no longer flares, it ebbs and flows as your body grows numb. Not a single part of you untouched. You don’t think the man even has questions anymore; he only takes ill gratification in the fact that he has destroyed something of Dick’s. 

You swear you hear a different voice, a different sound. No longer your screams or his laughter. A curse, a thud, a yell. Your brain can’t fully comprehend it, not when your senses can no longer be trusted. Not when they barely work. In the spread of red, you see glimpses of blue and black. 

You hear your name. You hear it before you feel a gentle touch, a brush that’s barely there on your head. 

Then it all goes black. 

“We need you to let her go. Sir, we are trying to help.”

“You don’t know what she’s gone through—”

“We will work to diagnose all her injuries. For now, we need you to let us do our jobs.”

“I’m surprised she’s still breathing. The damage she’s taken…”

“Let’s just get through this and let the family know.”

“Sir, this is family only—”

“I am her family,” Dick’s voice snaps back. You’ve never heard him raise his voice like that before. 

Then you hear someone else, more stern, still warm. Bruce. “If you’ll allow my son to stay with her, she doesn’t have family in the area. I’ll handle the paperwork, if you’ll lead me.”

“Sweet girl, I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m not leaving.”

“Dick, you need to eat at least. You can’t help her like this.”

“I’m the reason she’s here to begin with. I’m not leaving her.”

“How’s she doing?” The deep baritone, you think it’s Bruce. 

Dick’s voice frays at the edges, like he’s barely keeping it together as he inhales. You can feel his eyes on you. “Better. Doctors think she’ll be fine but she doesn’t have the energy yet to be fully conscious.”

“She’s a strong one. She’ll be fine, Dick.”

A pause. You wonder how Dick looks, if he’s been eating— “I don’t think I can ever forgive myself if she isn’t.”

“I should’ve been there with her, you know. We bought those tickets weeks ago. I thought she refunded them when she broke up with me. Didn’t think she’d go alone to such a late showing.” 

A sigh. More high-pitched. Maybe Barbara. She’s been worried sick about him based on how many times she has come to visit. Her voice is more familiar than others. “You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known that would happen.”

“It’s Blüdhaven, of course, something like this would happen. I should’ve expected this, that’s my entire job.” 

“Babs sent me here to deliver this. Can you please just eat first? Everyone’s worried about you.”

There’s the rustling of a plastic bag. You hope that Tim picked up Dick’s favorite Thai spot downtown, the one with the pad see ew he likes. Hopefully, that’ll cheer him up. “Thanks, but I’m good for now.”

“Dick, you’re not doing anyone any favors by punishing yourself. What would she say if she saw you like this, huh?”

“Well, she can’t really say anything now, can she? Because of me.”

“Stop blaming yourself. It’s Blockbuster’s fault. She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Should’ve been me in this bed.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. God, I’ll do anything — I’ll give up anything. Just please wake up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t do this without you. I need you to wake up, pretty girl. Need to see those eyes again. Need you looking at me again.”

“I swear I’ll do better. I’ll work harder. Please. Don’t take her away from me.”

When your eyes finally flutter open, you feel as if it’s been years since you’ve seen the light. The bright fluorescent lamps above blind you as you groan and turn away. Crust nearly keeps your eyes shut but you reach up to brush them away, only to wince at the searing pain by your side.

“Hey, pretty girl, easy. Don’t move too fast. You’re hurt.” 

Dick. You slowly turn to the side to find him there. Then you briefly analyze your surroundings. 

White. All white. Hospital. The only splashes of color are in the flower arrangements sitting at the end of your bed. Large and wild. Alive. 

You’re alive. 

Christ, you’re alive. 

But Dick — he looks disheveled, the most you’ve ever seen him at least. There’s certainly more than a day’s worth of stubble peppering his jaw, his blue eyes shadowed by the circles surrounding them. His hair is a mussed-up mess, like he’s been running his hand through it nonstop for days. 

He’s fast to approach, gentle to touch. You swear you see the slight tremble in his fingertips as he brushes your hair away from your face. His eyes search yours, drinking you in like he is memorizing every inch of you. Old habits die hard, you suppose. He’s probably cataloging your injuries as if the doctor hasn’t done that already. 

“Hey, Dick,” you smile weakly, the stretch painful. Your throat feels dry, your voice comes out grainy. There’s a stiffness around your neck, which you soon realize is a brace. It hurts to breathe, let alone speak. “What day is it?”

Dick scrambles to grab the glass of water at your bedside table. He eases the rim between your lips, letting the cool liquid slowly pour between your chapped lips. “Easy, not too much. Not too fast,” he whispers, then adds, “Been four days.”

“Hmm, that’s a while, huh? Hope my boss doesn’t fire me for missing work that long. God knows we’re understaffed.”

Your attempt to laugh falls short when you feel the piercing twinge in your stomach, and it comes out as a raspy cough instead. 

Dick’s eyes widen and you shake your head to reassure him. You don’t like the way his forehead creases in concern, how dim his usually bright eyes are. Dick forces a smile at your poor endeavor at humor. “No, I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetheart. Called in for you.”

“Good. What a waste of PTO though.”

“Sweet girl,” Dick breathes out, closer this time as he leans forward and presses his lips against your temple. You barely feel it, still slightly numb under the bandage wrapped around your head. His breath is shaky when he exhales. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been there.”

You roll your eyes, but it only makes your head ache. “Don’t be silly. Why would you have been there? It wasn’t as if we had plans.”

“We were supposed to go together. We—” Dick chokes on his words as he sits on the chair next to your bed, bringing your hand up to his face and flattens the back of it against his cheek. “I’m sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that I wasn’t there.”

“You were, Dick. You came for me. I knew you would.”

“I wasn’t fast enough.”

“You were as fast as you could be.”

“I didn’t get him. I wanted to, but you were there and you were hurt and I needed to get you to the hospital first. He escaped and—”

“You’ll get him next time.”

“I let you get hurt.”

“You didn’t do anything except save me.”

Dick’s lips quiver as he inhales again, as he looks at you. 

“I love you.”

Then you hear another sharp gasp. Yours. 

“I love you. I should’ve told you that a long time ago, pretty girl. I love you so much. I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I should’ve fought harder for you. I just— I thought you deserved better than me. Someone who could treasure you properly. Hopefully, someone who loves you as much as I do, even if I don’t think it’s possible.”

Your throat is tight. Whether it’s the tears or from the injuries you’ve sustained, you’re not entirely sure. Your question is only answered when you taste the saltiness on your tongue, your fingers reaching up to touch the wet mess rolling down your face. 

“But I can’t let you go. People think I’m selfless, but god — I’m so fucking selfish when it comes to you. Never want you to leave my side again. I want you close so I can protect you, keep you safe, love you proper. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I want to remind you of it every day. I took it for granted before, but never again. I love you. I’ll do it right this time, if you’ll let me. If you’ll still have me.”

“Dick…”

“God, look at me babbling away when you should be resting,” Dick huffs, disgruntled with himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the doctor. I should’ve done that first.”

“Stay.”

“I have to—”

You reach for his fingers again, intertwining them. It’s been a while since you’ve had his big hands up close. These hands always remind you that you’re safe, that you’re his. Gentle, a contradiction against the harsh touch of Blüdhaven. “Just for a little while.”

Dick glances between the door and your joint hands in conflict. He caves in to you, because — of course, he does. He’s never been one to deny you when you want to touch him. It’s his weakness. If Clark had his Kryptonite, he had you. 

“For a little bit,” he murmurs reluctantly, “but I want them to check on you right after this, okay? I have to make sure you’re good.” 

For a while, the two of you let the silence seep in. It wraps around you like a blanket, warm and steady. The worries of the past few days — even the past few weeks — seem to melt away as you let your eyes slide close once more, your head pressing back into the pillow. Dick’s fingers twitch in your hand and you give him a squeeze to assure him you’re okay. 

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. You can’t meet his eyes. Not for this. “I wasn’t scared of Blockbuster. I was scared of what would happen if you found me a minute too late. If I didn’t make it.”

“Wh— why would you be scared of that?”

“Because I know you’d blame yourself. You already have, even though you saved me. I didn’t want to be another weight to carry. Another burden on your shoulders.”

There is a fracture in Dick’s voice when he says your name. Like a prayer. Like a desperate plea. “You could never be a burden. I— I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t make it in time. I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Might make things easier for you,” you try to tease, but the joke lands bitter on your tongue. “One less thing to worry about. I guess I already was when I ended things.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, you can’t even hear him breathe. So you turn to look at him again, curious eyes finding his slumped shoulders. “Don’t even joke about that. That’s not something I’m entertaining. I’m never not worrying about you,” he mutters, “kept tabs on you even after you broke up with me. I wanted to make sure you always had someone looking out for you, even if it’s someone you didn’t care about anymore.”

You frown then. “Why would you think I don’t care about you?”

His head tilts in question then, brows furrowing. “Isn’t— I mean, isn’t that why you ended things? Because you weren’t interested in me anymore. I wasn’t a great boyfriend, I know that. I should’ve done more. That’s on me. I just thought, you… didn’t care about me anymore. Maybe you found someone else.”

“Dick, oh my— no, not at all. I just—” your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the truth hanging on the tip of your tongue but you refuse to let it slip. 

He looks at you with such earnest eyes, ones that urge you to continue. 

How can you say no to him? How could you think for one second you could let him go?

“I thought it would be easier for you, if we broke up,” you admit quietly and are immediately answered by the deepening of his frown, “you have so much going on. Between Nightwing, Blüdhaven and Gotham, and all the community outreach you were doing, it just didn’t seem like you had time for a relationship. It’s not as if I was helping you in any way, I can’t really do that. Not like the others. So I did what I thought was best.”

The look on Dick’s face now, you don’t think you ever want to see again. He looks absolutely crestfallen. His lips slightly parted, eyes carrying the sort of melancholy that comes after a loss. “You— fuck, you thought that breaking up would be easier for me? How can you— what would even make you think that? I know I’ve been busy and I haven’t been the best boyfriend, but god, you— you never made things harder. Ever. If anything, I feel so much lighter with you around. I feel as if I could breathe again. When this city chokes out the last of me, I know I’ll at least have you. And god, I wasn’t perfect, I was a terrible boyfriend, but you put up with me. I don’t know why you did for as long as you did, but— I didn’t know that’s how you felt with me. I wish you’d told me.”

A laugh of disbelief escapes him, rising from his chest with acid on his tongue. 

“You were always so patient. I thought— I thought that’s all you wanted from me. A few dates here and there. I didn’t want to ask more of you, didn’t want to scare you off. I can be intense, overwhelming. I know I can certainly be, and I didn’t want you to think I was being too demanding.” 

“Dick, you’re… unbelievable. Do you know how much I admire you? Everything that you do? Sometimes, I don’t know what you see in me. When you have all these incredible people around you, when you’re doing all these incredible things. I didn’t think I’d be… enough.”

Dick stands then, cupping your face in his hands. His eyes are wild, alive now. It’s as if he’s been electrified in the last few moments of your conversation. “You are more than enough. You’re everything. Every day I see how hard you work, how much of your heart you put into this city and its people, and it reminds me of why I want to protect this city. It’s because of you. I want you safe, I want you happy here — with me. God, I fucking love you, you know that. I’m going to remind you of it every day. If you’ll let me have you again, I promise you — you’ll never have a doubt in your mind ever again when it comes to where you stand with me. You’ll see what I see in you.”

You crack another small smile, cheeks aching. You’re probably ripping open a couple of stitches, but it’s worth it when Dick breathes a sigh of relief. “Love you too, Dick.”

The smile he offers you is magnificent. The kind that you memorize, print, and tuck away for safekeeping on a rainy day. He presses another kiss to your forehead, then your hand. Firm this time. More confident. He hesitates before he leans to brush his lips against yours. 

And it feels like homecoming. 

“I’m going to put a tracker on you from now on. I’ll drop you off at work and pick you up. I’ll install new security measures in your office and our apartment—”

“Our?”

He freezes then flushes, pink tinging his neck. “If you want. I mean, I think you’ll be safer there. I know we haven’t been together long but I’ll feel better if you’re with me. We can spend more time together, I don’t have to let you go at the end of the day. If you’re not comfortable, I’ll set up a separate room for you first — not to say I won’t be crashing in there every night, but—”

“Dick,” you reprimand teasingly. “I’ll think about it. That’s a big move.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. You don’t have to. I’ll implement new security cameras and sensors at your place. I’ll booby trap some of the windows so no one can break in. We’ll upgrade your—”

“Dick,” you say again, softer this time. “Your offer isn’t a bad thing. I just… I have to think about it. I love you, I do. It’s just been a lot.”

He nods solemnly and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Always working. Always looking for a solution. 

“It’s not a no, baby.”

The pet name has him perking up, his eyes illuminating for the first time in a while since you’ve seen him. Crystal blue staring right back at you. 

“And Dick—”

“Yeah?”

“Probably time to get the doctor. I might’ve split open a few stitches.”

“Oh, shit yeah.” He jumps to his feet, ready to run out when you call for him again. He pops his head back in, gaze curious, happy, concerned. 

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, pretty girl.”

dick is flying to (taglist): @catclaw1 @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @alli0-0 @avgdestitute @parker-barnes-af @onecojg @lynnidc @winnichu173 @c3liaaaaa @my-drvidess @fruitypebsworld @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @take-it-on-the-run @a-very-fictional-girl @eiaf4uwn @vivianna2392 @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @its-pomegranite @athenxt

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[thceseus]

neighborly favors. ⨾ Clark Kent ¹⁸⁺

pairing: Clark Kent x reader

summary: Clark Kent is the perfect neighbor and the ultimate gentleman. Baking cookies, fixing stuff around your apartment, always there with his reliable smile. So who's he to say no when you ask him to help build your new couch and… break it???

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, neighbors to friends to lovers, whipped clark kent, he is a gentleman, clark and reader are horny for each other, oral (f receiving). clark has a BIG DICK, unprotected p in v sex, creampie.

wc: 3.4k words.

a/n: first of all... thank you so much to @tw1sters for managing and giving me the chance to take part in this SEXY event! i had so much fine writing it ahhh. second, hugeeeee thanks to @theworstwolvie and @clarknsun for being the first one to read and comment on this one, i am truly grateful. third, @sparklingsin!!!!!!!!! YOU AND YOUR TALENT HELLO i love the header sooo much thank you for making time to make it for me. i love all of you (and you readers too) very dearly <3

KENT masterlist | masterlist

You live in a humble apartment located in the heart of Metropolis. With a good amount of room for one person, every night, the sound of the traffic around you would hum like white noise, the high floor-to-ceiling window showing you the perfect view of the city’s nightlife—you mostly never closed the curtains in your living room—hell, you could even view Superman fighting one of his weekly villain fights through it.

Yet the thing that made you love it even more—to the point where you would rather be inside all day than go out with your friends, declining their offers—was not those.

It was your perfect neighbor: Clark Kent.

You pegged him as the ultimate neighbor since the first day you moved in. As the moment he saw you struggling with your boxes of too much stuff, he immediately offered to help.

Lifting up three heavy objects that were filled with your heavy kitchen appliances and bathroom necessities too easily, you can’t help but stare at those bulging biceps as he moved around. Quickly looking away every time you feel like he’d almost catch you.

And let’s just say your moving-in process was finished in just an hour, rather than the whole afternoon, with his help.

“I’m Clark, by the way,” mentioned the broad and tall man as he brushed his palm against his jeans, with his thick rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and his deep dimples and boyish smile that you were sure would make you do a double take if you saw him on the streets.

“I live next door,” he pointed to the unit next to you.

So– you have a good view of the city AND a hot neighbor too? You really felt like you hit the jackpot with this one.

You smiled and offered him your name. “Nice to meet you, neighbor. I hope we could be good friends then.”

He nodded, lips curling up even more. “Just knock if you need anything. I’ll leave you to it?”

Humming, you then lead him out of your boxes-filled apartment, thanking him one last time.

You thought it would stop with him acting like a decent person—just helping a girl out with her things, but it didn’t. Later that night, you heard a knock on the door.

Looking up from your kitchen floor, you fixed up your shirt before padding down the hall. Checking the peephole to see the same new neighbor—Clark—carrying a plate filled with what you presume were freshly baked cookies.

Your eyes widened as you opened the door and saw exactly that. His soft smile, the scent of sweetness and the warmth emanating from the cookies almost made your heartbeat quicken.

“Sorry to bother you,” he fixes up his glasses with his free hand, then offers the plate out.

“Housewarming gift. Freshly made– though please do not mind if it’s not that good.”

You looked down at the plate, taking it, then up at him again. “Clark– wow, you didn’t have to…”

His smile softened immediately. “I wanted to. Hope you enjoy it.”

You breathed out a small thanks before he left you to continue your organizing.

The next day, you knocked on his door. His once-filled plate with cookies was now replaced with chocolate muffins you made all morning.

His surprise was evident, soft red hues creeping up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I didn’t make those cookies just so you could bake me something as well,” his brows knitted.

“Well, consider it as a thank you for helping me out yesterday.”

He sighed softly. “Thank you,” with his classic, shy smile.

Then it continued. Always using the “I cooked too much” as a reason.

You’d give him your signature pasta recipe, and he’d return it the next day with a pan of freshly baked pie. He’d give you some homemade chicken dish he told you he learned to make from his Ma, you’d return it with a pint full of ice cream you made (just for him).

Though it went on and didn’t stop with the both of you casually exchanging meals.

Your kitchen pipes weren’t working? He’d be there in seconds with a wrench in his hand after you asked for help. Your eyes zeroed the moment his shirt went damp, making it practically transparent. You gulped as you stared at how his back muscles shifted with every move.

You didn’t know he could hear the way your breath hitched, though. His own body reacting the same as he could feel that you were also being affected by the closeness of the moment.

“Just need it to be tightened up,” he hummed, looking up at you from his knees just before the under-sink cabinet.

“Oh–” you straightened up, his voice breaking the trance you were in. “All fixed then?”

“Yeah…” he murmured as he stood up, his tall figure towering over you.

You felt your neck straining. “Thank you, Clark.”

“No worries. I’m open to help you with whatever, okay?”

Whatever, huh?

You almost choked at your own spit with the thought of him helping you with whatever. Immediately pushing those… thoughts down.

“Okay,” you managed to rasp out.

He smiled again before he continued with his day.

“Fuck…” you muttered to yourself the moment you closed your door, your forehead thudded against the wood.

More happened.

You were cooking, realized you were out of some ingredients, and went to him.

“Hey, sorry to bother you… but I’m cooking something, and I just realized that I’m out of onions. Do you potentially have any spare ones?” you asked him sheepishly.

Clark cursed to himself because he didn’t have any. He wanted to keep being the one you go to with every struggle you have; he wanted to keep being your lifeline and salvation, so what did he do?

“I’m sorry I don’t… though I’m gonna go out,” a lie. “Soap’s running short,” another lie. Clark literally just bought a full bottle yesterday.

“Really? Would you help me get some onions then?” your eyes gleaming with anticipation, but not wanting to burden him.

“Of course,” he smiled. “I’ll go get some for you.”

He returned less than 30 minutes later with a bag of onions and some snacks you mentioned you liked weeks ago.

You flushed, thanked him, and he nodded before leaving.

Week after week, it kept happening. It was like the both of you were trying to make excuses to see each other even more.

Purposefully switching up your mails with each other. When he saw your balcony railing wobbled just below an inch, he’d offer to fix it immediately. He heard you struggling with your shopping bags after a day out? He would take it from your hands, letting you carry nothing in your hands.

The both of you started to get closer. Unprompted movie nights in his unit, baking and cooking together, even doing nothing but enjoying a warm cup of tea as you both sit on the lounge chairs on your balcony, sharing childhood stories and laughing together.

Oh, both of you were falling deep.

The gaze held longer, smile now softer—deeper in a way—nothing like you ever shared with other people. You told him about your day, your stressful work, your family—and he told you about his life.

It was sweet, really. Clark Kent was sweet.

At this point, he knew everything about you. How you take your coffee, how your nose scrunched before you let out his favorite free laugh every time he made one of his stupid jokes, how sweet you smell whenever his touch lingered just on your thighs whenever you whispered a secret to him, how your pulse thrummed so evidently the moment he tucked a stray hair behind your ear.

And you knew everything about him as well. How his eyes would crinkle with amusement when you rolled your eyes and acted all annoyed, how his hand would linger around you as you both worked around the kitchen, how his body would tense, how his breath would hitch every time you told him something about yourself. Every time you draped yourself on his lap while watching one of the romcoms you forced him to see.

You felt it. The palpable tension, so thick you could cut it with a dull knife, through the not-so-innocent touches, the whispered words—He felt it too. The problem was, Clark Kent is too much of a gentleman to break those boundaries first, and there’s no way you’re the one who’d tear the bandaid off.

So the both of you didn’t advance into anything more than his arm around your shoulder as you both relaxed, or your arms around him as you let out your stress through the feeling of his warmth and scent wrapped around you.

Until one day.

You told him you were buying a couch, and even made him help you pick the color and measure your space. So the moment it arrived, he was at his feet instantly. Going down to carry the box filled with the parts.

It should be normal now; he’s helping you make furniture and fixing around your place, though he usually didn’t use this thin, figure-hugging compression shirt that made all of his muscles look swollen.

He made you stay out of it completely, just like always, not wanting you to do the work at all—yet you can’t help but linger.

You can’t help but ogle him—practically sexualizing him inside of your head.

The way his bicep would flex with every twist of the screwdriver, his veins popping under his sleeves through his forearm, making you wonder if those blood vessels would also look this enticing around his cock.

Your thighs clench the moment he lay under the couch as he tightened the bolts there. His shirt was riding up to reveal a patch of his skin, covered with soft hairs leading down to his crotch.

And he knew. He could practically smell the heavy, sweet smell of your arousal. He could hear the soft breaths you didn’t even know you let out every time he shifted, and his shirt went up even more.

His own body starts to heat up, flushing even though all of his blood was going south. He was thankful that he opted to wear his baggy sweats rather than his tight jeans.

Nevertheless, you saw his bulge start to thicken under the grey fabric. Eyes widening, you immediately looked away.

Clearing your throat. “Do you want some water?”

He looked up, noting the way that you were more fidgety than usual. “Yeah. Sure, thanks.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile before walking through the kitchen.

Clark couldn’t help but fixate his eyes on your form. Your soft curves swaying with every step, ass peeking out of those short shorts that—the fact that it was always shorter than the last made it obvious that you want him to see. But he can’t. He can’t lose his control–

Gods, you were bending over the freezer now.

He shut his eyes, sucking a deep breath and letting it out shakily. He felt it wavering—his self-control thinning with every quiet hum you let out of your lips.

His fingers tightened around the whatever tool he was holding instantly. His cock throbbing inside his boxers, wanting—needing to be freed from the confinement and the pressure.

You knelt beside him, handing him the cold water. “All good?”

He cleared his throat, hand brushing over the couch’s fresh cushion to distract himself. “All good.”

You then helped him, fingers brushing his palm, lingering on his forearms whenever he asked you for a tool, and you’d give it. You also made it more obvious now that you saw him get hard.

You would blatantly eye him up and down, bare thighs brushing against his hands– you were horny.

Clark Kent made you horny, and he was the only one who could fix it.

His fingers would tighten around the wooden foot, and you imagined it was you instead. He’d let out grunts, and you imagined that it was you pulling it out of him, how he would probably praise you instead of dirty talking just because he was so respectful—too respectful.

He gulped as he watched how your breath starts to quicken, mirroring it unconsciously.

Then– Click.

The last bolt—the last piece of the couch was put in place. Dragging you back into reality.

“You’re done?” you asked.

He nodded, and you immediately sank down onto the new couch. Shifting around to feel the soft padding underneath you.

He joins, and your thighs grazed immediately, making you almost jolt—the neediness heightening back up inside you.

“It feels solid…” he murmured.

You finally glance at him, eyes low and half-lidded with lust. “Wanna test it?”

He eyed you, the way your chest heaved, pupils blown out before rushing forward and kissing the life out of you.

You stumbled with your lips, before wrapping your arms around him and pulling him flush on top of you as you sank against the armrest. Lips parting, swiping your tongue along his lower lip before nipping it, making him groan out your name.

His fingers brushed along the hem of your shirt, lips separating from yours so he could kiss down your jaw and neck.

“Ask me to stop and I will, sweetheart,” he whispered against your skin.

You shook your head profusely.

“I need words…” as he pulled away to study your face, the way your eyes glossed with want.

“Please– I need you, Clark, please…” You whined.

“Of course,” giving a soft kiss on your cheek. “Anything for you, sweet girl,” another on your lips. The nicknames and his gentleness burned you inside out, making you fall deeply towards him more and more.

He finally lifted your shirt off gently, kissing every inch of your skin revealed. Unclasping your bra, groaning at the sight of your breasts bare before him.

You squirmed underneath him the moment he wrapped his soft pink lips around your hardened nipple. Back arching as your hands found his shoulder and squeezed it.

“You’re so beautiful…” he murmured, kissing further down till his lips made contact with the waistband of your shorts. “Can I?”

“Yes– Clark, yes…” his hips lifting instantly as he hooked his fingers around it, pulling it and your panties with such softness and gentleness that no other man could give other than him.

He let out a shuddered breath as he spread your thighs open. The delicious scent of you hits all of his senses immediately.

He hummed as he saw how your folds glistened—borderline dripping. “Don’t wanna make a mess on the new couch, don’t we, sweetheart?” he whispered, before hooking your legs over your shoulder and diving right into it. Collecting all of your wetness—dragging his tongue on your hole up to your clit, making you let out a quiet cry.

“Clark–!” fingers snaking through his curls, tugging them as you held yourself back from grinding your hips against his mouth.

He looped his arms around your thighs, mouth expertly working you out—all the while his gaze stayed on you. Watching every bit of your reactions, the way you threw your head back against the armrest, eyes rolled, lower lip stuck between your teeth as you hold back your sounds.

It was a sight he could never forget now. He was sure to etch it into the deepest crook of his brain.

You whined out his name the moment he pulled back, though. “I know… I’m gonna give you something better, okay?”

You nodded reluctantly, too weak, too drunk with pleasure to deny and fight him over it. You kept your eyes as he stripped out of his clothes. Hole fluttering and tightening around nothing the moment he was bare before you.

His cock—full of girth and length, was straining and slapping against his stomach. His tip red, glistening with his pre. “You’re– huge, holy shit…”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll make it fit. Don’t worry,” as his fingers brushed your hair back, grazing along your cheekbones.

You hummed softly, parting your legs even more to accommodate his broad figure.

Clark lets out a moan as he begins to slowly slide his tip against your folds. “So wet… you’ve been wanting this, hm?”

The silent nod in your response made his heart bloom, because he had wanted this too. He imagined this happening too many times before—whether when he was with you or alone in his bedroom whispering your name as he stroked himself to the thoughts of you—and really, the reality was so much better for him.

The moment he finally pushed himself inside you? He broke. Letting out a deep guttural sound to the feeling of your velvet walls wrapped so perfectly around him—it was as if you were made for him, no– he was made for you.

And you felt the burn, the stretch, splitting you open from your inside. Your hands find his arms immediately. Making imprints of your nails as you dug into his skin from the feeling of the pleasurable pain.

“Clark–”

“Shh… open up for me, sweetheart. I know you can.”

He stayed still the moment he was buried deep inside you, fingers softly brushing along your bare skin as you began to relax.

You nodded, eyes looking up at him with adoration the moment the burn dissipates.

“All ready?” he asked softly.

“Yeah…”

The both of you let out choruses of moans as he began moving, slowly at first. He pulled your arms so you could wrap them around his neck, his own snaking around your back just to keep you close to him.

His forehead pressed against yours. “You feel so good…” he whispered, pulling you into a deep kiss filled with passion. He kept his easy pace, but it was like he was holding back.

“More…” you moaned against his lips.

Who was he to deny you, his sweet, sweet girl, from pleasure?

He picked up his pace. Still deep, reaching to every inch of your walls, but it was more punishing now.

The couch starts to squeak underneath you—but you both didn’t care. Too captivated by the feeling of each other’s bodies to even notice the foot of the couch.

“Fuck–!” you moaned the moment he angled your hips. Your fingers now sprawled on the span of his back, raking it. Your walls began to clench around him tightly, making him fuck you deeper and faster.

“More!” you cried. And he served. His thrusts now punishing, both your chests panting. Your gasps and his moans echo around your apartment.

Clark swore that you were like an angel before him. With your body wrapped around a thin sheet of sweat that made it seem like you're glowing, hair messily draped everywhere yet still beautiful, your breasts bouncing like an invitation, and your face… gods, your face. He could die peacefully thinking about it alone.

So utterly beautiful and broken, and he was the one who did it.

His hips are working like an animal now, brutal, feral.

You finally realized that the couch underneath you was shaking, but you didn’t care. All you could think about was him, him, and him.

He noticed the way the couch was groaning in protest with the amount of pressure it was being given, but the way your cunt was tightening around him meant that he couldn’t stop. “Gonna break this–” before your walls gripped his cock even further.

“Gonna come–!” you cried.

“Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on.”

And you obeyed. Letting out a sharp cry of his name as your body jolts—convulsing as the waves after waves of orgasm hit your senses—burning your body with the amount of pleasure.

“Fuck–” he cursed, fucking you deeper as he chased his own climax. At last, with a final and intense thrust–

Craaack.

The foot snapped completely, making you yelp out and scrambling to hold onto him.

Clark didn’t even realize that he had already came and spilled inside you, too stunned, too focused on making sure you’re not hurt.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” his eyes widened, doing a one-overlook look at you to make sure no blood came out of you.

Your arms tightened, before you burst out laughing. “I am–” you wheezed. “The couch though…”

He blinked, then huffing out a small and relieved chuckle. “Guess it’s not strong enough, huh?”

Before pulling you onto his lap, shifting you on the floor carefully—still seethed deep inside you, and tugging you closer into a soft kiss. Fingers cuping your cheeks gently.

“Help me order another one?”

༘⋆ 🏷 clark’s : @pinksplace @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @theworstwolvie @anon-188

© thceseus, 2026 ༝ likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. thank you for reading! ᢉ𐭩

[tw1sters]

ivy my darling my baby thank you so much for joining us in this adventure!!!! you've managed to capture clark as this wonderful, amazing human being slash neighbor but also the sexiest fucking thang <3 i adore him so much in this story, thank you for birthing him

Your eyes zeroed the moment his shirt went damp, making it practically transparent. You gulped as you stared at how his back muscles shifted with every move.

WET AND BACK???? SIGN ME TF UP

He returned less than 30 minutes later with a bag of onions and some snacks you mentioned you liked weeks ago.

i'm in love your honor

And he knew. He could practically smell the heavy, sweet smell of your arousal.

i love when he uses his powers inappropriately

You finally glance at him, eyes low and half-lidded with lust. “Wanna test it?”

OH SHE CLENCHED

“Don’t wanna make a mess on the new couch, don’t we, sweetheart?” he whispered, before hooking your legs over your shoulder and diving right into it.

“I’ll make it fit. Don’t worry,” as his fingers brushed your hair back, grazing along your cheekbones.

FUCKKK IM SUCH A SUCKER FOR LINES LIKE THESE

Clark didn’t even realize that he had already came and spilled inside you, too stunned, too focused on making sure you’re not hurt.

nasty ass mf

“Help me order another one?”

he better that shit is moneyyyy

omg ivy i adoreee this so much!!!!!! you always do clark so well so i can do clark so well heh